Alex woke up and stared at his ceiling.

For a second, he wondered if it had all been a dream.

The roar of sixty thousand people. The perfect grass of the Emirates. The pass to Harry. The nod from Bastian. The final whistle.

He turned his head.

On his bedside table, next to a half empty glass of water, was a small, white box. Inside was a beautiful, simple watch.

Next to it, folded neatly on his chair, was a sweaty, muddy, red and white Arsenal jersey. Number 10. ANTOINE.

It was real. It had all been real.

He got out of bed. His legs were sore. His back was stiff from where Bruno had hit him. He felt... amazing.

He went downstairs. His mum, Sarah, was in the kitchen. She had made a huge breakfast. Eggs, sausages, beans. Enough for three people.

"There he is!" she said, beaming. She ran over and kissed him on the head. "My superstar! You must be starving! I read in an article that superstars eat a lot."

"Mum, I am not a superstar," Alex laughed, his face turning red.

"You are to me," she said, piling food on his plate.

His dad, David, was sitting at the table. He was not reading the news section. He was reading the sports section.

He looked up as Alex sat down. He did not say anything. He just smiled. A huge, proud, happy smile.

"Says here," his dad said, his voice a little thick, "that an 'unknown mystery kid' with 'quick feet and a quicker brain' made a big difference. 'Finch, 58', it says. They will know your name soon, son."

Alex just ate his breakfast, his heart full. This was better than any dream.

The feeling lasted all the way to the training ground.

The security guard at the main gate, the one who had almost turned him away, tipped his hat. "Morning, Mr Finch. Good game on Saturday."

"Thanks," Alex said, trying to sound cool. He was "Mr Finch" now.

He walked past the U18 building. He felt a small pull, like he was missing something. But he kept walking. He went through the big glass doors to the U21 building.

His new home.

He walked into the locker room. It was quiet. Serious.

Ben, the captain, was there, lacing his boots. He looked up.

"Well, well. Look who it is," Ben said. His voice was not mean. It was just... loud. "The first team hero. Come to visit us little people?"

A few of the other players laughed.

"It was just fifteen minutes," Alex said, trying to be humble. He went to his locker.

"Yeah, but it was a good fifteen minutes," another player said. "I saw that turn. You sent Bruno back to Portugal. My dad was screaming at the TV."

"It was just luck," Alex said.

"It was not luck," Ben grunted, standing up. "It was smart. You embarrassed him. I liked it."

Ben walked over. He was still a tank. "But," he said, his voice dropping, "it does not change anything here. You are still the kid. You are still slow. And you are still a traffic cone. Coach is waiting for you. He does not look happy."

Alexs good mood vanished. He had almost forgotten.

He quickly changed. He did not even have time to talk to anyone else. He ran out onto the pitch.

It was eight am. The sun was barely up. It was cold.

Coach Wilkins was there. He was alone. He was not holding a clipboard. He was holding a weighted vest.

"You are late, Finch," Coach Wilkins said.

"I am not, coach. It is eight o'clock," Alex said.

"Eight o'clock is late. Be here at seven fifty five from now on. Put this on."

He threw the vest at Alex. It was heavy. At least ten kilos.

Alex struggled to put it on. "What is this for, coach?"

"This," Wilkins said, "is your new best friend. You are a Premier League player now, Finch. You are not a U18 anymore. You are a wobbly, weak, sixteen year old boy. And you are a liability."

Alex just stared. "But... I played well."

"You survived," Wilkins corrected him. "You made one good pass. You made one good turn. I watched the tape. The full tape. You lost the ball three times. You failed to track your runner. And you got pushed off the ball like you were made of paper. Your defending was, and I am being kind, a complete disaster. Mark was right. You are a duck."

Alexs blood went cold. "Mark? You talked to Mark?"

"Mark is a smart analyst," Wilkins said. "He sends me notes. He was right about your heading. He is right about your strength. Now, we fix it."

This was his reward for playing for the first team. Torture.

For the next hour, it was just Alex, Wilkins, and the weighted vest.

Wilkins did not make him play football. He made him do defensive drills. Shuffling sideways. Running backwards.

"Your feet are too slow!" Wilkins yelled. "You look like you are running in mud! Again!"

Alex did it again. His legs were on fire. The vest felt like it was crushing him.

"Now, the drill," Wilkins said.

Ben walked onto the pitch. He was fresh from the gym. He was smiling.

"My turn, coach?"

"Your turn," Wilkins said. "Alex. This is Ben. Ben is the attacker. You are the defender. You have the vest. Ben does not. Your job is to stop him from getting past you."

