St. George's Park was quiet. It was too quiet.
Alex sat in the dining hall. He looked at his plate. It was full of stead broccoli, plain chicken, and brown rice.
There was no sauce. There was no salt. It was fuel, not food.
Harry Kane sat opposite him. The England captain was cutting his chicken into perfect squares.
"Eat up," Harry said. "Fuel for the engine."
"It tastes like sadness," Alex whispered.
"Sadness wins tournants," Harry replied. "Happiness is for teams that go ho in the group stages."
Alex ate the broccoli. It crunched loudly in the silent room.
Jude Bellingham sat next to Alex. Jude was smiling. He had a mountain of pasta on his plate.
"Do not listen to him," Jude said. "Harry eats cardboard for breakfast. You need energy. Here."
Jude slid a tiny packet of pepper towards Alex.
"Contraband," Jude whispered. "Use it wisely."
Alex sprinkled the pepper on his chicken. It was the best thing he had ever tasted.
"Thanks," Alex said.
"Brazil tomorrow," Jude said. He leaned back. "They are loud. They are fast. They bring drums to the stadium."
"Mark brings drums everywhere," Alex said. "I am used to drums."
"These are different drums," Jude said seriously. "These are Samba drums. They get into your blood. They make you want to attack when you should defend. They make you want to dribble when you should pass. Do not listen to the drums, Professor."
"I only listen to the silence," Alex said.
Harry Kane nodded approvingly. "Good lad."
The next day. Wembley Stadium.
It was a cathedral of football. Ninety thousand seats. The famous arch stretching across the grey London sky.
The changing room was different from Arsenal. It was quieter. The players were from different clubs. City. Liverpool. United. They were rivals last week. Today, they were teammates.
Gareth Southgate stood in the middle of the room. He wore his lucky waistcoat.
"Brazil," Gareth said softly. "The five ti champions. The yellow shirt. It scares people."
He looked at the team.
"Do not fear the shirt. Fear the space. If you give them space, they will kill you. If you stay tight, they will get frustrated."
He looked at Alex.
"Finch. You are starting."
Alex felt his stomach do a backflip. He was starting. At Wembley. Against Brazil.
"Rice is the anchor," Gareth said. "Bellingham is the engine. Finch... you are the steering wheel. Guide us."
"Yes boss," Alex said.
They walked out of the tunnel.
The noise hit them like a physical wave.
On one side, a sea of white shirts. On the other, a wall of bright yellow.
The Brazil team was standing there. They looked relaxed. They were laughing.
Vinicius Junior was dancing to music only he could hear. Rodrygo was smiling at the crowd.
They did not look scared. They looked like they were at a party.
The anthems played. God Save the King. The crowd sang so loud the ground shook.
Then the whistle blew.
The party started imdiately.
Brazil did not play football. They played dance.
Vinicius got the ball on the left. Kyle Walker, the fastest defender in the world, sprinted at him.
Vinicius did not run. He rolled the ball with the bottom of his foot. He looked one way. He went the other. An elasticos.
The crowd gasped.
Walker recovered, but Vinicius had already passed to Paqueta.
Paqueta flicked the ball over Rice head.
"Ole!" the Brazil fans scread.
It was humiliating.
Alex tried to close the gaps. But Brazil was fluid. They were like water. You tried to grab them, and they slipped through your fingers.
In the twelfth minute, it happened.
Rodrygo ran down the right. He crossed the ball.
The ball was high.
Vinicius jumped. He did not head it. He chested it. In the box.
He let it drop.
Then he smashed it on the volley.
BOOM.
The net ripped.
One zero. Brazil.
The yellow wall erupted. Drums beat a frantic rhythm.
The Brazil players ran to the corner flag. They did not just hug. They lined up.
They started to dance.
A synchronized Samba dance. Hips shaking. Arms waving. Big smiles.
Harry Kane stood in the center circle. He looked furious.
"They are mocking us," Harry grunted.
"They are just happy," Jude said.
"Stop the music," Harry ordered. He looked at Alex. "Professor. This is too fast. Slow it down."
Alex nodded. The tempo was Presto. He needed to make it Adagio.
The ga restarted.
Alex got the ball.
Vinicius ran at him, full of energy. Vinicius wanted the ball back. He wanted to dance more.
Alex did not dribble. He did not run.
He put his foot on the ball. He stood still.
Vinicius stopped. He looked confused. Why is this boy not running?
Alex waited. One second. Two seconds.
The crowd went quiet.
Then, Alex passed the ball sideways. Five yards. To Stones.
Stones passed it back to Alex.
Alex passed it sideways again. Five yards. To Rice.
Tick. Tock.
The Brazil players chased. They wanted the chaotic rhythm back.
But Alex was a trono.
Pass. Move. Pass. Move.
He bored them.
By the thirtieth minute, the Brazil fans were whistling. They wanted tricks. They wanted flicks. Alex gave them geotry.
Vinicius looked annoyed. He walked over to Alex.
"Play football," Vinicius said in English. "Why are you so slow?"
