Football Dynasty-Chapter 24: Another Trial

The Chapter with Manchester City had come to a close.

In the end, Shearer did receive an offer from the club—but not as a striker. Instead, they wanted him as a midfielder. From all the discussions between Chief Scout Barnes and Shearer, Richard could only gather one thing:

'The club valued Shearer's towering presence but wasn't willing to adjust their criteria to let him join as a striker.'

Shearer couldn't help but glance at Richard for guidance, a small but noticeable gesture that didn't go unnoticed by Barnes.

"Is he your family?" Barnes asked, raising an eyebrow.

"Eh? No, he's not," Richard replied, caught off guard.

"Huh... a friend? A distant relative? Or maybe someone your parents know?"

Now it was Richard's turn to be confused. 'Why is this old man asking so many questions?'

Barnes waved a hand dismissively. "It's just odd. He keeps looking to you. You're acting more like his agent than a coach or scout. Have you even realized that?"

Richard was caught off guard, momentarily lost for words. 'He's got a point though,' he thought. 'Why am I negotiating on this kid's behalf? Isn't that the agent's job?'

Shaking his head, Richard brushed off the troubling thoughts and firmly declined the offer, leaving Chief Barnes staring at him as if he'd completely lost his mind.

"Is this about what happened before?" Barnes asked, unable to hide his anger.

He couldn't help it. Not long ago, he had come to him, practically begging him to sign Alan, but he had turned him down, blaming the decision on the higher-ups. Still, he'd given it more thought since then.

After all, signing didn't mean he'd play right away, right?

If Shearer underperformed, he could easily claim the boy hadn't lived up to expectations. But if the kid turned out to be a star, he could also take the credit for spotting his potential. Either way, he'd protect his standing with both the board and Richard—a win-win situation. But now?

Watching Richard reject the offer, Barnes felt a wave of disappointment and irritation. 'Is this payback? Is he really that petty?'

If Richard could hear what was running through the chief's head, he'd probably laugh and say, "Playing both sides? Seriously? Hah, I don't have time for that."

His own thoughts were a mess right now.

Standing outside Maine Road Stadium, he was deep in thought while Shearer fidgeted anxiously beside him. He hadn't expected Richard to decline the offer—especially not like that.

"What are we going to do now?" Shearer finally asked, unable to hide the worry in his voice.

The question snapped Richard out of his thoughts. "Ah? Uh... we're heading to Newcastle."

Shearer's eyes widened. "Newcastle?" His hometown. The idea made his anxiety spike.

Was Richard giving up on him already?

Richard noticed the worry on his face and chuckled. "Don't overthink it," he said, watching Shearer stew like a pot about to boil over. "What you need right now is to get comfortable in your new role. We'll go from trial to trial, and Newcastle United is the perfect place to start."

"Oh..." Shearer muttered, the tension in his shoulders easing just a bit.

Newcastle United is based in Newcastle upon Tyne, with their first team using Maiden Castle in Durham as their training ground.

As for the youth team, trials were usually held at local training facilities or academy grounds, away from the public eye, so coaches could focus on evaluating talent without distractions.

When Richard and young Shearer arrived, the grounds were already buzzing with players, families, and even some guardians from local clubs—similar to the scene at the Manchester City trial.

As the routine began, players were asked to raise their hands for their preferred positions. Without hesitation, Shearer raised his hand for striker.

This time, his towering frame, solid build, and status as a local lad worked in his favor. The coaches placed him straight into the starting lineup, planning for him to play the entire first half. Before the match, Richard pulled Shearer aside.

"Alright, Alan, listen up," he said, his tone serious. "I know you want to score goals, but today, I need you to play smart."

Shearer frowned. "What do you mean?"

"Remember how you kept making random runs during the City trial? That won't work today. We're going to do things differently. Before you can fully shake off your old habits, you need to balance them. Here's how..."

At sixteen, Shearer was already known in the local school leagues for his strong, fearless physique. He dominated matches with his physicality, often outmuscling older players and shrugging off defenders with ease.

Coaches admired his strength and ability to hold up the ball, but Richard wanted more than that. He needed Shearer to be aggressive—not just in physicality but in intent.

"Drop deep when needed, link up the play, and create chances for others. Don't just be the guy who scores—be the one who makes things happen."

Shearer nodded, though a flicker of doubt remained in his eyes.

"When you see space, run into it. Pull one or two defenders toward you. And when they close in, don't hesitate," Richard said firmly, patting Shearer's forearm, especially his elbow.

Shearer looked puzzled.

"Do you want to know how to make your opponents fear you? How to intimidate anyone who dares to go up against you?" Richard asked, rubbing his sharp elbow bone.

Shearer understood instantly, though he hesitated—wasn't this taking it too far?

