Alex did not sleep.

His old analyst brain, the one that used to run on coffee and stress, was fully awake. All weekend, it just played games in his head.

He was not playing video games. He was on his laptop, in his new, sixteen year old body, but with his old, thirty two year old habits. He was studying.

He watched videos of the Arsenal first team. Not like a fan. He watched them like an opponent.

He saw how the star midfielder, a French player named Antoine, always looked left before he switched the play right. A tiny, tiny tell.

He saw how the main defender, a huge German named Bastian, was fast in a straight line but slow to turn.

His new mum, Sarah, knocked on his door Saturday night.

"Alex? Dinner. Are you okay? You have been in here for hours. Are you worried about that new team?"

Alex looked up from his screen. His eyes were dry. He was exhausted.

"Just doing homework, mum," he said, which was not exactly a lie.

"Okay," she said, smiling. "Well, come eat. You need your strength."

Alex nodded. He definitely needed his strength.

Monday morning was a different world.

Usually, he turned left at the training ground entrance, towards the U18s building. It was loud and cheerful.

Today, Coach Steve had told him to turn right.

He walked towards the U21 and First Team building. It was all glass and quiet steel. It looked less like a training ground and more like a spaceship.

He saw the U18s on their pitch. Sam spotted him.

"ALEX! GOOD LUCK!" Sam roared, waving both arms. "GET ME A SHIRT! GET ME ANY SHIRT!"

Alex laughed and waved back.

Then he saw Mark, who was doing sprints by himself, already sweating. Mark just looked at him. He did not smile. He just nodded, once. A quick, sharp nod.

Do not mess it up, brain boy.

Alex understood. He nodded back.

He took a deep breath and walked through the glass doors.

The U21 locker room was silent.

The U18s room always smelled like wet grass and cheap soap. This room smelled like... money. And protein shakes.

The players were not kids. They were men. They were nineteen, twenty, twenty one. They had muscles. Some had tattoos. They were all listening to music on big headphones, taping their own ankles, looking serious.

This was not a game. This was their job.

Alex felt very small. He was just sixteen.

He found his locker. "FINCH." He quickly got changed. No one spoke to him. They just looked. The "new kid." The "schoolboy."

He walked out onto the pitch. The grass was perfect. It looked like a carpet.

The U21 coach was there. He was not big and loud like Coach Steve. He was thin, held a clipboard, and looked like a university professor.

"Alex Finch," he said, his voice quiet but sharp. He did not even look up from his clipboard. "Welcome. I am Coach Wilkins."

"Thank you, coach," Alex said.

"I read your file. You are the smart one. You see the pass. We do not need heroes, Alex. We need a pivot. You get the ball. You give the ball. You make the team tick. Understand?"

"Yes, coach," Alex said. This, he understood. This was his old job. Data. Flow. Distribution.

"Good," Coach Wilkins said. "Warm up. Then we start with a rondo."

The rondo. The most famous drill in football. A circle of players, two in the middle, trying to keep the ball.

In the U18s, it was a bit of fun. A laugh.

Here, it was war.

The ball moved faster than Alex had ever seen. It was not a pass. It was a zip. One touch. One touch. One touch. The sound was a thwack... thwack... thwack.

Alex was on the outside of the circle. He was terrified.

The ball came to him.

He tried to take a touch, to control it. His U18 habit.

WHAM.

A defender was on him. A huge guy with a beard, the team captain, Ben. He smashed the ball away from Alex and glared.

"One touch, kid," Ben growled. "This is not the playground."

Alexs face burned. He was in the middle now.

It was awful. He and another player chased the ball. He could not get near it. The U21s were just playing around him. Zip. Zip. Zip. He felt stupid. He felt slow. He felt like a fraud.

After two minutes, which felt like two years, he finally blocked a pass.

He got back in the circle. He was breathing hard.

Okay, analyst. Stop being scared. Analyze the data.

What was the pattern? They were all fast. But they were human. They all looked at their target before they passed.

The ball was coming back to him. He could feel Ben, the captain, getting ready to charge him again.

He is expecting me to take a touch. He is coming fast.

Alex did not panic. He did not overthink. He just remembered.

He remembered the endless hours with Mark. He remembered his left foot.

The ball came. Ben charged.

Alex did not try to stop the ball. He just met it. With his left foot. A perfect, one touch pass, right through the gap Ben had left.

The circle went "Ooh..."

Ben was annoyed. He had to stop.

The ball kept moving. Zip. Zip. It came back to Alex.

Ben was charging again. He was angry now. He was not just pressing. He was trying to hurt him.

Alex saw him coming. His analyst brain and his wonderkid body finally, perfectly, clicked.

He let the ball come. Ben lunged.

Alex did not pass it. He just... opened his legs.

The ball rolled perfectly between them. A nutmeg.

Ben was gone. He stumbled, completely fooled.

The entire circle exploded.

"WOAH!"

"HE KILLED HIM!"

"SIT DOWN, BEN!"

Alex just smiled, a small, tiny smile. He got the ball back. He passed it. One touch.

Ben was in the middle now, his face red. He did not look at Alex.

The rest of training was hard. The speed was incredible. Alex was tired, but he was keeping up.

His brain was working at 100 miles per hour. He was not the best player. He was not the strongest. But he was the smartest.

He started to play passes before players even ran. He saw the space. He saw the patterns.

By the end of the session, the other players were not just looking at him. They were passing to him. They trusted him.

He had survived.

Coach Wilkins blew his whistle.

"Good session. Good energy. Finch. A word."

Alex jogged over, his heart pounding.

"You adjusted well," the coach said. He was not smiling. But his eyes were impressed. "You think fast. I like that."

"Thank you, coach."

"Do not thank me yet," Coach Wilkins said. He looked over at the glass building. The first team building. "Tomorrow is the game. You will be playing against Antoine. Against Bastian. You will be playing against your heroes."

He turned back to Alex.

"A piece of advice, kid. Do not be star struck. They are just men. Very fast, very rich, very famous men."

He paused.

"And one more thing. Do not try to nutmeg Bastian. He is German. He does not have a sense of humor. Good luck."

Coach Wilkins turned and walked off.

Alex stood alone on the perfect grass.

Tomorrow. The first team.

His whole body was buzzing. It was not just fear. It was excitement. This was the real test. This was the moment his old life could only dream of. He just hoped he would wake up in time.

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