"I put in extra socks," she said. "And your history textbook. You have an essay due on Thursday."

"Mum," Alex said, leaning against the fridge. "I am going to play against AC Milan. I cannot write about the Tudors."

"Henry the Eighth did not care about football," she said firmly. "And neither does Mr. Henderson. Pack the book."

Alex sighed. He packed the book.

He arrived at the training ground. He was not "Bastian early". He was "on time".

He walked into the locker room.

It was quiet. Everyone was tired. The Liverpool game had broken them a little bit.

Bastian was sitting in an ice bath. He looked like a polar bear.

"Professor," Bastian grunted. "You are walking like a penguin."

"My legs are gone, Bastian," Alex admitted. "I left them at the Emirates."

"You ran twelve kilometers," Bastian said. "For a small boy, that is too much. You must be careful. The engine will explode."

Mark walked in. He was not running. He was walking very slowly. He was wearing sunglasses inside again.

"Do not speak to me," Mark whispered. "My head hurts. My legs hurt. My hair hurts."

"Did you run sprints in the car park?" Alex asked.

"No," Mark groaned. "I slept for fourteen hours. And I am still tired. being a legend is exhausting."

Jude Bellingham walked in. He looked... completely fine. He was eating a banana. He looked fresh.

"Morning, team," Jude smiled. "Ready for Italy?"

"How are you not tired?" Mark asked, lifting his sunglasses to glare at Jude.

"I am Power," Jude shrugged. "Power does not sleep. It recharges."

Antoine walked in. He was holding a garment bag.

"Italy," Antoine sighed happily. "The home of fashion. I have brought my best suit. We must look good in Milan."

"We must play good in Milan," Harry, the captain, said, walking in with a limp. "They are top of their league. They are tough."

The flight to Milan was quiet. Everyone slept.

Even Alex slept. He dreamed of history essays and slide tackles.

They landed in Milan. It was foggy. It was cool.

They drove to the stadium for the evening training session.

The San Siro.

It was not like the Emirates. It was not like the Bernabéu.

It was a concrete giant. It looked like a spaceship from the 1980s. It had giant spiral towers in the corners. It was intimidating. It was beautiful.

Alex walked onto the pitch. The grass was different. Short. Fast.

Milo was waiting by the dugout. Of course he was.

He was wearing a suit that looked like a chessboard. Black and white squares.

"MILAN!" Milo screamed. "THE FASHION CAPITAL! ALEX! I HAVE ARRANGED A SHOOT WITH VOGUE! AFTER THE GAME!"

"Milo, I will be dead after the game," Alex said.

"DEAD IS CHIC!" Milo shouted. "It is the 'zombie look'! Very popular!"

Steve, the manager, walked over. He pushed Milo gently off the pitch.

"Focus," Steve said.

He gathered the team in the center circle.

"You are tired," Steve said. "I see it. The Liverpool game took your legs."

He looked at Alex.

"Professor. You cannot run box-to-box tomorrow. If you try, you will break."

"So I sit?" Alex asked, trying not to look relieved.

"No," Steve said. "You start. I need your brain. But... I do not need your legs."

He looked at the team.

"Tomorrow, we do not play 'Heavy Metal'. We do not play 'Chaos'. We play... 'The Sniper'."

"The Sniper?" Mark asked.

"We stand still," Steve said. "We keep our shape. We let them have the ball. We conserve energy. And when they make a mistake... one pass. One run. One goal. Efficiency."

He looked at Alex.

"Professor. You do not run. You stand in the middle. You are the lighthouse. You watch. You direct. Let Jude run. Let Mark run. You... you just think."

Alex nodded. "I can think."

Tuesday night. The San Siro.

The stadium was loud. But it was not a roar. It was a chant. A deep, rhythmic, Italian chant. Flares were burning in the stands, filling the air with red smoke.

Alex stood in the tunnel. He felt the history. Maldini. Pirlo. Kaka. They had all walked here.

The AC Milan team was lining up.

They were cool. Stylish.

Their star winger, Rafa Leao, was smiling. He was wearing headphones. He was dancing a little bit.

"He is relaxed," Jude whispered to Alex.

"He is fast," Alex whispered back. "Don't let him spin."

The whistle blew.

The game started.

Milan was good. They were technical. They moved the ball with style.

Arsenal sat back. They were the 'Sniper'.

Alex stood in the center circle. He felt strange. He wasn't chasing. He wasn't pressing.

He was just... watching.

He saw Leao get the ball. Leao smiled. He ran at the Arsenal defense.

He was fast. Incredible fast.

He breezed past the right back. He crossed.

Bastian headed it clear.

"STAY!" Bastian roared at Alex. "DO NOT RUN!"

Alex wanted to run. His instinct was to chase the ball. But he forced himself to plant his feet.

He was the Lighthouse.

The ball came to him.

He was surrounded by three Milan midfielders.

He didn't try to dribble. He didn't try to run away.

He just turned his head.

He saw Antoine.

He hit a first-time pass. Ping.

Antoine got it. He held it.

The game slowed down.

This was the plan. Conserve energy. Wait for the moment.

For forty minutes, it was a tactical standoff. Zero zero.

