"FINCH! NOW!"

The roar from the manager, Steve, was pure thunder. It shook Alex awake.

He grabbed his training bib. He fumbled. He was trying to pull it off over his head. His hands were shaking so hard he could not find the hole.

"Give me that," a coach said, ripping it off him.

Alex stood there. He was in his full kit. Number 58.

"Coach, I... what... what do I do?" Alex stammered.

The manager grabbed the front of Alexs shirt. He pulled him close. His eyes were on fire.

"You are not Antoine," he growled. "You do not try to be. You are here for one reason. You are smart. You do not lose the ball."

He pointed to the pitch. "You get the ball. You pass the ball. To a red shirt. You make them run. You do not try to dribble. You do not try to shoot. You just... keep... the ball. For fifteen minutes. Can you do that?"

"I... I think so," Alex whispered.

"Good. Now get on."

Alex turned. The fourth official was holding up the electronic board.

The red number 10 was flashing. Antoine.

The green number 58 was flashing. Finch.

Alexs heart felt like it was going to explode.

Antoine was being carried off on a stretcher. He was in pain. But as he passed Alex, he reached out a hand.

Alex grabbed it.

"Play smart, kid," Antoine winced. "Just play smart."

"I will," Alex promised.

Alex jogged to the line. He felt sixty thousand pairs of eyes on him. He saw the Manchester United players pointing at him. This schoolboy. This child.

The referee waved him on.

The whistle blew. Alex sprinted onto the pitch. The noise was so loud he could not think. It was just a giant, roaring, animal sound.

He ran to his position. Antoine's position.

It was so fast. The ball was a blur. He just... ran. He tried to look busy. He was terrified of the ball.

Please do not pass it to me. Please do not pass it to me.

"Alex! Move! Show!" Bastian, the giant German, roared at him.

Alex ran into a pocket of space.

Harry, the English captain, saw him. He passed the ball.

It was coming right at him. His first touch. In the Premier League.

He could see the Manchester United midfielder, Bruno, a world famous superstar, charging at him. He was not a player. He was a bull. He was coming to smash him.

Alexs brain was pure static. He did not have a plan.

He just stuck his foot out. He passed the ball.

Backwards.

All the way back to Bastian.

A huge groan went up from the sixty thousand fans. They were annoyed.

Alex could breathe. He had not lost it. That was a start.

For the next five minutes, he was a ghost. He was a coward.

He got the ball. He passed it backwards.

He got the ball again. He passed it sideways.

He was just... safe. Boring.

Bruno, the United midfielder, was laughing at him. He was not even marking Alex anymore. He knew Alex was not a threat.

"Come on, kid!" Bruno shouted. "Play! Are you scared?"

Alex was scared. He was terrified.

He looked over at his manager. Steve was bright red. He was screaming. Alex could not hear the words, but he saw the motion. He was pointing... forwards.

Play forwards!

Alex felt a flash of shame. He was playing like a fan. He was playing like a scared child.

You are an analyst, he told himself. You are the smart one. Stop being a duck.

He took a deep breath. He looked at Bruno, who was just standing there, arrogant.

Okay. You are the problem. So let us solve the problem.

Alexs analyst brain finally, blessedly, kicked on.

The fear was still there, but now it had a friend. The data.

What is the data?

Bruno is arrogant. He thinks I am a kid. He is not respecting me. He is only looking at the ball. He is not looking at the space.

Alex wanted the ball now.

He ran into a small pocket of space.

Bastian saw him. He passed him the ball.

Bruno saw it. He started his run. He was coming to smash him again.

Alex saw him coming. This is it.

The old Alex would have passed it backwards.

The U18 Alex would have tried a stupid flick.

The U21 Alex, the one who beat Ben, knew exactly what to do.

He let the ball run across his body. He opened his hips. He faked the safe, backward pass.

Bruno saw it. He read it. He lunged. He committed his whole body to stopping the safe pass.

But Alex was not passing.

He just... stopped the ball. He put his foot on it. He let Bruno fly past.

The superstar slid on the grass, going nowhere. He had been completely, totally fooled.

A huge, shocked "Ooooooh!" came from the stadium.

Alex was all alone. He had space. He had time.

He lifted his head.

He was not scared anymore. He was working.

He saw his striker, the first team number nine, making a run. It was the run Mark had taught him. The bent, curved run into the channel.

Alexs brain calculated the angle. The power.

He did not try to be a hero. He did not try the sixty yard pass.

He saw the smart pass. The simple pass. The analyst pass.

A twenty yard, low, fast ball, right into the space.

It was perfect.

It split the defense in two. The striker ran onto it. He was one on one with the keeper.

The striker shot!

The stadium held its breath.

The Manchester United keeper made a miracle save. He tipped it, just barely, over the bar.

Alex put his head in his hands. So close!

But as he turned, his teammates were all running towards him.

"FINCH! WHAT A BALL! WHAT A PASS!" Harry, the captain, yelled, grabbing him in a headlock and rubbing his hair.

Bastian, the giant, jogged past for the corner. He did not smile, but he gave Alex a hard, thumping pat on the back.

"Good brain, kid," the German grunted. "Good brain."

Alex felt like he was floating.

For the last ten minutes of the game, plus injury time, Alex was not scared.

He was the pivot.

He got the ball. He passed it. Forwards.

He got it again. He turned. He passed it.

He was not fast. He was not strong. But he was smart.

He was a sixteen year old kid in his school suit, and he was making the Manchester United midfield run in circles.

The final whistle blew.

One zero. Arsenal had won.

Alex just stood there, his hands on his knees. His lungs were burning. His legs felt like they were made of stone.

He had done it.

He had played fifteen minutes. In the Premier League. And he had not been a duck.

He was not a hero. He did not score.

But he had belonged.

His teammates were hugging eachG other. Harry, the captain, came over. "Good job, kid. You did well. You were not scared."

"I was very scared," Alex panted.

Harry laughed. "Well, you did not play like it. Go. Enjoy it."

Alex walked towards the tunnel. The noise was amazing. Sixty thousand people, all singing.

He looked up. He saw a small section where the players families sat.

He saw his mum. She was hugging the person next to her.

He saw his dad. His dad was just standing still, looking at Alex. His hands were over his face. He was crying. Alex just smiled. He waved.

This was his new life. It was real.

He walked into the tunnel, the superstar he had replaced, and the superstar who had saved him, all merging into one. He was Alex Finch. And he was just getting started.

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