As the media blitz intensified, Allen George became a household name across England.
His spectacular performance at Anfield, combined with the relentless marketing push from the Merseyside press, immediately caught the attention of rival clubs.
Every elite academy scout in the country was suddenly desperate to review the footage of the “Seven-Year-Old Predator.” To anyone who understood football, Allen’s raw talent was impossible to ignore.
The Liverpool executive board anticipated this exact scenario.
When Chairman David Moores invited the press to the Derby, he knew he was putting a massive target on the boy’s back.
To ensure their prize asset didn’t slip through their fingers, the board authorized an unprecedented, highly aggressive maneuver.
They needed to lock Allen George in a vault and throw away the key.
They needed to secure him permanently before the vultures from Manchester or London could swoop in.
Which was why Rick Parry, the Chief Executive of Liverpool Football Club, was currently sitting on the velvet sofa inside the sprawling George estate, nervously waiting for a seven-year-old to sign a contract.
“Mr.
Parry, I must admit, this is all very unexpected,” Allen said smoothly, staring at the thick stack of legal documents resting on the mahogany coffee table.
“I am incredibly flattered.
Truly.
But a decision of this magnitude requires careful consideration.
I cannot simply sign away my future without my family’s absolute consent.
I am sure you understand.”
Allen maintained a perfectly polite, innocent facade, hiding the deep irritation simmering beneath the surface.
That morning, while Allen was executing his daily JSOC-style calisthenics routine, Parry had arrived at the estate unannounced.
After quickly verifying his identity, the executive had produced a highly irregular, incredibly lucrative youth contract, practically begging Allen to sign it immediately.
For an English academy player, the contract was the holy grail.
It was a golden ticket.
The terms were unprecedented: Allen George would sign a ten-year developmental agreement with Liverpool FC.
The club would retain absolute priority rights to sign him to a full professional contract the moment he turned seventeen.
In exchange, Liverpool would pay Allen a weekly stipend of £100 immediately.
For every year he remained at the academy, his weekly wage would increase by another £100, not including performance bonuses.
By the time Allen turned sixteen, he would be earning £1,000 a week.
In 1992, for a teenager who had not even made a first-team appearance, that kind of money was utterly staggering.
It was essentially free cash.
There was no guarantee that Allen wouldn’t suffer a career-ending injury, or simply lose his talent as he grew.
Liverpool was taking a massive financial gamble.
The entire contract was engineered by David Moores.
It was a pair of golden handcuffs designed to permanently tether the prodigy to Anfield.
Parry, who normally despised throwing money at unproven assets, had been forced to draft the wildly generous terms on the Chairman’s direct orders.
Parry had fully expected the child to weep tears of joy, thank him profusely, and immediately scribble his name on the dotted line.
Instead, Allen had calmly read the fine print and politely hesitated.
Parry was completely unnerved.
When the seven-year-old had looked up from the paperwork and met his gaze, Parry had felt a genuine chill run down his spine.
The boy’s eyes were entirely devoid of childish wonder.
They were the cold, calculating eyes of a veteran negotiator who had seen it all.
Parry desperately tried to shake off the feeling, convincing himself that the boy merely had exceptional psychological composure.
What is there to hesitate about?” Parry chuckled, flashing a practiced, salesman-like smile.
“A contract of this magnitude is entirely unprecedented!
For a boy your age, this is a gift from God Himself!
Can you not see how deeply the club values you?
We want to build the future around you!”
You manipulative old fox, Allen thought, his eyes narrowing slightly.
In truth, Allen was perfectly fine with the financial terms.
He loved Liverpool, and he had already decided to dedicate his reincarnated life to conquering the football world.
The money was just a bonus.
However, there was one specific clause buried deep in the fine print that deeply offended his JSOC instincts: The player must unconditionally comply with all club directives and developmental assignments.
To a man who valued total operational freedom, signing that clause felt dangerously close to signing a literal slave contract.
That single line of text was the reason Allen was hesitating.
If he signed it, Liverpool would own him.
