"Morning, Professor," Bastian grunted. He did not sound happy.

"Morning, Bastian. You okay?" Alex asked, walking to his locker, number 38.

"No," Bastian grumbled. He tried to touch his toes. "I am... stiff. The Hurricane. It is too fast. You made me run too much."

Alex just grinned.

Harry, the captain, walked in. He was holding a stack of newspapers. He had a huge smile on his face.

"Good morning, gentlemen," Harry beamed. He slapped a paper down on the bench.

Alex looked. His own face was on the back page.

It was the picture of him, pointing, just before the pass to Mark. Next to it was a picture of Antoine, celebrating. And a picture of Mark, roaring.

The headline was huge.

THE HURRICANE. ARSENALS NEW WEAPON.

"The Hurricane," Harry said, tapping the picture. "I like it. You are not just a Professor anymore, Alex. You are a weather event."

"I am just... a kid," Alex said, his face getting very hot.

"You are a kid who just won us three points," Harry laughed.

Antoine walked in. He looked perfect, like he had just stepped out of a magazine. He saw the paper. He just smiled.

"A Hurricane," Antoine said, his voice smooth. "This is good. A storm needs three things. The eye... the wind... and the lightning."

He pointed at Alex. "You are the eye, Professor. Calm. Smart. You control everything."

He pointed at himself. "I am the wind. The magic. I pull them. I push them."

He looked around. "Where is the lightning?"

The door to the locker room burst open.

Mark ran in. He was not in his suit. He was in his full training kit. He was already sweating. He was holding his silver boots.

"I am not late!" he panted. "I was running. I have to be fast. I am the chaos!"

Bastian just groaned from the floor. "You are the noise. You are too loud."

Mark saw the newspaper. His eyes went wide. He ran over.

"THE HURRICANE! YES! I AM THE LIGHTNING! I TOLD YOU! SPEED IS THE MOST IMPORTANT PART!"

"Without the eye, the lightning just hits a tree," Alex said, pulling on his new black boots.

"Without the lightning, the storm is just... rain," Mark shot back, his face beaming.

The manager, Steve, walked in. He was not smiling.

"You are headlines," he barked. The room went quiet. "You are famous. Everyone loves 'The Hurricane'. This is very, very bad."

Alexs heart sank. "Bad, coach?"

"Yes, bad!" Steve snapped. "You are not a secret anymore. You are not a 'surprise'. You know who else reads newspapers? You know who else watches video?"

He pointed out the window. "Every other team. Every other coach. They have seen your 'Hurricane'. They have seen your 'fake fake'. They know the plan. The trap is not a trap if everyone sees the spring."

This was a new problem. Alexs analyst brain kicked in. The manager was right. The data was now public.

"So today," Steve said, "we see what happens when the other team is ready. We see how good you really are. Pitch. Now. Ten versus ten."

Alex felt a knot in his stomach. This was a new test.

The training pitch was cold.

Steve had a special plan.

"Bibs," he yelled. "Professor. Magician. Speed. You are the Hurricane."

He pointed at the other team. Bastian. Harry. Ben from the U21s. And the eight other best players.

"No Bibs," Steve said. "Your job is simple. Stop them. I do not care how. I have given you the video. I have told you the plan. Man mark them. Kick them. Do not let them breathe. Go."

Alex, Antoine, and Mark looked at each other.

"Well," Antoine said, a small, dangerous smile on his face. "This will be fun."

The whistle blew.

It was not fun.

It was a nightmare.

Alex got the ball. He was the Shield.

Ben, the U21 captain, was just... there. He was not trying to tackle Alex. He was just... standing in front of him. He was a wall.

Alex could not pass forward.

He looked for Antoine.

Harry, the England captain, was just... standing in front of Antoine. He was not tackling. He was just... blocking. A smart, perfect, English wall.

Alex looked for Mark.

Bastian, the giant German, was... just... standing. Right in the passing lane. He was not marking Mark. He was marking the pass.

Alex had the ball. And he had... nothing.

He was a brain with no ideas.

He passed it backwards.

"BORING!" Steve roared.

Alex got it back. He tried to be smart. He ran.

Ben just... ran with him. Like an annoying shadow.

Alex could not shake him.

Antoine tried his magic. He tried to dribble.

Harry just... took the ball. He was not fooled. He had seen the magic.

Mark was running. He was running everywhere. He was fast.

But the ball never came. Bastian was always there. A giant, German, interception machine.

They were losing. One zero. Two zero. Three zero.

Mark was furious. "Alex! Pass me the ball! I am open!"

"You are not open!" Alex yelled back. "Bastian is reading my eyes! He knows where I am going!"

"Then do not look!" Mark roared.

