Alex sat in his biology class on Friday morning.

The room was warm and smelled of formaldehyde. There was a diagram of a frog on the board.

"The heart," Mr. Peters, the biology teacher, said, tapping the diagram. "It pumps blood. It keeps the system alive. If the heart stops... the system fails."

Alex nodded. He understood systems. Football was a system. Arsenal was a system.

And he... he was the heart. Or maybe the brain. Or the shield. He had a lot of nicknames now.

His phone buzzed in his pocket.

He ignored it. He was a good student.

It buzzed again. And again.

Bzzzt. Bzzzt. Bzzzt.

Mr. Peters stopped talking. He looked at Alex.

"Is your pocket alive, Mr. Finch?"

"Sorry, sir," Alex said, pulling out the phone to turn it off.

He glanced at the screen.

Five missed calls from Milo. Ten texts from Mark. And one message from Steve, the manager.

"Training ground. Now. Emergency."

Alex felt his stomach drop. Emergency? Was someone hurt? Was Antoine injured again?

"Sir," Alex said, standing up. "I have to go. It is... a football emergency."

Mr. Peters sighed. "Go. But if you don't know the difference between an atrium and a ventricle by Monday... you are in trouble."

"The atrium receives, the ventricle pumps," Alex said, grabbing his bag. "Just like a pivot."

He ran out.

The neon green car was not waiting. Mark was already at the training ground.

Alex took a taxi. He told the driver to hurry.

He ran into the building. The receptionist looked worried.

"They are in the meeting room, Alex," she said. "It sounds... loud."

Alex walked to the meeting room. He could hear shouting.

He opened the door.

The whole team was there. Bastian. Harry. Antoine. Jude. Mark.

And Steve.

But there was someone else.

A man in a very expensive grey suit. He was holding a briefcase. He looked like a lawyer who enjoyed firing people.

"What is going on?" Alex asked.

"The suit," Mark whispered, pulling Alex into a seat. "He is from the owners. The big bosses in America."

"So?"

"So," Mark hissed. "They want to sell."

"Sell the club?" Alex asked.

"No," Jude said, leaning over. "Sell players. To balance the books. Financial Fair Play. We spent too much money on... well, on me."

Jude grinned, but it was a nervous grin.

The man in the suit stood up.

"Gentlemen," he said. His voice was smooth and cold. "The club is in a... delicate financial position. We need to raise funds. Immediately."

"We are winning!" Harry, the captain, argued. "We are in the Champions League! We beat Bayern!"

"Winning is expensive," the suit said. "Bonuses. Salaries. Travel."

He looked around the room.

"We have received offers. Big offers. For some of you."

He looked at Antoine.

"Paris Saint-Germain wants their Magician back. They are offering one hundred million."

Antoine looked shocked. "But... I am happy here. I am the Sword."

"One hundred million buys a lot of happiness," the suit said.

He looked at Jude.

"Real Madrid wants a refund. Plus interest."

Jude scowled. "I am not a pair of shoes."

Then, the suit looked at Alex.

Alex felt cold.

"And then... there is the Professor," the suit said.

The room went silent.

"Manchester City," the suit said. "Pep Guardiola. He says you are the missing piece. He says you are the only player who understands his system better than he does."

Alex felt sick. City. The machine.

"They are offering," the suit paused for dramatic effect, "one hundred and twenty million pounds. A world record for a teenager."

Mark stood up. "NO!" he shouted. "YOU CANNOT SELL HIM! HE IS MY BRAIN!"

"Sit down, Speed," the suit said. "Business is business."

Steve, the manager, slammed his hand on the table.

"Enough!" Steve roared.

The suit looked at him. "Steve, be reasonable."

"I am not reasonable!" Steve yelled. "I am a football manager! These are not assets! They are a team! They are the Hurricane! If you sell one... you break the storm!"

He looked at the suit.

"You want money? Fine. We will get you money. We will win the Champions League. We will win the Premier League. We will win everything. The prize money... it will be enough."

The suit laughed. A dry, humorless laugh.

"That is a gamble, Steve. A big gamble. If you lose... we are bankrupt."

"We won't lose," Steve said.

The suit looked at the team. He looked at Alex.

"Okay," the suit said. "A deal. You have one month. Until the transfer window opens in January."

"If you are top of the league... and if you qualify for the knockout stages... we keep the team."

"And if we don't?" Alex asked.

"Then," the suit said, closing his briefcase, "we sell the Brain. And the Magic. And the Power. And we start again."

He walked out.

The room was dead silent.

Mark looked at Alex. "They want to sell you? To City? To the robots?"

"I won't go," Alex said. "I am Arsenal."

"We have to win," Harry said. "We have to win every game."

"One month," Antoine said. "Four weeks to save the Hurricane."

Bastian stood up. He looked like a giant, angry bear.

"Then we do not sleep," Bastian grunted. "We do not rest. We work. We fight. Who is next?"

Steve looked at the schedule on the wall.

"Sunday," Steve said. "Chelsea. Away. Stamford Bridge."

