Reincarnated As A Wonderkid-Chapter 521: A new boy

"Mark," Alex said. "Why are you dressed like a stockbroker?"

"I am a businessman now," Mark said seriously, adjusting his silk tie. "We are Sixth Formers, Professor. We are the elite. I am diversifying my portfolio."

"What portfolio?"

"My portfolio of snacks," Mark said, opening his briefcase. It was full of croissants, bags of chips, and a single banana. "I am investing in carbohydrates. The market is bullish on energy."

"You look ridiculous," Alex smiled. "But very professional."

"Thank you," Mark nodded. "I call this look ’The CEO of Speed’."

The door to the Common Room opened.

A new boy walked in.

He was tall. He had curly hair with frosted tips. He was wearing the school uniform, but he had customized it. His collar was popped up. His tie was loose. He wore bright white sneakers instead of school shoes.

He walked with a swagger. He looked like he owned the building.

The room went quiet. Everyone looked at him.

He walked straight to Alex’s table.

He looked at Alex. He looked at Mark.

He smiled. It was a confident smile. A dangerous smile.

"So," the boy said. His accent was Brazilian. "You are the Professor."

"I am," Alex said calmly.

"And you are the Emperor," the boy said to Mark.

"CEO," Mark corrected. "CEO of Speed."

The boy laughed. He took a seat without asking. He put his feet up on the table.

"My name is Rico," the boy said. "I just transferred. From Santos."

Alex felt a cold shiver.

Santos. The club of Pele. The club of Neymar.

"Welcome to London," Alex said.

"London is cold," Rico said. "But I will bring the heat. I signed for Arsenal yesterday."

Mark dropped his banana.

"You signed for us?" Mark asked.

"Yes," Rico grinned. "Steve wanted some... flair. He said the team is too robotic. Too much math. He wanted some Samba."

Rico looked at Alex.

"I play midfield," Rico said. "Number 10. The playmaker."

"That is my position," Alex said quietly.

"It was your position," Rico winked. "Now, it is a competition. Supply and demand, Professor. Two playmakers. One spot."

Rico stood up. He grabbed Mark’s banana.

"Thanks for the snack, CEO."

Rico walked away, peeling the banana.

Mark stared at him.

"He ate my investment," Mark whispered. "That is hostile takeover."

"He is confident," Alex said.

"He is cocky," Mark argued. "He popped his collar. Only villains pop their collars."

Alex looked at the textbook.

Scarcity creates worth.

Suddenly, Alex Finch wasn’t the only special kid in town. The supply had doubled.

And that meant the price of staying in the team just went up.

The Training Ground.

The grass was freshly cut for the new season. It smelled of summer rain and ambition.

Steve, the manager, blew his whistle.

"Gather round!" Steve shouted.

The squad jogged over. There were the familiar faces. Saka. Martinelli. Saliba.

And there was Rico.

Rico was doing kick-ups while Steve was talking. He balanced the ball on his neck.

"Listen up," Steve said. "Last season was history. We won the Double. We are legends."

The players smiled.

"But legends get old," Steve said sharply. "Legends get lazy. The hungry wolf climbs the hill. The full wolf sleeps."

Steve pointed to Rico.

"This is Ricardo ’Rico’ Silva. He joins us from Brazil. He is young. He is hungry. He wants your shirts."

Rico waved. "Hola boys. Let’s have fun."

"Fun later," Steve said. "Work now. Practice match. Eleven vs Eleven. Blue vs Red."

Steve read the teams.

"Blue Team: Ramsdale, White, Saliba... Midfield: Rice, Odegaard... and Rico."

"Red Team: Turner... Midfield: Jorginho... and Finch."

Alex froze.

He was on the Red Team. The "B" team. The substitutes.

Rico was on the Blue Team. The starters.

Steve was testing him.

Alex looked at Steve. Steve didn’t blink.

"Show me what you got, Professor," Steve’s eyes seemed to say.

Mark was on the Blue Team too.

Mark looked at Alex. He looked sad. He mouthed the word Traitor.

Alex tightened his laces.

"Okay," Alex thought. "Challenge accepted."

The practice match started.

Rico was good. Very good.

He played differently from Alex. Alex was geometry. Alex was logic.

Rico was poetry. He was improvisation.

