The summer sun beat down on the London park. It was July. The grass was yellow and dry.

Alex sat on a picnic blanket. He was wearing sunglasses and reading a book titled Advanced Thermodynamics.

He turned the page.

"The laws of heat," Alex muttered. "Energy cannot be created or destroyed. It only changes form."

"Does energy taste like chicken?" a voice asked.

Alex looked up.

Mark was sitting next to him. He was wearing a pair of swimming trunks with the Arsenal crest on them, a bucket hat, and absolutely nothing else. He was eating a drumstick from a bucket of fried chicken.

"Energy is physics, Mark," Alex said. "Not food."

"I have a lot of energy," Mark said, chewing. "So I must be physics."

"That logic is... flawed," Alex smiled.

Mark stood up. He grabbed a frisbee.

"Go long, Professor! Calculate the wind!"

Mark threw the frisbee. He threw it hard. It didn't glide. It flew like a stone.

It hit a tree. Thwack.

"The wind was against me," Mark claimed.

"There is no wind, Speed," Alex said. "You just have heavy hands."

It had been a month since Istanbul. Since the Champions League win.

Life had been quiet. Good quiet.

Alex had finished his exams. He had visited his grandparents. He had played video games with Jude (Jude was very competitive at Mario Kart).

He was enjoying being a normal eighteen-year-old.

Well, a normal eighteen-year-old who was stopped for autographs every time he bought milk.

A loud noise interrupted the peaceful afternoon.

Thup-thup-thup-thup.

A helicopter.

It was flying low over the park. It was bright, metallic gold. It had the word MILO painted on the side in diamonds.

The wind from the rotors blew Mark's bucket hat off.

"MY HAT!" Mark screamed, chasing it.

The helicopter landed in the middle of the cricket pitch. A cricket match stopped. The players looked confused.

The door opened.

Milo jumped out.

He was wearing a white suit with gold pineapples printed on it. He looked like a rich fruit salad.

"ALEX!" Milo screamed over the noise of the rotors. "THE PARK! NATURE! I LOVE IT!"

He ran over, dodging a very angry cricket player.

"Milo," Alex said, standing up. "You landed a helicopter in a public park. Is that legal?"

"I PAID THE SQUIRRELS!" Milo yelled. "WE HAVE BUSINESS! BIG BUSINESS!"

He grabbed Alex by the shoulders.

"Get in the chopper. We have a meeting."

"I am wearing shorts," Alex said.

"DOES NOT MATTER! THE FUTURE DOES NOT CARE ABOUT YOUR LEGS! GET IN!"

Mark ran back, holding his hat. "Can I come? I want to fly!"

"Get in, Speed!" Milo shouted. "Bring the chicken!"

The helicopter ride was terrifying. Mark tried to open the window to "feel the speed". Milo slapped his hand away.

They landed on the roof of a skyscraper in central London.

Milo led them into a glass conference room.

Sitting at the table was Steve, the Arsenal manager. He looked serious.

And next to him sat a man Alex recognized from his old life. From the TV.

Florentino Pérez. The President of Real Madrid.

Alex stopped breathing.

Mark dropped his chicken bone.

"Hola," Florentino said. He smiled. It was a smile that cost a billion euros.

Steve looked at Alex.

"Sit down, Professor," Steve said. His voice was tight.

Alex sat. Mark sat next to him, looking terrified.

"Alex," Milo said, vibrating with excitement. "Mr. Pérez has flown in from Madrid. He has an offer."

Florentino slid a piece of paper across the glass table.

"We saw you in Istanbul," Florentino said. His voice was smooth, like expensive chocolate. "You beat us. You took my trophy."

"We borrowed it," Mark whispered.

Florentino ignored him. He looked at Alex.

"I do not like losing," Florentino said. "When I lose... I buy the winner. That is the Madrid way."

He tapped the paper.

"We want you, Alex. You. The Brain. The Professor."

Alex looked at the paper.

It was a contract.

The numbers were so big they didn't look real. They looked like phone numbers.

"We offer you the Number 10 shirt," Florentino said. "Modric is retiring. You will take his place. You will be the King of the Bernabéu."

"And... Jude?" Alex asked. "And Antoine? And Mark?"

Florentino smiled. "We only need the Brain. We have enough speed. We have enough power. We need... control."

Mark let out a small, sad squeak.

"Think about it," Florentino said. "The White House. The history. The money."

He stood up.

"I will wait for your call."

He walked out. He didn't even look at Mark's pineapple shorts.

The room was silent.

Steve looked at Alex.

"I cannot stop you," Steve said quietly. "They are paying the release clause. It is your choice, Alex."

