“Grandfather, are you ready yet?
If we don’t leave right now, I am going to be late, and Joss is going to chew me out.”
Allen sat on the edge of the leather sofa, sighing heavily.
Hammond was sprinting frantically through the sprawling George estate, desperately searching for the rest of his matchday outfit.
Normally, Allen would have walked to the academy alone, strictly adhering to the family’s brutal independence protocol.
But today was different.
Today’s opponent was the Everton youth academy.
For a true Liverpool supporter, the Merseyside Derby was not a game; it was holy war.
Hammond, fully consumed by his new identity as a die-hard red, absolutely refused to miss the match.
He insisted on escorting his grandson to the stadium so he could personally witness Allen humiliate the “blue scum” across Stanley Park.
“Hold your horses, boy!
I am almost ready!” Hammond’s booming voice echoed from upstairs.
“And if your coach dares raise his voice at you, I swear to God he will not live to see tomorrow’s sunrise.
I will have him buried under the pitch before halftime!”
A cold drop of sweat rolled down Allen’s forehead.
He knew the patriarch was not joking.
Hammond possessed the kind of terrifying, absolute power where a single phone call could actually make a man disappear.
The thought of poor, dedicated Joss ending up at the bottom of the River Mersey over a tardiness dispute made Allen shudder.
“I will be sure to be on my best behavior,” Allen muttered under his breath.
Half an hour later, Hammond finally descended the grand staircase.
When Allen looked up, his jaw practically unhinged.
The sheer absurdity of the old man’s attire was staggering.
The terrifying mastermind of the British underworld was wearing a custom-tailored, oversized Liverpool jersey with the number seven proudly displayed.
Across the chest was a massive, high-definition printed photograph of Allen’s face.
The image was so large it practically covered Hammond’s entire torso.
A thick Liverpool scarf was wrapped tightly around his neck.
A ridiculous red-and-white jester hat sat atop his head, and he was carrying a massive flag pole over his shoulder.
The flag itself bore a custom slogan that Allen did not even want to read.
“What are you staring at?
Move your legs!” Hammond barked, adjusting his ridiculous hat.
“Are you afraid of those Everton runts?
Let me make myself perfectly clear, boy.
If you don’t crush Everton today, do not bother coming home!”
The dark threat in the old man’s voice was palpable.
I am sorry, Everton, Allen thought grimly as he walked out the door.
For the sake of my own survival, you all have to die today.
Because the first team had an away fixture this weekend, the club executives had made an unprecedented decision.
To build hype around their newly discovered prodigy—and to exert maximum psychological pressure on their rivals—the youth Derby had been moved from the academy training grounds to the sacred grass of Anfield.
Even more ruthlessly, the club had declared the match free to attend—but strictly for Liverpool supporters.
If you bled red, the gates were wide open.
But if you were an Evertonian who wanted to support your children, you were forced to buy a ticket at an outrageously inflated price.
It was a petty, brilliant masterstroke of psychological warfare by the Liverpool administration.
Anfield was a four-star UEFA stadium, a cathedral of football steeped in over a century of history.
It possessed a seating capacity of over forty-five thousand.
When draped in the terrifying, uniform sea of Liverpool red, the stadium generated an atmosphere so oppressive it felt like the crowd itself was the twelfth man on the pitch.
Deep inside the Anfield locker rooms, Joss stood before his squad.
“Alright, gentlemen.
I do not need to tell you where we are,” Joss said, his voice trembling slightly with emotion.
“This is Anfield.
This is hallowed ground.
And in twenty minutes, you are going out there to face Everton.”
Joss planted his hands on his hips and stared into the eyes of every single player.
“I do not care if you lose any other match this season.
But you do not lose to Everton.
You never lose to Everton.
Do you understand me?”
“Yes, Coach!” the boys screamed back.
Their faces were flushed with a dangerous, intoxicating mix of adrenaline and terror.
For a kid growing up in Merseyside, stepping onto the Anfield pitch was the absolute pinnacle of existence.
It didn’t matter if they never turned pro; they were going to defend this stadium with their lives today.
“Time is up,” Joss said, stepping back.
“Lead them out, Chris.”
Captain Kirkland stood up, his face set in stone.
He marched out of the dressing room, with Allen following right behind him.
Welsh, Warnock, and the rest of the squad fell into line, feeding off the confidence of their leaders.
The Liverpool squad marched straight out of the tunnel and onto the pristine green grass.
The moment they emerged, a deafening, thunderous roar crashed down from the stands.
The sheer acoustic violence of the noise was physically jarring.
Nearly ten thousand Liverpool supporters had packed into the lower tiers.
For a youth match, it was an unfathomable turnout.
They screamed, chanted, and waved their scarves, transforming the stadium into a cauldron of pure hostility.
The Liverpool kids froze, completely overwhelmed by the sheer scale of the noise.
Allen, however, did not even blink.
In his past life, he had operated in active war zones with artillery shells exploding yards away.
Ten thousand screaming fans did not even register on his heart rate monitor.
Seeing his teammates paralyzed, Allen casually walked past them and strolled straight into the center circle.
He placed his hands on his hips and waited, exuding the cold, unshakable aura of a veteran commander.
Kirkland quickly shook off the shock, embarrassed that the seven-year-old had beaten him to the middle.
He shouted at the rest of the squad to get into their formations and jogged over to join Allen for the coin toss.
A moment later, the Everton youth squad emerged from the tunnel.
Instantly, the thunderous cheers mutated into a deafening, venomous chorus of boos.
The Liverpool faithful showed absolutely no mercy.
It did not matter that the Everton players were just children.
They wore the blue kit, which meant they were the enemy.
The stands erupted with curses, jeers, and pure, unfiltered vitriol.
The psychological bombardment was devastating.
The Everton kids stopped dead in their tracks.
One of their younger midfielders actually burst into tears, terrified by the sheer hatred pouring down from the stands.
But not all of them were broken.
Allen watched as one Everton player separated himself from the terrified group.
The boy possessed a thick, bulldog-like build and an aggressive, fearless swagger.
Ignoring the deafening boos, the boy marched straight into the center circle, his eyes locked dead on Allen.
Interesting, Allen thought, his lips curling into a cold, predatory smile.
The Everton captain stopped a few feet away.
The two boys stared at each other, the air between them practically crackling with static tension.
Allen let his eyes drop briefly to the name printed on the back of the boy’s blue jersey.
It read: WAYNE ROONEY.