CHAPTER 483: 1

The school cafeteria was usually a place for eating soggy pizza and gossiping about homework.

But today, it was the center of the universe.

A small television was wheeled into the corner. It was perched on a trolley that wobbled every time someone walked past.

The room was packed. Students were standing on tables. Teachers were ignoring the "No Standing on Tables" rule.

Alex sat in the middle. He was not eating. His stomach felt like it was full of butterflies. Angry butterflies.

"Eat your apple," Maya said. She was checking her watch. "Gareth Southgate is due to speak in two minutes. Your blood sugar is low."

"I cannot eat," Alex said. "What if he does not say my name? What if he thinks I am too young?"

"You won the Champions League," Maya stated calmly. "You beat Real Madrid. You beat Bayern Munich. Statistically, leaving you out would be a mathematical error. Gareth Southgate likes waistcoats, but he does not like errors."

Mark sat next to Alex. He was wearing a beret and a striped shirt. He was holding a baguette.

"I am ready for the French squad," Mark announced. "I am channeling my inner Napoleon. I am ready to conquer!"

"Mark," Alex said. "You look like a tourist."

"I am a patriot!" Mark yelled. "Vive la France!"

The screen flickered.

The BBC News logo appeared.

The room went silent. Even the lunch lady stopped serving custard.

Gareth Southgate appeared. He was sitting at a desk. He looked serious. He looked like a headmaster about to read the detention list.

"Good afternoon," Gareth said. "Here is the 26 man squad for the World Cup in Qatar."

Alex held his breath.

"Goalkeepers," Gareth said. "Pickford. Ramsdale. Pope."

"Yes!" Alex whispered. Ramsdale was in.

"Defenders," Gareth continued. "Walker. Stones. Maguire. Shaw. Trippier. White. Coady. Alexander Arnold."

"Midfielders."

This was it. The engine room.

"Rice," Gareth said. "Henderson. Phillips."

Pause.

"Bellingham."

Pause.

"Finch."

The cafeteria exploded.

Students screamed. Someone threw a bread roll. Mrs. Higgins, the art teacher, fainted (dramatically).

Alex let out a breath he had been holding for a year.

He was going.

He was going to the World Cup.

"Forward," Gareth continued. "Kane. Saka. Foden. Grealish. Rashford. Sterling. Wilson. Maddison."

The list was done.

Maya circled Alex name on her notepad. "Probability confirmed. 100 percent."

Alex smiled. But he could not celebrate yet.

He looked at Mark.

Mark was staring at his phone. The French squad was being announced on Twitter.

Mark refreshed the page.

His thumb hovered over the screen.

"Did Deschamps pick me?" Mark whispered. "Does he like speed?"

He refreshed again.

Mark eyes went wide.

He dropped the baguette.

"I AM IN!" Mark screamed. He jumped onto the table. "I AM A BLUE! THE ROOSTER HAS CALLED ME!"

He ripped off his school tie and waved it like a flag.

"QATAR BEWARE!" Mark yelled. "THE EMPEROR IS COMING!"

The cafeteria cheered again. Two students from their school were going to the World Cup. It was impossible. It was legendary.

The next few days were a blur.

Alex had to pack.

His mum was panicking.

"It is a desert, Alex!" she said, putting five bottles of sunscreen into his suitcase. "You are pale. You will burn. You will look like a lobster."

"Mum, we play at night," Alex said. "And the stadiums have air conditioning."

"Take the hat," she insisted, shoving a giant floppy hat into the bag. "And tea bags. Foreign tea is just hot leaf water. It is not proper."

"Okay, Mum."

His dad stood by the door. He was holding Alex England shirt. The one with the number 22 on it.

"I remember watching the World Cup in 1990," his dad said softly. "Gazza crying. Lineker scoring. I dreamed of playing there."

He looked at Alex.

"Now you are living the dream, son. Do not wake up."

"I wont, Dad," Alex promised.

They drove to Heathrow Airport.

It was not the usual terminal. It was a private terminal for the team.

But outside, the fans were waiting. Thousands of them.

Flags with St George Cross were everywhere.

Alex got out of the car. The flashbulbs blinded him.

"FINCH! FINCH! BRING IT HOME!" they screamed.

Alex waved. He felt a hand on his shoulder.

It was Harry Kane.

"Welcome back, Professor," Harry said. "Ready for the big exam?"

"I studied," Alex smiled.

"Good," Harry said. "Because this is not multiple choice. It is pass or fail."

They walked into the lounge.

The England squad was there.

Rice was playing cards with Grealish. Saka was reading a book.

Alex looked around. He felt small. These were the best players in the country.

"Alex!"

Jude Bellingham walked over. He gave Alex a high five.

"We made it," Jude grinned. "From the playground to the World Cup."

"It feels weird," Alex admitted. "Last week I was doing a photosynthesis test."

"Next week you are playing against Iran," Jude said. "Life moves fast."

