CHAPTER 489: 1

The desert air in the Al Bayt Stadium felt heavy. It was thick with sweat, noise, and the smell of deep heat spray.

Extra Time.

Thirty more minutes.

Alex stood in the center circle. His legs felt like they were made of concrete. His lungs were burning.

He looked at Mark.

Mark was leaning on his knees. He was breathing hard. The Emperor looked less like a ruler and more like a tourist who had run for the bus and missed it.

"Tired, Speed?" Alex asked, panting.

Mark looked up. He wiped sweat from his forehead.

"Emperors do not get tired," Mark gasped. "We just... pause for dramatic effect."

"You look dramatic," Alex smiled. "You look like you are melting."

"I am a candle of speed," Mark said. "Burning bright."

The referee blew the whistle.

Extra Time began.

It was sloppy. It was messy.

Players were slipping. Passes were going out of play. The beautiful game had turned into a survival contest.

In the ninety-fifth minute, Mbappe got the ball.

He tried to sprint. But Kyle Walker, even after ninety minutes, was still fast.

Walker shouldered Mbappe off the ball. Mbappe fell over. He stayed down, holding his leg.

"Cramp!" the commentator shouted.

The French medical team ran on.

Milo ran on too.

Milo was wearing a white coat and a stethoscope that was clearly made of licorice.

"I AM THE DOCTOR!" Milo shouted. "I HAVE THE CURE! MAGIC WATER! IT IS JUST TAP WATER WITH SUGAR! BUT IT WORKS!"

The security guards chased Milo off the pitch. Mbappe stood up, looking confused but okay.

The game continued.

One hundred minutes.

England had a chance.

Phil Foden danced past Kounde. He crossed the ball.

Harry Kane jumped. He headed it.

Lloris made a save. A flying save.

"How did he stop that?" Jude groaned. "He is a cat!"

"He is a French cat," Alex said. "They have nine lives."

Halftime of Extra Time.

The players collapsed on the grass.

Gareth Southgate walked around. He was squeezing water bottles into mouths.

"Fifteen minutes," Gareth said. "Just fifteen minutes. Do not leave anything in the tank. If you have energy left when you walk off, you failed."

Alex looked at his legs.

Lactic acid buildup: Critical.

Energy levels: Low.

Willpower: Maximum.

He stood up.

"Let’s go," Alex said.

Second half of Extra Time.

110th minute.

France attacked.

Griezmann chipped a ball over the top.

Mark was running.

He was one on one with Harry Maguire.

It was a mismatch. Mark was a Ferrari. Maguire was a tractor (a very strong tractor, but still).

Mark pushed the ball past Maguire.

"BEEP BEEP!" Mark yelled weakly.

Mark was through on goal.

He was going to score. He was going to send England home.

Alex was forty yards away. He could not catch him.

"Mark!" Alex yelled. "CROISSANT!"

Mark hesitated. Just for a microsecond. He looked back instinctively.

That split second was enough.

Jordan Pickford came flying out of his goal. He slid at Mark’s feet.

Mark tried to chip him.

But Mark was tired. His leg was heavy.

He scuffed the shot.

The ball rolled slowly... and hit the side netting.

The French fans cheered, thinking it was in. Then they groaned.

Mark fell to his knees. He buried his face in the grass.

"You tricked me!" Mark yelled at the ground. "There was no croissant!"

"Psychological warfare," Alex whispered, wiping his brow. "Thank you, pastry."

118th minute.

Penalties were coming.

Nobody wanted penalties. England hated penalties. It was a national trauma.

Alex had the ball in midfield.

The French team was sitting deep. They were waiting for the whistle.

Alex looked at the clock. 118:32.

He looked at the French defense. They were a blue wall.

But walls have cracks.

Alex saw Jude Bellingham. Jude was making a run. But he was being tracked by Rabiot.

Alex saw Saka. He was marked by Hernandez.

There was no pass.

Alex looked at the goal. It was thirty yards away.

"Do it," a voice in his head said.

It sounded like Maya.

Probability of scoring from 30 yards: Low.

Probability of winning penalties: Random.

Conclusion: Take the shot.

Alex started to run.

He did not pass. He drove forward.

Tchouameni came to tackle him.

Alex did a "La Croqueta". Right foot to left foot.

He went past him.

