"Professor," Bastian grunted from his locker. He was already in his kit.

"You are limping. You are a wounded duck."

"I am fine," Alex said, wincing as he sat down. "I am stable."

"You are slow," Bastian said. "And now you are wounded. This is not good."

Alexs heart sank. He was right. How could he play?

The locker room door opened, and Alexs heart sank even further.

Antoine was back.

He was not in his suit. He was not in a medical boot.

He was in his full, number ten training kit. He was tying his boots. He looked... perfect. He looked fast. He looked ready.

"Ah, Professor," Antoine said. He smiled, but his eyes were not smiling. They were sharp. He looked at Alexs swollen ankle.

"A battle scar," Antoine said. "Congratulations. You are a real player now."

"It is nothing," Alex said, trying not to look weak.

"Good," Antoine said, standing up. He did a few quick stretches. He was not limping. "Because I am back. The doctor said I am fit. So. The fight for the shirt. It starts... now."

Alex just stared. His ankle was on fire. His rival, his hero, was fit.

This was a disaster.

On the training pitch, the manager, Steve, gathered them.

"Good news," Steve boomed. "Antoine is back. He is fit. The team is strong."

The players clapped and cheered. Harry, the captain, gave Antoine a big hug.

"This," Steve continued, "gives me a new problem. A very good problem."

He looked at Antoine. Then he looked at Alex.

"I have two brains. I have my superstar, and I have my professor. But I only have one spot."

Alex felt his stomach twist. He was going to be benched. He was a sixteen year old kid. Antoine was a superstar. The choice was obvious.

"So today," Steve said, "we find the answer. We are playing a full game. Starters versus Reserves. I want to see what we have."

He started reading the teams. "Reserves: Mark... Ben... and the rest of you."

Mark, who was in the back, looked furious. He was on the reserves.

"Starters," Steve said. "Harry. Bastian... the striker... and..."

Alex held his breath.

"...Professor. You are the pivot."

Alexs head snapped up. He was starting?

"And," Steve said, a dangerous smile on his face, "Antoine. You are also on the starters. You will play together."

Alex and Antoine just stared at each other.

Together? But... they played the same position.

"Do not look confused," Steve barked. "You are my two smartest players. Act like it. Fix it. Go."

Alex was in a daze. He was on the same team as Antoine. But how?

The training game started.

It was a complete and total disaster.

Alex dropped deep to get the ball from Bastian, like he always did.

Antoine, who was used to going wherever he wanted, was already in that exact same space.

They ran right into each other.

"My ball," Antoine snapped.

"I was here," Alex said, confused.

Mark, on the other team, who was playing like a man possessed, stole the ball while they were arguing and smashed it into the net.

"ONE ZERO!" Mark roared, running past them. "TOO SLOW, SUPERSTARS!"

Bastian was furious. He yelled at both of them in German. Alex did not understand the words, but he understood the feeling.

It happened again.

Alex saw a smart pass to the winger. He moved into the space to play it.

Antoine, who had seen the same pass, also moved into that space.

They both tried to kick the ball at the same time.

Alex kicked Antoines foot. Antoine kicked Alexs foot. The ball went nowhere.

Mark stole it again. He did not score, but he looked very happy.

"THIS IS A MESS!" Steve roared from the sideline. "YOU LOOK LIKE TWO DRUNK MEN FIGHTING OVER A TAXI! YOU ARE NOT A PACKAGE! YOU ARE A PROBLEM! FIX IT!"

The whistle blew for halftime. They were losing. Two zero. Mark had scored both goals.

Alex and Antoine walked to the sideline. They did not look at each other. They were both embarrassed. They were covered in mud.

"This is not working," Alex said, grabbing a water bottle. His ankle was throbbing.

"No," Antoine agreed, wiping his face. "You are in my space, Professor."

"I am not in your space," Alex said, his frustration making him brave. "I am playing the pivot. The 'six'. That is my job. You are in my space."

"The 'six'?" Antoine laughed. "I am the 'ten'. I go where I want. I am the magic. You... you are just sitting there. You are too deep. You are too slow."

Alex felt a flash of anger. "I am not slow. I am smart."

"Yes, you are smart," Antoine agreed. "You are smart... here." He pointed to the defensive half of the pitch. "I am smart... everywhere."

Alex stopped. His analyst brain kicked in.

He was right. Antoine was not a pivot. He was a roamer. A creator. A ghost.

"Okay," Alex said, his mind racing. "Okay. You are the ten. You are the magic. You go everywhere."

