"So, son," Alex dad said, "what are you going to do with your first day off as a proper professional?"

"I am going to rest," Alex said, eating his toast. "I am going to sleep. Maybe watch some football on TV. I am exhausted."

"Good," his dad said. "You have earned it. You need to rest that big brain of yours."

Alex finished his breakfast. He went to his room. He lay on his bed.

He looked at the clock. It was noon.

He had four hours. Four hours of beautiful, glorious sleep.

He closed his eyes.

He saw Mark. He saw Mark pointing at him.

"Four o'clock, Alex. Do not be late."

Alex groaned. He opened his eyes.

He was not going to sleep.

He was a professional. And his partner was waiting.

At three forty five, Alex limped out of his house.

"You are going out?" his mum called, looking worried. "But you are so tired, love."

"I have to train," Alex called back. "I am still a duck."

"What? Are you okay, Alex?"

"I am fine, mum! See you later!"

He got on the bus. The training ground on a Sunday was a strange place. It was completely silent. All the gates were locked.

Alex had to use his new ID card, his professional ID, to open a side gate.

He felt like a spy.

He walked across the giant, empty complex. There was no one. Just the wind, and the sound of his own footsteps on the path.

He got to the U21 pitch.

Mark was already there.

He was not just standing there. He had set up cones. He had two bags of balls. He was in the middle of the pitch, doing complex stretching drills. The ones Chloe, the gym trainer, had shown Alex.

Alex just stood and watched for a second. Mark was learning. He was not just raw speed anymore. He was becoming a professional.

Mark saw him.

"You are late," Mark called out. "It is three fifty eight."

"I am two minutes early," Alex panted, jogging over.

"Early is on time. On time is late," Mark said, his voice serious. "I heard Bastian say it. We are professionals now. We have to be better."

Alex just stared at him. "You... you are really getting into this."

"We are a package," Mark said. He stood up. He looked focused. "If you fail, I fail. And I am not going to fail just because you cannot jump. Lets go. Heading drill. Now."

Alex sighed. "You are enjoying this, arent you?"

"It is for your own good," Mark said, trying not to smile.

For the next thirty minutes, Mark was a brutal coach. He crossed ball after ball.

"QUACK!" he yelled, as Alex missed one.

"That was terrible! You jumped too early! You looked like you were scared of it!"

"I am not scared!" Alex yelled back, running to get the ball.

"Then prove it! Again!"

Mark crossed another one. It was high, perfect.

Alex ran. He focused. Attack the ball. Not a duck. Not a pidgeon. Be... an eagle. Or something.

He leaped. He put all his new core strength into it. He met the ball at its highest point.

THWACK.

It was a clean, powerful, angry header. It rocketed past the empty goalpost.

Alex landed on his feet. He was breathing hard.

Mark was silent.

"Well?" Alex panted.

"It was... better," Mark admitted. "Your timing was good. But you missed the goal. By a lot. You have no aim."

"I am a midfielder! Not a striker!"

"I do not care! We work until it is perfect. Again."

After thirty more minutes, Alex was winning four out of every ten headers. He was not just meeting the ball. He was directing it. He was aiming.

He was not a duck anymore. He was... maybe... a parrot. A small, slightly confused parrot. But he was in the air.

"Okay," Alex said, holding up a hand. He was completely exhausted. "My turn."

Mark looked confused. "Your turn? What?"

"My turn to coach," Alex said. "Your heading is good. But your runs... they are still too simple. Ben reads them. I read them. We have to be smarter."

Mark scowled. "My runs are fine. They are fast."

"Fast is not enough. You have to be smart. You cannot just run past Ben. You have to move him."

Alex grabbed a ball. "I am the defender. You are the striker. Show me your new move. The 'double cut'."

Mark looked excited. "Okay. Watch this."

Mark ran at Alex. He faked hard to his right.

Alex, the analyst, knew it was coming. He did not move.

Mark planted his foot. He exploded to his left. He was a blur.

He was gone.

Alex just stood there. He could not have stopped it even if he wanted to. The speed of his change of direction was world class.

"See?" Mark yelled, jogging back. He was beaming. "I am smart."

"That was very smart," Alex said. "But... it is still just one move. We need more. We need... a combination."

Alexs analyst brain was working. "Here is the new plan. You do the double cut. But I am not going to pass it to you."

