“Come on, Steven.
One more.”
Outside Tottenham’s first-team training ground, the day’s session over, Harry Kane had peeled off his sweat-soaked shirt.
He sat bare-chested, trading easy conversation with his friend.
Steven Gerrard.
Liverpool’s absolute talisman.
One of the greatest players in the club’s history.
His presence at Tottenham’s facility might seem odd, but to the people here, it was nothing unusual.
Six months earlier, at the 2014 World Cup in Brazil, Kane had earned his first England call-up.
As a newcomer in the squad, he’d been taken under the wing of the then-England captain, Gerrard.
Despite more than a decade between them, the two had become close friends.
Now, with the season grinding on, Gerrard, nearing thirty-five, was battling an old injury.
An ankle problem had sidelined him for two weeks.
Frustrated and restless, he’d brought a few cans of low-alcohol malt beer to find Kane and talk.
“No, no.
I said no, and I mean it.
Steven, tempting me is pointless.”
Kane grinned, waving off the beer Gerrard offered.
He pulled a bottle of electrolyte water from beside his seat.
“I’m keeping myself in top condition this season.
No alcohol.
Not even low-alcohol beer.
This is all I drink now.
Cheers.”
Gerrard smiled.
“Disciplined.
I respect that.”
“Looks like I’m finishing these alone.”
“I’m not you anymore.
This age, carrying an injury, a few drinks won’t change anything.”
He took a long swallow.
Watching his friend’s low spirits, Kane felt a pang of sympathy.
Gerrard might talk like that, but Kane knew the truth.
Nearing thirty-five, at the tail end of his career, Gerrard was still fighting to stay sharp, still pouring everything into Liverpool.
He watched his diet.
He was just as disciplined.
But Liverpool’s struggles in recent years had worn their legendary captain down.
This season was brutal, tenth in the Premier League.
Manager Brendan Rodgers’ tactics had stalled, and Gerrard was finding it harder and harder to fit.
Team and player alike were stuck in a rut.
Even a man as mentally tough as Gerrard had lost some of his fire.
A few beers to dull the edge was all he had.
Kane understood the pain.
He kept clinking his bottle against Gerrard’s can, offering what comfort he could.
“Keep drinking.
I need to take a leak.”
“Already?
You’ve only had one.”
“Middle age.
It is what it is.”
Gerrard laughed at his own joke and headed out of the training ground.
Clang.
Clang.
The sharp sounds reached his ears as he hurried toward the bathroom.
Which player had this much free time?
Training was over.
Go home.
Why stand around pinging the goal frame for fun?
Clang.
Clang.
On his way back, relief achieved, he heard it again.
He glanced idly at the nearby pitch.
An Asian-looking kid, practicing shots on goal.
He shook his head.
Kid’s got terrible luck.
No keeper, open net, and he’s still hitting the post that many times?
He sat back down beside Kane.
Maybe wanting to lift his friend’s spirits, to push Gerrard to find his fight again, Kane, who had always seen Gerrard as a professional role model, spoke from the heart.
“Steven, you’re an idol to so many young players, me included.
A true champion.”
“Don’t let the current struggles weigh you down.
Liverpool will climb out of this.
I believe it.”
“I really do envy you.
One club, one city.
From the academy to the first team.
Seventeen years at Liverpool, all those trophies.”
“I came through the Spurs academy too.
I want to win a title for this club.”
“Tottenham’s form is solid right now.
I feel good.
I believe I can win something here.”
“Wait.”
“What?
What’s wrong?”
Gerrard’s sudden interruption caught Kane off guard.
Gerrard had always rated him highly, even told the media Kane would be England’s best striker.
What did he mean, “wait”?
Was the beer talking?
Did he think Kane wasn’t good enough to bring Spurs a trophy?
“No, no.
Not you.”
“Uh… I need to go again.”
Gerrard was already on his feet, looking like he couldn’t hold it.
