Alex stood there, his mind a total blank.

He was on the training pitch. It was cold. He was covered in mud. And he was holding a white letter.

A lion was on the front of it. Three lions.

England. Under 21s.

He walked, his legs feeling like they were not his, back to the locker room. He was a ghost.

The room was almost empty. Mark was there. He had finished his extra running. He was covered in sweat, his face red. He was angrily trying to clean his silver boots.

"What is that?" Mark grunted, not looking up. "A bill? You get detention? Did you forget to do your homework, Professor?"

Alex did not say anything. He just... handed Mark the letter.

Mark wiped his muddy hands on his shorts. He took it. He read it.

His face went through about five different emotions.

First, confusion. "What is this?"

Then, his eyes got wide. "England... Under 21s?"

Then, he looked at Alex. He looked at the letter. He looked back at Alex.

"You," he said. It was not a question.

"Me," Alex whispered.

Mark just... stared. He was not angry. He was not happy. He was... completely, totally, shocked.

"But," Mark said, his voice flat. "You are sixteen. You are... you are a duck. You are a small, annoying rock. They... they are twenty one. They are men. They will... they will eat you. They will break you."

"Thanks for the support, Mark," Alex said, taking the letter back.

"I am serious!" Mark said. "This is stupid. You are not ready."

The door opened. Antoine walked in. He was in his perfect, expensive tracksuit. He had a small coffee in his hand.

"Ah, Professor. And Speed," he smiled. "You are still here? Good. You must work hard. What is that? A love letter from a fan?"

Alex, getting braver, handed the letter to Antoine.

Antoine read it. He did not shout. He did not look shocked. He just... smiled. A huge, warm, proud smile.

He put his coffee down. He grabbed Alex. He pulled him into a big, strong hug.

"YES!" Antoine yelled, his voice echoing in the room. "My Professor! This is it! This is the next step! Magnifique! You are going to show them. You will show them all the brain! The smarts! I am so proud!"

He let Alex go. Alex was bright red.

"He is going to get broken," Mark muttered from the corner.

"He will not get broken," Antoine said, his eyes sharp. He looked at Mark. "He is a rock. He is smart. They will try to break him. And he... he will just be stable. He will be boring. And he will win. This is who he is."

Bastian walked in. He was in his shorts. He was heading for the ice bath. "You are all too loud. It is Monday. Be quiet."

"He got called up," Antoine said, pointing to Alex.

Bastian stopped. "What? U18s?"

"U21s," Alex said, his voice a squeak.

Bastian just... stood there. The giant German. He looked Alex up and down.

"Hmm," Bastian grunted.

He walked over. He looked at the letter.

"England Under 21s," Bastian read. He looked at Alex again.

"Good," he said. "Now your whole country will try to kick you. Not just the other teams. Your teammates. They will see you. A small, sixteen year old boy. They will be jealous. They will try to break you in training."

This was not making Alex feel better.

"Do not let them," Bastian said. He tapped Alex hard in the chest. "You are not a duck. You are a rock. Be a rock. Now. Go. My ice bath is waiting."

Bastian walked away.

Alex went home. His head was spinning.

His mum and dad were in the kitchen. They were making dinner. It smelled like pasta.

"How was training, love?" his mum called out. "You look... pale. Are you okay? Was Mark mean to you?"

"I am fine," Alex said. He did not know how to say it.

He just walked over. He put the letter on the kitchen counter, right next to the onions.

His dad looked at it. "What is this? From the school?"

"Just read it, dad," Alex said.

His dad picked up the letter. He read it. His glasses were on his head. He pulled them down. He read it again.

"Sarah," he said, his voice a whisper. "Sarah. You... you need to read this."

His mum dried her hands. "What is it, David? Is he in trouble?"

She read the letter.

Her hand went to her mouth. She did not say anything.

Then, she just... burst into tears. Not sad tears. Loud, happy, messy tears.

"MY BABY!" she cried, grabbing Alex. "MY LITTLE BOY! ENGLAND! HE IS GOING TO PLAY FOR ENGLAND!"

