"Morning, Professor!" the guard called out, beaming. "My son saw you at Anfield! He said you were the best player on the pitch!"

Alex felt his face go hot. "Oh. I was not. I was just... stable."

"You were a rock, son! A tiny, smart rock!"

Alex just smiled and hurried to the locker room.

His new life was... fast. The win at Anfield had changed everything. The newspapers were not calling him a "mystery kid" anymore. They were calling him "The Professor."

He walked into the locker room. It was loud. The players were laughing, energized from their big win.

"Ah! The Professor is here!" Harry, the captain, yelled. "He has come to teach us! What are we learning today, Alex? Maths? History?"

"Defending," Bastian grunted from his corner. He was juggling a ball with his huge boots. "He is still a duck. A very famous, very lucky duck. But still a duck."

Alex just laughed. This was his new family. He was the kid brother. The mascot. The Professor.

He sat at his locker, number 38. He loved this locker.

He was pulling on his new black boots when the door opened.

Antoine walked in. He was fit. He was not in a medical boot. He was in his full kit.

He looked... perfect. He was smiling.

"Professor," Antoine said, his voice like music. "I saw your game. You were... not bad. You were a very good shield."

"Thanks, Antoine," Alex said, his heart beating a little faster.

"But," Antoine said, his smile fading just a little, "I am back. I am fit. The doctor said I am one hundred percent. The shield is good. But the sword... is better."

Alex felt a shiver. The fight was on.

The door opened again. Mark walked in.

He was not happy. He was grumpy. He had sat on the bench for ninety minutes at Anfield. He had not played.

"Morning, Speed," Harry called out.

Mark just grunted and stomped to his corner locker. "It was cold," Mark muttered to Alex. "The bench. It was very cold. I did not get to run."

"You will," Alex said.

"Alright!" the manager, Steve, yelled, walking in. "Big win. Forget it. It is gone. We have a new problem."

He looked at Alex. He looked at Antoine.

"I have two brains. Two pivots. Two magicians. This is a good problem. But it is a problem. Today, we find the answer. Training. Ten versus ten. Bibs versus No Bibs."

His eyes were sharp.

"Professor. You are with the Bibs. You are the six. The anchor."

"Antoine. You are with the No Bibs. You are the ten. The magic."

He had put them on opposite teams.

Alex looked at Antoine. Antoine looked at Alex.

Antoine just smiled. A sharp, competitive, beautiful smile.

"Good luck, Professor," he whispered. "You will need it."

"You too," Alex whispered back.

Mark was on Alexs team. He was playing striker.

"Okay, brain boy," Mark hissed, as they walked onto the pitch. "I was cold all weekend. I am angry. I want to run. You just find me. I will destroy Antoine."

"It is not about destroying him, Mark," Alex sighed. "It is about..."

"I am going to destroy him," Mark said, his eyes on fire.

The game started.

It was the highest level of football Alex had ever played.

It was not just a training drill. It was a war.

Antoine was... a ghost. Alex could not get near him.

Alex was playing his 'shield' role. He was staying deep. He was being stable.

Antoine would just... drift. He would find space. He would get the ball. He was magic.

Zip. Zip. Zip.

Antoine played three passes, and his team scored.

"One zero!" Antoine called out, winking at Alex.

Alex was frustrated. His analyst brain was working. He is too smart. He is predicting my boring, stable position. I have to be... less boring.

The game restarted.

Alex got the ball. He was deep.

He saw Antoine. Antoine was already moving, reading the 'safe' pass to Harry.

Alex saw it. He saw the trap.

So he did not pass it.

He looked right at Mark. "Speed! Now!"

Mark was not ready. But he ran. The "fake fake" move.

Alex did not care that it was a stupid pass. He did not care that it was a risk.

He hit it. A sixty yard rocket, right into the space.

Mark ran onto it. He was one on one.

He smashed it.

GOAL.

One one.

Mark ran, screaming, right past a very surprised Antoine.

"Good pass, Professor!" Antoine yelled. He was not angry. He was... impressed. "But... a lucky one!"

The game got faster.

Alex won the ball. He was the shield.

Antoine came to get it.

Alex did not pass to Mark. He saw Antoine coming.

He did not try to pass. He just... turned. The Bruno turn. He spun away.

Antoine was not Bruno. He was not fooled. He was fast. He stuck his foot in.

He tackled Alex. Cleanly.

He took the ball. He passed it.

Goal.

Two one.

Antoine helped Alex up. "Your turn is good, Professor," he smiled. "But I have seen it. You must be faster."

Alex was angry now. He was being beaten.

The game was almost over. They were losing.

"Alex," Mark panted, running next to him. "He is too good. We cannot beat him."

"Yes, we can," Alex said. His brain was on fire. "He is reading us. He is reading me. He knows my passes. He knows your runs. He is... he is me. But faster. And better."

"So what do we do?" Mark asked.

"We do something... he cannot read," Alex said. "We do something... we have never done before."

Alex looked at Mark. He looked at his partners height. "You can jump, right?"

"What?" Mark said. "I am a runner! Not a... a duck!"

"Just... when I get the ball. Run. Not into space. Run to the back post. And jump," Alex ordered.

"This is stupid," Mark grumblEd.

"Do it!"

The ball came to Alex. He was on the sideline. He was trapped.

Antoine was jogging over, ready to take the ball.

Alex saw Mark. Mark was running to the back post. He looked confused. But he was doing it.

Alex did not have time to think. He did not have a clear pass.

He did not use his brain. He just... did it.

He kicked the ball.

It was not a pass. It was a... a cross.

He had never practiced this. He was the Professor. He did not cross the ball.

He kicked it with his right foot. He put all his gym work, all his core strength, into it.

The ball flew. It was high. It was curling.

It was... beautiful.

It flew over the defenders. It flew over the keeper.

Antoine stopped. He just... watched it.

Mark was at the back post. He jumped.

The ball was perfect.

Mark did not even have to move. He just... hit it with his head.

THWACK.

GOAL.

Two two.

The game stopped. The whistle blew.

Mark and Alex just stood there, staring at each other.

"You... you crossed the ball," Mark whispered. "Like... like a real winger."

"You... you scored a header," Alex whispered back. "Like a real striker."

Bastian just walked past, shaking his head. "The package. It is... very confusing."

The manager, Steve, walked onto the pitch. He was not smiling.

He walked right up to Alex.

"Professor," he said, his voice flat.

"Yes, coach," Alex said, bracing himself. He had crossed the ball. He had not been the shield.

"That," Steve said, "was the best cross I have seen all season. Where did you learn to do that?"

Alex just blinked. "I... I just... kicked it."

Steve looked at Mark. "And you. You used your head. I am... shocked. You are not just 'Speed'. You are 'Speed with a Head'."

He turned to both of them.

"That," he said, "was very, very smart. You are evolving. You are a problem."

He looked at Alex. He looked at Antoine.

"I have a new, new problem," Steve said. "I have two players who can be the shield. And I have two players who can be the sword."

He pointed at Alex. "You are not just a pivot, are you? You are a... a playmaker. All over the pitch."

He pointed at Antoine. "And you... you are not just a magician. You are a worker."

Alex and Antoine looked at each other.

"This gives me an idea," Steve said, a dangerous glint in his eye. "A very, very interesting idea. Liverpool... they are a storm, yes. But we... we can be a hurricane."

"Saturday," he said. "Against Newcastle. You two..." He pointed at Alex and Antoine.

"You are not fighting for one shirt anymore."

He smiled.

"You are starting. Both of you."

Alexs heart stopped.

"And Speed," he said to Mark. "You are on the bench. ."

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