Suddenly, the doors opened.

The France squad had arrived. Their flight was leaving from the same terminal.

It was like a movie scene.

The England players stood on one side. The France players stood on the other.

They were club teammates. But now, they were rivals.

Saliba saw Saka. He nodded slowly. No smile.

Konate saw Alexander Arnold. He stared.

And then, Mark walked in.

Mark was wearing a bright blue suit. It was very shiny. He looked like a disco ball.

He saw Alex.

Mark stopped.

The room went silent.

Mark slowly reached into his pocket.

He pulled out... a croissant.

He took a bite. He looked at Alex.

"The food is better on this side," Mark said.

Alex laughed. The tension broke.

"Save me a crumb," Alex said.

"No mercy," Mark grinned. "If we meet in the quarter final... I will eat you like this pastry."

"You can try, Speed," Alex said. "But do not choke."

The flight to Qatar was long.

Alex sat next to Phil Foden.

Phil was watching videos of old World Cup goals. Maradona. Pele. Zidane.

"Imagine scoring one of those," Phil whispered. "Just one. You become immortal."

"I would prefer to win the trophy," Alex said. "Immortality is lonely. A trophy you can share."

Phil looked at him. "You really are a Professor. You sound like a fortune cookie."

Alex smiled. "Fortune cookies are wise."

They landed in Doha.

The heat hit them as soon as the doors opened.

It was night, but it was still 30 degrees. The air was thick and humid.

"It is like walking into a hair dryer," Jude complained.

They got on the bus.

The city of Doha was lit up. Skyscrapers with neon lights. Pictures of the players projected onto buildings.

Alex saw a giant projection of himself on a fifty story tower.

He was fifty meters tall.

"Look!" Saka pointed. "It is Godzilla Alex!"

"That is terrifying," Alex said. "My nose looks huge."

They arrived at the hotel. It was a palace. Gold taps. Marble floors. A swimming pool that looked like an ocean.

Milo was waiting in the lobby.

Of course he was.

Milo was wearing a long white robe (a thawb) and a headscarf (ghutra). But the robe was made of recycled football nets.

"ALHAMDULILLAH!" Milo shouted. "WELCOME TO THE OASIS! ALEX! I AM THE SHEIKH OF SALES! I AM SELLING PORTABLE ICEBERGS! KEEP YOUR FEET COOL! ONLY FIVE HUNDRED RIYALS!"

"Milo, how did you get here?" Alex asked.

"I MAILED MYSELF!" Milo whispered. "IT WAS DARK! BUT I AM HERE! I AM ALSO SELLING CAMEL RIDES! BUT I DO NOT HAVE A CAMEL! I JUST CARRY PEOPLE ON MY BACK!"

Security guards started walking towards Milo.

"I MUST VANISH LIKE A MIRAGE!" Milo yelled, diving behind a gold plant pot.

Alex shook his head.

He went to his room. He was sharing with Jude.

The room was amazing. There was a PlayStation. A basket of fruit. And a view of the desert.

Alex walked to the balcony.

He looked out.

In the distance, he could see the stadiums. Glowing jewels in the sand.

This was it.

The pinnacle.

He thought about Mark. Mark was probably in another luxury hotel, eating fancy cheese and planning how to run fast.

He thought about Antoine. Antoine was probably fixing his hair.

He thought about Mbappe.

Mbappe was somewhere out there. The King. Waiting to defend his throne.

Alex took out his phone.

A text from Maya.

"Atmospheric pressure in Doha is stable. Hydration is critical. Drink 4 liters of water a day. Also, I have simulated Group B. If you beat Iran, the probability of qualifying goes up to 88 percent. Don’t mess it up."

Alex typed back. "I will drink the water."

He put the phone down.

He looked at his England shirt hanging in the wardrobe.

The Three Lions.

He touched the badge.

"Dynasty," Alex whispered.

It was time to build it.

The next morning, training began.

The grass was perfect. It was like a carpet.

Gareth Southgate blew his whistle.

"Okay," Gareth said. "Forget the clubs. Forget the Champions League. You are playing for the nation now. You are playing for the kid watching in the pub. You are playing for the grandma watching in her living room."

He kicked a ball to Alex.

"Show me what you got, Professor."

Alex controlled the ball.

He felt the eyes of the world on him.

He passed to Harry Kane. Harry passed back.

Tick. Tock.

The rhythm started.

The heat was intense. The pressure was immense.

But as Alex moved the ball, he felt calm.

It was just football.

Whether it was on a muddy school pitch or a gold plated stadium in Qatar.

It was just a ball. And he knew exactly what to do with it.

"Nice pass!" Jude yelled.

Alex smiled.

He was ready.

Iran was Monday.

The World was watching.

And the Wonderkid was about to introduce himself to the planet.

"Let’s play," Alex said to himself.

He ran into the sunlight.

The World Cup had officially begun.