"Mark," Mr. Harrison whispered. "Please stop drawing horses."

"It is historical accuracy!" Mark whispered back. "Horses were the cars of the past!"

The bell rang.

Alex handed in his paper.

"Good luck tonight," Mr. Harrison said. "Paris is lovely this time of year."

"If we win," Alex said.

"If you lose, you can always visit the Louvre," Mr. Harrison smiled. "Although I suspect Mark would try to eat the Mona Lisa."

"He would try to race her," Alex said.

They walked out.

Milo was waiting in the car park.

Milo was wearing a beret, a striped shirt, and a string of onions around his neck. He was riding a bicycle with a basket full of baguettes.

"OOH LA LA!" Milo shouted. "I AM THE FRENCHMAN! ALEX! I AM SELLING ONION SOUP! IT MAKES YOU CRY! BUT IT IS TASTY!"

"Milo, you are a stereotype," Alex laughed.

"I AM A CULTURAL AMBASSADOR!" Milo yelled, pedaling in circles. "ALSO, I AM SELLING TICKETS TO THE EIFFEL TOWER! DISCOUNT PRICE! ONLY ONE THOUSAND EUROS!"

"It is free to look at it, Milo."

"NOT IF YOU LOOK WITH MY SPECIAL GLASSES!" Milo produced a pair of glasses made from jam jar bottoms.

They drove to the airport.

Steve, the manager, was waiting.

"Paris Saint-Germain," Steve said. "They are hurt. They are angry. Mbappe is furious."

He looked at the team.

"The Parc des Princes is a cauldron. The fans are close to the pitch. They will scream at you. They will whistle at you."

He looked at Alex.

"Professor. Mbappe will not make the same mistake twice. He will not fall for the phantom pass. He will adapt."

"Then I will evolve," Alex said.

Paris. The Parc des Princes.

The stadium was glowing red and blue. The ultras were singing.

Ici c'est Paris!

Alex stood in the tunnel.

Mbappe was there. He was not looking at Alex. He was looking at the ground. He was tapping his foot.

He looked like a coiled spring.

Mark stood next to Alex. Mark was wearing a fake mustache.

"Mark," Alex whispered. "Why the mustache?"

"Camouflage," Mark whispered back. "If they think I am French, they might pass me the ball."

"Mark, you are French."

"Shhh! I am undercover!"

The whistle blew.

The game started.

PSG came out like a storm.

Mbappe was everywhere. Left wing. Right wing. Center.

In the tenth minute, Hakimi crossed the ball.

Mbappe volleyed it.

Ramsdale saved it.

But the rebound fell to Dembele.

Dembele shot.

Goal.

One zero. PSG.

Aggregate score: 2-2.

The stadium exploded.

"We are level!" Jude shouted. "Wake up!"

Alex stood in the midfield.

He analyzed the data.

Problem: PSG are overloading the wings. Hakimi and Mendes are attacking high.

Solution: Exploit the space behind the fullbacks.

"Mark!" Alex yelled. "The vacuum!"

Mark ripped off his fake mustache. "VACUUM MODE ENGAGED!"

Arsenal restarted.

Alex got the ball.

He saw Hakimi pushing up.

Alex hit a long ball into the space behind Hakimi.

Mark ran.

He was fast. He was electric.

He got to the ball. He was in the box.

He crossed it.

Saka was there.

Saka headed it.

Donnarumma saved it.

But the ball bounced out to Odegaard.

Odegaard shot.

Blocked by Marquinhos.

The ball bounced out to Alex.

Alex was thirty yards out.

"SHOOT!" the away fans screamed.

Alex looked at the goal. It was crowded.

He saw a tiny gap.

He remembered the history exam.

Even Emperors can fall.

He hit the ball.

It was a "Knuckleball".

It swerved left. It swerved right.

Donnarumma dived left. The ball went right.

It smashed into the top corner.

GOAL.

One one. (3-2 on aggregate).

Alex ran to the corner. He bowed.

"The Professor is in the building!" Mark screamed, jumping on his back.

Halftime. One one.

Steve was sweating.

"They need two goals to win," Steve said. "They will take risks. Be ready to counter."

Second half.

PSG threw everything.

Mbappe hit the post. Dembele hit the bar.

Eighty minutes.

Arsenal were holding on.

Eighty fifth minute.