"Yes," Antoine said.

"So... what am I?" Alex asked.

Antoine looked at him. He was not angry. He was analyzing Alex.

"You," Antoine said, "are the anchor. The shield. The 'six' you talked about. You are... the boring one."

"Boring?" Alex said. He did not like that.

"Yes. Boring," Antoine smiled. "You stay. You be the rock. The stable professor. You win the ball. You stop them from getting to Bastian. You are... my shield."

Alex did not like "boring." But... "shield." He liked that.

"So I win the ball," Alex said. "And I... I just give it to you?"

"Yes," Antoine grinned. "You be the smart, boring shield. You give the ball to me. And you let me be the magic."

"And what if I see a pass?" Alex challenged. "A big pass?"

Antoines smile got wider. "Then you had better play it, Professor. And it had better be perfect."

The second half started.

Alex changed his game. He did not run forward. He did not look for the magic ball.

He just... stayed. He sat right in front of Bastian. He was the anchor.

A reserve player tried to run at him. Alex, his ankle hurting, did not go for the tackle.

He just... got in the way. He was the annoying shadow. He was stable.

He won the ball.

He looked up. Antoine was waiting.

Alex passed it. A simple, five yard pass.

Antoine took the ball. He spun, like a ballet dancer. He was gone.

He played a perfect, no look pass. The winger scored.

Two one.

The team ran to Antoine. Antoine just pointed. He pointed right at Alex.

It happened again.

Alex was the shield. He was the rock. He tackled. He intercepted. He was boring.

And he was brilliant.

He won the ball. He gave it to Antoine.

Antoine did a magic flick. The striker scored.

Two two.

Mark, on the other team, was going crazy. He was not getting the ball.

"This is not fair!" Mark yelled. "They have two brains!"

The game was almost over. Two two.

Alex won the ball. He was deep. He was tired. His ankle was on fire.

He looked for Antoine.

Antoine was covered. Three players were on him. They had learned.

Alex looked up. His analyst brain saw the whole pitch.

He saw Mark. Mark was being marked by Ben.

Mark saw Alex looking.

He did not shout. He did not point.

He just... ran.

He did the "fake fake."

He ran at Ben. He faked right. Ben moved. He faked the cut left. Ben lunged.

And Mark just... exploded. Into the right side.

He was open.

Alex did not care that he was on the other team. He did not care that his ankle hurt.

He saw the pass.

He launched it.

A sixty yard, perfect, beautiful, spinning pass.

Mark, in his silver boots, ran onto it. He was one on one with his own keeper.

The reserves were yelling. "Do not score! It is our own goal!"

Mark just... stopped. He put his foot on the ball. He looked at Alex. He looked at the goal.

He just... kicked the ball out of bounds. On purpose.

The whistle blew. The game was over.

Mark walked over to Alex.

"That," Mark panned, "was the stupidest, most beautiful pass I have ever seen. You passed to the wrong team."

"You were open," Alex shrugged, his ankle screaming.

Antoine walked over. He was not even sweating. He was just smiling.

"Professor," he said, putting his arm around Alex. "That... that was not boring at all. That was... something new."

Steve, the manager, walked over. He was not laughing. He was... impressed.

"So," Steve said. "The Professor... and the Magician. The Shield and the Sword."

He looked at Alex. He looked at Antoine.

"I have a new problem," Steve said. "I do not have one brain anymore. I have... two."

He looked at the big stadium around them.

"Liverpool. On Saturday. At their stadium. The loudest place in the world."

Alex held his breath.

Antoine held his breath.

"I cannot start a sixteen year old kid at Liverpool," Steve said.

Alexs heart sank.

"But," Steve said, a small, dangerous smile on his face. "I cannot not start him. That... that... was the best midfield partnership I have seen in years."

He pointed at Alex. "Professor. You are the six. You are my shield. You are the anchor."

He pointed at Antoine. "You are the ten. You are my magic. You are my sword."

He looked at them both. "You are starting. Together."

Alex just stared. He was starting. With his hero. At Liverpool.

"Do not mess this up, Professor," Antoine said, winking. "You had better be the best shield in the world."

"I will," Alex said.

He looked over at Mark, who was talking to Steve.

"And Speed," Steve was saying. "You were terrible today. But you are fast. You are on the bench. Be ready for the chaos."

Mark just beamed.

Alex just smiled. He looked at his hero. He looked at his partner.

He was sixteen years old. And he was starting in the most important game of his life.

He could not wait.

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