Heighway’s formal decision to bring him into full U16 training didn’t come as much of a surprise to Dean.
He’d already seen it coming.
Heighway had mentioned to him before that as soon as his fundamentals were up to standard, he’d bring him fully into the squad—it had only ever been a matter of when, not if.
Even so, even Dean himself knew the speed of it had gone beyond anything reasonable.
From walking into Kirkby with absolutely no background to qualifying for U16 training, it had taken him less than half a month, start to finish.
Set against the whole of Liverpool’s academy system, that kind of growth rate bordered on being absurd.
Over this stretch of time, Dean had also taken it on himself to understand England’s full youth football league structure, and gotten a clearer picture of how Kirkby fit into it.
If he was going to make it as a professional, after all, he needed to actually understand the game.
England’s mainstream youth competition structure currently broke down into three main categories: the Premier Reserve League, the Premier Academy League, and the Football Combination.
Within that, the U16 age group didn’t have any proper nationwide league of its own—most of the regular playing opportunities at that level came down to friendly matches privately arranged between Liverpool and nearby clubs, or a handful of professional clubs with close ties to each other.
Purely a way to get a look at young players’ form and to spot a few good prospects.
Any young player genuinely talented enough, and rated highly enough by the club, would typically get pulled straight up past their own age group into the U18 squad, to compete in the country’s proper, nationally organized competitions.
The single highest-level, most prestigious youth competition in the whole of England was the U18 league.
That is, the Premier Academy League.
This was the central stage where England’s academy players proved themselves.
On top of that, the U18 squad could also compete in the FA Youth Cup, another heavyweight cup competition spanning the youth systems of every professional club in England.
His roommate Conor had already been pulled up into the U18 squad on the strength of his own strong performances, and had made it onto the matchday squad lists for both competitions though he hadn’t yet gotten an actual chance to step onto the pitch.
Speaking of the FA Youth Cup, Liverpool’s U18s had just won that very competition last season—one of the strongest results Heighway could point to from his time managing the youth side.
So, making it into the U16s now gave Dean a real boost of confidence.
He understood his own situation with total clarity.
Right now, all he’d signed was a scholar contract with a hundred and ten pounds a week.
It was enough to get by on.
But if he wanted to pay back what he owed Dalglish and Marina, he needed a professional contract.
Only by properly establishing himself in the U16 squad, and putting in performances good enough to really stand out, would he even have a shot at pushing for a formal professional contract.
Once he landed a professional contract, his annual salary would jump straight up into the tens of thousands of pounds.
That kind of income would be substantial even measured against Liverpool’s ordinary adult working population.
More than enough to pay back what he owed, and to fix the hard, cramped life he and Ethan were living.
The opportunity was right there in front of him.
Dean looked up at Heighway and said, with some weight in his voice, “I’m ready, boss.
Thank you.”
Heighway looked at Dean and broke into a warm smile.
“No need to thank me.
All of this, you earned yourself, through your own talent and your own hard work.”
“I’ve seen exactly how hard you’ve worked, this whole stretch of time.”
“And of course, the talent you’ve shown has genuinely taken me by surprise, in the best way.”
He clapped Dean on the shoulder, and, half meaning to, half not, spoke one of football’s plainest, most vital truths.
“The world of football has always run on results.
What you show on the pitch—that’s everything you are.
I’m genuinely looking forward to watching you grow and perform from here.”
Dean nodded firmly.
Then, as though something had just occurred to him, Heighway pulled two beautifully printed match tickets from his pocket and held them out to Dean.
“Tomorrow, Saturday afternoon, the first team’s got a home match at Anfield.
I happen to have a spare pair of tickets.
Take Ethan along, go feel what Anfield’s really like.”
Dean was caught off guard.
Given his current income and his family’s situation, there was no way he’d ever have had spare money to go watch a Premier League match in person—these tickets were worth more than he could easily put into words.
He looked down at the tickets in his hand, the two teams printed clearly across them: Liverpool at home against Tottenham Hotspur.
Having spent this whole stretch of time cramming everything he could about football, the name wasn’t unfamiliar to him anymore.
Spurs were one of the Premier League’s traditional big clubs with a long, rich history and no shortage of genuinely world-class players over the years—but their results had always been up and down year to year, and they’d never quite gotten their hands on the biggest trophies, nowhere close to Liverpool’s own deep well of silverware and history.
Looking at the crest, the stadium name, the seat information printed on the tickets.
Dean found himself thinking back to what Heighway had just said.
One day, you’ll really be standing out there on that pitch…
Friday evening at the Kirkby dormitory was loud, full of noise.
Players were all excitedly shouting about their weekend plans—dates, matches to watch, trips somewhere, after a week shut away under close management, everyone needed room to let loose a little.
Dean packed his bag.
Beside him, Conor muttered on full of regret.
“It’s honestly ridiculous, I couldn’t get tickets for tomorrow’s home game for love or money—sold out the second they went on sale.
