Alex was sore.

He did not just ache. He felt like he had been run over by a small, angry bus.

The training session after Milo the agent had visited was not football. It was a punishment.

The manager, Steve, had been furious. He had called them "soft" and "famous". He had called them "movie stars" and "t shirt models".

And then, he had made them run.

And run.

And run.

Alex, Antoine, and Mark. The Hurricane. They had run until their legs felt like water.

Now, it was Saturday. Gameday.

Alex sat on the team bus. It was quiet. It was grey and raining outside. They were driving north.

He looked across the aisle. Antoine was staring out the window, his face a mask of disgust. He was not looking at the grey sky. He was looking at the grey, ugly, brick towns.

"This," Antoine whispered to Alex, "is not a place for art. This is... this is mud. And anger."

Alex knew. His analyst brain had watched the videos. They were playing Burnley. Away.

It was the worst possible game after being called "soft".

Burnley was not a football team. It was a street fight. They were big. They were mean. And the pitch was famous for being a muddy, ugly mess.

Alex looked at Mark. Mark was sitting in the back, his silver boots already on. He was not nervous. He was... buzzing.

"A fight," Mark was muting to himself. "A real fight. I am chaos. I am lightning. I am going to run right through them."

Bastian, the giant German, was sitting in front of Alex. He was trying to sleep.

"Your package," Bastian grunted, not opening his eyes. "He is too loud. He will run into a wall. And he will break. This is not a game for 'Speed'. This is a game for 'Rocks'."

Bastian tapped his own chest.

Alex just swallowed. He was not a rock. He was just a sixteen year old kid who was very good at data.

The locker room at Turf Moor, the Burnley stadium, was tiny. It was cold. It smelled like old soup.

The team was crammed together, shoulder to shoulder.

Steve, the manager, stood in the middle. He did not have a tactics board.

"Welcome to the real world, superstars," he said. His voice was a low growl. "They do not care about your t shirts out there. They do not care about your boot deal, Professor. They do not care about your magic, Magician. They do not care about your speed, Arrow."

"They... want... to... hurt... you."

"They know you are famous. They know you are 'soft'. They are going to kick you. They are going to pull your shirts. They are going to stand on your feet. The pitch is a swamp. The ball will not roll. The referee... he is probably their cousin."

The team was silent.

"Today," Steve said, "we do not play our game. We play their game. We do not win with 'magic'. We do not win with 'brains'. We win... with heart. We win by being tougher. We win by being ugly."

He looked right at Alex. "Professor. You are the shield. Today, you must be a shield of solid steel. You will get hit. You will get up. You do not complain. You just... work."

Alex nodded. His heart was hammering.

Steve looked at Antoine. "Magician. You are the sword. But today, the sword stays in the case. Do not try to dribble. Do not try to do magic. You will get broken. One touch. Two touches. Pass and move. Do not let them hit you."

Antoine just nodded, his face serious.

"Mark," Steve said. "Bench. You are the chaos button. And I do not know if I will press you. This is not a game for silver boots. This is a game for... for rocks."

"Now go," Steve said. "Show me you are not just t shirts. Show me you are fighters."

The whistle blew.

The noise from the crowd was a deep, angry roar.

The ball went up. High. Into the grey sky.

Bastian went up. He headed it.

The ball came down.

It did not bounce. It just... thudded. It hit the thick, wet mud and stopped dead.

Alex ran to it.

WHAM.

He was on his back. He had not even touched the ball.

The Burnley captain, a giant man with a huge, red beard, had just run straight through him.

The referee did not even look. "Play on!" he shouted.

Alex lay there, mud covering his face. He could not breathe.

"GET UP, PROFESSOR!" Bastian roared. "WELCOME TO THE FIGHT! FIRST ONE IS FREE!"

Alex got to his feet. His whole body felt like one big bruise.

Okay. So this was the game.

The next twenty minutes were not football.

It was a war.

Every time Alex got the ball, the red beardeD man smashed him.

Every time Antoine got the ball, a defender kicked his ankle.

The ball would not roll. The pitch was a disaster.

Alexs analyst brain was useless. There was no data. There was no pattern. There was just... mud. And yelling.

He was playing his 'shield' role. He was stable. He was taking the hits. He was not falling over.

But he could not play. He could not find the pass.

Antoine was furious. "This is not football!" he screamed, after his magic flick was stopped by a defender just grabbing his shirt. "This is... farming!"

Alex was frustrated. He was a brain. But his brain was being beaten by... stupid.

Halftime. The whistle blew. Zero zero.

Alex limped into the tiny locker room. He was covered in so much mud he looked like a small, brown monster.

The team was exhausted. They were angry. They were bruised.

"It is a swamp out there, boss," Harry, the captain, said. "We cannot pass. We cannot move."

Steve just... smiled.

"Good," he said.

The team looked at him.

"Good?" Harry asked. "We are being killed."

"No," Steve said. "You are not. You are being hit. And you are not breaking. You are still zero zero. You did not get soft. You did not cry. You are fighting. I am... proud."

