"Ow," Alex whispered.

He reached out and touched it. It was a medal. A heavy, gold, metal disc on a blue ribbon. He pulled it close to his eyes.

He sat up. His head was spinning a little. The party last night had been... loud. He did not drink alcohol. He was sixteen. He drank orange juice. But Mark... Mark had sprayed so much champagne that Alex felt like he had marinated in it.

He got out of bed. His legs felt like old wood. Stiff. Sore.

He walked downstairs.

His house was usually quiet. Today, it looked like a bomb had gone off in a flower shop.

There were bouquets of flowers everywhere. On the table. On the floor. On the TV.

Red and white flowers.

His dad, David, was asleep in the armchair. He was wearing an Arsenal scarf. He was snoring. He looked very happy.

His mum, Sarah, was in the kitchen. She was humming. She was cooking pancakes.

"Morning, Champion," she said, smiling so hard her eyes were closed.

"Morning, mum," Alex said, sitting down. "Why are there so many flowers?"

"The neighbors," she said. "And the postman. And the milkman. And... I think a stranger just dropped some off. You are very popular today, Professor."

Alex ate his pancakes. He looked at the medal on the table.

It was heavy. It was real.

"You have to go soon," his mum said. "The bus is waiting."

"The bus?"

"The parade, Alex," she laughed. "The open top bus parade. Islington is closed. The whole city is waiting for you."

Alex swallowed. A parade.

He had seen them on TV. The sea of fans. The cheering.

He was just a boy who liked data. Now... he was the main attraction.

He got to the stadium.

The team bus was different today. It did not have a roof. It was red. It had huge letters on the side.

CHAMPIONS OF EUROPE.

The team was already there. They were all wearing matching t shirts that said "KINGS OF EUROPE".

Mark was there. He was wearing the t shirt. But he had also tied an Arsenal flag around his neck like a cape. He was wearing his silver boots.

"SUPERMAN!" Mark yelled when he saw Alex. "I AM SUPERMAN!"

"You are a striker, Mark," Alex said. "And you look ridiculous."

"I look like a legend!" Mark shouted. He was vibrating. "We are going to see the people! My people!"

Antoine was there. He was wearing huge sunglasses. He looked cool. He looked calm.

"Professor," Antoine smiled. "Ready for the adoration? It is... very loud. But it is nice."

"I am ready," Alex said.

They climbed onto the top of the bus.

Steve, the manager, was at the front. He was holding the trophy. The big one.

"Okay," Steve yelled. "Today... no tactics. No passing. No running. Today... you just smile. You wave. You enjoy. You earned this."

The bus engine roared. They moved out of the stadium.

And the noise hit them.

It was not like a game. A game had rhythm. Quiet. Loud. Quiet.

This was just... a wall of sound. A constant, screaming, happy roar.

The streets were full. Red and white everywhere. People hanging out of windows. People on lamp posts. People on roofs.

"ALEX! ALEX! ALEX!"

"PROFESSOR! PROFESSOR!"

Alex stood at the rail. He looked down.

He saw kids wearing his shirt. Number 38.

He saw a sign. "ALEX FINCH IS MY DAD." That was weird. He was sixteen.

He saw another sign. "THE HURRICANE WARNING."

Mark was loving it. He was running back and forth on the bus. He was waving his cape. He was pointing at people.

"I LOVE YOU!" Mark yelled at a grandmother waving a flag. "I AM FAST!"

"We know!" she yelled back.

Antoine was waving slowly, like a king. He signed a ball and threw it into the crowd.

Bastian, the giant German, was holding a beer. He was not drinking it. He was just looking at it.

"This is good," Bastian grunted to Alex. "In Germany, we have big parades. But this... this is loud. The English... they really like football."

"We do," Alex smiled.

The bus turned a corner. The main square.

It was a sea of people. One hundred thousand people.

Steve held up the trophy.

The crowd exploded. Red smoke filled the air. Flares. Confetti.

Alex felt a lump in his throat.

He looked at Mark. Mark was not running anymore. He was just staring at the crowd, his mouth open.

He looked at Antoine. Antoine had taken off his sunglasses. He was wiping his eye.

They were a team. A weird, messy, chaotic team.

And they were the best in Europe.

Alex felt a hand on his shoulder.

It was Harry, the captain.

"Take it," Harry shouted over the noise.

He handed Alex the trophy.

"Me?" Alex said.

"You," Harry said. "You are the future. Lift it."

Alex took the heavy silver cup. He walked to the front of the bus.

He lifted it up. The sun hit the silver.

The roar from the street was so loud Alex could feel it vibrating in his teeth.

