Alex was exhausted. His first team training had been brutal. The manager, Steve, had him doing defensive drills until his legs felt like they were full of wet sand.

He was a professional player now. He had a five year contract. And his new life meant he was the first one to training, and the last one to leave.

He looked at the watch on his wrist. The one the team had given him.

Three fifty five PM.

He limped across the perfect grass of the training center. He was heading for the U18 pitch.

He was a professional. He was rich.

And he was still a duck.

He sighed. Mark was going to kill him.

He got to the pitch.

Mark was already there. He was not just standing with a bag of balls. He had set up cones. A small goal. He had a stack of water bottles. He looked... organized.

"You are late," Mark called out. He did not sound angry. He sounded like a coach.

"It is four o'clock," Alex panted, jogging over.

"Four o'clock is late. I have been here since three forty five. I am a professional now, I have to be serious."

Alex just looked at him. "You are serious? You are the one who set this up."

"We are a package, brain boy," Mark said. He threw a ball at Alex. "If you fail, I fail. And I am not going to fail because you jump like you are scared of the sky. Now, let us go."

For the next hour, Mark was a machine. He was not the angry, jealous rival. He was a partner.

He was still tough. But his words were different.

"No!" he yelled, after Alex missed a header. "You are closing your eyes again! You cannot be scared of the ball! Attack it!"

He crossed another one.

"That is better!" he shouted, as Alex made good contact. "You met it at the right time! But your neck! You are using your head, not your neck! You look like one of those wobbly dashboard dogs! Again!"

Alex was sweating, his whole body ached, but he was learning.

Mark was not just yelling. He was... coaching.

Attack the ball. Do not wait. Jump through it, not at it. Aim with your neck, not your face.

Alex ran. He jumped. He met the ball.

THWACK!

It was a clean, powerful header. It flew right into the corner of the small goal.

They both stood there, stunned.

"I... I did it," Alex panted.

Mark just nodded. He was breathing hard too. "It was... okay. You were not a duck. You were... maybe... a pidgeon. A very small pidgeon. We will do it again tomorrow."

"Mark," Alex said. "Thank you."

Mark just scowled. "Do not thank me. Just do not be embarrassing. Now go. I have to practice my left foot. It is still wobbly."

Alex just smiled. He limped away, leaving his partner to practice.

He got home that night. His body felt like it was going to fall apart.

His mum, Sarah, met him at the door. She was not crying. She was just... vibrating with excitement.

"Alex! It came! It is on your bed!"

"What came?" Alex asked, confused.

"The box! The big black box! From Milo!"

Alexs heart skipped a beat. He dropped his bag and ran upstairs.

On his bed was a long, sleek, beautiful black box. It did not have a big logo. It just had one small, white check mark.

He opened it.

The smell of new leather and glue hit him.

Inside, nestled in soft paper, were the boots. They were all black. Black leather. Black laces. Black studs. They were the most beautiful things he had ever seen.

They were the "Control" boots.

He picked one up. It was so light.

He sat down and put them on. They fit like a sock. Like they were made just for him.

He stood up. He walked around his small bedroom. He felt... faster. Smarter.

He was a professional. And he had the boots to prove it.

He went downstairs. His mum was there. His dad was home from work.

They were at the kitchen table. They were not talking. They were just sitting in silence.

The thick folder from Milo was on the table. The contract.

"Mum? Dad?" Alex asked. "Are you okay?"

His mum looked up. Her eyes were red. "Oh, Alex," she whispered.

His dad was just staring at the last page. The page with the numbers.

It was not superstar money, not like Antoine. But for a sixteen year old, it was... it was everything.

"David," his mum said, her voice shaking. "You can... you can sell the work van. You do not have to work on Saturdays anymore."

His dad, David, just put his head in his hands. His shoulders were shaking. He was not making a sound.

Alex had never seen his dad cry.

"Dad?"

David looked up. He wiped his eyes. He was not sad. He was... relieved.

"All those years, Alex," his dad said, his voice thick. "All those years of getting up at five in the morning. Driving you to games. The cold. The rain. I just... I just wanted you to be happy."

He stood up. He walked over to Alex. He pulled his son, his sixteen year old wonderkid, into a huge, tight hug.

"You did it, son," his dad whispered. "You did it. I am so, so proud of you."

Alex just hugged his dad back. He closed his eyes.

This was it. This was the real win.

This was not a dream. This was his life.

The next morning, Alex walked into the U21 locker room. He felt like a new man. He was carrying his new, all black boots.

He sat down at his locker.

Ben, the captain, looked over. "Ooh. New boots, Professor?"

"Yeah," Alex said, trying to sound casual. "Sponsor."

Ben whistled. "A sponsor? At your age? Someone is getting famous."

Alex just shrugged. "They are just boots, Ben."

"They are not just boots," Ben said, and he was not joking. "They are a target. You wear boots like that, you are telling everyone you are special. You had better play special. Or you will get kicked. Hard."

Alexs good feeling faded. Oh. He had not thought of that.

Before he could worry, the locker room door opened.

Mark walked in.

He was in his U18 kit. He was holding his bag. He looked... completely lost.

He stared at the big room. At the professional players. He looked like a small, angry lion in a cage of much bigger lions.

Ben stood up. He walked over to Mark. He was a full head taller.

"And who are you?" Ben grunted.

"Mark," Mark said. He was trying to sound tough, but his voice was a little shaky. "The new striker."

"The 'Speed' guy," Ben said, crossing his arms. "I heard about you. You are the one with the big mouth."

"I am the one who scores goals," Mark shot back.

Ben just laughed. "You are not in the U1Logsdon8s anymore, kid. You are the bottom. The lowest. You do not talk. You do not complain. You just... run. And you get Alex his water bottle. You are his package, right? So go be a good package."

Mark went bright red. Alex had never seen him so angry. He was clenching his fists. He looked like he was about to punch the team captain.

Alex decided he should probably stop this.

He walked over, spinning one of his new, beautiful black boots on his finger.

"He is okay, Ben," Alex said. "He is just... nervous."

"I am NOT nervous," Mark snapped.

"He is my project," Alex continued, ignoring him. "I am trying to make him smarter. He is a... a work in progress."

Ben just looked at Mark. Then at Alex.

"A project, huh?" Ben grunted. "Good. You can be his roommate on the away trips. He looks like he snores."

Ben walked away, laughing.

Mark just stood there, his bag on the floor. He was furious. He was embarrassed.

"I am not your 'project', brain boy," he hissed.

"Sure you are," Alex said, patting him on the shoulder. "And your first project is to learn Coach Wilkins defensive drills. They are very hard. And you are terrible at defending."

"I am a STRIKER!" Mark yelled.

"And I am a professional," Alex said, walking to his locker. "And my professional partner is going to learn how to track back. Now come on. Put your bag down. Your new locker is over there. In the corner. The one that says 'New Kid'."

Mark just groaned. He looked at his new, tiny locker. He looked at Alex.

"I hate you," Mark said.

"I know," Alex grinned. "Welcome to the team, partner."

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