Alex did not sleep well.

His bed was soft, but his mind was hard. It was full of data. Full of sharp, loud, angry images of the Lincoln City defenders. He had watched three of their games.

Bastian was right. They did not play football. They just... hurt people.

He got on the bus with the team. It was not the fancy first team bus that went to Premier League games. It was a normal coach. It felt... real.

He was wearing his official club suit. The one Milo the agent had sent over. It was dark grey, fit him perfectly, and made him look like a very serious, very small lawyer.

He sat down. He was next to Bastian. He could feel the heat coming off the giant German, who was already half asleep, his headphones on.

Alex was wide awake. His analyst brain was on fire.

He looked across the aisle. Mark was sitting there. He was also in a new suit. It was a little too shiny. He was wearing his brand new, bright silver boots. On a bus.

"Mark," Alex whispered.

Mark jumped. "What?"

"You are not supposed to wear your boots on the bus."

"I know!" Mark hissed back. "But they are new. I am... I am breaking them in."

Alex just shook his head. "You look ridiculous."

"You look like a tiny old man," Mark shot back.

Alex just smiled. He was glad Mark was here. He was still annoying. But he was familiar.

The bus ride was long. When they arrived, Alex understood.

This was not the Emirates. This was not Old Trafford.

The stadium was small. It was made of old brick and peeling paint. The fans were not behind barriers. They were right next to the bus, banging on the windows as they pulled in.

They were yelling things Alexs mum would have washed his mouth out for.

"Welcome to the FA Cup, Professor," Bastian grunted, opening one eye. "Do not get eaten."

The locker room was the worst part.

It was tiny. It was cold. There was a strange smell, like wet paint and old soup.

Alexs locker was just a metal hook on the wall.

He sat down on the hard wooden bench, shoulder to shoulder with his teammates.

Mark was next to him. His leg was vibrating. He was either terrified or excited. Alex could not tell.

The manager, Steve, stood in the middle of the room. He did not have space to pace.

"Alright," Steve said. His voice was calm, but his eyes were hard. "This is it. This is not a Premier League game. This is not about 'tiki taka'. This is not about 'smart runs'. This is a fight."

He looked at his team. A mix of superstars like Bastian, hardworking players, and kids like Alex.

"They will kick you. They will pull your shirt. They will foul you. The referee will not help you. The pitch is a mess. It is mud. You will not win by being pretty."

He looked right at Alex.

"Professor. You are the brain. But today, you must be the heart. You will get hit. You get up. You do not complain. You just... work. You control what you can. You do not lose the ball. You do not get scared. Understood?"

"Yes, coach," Alex said, his voice firm.

Steve looked at Mark. "Speed. You are on the bench. You will watch. You will learn. And if I call your name... you will run. You will run until you cannot feel your legs. That is all."

"Yes, coach," Mark said, his eyes wide.

"Good," Steve said. "Now go out there. Fight for them. Then, we win."

They walked out of the tunnel.

The noise was deafening. The fans were so close Alex could have reached out and touched them. They were screaming, waving their fists.

Then he looked at the pitch.

Alexs heart sank.

It was not a pitch. It was a bog. It was a brown, wet, muddy field. There was almost no grass.

His new black "Control" boots were going to be ruined.

He looked at the Lincoln players. They were huge. Every single one of them was a giant. They all had beards. They all looked angry.

The captain, a man who looked like he had not slept in a week, won the coin toss. He grinned at Alex.

This was going to be a long day.

The whistle blew.

WHAM.

Alex did not even touch the ball.

He was on the ground.

He was just running into position when the giant, bearded captain ran straight through him. It was not a tackle. It was... an event.

The referee just waved. "Play on!"

Alex lay there, mud all over his new kit. The air was gone from his lungs.

"GET UP, PROFESSOR!" Bastian roared. "FIRST ONE IS FREE!"

Alex got to his feet. His side was on fire. Okay. So that was the game.

He got the ball. He had half a second.

He did not try to turn. He did not try a magic pass. He just passed it, one touch, back to Bastian.

He got hit anyway. The midfielder came in late and stepped on his foot.

Alex did not go down. He used his new core strength. He was stable.

The game was... awful. It was not football.

The ball got stuck in the mud. Every pass was a guess. Every tackle was a potential injury.

Alex was trying. He was running. He was being the annoying shadow, just like Coach Wilkins taught him.

He got low. He stayed on his feet.

But he could not play his game. His brain was working, but the mud was too slow. His smart passes were dying on the grass. Or, where the grass used to be.

He tried to chip the ball to his winger. The ball was so heavy with mud it just... flopped.

The Lincoln captain ran over. "Nice pass, kid. You are a long way from home."

Alex was frustrated. He was not a traffic cone. He was a mud statue.

Halftime. The whistle blew. Zero zero.

Alex limped into the tiny locker room. He was covered in mud from head to toe. He looked like he had been in a wrestling match.

He sat down, his whole body aching.

The manager, Steve, walked in. He was not angry. He was... thinking.

"Well," Steve said. "That was ugly."

"The pitch is a disaster, boss," Harry, the captain, said. "We cannot play. The ball will not move."

"I know," Steve said. "We are trying to play our game. We are trying to pass on the ground. We are playing their game. They are big. We are smart. But the mud... the mud is making us stupid."

He looked at Alex.

"Professor. You are the smartest man in the room. You have been out there. Analyze it. What is the solution?"

