Alex sat on his bed at the team base in Germany.

The room was quiet, except for the sound of Harry Kane snoring softly on the other bed.

Alex was holding a shirt.

It was red and green. It was sweaty. It smelled like expensive grass and hard work.

Number 7. RONALDO.

It was the biggest trophy of his life. He folded it carefully, treating it like it was made of glass, and placed it in his bag next to Luka Modric's shirt.

He was sixteen years old. He was collecting legends like they were baseball cards.

His phone buzzed on the nightstand.

It was a video call from Milo.

Alex sighed, but he smiled. He answered.

Milo was wearing a suit made of... Alex squinted... it looked like shiny, silver foil. He was on a boat.

"THE KING SLAYER!" Milo screamed. The wind was blowing his hair everywhere. "YOU RETIRED HIM! YOU SENT THE GOAT HOME! THE WORLD IS GOING CRAZY, ALEX!"

"I didn't retire him, Milo," Alex whispered, glancing at the sleeping Harry Kane. "We just won a game."

"DETAILS!" Milo shouted. "The 'Scoop' pass! The 'Spoon'! It is trending! Every kid in London is trying to scoop their cat! Nike wants to make a 'Spoon' boot! Can you believe it?"

"Please don't make a spoon boot," Alex said.

"We will talk! Now, listen. Semi-Finals. Huge. Massive. The brand is exploding. You need a haircut. A fresh one. I am sending a barber. From Milan. He is flying in a helicopter."

"Milo, I don't need a helicopter barber."

"YOU ARE THE PROFESSOR! YOU NEED SHARP EDGES! GOODBYE!"

The screen went black.

Alex lay back on his pillow. A helicopter barber. His life had officially gone mad.

The next morning, the team gathered in the meeting room.

Gareth, the manager, stood at the front. He looked calm, but his eyes were tired. Tournament football was a grinder.

"We are in the final four," Gareth said. "France. Germany. Spain. And us."

He clicked a button. The screen lit up.

It showed a team in red shirts. Passing. Moving. Passing. Moving. It was hypnotic.

"Spain," Gareth said.

A groan went around the room.

"They are the masters," Gareth said. "They do not lend you the ball. They keep it. They hide it. They put it in a safe and swallow the key."

He looked at the midfielders. At Declan. At Alex.

"They have Pedri. They have Gavi. They have Rodri. The best midfield in the world. They will try to make you dizzy. They will try to make you chase them until your legs fall off."

He looked right at Alex.

"Professor. This is the ultimate test for a brain. If you switch off for one second... they will kill us."

"How do we stop them, boss?" James asked. "We can't just chase them."

"No," Gareth said. "We have to be... uncomfortable. We have to be ugly."

He looked at Alex.

"Professor. You are the Shield. But against Spain... a shield is not enough. You have to be... a wall. A moving, thinking, annoying wall. You have to disrupt their rhythm. You have to be the sand in their machine."

Alex nodded. Sand. He could be sand.

The Semi-Final was in Munich.

The stadium was a glowing red spaceship in the dark German night.

Seventy-five thousand fans.

Alex stood in the tunnel. He looked at the Spanish players.

They were not big like the Germans. They were not scary like the Scots.

They were small. They were slight. They looked like... him.

But they had a look in their eyes. A calm, arrogant certainty. They knew they were going to have the ball. They knew they were going to win.

Rodri, their giant defensive midfielder, looked at Alex.

"Buena suerte, pequeño," Rodri said. Good luck, little one.

Alex just nodded. "Gracias."

He walked out. The roar was deafening.

Harry Kane gathered them in a huddle.

"They want to play a symphony," Harry said. "Let's go smash their instruments. On three. ENGLAND!"

"ENGLAND!"

The whistle blew.

And the carousel began.

Spain didn't play football. They played keep-away.

Pass. Pass. Pass. Move. Pass.

It was perfect. It was beautiful. And it was incredibly annoying.

Alex ran left. The ball went right.

Alex ran right. The ball went back.

He felt like a dog chasing a laser pointer.

The Spanish midfielders, Pedri and Gavi, were ghosts. They drifted into spaces Alex didn't even know existed.

For twenty minutes, England didn't touch the ball.

The crowd was getting restless.

"Get the ball!" a fan screamed.

"We are trying!" James yelled back, chasing a shadow.

Alex stopped running. He stood in the center circle. He closed his eyes for a split second.

Analyze.

They are passing in triangles. Always triangles. But... they are safe triangles. They are not hurting us. They are just... waiting.

They are waiting for me to get bored. To step out. To leave the hole.

Alex opened his eyes.

He stopped chasing.

He just stood. He held his position. He protected the space in front of the defense.

Pedri got the ball. He looked at Alex. He waited for Alex to press.

Alex didn't move. He was a statue.

Pedri frowned. He passed it sideways.

Rodri got it. He looked at Alex.

Alex stayed. Stable. Boring.

Spain kept the ball, but they couldn't get through. They were passing in a U-shape around Alex.

The first half ended.

Zero zero.

England had 20% possession. But Spain had zero shots on goal.

Alex walked off. He was sweating, but he wasn't tired. He hadn't run much. He had just... stood in the right place.

"Boring," James grumbled as they walked down the tunnel. "I hate playing against them. I feel like a spectator."