"Who decides that?" Richard pressed. "For those 90 minutes on the pitch, the only person making the calls is the referee—not you, not me. Don't be afraid to get physical. Your body is your greatest weapon. If you can overpower your opponent, do it. As long as the ref doesn't blow the whistle, you're in the clear."

Be brute.

That was the plan. Since Shearer hadn't fully shaken off his old habits, Richard wanted him to focus on playing a more creative role—linking up with teammates, making smart runs into space, and setting up chances. His ability to outmuscle defenders and hold onto the ball was a strength Richard wanted him to exploit.

Once he refined his game, Richard would shift him into a true target man—someone who could dominate the air, shield the ball under pressure, and unleash powerful shots to control the game.

Just like the Alan Shearer he knew from the future.

But for now, he needed intensity. Aggression. Shearer had to become the beast on the pitch—make them fear you!

The ambiance and distinct traits of old English football thrived on grit, determination, and raw physicality. Serie A might have been known for its tactical discipline and fierce defensive clashes, but England's game demanded just as much physical confrontation.

Tactical finesse had yet to reach the heights of the modern Premier League—here, strength and toughness ruled.

The trial kicked off with a sharp whistle, and Shearer found himself immediately thrust into the thick of it.

The game was fast, rough, and unforgiving—at least for him.

Remembering Richard's words, he gritted his teeth and didn't hesitate to go shoulder-to-shoulder, shoving and pushing, testing every player's limits.

Richard watched from the stands, arms crossed, his gaze narrowing every time Shearer hesitated or fell back into his old, soft approach. Hard, but not enough.

Then came a moment.

Shearer braced himself, using his body to shield the ball. He dug his elbow into the space between him and the defender—not enough for a foul, but just enough to throw him off balance. He pivoted, spotted a winger making a run, and sent a crisp pass into his path.

"Good! That's it!" Richard shouted passionately.

Moments later, Shearer found space again. This time, instead of passing, he surged forward, carrying the ball into the final third. A defender stepped in, trying to shoulder him off, but Shearer lowered his stance, absorbed the contact, spun away, and fired a low cross into the box.

It didn't lead to a goal, but Richard smiled. Shearer smiled.

They were getting somewhere.

He was seeing exactly what he wanted—intelligence mixed with raw aggression.

The match wore on, and Shearer adapted. He dragged defenders wide, creating gaps for teammates, then drifted into the box when the moment was right.

A high ball came sailing in. Shearer positioned himself, using his frame to hold off two defenders. As the ball dropped, he leapt, leading with his elbow just enough to clear space, and powered a header toward goal. The goalkeeper tipped it over the bar, but Richard clapped, satisfied.

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By halftime, Shearer jogged off the pitch, sweat dripping, chest heaving. Richard met him from the stands.

"That's how you do it," he said. "You're not here to blend in—you're here to make them remember you."

Shearer only grinned.

He thought Richard would finally accept the offer this time, but once again, Richard declined, leaving him confused.

Richard didn't offer an explanation. How could he possibly tell Shearer that Newcastle would be crushed this season and relegated to the Second Division?

For the next month, Richard and Shearer traveled to West Bromwich for a trial at West Bromwich Albion—the only club holding open trials in the near future.

From the opening whistle, Shearer threw himself into the match with fierce determination. He battled defenders, shielded the ball, and made clever runs into open spaces. His movement was sharper, his decisions quicker, his confidence growing with every touch.

Then came the breakthrough.

A midfielder spotted Shearer making a diagonal run and sent a perfect through ball.

Shearer muscled past a defender, controlled the ball off his chest, took a quick touch, and fired a low, powerful shot into the bottom corner of the net.

The ball smashed into the net.

Richard shot up from the stands, pumping his fist. Shearer had finally broken through—his first goal since transitioning from midfielder to striker.

And he wasn't done.

Freed from hesitation, Shearer played with even more intensity—linking up play, making dangerous runs, and bullying defenders with his raw strength. By the end of the match, he had caught the coaches' attention.

But once again, Richard refused the offer.

After wrapping up the trial, Richard and Shearer made their way to the railway station.

The air was cool, and the soft rumble of trains echoed through the platform. They sat on a bench, waiting for their train southbound to Southampton—the next and final destination on this long journey.

"Hmm, there are two weeks before the Southampton trial. Do you think you can squeeze in another one before then?" Richard asked suddenly.

"Is there one? Where?" Shearer asked.

"Oxford United. They're holding a trial match in five days."

Shearer quickly did the math. "If it's on the way, maybe we can do it."

"You think you can handle it?" Richard raised an eyebrow.

"Well, the trial will probably just be one half anyway," Shearer replied with a shrug.

The journey wasn't over yet.