"Speed is a variable," Alex replied calmly. "Control is a constant."
Vinicius frowned. "You are boring."
"Thank you," Alex smiled.
Forty fifth minute.
Brazil was frustrated. They pushed high up the pitch. They wanted to force a mistake.
They left a gap.
A huge gap behind their defense.
Alex saw it.
He had the ball in his own half.
Phil Foden was on the wing. Phil was making a run.
Alex did not play a safe pass.
He hit the equation.
He struck the ball with the inside of his foot. He put backspin on it.
The ball flew over the Brazil defense. It looked like it was going too far.
But then the backspin kicked in. The ball hit the grass and slowed down.
It sat up perfectly for Phil Foden.
Phil did not have to break stride. He controlled it instantly.
He was one on one with the goalkeeper.
Phil feinted left. The keeper dived.
Phil chipped it right.
GOAL.
One one.
Wembley roared.
Phil ran to Alex. He jumped into his arms.
"That pass was GPS guided!" Phil yelled. "You put it on a plate!"
Harry Kane ran over. "Good," he shouted. "Now we play."
Halfti. One one.
The dressing room was buzzing.
"They do not like it," Gareth Southgate said. "They do not like the structure. Keep being disciplined. Keep being boring."
"I love being boring," Alex said.
Second half.
Brazil ca out angry. They tried harder tricks. Rainbow flicks. Nutgs.
But England was solid.
Sixty fifth minute.
Vinicius tried to run past Alex.
Vinicius did a stepover. Then another. Then a third.
Alex did not move. He just watched the ball.
Vinicius tried to push the ball past him.
Alex simply stuck his leg out. He took the ball.
Vinicius tripped over his own feet and fell.
Alex passed the ball to Jude.
"Simple is best," Alex whispered.
Eighty eighth minute.
The ga was tied. The fans were nervous. A draw against Brazil was good. But a win? A win would be legendary.
Alex had the ball. He was tired. His legs burned.
He looked forward.
Harry Kane was marked by two defenders.
Saka was marked.
But Jude... Jude was running from deep. The Power Run.
Alex knew he could not make the pass. The angle was blocked by Casemiro.
Alex had to do sothing different.
He looked at the goal.
He pulled his leg back like he was going to shoot from thirty yards.
"SHOOT!" the crowd scread.
Casemiro jumped to block the shot.
The defenders turned their heads to watch the ball.
But Alex did not shoot.
He chopped the ball. A fake shot.
He dragged the ball sideways.
Casemiro flew past him like a missile.
Now the lane was open.
Alex slipped a gentle, rolling pass through the defense.
It was slow. It was agonizingly slow.
But it was perfect.
Jude Bellingham arrived exactly on ti.
He did not stop. He hit it first ti. Low and hard.
The ball smashed into the bottom corner.
GOAL.
Two one. England.
The stadium exploded. It was louder than the drums. It was louder than the monster truck.
Jude ran to the corner. He opened his arms wide. The Gladiator pose.
Alex walked over. He was smiling.
Harry Kane grabbed Alex by the shirt.
"The fake shot!" Harry yelled. "The Professor lied!"
"It was a calculated deception," Alex laughed.
The final whistle blew.
England 2. Brazil 1.
They had beaten the five ti champions.
Alex fell to the grass. He was exhausted.
A hand reached down to help him up.
It was Vinicius.
The Brazilian star looked at Alex. He was not smiling anymore. But he looked respectful.
"You," Vinicius said. "You are not boring. You are... difficult."
"Good ga," Alex said, shaking his hand.
"Next ti," Vinicius said, pointing a finger. "Next ti, I will make you dance."
"Next ti," Alex promised.
They swapped shirts. Alex held the yellow jersey. It felt light. It felt like magic.
He walked down the tunnel.
His phone was buzzing in his locker.
It was a text from Mark.
"I SAW IT! THE FAKE SHOT! YOU BROKE CASEMIRO ANKLES! MILO IS SELLING ANKLE BRACES OUTSIDE WEMBLEY! WE ARE RICH!"
Alex laughed.
Then he saw another text.
From Maya.
"Velocity of the fake shot: 0. Effectiveness: 100 percent. You manipulated their kinetic expectations. Also, Mrs Higgins wants to know if you can get Vinicius to sign her sketchbook."
Alex sat down. He looked at the yellow shirt in his hands.
He was a boy from London.
He played the flute badly.
He had a friend who drove a monster truck.
And he had just defeated Brazil.
"Good job, Finch," Gareth Southgate said, walking past. "Rest up. Italy is on Tuesday."
Alex nodded.
Italy. The masters of defense.
"One problem at a ti," Alex whispered to himself.
He put the yellow shirt in his bag.
He needed so food. Maybe, just maybe, he could find so salt for his chicken.
The Dynasty was not just awake.
It was hungry.
Alex walked out of Wembley.
The London rain started to fall.
It washed away the Samba drums.
But the rhythm in Alex heart was strong.
Tick. Tock.
The trono was just getting started.
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