The heat in Barcelona was different from London.

In London, the heat was wet and heavy. In Barcelona, it was dry. It baked you.

Alex stood in the tunnel of the Camp Nou. The air smelled of popcorn and expensive cologne.

He looked up. The stadium did not have a roof. It just went up and up, a giant bowl of blue and red seats, reaching right into the bright Spanish sky.

Ninety thousand people.

"It is big," Mark whispered.

Alex looked at his partner. Mark was vibrating. He had drunk two cans of Hurricane Energy before the warm up. His eyes were wide. His leg was bouncing so fast it was a blur.

"It is huge," Alex agreed.

"The pitch," Mark said, his voice shaking. "I walked on it. It is... it is like an airport. It goes on forever. I can run forever."

"Just do not run out of energy in ten minutes, Speed," Antoine said, standing next to them.

Antoine looked perfect. He was wearing sunglasses in the tunnel. He took them off slowly.

"This," Antoine said, breathing in the air. "This is football. The stage. The lights. The art."

"We are not artists today, Magician," Bastian grunted from the back. "We are Vandals. Remember."

"I remember," Antoine sighed. "I break the art. It hurts my soul. But... I like winning."

The referee picked up the ball.

"Vamos," the Barcelona captain said. He was a small, genius midfielder. He looked at Alex. He did not look scared. He looked bored.

They walked out.

The noise was not a roar. It was a song. Ninety thousand people singing the Barcelona anthem. It was beautiful.

Alex looked at the pitch. It was huge. It was wide.

It was a chessboard. And he was playing against the grandmasters.

The whistle blew.

Steve, the manager, had warned them.

Barcelona did not let you play.

From the first second, the ball disappeared.

Zip. Zip. Zip.

The Barcelona players moved in perfect triangles. One touch. Move. One touch. Move.

Alex ran left. The ball went right.

Alex ran right. The ball went left.

He was the Shield. He was supposed to win the ball.

But he could not even get close to it.

"They are ghosts!" Mark yelled, chasing a defender. "Stand still!"

The Barcelona players just ignored him. They passed around him like he was a traffic cone.

Ten minutes passed. Arsenal had not touched the ball.

Twenty minutes. Still nothing.

The heat was baking them. The pitch was so big. Alex felt his legs getting heavy.

"Professor!" Harry, the captain, shouted. "We are chasing shadows! Fix it!"

Alexs analyst brain was trying. He was watching the patterns.

Triangle. Triangle. Pass to the wing. Cut inside.

It was perfect. It was hypnotic.

If Alex tried to intercept, they just changed the angle.

They were not making mistakes.

In the thirtieth minute, Barcelona attacked.

Their winger cut inside. He played a one two with the striker.

It was beautiful. It was fast.

They shot.

Bastian threw his giant body in the way.

THUD.

The ball hit Bastian in the chest. It bounced away.

"WAKE UP!" Bastian roared at his team. "I CANNOT BLOCK EVERYTHING!"

Alex stood in the center circle. He was sweating. He was dizzy.

He looked at Antoine. Antoine was frustrated. He was an artist watching someone else paint.

He looked at Mark. Mark was red in the face. The energy drink was crashing. He looked tired.

We cannot chase them, Alex thought. We will die.

He remembered the drill. The Vandals.

Do not win the ball. Cut the lines.

Alex took a deep breath. He looked at the Barcelona captain, the genius midfielder.

The captain had the ball. He was looking for the next triangle.

Alex did not run at him.

He ran... to the space between the captain and the winger.

He just stood there.

The captain looked. He wanted to pass. He could not. Alex was in the lane.

The captain paused.

This was it. The rhythm was broken.

"ANTOINE!" Alex yelled. "PRESS!"

Antoine saw the hesitation. He was the Sword.

He sprinted. He ran at the captain.

The captain panicked. He had never panicked before.

He tried to turn.

Antoine stuck a foot in.

He poked the ball loose.

The stadium gasped. The machine had broken.

The ball rolled to Alex.

He had it.

He looked up.

The pitch was huge. The Barcelona defense was high. They were near the halfway line.

Behind them... was acres of empty, green space.

"MARK!" Alex screamed.

Mark was tired. He was crashing.

But he heard his name.

He saw the space.

He ignited.

He ran.

The Barcelona defenders were slow. They were used to playing in the other half.

Alex did not wait. He did not take a touch.

He hit the pass. The Hurricane pass.

It was the longest pass he had ever played. Seventy yards.

It flew through the Spanish sky. It was a black streak against the blue.

It landed.

Perfectly.

Mark ran onto it. He was all alone. He was forty yards from goal.

He ran.

The crowd was silent.

Mark ran. The keeper stayed on his line.

Mark got to the box. His legs were heavy. The energy drink was making his hands shake.

He looked at the goal.

He could not smash it. He was too tired.

He remembered the training.

Be smart.

He looked at the keeper. He faked a shot.

