Reincarnated As A Wonderkid-Chapter 562: Home.

The meeting room at La Liga headquarters was grand. It had marble floors, velvet curtains, and a giant chandelier that looked like it cost more than Milo’s entire business empire.

Alex sat at a long mahogany table.

Around him sat the managers of La Liga.

Xavi (Barcelona). Simeone (Atletico). Emery (Villarreal). And the others. They looked like a council of wizards, but with nicer suits.

Alex adjusted his tie. He was the youngest person in the room by twenty years.

"Welcome," the La Liga President said. "We are here to discuss the new season. The rules. The schedules."

He looked at Alex.

"And to welcome our new colleague. Senor Finch. The Professor."

Simeone snorted. He didn’t look at Alex. He was busy drawing angry squiggles on his notepad.

Xavi smiled politely. "Welcome to Spain. The football here is... different. More technical."

"I like technical," Alex said. "Geometry is universal."

"Geometry does not score goals," Simeone grunted. "Passion scores goals. Blood scores goals."

"Blood is messy," Alex replied. "I prefer clean sheets."

The room went quiet.

Mark was sitting in the corner. He wasn’t supposed to be there, but he had told security he was Alex’s "Emotional Support Human."

Mark was wearing a fake beard and glasses. He was taking notes in a coloring book.

"Psst," Mark whispered. "Alex. Ask them about the siesta. When do we nap?"

"Mark, be quiet," Alex hissed.

"Nap time is crucial for speed!" Mark insisted. "The Spanish understand this!"

The meeting continued. They discussed VAR. They discussed referees. They discussed the price of tickets.

It was boring.

Alex looked out the window. Madrid was sunny. Beautiful.

He thought about his team. Real Madrid. The Galacticos.

They were top of the league. Undefeated.

But the real test was coming. The Champions League.

"One final point," the President said. "The media rights. We want more access. More cameras in the dressing room."

"No," Simeone said. "The dressing room is sacred. It is where we prepare for war."

"It is where we eat snacks," Mark whispered.

"I agree with Diego," Alex said. "Privacy is important. But... maybe we can compromise."

"How?" Xavi asked.

"Let Milo handle it," Alex said.

"Who is Milo?" the President asked.

"My... Media Director," Alex said.

At that moment, the double doors burst open.

Milo walked in.

He was dressed as... a Matador (again? No, wait). He was dressed as a Flamenco Dancer.

He was wearing a red dress with polka dots and clicking castanets.

"HOLA AMIGOS!" Milo screamed. "I HEARD THERE WAS A MEETING! ALEX! I AM HERE TO NEGOTIATE! I AM SELLING BROADCAST RIGHTS! EXCLUSIVE FOOTAGE OF MARK EATING CHURROS! ONE MILLION EUROS!"

The managers stared at him.

Simeone looked like he was about to explode. Xavi looked confused.

"Security!" the President yelled.

"I AM AN ARTIST!" Milo shouted, doing a spin. "YOU CANNOT CENSOR ART!"

Alex put his head in his hands.

"I apologize," Alex said. "He is... passionate." 𝘧𝓇ℯℯ𝑤ℯ𝘣𝓃ℴ𝓋𝑒𝑙.𝑐𝘰𝑚

They were escorted out of the building.

Mark was eating a churro he had hidden in his pocket.

"That went well," Mark said. "They seemed nice. Except the angry one in black."

"Simeone hates us," Alex said.

"He just needs a hug," Mark decided. "And a pizza."

They drove back to the training ground.

The players were waiting.

Thiago, the Brazilian winger. Hans, the German machine. And a new signing.

A young French striker named Pierre. He was 18. Fast. Strong. Arrogant.

"Coach," Pierre said, leaning against the goalpost. "I don’t want to do passing drills. I want to shoot."

"You shoot when you earn the right to shoot," Alex said.

"I am a striker," Pierre said. "I am born to shoot."

"You are born to learn," Alex corrected.

He looked at Mark.

"Mark. Race him."

"Race me?" Pierre laughed. "Against the old man in the suit?"

Mark took off his jacket. He took off his tie. He was wearing his Arsenal shirt underneath.

"Old man?" Mark said. "I am the Emperor. And you are a peasant."

They lined up.

"Go!" Alex shouted.

Pierre was fast. Explosive.

But Mark... Mark was a force of nature.

He didn’t run. He flowed.

