Alex did not sleep. He did not eat. He barely blinked.

For three days, Alex Finch was not a footballer. He was not a sixteen year old boy. He was a machine.

He was back in his old life, but with a new purpose.

His bedroom looked like a command center. His laptop was open. His dad's old tablet was propped up next to it. Papers were taped to the walls.

On every screen, there was one face.

Sergio.

The Real Madrid number six. The captain. The general. The man Alex had worshipped for ten years in his previous life.

Alex watched him tackle. He watched him pass. He watched him shout at referees.

Sergio was perfect. He was a computer made of muscle and anger. He never lost the ball. He never lost his man. He knew where the pass was going before the kicker even moved his leg.

"He is a wall," Alex whispered to himself, rubbing his tired eyes. "He is a wall that moves. How do you beat a moving wall?"

His mum knocked on the door. "Alex? Dinner. I made lasagna."

"Not now, mum," Alex mumbled. "I am... I am decoding the matrix."

"Okay, Neo," she said, leaving a tray on the floor. "Just do not forget to shower. You smell like... stress."

Alex ate the lasagna cold at two in the morning.

He watched one clip for the hundredth time. It was the Champions League final from three years ago.

Sergio intercepted a pass. He stepped up. He played a perfect ball. Madrid scored.

Alex watched it again.

And again.

And then... he saw it.

It was tiny. It was almost invisible. It was a micro second.

But it was there.

Before Sergio stepped up... he did something.

He looked.

Not at the ball. Not at the player.

He looked... at the manager.

Every time he was about to make a risky, aggressive interception, he glanced at his bench. Just for a split second. Looking for approval. Looking for the signal.

It was a habit. A tick. A tiny crack in the armor.

And... there was something else.

Sergio hated... slow players.

When an opponent played fast, Sergio was patient. He waited.

But when an opponent dithered... when they looked unsure... when they looked scared... Sergio attacked. He was a shark. He could smell fear.

Alex sat back in his chair. A slow, crazy smile spread across his face.

"He likes fear," Alex whispered.

"So... we give him fear."

Alex walked into the training ground on Thursday morning. He was wearing his club suit because he had forgotten to do his laundry. He looked like a zombie.

Mark was already there. Of course he was.

Mark was on the pitch, sprinting. He was wearing a weighted vest. He was pulling a small parachute behind him. He looked like a very angry, silver astronaut.

"Faster!" Mark was yelling at himself. "Be the lightning!"

Alex walked onto the pitch. "Mark. Stop."

Mark stopped. He was panting like a dog. "What? I am training. I need to be fast. Ramos is fast."

"Ramos is fast," Alex agreed. "But Sergio... Sergio is smart. You cannot outrun him if he is already standing where you want to go."

"So I will run around him!" Mark said.

"He will just step across and break you," Alex said.

"Then what do we do?" Mark asked, looking desperate. "You have been in your cave for three days. Did you find it? Did you find the weakness?"

"I found... a habit," Alex said.

Steve, the manager, walked out. He looked serious.

"Professor," Steve said. "You look terrible."

"I feel terrible, coach. I have watched forty games of Real Madrid."

"Good. Meeting room. Now. The whole team."

The video room was dark. The superstars of Arsenal—Harry, Bastian, Antoine—were sitting in the leather chairs. They looked nervous. Real Madrid did that to people.

Alex stood at the front, next to the big screen. He felt small.

"Okay, Professor," Steve said. "Teach us."

Alex took a deep breath. He plugged in his laptop.

Sergios face appeared on the screen.

"This," Alex said, his voice steady, "is Sergio. He is the best defensive midfielder in history. He is strong. He is fast. He is smart."

"We know this," Bastian grunted. "He kicked me once. It hurt for a month."

"He reads the game," Alex continued. "He predicts. He knows where the ball is going. If we try to play our game... if we try to be the 'Hurricane'... he will stop us. He will intercept the pass to Mark. He will tackle Antoine. He will eat me."

"So we are dead," Mark whispered.

"No," Alex said. "We are not dead. Because... he has a rule."

Alex played a clip. It showed a midfielder hesitating on the ball. Taking a bad touch. Looking scared.

Sergio flew out of his position. He smashed the player. He won the ball.

"He attacks weakness," Alex said. "When he sees a player who is scared... he leaves his zone. He comes to kill."

Alex looked at the team.

"He thinks I am a kid," Alex said. "He thinks I am a sixteen year old boy playing in the Champions League. He expects me to be scared."

"You are scared," Harry pointed out.

"Yes," Alex smiled. "But... I am going to act more scared. I am going to be... the most terrified, clumsy, stupid player he has ever seen."

The room was silent.

"The plan," Alex said, "is 'The Fainting Goat'."

Antoine laughed. "The what?"

"I get the ball," Alex explained. "I do not pass. I do not turn. I just... panic. I take a bad touch. I look at my feet. I look like I am about to cry."

"He will come for you," Bastian said. "He will destroy you."

"Yes," Alex said. "He will leave his position. He will leave the middle of the pitch open. He will come to take the candy from the baby."

Alex pointed to the screen. "And the moment... the exact moment he steps forward..."

He looked at Mark.

"You run. Not to the side. Not to the wing. You run... right into the space he just left. The heart of the pitch."

"And you?" Antoine asked. "You will be being smashed by Sergio."

"I will pass," Alex said. "Before he hits me. I will not be looking. I will just... know. I will dump the ball into the empty space."

