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The world slowly came into view as Klopp opened his eyes. His mind and vision were still foggy from sleepiness, as were his limbs—but his ears were sharp no matter what time it was.
“Good morning boss!"
"What the—" Klopp sat up all too quickly, wincing as slight dizziness overcame him. He blinked five times before he was sure that it was indeed Milner standing at the foot of the bed. The Yorkshireman seemed to have been in the room for quite a while now. “Morning, Milly, how the heck did I get in bed? I fell asleep in my office.”
"Pep found you at your desk and brought you here," Milner explained like it was totally normal. "And Ludger woke you up. How’d you sleep?”
Klopp glanced at the birdcage hanging beside his bed. Ludger was awake, preening his feathers as the morning light shone through his cage. “Fine, I guess. Why am I in bed?”
Milner rolled his eyes in exasperation. "Because that's where you're supposed to sleep. Everybody's down at breakfast. I told them you'd be taking your time."
"But...what about my routine?" Klopp checked the alarm clock, panicking when he saw how late it was. "It's eight o'clock! Who's going to open the windows, or wake the sleepyheads up, or check the weather, or—"
"Crikey gaffer, relax!" Milner exclaimed, opening the bedroom door wider. Klopp was pleasantly surprised to see that there was no random dumpster fire going on outside the door.
"It'll all be fine. Darwin and Cody opened the windows, Robbo woke everybody up with his incessant yammering, and Mo checked the weather. Thiago and some of the others are helping Mona make breakfast, the goalkeepers are setting the table, and the kids are making sure to pick up their toys. Pep started work, so it's all okay." Milner held up his clipboard with a satisfied smirk. "Nat's policing the other side, and Hendo's rounding up the kids. It's all in the schedule."
"Whoa..." Klopp didn't expect things to go that smoothly without him waking up at six-thirty in the morning. "You keep a tight schedule, Milly."
"I have my ways. With that hamstring injury, you need to take it easy."
"You'll make a wonderful coach someday. I mean it."
"Um..." For once in his life, Milner was speechless--and it wasn't because of some random shenanigan taking place right before his eyes. "Thanks."
*
After Milner left, Klopp remained in bed for what felt like forever. Milner was quite protective of his teammates, but he’d never fussed over Klopp like that. Milner just wasn’t the type for that kind of thing—which meant that somebody else had to have started this whole idea of “let the boss sleep in”.
Klopp realized that the plan must’ve been pretty elaborate. Somebody must’ve carried him to bed from the desk, turned off his password-secured alarm clock, transported Ludger’s cage to the bedroom without waking the owl up, and figured out what Klopp did in the morning before everybody woke up and came out of their rooms. Milner was methodical enough to do all that, but it just wasn’t his style to start a random, crazy plan without somebody else getting the random, crazy idea to begin with.
But who was it?
“Morning boss!” Alisson entered through the open door, followed by Van Dijk who was surprisingly wide awake for that time of day. “We brought you some coffee with extra creamer.”
“Aww, that's sweet of you both.” Klopp gladly took the tray, but froze when he realized just how it was presented. “Er…might I ask who made this coffee?”
“Before you totally freak out, it wasn’t Joel.” Van Dijk smirked at the thought of Matip trying to make coffee. “No offense, but the man has no chill when it comes to cooking. I swear if he could make tea by putting the bag in his mouth and drinking hot water, he’d do that instead of brewing it the normal way.”
“As if you’re any better, Virg.” Alisson held up the spoon, wincing when he saw confetti superglued to the handle. “We made the coffee, but Fabio and Harvey looked so bored that we let them handle setting up the tray.”
“Oh.” Klopp also seemed slightly put off at the confetti-covered spoon, setting it to the side. “That would explain why my coffee’s in a margarita glass.”
“But anyway!” Van Dijk walked over to Klopp’s closet, throwing the door open. “We players had a meeting last night, and we decided that you need a little spice in your life. So here you go—your personal fashion expert is in the house!”
Klopp raised an eyebrow—he definitely did not remember having a personal fashion expert. “Who?”
“Me, duh!” Van Dijk moved the clothes aside with settled ease and suaveness, as if he was born to do that job instead of playing football. “Gray, gray, gray…”
“Also, we brought these." Alisson propped a pair of crutches against the bedside, where Klopp could easily reach them. "Dr. Power says you should rest your muscles so they can heal better. I know it'll be awkward, but one of us will be with you all the time, and someone is waiting right now to help you down the stairs.”
“Well…that’s very nice of you both.” Klopp winced as his gray puffer jacket was hurled towards a chair, joining a mounting pile of neutral-colored garments. “But that's not really necessary—"
Meanwhile, Van Dijk was already at the back of Klopp's closet. "Do you have anything other than gray, black, white, and red in this wardrobe? It's so boringly..."