Mark groaned. "Chelsea again? They are annoying."

"They are rich," Steve said. "They want to beat us. They want to ruin our season."

He looked at Alex.

"Professor. You are worth one hundred and twenty million. Show me why."

Alex stood up. "I will show them, coach."

Training that week was different. It wasn't just intense. It was desperate.

Every tackle was hard. Every run was a sprint.

They were fighting for their lives. They were fighting for their family.

Alex was the leader. He was the voice.

"Faster, Jude! Press, Antoine! Mark, stay onside!"

He was not a kid. He was the general.

On Saturday night, Alex was in his room packing his bag.

His mum walked in. She was holding a freshly ironed shirt.

"You look worried, Alex," she said.

"It is a big month, mum," Alex said.

"Is it the money man?" she asked. "Your dad read about it on the internet. Rumors."

"Yeah," Alex said. "He wants to sell us."

"Well," his mum said, putting the shirt in his bag. "He is an idiot. You are not for sale. You are priceless."

She kissed his head. "Go sleep. You have to save the team tomorrow."

Sunday. Stamford Bridge.

It was a hostile place. The Chelsea fans were loud. They were angry.

"SELL OUT! SELL OUT!" they chanted at Alex. They had heard the rumors.

Alex stood in the tunnel. He looked at the Chelsea players.

James, the striker, was there. He looked... sorry.

"I heard, Alex," James whispered. "City? That is rough."

"I am not going," Alex said.

"Good," James grinned. "Because I want to beat you here. Not in Manchester."

The whistle blew.

Chelsea played well. They were organized. They were strong.

They knew Arsenal was desperate. They played on the counter.

In the 20th minute, Chelsea scored.

A fast break. James ran through. He finished coolly.

One zero.

The "Suit" was in the directors' box. He was watching. He was probably calculating Alex's transfer fee.

Arsenal fought back.

Jude was a monster. He ran through three players. He hit the post.

Antoine was trying everything. Tricks. Flicks. Nothing worked.

Mark was running, but the Chelsea defense was deep.

Halftime. One zero.

The dream was dying.

Steve didn't shout. He just looked at them.

"Do you want to stay together?" he asked.

"Yes," the team said.

"Then prove it."

He looked at Alex.

"Professor. Stop thinking about the money. Stop thinking about City. Think about the game. What is the solution?"

Alex closed his eyes. He breathed.

Chelsea was sitting deep. They were protecting the lead.

They were narrow. They were packing the middle to stop Jude and Alex.

"The wings," Alex said. "They are giving us the wings."

"So?"

"So we use them," Alex said. "But not for crosses. For... chaos."

He looked at Mark.

"Speed. You are not a striker this half. You are a winger."

"A winger?" Mark asked. "But I like the middle."

"Go wide," Alex said. "Stretch them. Pull them apart. Make them chase you to the sideline."

"And then?"

"And then," Alex said, looking at Jude. "The Power comes through the middle."

Second half.

Mark went wide. He stood right on the touchline.

The Chelsea defenders had to follow him. They knew he was fast. They couldn't leave him alone.

The Chelsea defense stretched. The gap in the middle opened.

Fifty-fifth minute.

Alex got the ball.

He saw Mark wide. The defender went with him.

Alex didn't pass to Mark.

He passed through the new gap.

To Jude.

Jude had space. He drove. He was a tank.

He got to the edge of the box. He shot.

GOAL!

One one.

Jude roared. He pointed at Alex. "THE BRAIN!"

The Suit in the box stopped checking his phone.

Arsenal kept pushing.

Seventy-fifth minute.

Mark was wide again. He was tormenting the fullback. He was doing stepovers. He was doing the 'fake fake'.

He beat his man. He ran to the byline.

He looked up.

Alex was making the late run. The Lampard run.

But Mark saw something else.

He saw Antoine.

Antoine was standing still on the edge of the box. No one was marking him.

Mark cut the ball back.

Antoine trapped it. He looked at the goal.

He didn't shoot.

He chipped it.

To the back post.

Where Alex was arriving.

Alex jumped. He was not a duck.

He headed it back across the goal.

To Harry Kane.

Harry was there. He couldn't miss.

GOAL!

Two one. Arsenal.

The away end exploded.

The team piled on Harry. Then they piled on Alex.

"WE ARE STAYING!" Mark screamed. "WE ARE NOT LEAVING!"

The final ten minutes were nerve-wracking.

Chelsea threw everything.

Alex was tired. But he ran. He tackled. He blocked.

He was fighting for his family.

Ninetieth minute.

Chelsea corner.

The ball came in.

Alex cleared it.

The whistle blew.

Arsenal 2. Chelsea 1.

They had won. They were still top of the league.

Alex fell to the ground. He was exhausted.

Steve walked onto the pitch. He picked Alex up.

He pointed to the directors' box.

The Suit was standing there. He wasn't smiling. But he was nodding.

"You bought us time, Professor," Steve said. "One week down. Three to go.".

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