Damn it, Allen cursed under his breath, spitting on the Anfield grass.
He actually managed to score.
Despite the bruising blow to his pride, Allen’s cold, tactical mind could not help but analyze the sheer quality of the equalizer.
Rooney was an absolute freak of nature.
Give him an inch of space and he would use his unnatural kinetic power to punish you.
The boy was the definition of an elite attacking threat.
But Jack Vance was not a man who backed down from a firefight.
As an apex black-ops asset, the more lethal the opposition, the colder and more ruthless he became.
Seeing Rooney score had just flipped a terrifying switch in Allen’s brain.
He didn’t just want to score now.
He wanted to mentally break the bulldog.
He wanted to humiliate him.
“Get your heads up!” Allen barked, his voice carrying the sharp, authoritative crack of a military commander.
“It is one goal!
Are you really going to let them dance around Anfield?
This is our fortress!
We do not lose here!”
Hearing the absolute, unshakable confidence in Allen’s voice, Kirkland snapped out of his frustration.
The captain scrambled to his feet, grabbed the ball out of the net, and hurled it toward the center circle.
“He is right!” Kirkland screamed at his defenders.
“Get back into formation!
We are winning this!”
The rest of the Liverpool squad, who had been staring at the grass in despair, suddenly snapped to attention.
If their star striker and their captain were not panicked, they had no reason to panic either.
They fell back into their tactical structure, their eyes burning with renewed intensity.
Up in the stands, the massive crowd of Liverpool supporters roared in approval.
They had fallen momentarily silent when Rooney’s rocket hit the net, but seeing the young Liverpool boys rally back with such fierce, unbroken spirit ignited the crowd.
The fans recognized the famous Liverpool resilience—the refusal to surrender, no matter the odds. Visit g.com for the full chapter.
Spontaneously, thousands of voices began to sing the club’s eternal anthem.
The haunting, powerful chorus of You’ll Never Walk Alone echoed across the vast stadium, creating an atmosphere so thick it felt tangible.
On the touchline, Joss crossed his arms and smiled.
The boy has the aura of a general, Joss thought, watching Allen orchestrate the team’s morale.
Once Kirkland moves up to the academy next year, there is no question who gets the armband.
The referee blew the whistle.
The match was live again.
Allen made an immediate tactical adjustment.
Borrowing a page from Rooney’s playbook, he dropped deep into the number ten position.
He knew the Everton defense was terrified of him and would compress entirely to stop him from receiving the ball near the box.
By dropping into the midfield, Allen pulled the Everton center-backs out of position and gave himself the space he needed to receive the ball cleanly.
The adjustment worked flawlessly.
Every time Welsh fed him the ball, Allen turned and drove straight into the teeth of the Everton defense.
He was relentless, attacking their lines repeatedly, probing for weaknesses, forcing them to commit cynical fouls, and dragging them completely out of shape.
The Liverpool supporters, fueled by the brilliant displays of skill, sang louder.
The sheer volume inside the stadium reached a fever pitch, mirroring the terrifying pressure Allen was applying on the pitch.
Finally, the inevitable crack in the Everton armor appeared.
Welsh slipped a crisp pass into the center circle.
Allen received the ball, but he didn’t stop it.
Instead, he executed a flawless flick, using the toe of his boot to pop the ball straight over his own head—and over the head of the Everton midfielder pressing him from behind.
It was a mesmerizing sombrero flick.
Allen spun around the bewildered midfielder, accelerated, and collected the ball on his chest.
Two Everton defenders immediately rushed out to trap him in a pincer movement.
Allen did not even break stride.
He executed his signature knock-and-run maneuver, tapping the ball aggressively to the right while sprinting to the left.
Because of his sheer speed, the ball traveled further than usual, but Allen easily beat both defenders in a footrace to reunite with it at the edge of the penalty box.
Only one defender remained.
Allen decided to show Rooney that brute force was not exclusive to the blue side of the city.
Instead of trying to dance around the final center-back, Allen dropped his shoulder and drove straight into him.
Using his elite core strength, Allen bullied the defender off balance, muscling his way into the penalty area.
The Everton goalkeeper panicked and sprinted off his line to close the angle. Find the original chapter at g.com.
Allen cocked his right leg back, preparing to unleash a terrifying strike.
Terrified of taking a rocket to the face, the young goalkeeper threw himself sideways onto the turf, trying to make himself as wide as possible to block the shot.
But it was a feint.
Allen instantly aborted the shooting motion.
He casually tapped the ball to his left, effortlessly sidestepping the prone, helpless goalkeeper.
With the goal gaping wide open, Allen took two steps forward and casually passed the ball into the empty net.
2-1.
It was an absolutely humiliating, soul-crushing solo goal.
He had just dribbled past five different Everton players, including the goalkeeper, to score.
In modern football, solo runs involving five defenders were exceptionally rare.
Tactical structures usually prevented it.
A player only attempted something like that when they had absolutely no passing options, or when they were operating in a state of absolute flow, acting purely on instinct.
But Allen had not done it out of necessity.
He had done it specifically to break Everton’s spirit.
Anfield erupted.
The stadium exploded like a detonating volcano.
The thousands of fans screamed themselves hoarse, throwing their scarves into the air, absolutely mesmerized by the sheer arrogance and brilliance of the solo run.
Allen turned away from the net.
He didn’t run to the stands this time.
Instead, he locked his eyes on Wayne Rooney, who was standing near the center circle, looking utterly devastated.
Allen raised his right fist high into the air.
“KILL!” he roared over the deafening noise of the crowd.
He jogged back to his own half.
As he passed by the Everton captain, he leaned in slightly.
His voice was cold, icy, and completely devoid of childish emotion.
“If you think you can go to war with me,” Allen whispered, “you are completely out of your depth.”
Without waiting for Rooney’s reaction, Allen walked away and high-fived Welsh, leaving the bulldog to burn in his own helpless rage.