He was twenty-five yards out.

Upamecano stepped up. The giant defender.

Alex looked at Upamecano’s feet. They were planted. He was tired.

Alex dropped his shoulder. He pretended to shoot with his right.

Upamecano flinched.

Alex dragged the ball to his left.

He was free.

Twenty yards. Central.

"SHOOT!" the England fans screamed.

Alex swung his left leg.

He did not curl it. He did not chip it.

He hit it with "The Knuckleball".

He struck the valve of the ball with his laces.

The ball flew.

It did not spin. It wobbled. It moved like a ghost in the air.

Lloris moved to his left.

The ball swerved to the right.

Lloris tried to change direction. But his legs were heavy. He slipped.

The ball flew past his hand.

It smashed into the bottom corner.

GOAL.

England 3. France 2.

The Al Bayt Stadium shook. It felt like an earthquake.

Alex stood there. He did not run. He was too tired to run.

He just raised his arms.

The Professor.

Jude tackled him. Then Harry. Then Saka. They formed a pile of white shirts on top of him.

"YOU DID IT!" Jude screamed. "THE KNUCKLEBALL! IT MOVED LIKE MAGIC!"

"It was physics!" Alex laughed from the bottom of the pile. "Airflow!"

France tried to restart.

But the clock was against them.

120 minutes.

The referee looked at his watch.

He blew the whistle.

Peep. Peep. PEEEEEEEP.

It was over.

England were in the Semi-Finals.

Alex lay on his back. He looked at the stars.

He felt a hand on his shoulder.

He looked up.

It was Mark.

Mark was crying. Tears were running down his face. But he was smiling.

"You cheated," Mark sniffed. "You yelled croissant."

Alex sat up. He hugged his best friend.

"I had to," Alex said. "You were too fast. If you scored, we were dead."

"I know," Mark said. "It was a good trick. A delicious trick."

Mark took off his shirt. He handed it to Alex.

"Take it," Mark said. "The shirt of the Emperor. It is sweaty. Sorry."

Alex took off his England shirt. He gave it to Mark.

"Take mine," Alex said. "The shirt of the Professor."

They hugged again.

The cameras flashed. It was the photo of the tournament. The Winner and the Loser. Best friends.

Milo ran onto the pitch.

He was wearing a referee kit he had stolen from somewhere. He was blowing a whistle.

"GAME OVER!" Milo shouted. "ENGLAND WINS! ALEX! THE GOAL! I AM SELLING TISSUES FOR THE FRENCH! AND PARTY POPPERS FOR THE ENGLISH! BUSINESS IS BOOMING!"

Alex laughed. He stood up.

Kylian Mbappe walked past.

The French star looked at Alex. He nodded.

"You calculated well," Mbappe said. "Good luck."

"Thank you," Alex said.

The England team did a lap of honor. The fans were singing Sweet Caroline.

Alex walked to the side of the pitch.

His phone was buzzing.

A text from Maya.

"Heart rate analysis: Dangerous. Stress levels: Critical. Goal probability: 3.4%. Conclusion: You are a statistical anomaly, Alex Finch. Well done. Also, I have analyzed Morocco. They are next. They are a defensive paradox. Meet me in the library... oh wait, we are in Qatar. Meet me by the pool."

Alex smiled.

Morocco.

The Atlas Lions. The first African team to reach the Semi-Finals (in this timeline, let’s assume they made it too).

They were the underdog story. The team that defended with their hearts.

"One more step," Alex whispered.

He looked back at Mark. Mark was walking down the tunnel, eating a comfort-croissant that a French fan had thrown to him.

Alex felt a pang of sadness. He had beaten his friend.

But that was football.

That was the World Cup.

He put Mark’s blue shirt over his shoulder.

He walked toward the tunnel.

The Semi-Final awaited.

The Dynasty was two games away from immortality.

And the Professor had more lessons to teach.

"Hey Jude!" Alex shouted.

Jude turned around, holding a celebratory bag of chips.

"Yeah?"

"Morocco," Alex said. "We need to study."

"Tonight we party," Jude grinned. "Tomorrow we study."

"Fine," Alex said. "Tonight, we party."

He walked into the tunnel.

The noise of the crowd faded.

But the fire in his heart burned brighter than ever.

The dream was alive.

And it was coming home.