Alex ran through the corridors of his high school.

He was fast on the pitch. In his school shoes, on the polished floor, he was... slippery.

He skidded around a corner, almost knocking over a Year 7 student.

"Sorry!" Alex yelled.

He burst into the math classroom.

Mrs. Gable was closing the door. She looked at her watch.

"You are one minute late, Mr. Finch," she said, raising an eyebrow. "Did the Champions League run over time?"

"Traffic, Miss," Alex panted. "And... I forgot my calculator. I had to borrow one from the receptionist."

The class giggled.

Alex sat at his desk. He looked at the test paper.

Calculus.

He took a deep breath. He closed his eyes.

He imagined the pitch. The angles of a pass. The trajectory of a cross. The velocity of Mark sprinting.

Math was just football with numbers instead of balls.

He picked up his pen.

He was the Professor. He could do this.

Two hours later, Alex walked out of the school gates. His brain felt like mush.

Mark was waiting in the neon green car. He was wearing a Manchester United shirt.

Alex stopped dead. "Mark. Why?"

Mark looked down at the red shirt. "It is for research! I am getting into the mindset of the enemy! Also, I lost a bet with Jude."

"Take it off," Alex said, getting in the car. "If the fans see you, they will melt your car."

"They love me," Mark grinned, revving the engine. "I am the Arrow. I pierce all hearts."

He peeled out of the parking lot. "To the airport! We have a date with the Red Devils!"

The flight to Manchester was short.

The bus ride to the hotel was quiet.

Manchester was grey and rainy. It looked like a serious place.

Alex sat next to Jude.

Jude was listening to classical music. He looked calm. He looked like he was about to go for a walk in the park, not play in front of seventy-five thousand screaming fans.

"Old Trafford," Jude said softly. "The Theatre of Dreams."

"Or nightmares," Alex said.

"Only for them," Jude smiled. "Last time you were there... you made your debut. You beat them. You embarrassed Bruno."

"He will remember," Alex said.

"Good," Jude said. "Angry players make mistakes. We like mistakes."

Sunday. Matchday.

Old Trafford was a fortress. The stands went up straight and high. The noise stayed inside.

Alex stood in the tunnel. He was wearing the red and white. Number 8.

He looked to his left.

Manchester United.

They were big. They were strong.

And at the front... Bruno Fernandes. The captain.

Bruno was staring at Alex. He was not blinking.

He remembered.

The turn. The pass. The defeat.

Bruno leaned over.

"No school today, kid," Bruno whispered. "Today, you run."

Alex looked up. He was seventeen now. He had played in finals. He had beaten Madrid.

"I like running," Alex said calmly.

Bruno scowled. He turned away.

Bastian, standing behind Alex, squeezed his shoulder.

"He is angry," Bastian grunted. "He is emotional. You are ice. Ice breaks fire."

They walked out.

The roar was deafening. "UNITED! UNITED!"

Alex looked at the pitch. It was wide. It was wet. It was perfect for sliding.

The whistle blew.

Manchester United did not wait. They pressed.

They ran at Arsenal like wolves.

Bruno was everywhere. He was not playing a position. He was playing "Catch the Alex".

Every time Alex got the ball, Bruno was there. Nipping at his heels. Pushing him. Sliding in.

"Too slow!" Bruno yelled, kicking the ball away after a whistle.

Alex was struggling. He couldn't find his rhythm. He couldn't find the 'zip'.

In the 15th minute, Alex tried to turn.

Bruno read it. He smashed into Alex. Shoulder to shoulder.

Alex was smaller. He went flying.

Bruno took the ball. He didn't wait. He launched a pass.

Rashford, the United striker, was fast. Faster than Mark.

He ran onto the ball.

He shot.

GOAL.

One zero. United.

Old Trafford erupted. The noise was shaking the ground.

Bruno ran past Alex, who was picking himself up from the grass.

"I told you," Bruno said. "Today, you run."

Alex gritted his teeth. He dusted off his shirt.

Mark ran over. He looked furious.

"He pushed you!" Mark yelled. "That was a foul!"

"It was shoulder," Alex said. "It was fair."

"It was mean!" Mark said. "Give me the ball. I want to run at him."

"Not yet," Alex said. "We stick to the plan."

The first half was a battle.

Arsenal couldn't get control. Jude was fighting hard, tackling everyone. Antoine was trying to find space, but United were compact.

Alex was the problem. He was the link, and the link was being broken by Bruno.

Halftime. One zero.

Steve, the manager, was pacing in the locker room.

"They are targeting you, Professor," Steve said. "Bruno is obsessed with you."

"I know," Alex sighed. "He is... sticky."

"He is emotional," Jude said, drinking water. "He chases the ball. He chases the man."

Steve stopped pacing. He looked at Alex.

"Professor. Analyze. If he is chasing you... what does that mean?"

Alex closed his eyes. He saw the heat map in his head.

Bruno was leaving his zone. He was leaving the middle open to get to Alex.

"He is leaving a hole," Alex said. "Behind him."

"Exactly," Steve said.

He looked at Jude. He looked at Antoine.

"New plan," Steve said. "Operation 'Matador'."

He looked at Alex.

"Professor. You are the red cape. I want you to drop deep. Very deep. Almost next to the defenders."

