Alex sat in the backseat of the hearse. Mark was driving.

It was 2 AM. They were on a highway somewhere between Madrid and the airport.

The hearse was playing classical music. Chopin.

"Why are we listening to this?" Mark asked, adjusting his rearview mirror.

"It is calming," Alex said, rubbing his forehead. "We need calm. We just played a war."

"I don't want calm!" Mark shouted. "I want techno! I want noise! I scored a goal!"

"Technically," Jude said from the passenger seat, "you assisted a goal. And you ran into a post."

"The post attacked me!" Mark insisted. "It was a foul!"

Alex closed his eyes. His friends were idiots. But they were his idiots.

His phone buzzed.

It wasn't Milo. It wasn't his dad.

It was a notification from a news app.

"BREAKING: LIONEL MESSI ANNOUNCES RETIREMENT."

Alex sat up straight. "Guys."

"What?" Jude asked, turning around.

"Messi. He retired."

The car went silent. Even Mark stopped tapping the steering wheel.

"The King is gone," Antoine whispered from the very back, where he was lying down next to a crate of Gatorade.

"He was the best," Jude said. "I wanted to play against him."

"We missed him," Alex said. "By one season."

Mark looked in the mirror. His eyes were serious.

"The throne is empty," Mark said.

Alex looked at him. Mark was right.

Ronaldo was gone. Messi was gone.

The era of the gods was over.

"Who takes it?" Jude asked. "Mbappe? Haaland?"

"Or..." Mark grinned. "The Hurricane?"

Alex looked out the window. The Spanish countryside was dark.

The throne was empty.

And they were coming for it.

They landed in London at 4 AM.

Steve, the manager, was waiting on the tarmac. He looked awake. He looked like he had been drinking coffee for three days straight.

"Go home," Steve said. "Sleep. Do not talk to journalists. Do not go to nightclubs. Do not drive hearses."

He looked at Mark's car.

"Get a normal car, Speed. You are scaring the neighbors."

Mark pouted. "It has character."

Alex slept for twelve hours.

He woke up on Thursday afternoon. His house was quiet. His parents were at work.

He went to the kitchen. There was a note on the fridge.

"Lasagna in the oven. Don't forget to water the plants. Love, Mum."

Alex smiled. He watered the plants. He ate the lasagna.

He felt... normal.

But he wasn't normal.

He turned on the TV. Sky Sports News.

The headline: "THE NEW KINGS? ARSENAL'S YOUNG STARS CONQUER EUROPE."

They were showing clips of the Atletico game. The False Mistake. The Diving Header.

Alex watched himself. He looked small on the screen. But he looked... smart.

His phone buzzed.

It was Maya.

"Saw the game. Your header had a force of 800 Newtons. Impressive for a non-rock. Also, are you free? I need help with my calculus."

Alex smiled.

"I am free," he typed. "But only if you help me with my Spanish. I need to learn how to say 'I am not a rat' properly."

"Deal. Meet me at the library. 4 PM."

He walked to the library. He wore a hoodie and sunglasses. He felt like a celebrity trying to be a student.

Maya was at her usual table. She wasn't wearing Arsenal colors today. She was wearing a t-shirt that said E=mc^2.

"Professor," she said, not looking up from her book.

"Maya," Alex said, sitting down.

"You look tired," she said. "Are you sleeping?"

"I slept for twelve hours," Alex said. "I feel like a bear after hibernation."

"Good. Bears are strong."

She pushed a textbook towards him.

"Calculus. Derivatives. Go."

For an hour, they worked. It was quiet. It was peaceful.

"So," Maya said, closing her book. "Messi retired."

"Yeah."

"The data suggests a power vacuum," Maya said. "Usually, when a dominant figure leaves, there is chaos. A struggle for dominance."

"Like Game of Thrones?" Alex asked.

"Less dragons, more diving," Maya said. "Who is going to win?"

"Mbappe is the favorite," Alex said. "Haaland is the machine."

"And you?" Maya asked.

Alex looked at her. Her green eyes were curious.

"Me?" Alex laughed. "I am just a midfielder. I don't score fifty goals a season."

"You don't have to score," Maya said. "You have to... influence. Impact. Control."

She tapped her notebook.

"Your 'Expected Threat' stats are higher than De Bruyne's. Your 'Progressive Passes' are higher than Modric's. You are... statistically significant."