The Milan fans were whistling. They wanted action.

Mark was on the wing. He was bored. He was kicking the grass.

"Professor!" Mark yelled. "Give me something to chase! I am falling asleep!"

"Wait!" Alex yelled back.

Halftime. Zero zero.

Steve was happy. "Perfect. You are resting while playing. They are getting frustrated. They are pushing up. The gap is coming."

He looked at Alex.

"Professor. Your legs okay?"

"They are fine, coach. I haven't used them."

"Good. Second half... look for the diagonal. Leao is lazy. He doesn't track back. The space is behind him."

Alex nodded. The data. Leao attacked, but he didn't defend.

Second half.

Milan came out angry. They wanted to win at home.

They pushed high. Their full-backs bombed forward.

Leao was playing almost as a striker.

Alex saw it. The shape changed.

The Milan left side... it was empty.

Alex got the ball deep in his own half.

Tonali, the Milan midfielder, came to press him.

Alex didn't run. He waited. He invited the pressure.

Tonali got close. He lunged.

Alex did a tiny body feint. He didn't move the ball. He just moved his hips.

Tonali bit. He went past.

Alex had a yard of space.

He looked up.

He didn't look at Mark. Mark was covered.

He looked at the empty space on the right wing. Behind Leao.

Bukayo Saka was there. He was waiting.

Alex didn't pass to Saka.

He passed to... the corner flag.

He hit a long, high, spinning ball into the empty space.

"GO!" Alex screamed.

Saka ran. He was fast.

The Milan defender was too late. He had pushed up too high.

Saka got the ball. He was in behind.

He drove into the box.

Mark saw it. The Arrow woke up.

He sprinted from the other side. A blur of silver boots.

Saka crossed. low and hard.

Mark didn't trap it. He didn't take a touch.

He slid.

He connected with his studs.

The ball flew into the roof of the net.

GOAL!

One zero. Arsenal.

The San Siro went silent. The red smoke cleared.

Mark ran to the corner. He did the 'Professor' celebration. He pointed to his head.

Then he pointed to Alex.

Alex just stood in the center circle. He smiled.

One pass. One run. One goal.

The Sniper.

Milan panicked.

They threw everyone forward.

It was wave after wave of attacks.

Alex was the Shield again. But he was tired. His focus was slipping.

Seventy-fifth minute.

Leao got the ball. He ran at Alex.

Alex tried to stand his ground. He tried to be stable.

But his legs... his tired legs... were slow.

Leao did a stepover. Then another.

Alex tried to tackle. He missed.

Leao was past him.

He shot.

It was a rocket.

Ramsdale, the Arsenal keeper, made a save. But the rebound fell to Giroud, the Milan striker.

Giroud tapped it in.

One one.

The stadium exploded. The noise was deafening.

Alex put his hands on his knees. He had failed. He had missed the tackle.

"Head up!" Jude yelled, running past him. "We are not done! We have Power!"

Jude looked fresh. He looked like he could play another ninety minutes.

Eighty-fifth minute.

The game was stretched. Both teams wanted to win.

Alex had the ball. He was deep.

He saw Jude.

Jude was running. Not forward. But... sideways.

He was running across the pitch. Dragging defenders with him.

It opened a lane. A straight lane through the middle.

Antoine was there.

Alex passed to Antoine.

Antoine turned.

He saw Mark. Mark was making a run.

But the Milan defenders converged on Mark. They knew him now.

They left... Alex.

Alex had followed his pass. He was jogging.

Nobody was marking him. He was the boring shield.

Antoine saw him.

Antoine did a magic trick. He looked at Mark. He wound up to pass to Mark.

Then he backheeled it.

To Alex.

Alex was twenty-five yards out.

No one was near him.

He looked at the goal.

"SHOOT!" Jude yelled from the sideline.

Alex didn't shoot often. He was the brain, not the hammer.

But the path was clear.

He remembered the training. The Golden Boy boots.

Be brave.

He stepped up. He hit it.

He didn't smash it. He struck it with pure technique. Knuckleball.

The ball flew. It didn't spin. It wobbled in the air.

It dipped. It swerved left. Then right.

The Milan keeper didn't know where it was going. He stood still.

The ball hit the post.

CLANG.

It bounced... across the line.

It hit the other post.

CLANG.

And then... it settled in the net.

GOAL.

Two one.

Alex stood there. He watched the ball rest in the net.

He had scored at the San Siro.

He had scored the winner.

He didn't run. He didn't slide.

He just... fell over. He sat on the grass. He laughed.

Mark ran over. He tackled Alex.

"THE PINBALL!" Mark screamed. "YOU PLAYED PINBALL WITH THE GOAL!"

Jude picked them both up. "The Professor," Jude said, shaking his head. "You saved the best lesson for last."

The final whistle blew.

Arsenal 2. Milan 1.

They had conquered Italy.

Alex walked off the pitch. He swapped shirts with Tonali.

He walked into the tunnel.

Milo was there. He was wearing a suit made of... red velvet.

"THE KNUCKLEBALL!" Milo shrieked. "IT IS PHYSICS! IT IS SCIENCE! I AM CALLING NASA! WE NEED A SPACE BOOT!"

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