The morning air at Haig Avenue was crisp, salt-tinted by the nearby coast. Dylan stood outside the main building, boots laced, nerves steeled. He had arrived early, as always, and waited on the edge of the training ground where a group of Southport players had already begun stretching.
A tall, weathered coach wearing a club windbreaker approached. His badge read "J. Clapham." Dylan recognized him—Liam Watson's assistant. Behind him followed the gaffer himself.
"You the lad from Manchester?" Watson asked, his tone blunt but not unfriendly.
"Yes, sir. Dylan Vaughan," Dylan replied, standing straight.
Clapham gave him a quick once-over, then nodded toward the training pitch. "Alright, Dylan. Here's how it's going to go today. Warm-up with the lads, then we'll get into a technical rondo session. We're looking at how sharp your touch is, your composure under pressure. After that, it's a small-sided match. Tight pitch, quick decisions."
"And if you do well," Watson added, folding his arms, "we'll give you some minutes in tomorrow's friendly against Bamber Bridge. That's where we get a proper read. Match sharpness, movement off the ball, communication."
"What position do you see yourself in?" Clapham asked.
"Striker, sir. Centre-forward."
Watson exchanged a glance with his assistant. "Alright then. Just be direct. We play quick, aggressive football here. If you're tidy on the ball and you've got instincts, we'll notice."
"Yes, sir."
"And Dylan," Clapham said, stopping him as he turned toward the warm-ups. "Don't try to impress us with tricks. Show us you can handle graft."
Dylan nodded. "That's what I came to do."
The dressing room was alive with banter. Shirts half on, boots clattering on tile, players laughing and tossing jabs around. Dylan sat quietly tying his laces.
"So that's the City lad?" said a tall winger with close-cropped hair. "Washed up at sixteen, eh?"
"Easy, Neil," another chimed in—this one stockier, with a wide grin. "Let the lad breathe. Might have something in him."
"He's probably one of those Academy types. Can't play on a muddy pitch without crying."
Dylan looked up. "I've played plenty on worse. Trust me."
The stocky player held out a hand. "Terry Fearns. I'm up top too. We'll see how you link up."
"Dylan Vaughan. Cheers."
A quiet midfielder with blond hair leaned over. "Ignore Neil. He gives every new face stick. I'm Steve Pickford. Just don't dribble into my space and we'll be good."
Dylan chuckled. "No promises."
A tall defender named Earl Davis threw in from across the room, "You'll get kicked. Don't moan about it."
"Wouldn't expect anything less," Dylan said. That brought a few approving nods.
Training began with rondos. Four-versus-two. Dylan adapted quickly—clean touches, one-twos, checking over his shoulder. He was sharp, but the tempo was faster than academy ball. More urgent. Less forgiving.
On the sideline, Clapham muttered to Watson, "He's tidy. Composed under pressure. Doesn't hesitate."
Watson nodded, arms folded. "You see how he angles his body before he receives? That's been drilled into him. And he plays simple when he should."
"He's constantly scanning too. That's not just instinct, that's training."
"Let's see how he handles tight spaces when it really matters."
Small-sided game. Seven-a-side. The intensity ramped up. The pitch was tight. Touches had to be perfect. Every pass was a risk.
That's when Dylan switched gears.
In his mind, the system clicked. It wasn't flashy—just instinctual. As if each skill had been lived a thousand times.
From the Bronze deck:
Dribbling:Josh Ginnelly — added balance and acceleration to get past tight markers.
Passing:George Dobson — improved vision and short-range passing under pressure.
Aerials:Matt Rhead — gave him strength and control in contested headers.
The Special Skill—Dimitar Berbatov's first touch—turned rushed passes into opportunities.
And the Diamond Card—Ruud van Nistelrooy's poaching instinct—sharpened his awareness like a blade.
First goal: anticipation. He ghosted into the six-yard box just as a deflected shot bounced loose. One touch, finish under the keeper.
Second: a looping ball to the edge of the box, killed stone dead with a Berbatov-esque trap, then slotted into the bottom corner.
Third: a whipped cross. Dylan leapt ahead of two defenders, Matt Rhead's aerial presence working through him, and flicked a header inside the far post.
Fourth: pressure on a centre-back, forced an error, and before anyone reacted, Dylan was already sliding the ball home.
On the sideline, the coaches stood silent for a moment.
"He's killing them," Clapham muttered.
"Every touch has purpose," Watson said. "It's not flashy. It's ruthless."
"That dribbling—he's using his body well. Tight spaces, yet he shields and turns like a tricky winger."
"Passing under pressure—quick give-and-goes, like a seasoned midfielder."
"And that header—was forceful like a battering ram. He won't be bullied."
Watson scratched his chin. "And it all ties together. That touch, that movement. You saw how he moved before the rebound fell? That's van Nistelrooy-esque."
Clapham nodded. "He's got tools. And he knows how to use 'em."
"We see the same tomorrow, we offer him something. Maybe short-term, but something."
As the game ended, Dylan jogged back to the sideline. Terry clapped him on the back.
"You're ruining my goal stats, lad. Four in one session? You'll have your name on the team sheet tomorrow."
Steve Pickford grinned. "Been a while since someone made it look that easy."
Neil said nothing. He just watched Dylan with narrowed eyes.
Watson and Clapham waved Dylan over after the cooldown. They leaned on a bench beneath the stand.
"Sit down, lad," Watson said.
Dylan did, towel draped around his neck.
"You did well," Clapham started. "Better than expected. You move smart. Quick to react. Don't force things."
"Your finishing stood out," Watson added. "Sharp. You didn't waste chances. That header, especially—looked like you'd been in non-league for years."
Clapham nodded. "The hold-up work, the timing. Not something we usually see from a sixteen-year-old. Who taught you to use your body like that?"
"Picked it up watching big target men. And training, sir."
"Well, you'll get your chance tomorrow. Twenty, maybe thirty minutes. Against a proper back line. Show us this wasn't just a flash."
Clapham stood. "Get some rest. You keep that up, we'll have to make space in the squad."
Dylan nodded, heart pounding but steady. "Thank you, coaches. I won't let it slip."
As he walked off toward the changing room, he didn't look back.
Tomorrow, the real test began.