On the pitch, the full-time whistle blew, and the Liverpool bench erupted into cheers.
Du An high-fived and embraced the teammates rushing toward him, broad smiles lighting up every face.
A resounding 3–0 away victory over Everton U16, right on Everton's own turf at the Finch Farm Training Ground.
No victory could have tasted sweeter!
Adam Forshaw walked off the pitch with a dark, brooding expression, not pausing as he brushed past Du An.
Du An tilted his head and called after him, "Hey."
Adam turned back, his brow furrowed.
"You didn't score," Du An said with a grin, a touch of youthful mischief in his eyes. "I was waiting."
Adam shot him a venomous glare, said nothing, and turned on his heel to stalk off.
In competitive sports, results always did the talking. A loss was a loss; spewing harsh words after the fact was pointless. Anything more would only make him a laughingstock.
"Not bad at all—you shut him right up," Ben said, coming over to clap Du An on the shoulder, looking thoroughly triumphant. "If you hadn't locked him down in midfield, we wouldn't have had such an easy run. Shame I missed out on a hat-trick by one goal, though. Otherwise, we'd have really made them submit today right here at Finch Farm."
Du An gave a wry smile. In truth, he had wanted to set Ben up for a hat-trick, even spending one of his red ball chances. But Ben hadn't capitalized on the opportunity.
The experience made him realize that the red ball's effect by no means guaranteed a goal—it merely created a major scoring chance. Whether it was converted still came down to his teammates.
"Count your blessings, will you? Isn't a brace enough to brag about?" Lewis said with a chuckle, bumping him playfully. "My rebound was the real crucial touch. Otherwise, that header of yours would've been for nothing."
Connor chimed in to join the banter: "Don't forget my chipped pass! If I hadn't picked you out so cleanly, neither of you would've had a chance!"
The whole squad moved toward the away dressing room in a noisy, boisterous cluster, trailing their youthful exuberance all the way down the hall.
Inside the away dressing room, Connor was the first to grab a bath towel and bolt for the showers. Two seconds later, an ear-splitting curse echoed from inside: "Fuck! They didn't turn on the hot water!"
The players outside instantly burst into laughter.
Lewis leaned against the lockers, laughing so hard he could barely stand. "You rushed in way too fast, mate! No hot water for the away team in a derby is tradition! When they came to Kirkby last time, we shut off their hot water for half an hour too. Just returning the favor!"
Ben fought back a smirk and added fuel to the fire: "I was just about to warn him, but he bolted faster than a rabbit."
Connor stormed out clutching his towel, covered in goosebumps, with soaking-wet hair plastered across his forehead.
He glared at the group, then looked at Du An, whose face was completely innocent. "Did you know about this too?"
"You moved too fast," Du An said with a shrug. "I only just heard them say it."
"Forget it, forget it." Connor rubbed his hair vigorously with the towel, suddenly laughing it off. "We won 3–0! What's a cold shower? I'm not sinking to their level."
None of the others bothered with showers after that.
Laughing and chatting, they changed quickly, hoisted their backpacks, and boarded the team bus.
The December wind bit cold against their faces, but the bus was so warm with post-match banter that no one felt the chill.
Back at Kirkby, everyone headed straight for the dormitory to enjoy a proper hot shower.
As Du An returned to the corridor after showering, Aslett called out to him.
"Du An, hold on a second." Aslett jerked his chin toward the grounds. "Kenny's waiting for you over by the training pitch. Said he wants to talk to you."
"All right, I'll head over now."
Du An nodded and picked up his pace.
Kirkby on a Saturday was noticeably quieter than on weekdays; only the Under-10 pitches still hummed with noise. Those kids were still in full-time schooling and could only come to train on weekends and after school, unlike the Under-16s and above, who operated on a split study-and-train schedule.
It wasn't that the club didn't want the youngsters training full-time; English law strictly mandated that school-age children complete their education.
And one couldn't really blame the law for being rigid.
The path of professional football was brutally unforgiving, with room for only a tiny few at the peak of the pyramid.
The vast majority of academy players never turned professional or earned a contract. They became the pyramid's base.
Those who actually secured a professional contract—even if merely carving out a living in the lower leagues—were already one-in-ten-thousand lucky ones.
So academics could not be abandoned. Football was merely one option in life; one couldn't abandon every other road for the sake of an uncertain dream.
When Du An reached the edge of the training pitch, Dalglish was standing by the fence talking to a middle-aged couple. Judging by their dress and speech, they were parents who had brought their son for a trial. To be chatting so happily face-to-face with Dalglish, they were clearly diehard Liverpool supporters.
Seeing Du An approach, Dalglish immediately smiled and waved him over. "Come on, Du An, over here."
He turned to introduce him to the couple, speaking with pride: "Take a look at this lad. Mason's grandson. Only been at Kirkby for three months and he's already cemented a starting spot in the Under-16s. Just over an hour ago, he helped the team beat Everton U16 3–0 over in Halewood."
"Oh, my goodness!" Mrs. Carter covered her mouth, looking astonished.
Mr. Carter broke into a smile and quipped, "Well, it's Everton. Aside from Rooney, who's even worth a second look? Their academy kids are leagues behind. How could they compare to the talent we produce at Kirkby?"
"I know the Mason family," Mrs. Carter said, looking at Du An as her tone softened. "Old John passed away at Hills—well, Old John passed early, and Mason had a hard time raising two kids on her own. I never imagined her grandson had grown this big. Du An, wasn't it? Wonderful lad. If Old John knew, he'd be over the moon."
Du An nodded and murmured his thanks.
"These are Mr. and Mrs. Carter," Dalglish introduced them. "Their boy, Billy, is planning to transfer to Kirkby to train, so I was just getting a feel for the situation."
The name Billy Carter gave Du An pause.
It sounded far too familiar.
Subconsciously, he asked, "Does Billy go to Bishop John Catholic School?"
"Why, yes!" Mrs. Carter smiled at once. "The very school Gerrard attended back in the day. But he hasn't been having the best time there, so we thought we'd change his environment. Do you know Billy?"
"Fairly well," Du An answered without a flicker of change in his expression. "We hung out a lot."
In his head, he added: *Actually, I beat him up a few times.*
"Oh, that's wonderful!" Mrs. Carter looked at her husband in delight. "With a familiar friend around, Billy will settle in much faster. It's settled, then—we'll have him transfer to Kirkby."
Mr. Carter nodded, clearly well pleased with the outcome.
After exchanging a few more words, the couple said goodbye to Dalglish and left in high spirits.
Once they were out of earshot, Dalglish turned to Du An, raising an eyebrow. "Hung out a lot? Didn't sound quite like that to me."
He knew full well that Du An had virtually no friends at Bishop John Catholic School.
Du An shrugged and told the truth: "Nothing much, really. Just beat him up a few times. Seeing how they reacted, he probably never went home and told them about the beatings."
Dalglish burst into hearty laughter and clapped Du An on the shoulder. "Good lad! But once he's at Kirkby, make sure you don't beat him up anymore."
"At school you had to use force to protect yourself, but at Kirkby, you won't need to do that at all."
Chapter 59