The news of Lamine Yamal's transfer request was a nuclear bomb that had detonated in the heart of the footballing world, and the fallout was glorious, chaotic, and all anyone could talk about.
The Liverpool training ground, usually a focused sanctuary of tactical preparation, was now a buzzing, high-level gossip hub.
"I'm just saying," Trent Alexander-Arnold announced to a group of his teammates, a look of pure, unadulterated mischief on his face, "if he comes to us, our front three would be so fast that the television cameras wouldn't be able to keep up. They'd have to broadcast our games with a five-second delay."
"If he comes to us?" Andy Robertson shot back, a fiery, competitive glint in his eye. "He's not coming to us! We're not letting that little monster join the enemy! He goes to United, we riot! We go on strike! We replace all the footballs with haggises!"
"What is a haggis?" the young French striker, Hugo Ekitike, asked with a confused look on his face.
