The morning after the Scotland game, Alex woke up feeling like he had slept in a washing machine.

His ribs were bruised from the elbows. His shins were blue from the kicks. His kit from the night before was probably still wet.

But he was happy.

He walked into the recovery room at St George's Park. It was quiet.

Harry Kane was there, sitting on a foam roller. He looked tired.

"Morning, Captain," Alex said, stretching his stiff arms.

"Morning, Professor," Harry groaned. "How is the body?"

"Stable," Alex said. "But... loud. It is screaming at me."

Harry laughed. "That is tournament football. You play, you hurt, you sleep, you play again. It is a grinder."

Gareth, the manager, walked in. He looked fresh. He looked excited.

"Recovery today, lads," Gareth said. "Pool. Massage. Sleep. We need it."

"Who is next, boss?" Harry asked.

Gareth's smile faded a little. He pressed a button on the remote. The big screen on the wall lit up.

It showed a team in blue shirts. They were celebrating. They looked... scary.

They were hugging. They were shouting. They looked like a family. A very tough, very passionate family.

"Italy," Gareth said.

The room went silent.

"The Round of 16," Gareth continued. "Wembley. Tuesday night."

Alex felt a cold shiver. Italy.

In his old life as an analyst, Alex loved watching Italy. They were the masters of the "Dark Arts." They defended like their lives depended on it. They celebrated throw-ins like goals.

They were smart. They were cynical. And they were unbeaten in thirty games.

"They are not a machine like Germany," Gareth said. "And they are not a brawler like Scotland."

He looked at Alex.

"They are... theater actors. They will fall over if you breathe on them. They will shout at the referee. They will pinch you when the camera is not looking. They will try to get inside your head."

He pointed at the screen. A picture of their two central defenders appeared. Two giants. Veterans. They looked like they had been playing football since the Roman Empire.

"Giorgio and Leo," Gareth said. "The Twin Towers. They have a combined age of seventy. They are old. But they are the smartest defenders in history. Professor... this is your final exam."

Alex swallowed. "They look... mean."

"They are," Harry said. "Giorgio smiled at me once before a game. Then he stepped on my toe. Hard."

The days before the game were a mental battle.

Alex watched hours of video. He watched Giorgio. He watched Leo.

They were perfect. They knew every trick. They knew how to block a run before it started. They knew how to nudge a striker just enough to make him miss.

Alex's phone buzzed. It was Mark.

"Italy! Pizza! Pasta! Defenders who are older than my dad! You can beat them, Professor. Just run past them. They are old. Their knees probably creak."

Alex texted back.

"They don't run, Speed. They wait. They are like crocodiles."

"Crocodiles are slow," Mark replied. "Be a cheetah. Or... be a very fast duck. Good luck."

Tuesday night. Wembley Stadium.

It was a warm evening. The sky was a deep, bruised purple.

The stadium was shaking. The Italian fans were loud, singing opera songs. The English fans were roaring back.

Alex stood in the tunnel.

The Italian players were standing next to him. They were relaxed. They were hugging each other, kissing cheeks, laughing.

Giorgio, the captain, looked at Alex.

He smiled. It was a warm, friendly, terrifying smile.

"Ciao, Bambino," Giorgio said. "You are the Professor? You look very young. Do you have your homework?"

Alex stood tall. "I submitted it yesterday," he said.

Giorgio laughed. He patted Alex's cheek. A little too hard.

"We will see," Giorgio said.

They walked out. The noise was incredible.

The whistle blew.

The game was a masterclass in frustration.

England tried to play fast. Italy slowed it down.

Every time Alex tried to speed up the tempo, an Italian player would fall over.

"Foul!" they would scream, rolling around like they had been shot.

The referee blew the whistle. The game stopped.

Then, the player would stand up, completely fine, and wink at Alex.

It was maddening.

Alex tried to find space. He tried to be the Pivot.

But the Italian midfield was a cage. They surrounded him. They didn't tackle him hard. They just... nipped at him. A pull of the shirt here. A nudge there.

He couldn't turn. He couldn't breathe.

"They are suffocating us!" James, the striker, yelled. "I haven't touched the ball in ten minutes!"

"I know!" Alex yelled back. "They are everywhere!"

In the 40th minute, Italy attacked.

It was one pass. A long, beautiful ball over the top.

Their winger caught it. He crossed.

Goal.

One zero. Italy.

The Italian players celebrated like they had won the World Cup. They hugged the fans. They hugged the ball boy.

Alex stood in the center circle. He felt helpless.

He was the Professor. But he was being taught a lesson.

Halftime. One zero.

The locker room was angry.

"They are cheating!" James shouted, kicking a water bottle. "Every time I touch them, they dive!"

"It is not cheating," Gareth said calmly. "It is game management. They are smart. You are naive."

He looked at Alex.

"Professor. You are quiet."

"I am... analyzing," Alex said. He was sitting with his eyes closed.