"Normal? You should expect it Virg, I am the Normal One.” Klopp chuckled at his own joke, watching Van Dijk stuff almost forty percent of his clothes into a cardboard box marked Attic. “My wardrobe also has that green sweater, though..."
Van Dijk rolled his eyes. “Any color that the club’s monstrosity of fashion designers haven’t forced upon you?"
"Well...no."
"Goodness, we really must go shopping someday. Maybe we’ll hit Sephora after training.” Van Dijk held up a cotton sweater from the very back of the closet. "What a wonderful yellow! It would look perfect on you, boss!"
"Yeah, try it on!" Alisson took the sweater from Van Dijk and tossed it to Klopp, who still hadn't gotten out of bed. "All that gray can't be good for you."
Klopp rolled out of bed and took the crutches in one hand, limping towards Van Dijk and the sweater. “Oh, goodness! I haven’t worn that one since I was at Dortmund.”
“Then there’s no better time than the present to wear it! It’ll look great on you boss, trust me.” Alisson guided Van Dijk out the door, who was muttering under his breath about how somebody could own so many gray jackets. “We’ll see you downstairs!”
*
Klopp decided to wear the bright yellow jacket along with his usual black track pants. He looked in the mirror, surprised at how the splash of color made him look less tired than usual, and even slightly younger. It was like he was back at Dortmund, still wearing glasses and with his hairline still intact.
Eventually, Klopp pulled himself away from the mirror. He couldn’t help but feel somebody was missing at his right. Somebody who was dark brunette from the day he was born, six years older than him, and still a bit shorter.
After some moments of awkward experimentation, Klopp figured out that he didn’t need both crutches. In reality, he didn’t feel that he needed them at all, but since the players were so insistent Klopp decided to humor them and walk around with one at his left.
The halls were almost empty, which Klopp reasoned made sense since breakfast was ready. That reminded him that he was running behind schedule, and he hobbled awkwardly down the hall until he came to the bane of his existence.
The staircase.
For the first time that morning, Klopp realized how the effects of his latest shenanigans would hinder him for a while. He had enough problems getting down the stairs in full health, so with a crutch in hand…yep, he was pretty much doomed.
There was a wheelchair ramp that Klopp had arranged to be installed after Arwen moved into Kirkby with her parents. But that would be no good, either; Klopp was just as likely to fall off a smooth, slanted surface as a stepped one.
“Boss, you okay?” Florrie stood at the bottom of the stairs, holding her stuffed lion in one hand. Two-year-old Moana, the Powers’ youngest daughter, stood beside Florrie with a confused expression. “Breakfast is nearly ready.”
“Yeah, I’m okay.” Klopp gripped the banister rail tightly, pointing to the stairs. “I just need to get down.”
“You scared?” Moana asked him innocently, shuffling back and forth on her tiny feet.
“No, I’m fine!” Klopp groaned as he found himself in yet another predicament. He could do with Van Dijk making him wear a yellow sweater and Alisson giving him a pair of crutches. He could even take Milner handling his morning routine without too much guilt. But worrying Florrie and Moana, a pair of toddlers? Heck no, he’d rather break his leg falling down the stairs than do that.
Unfortunately for Klopp, Florrie wasn’t your average toddler. Living with almost fifty grown adults had made Florrie a very observant child, which only added to her natural empathy and communication skills.
“Want some help, boss?” Florrie called up the stairs. “It’s okay if you don’t.”
“Actually…” Klopp let go of the banister, extending his hand to Florrie. “I’ll take it. Pep’s right, I’ve got to learn to take help when I need it.”
Florrie handed her stuffed lion to Moana, motioning for the younger girl to stay put as she climbed the stairs to where Klopp was. “Lindy’s always right. You should listen to him more.”
If only you knew some of the ideas Pep comes up with. “Nobody’s always right all the time, Flo. But I’ll ponder that.”
Florrie tilted her head, her braided pigtails falling to one side. “Is ‘ponder’ some kind of eggplant? Like the super tiny green ones Auntie Chan cooks?”
Klopp couldn’t help but laugh at the thought of the word “ponder” in a frying pan, sizzling with small chili peppers and coconut milk. “No, Florrie. Ponder means to think. Don’t worry, it took me a while to learn that one too.”
Florrie gasped in surprise, staring up at Klopp with wide eyes. “It did ? But you’re so old!”
“Oh, am I now?” Klopp teased, swinging his single crutch over the stairs one by one. “But yeah, it did take me a while. I didn’t speak English until I came here eight years ago to take the job. I grew up speaking German, and over time I picked up a few words of other languages. Just like you and your siblings are doing now.”
“Don’t pull your hammy again, okay?” Florrie asked as they reached the bottom of the stairs. “Because Papi says if you do, he’ll strap you to the bench for the whole match.”