North Liverpool, the Everton district.
Shops along the street opened up one after another.
The old-fashioned English pub facing the road was already packed with customers.
The English fondness for a drink was inscribed into daily life itself, day or night, regardless of the hour.
Even on a weekday afternoon, people still sat down and raised their glasses—beer foam spilling over the rim, the smell of malt mingling with tobacco smoke, filling the whole room.
Tables and chairs packed in close together, the wooden bar worn to a polish, old team flags and match posters hanging on the walls—the most ordinary sight of any pub in an English neighbourhood like this one.
Men sat clustered together, some chatting, some arguing over match results, a glass of ice-cold beer always within reach.
For many of the regulars, it wasn’t about getting drunk.
It was simply part of everyday life.
David Coleman sat among the crowd with a half-finished glass of light beer in hand.
Every conversation in the pub circled back, without exception, to last week’s fourth round of the Premier League.
The early-September derby, where Liverpool had suffered a humiliating 0-3 away defeat to Everton, had become the hottest topic of conversation for football fans across the whole neighbourhood.
Several die-hard Liverpool supporters nearby wore dark, sour expressions.
David, a die-hard Evertonian, felt exactly the opposite.
Every time he thought back to that match, he got worked up all over again, his voice climbed a notch, cutting clear through the noisy pub.
“So, what if it’s ‘God’ Fowler?
Even the sharpest spear can’t punch through Everton’s goal!
Howard stood right on his line and shut so-called God out completely—the whole match, he had absolutely nothing!”
That set the Liverpool supporters nearby off.
One man slammed his glass down hard on the table, the crack of it was sharp and jarring.
“Enough of that rubbish!
What was that from Phil Neville, then?
A blatant, malicious tackle, reckless and filthy—that’s a straight red card, through and through!
The ref must’ve been blind not to give it, he should’ve been sent off there and then!
If that red card had been given, we’d never have lost!”
David raised an eyebrow and shot back, “That’s just how a match goes!
If you lose, don’t go making excuses!
Did Carragher’s foul not deserve a card either, then?
Three-nil is a real scoreline, plain and simple!
Your whole attack fell apart out there—that’s got nothing to do with a defensive foul!”
The two sides went at it.
Of course, it never went further than words.
In this city, red and blue were bitter rivals, but the fans got on well enough with each other all the same—after all, it wasn’t unusual to find both a Liverpool supporter and an Evertonian in the very same family.
Each side had a bit of the other in it.
In fact, in England, the Merseyside derby was even known as the friendly derby.
Compared to other derbies—the kind where tempers flared and fights broke out at the drop of a hat, Everton and Liverpool fans got along with each other pretty well.
But once an argument got going, it was still red-faced and loud with both sides shouting over each other, the noise was drowning out whatever music the pub had playing in the background.
Right as the argument was at its height—the bartender leaned out from behind the bar and raised his voice toward David.
“David!
Phone for you!”
David heard it, got up, pushed his way through the crowd, and strode quickly over to the bar, snatching up the receiver of the landline sitting on the counter.
But clear enough for David to make out.
The excitement from a moment ago froze on his face at once, and then flared even higher, his face was going faintly red.
His whole body went stiff, his breath was catching.
“What?
Dean?
Where?
I’ll be right there!”
Two short lines, and he hung up the phone at once.
He turned, dug some change out of his pocket, and slapped it down on the bar.
The fans behind him, seeing this, stopped their argument at once, breaking into laughter and teasing.
“Ha, what’s going on?
Has our scout gotten himself worked up over something new again?”
“Dug up another wonder kid, has he?
Same old story, that!”
Everyone joined in the ribbing.
David had spent years planting himself in the local pickup pitches, always hunting for young talent, always claiming to have found some promising kid—but he had yet to actually produce a single player who’d gone on to make a real name for himself.
Over time, it had become a running joke among the regulars at the pub.
David reached up and straightened his collar without much thought, not slowing his steps, and turned back toward the crowd of laughing Liverpool fans.
“Go ahead and laugh.
The lad I’ve found this time is nothing like any of the others I’ve turned up before.
Wait and see—give it a few years, and he’ll be wearing an Everton shirt, leading the team, and giving the lot of you a proper hiding!”
With that, he didn’t stick around any longer, turning and walking briskly out through the pub door.
The laughter behind him didn’t die down at all—if anything, it only grew louder.
Everyone assumed he was just talking big again, as always.
No one took it seriously.
No one gave it a second thought.
David got a taxi and reached the hospital quickly.
At the end of the corridor, he spotted three familiar figures at a glance.
David walked over quickly.
Before he could get a word out, Dalglish turned to him first and went straight to the point.
“David.
You said before that Dean has top-level talent for football.”
David nodded at once, his eyes were lighting up.
Dalglish looked at the silent boy beside him and went on.
“This boy needs a chance right now.
A chance to play.
Since you rate him so highly, why don’t you let him show you in person?”
The moment those words landed, light burst into David’s eyes, brimming with excitement.
“Of course!
Not a problem at all!
I’ll sort it right now, no waiting, no delay!
Let’s go straight to Finch Farm training ground! Visit novelping.com for the full chapter.
I’ll get in touch with the academy coaches and get a trial slot booked!”
David turned to face Dean, reining in his excitement, his tone was turning earnest.
“Dean, trust our academy.
Trust Everton.
You’ll have heard of Wayne.
Wayne Rooney, at Manchester United now—he’s a boy who came straight up through our Everton academy.
That long-range curler against Arsenal in 2002, the one that ended the Gunners’ thirty-match unbeaten run outright—back then he was just like you.
And now the whole world’s seen him.”
He’s the street sprite out of Croxteth.
You could be the next one, just like him.
Our own gifted lad, out of West Derby!”
Dean looked up at David.
He didn’t understand the finer points of academy systems.
He didn’t understand the legendary histories behind famous players.
But he knew one thing.
Playing football meant a chance.
Meant a way forward.
He needed a way forward.
Grandma’s hospital stay needed money for treatment.
The family’s savings were completely gone.
Both brothers’ lives, their whole future, hung suspended in midair.
Right now, he didn’t need to love the game.
He just needed a chance to earn money—something that could hold up a family on the verge of falling apart.
Football was, for the moment, the only lifeline he could grab onto.
At the very least, it was the only opportunity he could actually see in front of him.
Was he supposed to, instead, take Mr.
Johnson’s advice and go train in some other sport?
But he trusted football more.
Ethan loved football.
Dean nodded slightly.
“I’ll go.”
Ethan stood off to the side, light was burning in his eyes too, unable to hide his hope.
This was a real shot at the Premier League.
Maybe, in a few years, he’d get to watch Dean out there on a Premier League pitch.
Dalglish watched Dean’s expression and gave a small nod, a trace of satisfaction was on his face.
He could, of course, have simply helped this family with money directly.
But he’d rather they found their own way through this.
Money runs out eventually but the ability to earn it stays with you for life.
With nothing more to say, all four of them set off at once.
David immediately got on the phone.
“Hey, Lynn, listen, get me a match sorted, quick—I want to bring a kid in for a trial.”
He glanced over at Ethan as he spoke, then went on, “Oh, actually, make that two kids, twelve or thirteen years old.
Get it sorted, fast.”