Alex woke up.

The room was quiet. The curtains were drawn.

He rolled over. Something cold and hard hit him in the face.

"Ow," Alex whispered.

He reached out and touched it. It was a medal. A heavy, gold, metal disc on a blue ribbon.

He pulled it close to his eyes.

CHAMPIONS LEAGUE WINNER.

It was not a dream.

He sat up. His head was spinning a little. The party last night had been... loud. He did not drink alcohol. He was sixteen (well, almost seventeen). He drank orange juice. But Mark... Mark had sprayed so much champagne that Alex felt like he had been marinated in it.

He got out of bed. His legs felt like old wood. Stiff. Sore.

He walked downstairs.

His house was usually quiet. Today, it looked like a bomb had gone off in a flower shop.

There were bouquets of flowers everywhere. On the table. On the floor. On the TV.

Red and white flowers.

His dad, David, was asleep in the armchair. He was wearing an Arsenal scarf. He was snoring. He looked very happy.

His mum, Sarah, was in the kitchen. She was humming. She was cooking pancakes.

"Morning, Champion," she said, smiling so hard her eyes were closed.

"Morning, mum," Alex said, sitting down. "Why are there so many flowers?"

"The neighbors," she said. "And the postman. And the milkman. And... I think a stranger just dropped some off. You are very popular today, Professor."

Alex ate his pancakes. He looked at the medal on the table.

It was heavy. It was real.

"You have to go soon," his mum said. "The bus is waiting."

"The bus?"

"The parade, Alex," she laughed. "The open-top bus parade. Islington is closed. The whole city is waiting for you."

Alex swallowed. A parade.

He had seen them on TV. The sea of fans. The cheering.

He was just a boy who liked data. Now... he was the main attraction.

He walked down the driveway.

A familiar sound tore through the quiet morning air.

It sounded like a jet engine mixed with a techno concert.

Mark's car.

But it wasn't the green car. It wasn't the black SUV.

A bright, metallic, purple sports car screeched to a halt in front of Alex's house. The doors opened upwards like wings.

Mark stepped out.

He was wearing a purple tracksuit that matched the car. He had gold sunglasses on. He was holding a boombox on his shoulder.

"WORLD CHAMPIONS IN THE HOUSE!" Mark screamed. The music was deafening.

"Mark," Alex said. "It is nine in the morning. My neighbors are sleeping."

"THEY SHOULD BE AWAKE!" Mark yelled over the bass. "THEY ARE LIVING NEXT TO ROYALTY!"

He ran over and hugged Alex. He smelled of expensive cologne and triumph.

"We did it, Professor! We actually did it!"

"We did," Alex said, patting Mark's purple back. "Nice car."

"It is the 'Royal Edition'!" Mark beamed. "Milo got it for me. He says purple is the color of kings. Get in. We are going to the parade. The King needs his chariot."

"I have to change my shoes," Alex said. "I am wearing slippers."

"Slippers are cool!" Mark shouted. "We set the trends now! Wear the slippers!"

Alex went inside to change. He put on his new training shoes. They were white, with a small gold star on the heel.

A gift from the boot company.

He grabbed his bag. He looked at the trophy one last time.

"See you later, gold guy," he whispered.

The drive to the stadium was... fast.

Mark drove like he played. Erratic, speedy, and slightly terrifying.

"So," Mark yelled over the music. "What happens now? We won the League. We won the Champions League. We won the World Cup. Is there... is there a Universe Cup? Can we play against Martians?"

"I think we just... play the Premier League again," Alex said.

Mark looked disappointed. "Again? But we already beat them."

"We have to beat them twice," Alex said. "To prove it wasn't an accident."

"It was not an accident!" Mark said, offended. "It was pure skill! And chaos!"

They arrived at the Arsenal stadium.

The security gate was decorated with balloons. Red, white, and gold balloons.

The guard saluted them.

They walked into the locker room.

It was full.

Jude was there. He was doing pull-ups on the doorframe. Shirtless.

"100... 101..." Jude grunted.

"Show off," Mark muttered.

Antoine was there. He was looking in the mirror, fixing his hair.

"Ah, the conquerors return," Antoine said, turning around. He smiled. It was a genuine, warm smile.

"Congratulations, boys," Antoine said. "You beat the Kings. You became the Kings."

"Thanks, Antoine," Alex said.

Bastian was in his corner. He was reading a book. The Philosophy of Stoicism.

He looked up.

