"He was a refined young gentleman wearing thin-rimmed glasses," the owner recalled. "He'd been sitting in the corner for a while, very quiet, barely saying a word. Before leaving, he made a point of leaving a message for you, saying to meet him at the shop tomorrow morning at nine."
Du An instinctively turned toward the corner table, but it was already vacant.
He had been laughing and messing around with his teammates and hadn't paid attention to the rest of the shop.
He had no idea Jack had been there the entire time, quietly watching them eat.
Du An shook his head wryly and made a mental note to repay Jack tomorrow.
By the time the group stepped out of the fish and chips shop, it was already past eight in the evening.
A late-November night in Liverpool was steeped in bone-chilling damp.
A fine drizzle drifted against their faces, mingling with the wind off the River Mersey, cold enough to turn the tips of their noses numb.
Streetlights stretched in a line down the road, their glow softening into halos of light in the misty rain, while the wet asphalt gleamed with reflections.
Yet the Liverpool boys seemed utterly oblivious to the cold.
With arms slung over one another's shoulders, they headed toward Kirkby, laughing and bickering as they walked.
Some hummed the club anthem off-key, while others argued over the Premier League standings they hadn't finished debating at dinner.
Their warm breath plumed into clouds of white mist against the freezing night.
Du An walked among them, listening to the chatter around him.
Steve Heighway's words from tactics class suddenly crossed his mind.
Heighway had said that football was never about eleven individuals fighting their own separate battles; it was about eleven people having each other's backs.
Before making a pass, think about which foot your teammate prefers and deliver the ball into his comfort zone. Don't hesitate when making a forward run—if you're bold enough to make the run, your teammate will be bold enough to play the pass; that's chemistry. And if you lose possession, don't rush into a rash tackle; trust that the teammate behind you will step up and cover.
Du An still remembered how stern Heighway had looked during those lectures.
He remembered his exact words: "Trust isn't built on shouting slogans. It's built pass by pinpoint pass, run by well-timed run, tracking back time after time. When everyone moves, when everyone is willing to run that extra yard for the person next to them, only then does a formation come alive, only then does a team come alive. That is what makes a team. That is Liverpool football."
Back then, it had sounded like mere grand theory. But after celebrating together, sharing a meal, and walking back side by side through the freezing night, Du An finally understood what those words meant.
Surrounded by noise and laughter, they soon arrived outside the youth academy dormitory.
Aslett stood in the foyer with his arms crossed, clearly having waited for some time. Seeing them return, he counted heads one by one.
Only then did he smile and wave a hand. "Good, everyone's back. Tomorrow is a rest day, so get some proper sleep. Regular training resumes first thing the day after."
The boys let out a cheer and scattered in twos and threes to their rooms.
Back in their dorm, Du An and Connor took turns washing up and climbed into their beds.
Only a small bedside lamp was left on in the room.
Staring at the ceiling, Du An replayed the entire day from start to finish. Countless images flashed through his mind; the day's emotional highs and lows felt as long as an entire season.
He used to think football was just burying his head in training, personal technique, and winning or losing on the pitch.
Only today did he realize it was so much more.
It was the unspoken understanding of teammates who never brought up his red card; it was Dalglish sitting down to reminisce about the past; it was a crowd of boys crammed into a little shop, sharing fish and chips.
This was football.
"Du An, you asleep?"
Connor's voice broke the silence from the opposite bed.
"No," Du An replied.
"Today... that long pass of yours was unbelievable." Connor rolled over to face him, his tone earnest. "Honestly, I really envy you. You've got real talent—you were born to play this game."
Du An paused, unsure how to respond.
"Every day I talk about making the U18s, breaking into the first team, playing at Anfield," Connor said with a self-deprecating laugh. "Deep down, I know my talent only goes so far. Even if I bust a gut, I'll be lucky to get rotational minutes in the U18s. Turning professional is just too hard. Dozens of kids come through Kirkby every year, but how many ever get to wear Liverpool's first-team shirt? Sometimes football feels so brutal. You pour years into it, and then overnight, you're just not good enough."
This was the first time Du An had ever heard Connor sound so disheartened.
Normally he was the liveliest, most confident kid in the group, as if nothing could ever trouble him.
"It's not that black and white," Du An said softly. "Your off-the-ball movement is better than mine, and you press harder up front. When we partner up, you make the runs and I deliver the passes—we complement each other. We're only just getting started in the U16s. There's a long road ahead."
"I hope so." Connor sighed, then chuckled. "Whatever, no point dwelling on it. I'll just give it everything for now. If I can't make the Premier League, I can always drop down to League One or League Two. Worst comes to worst, I'll become an academy coach. Either way, I'm never leaving football. Oh, by the way, I've saved up two months of pocket money. Planning to buy an iPod nano next month and load it with Beatles tracks. It'll be brilliant listening on the way to training..."
The topic shifted quickly.
They chatted about the Premier League, laughed over England's pathetic showing at the 2006 World Cup, and talked about silly things from their old schools.
Teenage worries came fast and faded just as quickly.
Before long, the conversation died down. Connor's voice drifted lower, his breathing grew steady, and he fell asleep.
Du An, however, remained awake.
Closing his eyes, the faint outlines of three beads appeared in his vision.
The blue bead had accumulated a small fraction, roughly one-fifteenth of the way; the red one, with a third spent, still had about half remaining; and the transparent bead remained perfectly quiet, without the slightest stir.
Was he a genius? Du An didn't know.
All he knew was that he possessed a quiet confidence others did not.
With these three beads, as long as he was willing to put in the work, he could keep improving.
He didn't have to wait in anxious dread like other academy players for talent to hand down its verdict.
He could make it. He could earn a living through football, pay for Grandma's medical treatment, give Ethan and himself a good life, and keep his promise to the kids back in the L5 community.
Outside, the drizzle kept falling, the wind tapping gently against the windowpane.
Du An pulled the blanket tightly around himself and slowly closed his eyes.
The next morning.
After a simple breakfast in the canteen, Du An changed into lightweight sportswear and jogged along the familiar streets toward the HJC memorial shop.
The late-November morning in Liverpool was still damp and chilly, though the overnight rain had stopped.
Shallow puddles lingered on the pavement, splashing into fine droplets beneath his shoes.
The air carried the rich, buttery aroma drifting from a corner bakery, blended with the salty sea breeze off the River Mersey.
Du An kept an easy pace, his breathing steady.
He arrived at the shop around ten to nine, right on time. The brass bell above the glass door chimed as he pushed it open.
Sarah was perched on a stepladder arranging scarves on the top shelf, while Jack stood behind the counter browsing the morning paper.
"Morning," Du An greeted him.
Stepping up to the counter, Du An took out his wallet, counted ninety-seven pounds, and slid it toward Jack.
"For dinner last night. Thanks for covering it, but that was my treat to the team. I can't let you pay for it."
Jack glanced at the cash in front of him without picking it up.
Instead, he smiled, set the newspaper down, and looked at Du An. "No need. Think of it as... an advance payment for using you as my material."
Chapter 48