"I am okay," Alex said, wincing as he sat at his locker. "I am... stable."

Bastian almost smiled. "No. You are not a duck. You are not a traffic cone. You are... a small rock."

Alex felt a huge surge of pride. A small rock. From Bastian, that was a medal.

"You too," Alex said. "You were a big rock."

Bastian just grunted and drank his coffee.

The room slowly filled. Harry, the captain, walked in. He was limping too.

"Morning, lads," Harry groaned, sitting down very slowly. "I feel... old. I feel like I was hit by a bus. A very muddy, very angry bus."

Antoine walked in. He looked... perfect. As always. But Alex could see it. He was also limping. Just a little.

"This," Antoine said to the room, "was not football. That was... farming. I have mud in places I did not know I had."

The team just laughed. It was a tired, happy, sore laugh. They had survived. They had won a street fight.

The door opened. Mark walked in. He was in his full training kit. He was not limping. He was not tired.

He was... furious.

He stomped to his locker in the corner. He threw his bag down.

"Good morning, Speed," Harry called out, trying to be cheerful. "You were a very good cheerleader on Saturday. Very loud."

"I did not even play," Mark snapped. He was not in the mood for jokes. "I just... I just sat there. I got cold. I did not get to run. I did not get to be chaos."

"You will, Mark," Alex said quietly.

"When?" Mark said, spinning around. "You are all heroes. You are 'the rocks'. You are 'the fighters'. I am... the mascot. The one in the shiny boots who sits on the bench."

Before Alex could answer, the manager, Steve, walked in.

"Right," he boomed. He looked happy. "You are all sore. You are all tired. You all look terrible. Good. That is what winning ugly feels like. I am proud of you."

He looked at the list in his hand.

"Today... is recovery. Starters... you are with the physio. Massage. Stretching. Light gym work with Chloe. Very light. Professor... I want you in the ice bath."

Alex groaned. He hated the ice bath.

"Reserves," Steve said. His voice got harder. "Mark. Ben. All of you who sat and watched... you are with me. On the pitch. Full session. You did not play. So you are not tired. So... you will run. You will run until you are tired. I need my weapons to be sharp. Not... grumpy."

Mark looked like he was going to explode. "But coach! I am not tired! I am ready!"

"I know," Steve said. "So you can run harder than everyone else. Now go."

Mark just... vibrated. He was so angry. He looked at Alex. Alex just gave him a small, sad shrug.

Mark let out a growl. He turned and stomped out of the locker room.

"He is... intense," Antoine whispered to Alex.

"He is just... chaos," Alex replied.

The gym was quiet. Alex was doing his boring, stable exercises with Chloe. He was using the rubber bands. His ankle felt a little better.

He could see the training pitch through the big glass window.

It was raining. And Mark... Mark was running.

Steve was not joking. The reserves were doing sprints. Back and forth. Back and forth.

And Mark... he was winning every single one. He was not just running. He was... attacking the rain. He was a silver blur of pure anger.

Antoine was on the massage table next to Alex.

"Your package," Antoine said, his voice sleepy. "He is... very fast. And very, very angry. It is a good combination. He just needs to learn... patience."

"I do not think he knows that word," Alex said, wAncing as he did a lunge.

"You will teach him, Professor," Antoine said. "You are the brain. He is the speed. I am the magic. It is a good team."

Alex finished his gym work. He was feeling a little more human. His ankle was still sore, but it was not a "duck ankle". It was a "rock ankle".

He was heading to the showers when Steve found him.

The manager was standing by the door. He was not in his tracksuit. He was dry.

"Professor," he said.

"Yes, coach. Mark is... he is running very hard."

"Good," Steve said, not looking outside. "He needs to. Let him run. I need to talk to you. My office."

Alexs heart did a little flip. His office? What now?

He followed the manager. He was limping a little.

They went into the big, clean office. Steve sat behind his desk. He did not look angry. He just looked... serious.

"Sit down, Alex," he said.

Alex sat. He felt like he was back in school.

"You are sixteen years old, Alex," Steve said.

"Yes, coach."

"You have been a professional for... what... a few weeks?"

"Yes, coach."

"You have played in the Premier League. You have started. You have played at Anfield. You have played at Burnley. You have not... failed. You have not been a duck. You have been... a rock."

Alex did not know what to say. "Thank you, coach."

"It is not a compliment," Steve said. "It is a fact. Your brain... your analyst brain... it is your best skill. You see the game. You change the game. The Newcastle 'double trap' was your idea. The Burnley 'ugly' plan was your idea. You are not just a player. You are a... a coach on the pitch."

Alex felt his face get hot.

"And people," Steve said, "are noticing."

He slid a piece of paper across the desk. It was a very official looking letter. It had a crest on it.

Alex looked. It was not the Arsenal crest.

It was the Three Lions. The England crest.

Alexs heart stopped.

"What... what is this?" he whispered.

"It is a call up," Steve said. "You have been selected."

Alexs mind was racing. The U18s? The U19s? That was... that was amazing.

"You have been called up to the England Under 21 squad," Steve said, his voice flat.

Alex just... stared.

He could not breathe.

"The... the Under 21s?" Alex whispered. "But... I am sixteen."

"Yes," Steve said. "The U21 manager... he is a smart man. He does not care about age. He cares about brains. And he wants to see... 'The Professor'. He wants to see you up close."

Alex just looked at the letter. His name. Alex Finch. England Under 21s.

"You will be the youngest player there," Steve said. "By... maybe three years. They will be just like Burnley. They will see a small kid. They will try to eat you. They will try to break you."

He leaned forward.

"Do not let them," Steve said. "You are not a kid. You are not a duck. You are a small rock. You are the Professor. You go there. You show them your brain. You show them... you are Arsenal."

Alex just nodded. He could not speak.

"You leave on Monday," Steve said. "You will miss our next game. Antoine will have to be the shield and the sword."

He stood up. "Good work, son. You earned this. Now go. Go to the physio. Your ankle looks terrible."

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