He beat Pierre by five yards.

"HOW?" Pierre gasped, hands on knees.

"Pizza power," Mark said, not even out of breath. "And respect for the elders."

Alex smiled.

"Lesson one, Pierre," Alex said. "Speed is nothing without control. And humidity is a variable."

"What?" Pierre asked.

"Never mind," Alex said. "Get back to training."

The season continued.

Real Madrid were unstoppable. They played "Finch-Ball". Precision. Angles. Speed.

They won La Liga with four games to spare.

They beat Barcelona 4-0 at the Camp Nou.

"Geometry wins," Alex texted Xavi after the game. Xavi sent back a thumbs up emoji (reluctantly).

But the Champions League was the goal.

Semi-Final. Real Madrid vs Manchester City. Again.

Pep vs The Professor.

"He follows me," Alex said. "Like a shadow."

"He wants to steal your secrets," Mark whispered. "He wants the pizza recipe."

The Etihad Stadium.

It was raining. Manchester rain.

Alex stood on the touchline. He was wearing a raincoat.

Pep stood next to him. He was wearing a cardigan.

"You changed the team," Pep said. "No more Galacticos. Just... a system."

"Systems last longer than stars," Alex said.

"True," Pep nodded. "But stars shine brighter."

The game was a classic.

City scored first. Haaland. Of course.

But Madrid fought back.

Thiago scored a solo goal. Hans scored a penalty.

2-1 to Madrid.

Eighty ninth minute.

City had a corner.

Ederson came up.

The ball came in.

It was chaos.

Alex watched. He analyzed.

Trajectory. Spin. Velocity.

He saw the ball drop.

It fell to Rodri.

Rodri shot.

Courtois saved it.

But the rebound...

It fell to Haaland.

Haaland smashed it.

It hit the post.

And bounced out.

Mark cleared it.

The whistle blew.

Real Madrid 2. Manchester City 1.

They were in the Final.

Alex shook Pep’s hand.

"Lucky," Pep said.

"Calculated," Alex smiled.

They walked off.

Milo ran onto the pitch. He was wearing a raincoat made of plastic bags.

"THE WEATHERMAN!" Milo screamed. "I PREDICTED THE RAIN! ALEX! I AM SELLING UMBRELLAS! THEY HAVE HOLES IN THEM! BUT THEY ARE FASHIONABLE! TEN POUNDS!"

"Milo, go home," Alex laughed.

They flew back to Madrid.

The Final was in Wembley. London.

Home.

"Full circle," Alex thought.

Mark sat next to him on the plane.

"Hey Professor," Mark said.

"Yeah?"

"Who do we play in the final?"

Alex checked his phone.

The other semi-final was Arsenal vs Bayern Munich.

Arsenal won.

It was Arsenal.

His old team. His family.

Saka. Martinelli. Rice. And... Leo. His son.

Well, Leo was only 8. But he was the mascot.

"Arsenal," Alex said.

Mark went silent.

"We have to play Arsenal?" Mark asked. "My babies?"

"Yes," Alex said.

"Can we draw?" Mark asked. "Can we both win?"

"No," Alex said. "There must be a winner."

"This is sad," Mark said. "I am torn. My heart is red. But my suit is white."

"Wear a pink shirt," Alex suggested.

"Good idea," Mark nodded. "Neutral."

They landed in Madrid.

The fans were waiting. Campeones! Campeones!

Alex waved.

He was the King of Spain.

But his heart was in London.

He walked into his apartment.

He looked at the photo on his desk.

Him, Mark, Rico, and Milo lifting the World Cup.

"One last game," Alex whispered.

"The Master vs The Apprentices."

He picked up a tactic board.

He started to move the pieces.

He knew Arsenal better than anyone. He built them.

He knew Saka’s cut inside. He knew Martinelli’s sprint. He knew Rice’s tackle.

"How do you beat yourself?" Alex asked the empty room.

The answer was simple.

You don’t.

You evolve.

You change the variable.

Alex smiled.

He had a plan.

A crazy, illogical, Mark-inspired plan.

He picked up his phone.

"Milo," Alex said.

"YES BOSS?" Milo answered.

"I need a costume," Alex said.

"FOR WHO?"

"For the team," Alex said. "We are going to Wembley. And we are going to put on a show."

"I AM ON IT!" Milo shouted. "GLITTER OR FEATHERS?"

"Both," Alex said.