Milo was hyperventilating. "ALEX! THE MONEY! WE COULD BUY A SMALL COUNTRY! WE COULD BUY WALES!"

"I don't want Wales," Alex said.

He looked at Mark.

Mark was staring at the table. He looked small.

"You... you would go?" Mark whispered.

"It is Real Madrid," Alex said. "It is the biggest club in the world."

"But..." Mark's voice cracked. "But... the Hurricane. The Diamond. We are a package. Brains and Speed."

"He said he doesn't need Speed," Alex said.

Mark looked down. "I know. I heard."

Alex stood up. He walked to the window. He looked out at London.

In his old life, he would have said yes. Instantly. Real Madrid was the dream. It was the pinnacle.

But in his old life... he didn't have friends. He didn't have a family like this.

He looked at his reflection in the glass.

He saw the Professor.

But he also saw the kid who ate pizza with Jude. The kid who taught Mark how to head a ball.

He turned around.

"Steve," Alex said.

"Yes?"

"Do we have training tomorrow?"

Steve blinked. "Yes. Pre-season starts next week. But... why?"

Alex picked up the contract.

He didn't rip it. That was dramatic.

He just folded it. Neatly. Like an analyst.

He handed it to Milo.

"Send it back," Alex said.

Milo looked like he was going to faint. "SEND IT BACK? ARE YOU CRAZY? IT IS MADRID!"

"I know," Alex said. "But they want a machine. They want a replacement for Modric."

He looked at Mark.

"I am not a machine. I am part of a Hurricane. And a Hurricane doesn't work without the wind, and the lightning, and the thunder."

Mark's head snapped up. His eyes were wet.

"You... you are staying?" Mark asked.

"I am staying," Alex smiled. "I have unfinished business."

"What business?" Steve asked, a slow grin spreading on his face.

"We won the Champions League once," Alex said. "Madrid won it thirteen times. I want to catch them."

Mark jumped up. He hugged Alex so hard they both fell over the chair.

"HE IS STAYING!" Mark screamed. "THE PROFESSOR IS STAYING! TAKE THAT, MADRID! WE ARE THE KINGS!"

Steve stood up. He shook Alex's hand.

"Good choice, son," Steve said. "We are going to build a statue of you one day."

"Make it holding a book," Alex laughed.

The news broke the next day.

"FINCH REJECTS MADRID. THE PROFESSOR STAYS AT ARSENAL."

The fans went wild. They gathered outside the stadium singing his name.

Alex sat in the locker room on the first day of pre-season.

It was good to be back.

His locker, Number 8, was waiting.

Jude walked in. He slapped Alex on the back.

"I heard you said no to the White House," Jude grinned.

"It was too white," Alex said. "I like red."

"Good," Jude said. "Because if you left, I would have to tackle you in the Champions League. And I would not go easy."

"I know," Alex smiled.

Antoine walked in. He looked elegant in a summer scarf.

"Professor," Antoine said. "You stayed. This is... romantic. I like romance."

"I stayed for the team, Antoine," Alex said.

"And for the 'Hurricane'," Antoine winked. "We are a good brand."

Steve walked in. He looked serious again. The holiday mood was gone.

"Okay," Steve said. "You are heroes. You are loyal. That is nice."

He clicked the remote.

The screen showed a team in blue.

"Chelsea," Steve said. "They have spent another three hundred million. They bought a new striker. A robot from Norway."

"Haaland?" Mark whispered.

"No," Steve said. "His cousin. Or something. He is big."

He looked at the team.

"Last year, we were the hunters. This year, we are the hunted. Everyone wants to beat the team that said no to Madrid."

He looked at Alex.

"Professor. You rejected the easy path. Now you have the hard path. You have to be better than last year. Faster. Smarter."

"How?" Alex asked.

"We evolve," Steve said.

He drew a shape on the board.

It wasn't a diamond. It wasn't a 4-3-3.

It looked like... a circle.

"The Vortex," Steve said.

The team stared.

"The what?" Mark asked.

"The Vortex," Steve repeated. "No positions. Total rotation. Alex goes to striker. Mark goes to midfield. Jude goes to the wing. We spin. We confuse them. We drown them."

Alex's analyst brain started to whir. Total rotation. It was mathematically complex. It required perfect chemistry.

"Can we do it?" Antoine asked.

Alex looked at his team.

Mark, the Chaos. Jude, the Power. Antoine, the Magic.

"Yes," Alex said. "We can do it."

"Good," Steve said. "Training starts now. Mark... you are in goal."

"WHAT?" Mark screamed. "I AM NOT A KEEPER! I AM THE ARROW!"

"Arrows can stop goals too," Steve said. "Go. Put on the gloves."

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