"Professor," Bastian grunted. "You are famous. The newspapers. The television. This is bad. Your head will get big."
"My head is fine, Bastian," Alex said, sitting at his locker, number 38. "I am just... tired."
"Good," Bastian said. "Famous and tired is better than famous and stupid."
The door burst open.
Mark ran in. He was not in his suit. He was not in his kit. He was in his Arsenal tracksuit, and he looked... angry. He stomped right over to Alex.
The whole locker room, which was just starting to fill up, went quiet.
"You," Mark said, pointing a finger at Alex.
"Me?" Alex asked, confused.
"Where were you yesterday?" Mark demanded.
"It... it was our day off, Mark. I was resting. I was..."
"Resting?" Mark yelled. The other players were all watching now. "Resting? I was waiting! At the pitch! At four o clock! Like we always do! I did heading drills. Alone! For an hour! It was boring! And I was terrible! Where were you?"
