Alex sat at the kitchen table. He was staring at a white jersey.

It was framed. His dad had done it yesterday. It was hanging on the wall, right next to the picture of Alexs first goal.

Number 4. SERGIO.

It was still covered in grass stains. His dad said the stains were "history".

"Eat your eggs, Professor," his mum said, putting a plate down. "You cannot conquer Europe on an empty stomach."

"I am not conquering Europe today, mum," Alex laughed. "It is just recovery training."

"You are a hero," his dad said from behind his newspaper. "The paper says you are the 'King Slayer'. I like that one."

Alex smiled. King Slayer. It sounded cool. But he did not feel like a king slayer. He felt like a sixteen year old boy who was very, very sore.

He finished his breakfast and grabbed his bag. He had his black boots. He had his training kit.

He was ready.

He walked into the training ground at seven forty five. Bastian early.

He expected silence. He expected Bastian to be staring at a wall.

Instead, he heard... music.

Techno music. Very loud techno music.

He walked into the locker room.

Bastian was there. He was stretching. But he was wearing huge, bright orange headphones. And he was nodding his head.

"Bastian?" Alex asked.

Bastian took off the headphones. "Morning, Professor. The music. It is... efficient. It helps the muscles wake up."

"You look... happy," Alex said, suspicious.

"I am not happy," Bastian grunted. "I am... satisfied. We beat the Kings. Now... we must beat the rest."

The door burst open. Mark ran in.

He was wearing his silver 'Arrow' t shirt. And he was wearing... sunglasses. Inside.

"The future is bright!" Mark yelled. "That is what Milo said! I am the Arrow! I pierced the heart of Madrid!"

"Take off the glasses, Speed," Bastian said. "You look like a blind bat."

Mark took them off. He was grinning. "Did you see the comments online? They are calling me 'The Flash'. 'The Silver Bullet'. I am viral, Alex! I am viral!"

"You are loud," Alex said, opening his locker.

Antoine walked in. He looked tired but elegant.

"My friends," Antoine said, sitting down. "My phone. It does not stop. Everyone wants an interview. Everyone wants a photo. It is... exhausting being this beautiful."

"It is hard work," Alex agreed.

"But," Antoine said, his eyes twinkling. "It is better than losing. Now. Where is the manager? We need to know who is next."

Today was the draw. The Semi Finals.

There were only four teams left.

Arsenal.

Barcelona.

Bayern Munich.

Manchester City.

Three giants. And the Hurricane.

Steve, the manager, walked in. He was holding a remote control.

"Meeting room," he barked. "Now. The draw is starting."

They piled into the dark video room. The screen was glowing.

The fancy men in Switzerland were talking.

Alex sat between Antoine and Mark. Mark was vibrating.

"I want Barcelona," Mark whispered. "I want them. The Camp Nou. The biggest stadium in Europe. I want to run on that pitch."

"Bayern is tough," Bastian said from the back. "German efficiency. Like me. But... not as handsome."

"City is a machine," Antoine said. "They play like a computer game. Very hard to get the ball."

The draw started.

The first ball was pulled.

"Bayern Munich," the man said.

The room held its breath.

"Will play..."

The second ball.

"Manchester City."

A huge roar went up in the room. The two favorites were playing each other.

That meant...

"Arsenal," the man said.

"Will play..."

"Barcelona."

Mark jumped up. He pumped his fist. "YES! YES! SPAIN! WE ARE GOING TO SPAIN!"

Alex felt a shiver. Barcelona.

They were not the Kings like Madrid. They were the Artists. They played the most beautiful football in the world. Tiki taka. Passing. Movement.

They were the team Alex had modeled his own game on in his old life.

And now... he had to destroy them.

Steve turned off the TV.

"Okay," Steve said. "Barcelona. The Camp Nou. Ninety thousand people. A pitch so big you can land a plane on it."

He looked at Mark.

"Speed. You got your wish. It is a big pitch. There is space. A lot of space."

Mark grinned. "I will run forever."

"You will need to," Steve said. "Because Barcelona... they do not let you have the ball. They keep it. They hide it. They pass it until you are dizzy. Then... they score."

He looked at Alex.

"Professor. This is the ultimate test for a brain. Madrid was power. Barcelona is... intelligence. They will try to outsmart you. They will try to pass around you. If you chase them, you die. If you sleep, you die."

"So what do we do?" Alex asked.

"We do not chase," Steve said. "We do not sleep."

He smiled.

"We... disrupt. We break their rhythm. We are the Hurricane. We do not play music. We make noise."

They went out to train.

Milo was waiting for them by the pitch.

