Alex ran through the corridors of his high school.
He was fast on the pitch. In his school shoes, on the polished floor, he was... slippery.
He skidded around a corner, almost knocking over a Year 7 student.
"Sorry!" Alex yelled.
He burst into the math classroom.
Mrs. Gable was closing the door. She looked at her watch.
"You are one minute late, Mr. Finch," she said, raising an eyebrow. "Did the Champions League run over time?"
"Traffic, Miss," Alex panted. "And... I forgot my calculator. I had to borrow one from the receptionist."
The class giggled.
Alex sat at his desk. He looked at the test paper.
Calculus.
He took a deep breath. He closed his eyes.
He imagined the pitch. The angles of a pass. The trajectory of a cross. The velocity of Mark sprinting.
Math was just football with numbers instead of balls.
He picked up his pen.
He was the Professor. He could do this.
Two hours later, Alex walked out of the school gates. His brain felt like mush.