"Professor! Magician!" Steve yelled. "You are not a Hurricane! You are a light drizzle! You are embarrassing! Fix it!"

Alex was frustrated. He was angry. He was failing.

His analyst brain was in overdrive.

What is the data?

One. Ben is sticking to me. He is a man marker.

Two. Harry is sticking to Antoine. He is a shadow.

Three. Bastian is not marking Mark. He is marking the space. He is marking me.

They were not playing football. They were playing... chess. And Steve had given the other team the cheat codes.

Alex got the ball. Ben was right in his face. "What now, Professor? No big passes today."

Alex looked at Antoine. Harry was right on his back.

He looked at Mark. Bastian was ten yards away, just... watching. Waiting.

They are only watching us, Alex thought. The Hurricane. They are so focused on the Shield, the Sword, and the Arrow...

He looked at his other teammates.

His left back. His right back. His other striker.

They were... completely, totally, ridiculously... open.

BWHB

Alex smiled.

"Antoine," he said, his voice low.

Antoine was next to him, trying to get free from Harry. "What?"

"Do not get free," Alex said.

"What?"

"Just... stand still. Be a statue. A very famous, magic statue. Let him mark you."

Antoine looked at him like he was crazy. But he... trusted him. He stopped fighting Harry. He just... stood.

"Mark!" Alex yelled.

"What?" Mark snapped. He was angry.

"Run!"

"Where? Bastian is waiting!"

"I do not care! Just run! As fast as you can. To the corner. Drag Bastian with you! Be the lightning! Be a distraction!"

Mark did not understand. But he was chaos. He could be a distraction.

He ran. A wild, crazy, silver blur.

Bastian, like a good defender, saw the run. He turned and ran with him.

So now...

Ben was on Alex.

Harry was on Antoine.

Bastian was on Mark.

Three of the best defenders... were all on one side of the pitch. They were all on the wrong side.

And Alex... still had the ball.

He looked at Ben, who was trying to tackle him.

Alex just... passed the ball.

He did not pass it to a superstar.

He passed it to his left back. A player named Tom. A good, solid, boring player.

Tom had not touched the ball in ten minutes.

Now... he was in the middle of the pitch. He had so much space he could have had a picnic.

Tom looked... terrified.

"Tom! Shoot!" Alex yelled.

Tom was thirty yards from goal. He was a defender. He never shot.

But he was open.

He kicked it.

It was not a good shot. It was a wobbly, strange, hopeful kick.

It hit a defender. It went in.

GOAL.

Three one.

The pitch was silent.

Harry, Bastian, and Ben just... looked at each other. They were all out of position. They had been completely fooled.

Steve, the manager, just... nodded. He did not smile. He just... nodded.

The game restarted.

The other team was confused.

"Mark! Run again!" Alex yelled.

Mark ran. Bastian followed.

"Antoine! Stand still!"

Antoine stood. Harry followed.

Alex got the ball. Ben was on him.

Alex passed it.

To the other striker. The one who was not Mark.

Goal. Three two.

Now the other team was in chaos.

Harry and Bastian did not know what to do. Do they mark the superstars? Or do they mark the space?

The Hurricane was not three players. It was a tactic.

It was a big, flashing, neon sign that said "LOOK AT US!"... while the rest of the team scored.

Alex got the ball. He was the shield.

Ben ran at him.

Alex just smiled. He passed to Antoine.

Antoine passed to Harry. Who was on his team. No... he was not.

Antoine... passed the ball to Bastian.

Alex did not understand.

But Bastian... he was on Alexs team now. The manager had switched him.

Bastian got the ball. He was in the middle.

He looked at Mark.

He hit the pass. A sixty yard, giant, German, perfect pass.

Mark was on it.

Goal.

Three three.

The game was over.

BReferences.

Alex was so tired he just... sat down on the grass.

Antoine walked over. He was laughing. "Professor. You are... you are very, very annoying. You used me... as a statue."

"It worked," Alex panted.

Mark ran over. He was not happy. "We only tied! And I only scored one goal! And Bastian stole my pass!"

"It was a good pass," Bastian grunted, walking past. "He was open."

The manager, Steve, gathered them.

"That," he said, "was a disaster. For thirty minutes. You were famous. You were predictable. You were terrible."

He looked at Alex.

"And then... you were smart. You used your brains. You used your fame... as a weapon. You are not just a Hurricane. You are a trap."

He looked at the whole team.

"This is our new plan. We have the three most famous players in the world right now," he pointed at Alex, Antoine, and Mark. "The other teams will only watch them. And we... we will let them."

He smiled. A cold, dangerous smile.

"Let them watch the Hurricane. The rest of you... you are the ones who will score."

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