It was 6:45 AM.

Alex rolled over. On his bedside table, sitting on a pile of comic books, was the Ballon d'Or.

The golden football glowed in the morning light. It looked surreal. It looked like something from a dream.

"I am the best player in the world," Alex whispered to his pillow.

"Alex!" his mum shouted from downstairs. "You are going to be late! And don't forget your gym kit! It is washing day!"

Alex sighed. Being the best player in the world did not stop his mum from shouting about laundry.

He crawled out of bed. His legs felt heavy. The party in Paris seemed like a lifetime ago.

He put on his school uniform. He tied his tie. He looked in the mirror.

He looked exactly the same as yesterday. Just a teenager with messy hair.

He walked downstairs.

Mark was sitting at the kitchen table. He was wearing his school uniform, but he had a gold medal (the World Cup runner-up one) and the Kopa Trophy (which he had stolen from Alex's room) around his neck.

"Good morning, Golden Boy," Mark said, eating a bowl of cereal. "I am guarding your trophies. I charge one spoon of cereal per hour."

"Mark, give me my trophy," Alex said, pouring milk.

"Fine," Mark grumbled. "But it looked better on me. It matched my eyes."

They walked to the bus stop.

It was raining. Typical London weather. The gold of Paris was replaced by the grey of Tuesday.

"Double Maths," Mark said sadly. "Mr. Tangent. He does not care about gold. He only cares about X and Y."

"And Z," Alex added. "Three dimensions."

The Maths classroom was silent.

Mr. Tangent was writing on the board.

Calculate the volume of a sphere where the radius is 11cm.

He turned around.

"Congratulations, Mr. Finch," Mr. Tangent said. His voice was dry, like old chalk.

"Thank you, Sir," Alex said.

"However," Mr. Tangent continued. "Winning a golden sphere does not mean you can calculate the volume of a sphere. Please sit down."

The class giggled.

Alex sat. He opened his textbook.

Mark leaned over. He had drawn a face on his eraser.

"This is Mr. Tangent," Mark whispered. "Look, I am erasing his eyebrows."

"Focus, Mark," Alex whispered. "If we fail, we get detention. I cannot win the Premier League from detention."

"I would break you out!" Mark whispered back. "I would dig a tunnel with a spoon!"

The morning passed slowly. Algebra. Trigonometry. Lunch (soggy sandwiches).

Finally, the bell rang.

School was over.

But the day was not.

Tonight was the Premier League. Matchday 12.

Everton vs Arsenal.

Goodison Park.

It was a Tuesday night game. In Liverpool. Against a team fighting relegation.

"The hangover game," Steve had called it.

Alex walked to the car park.

Milo was waiting.

Milo was dressed as... a Boxer.

He was wearing a silk robe, boxing gloves, and a black eye (drawn on with marker).

"THE CHAMP IS HERE!" Milo shouted, dancing around and throwing punches at the air. "ALEX! THE HEAVYWEIGHT CHAMPION! I AM SELLING MOUTHGUARDS! FLAVORED MOUTHGUARDS! STRAWBERRY! CHOCOLATE! ONION!"

"Onion?" Alex asked.

"TO KEEP THE DEFENDERS AWAY!" Milo shouted. "BAD BREATH IS A TACTIC!"

They drove to the airport.

Steve, the manager, was waiting on the plane. He looked serious.

"Listen," Steve said as they took off. "Yesterday, they clapped for you. Today, they will kick you."

He looked at Alex.

"You are the Golden Boy now. That means you are the target. Every defender wants to be the guy who stopped the best player in the world. Everton are big. They are strong. They will try to bully you."

"I know," Alex said.

"They play 'Dyche-Ball'," Steve said. "Long balls. Physical duels. Set pieces. Do not get into a wrestling match. You will lose."

"I will play chess," Alex said.

Goodison Park.

It was an old stadium. The stands were wooden. The fans were close.

It was cold. Very cold.

Alex stood in the tunnel.

James Tarkowski stood next to him. The Everton captain. He was huge. He looked like he ate bricks for breakfast.

Tarkowski looked down at Alex. He looked at the golden badge on Alex's chest.

"Nice trophy," Tarkowski grunted. "Does it bounce?"

"No," Alex said.

"Shame," Tarkowski grinned. "Because you are going to bounce. A lot."

They walked out.

The Everton fans were booing. They were loud.

WHO ARE YA? WHO ARE YA?

The whistle blew.

The game started.

Steve was right. It was not football. It was wrestling.

Everton hit the ball long. They chased it. They smashed into tackles.

In the fifth minute, Alex got the ball.

Before he could turn, Tarkowski hit him from behind.

Whack.

Alex flew forward. He landed face first in the mud.

The referee waved play on. "Strong tackle!"

"He hit me with a truck!" Mark yelled at the referee. "Where is the license plate?"

Alex stood up. He wiped the mud from his eyes.

"Welcome back to reality," he thought.

The first half was a nightmare.

Arsenal could not play their rhythm. The ball was always in the air.

In the thirtieth minute, Everton won a corner.

The ball came in.

It was a scrum. Pushing. Shoving.

Doucoure rose highest. He headed it.

Goal.

One zero. Everton.

The stadium erupted. The fans were shaking the old wooden stands.