His dad just sat down. Hard. On a kitchen chair.

He put his head in his hands.

"Dad?" Alex asked. He was scared.

"England," his dad said, his voice muffled. "Not... not the U18s. The... the U21s. Alex. My son. That is... that is..."

He looked up. His eyes were red. He was not crying. He was just... in shock.

"This is it, son," he said. "This is... this is really it. I am... I am so proud of you, I think I might be sick."

Alex just laughed. He was hugged by his mum. His dad was just staring. It was perfect.

Later that night, Alex was in his room. He was trying to do his school homework. He had an essay on history. He could not focus.

His phone buzzed. It was Milo.

Alex answered.

"ALEX! PROFESSOR! MY BRAIN! MY KING! MY NATIONAL TREASURE!"

Milo was screaming. Alex had to hold the phone six inches from his ear.

"Hi, Milo. I take it you heard."

"HEARD? HEARD? THE WHOLE WORLD HEARD! I AM ALREADY ON THE PHONE! I AM TALKING TO THE BOOT COMPANY! AN ENGLAND BOOT! A SPECIAL EDITION! WHITE AND RED! THE PROFESSOR'S 'THREE LIONS' BOOT! IT IS GOLD, ALEX! PURE GOLD!"

"Milo, I have not even kicked a ball yet," Alex laughed.

"IT DOES NOT MATTER! You are the story! The sixteen year old brain! The youngest player in fifty years! The brand! Oh, the brand is beautiful!"

"I am just... going to a training camp, Milo."

"A training camp is where it STARTS!" Milo yelled. "Now listen. Be smart. Be boring. Do not get hurt. Let them be jealous. Do not do any stupid interviews. I will handle everything. I love you. Goodbye!"

The phone clicked.

Alex just sat there. His phone buzzed again. A text.

It was from Sam. His old U18 friend.

"Dude. Mark told me. I think he was crying. Or maybe just angry. I cannot tell. ENGLAND U21S? ARE YOU A SECRET SPY? IS THIS REAL? DO NOT FORGET US. PLEASE GET ME A SHIRT. A REAL ONE. PLEASE."

Alex smiled. He would get Sam a shirt.

His dad drove him to St Georges Park on Sunday. It was the official England headquarters. It was... huge. It looked like a palace. A very modern, very serious, grass palace.

Alex got out of the car. He was in his Arsenal suit. He had his new black boots in his bag.

"Okay, son," his dad said. He looked nervous. "Be smart. Be a rock. And... do not be a duck."

"I will try, dad," Alex grinned.

He walked in.

The building was silent. It was not like the Arsenal training ground. It felt... important.

He found the locker room. It was giant.

He saw... them.

The players. They were not just U21s. They were the best young players in the country.

He saw the star striker from Chelsea. He saw the main defender from Liverpool. He saw the starting midfielder from Manchester United.

They were all... huge. They were twenty. Twenty one. They were men.

They were all staring at him.

"Is this the kids tour?" the Chelsea striker asked his teammate.

"No," the Liverpool defender said. "I think that is him. The 'Professor' kid. The one from Arsenal."

"Him?" the striker said. He laughed. "He is tiny. He looks like he is my little brother."

Alexs face was on fire. He was at the bottom. Again. He was the new kid. The mascot.

A man walked over. He was not big like Steve. He was thin, in a perfect England tracksuit. He looked like a scientist.

"Alex Finch," the man said. His voice was crisp. "Welcome to the squad. I am Coach Edwards. I have seen your videos. I have read your files."

Alex stood up straight. "It is good to be here, coach."

"You are here for one reason, Finch," the coach said. "Do you know what it is?"

Alex thought. "My brain, coach?"

"No," Coach Edwards said. "You are here because Bastian told my manager you are 'not a duck'. And Antoine said you are a 'rock'."

He looked Alex up and down.

"You do not look like a rock," he said. "You look... very small. We are playing Germany in four days. They are very big. We need... rocks. Not ducks."

He pointed to a locker. "Your kit is over there. Dinner is at six. Do not be late.".

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