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After the Nottingham Forest match, Alisson paused his post-match routine to chat with Keylor Navas. He'd met Navas before in the Goalkeeper's Union chat, and now he finally got the chance to meet him personally.
Navas was a little shorter than him, with soft, gentle brown eyes that crinkled when he laughed. Even though his side had lost, Navas was in a pretty good mood for somebody in the relegation zone, and he and Alisson chatted for a long time.
“You played a lot better than I did today,” Alisson confessed as the two walked down the halls of Anfield. They held hands, gloves long taken off and exchanged. “How did you save that goal from Diogo?”
“Honestly, I don't even know!” Navas chuckled, but then his expression became serious again. “How are you handling Bobby leaving? I know he’s a good friend of yours.”
Alisson couldn’t help but sigh at the mention of Firmino’s imminent departure from the team. “Not well at first. We’re trying to spend as much time together as possible, but everybody loves Bobby and wants some time with him. Not that I blame them, but…”
“It’s hard, I get it. I used to be friends with Sergio before I left Real. Of course, he came to Paris last year but I still missed him.” A far-off shout interrupted Navas’ anecdote. “That’s my coach. Maybe we’ll run into each other soon, mi amigo ?”
Alisson smiled, shaking hands with his new friend. “Soon, amigo .”
*
Milner had seen the difference in Robertson over the past week. The Scot was quiet and sort of withdrawn, a far cry from his usual loud and energetic self, and not even two dozen oatmeal cookies could cheer him up. Alexander-Arnold, Robertson's best friend, had tried to get him back to normal. But that didn't work either; so after the Nottingham Forest game, Milner went to find Robertson, who'd mysteriously disappeared.
Considering his smaller height and build, it would be easy to assume that Robertson was a good hider. It couldn't be more wrong; Milner managed to find Robertson two minutes after he started searching.
"Why are you in the hall?" Milner asked Robertson, dodging a set of camerapeople. "You're supposed to be in the locker room, shortbread lover."
Robertson snorted at Milner's sarcasm, rolling his eyes. "I'm trying to avoid Trent."
If Milner was the type to do such things, his mouth would've dropped open in shock. "Why?!"
"I don't want him to know what I'm thinking about him," said Robertson as if it was the most obvious thing in the world. "I can't shake the feeling that it's not fair, and I don't want it to rub off on Trentski."
"Wait, hold on. You're jealous of Trent?" It didn't seem real to Milner at first. But when he thought back on it, though, it made total sense.
Alexander-Arnold's jovial, bubbly mood over the past days didn't rub off on Robertson at all. In fact, it only seemed to make him feel worse. The Scouser had been playing very well lately. His new position, courtesy of Klopp, allowed the fullback to run higher into midfield and make creative passes and interceptions to improve the team.
But when that happened, Robertson had to limit his own lung-busting runs to drop back into defense and help the center backs. And while Robertson was good at defense, it didn't necessarily mean that he liked it.
"I know I shouldn't be. But I love running up the pitch, and the only reason we can't do it is that we don't have a more defensive-minded right back! It's like I don't even exist now that Trent's occupying every headline in the papers that's not taken by Mo."
"I get it," Milner sighed, wrapping an arm around Robertson's shoulders. "When I come on, it's usually just for defensive purposes. You know, Milner Insurance. But it's part of the team, and I had to adapt so this way we can all succeed."
Robertson nodded sullenly, staring down at the floor. "I guess I have to apologize to Trentski now, huh?"
"Well, you never yelled at him or anything so I wouldn't say you need to apologize. But it would make it clearer if you explained to him why you've avoided him for five days straight." Milner reached into his gym bag and pulled out a sleeve of cookies. "Then when you're done, we can meet in the gym for a game of Jumping Jacks and Jammy Dodgers. But you can't fake the push-ups just to get the biscuits, okay?"
Robertson perked up at the sight of the biscuits. "I'll apologize right now."
*
"Go ahead and celebrate, man!" Lijnders poured himself another cup of caramel macchiato, raising it in the air. "We won."
"We barely made it through the match. I spent the last minutes freaking out over whether we’d concede!” Klopp paced around the office, the complete opposite of his chill Dutch companion. He’d been nervous throughout the entire match, and his anxiety had carried over to the post-game as well. “I can’t relax now, we have West Ham on Wednesday and then Spurs on Saturday, and then…”
Lijnders nodded slowly, plonking his mug down onto the desk. “I get it. You’re afraid of another false dawn.”
Klopp stared out the window over the parking lot, slowly emptying. “We’ve had too many. And the more we win, the worse it’ll be if it’s a false dawn.”
Lijnders made his way over to Klopp, gently taking the manager’s hands in his own. “I don’t recognize you anymore. You were always so optimistic that each win was a step in the right direction, and you’d wildly celebrate a goal even if we were three nil down. It’s like you’re tired of life.”
Klopp sighed, not even trying to pull away from Lijnders or deflect from the topic. “Do I look energized to you? I love you and the boys, I love everybody here. But be honest with me, Pep. Do I look happy to you?”
“Look at me, please. We have three days before our next matchday. In those three days, I want you to forget about football for at least two hours every day. I want you to think about three things that you love in life, and that you’d live for no matter what. I want you to take Sunday off completely, and be happy. Be completely, fist-pumpingly, swearily happy, I don’t care if you drag me along with it. For one day, let loose and destress.” Their blue eyes connected, one pleading, one clouded with exhaustion. “Please be happy.”
Still, Klopp remained, like a cork statue bobbing in the water, without complaint. Although it surely hurt his ears less, Lijnders hated it that way.
“Come here.” Lijnders wrapped Klopp in a hug, holding him as if he was hugging a tree. “God, you’re getting so skinny. Do you even eat these days?”
Klopp shrugged. “Felt I needed to lose some weight, so I took a couple of hints from Flaco.”
Lijnders shook his head in amusement. “I can see that. And back on the subject, you need to take a break if you don’t feel good. I understand that you want to put the boys first, but life is like coffee.” He raised his favorite mug in the air, allowing the aromas of caramel and coffee to drift all over the room. “You can’t pour a cup of caramel macchiato from an empty coffee pot.”
“Fine,” Klopp relented. With a smirk, he poured himself some of Lijnders’ coffee, ignoring the flabbergasted squawks of his companion. “I’ll take Sunday off. But with one condition.”
“What?”
“That you spend Sunday with me.”