Leon's nod back was shaky, his heart pounding a frantic rhythm against his ribs.

The final whistle was still echoing around the tiny stadium, but the world had shrunk to a single, terrifying, 50-yard stare between him and Professor Antonio Bianchi.

And the Professor had clapped.

"Right, gaffer?" a voice shouted, breaking the spell. It was the 'Badger', Liam Doyle, his face a beautiful, muddy, joyful mess. He grabbed Leon in a bone-crushing hug.

"One-one! We stole it! That's a win, that is!"

"It's a draw, Liam," Leon laughed, his voice hoarse, his spirit soaring.

"But… yeah. It feels like a win."

The locker room was pure, beautiful chaos. Jamie Scott, the 'Racehorse', was dancing on a bench. 'The Mountain' was sitting in a corner, just… smiling, a giant, happy, terrifying sight.

Dave the baker was already handing out slightly-squashed 'Victory Scones' from a Tupperware box.

Walter Samuel stood by the door, arms crossed, his 'Secret Service' eDarpiece still in.

A furious, high-pitched crackle, like an angry-robot-mosquito, suddenly burst from it.

Walter winced. He listened, his face a perfect, stony mask, as Biyon's 'Eagle's Nest' review came pouring directly into his brain.

After a full thirty seconds, Walter just nodded.

He unplugged the earpiece, the sudden silence a deafening relief.

"What'd he say, Walter?" Leon asked, toweling his hair, a huge grin on his face.

Walter looked at Leon. He looked at the team.

He considered the... 'language'... Biyon had used.

"He is… 'pleased'," Walter rumbled, in the understatement of the century.

"He… 'enjoyed'… the 'Chaos-Bomb'. He calls it… 'tactical-fireworks'. He also said… you have the 'courage-of-a-madman'. And that… he is… ordering pizza."

The team roared. This was the new normal. A 'not-loss', a point clawed back, and a Champions-League-winner ordering them pizza. Apex FC. They were now, officially, on -10 points. The mountain was still huge, but they had, at last, found their climbing boots.

Leon let them celebrate. He needed to do the hard part.

He walked out of the locker room, his heart suddenly back in his throat. He walked into the small, concrete-block canteen, which Elena and Sofia had filled with plastic chairs and a giant, bubbling pot of tea.

They were in the corner.

Sofia, her face bright and proud, and Professor Bianchi, who was stirring a cup of tea with an intense, analytical focus, as if he was trying to discover the 'fluid-dynamics' of the cheap teabag.

"Leo!" Sofia beamed, jumping up—or, moving as fast as a woman six-months-pregnant could—and hugging him. "That was… that was stressful! That was the most stressful thing I have ever seen! Don't you ever do that again!"

"It's a draw, gaffer," Dave the baker said, walking past with a tray.

"Want a scone? I saved you a… 'regista-one'."

Leon just laughed, a nervous, high-pitched sound. He turned.

"Professor."

Bianchi looked up. His eyes were sharp. There was no 'pride' in them. No 'congratulations'. There was just... 'data'.

"Leon," he said, his voice as crisp as a new textbook. He gestured to the plastic chair opposite him. "Sit."

Leon sat. Sofia sat beside him, putting her hand on his, her thumb rubbing comforting circles.

Bianchi took a sip of his tea. He winced, very slightly. "This… is not… 'tea'."

"It's… yeah. It's what we've got, Professor," Leon stammered.

"Indeed." Bianchi put the cup down. He steepled his fingers. The canteen was noisy, but their little corner was silent, a bubble of pure, academic terror.

"So," Bianchi began. "I have… 'observed'."

"And?" Leon finally managed to ask, his voice a squeak.

"And," Bianchi said, "what you are doing… it is fascinating."

Leon blinked. That was not the word he was expecting. "Fascinating?"

"Yes. I came here expecting to see a… 'child's-drawing'. 'Vibes', as you call them. 'Passion'. 'Chaos'. I was expecting to be… 'disappointed'."

"And… you're not?"

"Oh, I am," Bianchi said instantly, and Leon's heart sank. "Your team has no 'structure'. Your 'double-pivot' is a 'myth'. Your left-back," he nodded towards the locker room, "plays with the 'tactical-discipline-of-an-angry-hornet'. It is, by all 'academic-standards'… a 'disaster'."

Leon just stared at his muddy shoes. He had failed.

"However…" Bianchi continued, leaning in, a strange, new light in his eyes. "It is the most 'fascinating' disaster I have ever witnessed. You have not, as I thought, 'abandoned' philosophy. You have simply… created a new, and deeply 'irritating', one."

"I… I have?"

"Yes." Bianchi tapped the table. "You are not playing 'possession-football'. You are not even playing 'counter-attacking-football'. You are playing… 'desperation-football'. You have weaponized your own, 'hopeless-situation'. That… that 'Chaos-Bomb' at the end… that 3-3-4…" He shook his head, a small, baffled smile appearing. "It was not 'luck'. It was 'forced-luck'. You are not creating 'order'. You are creating a 'controlled-avalanche'."

Leon just stared, his mind racing. A controlled-avalanche. He… he liked that.

"You have taken a -15 point penalty," Bianchi continued, his voice full of a new, academic-wonder, "and you have used it. You have told your players, 'We-cannot-lose, because-we-have-already-lost'. You have removed the 'fear-of-failure'… by failing, completely, at the start. It is... 'psychological-judo'. It is... 'tactically-insane'. And... it is 'beautiful'."

Leon, for the first time, felt a real, actual tear welling in his eye. He tried to speak. He couldn't.

Bianchi held up a finger.

"But. It is an avalanche, Leon. It is 'blunt'. It only works because Farsley Celtic… they were 'afraid' of it. They got 'confused' by your 'stupidity'. But what happens," he said, his voice dropping, "when you play a team that is not afraid? A team that is… 'better'? An avalanche... can be 'out-smarted', Leon. A 'proper-system'… will beat.

Leon was stunned into silence. A… "controlled-avalanche"?

Professor Bianchi's words hung in the air of the noisy, tea-scented canteen, heavier and more powerful than any tactical instruction Leon had ever received.

"But…" Bianchi continued, his sharp, analytical eyes scanning Leon's face, "an avalanche, even a 'controlled' one, is a 'blunt-instrument'. It works on the 'unprepared'. It works on the 'afraid'. A 'proper-system'… a team that is 'organized' and 'brave'… it will beat 'your-avalanche'… every… single… time."

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