Alex was breathing hard. He looked at his muddy black boots. He thought about his analyst brain. He thought about his old life.

He looked up.

"The mud is the problem," Alex said, his voice quiet.

"We know that, son," Steve said.

"No," Alex said, his voice getting stronger. "I mean... we are trying to beat the mud. We cannot. We have to use the mud."

The room was silent.

"We are trying to pass to feet," Alex said, his analyst brain taking over. "The ball is too slow. They intercept it. We are trying to run past them. The mud is too thick. We cannot."

"So what do we do?" Bastian asked.

"We stop playing on the ground," Alex said. "We play in the air. But not... not just long balls. Not just kicking it."

He stood up. He walked to the small whiteboard.

"Look. Their defenders. They are huge. But they are slow. They are slow to turn. And in this mud... they are even slower. We cannot run past them. But we can pass over them."

He drew a diagram. "We stop passing to our wingers. We start passing behind them. Into the space. We make their giant, slow defenders turn around and run in this... this swamp."

"They will get tired," Alex said. "They will make a mistake. The ball will skid. It will bounce funny. We have to play for the second ball."

Steve just stared at the board. "Play in the air. Not to feet. To space."

A slow smile spread across his face.

"Professor," Steve said. "That is... that is brilliant. LighTbulbs."

He clapped his hands. "You heard him! We stop playing pretty football! We play smart football! We play in the air! We make them run! We make them suffer!"

The second half was a new game.

Alex was the quarterback. He got the ball. He did not even look at his own players feet. He looked at the space behind the defenders.

He took a touch. He saw his winger.

He did not drill it. He did not pass it. He lofted it.

A high, spinning, beautiful ball over the defenders head.

The winger was not ready. He had not expected it. But he ran.

The defender was in trouble. He was turning. He was slipping in the mud.

The winger got there first. He got a cross in.

It did not work. But it was a start.

Alex did it again.

He got the ball. He looked. He saw the striker.

He chipped it. A perfect, 20 yard chip.

The striker ran onto it. He got a shot!

The keeper saved it.

The Lincoln players were getting angry. They were getting tired. They were not used to running backwards.

The game was opening up.

Sixtieth minute.

The Lincoln captain, the big one with the beard, was breathing hard. He was tired of chasing.

The manager, Steve, saw it.

He turned. "Speed! MARK! GET READY!"

Alexs heart leaped.

Mark was on the sideline. He was in his new silver boots. He looked like a bullet.

He was replacing the starting striker, who was exhausted.

Mark ran onto the pitch. He ran right to Alex.

"The pitch is terrible," Alex panted, as they waited for the game to restart.

Mark just grinned. He looked at the mud. "I know. It is perfect. They cannot turn."

"Just... run," Alex said.

"Just... pass," Mark replied.

The whistle blew.

Alex got the ball. He was in his own half.

He saw Mark. Mark was on the shoulder of the last defender. The big, tired, angry captain.

The captain was cheating. He was watching Alex. He was expecting the chip.

Alex saw Mark. Mark saw Alex.

The partnership. They did not even need to speak.

Mark did not do a smart run. He did not do a cut.

He just... ran.

He was pure, raw, electric speed.

The captain turned. He was too late. He was a second too slow.

In this mud, a second was a lifetime.

Alex did not chip it. He did not loft it.

He smashed it.

He kicked the ball as hard as he could, a sixty yard rocket, aimed at the empty, muddy corner.

It was not a pass. It was a prayer.

The ball hit the mud. It should have stopped. It should have died.

It did not. It skidded. It hit a patch of water and accelerated.

Mark was on it. He was a blur of silver boots.

The keeper was coming out. He was slipping.

Mark got there first.

He did not have time to shoot. He didd not have time to think.

He just... poked it.

He stuck his foot out. The ball hit his toe.

It rolled...

...and rolled...

...and rolled.

It was moving so slowly. The crowd was silent.

The ball just... kissed the post.

And went in.

GOAL. ONE ZERO.

Alex just fell to his knees. He was too tired to run.

Mark did not know what to do. He just stood there. Then he remembered.

He turned and sprinted, not to the corner, but all the way back.

He jumped on Alex.

"YES! YES! THE PACKAGE! THE PACKAGE! I TOLD YOU! I TOLD YOU!" Mark was screaming in his ear.

Alex was just laughing, on his back, in the mud, with his best friend piling on top of him.

Bastian ran over and just picked both of them up in a giant hug.

They had done it.

The final whistle blew. One zero.

They were in the tiny locker room. It was chaos. It was loud. It was happy.

It smelled like mud and sweat and victory.

"THAT," Steve yelled, "is how you win a cup tie! You were warriors! All of you!"

He looked at Alex. "Professor. Your brain won us that game."

He looked at Mark. "And your speed. You were... not terrible."

Bastian walked over to Alex. He was holding his giant, filthy, mud covered jersey. He threw it at Alex. It hit him in the face.

"Another one, Professor," Bastian grunted. "For your first real battle. You are not a duck. You are not a traffic cone."

"What am I then?" Alex laughed, holding the huge, heavy, disgusting shirt.

Bastian almost smiled. "You are... Arsenal. Now go. Shower. You smell bad."

Alex just sat there, covered in mud, holding the shirt.

He looked across the room. Mark was on his phone, probably texting Milo. He was smiling.

Alex was a professional. He was a fighter. He was a winner.

And he could not wait to see what happened next.

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