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Guardiola parked his car in front of the restaurant, silently thanking whoever invented car rental companies. If those didn't exist, he would've had to call a taxi, which would've been quite a hassle considering that Guardiola didn't know much French. Even if he was fluent in French, Guardiola was unfamiliar with the streets and sights of Marseille.
He checked his pockets for the keys, then stepped out of the car and locked it. He took a deep breath and made his way inside the restaurant, only to be faced with his rival. His face contorted in horror as he stared into the eyes of his enemy, and he silently wished he had a can of bug spray in his pocket instead of the keys.
"I told Jurgen that I'd have dinner with him in the Hall of Fame, not you." Guardiola took a seat on the other side of the table, picking up his wine glass. He tried not to glare too much at the person across from him. "Is this wine? Or that god-awful garbage water that you call wine?”
"For the thirty-eighth time, Pep." Jose Mourinho rolled his eyes, handing Guardiola a bottle of red wine. "It's called port wine, and it's an art. When are the others getting here?"
"At a time that I'm not looking forward to." Guardiola uncorked the bottle, pouring the contents into Mourinho's glass. "You know, I've been trying to get the others to appreciate the finer things in life. But Jurgen and Jesse still don't understand wine like we do. What do they see in beer?"
"They're a lost cause. I didn't really want to come here anyway."
Guardiola didn't know what to say to that. Mourinho had been in no mood to come to dinner after losing the UEL finals the day before. He had been sulking ever since.
Mourinho took a long sip from his glass, his eyes widening when the wine hit his palate. "Wait, is this hot sauce?"
Guardiola tried not to laugh as he drank from his own glass of wine. "A special surprise for the Special One."
*
"Can we come with you, boss? It'll be fun, I swear!"
Klopp closed the car trunk, straightening the cuffs of his sweater. Since it was a Weird Manager's Club meeting, that meant Klopp and Lijnders would be leaving the boys at home. Luckily, Milner had been put in charge to ensure no dumpster fires occurred while the two were gone.
Klopp and Lijnders drove away, leaving Milner in charge. He had been entrusted with this responsibility many times before, and he was sure he could handle it. Unfortunately, Milner being in charge didn't mean the others couldn't give Klopp gray hair over the phone.
"When are you coming back?" Elliott yelled over the phone even though it was on the speaker.
Klopp tried not to let his annoyance show too much. "I'll be back by tomorrow, okay? No need to worry, Harvey."
He could literally hear Elliott's broad, mischievous grin on the other side. "Say hi to Master P for me!!!"
Klopp rolled his eyes and hung up the phone. He knew Elliott was just trying to be funny, but he wasn't in the mood. Between the 4-4 draw on the last day of the season with already-relegated Southampton, and Buvac's cold response to his passionate letter to meet up and heal the broken bond between them, Klopp felt deflated and overwhelmed by the events of the week. He was feeling particularly emotional as he thought about his strained relationship with Buvac, and the fact that they hadn't seen each other in over five years.
The only reason Klopp was even attending the WMC dinner was because he'd get to meet Edin Terzic in person, as well as catching up with his good friend Jesse Marsch and his friend Patrick Vieira. Otherwise, Klopp wanted to spend the night at Kirkby, doing basically nothing but shuffling through old paperwork.
"And they say Libras are the overthinkers of the zodiac! I can hear all the chaos in your head from across the console," Lijnders joked. "Aren't you excited about this? I've never had a chance to chat with Jose."
"It'll be more like watching Jose freak out over the steak's actual meat content. But yeah, I'd like to see Jesse again." Klopp sighed, staring at the road ahead of him. "I just wish that I could introduce Jesse to Zel as well."
Klopp felt a pang of guilt and longing as he imagined the two of them together, singing along to weird heavy metal songs. He shook his head and turned on the radio, trying to drown out the thought.
Lijnders turned down the radio, which Klopp had turned up to a frighteningly loud volume. "Look, I think you're going to have to ignore Rick Astley and give up on Zel. He clearly doesn't want anything to do with you."
Klopp's face dropped at that. “Maybe I should have sent him a ‘Never Gonna Give You Up’ CD instead of a letter."
*
At the restaurant, Guardiola thanked all the saints that he'd accidentally left his Airpods in his ear when he'd left the car. This way, he could put on some enjoyable music and ignore the fact that Mourinho was already midway through one of his infamous "respect" rants. The poor waiter, dressed in a top hat and morning coat, glanced around the table nervously, awaiting the end of the tirade. He looked like he'd rather be anywhere but here--something that Guardiola could easily sympathize with.
"Hey Jose, want some more wine?" Guardiola asked in a last-minute effort to distract Mourinho. The Portuguese manager had already had two glasses, but surely drunk Mourinho was better than "you will respect me" Mourinho.
Mourinho accepted the half-glass of wine Guardiola offered him--but only after checking for hot sauce. "What's up with the earbuds?"
"Oh, these?" Guardiola tried to cover the Airpods with his free hand, silently cursing that he'd lost all his hair. "Nothing much..."
Mourinho reached across the table and yanked the Airpods out of Guardiola's ears. Guardiola sighed in relief...until he saw Mourinho inserting them in his ears.
