“It’s official. You need help.”

Lijnders had never wanted to say something like that, especially not to his best friend slash brother. But after watching Klopp go from ranting about Liverpool’s terrible season, to lamenting what he could’ve done better or why he couldn’t do anything right, to cursing the living daylights out of the entire Premier League, Lijnders was pretty sure he needed to say it.

“You need a therapist, and I’m going to get you one,” Lijnders decided, blocking the door before Klopp could bolt from the room. “We’ve talked about this before, and there’s no time like the present to act.”

“Pep, it’s nothing, really.” Instead of escaping the room, Klopp tried to brush away Lijnders’ concerns. “I’ve been through worse things without therapy, and I made it. I’ll be fine.”

Lijnders shook his head at his friend’s reassurance. Even after years of working with him, Klopp was just as stubborn as Lijnders had first found him.

“Oh really?” He took a seat across their shared desk. “Because I can name plenty of events in the past years that show you need therapy.”

“List them. I’m sure you’ll run out of things, and then we can finally get over this whole therapy business.”

“Well, just the other day you confessed that you think your problems aren’t as important as other people’s problems. Your manager and some of your old Mainz 05 teammates were toxic, and you’re completely lost without the boys.” Lijnders effortlessly listed the items off his fingers, turning to a newly silenced Klopp. “Shall I go on?”

“No, don’t go on!” Klopp shouted, crossing his arms. “I told you Pep, I don’t need therapy. My problems aren’t that relevant enough, I don’t want to go, I don’t need to go.”

“But you do need to go!” Lijnders pushed the lamp that stood between them to the side, so that the two could clearly see each other’s faces. His brown eyes fervently met Klopp’s unyielding, yet weary, blue ones.

“Please, listen to me. You lead a team of average players and roughly-hewn diamonds, to their highest levels of heaven, three times. I know that’s a lot of work. Five out of seven days a week I catch you working late, and seven out of seven I find you in the hall, pacing. Not like a madman, but like a troubled and weary man. On the pitch, you’re different than you used to be. You give up earlier and earlier, and every bad play seems to resign you.

“We still have our fatherly general, but only a shell now. Where’s your fire, your passion for life? I can still see hints of it, but it’s hardened and glazed from the stress and trauma of the cruel world. From a difficult lockdown, from moving away from home for the first time, from your best friend leaving you after twenty-six years, to losing both of your parents and not being able to go to the funeral of your own mother. Those are problems; they’re just as important as ours; and therapy can help you crush those problems and become our blazing, charismatic, bulldozing ultra bad boss ninja.”

Klopp offered a small half-smile at the last bit. “That is one powerful soliloquy.”

“I did Shakespearean theater in high school. So what do you say?” Lijnders took Klopp’s hand, raising it in the air like a winning wrestler. “Ready to take the next step?”

“I guess you’re right, Pep.” Klopp leaned onto the desk with a resigned sigh. The steely exterior had dissolved into haunted exhaustion. “Who do you recommend?”

“Dunno. But you can always shop around,” Lijnders gently suggested. “And you can ask for confidentiality papers, too. Maybe we can look online together. For us?”

“I’m not sure about myself. But you and the boys? Fine.” Klopp rolled his chair next to Lijnders’ own, only stopping when they were as physically close as possible. “You’re right, Pep. I’ll get therapy as soon as possible. For us.”

Lijnders dropped his pen, throwing himself onto Klopp and hugging him tight. “I’m very proud of you, boss.”