Alexs stomach felt like it was full of bees.

He sat on the hard bench in the U21 locker room. It was Saturday. Gameday.

This was not a drill. This was not a friendly against the first team, who were half joking. This was a real U21 league game. Away. Against Chelsea.

The room was so quiet.

In the U18s, people would be shouting, playing loud music, throwing things.

Here, the only sounds were the click clack of studs on the floor and the zzzzip of medical tape. These were not boys. They were young professionals. They were all playing for their careers.

Alex tried to focus. He pulled his bright green boots on. He hated these boots. But they were all he had.

Coach Wilkins walked into the center of the room. He was holding his clipboard.

"Right," he said, his voice sharp and clear. "You know the opponent. Chelsea are strong. They are fast. They will press. We will not panic."

He looked around the room.

"We will be smarter. We will control the tempo. We will let them run. We will let them make the mistakes."

His eyes landed on Alex. Alex felt his heart jump.

"Finch," Coach Wilkins said.

"Yes, coach," Alex answered, his voice a little squeaky.

"You are the new kid. They know this. They will target you. They will try to bully you. They will try to make you panic."

The coach paused. "Do not panic. You are our pivot. You are our brain. You get the ball, you move the ball. One touch. Two touches. Make them chase you. Make them look stupid. Do your job. Understood?"

"Yes, coach," Alex said, his voice a little stronger this time.

"Good."

Ben, the captain, stood up. He walked past Alex and clapped him hard on the shoulder.

"Do your job, kid," Ben said. His voice was cold, but it was not mean. It was just... serious. "Do not be a liability."

Alex just nodded. He would not be a liability. He was an analyst. This was just a problem to solve. A very fast, very strong, very scary problem.

The whistle blew.

The game started.

And it was fast.

It was the fastest football Alex had ever played. Faster than the rondo. Faster than the first team friendly.

These were all twenty year old players, all desperate to get to the first team. It was pure, physical, running.

Alex was in his midfield spot. He tried to find space.

There was no space.

He was playing against Chelseas number 6. A huge player who looked less like a footballer and more like a mountain.

The ball came to Alex. He had half a second.

He tried to turn, to look for a pass.

WHAM.

The mountain hit him. Alex flew three feet and landed hard on his back. The ball was gone.

The referee did not even blow his whistle. "Play on!" he yelled.

Alex gasped for air. His entire back was on fire.

Okay. Okay. So that is how it is.

He got up, his legs shaking.

For the next ten minutes, he was a ghost. He was scared. He just passed the ball backwards. He did not want to get hit again.

His team was in trouble. He was the pivot, but he was not pivoting. He was just... hiding.

In the twenty fifth minute, he tried to be brave.

He got the ball. He saw his winger make a good run.

This is it. The magic pass. The U18 pass.

He tried to kick the 40 yard ball.

He was too slow.

The mountain was on him again. He did not even tackle. He just stuck out a giant leg, blocked the pass, and took the ball.

One second later, Chelseas striker scored.

One zero.

The Chelsea players ran to the corner to celebrate.

Alex just stood there. His heart sank. It was his fault.

Ben, the U21 captain, ran past him.

"STOP TRYING TO BE A HERO, KID!" Ben roared, his face purple with anger. "THIS IS NOT THE U18S! PLAY SIMPLE! DO YOUR JOB!"

Alex felt sick. He had let everyone down. Coach Wilkins. Coach Steve. Even Mark.

You are a duck.

He was. He was a scared, stunned duck.

He spent the rest of the half just passing the ball. Backwards. Sideways. Safe. Boring.

The whistle blew for halftime. One zero. And it was all his fault.

He walked into the locker room. He did not look at anyone. He just sat down and stared at his muddy green boots.

He was a fraud. He was just a sixteen year old kid who got lucky. He did not belong here.

Coach Wilkins walked in. He was not angry. He was just... watching.

He walked over and stood in front of Alex.

"Well?" Coach Wilkins asked, his voice quiet.

"I... I messed up, coach," Alex whispered. "I am... I am not fast enough. He is too strong."

"I did not ask you to be fast," Coach Wilkins said. "I did not ask you to be strong. I asked you to be smart. You are not being smart. What did you see?"

Alex looked up, confused. "What... what do you mean?"

"Analyze it, Finch. You are the analyst. What is the problem? And what is the solution?"

Alex blinked. The coach was not yelling at him. He was... asking for data.

Alexs brain, the old 32 year old brain, suddenly clicked on. It pushed the scared 16 year old out of the way.

"The problem," Alex said, his voice becoming steady, "is their number 6. He is man marking me. He is not just defending a zone. He is following me everywhere."