"What?" Mark said, his face falling. "Then what is the point?"

"The point," Alex said, "is that the defender... let us say it is Ben... he will be terrified of that move. He will open his body, expecting you to go left. He will give you the right side. The side you faked to. So... you will fake the double cut... and then you will just... go."

Mark just stared at him. "So... I fake the fake."

"You fake the fake," Alex grinned. "You play with his mind. You make him look stupid."

A slow, dangerous smile spread across Marks face. "I like that. I like that a lot."

"Lets try it," Alex said. "I am Ben. I am scared of your left cut. Go."

Mark ran at him. He faked right. Alex shifted his weight, getting ready to block the left.

Mark saw it.

He did not cut left. He just pushed the ball right and exploded past Alexs other side.

He was gone. It was unstoppable.

"YES!" Mark roared. He was jumping up and down. "HE IS TOO SLOW! HE CANNOT STOP ME! HE CANNOT STOP BOTH!"

"Good," Alex panted, his mind racing. "Now we practice it. For real."

Alex got the bag of balls. Mark made his runs.

Sometimes he did the double cut. Sometimes he faked the double cut.

Alex had to read it. He had to read his own partner. He had to hit the pass.

It was the hardest, most complex, most beautiful training session of Alexs life.

They were not just two kids. They were a real partnership. They were building a weapon.

They were both on the grass. They were finished. They could not move. The sun was going down.

"My legs... are gone," Mark whispered. He was smiling.

"Mine too," Alex said. "But... we are good. We are really... good."

"Yeah," Mark said. "We are."

"Ahem."

The voice was deep. It was not Mark.

Alex and Mark both sat up so fast they got dizzy.

The first team manager, Steve, was standing right over them. He was not in his suit. He was in a club tracksuit. He was just... there.

Neither of them had heard him arrive.

"Coach!" Alex stammered. "We... we were just... we were..."

"Training," Steve said. His face was a mask. He was not angry. He was not happy. He was just... watching. "On your day off. When I told you to rest."

"We... we wanted to get better," Mark said. He stood up. He was not goingto be in trouble. He looked the manager right in the eye. "I am not good enough yet. I need to work."

Steve just looked at Mark. He looked at him for a long, silent, terrifying moment.

"The 'double cut', and the 'fake double cut'," Steve said. "That is... smart. Very smart. Whose idea was that?"

Mark looked at Alex. Alex looked at Mark.

"It was ours," Alex said. "A package."

Steve just nodded. He looked at Alex. "And your heading, Professor? Is it still a duck?"

Alexs face went red. "It is... a parrot now, coach. Maybe."

Steve almost smiled. Almost.

"Good. I hate ducks."

He turned to both of them. The sun was setting behind him. He looked like a giant.

"I came here to see what you were made of," he said. "The superstars... they are born with talent. But talent is not enough. You need... this." He pointed at the cones, the balls, the muddy grass. "You need hunger. You two... you are hungry."

Alex and Mark just stood there, holding their breath.

"Antoine is still injured," Steve said. "His ankle is bad. He will be out for a month. Maybe two."

Alexs heart skipped a beat.

"And our next game... is the FA Cup. Third round. Against... Lincoln City. A lower league team."

Alex and Mark looked at each other.

"It is a hard game," Steve said. "A small pitch. Muddy. They will fight. They will try to bully us. I cannot play all my superstars. They will get broken. I need... fighters."

He looked at Mark. "I need speed. And aggression."

He looked at Alex. "And I need brains. And control."

He turned and started to walk away.

"Coach!" Alex called out. He could not help it. "What... what does that mean?"

Steve stopped. He looked over his shoulder.

"It means, Professor... you are not on the bench for this one. You are starting."

Alexs world stopped.

"And you," he said to Mark, who was frozen. "The package. You are on the bench. You will be the first sub. If you are not... terrible."

He did not say anything else. He just walked away into the dusk.

Alex and Mark just stood there.

Starting.

On the bench.

Together.

In the FA Cup.

Mark looked at Alex. Alex looked at Mark.

Mark did not shout. He did not smile. He just... nodded.

"Okay, Professor," Mark said, his voice deadly serious. "We have work to do. Your heading... it is still a pidgeon. At best. We have one week."

Alex just laughed. He was so tired he could barely stand. And he had never been happier in his entire life.

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