When the final whistle blew, applause rippled across the touchline.
Every single clap was directed at the boy in the number seven kit.
In a span of fifteen minutes, Allen George had utterly conquered the pitch.
Joss and Scott exchanged a silent, incredulous look.
It seemed God truly favored Liverpool Football Club.
Just a few years after dropping Michael Owen into their laps, the heavens had delivered an absolute monster.
As for the detailed scouting report Joss had requested, Scott had long since dropped his pen.
There was no need to take notes.
Allen’s performance had burned itself into their memories.
The final score was 17-0.
Allen had scored all seventeen goals.
He had intercepted the ball, broken through the lines, and finished every single drive on his own.
In a single trial match, he had showcased elite pace, explosive physicality, flawless technique, and a terrifyingly high football IQ.
Joss watched Allen casually jog off the pitch and approach a stunningly elegant woman on the sidelines.
The boy offered her a bright, childish smile.
Joss knew he had to act immediately.
If a talent of this magnitude slipped through his fingers, he would never forgive himself.
He practically sprinted over to the mother and son.
“Madam, I hardly know where to begin,” Joss gasped, trying to catch his breath.
“You saw what he did out there.
Your son possesses the potential to become a global superstar.
I want him in the Liverpool youth academy.
What do you say?”
Allen exchanged a knowing glance with his mother.
The display of absolute dominance had worked perfectly.
He had successfully secured his extraction from the amateur ranks.
“Oh, heavens, why wouldn’t we?” Anna laughed gracefully.
“Our entire family supports Liverpool.
It is my greatest dream to see him wear the red kit at Anfield.
That is exactly why I brought him here today.”
Joss visibly relaxed, a massive wave of relief washing over him.
“That is wonderful to hear, Madam.
You have my absolute word that he is in good hands.
With his natural gifts, it is only a matter of time before the world knows his name.”
“I am trusting you with him, Mr.
Joss,” Anna replied smoothly. The source of this chapter is g.com.
“I want to see him on that Anfield pitch as soon as possible.”
“We will do everything in our power,” Joss promised.
“The junior academy trains for two hours every evening, with matches on the weekends.
It is specifically scheduled so it does not interfere with the boys’ schooling.”
Joss always made sure to emphasize the academic schedule.
Most parents were fiercely protective of their children’s education and feared that joining an academy would ruin their academic prospects.
“That sounds perfectly reasonable,” Anna nodded.
“Well then, Mr.
Joss, we will take our leave for today.
He is covered in mud and needs a proper bath.”
“Of course, Madam.
Have a safe journey home.” Joss bowed his head slightly.
“And George, remember to be here tomorrow at exactly four o’clock for your first official training session.”
Without realizing it, Joss had adopted a highly respectful, almost subservient tone when addressing Anna.
The woman radiated the quiet, crushing authority of ancient nobility.
It was an aura that instinctively commanded deference from ordinary men.
“I will see you tomorrow, sir,” Allen replied dutifully.
He took his mother’s hand and walked away.
Joss stood on the touchline for a long time, watching the boy disappear into the distance, his mind racing with visions of future glory.
Later that evening, Allen delivered his after-action report to his grandfather and father.
Backed by Anna’s glowing testimony, the two men had no reason to doubt that Allen had absolutely slaughtered the competition.
Hammond laughed until his face turned red.
The fearsome patriarch had fully embraced his new identity as a die-hard Liverpool fan.
The thought of his own bloodline dominating Anfield brought him immeasurable joy.
The next afternoon, Allen finished his standard academic tutoring and began the trek to the Liverpool training grounds.
As the heir to the most powerful family in Britain, his life was not exactly easy.
Hammond subjected him to a grueling curriculum of economics, history, and languages.
Adding football to his schedule meant he was essentially pulling double shifts.
To make matters worse, his family refused to assign a driver to take him to the academy.
Hammond insisted that he walk the two miles alone.
It was a calculated move to strip away any aristocratic entitlement and forge total independence.
As a former JSOC operator, Jack Vance was intimately familiar with forced ruck marches.
But trapped in a seven-year-old’s body, the trek was still physically taxing.
He grumbled quietly to himself the entire way.
The Liverpool junior academy was located a fair distance from the main Melwood training complex.
It was shockingly spartan.
There were no grand stadiums or state-of-the-art facilities, just a well-maintained grass pitch and a small locker room.
This was standard for English football at the under-10 level.
The club did not invest heavy infrastructure into the juniors.
The sole objective at this age was to let the kids play, develop their positional awareness, and filter out the weak.
By the time Allen arrived, Joss was already on the pitch leading a dozen boys through warm-up drills.
Realizing he was the last to arrive, Allen jogged over.
“Sir, my apologies.
I am late.”
Joss turned around.
He put his hands on his hips and adopted a stern, authoritative expression.
“George, tardiness is unacceptable in this academy.
Give me one good reason why you are late.”
“I had to walk here by myself, sir.
I have no escort.”
Joss blinked, glancing toward the parking lot.
Every other boy on the pitch had been dropped off by a doting parent.
To see a seven-year-old navigate the city streets completely alone was highly unusual.
“I see,” Joss said, his stern facade cracking slightly.
“I will let it slide this time.
But moving forward, you manage your time better.
Now stop standing around and get your boots on.”
“Yes, sir,” Allen replied, immediately breaking into a sprint toward the locker room.
Joss let out a long, quiet exhale.
He had spent the last twenty minutes in a state of silent panic, terrified that a rival scout from Everton or Manchester United had intercepted the boy.
Seeing Allen finally show up felt like a massive weight lifting off his chest.
A few minutes later, Allen emerged onto the grass in his training kit.
Joss clapped his hands together loudly.
“Alright, gentlemen!
Gather round!
Today, we are running a full scrimmage.
I need to see what you are made of, and more importantly, I need to figure out where you actually belong on a football pitch!”