"Get up!" Tarkowski yelled at Alex. "This is a man's game!"

Alex stood in the center circle.

He felt angry.

He was the Ballon d'Or winner. He was the Professor. And he was losing to a team that played volleyball with their feet.

"Mark," Alex said.

Mark ran over. He looked annoyed.

"They are pinching me!" Mark said. "It is very rude!"

"We need to change the equation," Alex said. "They want a fight. We are giving them a fight."

"So?"

"So we stop fighting," Alex said. "We vanish."

Halftime. One zero.

Steve was shouting in the dressing room.

"You are feeling sorry for yourselves!" Steve yelled. "Because you have gold medals? Gold does not stop you from bleeding! Wake up!"

Alex sat quietly. He drank his water.

He closed his eyes.

He visualized the pitch.

Everton pressed high. They committed to the tackle.

Action. Reaction.

If they commit, they leave a space behind.

"Use their momentum," Alex whispered.

Second half.

The rain started to fall. It was icy cold.

Everton kept attacking. They smelled blood.

Fifty fifth minute.

Alex got the ball deep.

Onana, the Everton midfielder, came sprinting at him. He wanted to smash the Golden Boy.

Alex did not move. He waited.

He waited until Onana was inches away.

Then, Alex didn't pass. He didn't dribble.

He sat down.

Well, almost. He dropped his center of gravity so low his knee touched the grass.

Onana tried to tackle, but Alex was under his radar.

Alex spun on the floor. A "360 Ground Spin".

He came up with the ball on the other side.

Onana tackled the air and fell over.

The crowd gasped.

Alex stood up. He was free.

He saw the pitch clearly.

Tarkowski was stepping up to stop him.

Mark was making a run.

"Now!" Alex shouted.

He didn't chip it. He didn't curve it.

He hit a "Daisy Cutter". A hard, flat pass along the wet grass.

The ball skidded. It accelerated on the wet surface.

It went through Tarkowski's legs.

Mark ran onto it.

He was one on one with Pickford (Wait, Pickford plays for England, so he is a friend. But tonight, he was the enemy).

"SORRY JORDAN!" Mark yelled.

Mark shot.

Bottom corner.

Goal.

One one.

Mark ran to the corner. He did a boxing celebration (inspired by Milo). He punched the corner flag.

"KNOCKOUT!" Mark shouted.

Alex ran over. "The ground spin! It worked!"

"You looked like a breakdancer!" Mark laughed.

Everton were furious. They started kicking harder.

Seventy minutes. Eighty minutes.

The game was a draw.

But Alex didn't want a draw. Champions don't draw against relegation teams.

Eighty eighth minute.

Alex had the ball on the wing.

He was tired. His legs were bruised.

Two defenders came at him. Mykolenko and Garner.

They trapped him in the corner.

There was no way out.

Alex looked at his options.

He could try to win a corner. Or a throw-in.

But he saw something else.

He saw the "geometry of the bounce".

The advertising boards were close to the pitch.

Alex kicked the ball against the advertising board.

Hard.

The ball hit the board. It bounced back onto the pitch at an angle.

It bounced behind the defenders.

Alex ran around them. He collected his own pass off the wall.

It was street football. It was genius.

He was in the box.

He looked up.

He saw Gabriel Jesus (who had come on for Nketiah).

Alex crossed.

Jesus dummied.

The ball rolled to the back post.

Who was there?

Rico.

The Samba King had come on as a sub.

Rico controlled it. He smiled.

He smashed it into the roof of the net.

Goal.

Two one. Arsenal.

Rico ran to Alex. He pointed at the advertising board.

"You used the wall?" Rico shouted. "That is illegal! That is genius!"

"The wall is a teammate if you calculate the angle," Alex winked.

The final whistle blew.

Arsenal 2. Everton 1.

A dirty, ugly, beautiful win.

Alex limped off the pitch. He was covered in mud. His golden badge was brown.

Tarkowski walked past. He shook his head.

"You are tough, kid," Tarkowski said. "I hit you hard."

"I bounce," Alex smiled.

Milo was waiting in the tunnel. He was holding a bucket of ice.

"THE MEDIC!" Milo shouted. "I AM DR. MILO! ALEX! I AM SELLING ICE! IT IS FROZEN WATER! VERY RARE IN THE DESERT! BUT WE ARE IN LIVERPOOL! SO IT IS JUST COLD!"

"Give me the ice," Alex groaned. He put his hand in the bucket.

"TEN POUNDS!" Milo said.

"Put it on my tab."

They walked to the bus.

Alex sat down next to Mark.

Mark was eating a toffee apple.

"We won," Mark said, chewing loudly. "But my legs hurt. They kicked me."

"It is the price of gold," Alex said.

He checked his phone.

A text from Maya.

"Physics analysis: The wall pass utilized the coefficient of restitution of the LED boards. Highly creative. Probability of success was 12%. You gambled. And you won. Also, do not forget we have a History essay due tomorrow. The Industrial Revolution."

Alex laughed.

The Industrial Revolution.

He looked out the window at the factories of Liverpool passing by.

He was the best player in the world.

But he still had to write an essay about steam engines.

"Mark," Alex said.

"Yeah?"

"Do you know anything about steam engines?"

"Yes," Mark said confidently. "They go choo choo."

Alex sighed.

"Close enough."