"Just stop him?" Alex panted.

"Yes. Stop him."

This was not going to be fun.

Ben ran at Alex.

Alex got low. He got sideways. He was the annoying shadow.

Ben did not care. He did not try to dribble. He just ran straight into Alex.

It was like being hit by a bus.

Alex flew backwards and landed on the grass. The vest knocked the wind out of him.

Ben just stood over him. "Too weak, traffic cone. Get up."

"Finch!" Wilkins yelled. "Your core! You are wobbly! I saw it! Engage your core! Be solid! Again!"

Ben ran at him again.

Alex got low. He braced himself. Be stable. Be stable.

Ben hit him. Alex did not fall. He stumbled back, but he was on his feet.

"Better!" Wilkins yelled.

"Not bad," Ben said, surprised. He tried to push past.

Alex was not strong enough to stop him. But he was annoying. He stayed in front. He shuffled. He forced Ben to the sideline.

Ben got angry and tried to force a pass. Alex, using his analyst brain, read it. He stuck his foot out.

He tackled him. He won the ball.

Alex stood there, panting, his whole body on fire.

Ben was just looking at him. He was not angry. He was... impressed.

"He is learning, coach," Ben said.

"He is learning to be less terrible," Wilkins corrected. "Get up, Finch. We are doing it again. For another hour."

Alex thought he was going to die.

He did not die. But he felt close.

He limped into the canteen at lunchtime. He was the last one there. He was covered in mud and sweat.

He got his food, a huge plate of pasta. He needed it.

He saw the U21 table. Ben and the others were there. They saved him a seat.

But Alex looked across the room.

He saw the U18 table. Sam was there, waving like a maniac. Mark was there, just eating, not looking up.

Alex smiled. "Be right back, guys," he said to Ben.

He walked over to the U18 table.

"ALEX!" Sam screamed, jumping up. "YOU ARE ALIVE! We heard Coach Wilkins was trying to kill you! Ben told our captain that you were... and I quote... 'less wobbly'!"

"I feel very wobbly," Alex groaned, sitting down.

Mark did not look up. He just kept eating.

"So," Alex said, looking at Mark. "I heard you have been sending notes to my coach. Telling him I am a duck."

Sam went silent. "Uh oh."

Mark finally stopped eating. He put his fork down.

"I did not say you were a duck," Mark said. "I said you jumped like one. There is a difference."

"I do not know," Alex said, a small smile on his face. "It sounds pretty duck like."

"You were a liability," Mark insisted. "You were lucky Bruno was lazy. If he had pressed you... you would have cried."

"I did not cry," Alex said.

"You almost did. Your face was all pale," Mark said. "But... the pass was good. And your turn. That was okay. For a duck."

Sam was just watching them, his head turning back and forth like he was watching tennis.

"So," Mark said. "What did you learn?"

"I learned that I am slow, weak, and my defending is terrible," Alex said.

"Good," Mark said. "So you know what to work on."

"Yep. More gym. More defensive drills. Forever."

"Good," Mark said again. He picked up his fork. "We are still training this afternoon, right?"

Alex looked at him. "Mark, I can barely stand. Coach Wilkins almost killed me."

"So? You are tired. That is when you should train. That is when you get better. Your heading is still terrible. Four o'clock. Do not be late."

Alex just looked at him. This guy was unbelievable.

"I cannot, Mark," Alex said. "I have... a meeting."

"A meeting?" Mark scoffed. "With who? The manager? You are not a superstar."

"With... a new coach," Alex said.

"What? Wilkins is replacing you?"

"No," Alex said. He took a deep breath. This was the fun part.

"I have a meeting with... my new agent."

Sam choked on his water.

Mark dropped his fork. It clattered onto the plate.

"An... agent?" Mark whispered.

"Yeah," Alex said, trying to sound casual. "He called my dad last night. After the game. He works for... that big agency. The one that has... you know. Antoine."

Sam just stared, his mouth open, pasta falling out.

Mark was pale. "Antoine's... agent. Wants... you."

"Yeah. I guess," Alex said. "My dad said he sounded very excited. Kept yelling about 'brand' and 'wonderkids'."

Alex stood up. His legs were shaking. "Anyway. I have to go. Gym session with Chloe."

He started to walk away.

"Alex," Mark said.

Alex turned.

Mark was just... staring. His face was a crazy mix of jealousy, anger, and... something else. "That agent," Mark said. "Does he... does he take other clients?"

Alex just grinned. "I will ask," he said.

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