He looked at Alex. "Professor. You look like you have been in a long, dark tunnel."

"I feel like it, coach," Alex groaned.

"Good. Now. Analyze. Your brain. What is the solution? The Hurricane is not working. The mud has won."

Alex looked at his muddy black boots. He thought about his old life. He thought about the data.

"We cannot play... through them," Alex said slowly. "The pitch is too slow. And they are too big."

"So?" Steve asked.

"So," Alex said, his eyes lighting up. "We stop trying. We stop trying to be 'us'. We stop trying to be the Hurricane. We stop trying to be smart."

"What do you mean, stop being smart?" Steve asked.

"We have to be ugly," Alex said. "We haveto play their game. But... we have to do it better. We cannot pass. We cannot dribble. We just... we just hit it."

"Hit it?"

"Long," Alex said. "Not to feet. Not to space. Just... to the corners. We make their big, slow defenders turn around. We make them run in the mud. We do not play for the first ball. We fight... for the second ball. It is not about the pass. It is about... the bounce."

Antoine looked confused. "This is... this is not my game, Professor."

"It is not my game either," Alex said. "But it is the only game we can win today. We have to be... the ugliest team in theworld. For forty five minutes."

Steve just stared at him. Then he started to clap.

"The Professor," he said, "is a fighter. I love it. You heard him. Stop being pretty. Start being ugly. Fight for the scraps. Go."

The second half was a new war.

Arsenal got the ball.

Bastian did not pass it to Alex. He just... kicked it. As hard as he could, high and long, into the corner.

The Burnley defender, who had been resting, had to run. He headed it clear.

The ball came down.

Alex was there. He did not try to control it. He just... fought for it. He got his body in the way. He won the tackle.

The ball was loose.

Antoine got it. He did not try to dribble. He just... poked it. Back to Harry.

Pop. Pop. Pop.

It was ugly. It was a fight.

The Burnley players were confused. Arsenal was not playing football. They were playing... Burnley football.

And they were... better at it.

They were faster to the second ball. They were smarter.

The crowd was angry. They were booing. Their team was being beaten at their own game.

The clock was ticking. Seventy minutes. Eighty minutes.

It was still zero zero.

Alex was so tired he thought his legs would fall off. He had mud in his hair, in his ears, in his mouth.

He won a header. A real, messy, fighting header.

The ball went wide. To the winger.

The winger kicked it. High. Into the box.

The giant Burnley defender went up.

He headed it clear.

The ball was high. It was coming down.

Right outside the box.

Alex was there. He was waiting.

He remembered the Millwall game. The volley.

He saw the Burnley midfielder charging at him, ready to kill him.

Alex did not go for the volley.

He just... jumped. He was a shield. He let the player smash into his back.

WHAM.

He went down. But he had won the foul.

The referee blew his whistle.

A free kick. Twenty five yards out.

Alex was on the ground. He was just... done.

"Good work, rock," Bastian grunted, pulling him up.

Antoine walked over. He picked up the ball.

This was his spot.

"Professor," he said. "Good foul. You took the hit. Now... watch."

Antoine placed the ball. The wall was huge. The keeper was huge.

The stadium was screaming.

Antoine took a deep breath. He ran.

He did not hit it hard. He did not try to smash it.

He... curled it.

It was magic.

The ball went up... over the wall.

And then... it dipped.

The keeper jumped. He was too slow.

The ball hit the top corner of the net.

One zero.

Silence.

Then... the sound of the Arsenal players yelling.

Antoine just stood there. He was covered in mud. But he just... smiled. He did his knee slide. It was perfect, even in the mud.

Plan A. The Storm.

He was the Magician.

The last five minutes were chaos.

Steve looked down the bench. "SPEED! GO! CAUSE CHAOS!"

Mark ran on. He was a silver bullet in a field of mud.

He did not get to touch the ball.

The final whistle blew.

One zero.

Alex just fell onto his back. He was covered in mud. He was bruised. He was... a winner.

He had played ninety minutes. In a street fight. And he had won.

His teammates were hugging. They were too tired to cheer.

They limped into the locker room. It was the happiest, quietest, muddiest locker room in the world.

Steve stood in the middle.

"I said... I wanted fighters," he said, his voice thick. "Today... you were lions. You were warriors. That... was the best 'ugly' win I have ever seen. I am proud of you."

He looked at Alex, who was trying to get a boot off. It was stuck.

"Professor. You are... you are not a duck. You are not a rock. You are... the toughest player I have. Good job, son."

Alex just beamed.

He got his phone. A text from Milo.

"MY HEART. MY POOR HEART. That was NOT good for the brand, Alex. That was... horrible. But you WON. You are a fighter. The 'Professor' is tough. Okay. Okay. I can sell this. I can sell this!"

Alex just laughed.

He looked over. Mark was sitting in the corner, grumbling.

"I did not even touch the ball," Mark said.

"You will, Speed," Alex said, his voice tired. "You will."

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