"Good," Coach Wilkins said. "He is aggressive. He thinks you are scared. He thinks you are weak. Are you?"

"No," Alex said.

"Then what is the solution?"

Alex thought for a second. He remembered the training session. He remembered Ben.

"His aggression... it is a weakness," Alex said slowly. "He is only watching me. He is not watching the game. He is not watching the space."

A small smile touched Coach Wilkins's lips. "Go on."

"If I... if I move, he will move with me," Alex said, his mind racing. "If I run to the sideline, he will follow me. He will leave a giant hole in the middle of the pitch."

"Exactly," Coach Wilkins said. "Stop trying to beat him with the ball. Beat him without it. Drag him where you want him to go. You are not a pivot. You are a puppet master. You control him. You control the space."

He looked at Alex. "Can you do that?"

Alex looked down at his boots. Then he looked up. His eyes were clear. The fear was gone.

"Yes, coach," Alex said. "I can do that."

The second half started. Alex jogged out. He felt different. He was not a player. He was a tactician. He had a mission.

He found the number 6, the mountain. He smiled at him. The mountain just sneered.

The ball came to Alex. The mountain charged.

Alex did not try to turn. He just popped the ball back, a simple, one touch pass.

The mountain was annoyed. He wanted to smash Alex.

Alex started to jog. He jogged away from the ball. He ran towards the left wing.

The mountain followed him. Every step.

Suddenly, the entire center of the field was empty.

Alexs teammate, the other midfielder, ran into the huge space. He got the ball. He had time. He played a great pass to the winger.

They almost scored.

Alex just smiled. It was working.

The number 6 was confused. He was in the wrong position.

Alex did it again. He got the ball. He played it simple. Then he ran to the right wing.

The mountain followed him.

Hole. Attack. Chance.

The Chelsea coach was screaming. "Number six! Stay in your position! Stop following him!"

The mountain was stuck. He did not know what to do. If he stayed, Alex had time on the ball. If he followed, Alex created space.

Alex had beaten him. Without even touching him.

Now, it was time for part two.

The game was in the 70th minute. Still one zero.

Alex had been dragging the number 6 all over the pitch. The mountain was tired. And he was furious.

Alex got the ball deep in his own half. He saw the mountain coming. He was coming to kill him. He was done playing games.

This is it. He is over committed.

Alex let the ball run across his body. He opened his hips, just like he was going to play a big, looping pass to the left wing.

The mountain read it. He charged left to block the pass.

But Alex had lied.

He was not using his right foot. He was using his left.

His new, improved, strong left foot.

With one perfect, disguised touch, he did not pass. He tapped the ball. A hard, fast, 10 yard pass, right through the tiny gap the mountain had just left.

The pass went right to the strikers feet.

The striker passed it to the winger.

The mountain was lost. He was in the wrong place.

Alex did not stand and watch. He ran. He sprinted, his lungs burning, into the space he had just created.

The winger saw him. He passed it back.

Alex was at the edge of the Chelsea box. He had space.

The Chelsea defenders had to come out. A big center back charged at him.

Alex saw him coming. He was not going to shoot. He was not a hero. He was a pivot.

He saw his striker, the one who had been working hard all day. The striker was open.

Alex did not even look. He just passed the ball, a perfect, simple, side foot pass.

The striker hit it first time.

GOAL.

One one.

The whole team went wild. They did not run to the striker. They all ran to Alex.

Ben was the first one there. He did not say anything. He just grabbed Alexs head and gave him a hard, painful head rub.

"GOOD BRAIN, KID!" Ben yelled. "GOOD BRAAIIIN!"

Alex was laughing. He was at the bottom of a pile of twenty year old men. He was finally, truly, one of them.

The game ended. One one.

It was the best draw Alex had ever felt.

He was in the locker room. He was covered in mud. His back hurt. His legs were shaking. He was so, so happy.

Coach Wilkins walked in. He was holding his clipboard.

He walked over to Alex.

"Good adjustment, Finch," he said. "You were a liability. Then you were a puppet master. You followed the plan."

"Thank you, coach," Alex panted.

"Your defending," Coach Wilkins added, "is still the worst thing I have ever seen in my life. We will work on that Monday."

Alex just grinned. "Yes, coach."

He sat there, his whole body buzzing. He had done it. He had proved he belonged.

His phone, tucked in his bag, buzzed. He pulled it out. An unknown number. He opened the text.

"Heard you did not get smashed. Saw the pass. It was okay. Your defending was probably a duck. Keep working."

Alex smiled. He saved the number in his phone.

"Mark." He was tired. But he could not wait for Monday. He had a lot of work to do.

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