“Again?
You okay, Steven?”
“Maybe you should see someone?
I know a good doctor.
For the prostate.”
“I mean… a friend knows one.
I could set it up.”
Gerrard ignored him.
Only one thought filled his mind.
That Asian kid wasn’t practicing shots.
He was practicing passes.
He was aiming for the posts on purpose.
All those clangs… how precise was his short passing?
He reached the training ground fence again.
Clang.
Clang.
Watching the kid strike the post again and again, Gerrard’s eyes went wide.
No doubt about it.
The kid was drilling his passing.
Gerrard knew every Tottenham first-team player.
This face was unfamiliar, and the kid looked young.
Academy.
Had to be.
Tottenham’s academy had a passing talent like this?
In his prime, Gerrard had racked up double-digit assists season after season.
His passing was among the best in Premier League history.
But what he was seeing now stopped him cold.
Even at his absolute peak, his short-passing accuracy was nowhere near this absurd.
From the edge of the penalty area, hitting the frame over and over.
Ten times.
More.
What kind of monstrous passing talent was this?
Gerrard stepped onto the pitch.
A ball rolled to his feet.
He couldn’t resist.
He set himself and struck it with his right foot, aiming for the post.
He’d kept his power down, tried to make it easy.
The ball still grazed the outside of the post and hit the side netting.
His left ankle was still sore from the weekend’s match, but his right foot was fine.
A static pass like this shouldn’t have been a problem.
He’d missed anyway.
Hitting the post on command from outside the box was clearly no simple trick.
Gerrard knew that.
No warm-up, cold touch, failure was normal.
But then he noticed something else.
The Asian kid’s breathing was steady.
Not a drop of sweat on him.
He’d just started too.
No warm-up at all.
And with no warm-up, his passing accuracy was still this insane?
For this kid, pulling off something so astonishing seemed effortless.
The stray ball made Ethan Cross aware of the second person on the pitch.
Gerrard?
Ethan was stunned.
What was Liverpool’s legendary captain doing at Tottenham’s training ground?
But face to face with a living English legend, Ethan felt a surge of excitement.
He was a midfielder himself.
As a kid, Gerrard had been one of the Premier League’s absolute best.
An idol.
Gerrard walked over, the shock still plain on his face.
“Kid, how did you do that?”
“Incredible.”
“Can you show me again?”
He saw the empty space at Ethan’s feet.
Without a word, Gerrard bent down and started gathering the scattered balls himself, lining them up neatly in front of Ethan.
Close enough to touch a Premier League legend, Ethan’s heart was still racing.
And now Gerrard was playing ball boy, fetching balls for him personally.
The surreal scene made Ethan’s head spin.
But he understood.
With the Platini passing model, his short passing had hit the ceiling.
What he’d just shown had stunned him too, and clearly stunned this Premier League giant.
Maybe it was having a legend like Gerrard watching.
Ethan’s desire to perform surged.
He’d been testing his new limits, feeling them out.
The Platini model had fused into him, and with short passing, he felt something close to total control.
The feeling was simple.
Within the standard twenty-meter short-passing range, he could put the ball exactly where he wanted.
Any spot.
So now, in front of Gerrard, he wanted to try something harder.
He looked at the three balls in front of him.
He hooked one up with his right toe, juggled it twice, and then struck it with the inside of his right foot, out of the air.
Thump.
A volleyed short pass.
Not from a dead ball.
Gerrard’s eyes went huge.
He’d only asked Ethan to repeat what he’d done before.
Instead, the kid had just made it harder.
Juggling, then a volleyed pass.
A moving ball.
A body adjusting for balance.
Every variable working against his accuracy.
This was several times harder than a simple stationary pass.
Clang.
The ball kissed the post.
The sound rang out clean.
Gerrard’s face said everything.
His mind was blown all over again.
He stared at Ethan, speechless.
This genius kid… his passing was just unreal.