He was wearing a bright yellow suit today. He looked like a giant banana.

"THE SEMI FINALS!" Milo screamed. "BARCELONA! THE SUN! THE BEACH! THE TAPAS! BOYS! THIS IS HUGE!"

He had a crate with him.

"I have a new product!" Milo announced. "For the Hurricane brand!"

He pulled out a can. It was silver and red.

"HURRICANE ENERGY!" Milo yelled. "One sip, and you run like Mark! Two sips, and you think like Alex! Three sips... and you dance like Antoine!"

"What is in it?" Harry asked, looking at the can suspiciously.

"Sugar!" Milo said. "And caffeine! And... magic! I do not know! The factory sent it! Drink! Be energized!"

Alex took a can. He took a sip.

It tasted like battery acid and strawberries. It was terrible.

"Milo," Alex said, coughing. "This is... poison."

"It is fuel!" Milo insisted. "We launch it next week! Before the game! You will drink it on camera! You will smile! You will say 'Yum'!"

"I will not say yum," Bastian grunted. "I will say 'call a doctor'."

Steve walked over. "Milo. Get off my pitch. Take your poison with you. We have work to do."

Milo grabbed his crate. "Strategy! I love it! Focus! Win! Sell the drink!"

He ran off.

Training was focused.

Steve set up a new drill.

"Barcelona," Steve said, "likes to play in triangles. Always triangles. Pass, move, pass. They hypnotize you."

He looked at the team.

"We are going to be... Vandals. We are going to break their triangles."

He put Alex, Antoine, and Mark on one team.

"You are the Vandals," Steve said. "Your job is not to win the ball. Your job is to... cut the lines."

The drill started. The other team tried to pass like Barcelona.

Alex was the Brain. He watched the eyes. He watched the hips.

"Mark! Right!" Alex yelled.

Mark sprinted right. He blocked the passing lane.

"Antoine! Drop!"

Antoine dropped deep. He cut off the return pass.

The other team was stuck. They had nowhere to go.

They panicked. They kicked it long.

Bastian headed it clear easily.

"GOOD!" Steve roared. "Make them play long! They hate long balls! They are artists! Make them be farmers!"

It was a mental workout. Alex had to be focused every single second. One step wrong, and the triangle would work.

But when it worked... it was deadly.

They won the ball.

Mark was already running. The Barcelona defense played high. There was forty yards of space behind them.

Alex hit the pass. The Hurricane pass.

Mark was onto it. Chaos.

He scored.

"Too easy!" Mark yelled.

"It will not be easy," Antoine warned. "The Camp Nou... the pitch is wide. You will get tired, Speed. Very tired."

"I do not get tired," Mark said. "I have Hurricane Energy."

"Please do not drink that," Alex said.

Training ended. They were walking back to the locker room.

Alex felt a hand on his shoulder. It was Harry, the captain.

"Alex," Harry said. "Can I talk to you?"

"Sure, Captain."

Harry looked serious.

"You know," Harry said, "when you first came here... I thought it was a joke. A sixteen year old in a school suit. I thought it was a publicity stunt."

Alex looked down at his boots. "I know."

"But," Harry continued. "You... you changed us. Me. Bastian. Antoine. We were... good. But we were... comfortable. We were happy to be fourth. To be in the Champions League."

He looked at Mark, who was racing Bastian to the showers.

"Then you two came along. The Hurricane. You made us... hungry again. You made us believe we could beat Madrid. You made us believe we could win the whole thing."

Harry stopped. He looked Alex in the eye.

"We have not won a European trophy in my lifetime," Harry said. "Not the big one. We have been close. But we always... fell short."

He put his hand on Alexs shoulder.

"You are the difference, Professor. You and your crazy partner. You make us believe. So... thank you."

Alex felt a lump in his throat. "We just... we just want to win, Harry."

"I know," Harry smiled. "That is why we follow you. Now come on. Let us see if Milo left any more of that poison. I am thirsty."

Alex walked into the locker room.

Mark was there. He was holding a can of Hurricane Energy.

"It is growing on me," Mark said, taking a sip and twitching. "I feel... fast."

"You look green," Antoine said.

"I am electric!" Mark yelled.

Alex sat at his locker. Number 38.

He looked at his teammates. His friends.

They believed in him. The Captain believed in him.

Barcelona was waiting. The Artists. The masters of the ball.

Alex closed his eyes. He visualized the pitch. The green grass. The red and blue shirts.

He saw the triangles.

And he saw the Hurricane smashing right through them.

He smiled.

"Okay," Alex whispered. "Let us go paint."

He was ready. The Hurricane was heading to Spain. And they were bringing the storm.

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