Monday morning was loud.

Alex walked into the U18 locker room, and the whole team just exploded.

"WOLLCOTT!" Sam yelled, not using Alexs real name. He was pointing at Alex and screaming with laughter. "IT WAS ON THE WEBSITE! THE MAIN ARSENAL WEBSITE! YOUR GOAL!"

A few of the other players started clapping.

"That was sick, Alex," the team captain said, giving him a nod of respect. "I did not know you could do that."

"I did not know either," Alex admitted, his face turning red.

He had seen it. His mum had called him downstairs on Sunday, crying happy tears. The club had posted a video. "U18s WIN IT LATE! Wonderkid Alex Finch with a stunning volley!"

It had thousands of views.

Alex had felt a strange mix of pride and fear. In his old life, he was invisible. Now, there was a video. People were watching. He had to keep being good.

"Right, shut up!" Coach Steve boomed, walking into the room. The noise died instantly. "One goal. One lucky volley. It does not make you a hero. It does not win the league. It just means the next team will try to kick you harder."

His eyes scanned the room.

"We have Aston Villa at home this weekend. They are fast. They are technical. They are better than Millwall. We have to be smarter. We have to be better. Now get on the pitch. Run."

The mood was set. The celebration was over. It was back to work.

Training was hard. Coach Steve pushed them.

Alex felt good. His confidence was high. He was shouting instructions again. He was the pivot. The on field coach. He was making Sam run into space. He was finding his wingers.

But he could feel Mark watching him.

Every time Alex made a good pass, Mark would just run harder. Every time Alex shouted a command, Mark would demand the ball.

It was not a fight. It was a competition. A silent, intense competition.

Alex passed to Mark. Mark scored.

Alex found the winger. The winger scored.

They were both on fire. They were driving the whole team.

By the end of the session, the other players were just gasping for air, watching the two of them.

Coach Steve blew his whistle. "Good session! Very good! That is the standard I want! Go. Showers. Rest."

The team cheered and started to walk off.

"Not you two," Coach Steve barked, pointing at Alex and Mark.

The two of them stopped.

"You two. Extra work. Mark, you know what to do."

Alexs heart sank. He looked at Mark.

Mark was smiling. It was not a nice smile.

"Baby bird practice," Mark said.

"Coach," Alex pleaded. "We have a game. I am tired."

"You were tired when Millwall scored their goal, too," Coach Steve said, his voice hard. "You lost us that header. You got lucky with the volley. Luck runs out. Work does not. Go."

Coach Steve turned and walked to his office.

Alex and Mark were alone on the empty pitch.

"This is your fault," Alex grumbled, walking to the penalty box.

"No," Mark said. He was already grabbing a bag of balls. "It is your ducks fault. You still jump like one."

"I am not a duck!"

"Prove it," Mark said. He threw a ball into the air and kicked a perfect, high cross.

Alex ran. He jumped.

Attack the ball. Timing. Be aggressive.

He got up... and the ball sailed right over his head. He missed it by a foot.

He landed in a heap.

"Quack," Mark said from the sideline.

"I hate you," Alex muttered, getting up and brushing the grass off.

"Again." Mark crossed another one.

Alex jumped. This time, he was too early. He hit the ball with his shoulder. It looped up and landed on top of the goal.

"QUACK," Mark yelled, louder this time.

"SHUT UP, MARK!" Alex roared. He was getting angry.

"Then stop being a duck! You are scared! You are closing your eyes!"

"I am not! You are just... your crosses are bad!"

"My crosses are perfect!" Mark shouted back.

This was not working. Alexs analyst brain kicked in. He was trying to solve a physical problem with anger. He needed to change the data.

"Stop," Alex said, holding up a hand. He was panting. "This drill is wrong. We are wasting our time."

Mark looked annoyed. "What now, brain boy? You want to go write an essay about it?"

"No," Alex said. He walked over to Mark. "I need a defender. I need... pressure. Your crosses are too easy to read."

"Oh, are they? Sorry. I will try to make them 'smarter' for you."

"Be the defender," Alex said.

Mark blinked. "What?"

"You. Be the Millwall captain. Stand in the box with me."

Mark just stared at him. "You want me to... defend?"

"Yes. And I will cross the ball," Alex said.

"You? Cross?" Mark actually laughed. "Your left foot is okay, but your right foot... it is just for standing on."

Alexs face went red. He was right. Alex was a passer, not a crosser.

"Fine," Alex said, thinking fast. "We do not need a cross. You be the defender. I will be the attacker. And you..." Alex pointed to the empty sideline. "You cross the ball."

"Who? The ghost?" Mark asked.

"No. Him."

Mark looked over. Sam was standing by the entrance to the locker room. He was just watching them, a sandwich in his hand.

"SAM!" Alex yelled, waving him over.

Sam looked terrified. He pointed at himself. "Me?"

"Yes, you! Get over here! We need your left foot!"

Sam slowly walked over, chewing his sandwich. "What is going on? I thought I heard birds."

"Mark thinks I am a duck," Alex said. "We need you to cross the ball. Right here. To the penalty spot. Can you do that?"

