Alex opened his eyes.

For a second, just a single, confusing second, he saw the beige ceiling of his old apartment. He saw the piles of data reports and the half empty coffee mug.

Then it all snapped into focus.

He was in a small, tidy room. Posters of Thierry Henry and Dennis Bergkamp were on the wall. His wall.

He was sixteen years old again.

Well, not again. He was in the body of Alex Finch, a sixteen year old wonderkid at Arsenal Football Clubs famous academy. His old life, the life of a thirty two year old data analyst who never made it, was gone. He had died. He still wasnt sure how.

And then he woke up here.

"Alex! Get up! Youll be late for the bus!" his new mum shouted from downstairs.

Alex threw off the covers. His body felt light. Full of energy. It was still a strange feeling. His old body had been tired. This one felt like a coiled spring.

Today was not just any day.

Today was the U18 derby. Arsenal versus Tottenham.

This was it. His chance.

In his old life, he had analyzed hundreds of these games. He knew every weakness, every pattern. He had a tactical brain that was top class. But his body had failed him. He was too slow, too weak.

Now... now he had the talent. He had the speed. He had the touch. He just had to make his brain and his body work together.

He pulled on his Arsenal training kit. He looked in the mirror. Young face. Sharp eyes. He still saw his old self in there. The nervous analyst.

"Dont be nervous," he told himself. "You know this game. You are better than them."

He just hoped he was right.

The locker room at the training ground was loud.

Music was playing. Sixteen year old boys were shouting, throwing tape at each other, and trying to act like men.

Alex sat down, quietly lacing his boots. They were bright green. He hated bright green boots. But they were what the sponsor gave him.

"Alright, Finch. Ready to boss the midfield?"

Alex looked up. It was Sam, the teams left back. Sam was a simple, happy guy. He just loved to run and kick. He was Alexs only real friend here. The other boys were wary of Alex. He was too quiet. Too smart.

"I hope so, Sam," Alex said with a small smile.

"Just dont try that weird, no look pass you did in training," Sam laughed. "It just makes us all look bad when it goes out for a throw in."

Alex flushed. He knew that pass was a good idea. The space was there. His brain saw it. His foot just hadnt... it hadnt listened.

"Alright lads, listen up!"

The coach, Steve, walked in. He was a big man, a former defender who believed football was about one thing. Passion.

"Its Spurs," Steve boomed, his face already red. "I dont care about your fancy flicks. I dont care about your TV skills. I care about winning. I want you to get out there, fight for every ball, and show them what Arsenal is made of! Got it?"

"YES, COACH!" the team roared.

Alex just nodded. He understood. But passion was not enough. You needed a plan. And Alex always had a plan.

His eyes drifted to Mark. Mark was the teams striker. He was fast, strong, and incredibly selfish. He was the "star". And he did not like Alex.

Mark thought Alex was too slow. Alex thought Mark was too stupid.

Mark caught his eye and just smirked, then turned back to his friends.

This was going to be a long day.

The first half was a nightmare.

Tottenham were bigger. They were stronger. They played exactly like Coach Steve wanted his team to play. They were full of passion.

Alexs brain was on fire. He saw everything. He saw the space their right back was leaving. He saw how their number six always got drawn to the ball. He saw the perfect, game changing passes.

And he missed every single one.

He would see the pass, but his feet would be a split second too slow. A Tottenham player would intercept.

He would see the run, but Mark would already be standing offside, complaining.

"Play simple, Alex! Stop trying to be a hero!" Coach Steve screamed from the sideline.

Alex felt that old, familiar frustration. The frustration from his past life.

He knew what to do. Why couldnt he do it?

In the 38th minute, it all fell apart.

Mark tried to dribble three players. He lost the ball.

Tottenham countered. Fast.

Their winger flew down the side. Sam was out of position.

The cross came in. Their striker, a boy who looked more like a man, smashed a header past the keeper.

One nil.

