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Klopp had heard weird sounds all of Thursday night. One sounded like a muffled cough, while the other was more like a sneeze. He wasn’t sure, though: he was exhausted as heck, and playing the second-oldest manager in the league—with the second-oldest book of tricks in the league—was a good reason for it.
The next day, he’d noticed that Bajcetic and Firmino both looked tired. Klopp made the pair sit out of training entirely, keeping a close eye on them the entire day. They’d seemed better rested on Saturday, so Klopp had let them go back to their daily activities on the premise that they were fine.
Boy, was he wrong.
“The universe officially hates me,” Klopp grumbled, balancing three boxes of tissues in one hand and a tray of filled soup bowls in the other. “How did Stefan, Bobby, and Thi all get colds at the same time? I’d understand one case, but three is just ridiculous. That’s one-tenth of the boys.”
After the Spurs game, Klopp had hugged Thiago only to pull back in shock at the Spaniard's blazingly hot forehead. He’d checked Bajcetic and Firmino to find that they had fevers as well, and immediately sent the three to bed in one of the isolated recovery rooms.
“It’s simple.” Vera tossed her rubber gloves into the trash bin, breathing a sigh of relief as she untied her mask. “Viruses. When you're in a stadium of fifty-something thousand fans and people from different areas of the country, you're bound to get sick someday."
"Well, I'm glad I'm still standing. You need to stay germ-free Vera, Chanka's about to have the baby soon and we can't risk anything."
Vera smiled at Klopp's nickname for Kanchana. The gardener was nearly full-term with her and Vera’s first child, who was due sometime in early May. “I can hardly wait, honestly. Are you sure you don’t need help with those?”
Klopp shook his head, leaning against the wall to poke the door open. “As I said Vera, we have to be careful. We can’t have anything threatening to make Chan sick, and since you spend the most time with her that goes for you too.”
“But your hamstring…”
“Never mind that! I used to play with these things, I’ll live to walk through the door.”
“But you’re older now,” Vera pointed out as only a medic could. “No offense boss, but your body won’t heal like it used to—”
“Wish we could talk more, Vera, but this soup isn’t going to deliver itself.” With that, Klopp slipped through the door, somehow balancing the soup tray without upsetting the bowls.
“I’m here, boys!” Klopp set the bowls of soup onto the nightstand in the middle, wincing when he stepped back onto his left foot. “Would’ve been here sooner, but Vera kept reminding me about my hamstring as if it was a fractured ankle.”
"Twenty-three years, chefe ." Firmino rolled his eyes, forcing down a spoonful of the soup. "Twenty-three years of retirement and you still manage to pull your hamstring."
"I think it's an adductor, but we still have to get scans and stuff. Oh, well." Klopp ruffled Bajcetic's hair, eliciting a weak smile from the youngster. "At least you and I might have the same injury now. We're matching."
“That’s the weirdest response I’ve ever heard to a potential muscle injury.” Firmino gently shook his head, draining the bowl of soup. The forward had only really got a small headache and general fatigue, barely escaping worse symptoms. Klopp guessed this was because Firmino had insisted that he be isolated from any of his other teammates until he was sure he was healthy, unlike Bajcetic who’d gone ice-skating with Tsimikas on Friday.
Klopp then realized that it was a miracle that only three players had gotten sick. With how close the squad was to each other and how much time they all spent together, one cold could’ve easily turned into a disaster. Thankfully, none of the others were showing any symptoms, including the children and staff.
Bajcetic sighed, setting his untouched bowl of soup aside. Of course, Klopp noticed this immediately.
“What’s the matter? I know I’m not a cordon bleu chef, but even I couldn’t possibly ruin soup by carrying it.”
Bajcetic groaned, sinking into the pillows. While all three players were sick to some extent, Bajcetic had been hit the worst. “Not hungry.”
“Now, Stefan, you know you need energy to fight this off. One-third of the bowl should do the trick for now.” Klopp held Bajcetic’s spoon in the air with a mischievous grin. “Don’t make me have to feed you…”
Bajcetic rolled his eyes, but took the bowl and spoon from Klopp and began to eat. “It’s nice, but my throat hurts.”
“ Pobrecito.” Thiago got out of bed and went to Bajcetic’s bedside, feeling his forehead. “Maybe you should get some sleep. Want to stay with me?”
Bajcetic barely nodded, throat too sore to talk that much. Thiago climbed into Bajcetic’s bed, pulling the teenager into a protective hug. “ Duerme, corazón.”
In the blink of an eye, both Bajcetic and Thiago were asleep. Klopp made sure the pair were tucked in comfortably before limping to Firmino’s bedside and attempting to tuck him in as well.
“I’m fine, boss, really. Just a small headache, but nothing much.” Firmino sat up in bed, motioning for Klopp to sit as well. “Hate to admit it, but Vera’s right. You’re not as young as you once were, you should relax and let that muscle heal.”
“I’ll be fine,” Klopp reassured Firmino. “I’ll just have to sit out those padel matches. And maybe I shouldn’t take part in the active training drills, and those stairs will be an issue since I’m always tripping over them—”
“ Chefe, acalmar.” Firmino laid his hand over Klopp’s, successfully ending his rambling. “It’s just like you always say: you heal, and we’ll take care of the rest. Now take a dose of your own medicine.”
Klopp didn’t know what to say. Firmino, despite his passionate and goofy personality, had always possessed a streak of hidden wisdom. That streak would often come into play when comforting his teammates and friends, or in the middle of matches when he helped motivate the younger forwards.
“Did I ever tell you how much I love you?” Klopp said out of the blue, swinging his good leg back and forth.
Firmino nearly choked on his water at the sudden question. “Well…yes.”
“ Also, I can never say it enough. Your talent and acumen for the game is out of this world. I am so lucky to have worked with you.”
Firmino blushed slightly at the compliment, leaning against the headboard. “Not that lucky. We’ve had more efficient forwards.”
“Ah, but you are both efficient and selfless! When you step on the pitch, your only aim is to help the team in every way possible, instead of ball-hogging and demanding ludicrous salaries.” Klopp scooted closer to Firmino and hugged him tightly, wincing at his hamstring. “You are a ray of sunshine Roberto, a freakin’ lightbulb. It’s impossible not to love you. I’m so lucky to have known you.”
Firmino melted into the hug, humming in contentment. “If it wasn’t for the fact that we’re supposed to live close to our clubs, I would live in Kirkby forever.”