The headline was simple: THE BRAIN.

His mum had already bought five copies. His dad was trying to frame one in the living room.

Alex just felt... embarrassed. He was a sixteen year old kid. He was an analyst. He was not a cover star.

He got to the training ground at seven forty in the morning. "Bastian early".

He walked into the first team locker room.

And stopped.

He could not see his locker.

He could not see his locker because it was completely buried under a mountain of black cardboard boxes.

"What... is this?" Alex whispered.

The whole room was full of boxes. All with that one, simple, white check mark.

Milo, his agent, was standing on a bench, directing two very tired looking men.

"No, no, no!" Milo was saying, talking way too fast. "Put the 'Control' boots by his locker! The 'Speed' boots go to the corner! The 'Lifestyle' sneakers go by the door! It is all about the brand, people!"

"Professor!" Milo yelled, seeing Alex. He leaped off the bench. He was wearing a bright pink suit.

"Milo? What is all this?" Alex asked, his mind spinning.

"This," Milo said, spreading his arms, "is the 'truck'. I told you they were sending a truck! They loved the goal! They loved the game! The 'Professor' brand is exploding! They sent... samples."

Alex looked at the mountain of boots. There were hundreds.

"That... that is more than samples, Milo. That is... that is the whole factory."

"They love you!" Milo beamed.

Harry, the captain, walked in. He just... stopped. He looked at the mountain of boxes. He looked at Alex.

"Professor," Harry said, a slow smile spreading on his face. "Are you... are you planning on opening your own shoe store? I will take a size ten."

Bastian walked in. He just grunted. "This is ridiculous. You are a child. You do not need this many boots."

"He is a brand, Bastian!" Milo shouted. "He is the new face of 'Control'!"

The door burst open. Mark ran in. He was in his U21 kit. He had heard the noise.

He saw the mountain of boxes. His jaw dropped.

"Are those... are those all... for him?" Mark whispered.

Milo saw him. "Ah! 'Speed'! 'The Arrow'! 'The Lightning'!"

"I am 'The Chaos'," Mark muttered, scowling.

"Yes! Chaos! I love it!" Milo said. "I have yours, too!"

Milo ran over to a small corner. He picked up... one box. A single, shiny, silver box.

"Here you are," Milo said. "The new 'Vapor' boot. The fastest boot in the world. For the fastest boy in the world. They love the 'Package' idea."

Mark just looked at the one, lonely box.

Then he looked at the giant, skyscraper sized mountain of boxes by Alexs locker.

His face went pale.

"One... box?" Mark said, his voice quiet.

"It is a very expensive box," Milo said, not noticing.

Alex felt a pang of guilt. He walked over. "Mark, here. Take some of mine. I cannot... I cannot wear all of these. I do not even have this many feet."

"No," Mark said. He was not angry. He was... determined. He clutched his one box to his chest. "I do not want your charity boots, Professor. I will... I will earn my own truck."

He stomped over to his corner locker.

Antoine walked in. He saw the boxes. He saw Alex. He saw Mark.

He just... laughed. "Ah, Professor. The problem of fame. You have too many shoes. And you..." he said to Mark, "you have too much... anger."

He patted Mark on the shoulder. "Do not worry, 'Speed'. The second boot is always the hardest to get."

"This is just the start, team!" Milo yelled. "Next week... the commercial!"

"The... the what?" Alex said, his blood going cold.

A week later, Alex was standing in a giant, dark, cold studio.

He was not in his kit. He was not in his suit.

He was wearing... he did not even know what it was. It was a tight, black, futuristic looking tracksuit.

He had small, glowing dots taped to his face.

"Okay, Alex!" a very energetic director yelled through a megaphone. "We need 'smart'! We need 'brain'! We need... 'Professor'!"

Alex just stood there. He felt like the biggest idiot in the world.

Antoine was next to him. He was in a similar suit. He looked, of course, like a movie star. He was juggling a ball, smiling for the cameras.

"Just relax, Professor," Antoine whispered. "It is easy. Just... be cool."

