Alex felt like his body was made of happy, buzzing electricity.

He was in his small bedroom. He was just... sitting. He had been sitting for an hour. He was watching the replay of the game on his laptop. He saw his pass. The one he curled with the outside of his boot. He saw Mark. He saw the cold, perfect, one touch poke. He saw the celebration. Mark, standing in front of the silent, angry Tottenham fans, his finger to his lips.

It was, Alex thought with his analyst brain, perfect. The data was perfect. The story was perfect.

His phone, which he had put on silent, was just a black square on his desk. It had buzzed so many times it had moved six inches across the wood.

He finally picked it up.

One hundred and twelve new messages.

He opened the first one. It was from his dad.

"I am too proud to even speak. Your mum is crying. We love you. You were a lion."

He opened the next one. It was from Sam, his old U18 friend.

"HE DID THE SHUSH HE DID THE SHUSH I AM RUNNING AROUND MY HOUSE I AM SCREAMING THAT WAS THE BEST GOAL EVER YOU ARE BOTH KINGS I LOVE YOU"

Alex just laughed.

He opened the next one. It was from Milo, his agent.

"CALL ME. CALL ME NOW. DO NOT TALK TO ANYONE. DO NOT POST ANYTHING. DO NOT EVEN BREATHE. JUST CALL ME."

Alex sighed. This was his new life.

He walked into the training ground the next morning. It was Monday. He was sore. He was tired. He was "Bastian early".

The giant German was already in the locker room, just sitting, staring at his locker.

"Professor," Bastian grunted. He looked up. His eyes were... different. Not just respectful. He looked... proud.

"You were not a rock," Bastian said. "You were... a mountain. A small, very smart mountain. You have heart, kid. This is good."

Alex felt his chest swell. "Thanks, Bastian."

Harry, the captain, came in. He was not whistling. He was beaming. He was holding a stack of newspapers.

"GOOD MORNING, HURRICANE!" he roared.

He slapped a paper down on the bench.

The entire back page was a picture of Mark. His finger was on his lips.

The headline was just one word.

SHUSH.

"I love it," Harry said, his voice full of joy. "They are crying. The whole other half of London is crying."

He held up another paper. This one had a picture of Alex, his arm out, pointing, just before the pass.

The headline: THE PROFESSOR'S REVENGE.

"This is you, Alex," Harry said. "You are not just a kid anymore. You are a derby hero. You know what that means?"

"I... I get kicked more?" Alex guessed.

"Yes," Harry laughed. "But it also means... you never have to buy a drink in North London ever again. You are a legend."

Antoine walked in. He looked perfect. He was not limping. He was glowing.

"Ah," he said, seeing the papers. "A good story. We were... magnificent."

He walked over to Alex. "You, my Professor. You were not a shield. You were... a warrior. You took the hits. You were brave. And your pass... chef's kiss."

The door opened. Mark walked in.

He was not bouncing. He was not shouting.

He was... calm. He was in his new suit. His silver boots were in a dust bag in his hand.

He looked... professional.

"Morning, Speed," Harry grinned. "You are famous."

Mark just nodded. He looked at Alex.

"Good pass, Professor," he said. His voice was quiet.

"Good goal, Speed," Alex replied.

"It was... a good moment," Mark said. He was trying to be cool. But Alex could see his hands were shaking just a little. "My dad... he cried. He said... he said I was a man."

"You were," Alex said, and he meant it.

Mark just nodded again. He went to his locker. He was not the 'chaos' kid anymore. He was... a killer. A guided missile.

Alexs phone buzzed. It was Milo. He had to take it.

He stepped into the hallway.

"ALEX! MY PROFESSOR! MY BRAIN! MY GOLD MINE!"

Alex held the phone away from his ear. Milo was screaming.

"I AM CRYING, ALEX! I AM WEEPING TEARS OF PURE COMMISSION! THE STORY! THE REVENGE! THE U18 GAME! THE TACKLE! THE 'SHUSH'! IT IS PERFECT! IT IS A MOVIE!"

"Hi, Milo. It was a good game," Alex said.

"GOOD? IT WAS NOT GOOD! IT WAS A LEGEND! IT WAS AN OPERA! I have been on the phone all night! The boot company? They are not sending a truck. They are building a monument to your black boots! They want to do a special 'Professor' edition!"

"That is... a lot, Milo."

"IT IS NOT ENOUGH!" Milo roared. "And the t shirts! The 'Hurricane' t shirts! They are sold out! We sold fifty thousand! And 'The Arrow' shirt? The one with the lightning bolt? Mark is a star! And the 'Shhh' celebration! I am trademarking it! We are making posters! 'SILENCE OF THE ARROW'! IT IS GENIUS!"

