Since signing the unprecedented ten-year developmental contract, Allen’s life had fundamentally changed.
He was no longer just a talented kid playing weekend matches; he was an official, contracted asset of Liverpool Football Club.
Instead of training two days a week, he was now required to report to the academy training grounds at Melwood every single afternoon following school.
To be entirely honest, Allen vastly preferred the exhausting daily grind at Melwood to the stifling environment of his primary school.
Since the media explosion following the Merseyside Derby, Allen’s school life had become incredibly irritating.
Everywhere he walked, groups of children pointed and whispered.
Pre-teen girls, utterly infatuated with the famous young athlete, constantly stared at him with wide, doe-eyed admiration.
For a former black-ops operator used to moving in absolute shadows, being the center of attention in a school cafeteria made his skin crawl.
The headmaster had even been forced to implement a strict, specific rule: any student caught harassing Allen George during school hours would face severe disciplinary action.
The direct approaches stopped, but the covert staring and whispering never ceased.
Allen had not been prepared to handle the sheer volume of superficial fame that came with being a heralded English football prodigy.
Melwood, however, was a sanctuary.
When Allen stepped onto the pristine grass of the upper academy training grounds, the whispers stopped.
The older boys in the youth system did not care about newspaper clippings or local hype.
They were ruthless, hyper-competitive teenagers fighting desperately for a professional career.
To them, Allen was not a celebrity; he was just another rival trying to steal one of the few available spots on the first team.
The older academy players were frequently aloof, and sometimes openly hostile.
They resented the fact that a seven-year-old was receiving VIP treatment from the coaching staff.
Allen absolutely loved it.
He preferred cold, professional hostility over fawning adoration any day.
If the older boys wanted to ignore him and focus entirely on their own survival, that suited him perfectly.
Coach Harrison, the director of the upper academy, was absolutely thrilled with his new acquisition.
Usually, managing a highly-touted prodigy meant dealing with massive egos, lazy attitudes, and constant disciplinary issues.
But Allen was a machine.
His work ethic was terrifying.
Because his mind was governed by the strict, disciplined conditioning of a Tier-1 military operator, Allen attacked every single training drill with lethal intensity.
In fact, Harrison frequently had to step onto the pitch and physically order Allen to stop training.
“This is what true genius looks like,” Harrison often muttered to his assistant coaches, watching Allen execute repetitive shooting drills long after the other boys had hit the showers.
“One percent natural talent, ninety-nine percent psychopathic dedication.”
Harrison knew without a doubt that Allen’s ceiling was limitless.
“Hey.
Steven.
What do you think of the upper squad so far?”
Allen sat down on a water cooler, wiping sweat from his forehead.
He tossed a towel to an older boy sitting next to him.
It was Steven Gerrard.
Despite Allen’s cold exterior, he had formed a tight bond with the other two prodigies who had graduated from the junior squad.
Allen, Gerrard, and Michael Owen formed a distinct, loyal clique within the upper academy.
“Honestly?
It is brilliant for competition, but the atmosphere is toxic,” Gerrard sighed, dragging the towel over his face.
“Some of these lads are so arrogant.
They have average technical ability, but they act like they are already starting at Anfield.”
Gerrard was experiencing the brutal reality of an elite English football academy.
Not everyone at Melwood was a local Liverpool boy.
The club aggressively recruited top-tier talent from across the entire United Kingdom and even scouted internationally.
For these recruits, securing a professional contract was a matter of survival.
They viewed the local, homegrown boys—like Allen, Steven, and Michael—as pampered favorites who were guaranteed an unfair advantage by the club.
Because of this deeply ingrained paranoia, the imported players frequently targeted the homegrown trio, tackling them aggressively during scrimmages and freezing them out in the dressing room.
“Yeah, I thought getting promoted to Melwood meant we were finally going to play proper football,” Michael Owen chimed in, walking over with a water bottle.
“But this feels more like a war zone.
I actually miss the days when we just battered local school teams with Kirkland.”
Owen was arguably having the hardest time adjusting.
Unlike the stocky, powerful Rooney, or the physically hardened Allen, Owen was small, slight, and relied entirely on explosive pace.
Because he was a Liverpool golden boy, the older, heavier defenders frequently targeted him during internal scrimmages.
They delivered vicious, late tackles, trying to physically intimidate the young striker out of the squad.
Naive, Allen thought, listening to Owen complain.
This isn’t Sunday league anymore.
This is a meat grinder.
If you want to survive, you have to be willing to step on their throats.
But Allen kept his cynical thoughts to himself.
He knew Owen was just a twelve-year-old kid.
He couldn’t expect the boy to possess the ruthless survival instincts of a trained killer.
Furthermore, Owen was an incredibly polite, mild-mannered kid.
He lacked the terrifying aura of a Gennaro Gattuso, or the explosive, violent presence of a Gabriel Batistuta.
Because he looked like a nice kid, the defenders felt comfortable bullying him.
It was a harsh reality that would eventually condemn Owen to a career plagued by brutal, structural injuries—much like Roberto Baggio or Marco van Basten.
It was the tragic curse of the undersized, explosive forward.
“Forget about them,” Allen finally said, his voice cold and flat.
“We came from the junior squad.
We are the blood of this club.
Let them throw their little tantrums.
When the time comes, we will just prove we are better.”
Gerrard and Owen looked at Allen.
The seven-year-old’s absolute, chilling confidence was contagious.
“You are right,” Gerrard grinned, his eyes lighting up.
“We just need to focus on our own game.”
The two older boys stood up, grabbed a ball, and jogged back onto the pitch to practice long-range passing.
Because the three of them were significantly younger than the core upper-academy squad (Allen was 7, Gerrard was 12, Owen was 12), Coach Harrison had separated them from the violent, full-contact scrimmages.
He designed specialized, highly focused training regimens for each of them.
For Owen, Harrison focused entirely on explosive sprinting and rapid ball control at top speed, acknowledging the boy’s physical limitations.
For Gerrard, Harrison focused on cross-field distribution, vision, and long-range shooting—laying the exact foundation for the devastating, trademark volleys that would eventually make him a global icon.
For Allen, however, Harrison provided almost zero structured tactical coaching.
Harrison simply gave Allen a bag of balls and told him to practice shooting.
To Allen, the repetition was incredibly boring.
As a former Tier-1 operator, his muscle memory and technical discipline were already flawless.
While his seven-year-old body still lacked adult power, his pure shooting technique—his ball-striking, his curve, his placement—was already operating at a world-class level.
If it came down to pure, stationary technical ability, Allen was entirely confident he could go toe-to-toe with Diego Maradona himself.
But orders were orders.
Allen picked up a ball, placed it on the edge of the penalty box, and prepared to execute his thousandth shot of the afternoon.