He was replaying the first half.

The Italians were compact. They were tight.

But... there was a pattern.

"Giorgio," Alex said, opening his eyes. "The captain. He loves to fight."

"We know," Harry said. "He keeps pinching my arm."

"No," Alex said. "I mean... he needs to fight. He marks the man. He loves the physical battle. He wants to feel you against him."

Alex stood up.

"Harry. James. Stop fighting him."

"What?" Harry asked.

"Stop backing into him," Alex said. "Stop trying to hold the ball up. He is too strong. He wants you to lean on him so he can push you off balance."

"So what do we do?"

"We disappear," Alex said.

He grabbed the tactic board.

"When the ball comes to me... Harry, you don't come short. And you don't run long."

"Where do I go?"

"You go... wide. You go to the sideline. You take Giorgio out of the box. He will follow you. His ego won't let you go free."

"And the middle?" James asked.

"The middle," Alex said, looking at the fast Chelsea striker, "is for you. But you don't run straight. You run across. You run across Leo's face. He is old. He cannot turn fast."

"And you?" Gareth asked.

"I," Alex said, "am going to play the pass that they think is impossible."

The second half started.

England changed.

Harry Kane stopped fighting Giorgio. He drifted wide. To the left wing.

Giorgio, confused and angry, followed him. He wanted his battle.

The middle of the pitch opened up. Just a little.

Alex got the ball.

Leo, the other defender, was watching James.

Alex saw the movement.

James sprinted. Not forward. Across. A diagonal slash through the box.

Leo tried to turn. His legs were heavy. He was a split second too slow.

Alex didn't look. He knew the data. He knew the speed.

He hit the pass.

It wasn't a high ball. The Italians would head that all day.

It was a ground pass. A "Daisy Cutter".

It sliced through the grass. It went right between Leo's legs.

James ran onto it.

He was one on one with the keeper.

James didn't think. He smashed it.

GOAL!

One one.

Wembley exploded. The noise was back.

Alex pumped his fist. The code was broken.

The game went on. It was tense. It was brutal.

Ninety minutes passed. One one.

Extra time.

Thirty more minutes.

Alex's legs were screaming. He was so tired he felt dizzy.

But the Italians were tired too. Giorgio was panting. Leo was holding his hamstring.

The 'Old Guard' was cracking.

One hundred and tenth minute. Ten minutes left before penalties.

England had the ball.

Alex was deep. He had the ball.

The Italian midfield was slow to close him down. They were exhausted.

Alex looked up.

He saw Harry Kane. Kane was still wide. Giorgio was still with him, leaning on him.

But Alex saw something else.

He saw... a ghost run.

Raheem Sterling, the winger, had come off the bench. He was fresh. He was fast.

He was making a run from deep. Straight through the middle.

The Italian defenders were watching Kane. They were watching James.

They didn't see the ghost.

Alex saw him.

He wound up his leg. He pretended to switch the play to the right.

The Italian defense shifted.

Alex stopped his leg. He chopped the ball.

He hit a reverse pass. A lob.

A gentle, floating, perfect spoon of a pass.

It went over Leo's head. It went over Giorgio's head.

It dropped... right into the path of Sterling.

Sterling didn't even have to break stride.

He caught it on his chest. He dropped it to his foot.

The keeper rushed out.

Sterling slid the ball under him.

GOAL!

Two one. England.

The stadium didn't just explode. It levitated.

Sterling ran to the corner. The whole bench ran onto the pitch.

Alex just fell over. He didn't have the energy to run.

Harry Kane picked him up.

"THE BRAIN!" Harry roared. "THE IMPOSSIBLE PASS!"

The Italians were on their knees. They were beaten.

The final ten minutes were pure adrenaline. Alex didn't think. He just ran. He blocked. He tackled.

He was a rock.

The final whistle blew.

England 2. Italy 1.

They were in the Quarter Finals.

Alex lay on the grass, looking up at the Wembley arch. It was lit up in red and white.

He felt a shadow.

He looked up.

It was Giorgio. The Italian captain.

He looked devastated. He looked old.

But he held out a hand.

Alex took it. Giorgio pulled him up.

"You," Giorgio said, shaking his head. "You did not do your homework."

"I did," Alex smiled. "I learned that you like to fight."

Giorgio laughed. A sad, gruff laugh. "Touché, Bambino. Touché."

He hugged Alex. A sweaty, Italian bear hug.

"Go win it," Giorgio whispered. "Do not let the Germans or the French win. Win it for the passing."

He walked away.

Alex stood there. He was sixteen. He had beaten the masters of defense.

He walked to the tunnel. His phone buzzed.

A text from Mark.

"Okay. That pass. The spoon one. That was... disgusting. It was beautiful. I hate you. Also... bring me Giorgio's shirt. I want to see if it smells like pizza."

Alex laughed.

He walked into the locker room. The team was singing.

"IT'S COMING HOME! IT'S COMING HOME!"

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