The keeper dived.

Mark just... dragged the ball sideways.

He walked it past the keeper.

He walked it into the empty net.

GOAL.

One zero.

Mark did not run. He did not scream. He did not do the lightning bolt.

He just collapsed. He lay face down in the goal.

Alex ran all the way from midfield. He jumped on Mark.

"YOU DID IT! THE ARROW!"

Mark rolled over. He was gasping for air.

"Water," Mark wheezed. "I need... water. No more... energy drink."

Antoine arrived. He looked fresh. He looked happy.

"We are Vandals!" Antoine laughed. "Beautiful, artistic Vandals!"

The goal changed everything.

Barcelona was angry. They were not used to losing at home.

They attacked. They swarmed.

But now... Arsenal had something to hold onto.

Alex was the Shield. He was stable.

He did not chase anymore. He just cut the lines. He stood in the spaces. He frustrated them.

Bastian was a wall. He headed everything.

Halftime came. One zero.

The locker room was like a sauna. Everyone was drenched in sweat.

Steve, the manager, walked in. He looked calm.

"You are tired," he said. "I know. The pitch is big. The heat is bad."

He looked at Mark. Mark was drinking three bottles of water at once.

"Speed. You are done. You ran a marathon in forty five minutes. You scored the goal. Good job."

Mark looked relieved. "Thank you, coach. I think... I think my heart is vibrating."

"Rest," Steve said.

He looked at Alex.

"Professor. You stay on. You are the brain. If you leave... we lose the structure. Can you run?"

Alex felt his legs. They were heavy. But his mind was clear.

"I can run, coach," Alex said.

"Good. Antoine. You stay on. We need an outlet. We need magic."

"I am ready," Antoine said.

Steve looked at the team.

"They will come at us. They will throw everything. They will leave gaps. Big gaps. We sit deep. We suffer. And then... we kill them."

The second half was a siege.

Barcelona had the ball for forty minutes.

They hit the post. They hit the bar.

The Arsenal keeper made three miracle saves.

Alex was running on fumes. He was just moving on instinct.

Left. Right. Block. Tackle.

He was a machine. A tired, sixteen year old machine.

Eighty fifth minute.

Barcelona had a corner.

The crowd was screaming. They wanted a goal.

The ball came in.

Alex was on the post.

The ball flew over everyone. It hit a Barcelona player on the knee.

It bounced towards the goal.

Alex reacted.

He did not use his feet. He did not use his head.

He threw his body in the way.

The ball hit his chest. THUD.

It hurt. It knocked the wind out of him.

But the ball stayed out.

Bastian smashed it clear.

The ball flew up the pitch.

Antoine was there. He was the only one forward.

He trapped the ball. It stuck to his foot like glue.

He was at the halfway line. Two defenders were with him.

Alex was on the ground in his own box. He could not move.

He watched.

Antoine did not run. He waited.

He saw a runner.

It was not Mark. Mark was on the bench, wrapped in a towel.

It was Harry. The captain.

Harry had sprinted. In the eighty fifth minute.

Antoine played the pass.

Harry ran onto it. He was not fast. But he was strong.

He held off the defender. He got into the box.

He shot.

It was not a pretty goal. It was a scuffed, ugly, bouncing shot.

It rolled past the keeper.

It hit the post. And went in.

GOAL.

Two zero.

The Arsenal fans, high up in the sky, went crazy.

Alex just lay on the goal line. He closed his eyes.

Two zero. At the Camp Nou.

It was impossible.

Bastian picked him up.

"Get up, small rock," Bastian said. His voice was thick with emotion. "We are going to the final."

The final whistle blew.

Arsenal 2. Barcelona 0.

The Hurricane had destroyed the Artists.

Alex walked off the pitch. He swapped shirts with the Barcelona captain.

He held the red and blue jersey. Another trophy.

Steve was waiting by the tunnel. He hugged every player.

When he got to Alex, he stopped.

"Professor," Steve said.

"Coach," Alex panted.

"You blocked that shot. With your chest."

"Yes, coach."

"That," Steve said, "was not brains. That was heart. You are the complete player now."

Alex smiled. He was too tired to speak.

He sat on the bus to the airport.

Mark was asleep next to him. He was snoring loudly. He was clutching his silver boots like a teddy bear.

Antoine was across the aisle. He was on his phone.

"The final," Antoine whispered. "We are in the final."

Alex looked out the window at the Barcelona night.

They were going to the Champions League Final.

The biggest game in club football.

He pulled out his phone. He checked the other score.

Bayern Munich versus Manchester City.

It had finished.

Manchester City had won. 3-1.

So that was it.

The Final.

Arsenal versus Manchester City.

Alex vs the best team in England.

He closed his eyes. He was sixteen. He was a professional. He was a finalist.

And he had one more game to win.

One more mountain to climb.

He drifted off to sleep, the roar of the Camp Nou still echoing in his ears. The dream was almost complete.

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