Hot Soup

Alisson hadn’t been able to focus all afternoon. There was just too much instability for him lately; not only had the new interim not called him up for Brazil duty, but he hadn’t called Firmino or Fabinho either. Liverpool had crashed out of the UCL just before the international break, leaving a bitter taste on their record for the next two weeks.

Of course Alisson had made some mistakes, he wasn’t perfect, after all. But the whole team told him repeatedly how well he played, even with Liverpool’s defensive problems. So why wasn’t it good enough for the Selecao?

Ederson, the other main goalkeeper for Brazil, had been called up; and he and Alisson had the same amount of clean sheets. Klopp had told Alisson that he was only two clean sheets off Nick Pope, the leader in the Golden Glove race. So it was a mystery why he’d been left out of the squad—even to Taffarel, who’d just been fired from his job as the Brazil goalkeeping coach.

Alisson wandered into the kitchen, trying to ignore the clamor of his overthinking mind, when a familiar scent caught him by surprise. Interested for the first time that day, he looked up from his feet to see Van Dijk at the stove. The six foot five defender wore a far too small “Kiss the Cook” apron, and a chef’s hat stood delicately balanced on top of his gelled hair.

“Soup will be on in a few minutes,” said Van Dijk before Alisson could say anything. “You need it.”

Alisson drifted closer to Van Dijk, stopping around nine inches away from him. He would’ve gone closer, but Van Dijk liked more space around him than his Brazilian compatriots. “Why soup?”

Van Dijk rested the wooden spoon on a plate and drew Alisson closer to him. “Mam always says hot soup’s good for the soul. Plus, it’s Yukon Gold potato and Cornish hen soup.”

Alisson leant on Van Dijk’s shoulder and allowed the aroma to flood him: slightly savory with hints of thyme. The golden broth contrasted well with the verdant herbs floating on the surface, and the all too familiar triad was completed when Van Dijk dipped a blue plastic ladle into the pot.

“Something on your mind?” Van Dijk asked, setting the ladle onto the same plate. “You were watching that soup like it was the Brazilian flag.”

At the mention of his native country, Alisson let out a long, drawn-out sigh. There was no point in trying to conceal his thoughts from Van Dijk; the Dutchman knew him all too well.

“I don’t understand it, Virgil,” he lamented, taking a seat at the counter. He buried his head in his hands, clutching small fistfuls of his dark hair. “Just when it’s getting good, everything’s falling apart. We’re sinking, Bobby’s leaving, and Brazil doesn’t want Taffa. Even a Seleção doesn’t want me now.”

Van Dijk sat across from Alisson, leaning on the marble surface. “The Seleção is important to every Brazilian footballer. They probably don’t want you to be injured.”

“B-but Ederson got called up,” he murmured, not looking back at Van Dijk. “We have the same amount of clean sheets, why would they want him to be injured? Face it, Virg. They saw my mistakes and they think Ederson’s better than me.”

“You and Ederson are both excellent keepers,” Van Dijk stood at the stove, stirring the soup. “But you have different talents, right? Ederson’s better at penalties and 1v1s, and you’re better at flying saves and getting little microinches of your body everywhere.”

“Oh my god, that’s why they don’t want me. It must be the penalties!” Alisson mentally slapped himself for not thinking about it earlier. “Virgil, you’re a genius.”

“Alisson! This is where I’m drawing the line.” Van Dijk spotted a small patch of spilled flour, drawing a line across it with the tip of his leather moccasin. “This has nothing to do with penalties. Other keepers have gone whole shootouts without saving a single penalty, and they got called up for their national teams. And you’ve saved penalties, remember? If you didn’t save the penalty vs. West Ham, we would’ve been toast. So no, they didn’t leave you out because of penalties. They left you out because they’re brainless idiots without a life to live.”

Van Dijk carried two bowls of soup to the table and set one each in front of them. “Alright, you’re my guinea pig today. Taste.”

Alisson readily obliged, raising the spoon to his mouth. He wasn’t exactly a soup fan, but anything cooked by Van Dijk was enough for him. The Dutchman didn’t cook often, but he was a far better chef than he would readily admit.

“I know you’re the better cook between us.” Van Dijk had been rambling, studying Alisson intently as he left his own bowl untouched. “But I followed a recipe I saw on the internet, so it won’t be as bad as my marshmallow-raisin strawberries…”

“Virgil.” He could say no more. Otherwise, he’d tear up on the spot over a bowl of soup.

Luckily, Van Dijk seemed to understand. He clasped Alisson’s hands between his own, setting the spoon aside. “ Graag gedaan, mijn jade.”