Mbappe got the ball. He ran past Ben White. He ran past Saliba.

He was one on one with Ramsdale.

He chipped the keeper.

Goal.

Two one. PSG. (3-3 on aggregate).

The stadium went crazy. We were heading for Extra Time.

Ninetieth minute.

Injury time.

Alex had the ball.

He was tired. Everyone was tired.

He saw Mark making a run.

But Mark was being held by Skriniar.

Alex looked at the referee. No whistle.

Alex kept running.

He saw the Eiffel Tower in the distance (well, he couldn't really see it from the pitch, but he imagined it).

He saw Antoine making a run.

Alex passed to Antoine.

Antoine flicked it back to Alex.

A one-two.

Alex was in the box.

Donnarumma came out.

Alex looked at the bottom corner.

He shaped to shoot.

Donnarumma dived.

Alex did not shoot.

He rolled the ball sideways.

Mark had escaped Skriniar.

Mark was there.

The goal was empty.

Mark tapped it in.

GOAL.

Two two. (4-3 on aggregate).

Mark ran to the crowd. He took a croissant out of his sock (seriously, how many did he have?).

He took a bite.

"AU REVOIR!" Mark shouted.

The final whistle blew.

Arsenal were in the Final.

Alex fell to the grass.

They had done it. They had beaten the Ninja.

Mbappe walked over. He shook Alex hand.

"You are annoying," Mbappe said. "But you are good."

"Thanks," Alex said.

Milo ran onto the pitch. He was wearing a beret and holding a white flag.

"I SURRENDER!" Milo shouted. "TO THE PARTY! ALEX! I AM SELLING VICTORY BAGUETTES! THEY ARE GOLD!"

Alex laughed.

They were going to the Final.

Against who?

He checked the screen.

Real Madrid.

Again.

The Kings of Europe were waiting for their crown back.

"One more game," Alex whispered.

"One more pizza," Mark added.

***

The philosophy classroom smelled of old books and deep thoughts.

Mr. Socrates (yes, that was his real name) sat on his desk. He was wearing a tweed jacket with patches on the elbows. He looked like he knew the meaning of life but had forgotten it at home.

"Greatness," Mr. Socrates said. "Is it an act? Or is it a habit? Aristotle said we are what we repeatedly do. Excellence, then, is not an act, but a habit."

Alex sat at the back. He was balancing a pencil on his nose.

"Habit," Alex whispered. "Training. Eating. Sleeping. Winning."

Mark sat next to him. Mark was wearing a toga made from a bedsheet. He had a laurel wreath made of plastic leaves on his head.

"I AM A PHILOSOPHER!" Mark announced. "I THINK, THEREFORE I AM HUNGRY!"

"Mark," Mr. Socrates sighed. "Please take off the toga. This is a school, not the Roman Senate."

"But Sir!" Mark argued. "I am channeling the ancients! I am Plato with pace! I am Aristotle with agility!"

"You are Mark with a detention if you do not sit down," Mr. Socrates said.

Maya raised her hand.

"Sir," Maya said. "If greatness is a habit, then Real Madrid are statistically the greatest. They have won the Champions League fourteen times. It is their habit."

"A valid point," Mr. Socrates nodded. "So, how do you break a habit, Maya?"

"You introduce a shock to the system," Maya said, looking at Alex. "A disruption. A new variable."

The bell rang.

Alex caught the pencil.

"A shock to the system," Alex repeated.

He packed his bag.

It was the end of the school year. And it was the end of the football season.

The Champions League Final.

Arsenal vs Real Madrid.

Wembley Stadium. London.

It was the dream final. The Kings of Europe vs The New Dynasty.

Alex walked out to the car park.

Milo was waiting.

Milo was wearing a silver jumpsuit, futuristic sunglasses, and he had wrapped his bicycle in tin foil.

"GREETINGS FROM THE YEAR 3000!" Milo beeped like a robot. "I AM THE TIME TRAVELER! ALEX! I HAVE SEEN THE FUTURE! I AM SELLING TOMORROW'S NEWSPAPER! READ THE SCORE BEFORE IT HAPPENS! ONLY FIVE HUNDRED POUNDS!"

"Milo," Alex said. "That is just today's newspaper with the date crossed out in crayon."

"IT IS A RETRO-FUTURE EDITION!" Milo shouted. "VERY RARE!"