Manchester United. The Emirates. The first team.

He was in his bed, but he was not resting. He was playing the game over and over. He saw their formations. He saw their superstar striker. He saw himself, a sixteen year old kid, just... sitting there.

Then he remembered the other text.

"Bring a suit."

A suit. He was sixteen. He did not own a suit.

This was a disaster.

He got out of bed. It was two in the morning. He padded downstairs.

He walked into his dads small office. His dad had a suit. The one he wore to weddings.

Alex pulled it out of the closet. It was a nice suit. It was also... huge.

Alex put the jacket on. The shoulders drooped down to his elbows. The sleeves covered his hands completely. He looked, he thought, like a small, sad ghost.

This was not going to work.

He heard a noise. His mum, Sarah, was standing in the doorway, tying her robe.

"Alex? What is wrong? Are you sick?"

"I... I have a problem, mum," Alex said. He held up the giant sleeves.

He explained. The call up. The bench. The suit.

His mums reaction was not what he expected. She did not panic. Her eyes just went wide. Then she screamed. A small, happy, sleepy scream.

"David! David, wake up! Our boy is playing for the first team!"

His dad, David, stumbled out of the bedroom, his hair sticking up. "What? Who is playing? Is the house on fire?"

"He needs a suit!" Sarah said, pointing at Alex, who was still drowning in the blazer.

His dad stared. He stared at Alex. He stared at his wife.

"The... the first team?" David whispered.

"Against Manchester United," Alex whispered back.

His dad did not say anything. He just walked very calmly to the kitchen, got a glass, and poured himself some water. He drank the whole thing. Then he looked at Alex.

"Okay," David said, his voice shaky. "Okay. The suit. Right."

He looked at the blazer on Alex. "No. You look like a tent."

"What about my school suit?" Alex asked, his stomach full of dread.

His mum and dad looked at each other.

"It... it is black," his mum said, trying to be helpful.

"It has the school badge on the pocket," Alex groaned.

"It will have to do," his dad said, his voice suddenly firm. "You are a schoolboy. It is honest. Now go to bed. You have the biggest day of your life tomorrow."

Alex went back to bed. He did not sleep.

His dad drove him to the stadium at ten in the morning. His dad was so nervous he missed two turns.

"Sorry, son," David muttered, his hands gripping the steering wheel. "It is just... Manchester United. I hate them."

"Me too, dad," Alex smiled.

They pulled up to the players entrance. It was not like the training ground. There were cameras. There were hundreds of fans, all screaming, all pressed against barriers.

"ANTOINE! ANTOINE!" they yelled as a low, black sports car drove past them and into the tunnel.

"Okay, Alex. This is you," his dad said.

Alex got out of the car. He was wearing his black school blazer, black school trousers, a white shirt, and his school tie. He felt like he was going to detention, not a professional football match.

The fans saw him. They stopped cheering. They just looked.

"Who is that?" someone yelled.

"Is that your son?" another fan shouted at a security guard.

Alex kept his head down and walked to the entrance.

A giant security guard put his arm out. "Sorry, son. Tours are on the other side. And you are a bit late."

"I... I am a player," Alex said, his voice barely a squeak. He held up his academy ID.

The guard looked at the ID. He looked at Alexs school uniform. He looked back at the ID.

His eyes went wide.

"Mr. Finch," he said, his voice suddenly very polite. "My apologies. Right this way."

Alex walked through the door. He was "Mr. Finch."

The first team locker room was just as he remembered. All wood and screens. And it was full of superstars.

He saw Bastian, the giant German, getting his ankle taped.

He saw the English captain, Harry, laughing with the goalkeeper.

And he saw Antoine, his hero, listening to music, looking impossibly cool.

Alex found his locker. It was the small one, in the corner. His name was there. 58. FINCH.

He took off his school blazer. He could feel everyone watching him.

"Kid!"

Alex turned. The first team manager, the big boss, was walking towards him.

"You are here. Good," the manager said. He did not smile. "You know the job. You are on the bench. You are insurance. You watch. You learn. You do not speak unless I speak to you. And if I tell you to warm up, you run like your life depends on it. Because it does. Clear?"

"Yes, coach. Crystal clear," Alex said.

"Good." The manager walked away.

Alex was just about to pull on his kit when Antoine walked over. He pulled his big headphones down.

"Hey, kid," Antoine said. He looked at the school blazer hanging in the locker. He pointed at the badge.

"A good school?" he asked, a small smile playing on his lips.

Alexs whole face went hot. "It... it was all I had."

Antoine laughed. A warm, friendly sound. "I like it. It means you are not arrogant. It means you are hungry." He winked. "Or maybe your agent is very bad. Either way, welcome. It is a big game. Do not be scared. It is just football."

Alex nodded, his heart beating fast.

Bastian walked past. He looked down at Alex. He was so big he blocked out the light.

"The kid," Bastian grunted. "You are the one who is smart. I remember you."

"Yes," Alex said, trying not to shake.

"Do not get any smart ideas today," Bastian said. He almost smiled. "And do not try to nutmeg our captain. He is not German. He will break you in half."

He clapped Alex on the shoulder. It felt like being hit by a small car.

This was real.

They went out to warm up.

Alex ran out of the tunnel. The noise hit him like a thunderclap.

Sixty thousand people. Sixty thousand.

The stadium was a sea of red and white. It was beautiful.

He looked across the pitch. The red shirts of Manchester United. He saw their famous striker. He saw their legendary midfielder. They were real. They were ten yards away.

Alexs brain just... stopped. He was a sixteen year old fan. He was on the grass.

He went through the drills. He passed the ball. He jogged. His legs felt like they were made of water. He was just trying not to faint.

The whistle blew. They went back inside.

He took his place on the bench. The seat was soft. It was heated.

The whistle blew again. The game started.

The speed was... insane. It was a different sport to the U21 game. This was the fastest, strongest, smartest football on the planet.

Alex was not a player. He was a spectator with the best seat in the house.

His analyst brain, his old, reliable brain, finally clicked on. The fear faded. He was working.

He watched the patterns.

Manchester United was pressing high. Their left back was a weak link. He was fast, but he was always out of position.

Alex saw it.

Antoine saw it too.

Twentieth minute. Antoine got the ball. He played a perfect pass into the space. The winger ran onto it.

GOAL!

One zero.

The stadium exploded. The noise was so loud Alex felt it in his chest. It was the greatest feeling in the world.

The game was a battle. It was tough. It was fast.

Halftime. Still one zero.

The second half, Manchester United came out angry. They were attacking. They were desperate.

Arsenal was defending. Bastian was a giant, heading everything away.

Alex was just watching, his heart in his throat. He was learning more in these ninety minutes than he had in his entire old life.

Then, it happened.

The seventy fifth minute.

Antoine got the ball. He turned. A United defender came in, late and hard.

Antoine went down. He yelled.

He was holding his ankle.

He was not getting up.

The stadium went completely silent.

The physios ran on. They looked at the ankle. They made the signal. The "X" sign with their arms.

He was done.

Alexs heart stopped. His hero.

The manager turned. He looked down the bench. He needed a midfielder. But the backup... was sick.

The manager looked at the defenders. He looked at the other strikers.

His eyes scanned the bench. They passed Alex.

Then they stopped. They snapped back. The manager looked right at Alex. At his sixteen year old, school uniform wearing, terrified face.

"Finch."

Alex froze. He could not move. No. He is not serious. He cannot be.

"FINCH!" the manager roared.

Alex almost jumped out of his skin.

"GET UP! YOU ARE GOING ON!"

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