In the fifth minute, Rico got the ball. Jorginho tried to close him down.

Rico did a "Sombrero". He flicked the ball over Jorginho’s head without it touching the ground.

The players gasped.

Rico caught the ball on his chest and volleyed a pass to Mark.

Mark ran. He scored.

"Nice pass, Samba!" Mark yelled, high-fiving Rico. Then Mark looked at Alex and whispered, "Sorry."

Alex stood in the midfield.

He felt heavy. The team was flowing without him. Rico brought a chaos that was hard to predict.

"Focus," Alex told himself. "Chaos is inefficient. Structure beats chaos."

Fifteenth minute.

Alex got the ball.

He saw Rico coming to press him.

Rico was fast, but he was wild. He ran too hard.

Alex waited.

He waited until Rico committed to the tackle.

Then Alex did a simple turn. A 180-degree spin.

Rico flew past him.

Alex looked up.

He saw Eddie Nketiah making a run for the Red Team.

Alex hit a precision pass. It landed on Nketiah’s toe.

Nketiah scored.

One one.

"Simple!" Alex shouted. "Effective!"

Rico laughed. "Boring! Where is the flavor? Where is the spice?"

"Goals are the flavor," Alex replied.

The game continued. It became a personal duel.

Rico tried a nutmeg. Alex intercepted it. Alex tried a through ball. Rico intercepted it with a backheel.

It was Art vs Science.

In the final minute of the practice match, the score was 2-2.

Rico had the ball. He was dancing on the edge of the box.

He looked at Alex.

"Watch this, Professor," Rico said.

Rico stopped the ball. He stood on it with both feet. He looked like he was surfing.

Then he rolled it forward, did a stepover, and rabona-chipped it towards the goal.

It was audacious. It was ridiculous.

It hit the crossbar.

The ball bounced out.

It landed at Alex’s feet.

Alex did not dance. He did not surf.

He saw the counter attack.

He saw Mark (who had switched teams because he got bored) running for the Red Team.

Alex hit a sixty-yard pass.

It was low. It was hard. It curved around the entire Blue defense.

It was mathematically perfect.

Mark didn’t even have to slow down. He ran onto it. He tapped it in.

Goal.

Red Team wins 3-2.

Alex walked over to Rico.

"Efficiency," Alex said. "The shortest distance between two points is a straight line. Not a dance floor."

Rico smiled. He didn’t look angry. He looked impressed.

"You are boring," Rico said. "But you are dangerous. I like it."

Steve blew the whistle.

"Good session," Steve said. "Competition is good. Iron sharpens iron."

Alex walked off the pitch. He was sweating. His heart was pounding.

He had won the practice match. But he knew this was just the beginning.

Rico was a talent. A raw, explosive talent. The fans would love him. The cameras would love him.

Alex had to be better. He had to be perfect.

Milo was waiting in the car park.

Milo was wearing a suit made of newspapers.

"THE JOURNALIST!" Milo shouted. "READ ALL ABOUT IT! ALEX! THE RIVALRY! I AM SELLING RUMORS! ’IS THE PROFESSOR LEAVING?’ ’IS RICO THE NEW KING?’ I AM SELLING FAKE SCANDALS! ONLY TEN POUNDS A STORY!"

"Milo, do not start rumors," Alex sighed.

"BAD NEWS SELLS!" Milo yelled. "BUT GOOD NEWS COSTS EXTRA!"

Alex got into his dad’s car. Mark squeezed in next to him.

"That was intense," Mark said, loosening his tie. "Rico is good. He has magic feet."

"He is good," Alex admitted.

"But he is not you," Mark said. He pulled a squashed bag of chips from his pocket. "He is the fireworks. You are the fire. Fireworks are pretty, but fire cooks the pizza."

Alex laughed. "That is surprisingly deep, Mark."

"I am a philosopher CEO," Mark grinned. "Do you want a chip? It tastes like profit."

Alex took a chip.

He looked out the window.

The new season was coming. The title defense. The Champions League defense.

And now, a battle for his own shirt.

Alex clenched his fist.

He had learned physics. He had learned biology. He had learned history.

Now, he had to learn economics.

Supply and Demand.

He would make sure the demand for the Professor was always high.

"Class is not dismissed," Alex whispered.

"It is just getting harder."