"Professor," Bastian grunted. "You are famous. The newspapers. The television. This is bad. Your head will get big."

"My head is fine, Bastian," Alex said, sitting at his locker, number 38. "I am just... tired."

"Good," Bastian said. "Famous and tired is better than famous and stupid."

The door burst open.

Mark ran in. He was not in his suit. He was not in his kit. He was in his Arsenal tracksuit, and he looked... angry. He stomped right over to Alex.

The whole locker room, which was just starting to fill up, went quiet.

"You," Mark said, pointing a finger at Alex.

"Me?" Alex asked, confused.

"Where were you yesterday?" Mark demanded.

"It... it was our day off, Mark. I was resting. I was..."

"Resting?" Mark yelled. The other players were all watching now. "Resting? I was waiting! At the pitch! At four o clock! Like we always do! I did heading drills. Alone! For an hour! It was boring! And I was terrible! Where were you?"

Alex felt his face go hot. "I... I told you. I was tired. I was resting."

"No!" Mark accused. "You were not resting! You are a superstar now! You are 'The Professor'! You are too good to train with your partner! You were probably... getting free boots! Or... or signing autographs!"

"I was not!" Alex said, standing up. "I... I went for a coffee."

Mark looked disgusted. "A coffee? You skipped training... for a coffee?"

"I went for a coffee," Alex said, his voice quiet but firm, "and I got... mobbed. I got surrounded. By... by fans. By kids. They were all yelling. They all wanted pictures. I... I had to run home. It was... it was a lot."

Mark just... froze.

His angry face just... melted.

It was replaced by a look of pure, total... disbelief.

"Mobbed?" Mark whispered.

"Yes," Alex said.

"Like... like famous people? With... screaming? And... and photos?"

"Yes," Alex said, rubbing the back of his neck. "It was... kind of awful."

Mark was silent for a full ten seconds.

Then his face changed again. It was not anger. It was not shock. It was... pure, uncut jealousy.

"You got mobbed," he said, his voice full of wonder. "That... that is so cool. I want to get mobbed. Why does no one mob me? I am the Arrow! I am the Lightning! I scored the goal!"

Harry, the captain, who had been trying not to laugh, finally spoke. "Because you look scary, Speed. The Professor here... he looks like a small, lost pet. Everyone wants to pat him on the head."

"I want to be patted on the head!" Mark complained, his anger completely gone.

Antoine just laughed. "Patience, my friend. Your time for the 'mob' will come. And you will hate it."

The door to the locker room opened. The manager, Steve, walked in.

He was not smiling.

"Right," he boomed. "Enough. You are all heroes. You are all famous. You won one game. It is over."

The room went silent.

"You are all reading the papers," Steve said. "You are all looking at your phones. You are all 'The Hurricane'. This is very bad. This is when teams get soft. This is when they get stupid. This is when... they lose the next game."

Alex felt a chill. Steve was right. His analyst brain knew it.

"You are not hungry anymore," Steve said. "You are... full. You are full of headlines."

He looked around the room. "So. We need a new challenge. We need a new, very big mountain to climb. To make you hungry again."

He pointed to the big TV screen in the corner.

"Today," Steve said, "we find out our opponent. In the Champions League."

The Champions League.

Alexs heart stopped. He had... he had almost forgotten.

In his old life, he had spent a decade analyzing this tournament. It was the pinnacle. The home of the gods.

Now... he was in it.

"Meeting room. Five minutes. Everyone," Steve ordered.

The team gathered in the dark video room. The big screen was on. It was showing a live feed from a very fancy, very gold room in Switzerland. Men in expensive suits were talking.

Alex sat down. Antoine was next to him.

"This," Antoine whispered, a real, serious fire in his eyes. "This is my home, Professor. The big stage. This... this is where the real magic happens."

Alex just nodded. He could not speak.

Mark was vibrating in the seat behind him. "I want Barcelona," he was whispering. "I want to run at them. I want to be a legend."

"I want a small team," Bastian grunted from the back. "From... from somewhere warm. My legs are old."

On the screen, a famous old player pulled a small ball from a glass bowl.

He opened it. "Arsenal."

The room was silent.

"Arsenal..." the man on the TV said, "will play..."

Another man pulled another ball. He opened it slowly.

He smiled at the camera.

"Real Madrid."

Alex just... stopped breathing.

The room was so quiet Alex could hear his own heart pounding.

Real Madrid.

The thirteen time champions. The kings of Europe. The biggest, richest, most famous club in the world.

Harry, the captain, just let out a long, slow whistle. "Well. Okay. So... the big one, then."

Mark was not cheering. He was... pale. "They are... they are good, right?" he whispered.

"They are the best," Antoine said. He was not smiling. He was... focused. "This is not a derby. This is... the world."

Steve, the manager, just stood at the front. He was calm.

"Good," he said. "A big mountain. Now... you must be hungry again."

He looked right at Alex.

"Professor. You know them, yes? Your data. Your old life."

Alex just... nodded. He could not speak.

He knew them.

He knew them better than anyone.

In his old, thirty two year old life, he had been obsessed. He had watched every game.

He had a... a hero.

Sergio. The Spanish number six. The greatest defensive midfielder in the world. The man who played football... like chess. The man Alex had based his entire analyst career on. The player he had watched for ten thousand hours.

His god.

And now... his opponent.

"Good," Steve said. "You have one week. Analyze. Find me a weakness. Find me a way to win. The rest of you... go to the gym. Run. We are going to war."

The team filed out. They were all silent. They were all in shock.

Alex just sat there, in the dark room, staring at the screen.

Real Madrid.

He felt... sick. He felt... electrified. He felt... terrified.

He pulled out his phone. He did not call his mum. He did not call Milo.

He opened his old files. The ones from his past life.

His laptop screen lit up.

It was full of data. Thousands of pages.

All of it... on Sergio.

His phone buzzed. A new text.

It was Mark.

"Okay. So. Real Madrid. I am going to the gym. Then the pitch. I need to be faster. A lot faster. You... you go do your brain thing. Find me a weakness. Four o clock. The pitch. Do not... go for coffee."

Alex just smiled. Mark was scared. And when Mark was scared... he trained.

He texted back.

"I will be there. We have a lot of work to do."

Alex looked back at his laptop. He saw the face of his idol.

"Okay, Sergio," Alex whispered to the screen. "You are the best. I know everything about you."

"Now... let me find a way to beat you."

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