"It is a trap," Steve said, his eyes gleaming. "A suicide trap. You are the bait."

"I am the bait," Alex agreed. "If I am too slow... he breaks my ankle. If I am too fast... he stays in position. It has to be perfect."

Steve looked at the team.

"Can you do it?" he asked Alex.

"I can do it," Alex said. "I have watched him. I know his timing. I know his step."

"It is crazy," Bastian said. "But... I like it. It is a brave plan for a small rock."

"The Fainting Goat," Antoine mused. "It lacks style. But... it has drama. I approve."

Mark just sat there. He looked at Alex.

"You get smashed," Mark said. "And I score."

"That is the deal," Alex said.

"Okay," Mark said. "I will be ready. I will be the Arrow."

"Good," Steve said. "Pack your bags. We are going to Madrid."

The flight to Madrid was different.

There were no movies. There was no music.

Everyone was focused.

Alex sat next to Antoine. Antoine was polishing his boots.

"You are brave, Professor," Antoine said quietly. "Sergio... he hits hard."

"I am stable," Alex said, trying to convince himself.

They landed. The heat of Madrid hit them. It was different from London. It was dry. It was intense.

They drove to the stadium. The Santiago Bernabéu.

It was not a stadium. It was a temple. It was a giant, white, towering cathedral of football.

They walked out for the training session.

The stadium was empty, but it felt full. The history was in the walls.

Alex looked at the grass. It was perfect.

He looked at the goal. It looked huge.

He stood in the center circle.

"Tomorrow," he whispered. "Tomorrow, I meet my god."

And then, he was going to trick him.

Matchday.

The locker room was silent. Even Mark was quiet.

Steve gave the speech. It was short.

"They are Kings," Steve said. "They think this is their trophy. They think we are just tourists. They think we are kids."

He looked at Alex.

"Show them... that kids can bite. Go."

They walked into the tunnel.

And there he was.

Sergio.

He was standing right next to Alex. He was wearing the all white kit. He looked like a statue made of bronze. He smelled like expensive cologne and danger.

He looked down at Alex. He saw the sixteen year old. He saw the fear.

Sergio just... smirked. He didn't say a word. He just chewed his gum and looked straight ahead.

He had already won in his mind.

Alex felt his legs shaking. This was not acting. He really was terrified.

Good, his analyst brain said. Use it.

They walked out. The noise. Eighty thousand Spanish fans whistling and cheering. It was deafening.

The Champions League anthem played. The Chaaaaampions.

Alex had goosebumps.

The whistle blew.

Real Madrid was good. They were very, very good.

They kept the ball. They moved it around. Arsenal could not get a touch.

Alex was running. He was the shield. He was trying to be stable.

But Madrid was like water. They flowed around him.

Sergio was running the show. He was standing deep, smoking a cigar (metaphorically), just passing the ball wherever he wanted.

He looked bored.

Ten minutes. Twenty minutes. Real Madrid scored.

Of course they did. Their striker hit a rocket. One zero.

The crowd went wild.

Arsenal was drowning.

"Professor!" Antoine yelled. "We need the trap! Now! Before we die!"

Alex nodded. Now.

Arsenal kicked off.

Harry passed the ball to Alex.

Alex got it. He was in the middle of the pitch.

He saw Sergio. Sergio was ten yards away. Watching. Waiting.

Alex stopped. He looked at the ball. He fumbled his touch. He let the ball roll a little too far.

He looked up, eyes wide, looking panicked. He looked like a lost child.

Sergio saw it.

His eyes lit up. The shark smelled blood.

He did not wait. He left his zone. He sprinted. He was coming to steal the candy.

He was fast. So fast.

"Alex! MOVE!" Mark screamed from somewhere.

Alex waited.

He could hear Sergio's boots tearing up the grass. He could hear his breathing.

He waited until he could see the whites of Sergios eyes.

Sergio slid. He was going to take the ball and Alexs ankle.

Now.

Alex did not look up. He did not panic.

He just... turned his foot.

He played a blind, soft, diagonaL pass.

Right into the space Sergio had just left.

Sergio missed the ball by an inch.

His momentum carried him into Alex. CRUNCH.

Alex went flying. He hit the ground hard. The wind left him.

But he heard it.

The gasp of the crowd.

He rolled over.

Mark had the ball.

He was in the hole. The giant, Sergio shaped hole in the middle of the Madrid defense.

Mark was running. He was the Arrow.

The Madrid defenders were confused. Their captain was gone.

Mark was one on one with the center back.

Mark did not pass. He did not fake.

He just pushed the ball past him and ran.

He was too fast.

He was in the box.

The keeper came out.

Mark did not chip. He did not smash.

He did the "cold poke". The Tottenham goal.

He slid the ball under the keeper.

It rolled. It hit the post. It went in.

GOAL.

One one.

The Bernabéu was stunned into silence.

Alex was on the ground, gasping for air. His shin hurt.

But he was smiling.

Sergio stood up. He looked at the goal. He looked at Mark celebrating.

Then he looked down at Alex.

The smirk was gone.

Sergio looked... furious. And... confused.

"You..." Sergio whispered. "You... little... rat."

Alex pulled himself up. He dusted off his shirt.

He looked his idol in the eye.

"I am not a rat," Alex said, in perfect Spanish (he had learned it for his analysis). "I am the Professor."

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