“Allen, what in the world are you waiting for?
Sign the bloody paper!”
Hammond, who had been sitting quietly in the armchair next to Parry, finally lost his patience.
Originally, the patriarch had intended to let Allen handle his own affairs.
It was the family way.
But watching his grandson hesitate over a contract from his beloved Liverpool FC was simply too much for the old man to bear.
Over the past few weeks, Hammond had somehow maneuvered his way into becoming a high-ranking patron of the local Liverpool supporters’ association.
He practically lived and breathed the club now.
In Hammond’s eyes, Allen’s hesitation meant the boy either lacked loyalty to the club, or worse, was secretly hoping for an offer from a rival team.
“Sign the paper, boy!” Hammond barked, his voice dropping into the terrifying, gravelly register he usually reserved for underworld associates.
“Do you not want to play for this club?!”
Allen shot a desperate look at his father, York.
York merely offered a helpless, apologetic shrug.
Nobody in the family crossed Hammond when he was in a mood like this.
Cornered by his own grandfather, Allen gritted his teeth.
He picked up the fountain pen and violently slashed his signature across the bottom of the contract.
He pressed down so hard he nearly tore right through the expensive paper.
Fine, Allen fumed internally.
I’ll be your corporate asset for ten years.
By the time this expires, I will only be seventeen.
If I hate it, I will just leave.
But there is absolutely no way I am going to cross the old man right now and make my life a living hell.
“Excellent!
Wonderful!
Welcome to the family, my boy!” Parry beamed, eagerly snatching up the signed documents.
“We look forward to seeing you conquer Anfield!
Oh, and just to be clear…
I am sure you understand.”
Of course they were going to keep it a secret.
If Allen turned into a superstar, the club would look like geniuses.
But if Allen flopped and became a massive financial bust, the board would be a laughingstock for giving a seven-year-old an escalating thousand-pound-a-week deal.
Keeping it secret protected the club from public embarrassment while successfully locking the player down.
Parry, thoroughly satisfied with his morning’s work, exchanged a few more pleasantries with Hammond before excusing himself from the estate.
Once the heavy oak doors clicked shut behind the executive, the atmosphere in the room shifted.
“Father,” York said, turning to Hammond with a slight frown.
“Did you actually read the terms?
That clause about unconditional compliance…
it sounded dangerously close to an indentured servitude agreement.
Are you sure it was wise to force him to sign it?”
York finally voiced the exact concern that had been bothering Allen.
The seven-year-old perked up, eager to hear the patriarch’s reasoning.
“Do you honestly think I am an idiot, York?” Hammond snorted, waving his hand dismissively.
“Do they actually believe a piece of paper means anything to us?
We are the George family.
We run the shadows of this country.”
Hammond leaned back in his armchair, a ruthless, predatory smirk crossing his scarred face.
“Let the boy play football.
Let him use their facilities.
But if those corporate suits ever mistreat my grandson, or try to enforce some ‘unconditional’ clause that we don’t agree with?
I will burn their precious club to the ground.
I’d like to see them try and enforce a contract against us.”
Allen blinked, his jaw dropping slightly.
Right, Allen thought, suddenly realizing his own foolishness.
I completely forgot who I am dealing with.
He was so used to operating within the strict confines of military protocol that he had briefly forgotten his new reality.
His family operated entirely outside the law.
They were the undisputed apex predators of the British underworld.
If Liverpool ever tried to screw him over, Hammond could probably have the entire executive board thrown into the Irish Sea with a single phone call.
The contract was completely meaningless.
“Well then,” Hammond chuckled, pouring himself a glass of scotch.
“It seems our little Allen is officially a rising star.
He is going to need representation.
York, arrange for an agent immediately.”
“Understood, Father,” York nodded.
The family discussed the logistics openly in front of Allen.
To them, he was still just a brilliant seven-year-old boy.
They assumed the corporate talk went right over his head.
They had no idea that beneath the surface, the boy understood every single tactical nuance of the conversation, and was already plotting ten steps ahead.