"Bruno will follow me," Alex said.

"Yes," Steve grinned. "He will. He wants to humiliate you. He will follow you into the car park if you go there."

He looked at Jude and Antoine.

"When Bruno follows Alex... the middle of the pitch is empty. That is your playground. Jude, you drive. Antoine, you find the pockets."

"And me?" Mark asked from the corner.

"You," Steve said. "You stay high. You pin their defenders back. Make the pitch big."

"Big pitch," Mark nodded. "I like big."

Second half.

Alex changed his game.

He didn't look for the ball in midfield. He ran back. He stood right next to Bastian and the other center back.

Bruno saw him. He hesitated.

Then, he followed. He couldn't help it. He wanted to stop Alex.

Bruno ran deep into the Arsenal half.

Alex got the ball. Bruno charged.

Alex passed it sideways to the defender. Simple.

Bruno chased.

Now... the middle of the pitch was empty.

The Arsenal defender passed it. Not to Alex.

To Jude.

Jude was in the space Bruno had left. He had acres of grass.

He turned. He ran.

The "Power".

He drove at the United defense.

United panicked. Their midfield was gone.

Jude ran past one. He ran past two.

He saw Antoine.

He passed.

Antoine did a flick. A magic touch.

Mark was running. The Arrow.

He got the ball. He shot.

The keeper saved it.

"AHHH!" Mark yelled. "Next time!"

But the pattern was set.

Bruno was furious. He was running miles, chasing Alex, but the ball was going past him.

Sixtieth minute.

Alex got the ball deep again.

Bruno came sprinting. He was angry. He slid.

Alex didn't panic. He did a simple drag back.

Bruno slid past, taking a chunk of grass with him.

Alex looked up.

The middle was open.

He hit a pass. A laser.

To Jude.

Jude turned. He ran.

He got to the edge of the box.

He didn't pass. He unleashed a shot.

It was a cannonball.

It hit the bottom corner.

GOAL!

One one.

Jude stood there, arms wide. The King of the midfield.

Alex ran up to join the hug.

He looked at Bruno. Bruno was on the ground, deep in the Arsenal half, pounding the grass with his fist.

The Matador had won the round.

The game was tied. The crowd was nervous.

Eighty-fifth minute.

The game was stretched. Both teams were tired.

Alex was exhausted. He had been running, tackling, and being a decoy for an hour.

United had a corner.

The ball came in. Bastian headed it clear.

The ball fell to Antoine.

Antoine looked up.

"GO!" he yelled.

The Hurricane counter-attack.

Antoine passed to Jude.

Jude ran. He was a machine.

He passed the halfway line.

Mark was sprinting on the left.

Alex was sprinting on the right.

It was three against three.

Jude carried the ball. He drew the defenders in.

He passed to Mark.

Mark was on the wing. He cut inside.

He looked at the goal. He wanted to shoot.

But the angle was tight.

He saw Alex.

Alex had made a run. A lung-busting run from his own box. He was arriving at the penalty spot.

But Bruno was tracking him. Bruno was desperate. He was right on Alex's shoulder.

Mark crossed the ball.

It was a low, hard cross.

Alex saw it coming. He saw Bruno coming.

If he tried to control it, Bruno would tackle him.

If he tried to shoot first time... it was bouncing awkwardly.

Alex's brain worked at light speed.

Don't shoot. Don't control.

Dummy.

Alex shouted "LEAVE IT!"

He let the ball run through his legs.

Bruno, who was trying to tackle Alex, was fooled. He tackled the air.

Behind Alex... was Antoine.

The Magician had trailed the play. He was all alone.

The ball rolled to him perfectly.

Antoine didn't even take a touch.

He just caressed it. A side-foot finish into the corner.

GOAL!

Two one. Arsenal.

In the eighty-eighth minute.

Old Trafford went silent. The away fans went crazy.

Antoine ran to the corner.

Alex collapsed. He had nothing left.

Jude picked him up. Mark jumped on them.

"THE DUMMY!" Mark screamed. "THE BRAIN! YOU TRICKED HIM!"

Bruno was standing there. He looked at Alex. He looked defeated.

He just shook his head.

The final whistle blew.

Arsenal 2. Manchester United 1.

Another big stadium conquered.

Alex walked off the pitch. His legs felt like jelly.

Bruno walked past him.

"Kid," Bruno said.

Alex stopped.

"You are annoying," Bruno said. "Very annoying."

"I know," Alex smiled.

"Good dummy," Bruno grunted. "Next time... I tackle you harder."

He walked away.

Alex walked into the locker room.

It was a party.

Steve, the manager, was beaming.

"Matadors!" Steve yelled. "You waved the cape! And then you used the sword! Perfect!"

He looked at Alex.

"Professor. You sacrificed yourself today. You let him chase you so the others could play. That is... leadership."

Alex smiled. He sat at his locker.

He checked his phone.

A text from his mum.

"We saw you on TV! You looked very muddy. Please wash your face."

And another text.

From an unknown number. He opened it.

It was a picture.

A picture of a math test paper.

At the top, in red ink: A-.

Below the picture was a message.

"Mrs. Gable asked me to send this. She says your calculus is stable. Like a rock."

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