"I am not cool," Alex whispered back.

"I know," Antoine said. "Just... pretend."

Mark was on the other side. He was not in a black suit. He was in a silver one. He looked like a baked potato.

"I HATE THIS!" Mark roared. "I AM NOT A TOY! I AM CHAOS!"

"Yes, love!" the director yelled. "Give me that! Give me that 'chaos' energy! I love it! Now, Mark, we are going to have you run. Very fast. On this green treadmill. And you will look... angry! Like you are... you are chaos!"

"I am chaos!" Mark grumbled.

They spent an hour filming Mark. He just ran. He looked miserable.

Then they filmed Antoine. He did his magic flick. He did his knee slide. The director was crying. "It is beautiful! It is magic!"

Then... it was Alexs turn.

"Okay, Alex!" the director said. "The 'Professor'! We need... the brain. We are going to... we are going to have you stand here. And look... smart."

"How... how do I look smart?" Alex asked.

"Like... like you are thinking!"

So Alex just... stood there. He tried to look like he was thinking.

"No, no!" the director groaned. "You look confused! You look like you are lost! Someone, get him the glasses!"

A woman ran over and put a pair of black, thick rimmed glasses on Alex. They were not real.

"YES!" the director screamed. "The Professor! Perfect! Now... look at the camera. And do... the 'thing'."

"The 'thing'?" Alex asked.

"The celebration! The head thing! Do the head thing!"

Alex sighed. This was the most embarrassing moment of his entire, new life.

He looked at the camera. He slowly... pointed his finger... to his head.

"YES! GOLD! PURE GOLD!" the director shrieked. "CUT! WE ARE DONE!"

Alex took the glasses off. He just wanted to go home.

MKE

Antoine walked over. "You see, Professor? Easy. You are a natural. Very... smart."

"I hate this," Alex muttered.

"I know," Antoine said. "But... the money... the money is very, very good. And the free boots... they are also good."

Mark stomped over. His silver suit was ripped. "That was stupid. I did not even get to do my lightning bolt."

"Milo said the lightning bolt is... 'too much', Mark," Alex said gently.

"It is not 'too much'! It is my brand!" Mark insisted.

They were back in the locker room the next day. They were exhausted. The commercial shoot had taken all day.

The manager, Steve, was waiting for them. He did not look happy.

"Movie stars," he said, his voice a low growl.

Alex, Antoine, and Mark all flinched.

"You are all over the TV. You are all over the papers. You have a truck of boots. You have a commercial. You are famous."

He walked right up to them.

"You are also... tired. You look 'soft'. You look... slow. I saw you in training. You were thinking about your 'brand'. You were not thinking about football."

He was right. Alexs analyst brain knew it. The fame... it was a distraction.

"So," Steve said. "I have a new game for you. To remind you what you are. You are footballers. Not... whatever 'The Hurricane' is."

He pointed at the tactics board.

"Burnley. Away. On Saturday."

The room went silent.

Burnley. Away.

It was the worst possible game.

Burnley was not smart. They were not fast. They were not technical.

They were just... big. And mean.

Their pitch was small. The grass was long. They did not play football. They fought.

They were... they were the 'anti Arsenal'.

"They do not care about your boot deal, Professor," Steve said, his eyes on Alex.

"They do not care about your magic, Antoine."

"And they will not care about your chaos, Mark. They will just... hit you. For ninety minutes."

Steve looked at the three of them.

"So," he said. "The Hurricane... is going on a little trip. To the hardest, ugliest, muddiest pitch in England."

He smiled. A cold, dangerous smile.

"I want to see... if a Hurricane... can win a street fight."

Alex looked at Antoine. Antoine looked at Mark.

This was a new test. This was not about being smart. This was not about being fast.

This was about being... tough.

Alex thought about his old, weak, analyst body.

He looked down at his new, stable, professional legs.

"We will be ready, coach," Alex said.

"Good," Steve said. "Because if you are not... they will not just beat you. They will break you."

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