The halftime whistle blew. Alex walked off the pitch, his head down. He felt sick.

He was failing. Again.

The locker room was silent. Coach Steve was too angry to speak. He just stared at the wall.

Finally, he turned.

"That," he said, his voice dangerously quiet, "was pathetic."

He looked at Mark. "You are not a one man team, Mark. Start playing with us."

Then he looked at Alex. "And you. Alex. What was that? Youre our maestro. Our brain. You were playing like a... like a scared little kid. All your big ideas... they mean nothing if you cant pass the ball ten yards."

Alex flinched. The words hit hard. Because they were true.

He was scared. He was so terrified of failing, of wasting this second chance, that he was overthinking everything. He was trying to play like a 30 year old analyst, not a 16 year old wonderkid.

He needed to trust the body. He needed to trust the talent.

He needed to just... play.

Alex took a deep breath. He looked at Mark. Mark was already looking at him, his face angry.

"You want to score, Mark?" Alex asked, his voice clear.

Mark was surprised. "What?"

"You want to score? Then run. Run into the channel behind their left back. Hes slow. When I get the ball, just run. I will find you."

Mark stared at him. "You cant even make a simple pass."

"Just run," Alex said.

Coach Steve raised an eyebrow. He did not say anything. He just nodded to the door. "Get out there. Fix it."

The second half started. Alex felt... different.

He was not scared. He was calm.

He stopped trying to see the perfect pass. He just started to feel the game.

He got the ball. He passed it to Sam. He got it back. He turned, shielding the ball from the big number six. He felt strong.

The game flowed around him. He was the center of it. The still point in the middle of the chaos.

In the 65th minute, it happened.

Alex intercepted a pass. He looked up.

His analyst brain screamed, "Its too risky! The pass is too long!"

But he ignored it.

He saw Mark. Mark was listening. Mark was running.

Alex did not think. He just did.

He struck the ball. It was a perfect, 40 yard curling pass, right into the path of the sprinting striker.

The entire stadium went quiet.

The ball bounced once. Mark did not slow down. He smashed it, first time, into the roof of the net.

GOAL! One all.

Sam was the first to reach Alex. He grabbed him in a hug. "THAT WAS THE WEIRD PASS! IT WORKED!"

Alex was just breathing hard, his heart pounding.

Mark jogged back. He did not smile. But he looked at Alex. He nodded.

It was enough.

The game was chaos now. Both teams were tired. Both teams wanted to win.

88th minute. Still one all.

Alexs young lungs were burning. He had never run this much in either of his lives.

Spurs had the ball. Their defender looked up. He tried to play a simple pass to his midfielder.

But Alexs brain was whirring. He had seen this pattern. He knew this pass.

He started running before the defender even kicked the ball.

He stretched his leg...

He got it.

The ball was at his feet. The crowd roared.

He was in. The last defender was charging at him.

The old Alex would have passed. The old Alex would have panicked.

This Alex... he was a wonderkid.

He faked the shot. The defender slid past him, disappearing on the wet grass.

It was just him and the goalkeeper.

Alex looked up. He saw the open corner.

He did not smash it. He did not force it.

He passed it. Calmly. Coolly.

The ball rolled, almost gently, and nestled into the corner of the net.

Two one. Arsenal.

Alex did not know what to do. He just stood there, his arms out.

Then the entire team was on top of him. A pile of screaming, happy, sixteen year old boys.

He was at the bottom of the pile, mud on his face, his lungs empty, and he had never, ever felt so happy.

The final whistle blew.

They had won.

Coach Steve walked onto the pitch. He was not red faced. He was not shouting.

He just walked up to Alex. He put a big hand on his shoulder.

"That," the coach said, a small, proud smile on his face, "was not simple, Alex. That was brilliant."

Alex just nodded, too tired to speak.

He looked down at his green boots, covered in mud. He looked at his new teammates, his friends. His old life was over.

But this time, he thought, a real smile spreading across his face.

This time, he would not fail.

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