He was Alex Finch. The Professor. The Shield. The Champion.

For a moment, the data did not matter. The tactics did not matter.

Only this mattered.

The parade ended at the Town Hall.

There was a reception. The Mayor was there. Milo was there.

Milo was wearing a suit made of red sequins. He looked like a human firework.

"ALEX!" Milo screamed, hugging him. "THE PARADE! THE PICTURES! YOU LIFTING THE TROPHY! IT IS ICONIC! I AM SELLING THE PHOTO TO A MUSEUM!"

"Milo, relax," Alex laughed.

"I CANNOT RELAX! I AM RICH! YOU ARE RICH! WE ARE ALL RICH!"

Milo pulled him into a corner. His face suddenly got serious. Or, as serious as Milo could get.

"Okay. Listen. The season is over. You have a break. A holiday."

"I need a holiday," Alex said. "I want to sleep for a week."

"Yes, yes, sleep," Milo said, waving his hand. "But... not for long."

"Why?"

"Because," Milo said, leaning in close. "I got a call. A very important call."

Alexs stomach did a little flip. "From who?"

"From Gareth," Milo whispered. "The England manager. The big manager."

Alex stopped breathing.

"He watched the Champions League final," Milo said. "He watched you against Madrid. He watched you against City."

"And?"

"And... there is a tournament this summer. The European Championships. The Euros. For the senior team."

"I... I know," Alex said.

"He wants you," Milo said.

Alex stared at him. "He wants me... to what? Carry the bags?"

"No," Milo grinned. "He wants you in the squad. The thirty man squad. The provisional squad. He wants to see The Professor. In the real England camp."

Alex felt dizzy.

The U21s was one thing. That was kids. Older kids, but kids.

The Senior Team? That was Harry Kane. That was the best players in the country.

"He is calling you tomorrow," Milo said. "Be ready. And... maybe buy a new phone. Yours is going to melt."

Milo patted his cheek and ran off to find Mark.

Alex stood in the corner of the fancy room.

England. The Euros.

He looked across the room. Mark was eating a giant plate of sandwiches. He looked happy.

Alex walked over.

"Hey, Speed," Alex said.

"Hey, Professor," Mark said, chewing. "These sandwiches are fancy. They have no crusts."

"Mark... I think I am going to the Euros."

Mark stopped chewing. He swallowed.

"The... the big Euros?"

"Yeah."

Mark looked at him. He looked at Alexs face. He saw he was not joking.

"The Senior team?"

"Yeah."

Mark put the sandwich down. He wiped his hands.

"Wow," Mark whispered. "That is... that is huge."

Then, a shadow crossed his face.

"Just... you?" Mark asked.

Alex felt a pang of guilt. "I think so. For now."

Mark looked down. He looked at his silver boots.

Then he looked up. He smiled. It was a real smile. A brave smile.

"Go," Mark said. "Go show them. You are the Professor. You are the best."

He punched Alex on the arm.

"But listen. When you get back... you are going to be tired. And I... I am going to be rested. I am going to be so fast. I am going to leave you in the dust."

Alex laughed. "I know you will."

"And bring me a shirt," Mark added. "A Kane shirt. Or... maybe a Mbappe shirt if you play France. I like Mbappe. He is fast."

"I will bring you a shirt," Alex promised.

The next day, the call came.

It was brief. Gareth, the manager, was calm. He sounded nice. Like a teacher.

"Alex," he said. "You have had a good season. A very good season. I want to see if you can do it at the next level. Come to camp. Show me you are stable. Show me you are ready."

"I will, boss," Alex said.

He packed his bag.

His mum cried again. His dad just sat on the stairs and shook his head, smiling.

"First Arsenal," his dad said. "Now England. My son. The world is going crazy."

Alex got in the car.

He was going to St Georges Park again. But this time, not for the U21s.

He arrived. The building looked bigger this time.

He walked into the reception.

The receptionist smiled. "Welcome back, Mr Finch. Senior locker room. Down the hall, turn left."

Left. Not right.

He walked down the hall. The photos on the wall were different. Legends. Beckham. Rooney. Charlton.

He opened the door to the locker room.

It was silent.

Sitting there, lacing his boots, was Harry. His Arsenal captain. The England captain.

Harry looked up. He grinned.

"Well, well," Harry said. "Look who it is. The weather report said it might rain. But I did not know we were getting a Hurricane."

"Morning, Captain," Alex said.

"Come in, Professor," Harry said, patting the empty seat next to him. "Class is in session. And I think... I think we need some brains in this team."

Alex sat down. He looked at his locker.

ALEX FINCH. Number 26.

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