Alex felt his face get warm. "Statistically significant. That is the nicest thing anyone has ever said to me."

Maya smiled. "It is a fact. Facts are nice."

"So... you think I can be the best?"

"I think," Maya said, packing her bag, "that you are already the smartest. And in the long run... smart beats strong."

She stood up.

"Thanks for the help, Alex. See you around."

She walked away.

Alex watched her go.

Smart beats strong.

He liked that.

Saturday. The Premier League returned.

Arsenal vs. West Ham. At home.

It was a "London Derby," but a friendly one. West Ham were good, but they weren't Tottenham.

Steve gathered the team.

"West Ham," Steve said. "They are physical. They are organized. They have Ward-Prowse. Do not give away free kicks. He is a sniper."

He looked at Mark.

"Speed. No fouls near the box. If you touch anyone, I will sub you off."

"I am a ghost!" Mark promised. "I will not touch a soul!"

He looked at Alex.

"Professor. They will sit deep. They will try to counter. You need to be the lock-picker."

"Got it," Alex said.

The game was fun.

It wasn't a war. It was a game.

Arsenal played with freedom. The pressure of the "Survival Month" was gone. The pressure of Atletico was gone.

They were just playing football.

Alex was the conductor. He sprayed passes left and right. He made West Ham run.

In the 20th minute, he saw Jude making a run.

Alex chipped a ball over the defense.

Jude controlled it on his chest. He volleyed it.

GOAL.

One zero.

Jude ran to the corner. He bowed.

"Thank you, maestro!" Jude yelled at Alex.

In the 50th minute, Mark got bored.

He got the ball on the wing. He decided to run.

He ran past one defender. He ran past two.

He got to the byline.

He did a "Rabona" cross. He crossed his legs and kicked the ball.

It was showboating. It was unnecessary.

It was perfect.

Antoine was there. He headed it in.

Two zero.

Mark ran to the camera. He winked.

"FOR THE FANS!" Mark screamed. "FOR THE VIBES!"

Steve, on the sideline, put his head in his hands. But he was smiling.

Arsenal won 3-0. A clean sheet. A perfect day.

The team went out for dinner that night.

Not to a club. To a pizza place. A quiet, nice pizza place.

They pushed tables together.

Alex sat with Jude, Mark, and Antoine.

"This is the life," Jude said, eating a slice of pepperoni. "Winning. Eating. No running."

"I like running," Mark said, his mouth full. "But I like pizza more."

"We are top of the league," Antoine said, swirling his water. "We are in the quarter-finals of the Champions League. Life is good."

Alex looked at his friends.

They were young. They were rich. They were famous.

But right now, they were just kids eating pizza.

"Who do we want in the quarters?" Mark asked. "Bayern again? Or City?"

"I want someone new," Jude said. "Napoli. Or maybe... PSG."

"PSG?" Antoine asked. "You want Mbappe again?"

"I want to beat him again," Jude grinned. "He thinks he is the King. I want to show him the new King."

Alex's phone buzzed.

It was Milo.

"ALEX! THE RABONA! THE CHIP! THE PIZZA! I AM GETTING A SPONSORSHIP WITH DOMINO'S! 'THE HURRICANE SPECIAL'! EXTRA SPICY!"

"Milo, we are eating," Alex texted back. "Go away."

"NEVER! I AM ALWAYS WATCHING! ENJOY THE CHEESE!"

Sunday morning.

Alex was watching TV. The Champions League draw.

He was alone in the living room.

The man on TV stirred the balls.

"Arsenal," the man said.

"Will play..."

Alex held his breath.

"Paris Saint-Germain."

Alex dropped his remote.

It was happening.

Mbappe. Again.

The King vs The Hurricane. Part Three.

But this time... it was different.

This time, it wasn't just a group game. It was the Quarter Final. Knockout.

And this time... the throne was empty.

Whoever won this... might just be the new King.

Alex picked up his phone.

A text from Antoine.

"Paris. My home. Mbappe. My friend. This will be... emotional."

A text from Jude.

"Yes. The Turtle. I am ready to wrestle."

A text from Mark.

"FRANCE! CROISSANTS! SPEED! I AM GOING TO RACE HIM! FOR REAL THIS TIME!"

Alex smiled.

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