Alex walked into the training ground on Friday morning carrying a plastic dry-cleaning bag. He held it like it contained the Crown Jewels.

He was "Bastian early" again, seven forty-five. The giant German was already at his locker, reading a newspaper with a very serious expression.

"Morning, Bastian," Alex said, placing the bag gently on the bench.

"Professor," Bastian grunted. He peered over the top of his paper. "You are carrying that bag like it is a baby. What is in it? Your new suit? Or did Milo send you a cape?"

"No cape," Alex smiled. He unzipped the bottom of the bag and pulled the plastic up slightly.

Revealing the white, grass-stained Real Madrid jersey. Number 4. SERGIO.

Bastian lowered his paper completely. He stood up. He walked over.

The giant defender looked at the shirt. He reached out a hand, hesitating for a second, before touching the fabric.

"The Captain," Bastian whispered. There was a strange tone in his voice. Reverence. "He kicked me in the World Cup final once. It was a good kick. He is a warrior."

Bastian looked at Alex. "You earned this, Professor. Do not wash it. The grass stains... they are the history."

"My mum wanted to put it on a hot wash," Alex laughed. "I had to hide it."

The door burst open. Mark flew in.

He was wearing his silver 'Arrow' t-shirt, the one Milo had made. He stopped dead when he saw the white jersey.

His eyes went as wide as saucers.

"Is that... is that it?" Mark whispered. He walked over slowly, as if approaching a bomb. "The shirt? The actual shirt?"

"It is the shirt," Alex said.

Mark stared at it. He looked at the mud. He looked at the name.

"I scored the goal," Mark muttered, a little pout forming on his lips. "I nutmegged the keeper. And you get the shirt. Life is unfair."

"You got the headline, Speed," Alex reminded him.

"Headlines are paper," Mark said, poking the jersey with one finger. "This... this is cotton. And sweat. And... majesty."

Antoine walked in, looking fresh and smelling of expensive cologne. He saw the huddled group.

"Ah," Antoine smiled. "The shrine. We are worshipping the white shirt today?"

"It is Sergio's," Mark said.

"I know," Antoine said. "I have one. From the Euros. I use it to polish my car."

Mark gasped. Bastian growled. Alex just laughed.

"Okay, enough worship," Steve, the manager, boomed as he marched into the room. "Put the souvenir away, Professor. We are not tourists. We are a football team."

Alex quickly zipped up the bag and put it in his locker.

Steve stood in the center of the room. He looked tired. But he looked focused.

"Madrid," Steve said, "was a mountain. You climbed it. You planted your flag. You got a draw. The world loves you. Milo is probably buying a helicopter right now."

The team chuckled.

"But," Steve said, his voice dropping. "There is a thing in football called 'The European Hangover'. You play a giant on Wednesday. You run. You fight. You fly home. You are tired. You are happy."

He looked at them.

"And then... Saturday comes. And you play... Leicester City."

He pointed to the tactics board.

"Leicester. At home. They are not Madrid. They will not play beautiful football. They will sit back. They will wait. They will let you have the ball. And then... when you are tired, when you are lazy... they will kill you."

He looked at Alex.

"Professor. Your legs are heavy. I know. I saw the data. You ran twelve kilometers in Madrid. Today... you cannot win with your legs. You have to win with your eyes."

He looked at Mark.

"Speed. You are starting."

Mark's head snapped up. "I am?"

"Yes. Antoine is tired. His ankle needs rest. You are the starter. But listen to me... Leicester sits deep. There is no space behind them. You cannot just run. You have to be... patient."

Mark looked horrified. "Patient? I am the Arrow! I do not do patient!"

"Learn," Steve said. "Or we lose. Go."

Saturday at the Emirates.

It was raining. A cold, miserable, grey London rain. It was a long way from the warm night in Madrid.

Alex stood in the tunnel. His legs felt heavy. His ankle was stiff.

He looked at the Leicester players. They looked fresh. They looked fast. Their striker, Vardy, was hopping up and down, staring at Alex like he was a snack.

"He is fast, Professor," Bastian whispered, leaning down. "Maybe faster than Speed. Do not race him. You will lose."

"I know," Alex said.

Mark was standing next to Alex. He was wearing his starting kit. He looked nervous.

"They have ten defenders," Mark whispered. "I counted. They are all going to stand in the box. Where am I supposed to run?"

"You don't run through them," Alex said. "You have to run... across them."

"Across?" Mark frowned. "That sounds... sideways. I hate sideways."

"Trust me," Alex said.

The whistle blew.

The game was exactly what Steve had predicted. The 'Hangover' was real.

Arsenal was slow. The passes were a little sloppy. The movement was heavy.

And Leicester... Leicester was a blue wall.

They sat deep. They did not press Alex. They let him have the ball. They knew he was tired. They wanted him to make a mistake.

Alex had the ball in the center circle. He looked up.

There was no space.

Mark was trying. He was running into the box. He was running out of the box. He was getting shoved by three giant defenders.

"There is no room!" Mark yelled, throwing his hands up.

Alex passed it sideways to Harry. Harry passed it back.

It was boring. It was slow. The crowd was getting quiet. They wanted the Hurricane. They were getting a light drizzle.

In the 30th minute, Alex made a mistake.

He was tired. He let the ball roll a little too far.

Vardy, the Leicester striker, saw it.

He exploded. He was so fast it was scary.

He stole the ball from Alex.

Alex tried to grab him. He missed.

Vardy was gone. He ran half the pitch in three seconds.

Bastian tried to tackle him. Vardy skipped past.

He shot.

GOAL.

One zero Leicester.

The stadium groaned.

Alex put his hands on his knees. He was exhausted. He had lost the ball. He had caused the goal.

Mark walked over. He was not angry. He looked... worried.