"Professor," Bastian grunted. "Arrow. Power."

"Bastian," Alex nodded.

"You won," Bastian said. "Good. Now... you are targets. Everyone wants to kill the King. Are you ready to be hunted?"

"I am the hunter!" Mark said, flexing his skinny arms.

"You are a purple grape," Bastian said, looking at Mark's tracksuit. "Go change. You hurt my eyes."

Steve, the manager, walked in.

He was not carrying a trophy. He was carrying a crate of apples.

He put the crate on the floor.

"Apples?" Mark asked.

"Hunger," Steve said.

The room went quiet.

"You are World Champions," Steve said. "You are European Champions. You are the best team in the world."

He picked up an apple. He took a bite. Crunch.

"And that," Steve said, chewing, "is the most dangerous thing in football. Because when you are full... you stop hunting. You stop running. You think you are special."

He looked at Alex.

"Professor. Are you special?"

"I am... efficient," Alex said carefully.

"Good answer," Steve said. "Now... go get on the bus. The city is waiting."

The bus did not have a roof. It was red. It had huge letters on the side: CHAMPIONS OF EUROPE.

They climbed onto the top deck.

Milo was there. He was wearing a suit made of... sequins. Red sequins. He looked like a human disco ball.

"THE PARADE!" Milo screamed. "ALEX! I HAVE A DEAL WITH A CONFETTI COMPANY! 'THE FINCH FLURRY'! IT IS BIODEGRADABLE!"

"That is nice, Milo," Alex said.

Mark ran to the front of the bus. He tied an Arsenal flag around his neck like a cape.

"I AM SUPERMAN!" Mark yelled.

The bus moved out of the stadium.

And the noise hit them.

It was not like a game. A game had rhythm. This was just... a wall of sound. A constant, screaming, happy roar.

The streets were full. Red and white everywhere. People hanging out of windows. People on lamp posts.

"ALEX! ALEX! ALEX!"

"PROFESSOR! PROFESSOR!"

Alex stood at the rail. He looked down.

He saw kids wearing his shirt. Number 8.

He saw a sign. "ALEX FINCH IS MY DAD." That was weird. He was seventeen.

He saw another sign. "THE HURRICANE WARNING."

Mark was loving it. He was running back and forth. He was waving his cape.

"I LOVE YOU!" Mark yelled at a grandmother waving a flag. "I AM FAST!"

"We know!" she yelled back.

Antoine was waving slowly, like a king. He signed a ball and threw it into the crowd.

The bus turned a corner. The main square.

It was a sea of people. One hundred thousand people.

Steve handed Alex the trophy.

"Take it," Steve said. "Lift it."

Alex took the heavy silver cup. He walked to the front of the bus.

He lifted it up. The sun hit the silver.

The roar from the street was so loud Alex could feel it vibrating in his teeth.

He was Alex Finch. The Professor. The Shield. The Champion.

For a moment, the data did not matter. The tactics did not matter.

Only this mattered.

The parade ended at the Town Hall.

There was a reception.

Milo pulled Alex into a corner.

"Okay. Listen," Milo whispered. "The season is over. You have a break. A holiday."

"I need a holiday," Alex said. "I want to sleep for a week."

"Yes, yes, sleep," Milo said. "But... not for long."

"Why?"

"Because," Milo said, leaning in close. "The Ballon d'Or."

Alex stopped breathing.

"The Golden Ball," Milo said. "The big one. For the best player in the world."

"That is for Messi. Or Haaland," Alex said.

"Messi is retired. Haaland scored 50 goals... but you... you won everything. You controlled everything. You are the favorite, Alex."

Alex felt dizzy. The Ballon d'Or. The trophy that proved you were the best.

"The ceremony is in October," Milo said. "Keep playing well. Keep being the Brain. And... maybe buy a tuxedo. A gold one."

"No gold tuxedo," Alex said.

"Fine. Black. But with sparkles."

Alex walked back to his friends.

Mark was eating a sandwich. Jude was drinking water.

"What did Milo want?" Jude asked.

"He thinks... he thinks I might win the Ballon d'Or," Alex whispered.

Mark dropped his sandwich.

"The Golden Ball?" Mark gasped.

"Maybe."

Mark stared at him. Then he smiled.

"If you win," Mark said, "can I hold it? Just for a second?"

"You can hold it," Alex promised.

"Good," Mark said. "Because I helped. I ran fast."

"You did," Alex laughed.

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