Alex just sighed. "Milo... it is just one game."

"One game? ONE GAME?" Milo shrieked. "Professor. Listen to me. That was not a game. That was your career. You are not a 'wonderkid' anymore. You are not a 'prospect'. You are... a superstar. You, Antoine, and Mark. You are the 'Holy Trinity'. The 'Hurricane'. You are the biggest story in football. In the world."

Alex felt... dizzy.

"So," Milo said, his voice suddenly calm. "Be ready. It is all about to change."

The phone clicked.

Alex just stood in the hallway. It is all about to change.

After training, a light, easy, recovery day, Alex just... wanted to go home. He wanted to see his mum. He wanted to eat pasta and read his history homework.

He took the bus. He did not take the team bus. He just... wanted to be normal.

He was in his normal, grey coat. His hat was pulled down low.

He felt the buzz of his phone. It was Mark.

"Where are you? I am waiting. We have to practice."

Alex smiled. He texted back.

"Day off. I am tired. You are tired. Rest."

A text came back instantly.

"Rest? REST? I am a Guided Missile! I do not rest! I... I wait. But I am getting bored. Fine. Tomorrow. Be early. My left foot feels wobbly."

Alex laughed. He put his phone away.

He got off the bus. He lived on a quiet, boring street.

He just... needed to think. He needed to be his old self, the analyst.

He walked to his favorite place. A small, quiet, corner cafe. The one that smelled like old books and good coffee. He used to come here in his old life, to analyze data.

He walked in. The little bell jingled.

An old man was in the corner, reading a paper. A student was on her laptop.

The barista, a young woman named Chloe who always had purple hair, looked up.

"Hi, what can I... get... you..."

Her voice just... stopped.

She stared at Alex.

"Sorry," Alex said. "Just... a black coffee, please."

Chloe did not move. Her mouth was open.

"You..." she whispered. "You... you are... him. You... you are..."

She pointed a shaky finger. "You are the Professor."

Alex felt his face go bright red. "I... I am just Alex. I live around the corner."

"No, you are not!" she said, her voice getting high. "You are! I saw the game! I saw your pass! I saw the goal! Oh my god! Oh my god!"

The old man in the corner lowered his newspaper. The back page... was the "SHUSH" picture.

He looked at Alex. He smiled. "Good game, son. You made them look very silly. Very smart."

The student on her laptop looked up. "Wait... is that... is that Alex Finch?"

Suddenly, the whole cafe was looking at him.

"Can I... can I get a picture?" Chloe the barista asked, her hands shaking.

"Uh... sure," Alex said.

She ran around the counter. She pulled out her phone. She took a selfie. Alex just... smiled. He felt like a statue.

"Thank you! Thank you so much! The coffee! It is on the house! It is on the house forever!"

"No, I can pay..."

"Absolutely not!"

Then... the door opened. A group of school kids, in their uniforms, walked in.

They saw Alex.

They just... froze.

Then... one of them screamed. A high pitched, crazy, happy scream.

"IT IS HIM! IT IS THE PROFESSOR! IT IS ALEX FINCH!"

In ten seconds, the quiet cafe was... chaos.

The kids were all shouting, pushing, holding out napkins, school ties, anything.

"Please sign this!"

"You are my hero!"

"The pass! How did you do the pass?"

Alex was... he was overwhelmed. He was just... signing. "Alex Finch." "Alex Finch."

He was smiling. He was polite. But his analyst brain... it was in full panic.

This was a new data set. A new problem.

There was no 'shield'. There was no 'rock'. There was no 'stable'.

He finally, politely, pushed his way out. He did not even get his coffee.

He just... ran.

He ran all the way home.

He burst through his front door. His mum was in the hallway.

"Alex? What is wrong? You look like you have seen a ghost!"

Alex just... leaned against the door. He was panting.

He looked at his mum. He looked around his normal, quiet, safe house.

"Milo was right," Alex panted, his heart pounding.

"What, love? What was he right about?"

Alex just shook his head. He looked at his hands. They were covered in ink from the pens.

"It is all changing, mum," he said, his voice a whisper. "My... my old life. It is... it is really gone."

His mum just smiled. A soft, sad, proud smile.

"Yes, love," she said, putting her hand on his cheek. "It is."

"Now," she said, "wash your hands. Dinner is almost ready. I made pasta."

Alex just looked at her. Pasta. Normal. Safe.

He loved this.

But he knew... it would never be this quiet again.

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