Anfield tickets are always this mad, impossible to get hold of, can’t even get a season ticket, ugh.”
Half a month of living side by side had left the two of them on good terms.
Dean heard this and said, simply, “Well, this is Liverpool, isn’t it.”
He didn’t bother bragging, in that moment, about the two tickets Heighway had given him.
He just mentioned, in passing, “I’m training with the squad from next week.”
“What?!”
Conor turned to Dean, his whole face was lighting up with delight.
“Really?
That’s brilliant!
I’ve been hoping we’d get to play on the same pitch together for ages.
You’re seriously good enough that it’s a bit unfair, honestly.”
“Right, get some proper rest this weekend.
See you next week.” Dean gave a wave and a smile as he said goodbye.
“Yeah.
See you next week.”
Dean shouldered his backpack and turned to leave the Kirkby training ground.
Running the whole way home, as always.
By the time he got there, Ethan had already made it back ahead of him.
Ever since Dean had joined Kirkby, Dalglish had thoughtfully arranged a dependable foster family for Ethan—the Andersons.
The couple were born-and-bred Liverpool diehards, lifelong followers of the Reds.
Hearing the brothers’ story, learning what the Mason family had been through, one tragedy after another, and the boys’ situation—alone, with nowhere else to turn, they hadn’t hesitated for a moment, and had happily taken Ethan in.
Aside from school, Ethan lived with the foster family day to day, and came home each weekend to wait for Dean’s return.
The moment he spotted Dean.
Ethan launched straight into a stream of questions.
“What did you train this week, Dean?
Same feel-for-the-ball stuff as last week?
Did you get to play in a match yet?
Do Liverpool first-team players ever come by Kirkby to watch?
Could you get Gerrard’s autograph…?”
Question after question, all different, all at once.
The road Dean was walking was the exact one Ethan had dreamed of his whole life, and would never get the chance to touch himself.
Ethan listened as Dean slowly walked him through the day-to-day of life at Kirkby.
Every single word, he threw himself into completely.
As if he were standing right there on that training pitch himself, running and training alongside Dean.
When he heard that Dean would officially be joining the U16 squad the next week, Ethan’s eyes lit up at once.
“That’s brilliant, Dean!” Ethan’s voice climbed, brimming with excitement.
“You’ll be playing proper matches soon, then!
Real professional academy football—nothing like the scrappy, low-rent pickup games we used to play at the community pitch!”
Dean watched him, worked up like this, and gave a small nod.
Then, he pulled the tickets out of his pocket and held them out.
“Don’t get too far ahead of yourself.
Tomorrow, we’re going to watch a Premier League match first.”
The moment he saw the tickets.
Ethan’s eyes went wide at once.
The next instant, an enormous, disbelieving cry tore through the whole house.
“OH MY GOD!!”
He fumbled to grab the tickets, his fingers were trembling slightly, staring at the stadium name and the match details printed on them, checking it over and over, so overwhelmed he could barely get his words out.
“Anfield!
Liverpool at home!
We’re going to Anfield, Dean!”
The boy’s voice carried an excitement he couldn’t hold back.
And underneath it, a slight catch, close to tears.
“Dean, going to Anfield—this has been my dream!”
“Grandma never let us anywhere near football, wouldn’t even let us go near the ground itself.
All I could do was go through every sports newspaper I could find, poring over anything written about Anfield, reading every single word over and over.
The stands, the singing, the pitch, the atmosphere on matchday—every single word they used could keep me up half the night, just from the excitement!”
For all these years, all he’d had was cold newsprint between him and Anfield—imagining its scale, imagining the raw devotion of the Reds’ supporters.
He’d thought it would always stay something completely out of reach.
He’d never imagined that today, the dream would actually come true.
Ethan couldn’t hold the feeling in any longer.
He stepped forward and pulled Dean into a tight hug, his chest heaving, his voice was trembling.
“Thank you, Dean.
Thank you so much.”
“God, I feel like every drop of blood in my body’s on fire right now!
I’m going to Anfield, I’m going to see that pitch with my own eyes, I’m going to hear tens of thousands of people singing ‘You’ll Never Walk Alone’ together with my own ears!”
“I’m so excited, I’m actually so excited, Dean!
What do I even do with myself!”
“God!
I genuinely can’t even imagine what it’ll be like the day I see you actually playing on that pitch at Anfield—I think I’ll pass out!
God!
I honestly can’t stop right now!”
Watching his brother, completely overwhelmed, not knowing what to do with himself.
Dean smiled, and patted Ethan on the back, without saying anything.
He knew what Ethan needed right now was just someone to listen.
To hear all that fire churning through him, to hear everything he felt for Anfield.
In fact, everything Dean understood about football, about fans, about that pure, uncomplicated love for the game—all of it had come from the boy standing in front of him right now.
This was his brother, blood on neither side, the one who’d shown him the burning light football could hold.