Paul

From pushing the ball in a straight line to weaving through cones, from cutting inside with his instep to flicking with the outside of his boot, Du An absorbed every pointer Coach Aslett gave and threw himself into repetitive practice. He was not afraid of making mistakes; if he messed up, he simply analyzed what went wrong and corrected it. He practiced with complete dedication. Watching him train, Aslett couldn't help but smile. Who wouldn't like a kid who worked this hard? The morning mist gradually dispersed, and Liverpool's rare sunlight crept across the training pitch. Du An was drenched in sweat. When the voices of other players drifted over from a distance, with less than twenty minutes left before the squad gathered, Aslett raised a hand and called for a stop. "That'll do. Good job. Take a breather. You can skip the warm-up later, but stay sharp during team training this morning." Aslett gathered up the cones, speaking with clear approval. "You picked that up much faster than I expected. We'll carry on this afternoon and work on shielding the ball with your back to the defender." Du An acknowledged the instruction. With a flick of his foot, the football popped up neatly into his hands. Du An smiled faintly. He had finally mastered this trick and no longer had to bend down to pick up the ball. Over the rest of the week, Du An lived in a whirlwind of high-intensity training. Every morning, he arrived early to work with Aslett on dribbling, shielding, and ball control using various techniques. In the mornings, he completed full sessions with the squad; in the afternoons, he attended school. After classes, he returned for extra drills focused on defensive positioning and long passing. Fast learner though he was, he had yet to fully master everything. It would take time. At the same time, changes were taking place on the pitch. Du An had indeed taken Heighway's words about being a "leader" to heart. He still couldn't constantly direct play the way Heighway wanted, spending most of his time silently focused on the ball. But when familiar teammates like Connor or Flanagan drifted out of position or were slow to track back, he would occasionally call out a name, offering a brief shout: "Shift left!" or "Push up!" Even that was a significant breakthrough. Watching from the touchline from time to time, Heighway could clearly sense the boy gradually integrating into the team. He neither pushed nor praised him; he simply watched, and waited. On Friday afternoon, when Du An returned from school, Aslett seemed to be waiting specifically for him. "No extra training this afternoon," the coach said upon seeing him. "Heighway wants you in his office." Du An nodded and headed toward the academy offices. Pushing the door open, he found Heighway seated behind the desk, holding a thin envelope. When Heighway saw him enter, he offered a smile and handed it across. "Your weekly wage. A hundred and ten pounds." Du An took it, feeling a distinct weight in his hand. Under Kirkby's rules, apprentice wages were normally deposited directly into accounts at their partner bank, Barclays. For minors his age, by law, withdrawals required a guardian's signature. However, Dalglish had spoken to Kirkby to keep things simple for now, allowing them to pay Du An directly in cash. Du An nodded earnestly. "Thank you, boss." "Good work this week, lad." Heighway waved a dismissive hand, saying nothing more about the money, but smiling warmly. "Keep it up. I'm looking forward to next week—especially seeing you open your mouth on the pitch a bit more." "Yes, sir," Du An replied. After exchanging a few polite words, he took his leave. By the time Du An got home, Ethan had long returned from school. Hearing the door open, the younger boy turned around immediately. The brothers had barely exchanged a few words when a knock sounded at the door. Du An opened it to find Kenny Dalglish standing outside. "Mr. Dalglish," Du An said, surprised. Dalglish greeted them both with a smile and came in to sit down. He casually asked how Du An's week of training had gone, and Du An recounted everything in detail, from squad sessions to the extra drills. Dalglish listened attentively, nodding every now and then, before finally explaining why he had come: "My lad Paul is back from the States tonight. We've got dinner ready at our place, so come along with me and eat with us. It'll be lively." He looked at Du An and added, "If you're free tomorrow, come somewhere with me." Du An agreed at once. He knew full well that Dalglish's support had never been about his talent. Back during the Hillsborough disaster, those who lost their lives were the most die-hard Kopites, the purest Reds supporters in the city. Over the years, Dalglish had quietly helped the victims' families, and theirs was simply one of many. Yet for Du An and Ethan, that assistance had held their crumbling lives together at their darkest hour. It was a debt of gratitude he would always carry. Dalglish drove the two brothers to his home, a detached house on the outskirts of Liverpool. Both Du An and Ethan felt a little out of place. When Marina opened the door, her smile was gentle. She took their coats naturally and chatted casually about school and training, putting them at ease right away. "Paul, come down, the guests are here!" she called toward the stairs, then turned back to Du An with a smile. "Our Paul plays football too. He's with Houston Dynamo in MLS now. If you ever have questions about training, just ask him. Don't listen to Kenny—he's an old fossil. What would he know about the way young lads play nowadays?" Soon, a tall man came down the stairs. His features bore a resemblance to Dalglish's, and he had a warm, open smile. He shook hands with both of them and sat down, speaking with complete candor: "My dad's always praising your talent. Truth is, there's not much I can teach you. My own talent is pretty ordinary—otherwise I wouldn't have ended up in MLS before even turning thirty, and not even as a regular starter, spending most of my time on the bench. "To be honest, I'm already thinking about retiring." At those words, before Du An or Ethan could react, Marina turned to her son in surprise. "Oh, Paul? You don't want to play anymore? How come you never mentioned this?" Paul looked somewhat relieved, hiding nothing. "Coming home to see you this time was actually so I could tell you. It's not that I don't want to play. It's just that I really can't keep up anymore, and I've hit my ceiling." Sitting on the sofa, Du An frowned slightly. This was the first time he had felt the sheer cruelty of professional football so acutely. Until now, his goal had seemed clear: train hard, secure his place in the U16s, earn a professional contract, make more money, and give Ethan and their grandmother a better life. He had thought that as long as he was willing to grind and dedicate more hours than anyone else, he could climb step by step. But Paul's words splashed over him like a bucket of cold water, snapping him awake. The academy was merely the first step. On this road, how many players trained tirelessly day in and day out from childhood, giving every ounce of strength they had, only to be quietly discarded in the end due to talent, injuries, timing, or bad luck? Even carrying a legendary surname and receiving the most formal training from an early age could not guarantee a lasting career. The road was far harder than he had imagined. Ethan opened his mouth, wanting to offer some words of comfort, but in the end said nothing. In his mind, the name Dalglish was synonymous with a legend. He had never imagined that even a legend's son could struggle for playing time and face the day he had to leave the pitch behind.