"Boring is good," Alex said. "Boring means we are safe."

In the locker room, Gareth was happy.

"Perfect," he said. "You frustrated them. They are confused. They think they are winning because they have the ball. But they are going nowhere."

He looked at Alex.

"Now," Gareth said. "Part two. The trap."

"The trap?" Alex asked.

"Yes. They are getting arrogant. They are pushing higher. Their defenders are almost at the halfway line. They think we are scared."

Gareth smiled.

"Professor. You have been the Shield. Now... be the Archer."

He moved a magnet on the board.

"When you win the ball... do not pass to the midfielders. Do not pass to Harry."

He pointed to the wings. To Bukayo Saka. To James (who was playing wide today).

"Look for the run in behind. One pass. Over the top. Break their line."

Alex nodded. The Hurricane pass.

The second half started.

Spain came out aggressive. They were bored of passing. They wanted to score.

They pushed up. Rodri came forward. Their defenders stepped up.

The pitch behind them was a vast, green ocean of empty space.

Fifty-fifth minute.

Pedri tried a clever pass through the middle.

Alex was there. He read it.

He stepped in. He intercepted.

He had the ball.

Rodri was on him instantly. The giant Spaniard was trying to crush him.

Alex didn't panic. He used his low center of gravity. He shielded the ball.

He looked up.

He saw James.

James wasn't running yet. He was waiting on the shoulder of the last defender.

Alex made eye contact.

Go.

James exploded.

Alex didn't have time to wind up. Rodri was pushing him.

So Alex did something he had practiced with Mark.

The "stab".

He didn't swing his leg. He just punched the ball with his laces. A short, sharp, violent kick.

The ball flew low and fast. It skidded off the wet grass.

It bypassed the entire Spanish midfield. It bypassed the defense.

It was a laser.

James ran onto it. He was clear.

He was one on one with the keeper.

James didn't miss. He smashed it into the roof of the net.

GOAL!

One zero. England.

The stadium shook. The England fans went crazy.

James ran to the corner. He pointed at Alex.

"THE VISION!" James screamed. "THE EYES!"

Alex just smiled. He adjusted his socks.

One zero. Against the run of play. Classic smash and grab.

Now, Spain was angry.

The "Tiki-Taka" stopped. The panic started.

They threw everyone forward. They crossed the ball. They shot from distance.

Alex was in his element.

He was the rock. He blocked a shot with his thigh. He headed a cross clear.

He was everywhere.

Eighty-fifth minute.

Spain had a free kick. Dangerous position. Just outside the box.

The Spanish captain stood over it.

He hit it perfectly. It curled over the wall.

It was heading for the top corner.

Jordan Pickford flew. He clawed it away.

The ball bounced loose in the box.

A Spanish striker was there. The goal was open.

He pulled his leg back to shoot.

Alex didn't think. He threw himself.

He slid across the muddy goalmouth. A desperate, flailing block.

The striker shot.

THUD.

The ball hit Alex's ribs. It knocked the wind out of him.

But it didn't go in.

It bounced away. Declan cleared it.

Alex lay on the ground, gasping for air. His chest felt like it was on fire.

Harry Kane pulled him up.

"You crazy kid!" Harry yelled, shaking him. "You saved us! You are a wall! A brick wall!"

"I think... I think I cracked a rib," Alex wheezed.

"You can have my ribs!" Harry shouted. "Take my ribs!"

The final whistle blew.

England 1. Spain 0.

They were in the Final.

The Euro Final.

Alex fell to his knees. The pain in his chest was sharp, but the joy was stronger.

He looked around. The Spanish players were crying. They had had 70% possession. They had lost.

Football was cruel. And beautiful.

Gareth walked onto the pitch. He hugged Alex.

"The Wall of Munich," Gareth whispered. "That block... that was legendary."

Alex walked towards the fans. They were singing a new song.

"HE'S SMALL! HE'S SMART! HE'S GOT A GIANT HEART! ALEX FINCH! ALEX FINCH!"

It wasn't a very good song. The rhymes were bad.

But to Alex, it sounded like Mozart.

He walked into the tunnel.

His phone was exploding.

A text from Mark.

"I SAW THE BLOCK! YOU ARE CRAZY! YOU ARE A GOALIE NOW? ALSO... WE ARE IN THE FINAL! I AM BOOKING A FLIGHT! I AM COMING TO BERLIN! GET ME A TICKET! GET ME TEN TICKETS!"

Alex smiled.

He walked into the locker room. It was a party. Music. Water spraying everywhere.

He sat at his locker. He touched his ribs. Ouch.

He looked at the empty hook.

One more game.

The Final. In Berlin.

He checked his phone again. He checked the other semi-final score.

France vs Germany.

It had finished.

France had won. 2-1.

Mbappe had scored. And... Antoine had scored.

So that was it.

The Final.

England vs France.

The Professor vs The Magician.

Alex vs Antoine.

Partner vs Partner.

He closed his eyes. He could see Antoine's smile. He could hear his voice. "Do not let me down, Professor."

Alex opened his eyes. They were cold. Determined.

"I won't," Alex whispered to the empty locker.

He was going to play his hero for the trophy of a lifetime.

And he was going to win.

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