"You okay, Professor?" Mark asked. "You look... grey."

"I am fine," Alex lied. "Just... heavy."

"They are not moving," Mark said, looking at the Leicester defense. "They are just standing there. Laughing at us."

"I know," Alex said. "We need... we need to wake up."

Halftime. One zero.

Steve was calm. Too calm.

"You are tired," he said. "I see it. Your bodies are in Madrid. Your minds are in bed."

He looked at Alex.

"Professor. You made a mistake. It happens. Forget it. But now... you have a problem. They are sitting deep. Mark has no space. You have no energy. How do you win?"

Alex drank some water. He closed his eyes. He visualized the data.

Leicester was a block. A solid block.

If you ran at them, you hit a wall.

If you passed around them, they just shifted.

"We need..." Alex said slowly. "We need to make them... come out."

"They won't come out," Harry said. "They are winning. They are happy."

"We have to make them," Alex said. He looked at Mark.

"Mark. Stop running."

Mark blinked. "Stop running? But... I am Speed."

"Stop running forward," Alex said. "Come back. All the way back. Stand next to me."

"Next to you? In midfield?"

"Yes. Be a... a false midfielder. Leave their defenders alone. Leave them with no one to mark."

"Then who scores?" Mark asked.

"Harry," Alex said. "And Trossard. When you come deep... their defenders will get confused. Do they follow you? If they follow you... there is space behind. If they stay... we have an overload in midfield. We can pass around them."

Steve smiled. "The False Nine. It is an old trick, Professor. But a good one."

"I hate it," Mark grumbled. "I want to be in the box."

"Do you want to score?" Alex asked.

"Yes."

"Then come back," Alex said. "Trust the data."

The second half started.

Alex got the ball.

He looked up.

Mark was not running away. He was running to Alex.

He stood right next to Alex in the center circle.

The Leicester defenders... they were confused. They were standing on the edge of their box... marking empty grass.

"What is he doing?" the Leicester captain yelled. "Where is the striker?"

Mark got the ball from Alex. He turned. He ran at the midfield.

Now, it was Arsenal who had the numbers. Five midfielders against four.

Mark was fast. Even with the ball, he was faster than the Leicester midfielders.

He ran past one. He ran past two.

The Leicester defenders... they had to make a choice.

Their captain stepped out. He had to stop Mark.

He left the line.

Space.

Alex saw it. He had followed Mark.

Mark saw the defender coming. He saw the gap.

He did not pass. He did not shoot.

He just... left the ball.

He ran over it. A dummy.

Alex was right behind him.

Alex took the ball. He ran into the gap Mark had created.

He was in the box.

He was tired. His legs were burning.

The keeper came out.

Alex looked at the corner.

He hit it. Low. Hard.

The keeper dived.

GOAL.

One one.

The crowd woke up. The Hurricane was back.

Mark ran to Alex. "I hate playing midfield! It is too much running!"

"It worked!" Alex laughed.

"You scored!" Mark said. "That was my run!"

"It was your dummy," Alex said. "Good brain, Speed."

Mark grinned. "I have a brain. It is small, but it is fast."

The game was tied. But Arsenal needed a win.

Eighty fifth minute.

Everyone was dead on their feet. Even Mark was slowing down.

Alex had the ball. He was deep again.

Leicester was tired too. They were chasing shadows.

Alex saw Antoine warming up on the sideline. He was not coming on. There was no time.

It was up to them.

Alex looked at Mark.

Mark looked at Alex.

Mark pointed. Not to his feet. To the corner flag.

The long run. The hard run.

Alex nodded.

He dug deep. He found a tiny bit of energy left in his reserve tank.

He hit the pass.

It was not a perfect pass. It was a tired pass. It floated a bit.

But Mark... Mark wanted it.

He sprinted. He fought the exhaustion.

He got to the ball just before it went out.

He was by the corner flag. He had no angle. Two defenders were on him.

Alex jogged forward. He was trying to offer support.

Mark did not pass.

He did something... crazy.

He did the 'fake fake'. In the corner.

He faked to go back. The defenders relaxed.

Then he just... kicked the ball.

He kicked it... through the legs of the first defender.

He ran around him.

He ran along the goal line. It was a tightrope.

The second defender came.

Mark just... poked the ball past him.

He was three yards from goal. The angle was zero.

The keeper was there.

Mark did not shoot. He could not.

He looked up.

He saw... not Alex. Not Harry.

He saw... chaos.

He just smashed the ball. Hard. Into the mix of legs and bodies in the six yard box.

It hit a Leicester defender's knee.

It hit the post.

It hit the keeper's back.

And it rolled in.

Own goal.

GOAL.

Two one.

It was the ugliest, messiest, luckiest goal Alex had ever seen.

And it was beautiful.

Mark ran away screaming. He did not do a cool celebration. He just fell over. He was too tired to stand.

Alex fell over next to him.

"That..." Alex panted, lying on the wet grass, "was... chaos."

"I told you," Mark wheezed, grinning at the sky. "Chaos... always wins."

The final whistle blew.

Two one.

They had survived the hangover. They had won ugly. Again.

Steve walked onto the pitch. He looked at his two young stars, lying in the mud.

"Get up," Steve said, smiling. "You look like pigs in a blanket."

Alex groaned and sat up. "Coach... I need a week of sleep."

"You have two days," Steve said. "Then... we prepare for the second leg. Real Madrid. At home."

Alex looked at Mark. Mark looked at Alex.

"Madrid," Mark whispered. "I am going to wear my silver boots. I am going to be fast."

"And I," Alex said, looking at his muddy black boots, "I am going to be the Professor."

They stood up. They leaned on each other.

They were tired. They were sore.

But they were ready.

The Kings of Europe were coming to London.

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