The street held that damp smell so common to Liverpool.
And a faint tang of coal smoke.
Most of the houses in West Derby were old, their red brick walls had faded to a dull brown.
Dean kept running along his usual route, but the red in the middle bead had barely grown at all.
It had stopped a few weeks ago.
It seemed like plain running could no longer generate new red energy.
Well—energy was just what Dean had taken to calling the red, for lack of anything better.
But whatever it was, running still made him feel free.
His body was alive, singing.
Maybe—he could try long-distance training?
The thought sparked across his mind like a flint strike.
By the time he got home, Ethan wasn’t back yet.
Dean sorted through the week’s schoolwork; it was due tomorrow, Monday.
At thirteen, he still didn’t know what he was capable of.
The only thing he could do was keep his schoolwork in order.
He felt he was different from everyone else.
Not just because of the three transparent beads.
There was also his own mind, which felt strangely mature for his age, leaving him feeling out of step with his classmates, he looked at them and saw little kids.
Later that day, Ethan got back first, filthy from head to toe.
He flashed Dean a wide grin before hurrying off to shower and change, and wash his dirty clothes while he was at it.
Once he’d finished all that, Ethan told Dean, “Hm, saw a guy at Everton’s academy today—an absolute monster.
Running the ball down the wing, we couldn’t even get near it.
And a monster like that still barely gets a look-in with the youth squads.
God, making it as a pro is brutal.
The ones who actually make the first team—those are the real monsters…”
Usually, when Ethan told Dean things like this,
Dean never had much to say back.
Ethan was used to it by now.
Close to noon, Grandma Mason came home, a little later than usual, but clearly in good spirits, wearing a warm smile.
“I ran into Anderson on the way, got to chatting and lost track of the time.” She raised a hand to smooth the white hair at her temple, then turned toward the kitchen.
“I’ll get started on lunch.”
At the name Anderson, Dean felt a flicker of unease.
He asked, “Is he trying to get you to put more money into that pension fund again?”
Grandma Mason was in good spirits.
“Yes.
This new project is going to bring us solid returns—by then, you and Ethan will have enough for university, and things will be a lot easier for all of us going forward.”
Something about this didn’t sit right with Dean.
Right now, the household’s expenses ran almost totally on savings.
Grandma Mason had no way of earning more money.
“Grandma, I think he might be lying to you.
I’ve read about scams like this in the papers—they dress it up as safe retirement planning, promise huge payouts, wrap it in some offshore shell investment scheme, promise your principal back plus high returns—but really it’s just a way to steal your money.”
Grandma Mason smiled.
“Mm, all right, I’ll be careful.
But Anderson’s a good man.”
Dean knew she was just placating him.
He didn’t push it further.
Bang bang bang!
Someone was knocking.
Mason wiped her hands and went to the door.
She opened it to find a middle-aged man standing there.
“Hello, who are you looking for?”
“Mrs.
Mason, is it?
I’m David Coleman.
I’ve called a few times this past week…”
The moment she heard the name,
Mason’s face went dark at once.
She moved to shut the door immediately.
But David Coleman got a hand on the frame first, blocking it.
“Mrs.
Mason, please, just hear me out,” David Coleman said.
“Your boy, Dean—he’s shown extraordinary talent for football.
It’s a gift from God.
Our Everton academy is one of the best in all of England.
We—”
“Shut your mouth!” the old woman screamed.
“Don’t you ever say that word again!
Never!
Football—football took everything from me!
My husband, my sons, my grandson…
They…”
As she spoke, the old gush of emotion surged back up.
Her chest heaved, her breath came tight and fast.
“They were trapped in there…
crushed together, the terraces jammed solid…
calling out, over and over…
help me…
I can’t breathe…”
Her eyes had gone dull, staring into empty space.
Hillsborough, from decades ago, was an image she could never let go of.
David’s words today had torn the old wound open again.
Dean and Ethan exchanged a glance.
Dean walked to the door.
He had grown up watching his grandmother’s terror, had heard her nightmare mutterings countless times in the dead of night.
He understood exactly what football meant to this family.
But somewhere inside him, a doubt had started to grow: was he really unsuited for the game?
Because the way his body moved when he played, the instinct for reading the pitch—all of it had felt like something he was simply born with.
David seemed to understand something of what was happening.
Because in this city, Heysel and Hillsborough were treated like two forbidden words.
He pressed on anyway: “Mrs.
Mason, the disaster is a wound from the past, but football itself is innocent.
Dean’s talent shouldn’t go to waste.
This is his future—”
“I told you to shut up.”
Dean stepped forward, his small body came itself between David and his grandmother.
He looked up, meeting David’s eyes directly.
“I’ll say it once more.
Get off my family’s doorstep.”
David frowned, taken aback.
“Dean, think carefully about this.
This is your chance to change your whole life.
Your talent—”
“Talent?”
Dean took another step forward, closing the distance.
“I’m giving you the respect of being a scout by letting you walk away on your own.
Don’t make me put my hands on you.
If you don’t leave today, I’ll beat you until you’re crawling out of West Derby, and you will never come back.”
David looked at the boy’s unyielding eyes, then at the old woman behind him with tears flowing without end, swaying as if she might collapse at any moment.
Every word he might have said stuck in his throat.
Nothing came out.
“Okay, okay,” David Coleman said, raising his hands.
“I’ll go.
If you ever change your mind, you can find me at the community pitch.”
Before leaving, David turned and gave Grandma Mason an apology.
As he walked away, he glanced back once at Dean.
Dean glared back at him.
The next day.
After breakfast, Dean and Ethan set off for Bishop John Catholic School.
The school had produced no shortage of football players over the years, the most famous, of course, was Steven Gerrard.
At this school, plenty of the boys carried a football dream of their own.
He and Ethan weren’t in the same year, so once they reached the school gates, they went their separate ways.
“Hey!
Look at this!
Which loony bin did this nutter escape from?” a harsh voice called out from behind him.
Dean stopped walking.
These irritating little pests, again.
“Heard you had a great time playing in the mud last week.
What, has your crazy old grandma finally lost control of you?” another voice chimed in.
It belonged to Mark, the one who was always trailing after the buzz-cut kid, Billy Carter.
Somehow Billy had gotten wind that Dean had been playing football at the community pitch.
To thugs like these, Dean’s origin was original sin—not fit to touch their sacred game.
“Oi!
I’m talking to you, orphan boy!” Mark shoved forward and pulled himself in Dean’s path, deliberately knocking his shoulder into him.
This was an intentional provocation.
“Move.”
“Not moving.
What are you gonna do about it?” Mark forced up a show of bravado and stepped in again, nearly pressed up against Dean, shoving at his shoulder to provoke him.
“Heard you can really fight.
Go on then, let’s see it, you no-mum-no-dad little—”
Smack!
Mark’s sentence cut off mid-word.
He never even saw Dean move.
All he registered was an enormous force slamming into his face, stars exploding across his vision, and then he was stumbling backward, crashing to the ground.
Dean stood where he was, drew his fist back, and shook out his wrist.
He looked down at Mark, sprawling on the ground, and said with ice-cold voice: “I told you.
Move.”