"I... I guess?" Sam said, looking at Mark. Mark looked like he was about to explode.

"Mark," Alex said, his voice serious. "Your job is to be the Millwall guy. Stop me from getting the ball. Push me. Hold me. Be as annoying as you can. Do not let me jump."

A slow, dangerous smile spread across Marks face.

"You want me... to foul you?" Mark asked.

"I want you to battle me," Alex said.

"Okay," Mark said. He cracked his knuckles. "Okay. I can do that. This is going to be fun."

"Sam," Alex ordered. "Cross it."

Sam, looking very confused, dropped his sandwich and jogged to the corner. He put the ball down. He raised his hand.

Alex and Mark were in the box. They were pushing each other.

"I am going to break you, duck," Mark whispered, shoving Alex in the back.

"Just try," Alex whispered back.

Sam kicked the ball. It was a beautiful, high, curling cross.

Alex ran. Mark ran with him, his arm across Alexs chest.

Alex jumped. Mark jumped with him, pushing him off balance.

Neither of them got it. The ball bounced and rolled away.

"Again!" Alex yelled, pushing Mark off him.

"Any time!" Mark yelled back.

Sam crossed another one.

WHAM.

Alex and Mark collided. It was a crash of arms and legs. Mark was bigger. He won the header. He smashed it clear.

"Zero for two, baby bird," Mark panted, grinning.

"Again, Sam!" Alex shouted.

This was not training. This was a fight.

Sam crossed it.

Alex faked. He faked the run to the front post. Mark fell for it.

Alex dropped back.

The cross came in. Alex was all alone. He had space.

Timing. Attack the ball. Not a chicken. Be an eagle.

He leaped. He met the ball perfectly at the highest point of his jump.

THWACK.

It was a rocket. A pure, powerful header. The ball smashed into the top corner of the net.

Alex landed hard. He rolled. He jumped up, his fists clenched. "YES! YES!"

Mark was just standing there, stunned. He had been completely fooled.

Sam was cheering from the corner.

"That," Alex said, panting, walking up to Mark. "That is how you do it. I am not a duck."

Mark just stared at him. His face was a mix of anger and... respect.

"Your run was... okay," Mark grunted. "Your timing was lucky. And Sam's cross was perfect."

"It was not luck," Alex grinned. "It was brains."

"Whatever," Mark said. He was trying to look angry, but Alex could see he was impressed. "Again. This time I will not fall for your stupid fake run."

"Bring it," Alex said.

They practiced for another twenty minutes. It was a war. Alex won two more. Mark won five. But Alex was learning. He was learning how to use his body. How to fight for space.

He was not a baby bird anymore. He was... maybe... a very determined sparrow.

They were walking back to the locker room, covered in mud, both limping a little.

"Your heading is still bad," Mark said, breaking the silence.

"It is better," Alex panted.

"It is still bad," Mark insisted. "But... your jump is less stupid. We will do it again on Wednesday."

Alex just smiled. That was Marks way of saying "good job".

They walked into the locker room. It was empty.

Except for Coach Steve. He was sitting on the bench, waiting.

He looked up at them. His face was serious.

"Coach," Alex said, suddenly nervous. "We were just... working on..."

"Heading. I saw," Coach Steve said. "It was good. Aggressive. I liked it."

He stood up. He looked at Mark. "Mark. Good work today. Go. Shower."

Mark looked surprised. "Coach?"

"Go."

Mark nodded and walked off, leaving Alex alone with the coach.

Alex felt his stomach tighten. "Am I in trouble, coach?"

"No, son," Coach Steve said. He put a hand on Alexs shoulder. "You are not in trouble. You are... moving up."

Alexs heart stopped. He thought he had misheard. "What... what do you mean?"

"I mean you are done here," Coach Steve said. He had a strange look on his face. It was pride. But it was also a little sad.

"That volley. The game against the first team. The way you have been training. The way you are... leading. You are not a U18 player anymore, Alex. Your brain is already somewhere else. It is time for your body to catch up."

"Coach, I... I do not understand."

"I had a long talk with Coach Wilkins," Steve said. "You made an impression. He wants you. Full time."

Alexs mouth was dry. "Full time?"

"Starting tomorrow. You are a U21 player. You will train with them. You will play with them. You are in their locker room now."

This was it. This was his goal. The next step. It was happening.

He was so happy he almost burst.

"Thank you, coach!" Alex beamed. "Thank you! I will not let you down!"

"I know you will not," Coach Steve said. He gave Alex a rare, real smile. "You are the smartest kid I have ever coached, Alex. And you are tougher than you look. Go and show them what you are made of."

Alex nodded, his mind racing. The U21s. A new challenge.

He grabbed his bag. He was so excited he almost ran out the door.

He stopped. He looked back.

Through the door to the showers, he could hear Mark singing. It was a terrible, out of tune song.

He was leaving his partner. He was leaving Sam.

He had made it. He was moving up.

But as he stood there, he felt a strange, new feeling.

He was happy... but he was also going to miss this.

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