"Wait, Jose--"
Mourinho glared at Guardiola, his eyes so intense they could've burned down the entire restaurant. "Seriously Pep?! Sevillan music?!"
*
"It's gotta be here somewhere!" Marsch wiped the raindrops from the visor of his helmet. "Patrick, can you check the map again?"
"We would've had a map if you didn't decide to rent a motorcycle when it was threatening to downpour." Vieira gestured to the multiple passers-by on the boulevard. "Why don't we just stop and ask one of these folks? I speak French, remember?"
"Yeah, but then they'll recognize us and call in the paparazzi. We'll never get to dinner, because those paparazzi always ruin it--"
A yowl interrupted Marsch's tirade. It was Monique, who they'd taken along with them to France. Marsch initially thought bringing the tortoiseshell cat along was an excellent idea. But now, as the cat yowled her head off, protesting about her rain-soaked fur and her idiot owners, Marsch was starting to regret it. Monique's yowling was so loud and grumpy that it almost sounded like she was joining in on Marsch's tirade.
Vieira sighed, scratching Monique behind the ears to try and calm her down. “Fine, let's just keep riding. It's not like we can get any more lost than we already are.”
Marsch chuckled as he restarted the motorcycle, driving between twenty garbage cans before detouring into a dank, abandoned alley. "Wow, someone's grumpy today."
Vieira held an umbrella in one hand, clinging to Marsch with the other one. Monique's cage was balanced on his lap. "No kidding. We're going to be driving until midnight in this deluge. Why did I let you convince me that driving without a map was a good idea?"
Marsch stopped three inches away from a sewer, taking off his helmet and cleaning it with his jacket sleeve. Rain soaked his hair, plastering it on his head. "Because you said you'd been to Marseille before."
"It was one time! And I was traveling to an away game with Cannes. Way to go, bro." Vieira grabbed the helmet out of Marsch's hands, putting it on and strapping it up. He jumped into the motorcycle's front seat, handing the cat carrier to Marsch. "Now get in the back seat and let me find this godforsaken restaurant."
*
"So...are you ready for an appetizer?" Mourinho really hoped the answer was yes. While Mourinho could tolerate at least four glasses of wine on an empty stomach, he wasn't so sure about Guardiola. And judging by how Guardiola was gushing over one of the nearby chefs, he was already borderlining on tipsy.
"Si, eres tan hermoso..." Guardiola's eyes widened as he seemed to remember where he was. “When are the others coming?"
As if on cue, a motorcycle pulled up outside, splashing a four-foot wave of rainwater on the window. Nearly three seconds later, Marsch burst in through the door, wringing water out of his beret.
"Pep, long time no see!" Marsch gave Guardiola a hearty slap on the back, nearly knocking the Catalan out of his chair. "And--no way. Is this the Special One?"
"In the flesh." Mourinho turned his head, trying to block Marsch out of his line of vision. It failed miserably, though, because Marsch plonked down in the seat right next to him.
Marsch eyed Mourinho, grinning like an idiot. "And not a wrinkle in sight! Just being sarcastic, Jose."
"Whoa, watch it!" At least Vieira had some tact, pulling his friend away from Mourinho's face. "You'll make him self-implode."
"I don't blame you for thinking that." Klopp appeared out of nowhere, Lijnders following close behind. "Hey guys, have you seen Edin anywhere?"
"He's not come yet," Mourinho explained. His scowl only grew deeper when Klopp took the other seat next to him. "Why do you care?"
Lijnders sighed. "You know, he's not usually this late."
Vieira shrugged. He'd just met Terzic in the managerial group chat, like the others. "He's probably just running late. No big deal."
Guardiola dug out a euro cent from his pocket, dropping it in the center of the table. "So who's going to pay for the first round of drinks?"
Mourinho nearly choked on his water.
*
Thankfully, Terzic and Conte showed up five minutes later. They apologized for being late and explained that they had been caught in traffic, and with that the managers decided to start talking.
"This season felt like it lasted forever," Lijnders lamented, head in hands. "I could've stood for it to end around December."
"It should've never happened," Mourinho grouched, pouring another glass of wine. "I mean, all these teams try to out bus-park me! Even Sevilla tried to out bus-park me! That's disrespectful to the Special One, which is me." He raised the glass to his lips and gulped it down.
"It's like they don't even know who I am. I am the king and they won't even admit it." He slammed the glass on the table and glared at the wine bottle. "What do you think, Pep?"
Lijnders opened his mouth to speak, but Guardiola beat him to it. "You should start teaching your teams to play football first instead of frustrating the opponents with your primitive rugby tactics."
Mourinho had to be held back by Marsch so he wouldn't strangle Guardiola.
Klopp had been watching Guardiola the entire time he was there with a wary glance. His inhibition-free behavior had been so alarming that Klopp had switched positions. Now he sat between Guardiola and Terzic, with Lijnders right across him. "Josep, how much have you had to drink?"
"I don't know. Five glasses, six glasses." Guardiola suddenly grabbed Conte's hair and tousled it, much to the Italian's bemusement. "Is that your latest wig, Antonio?"
Conte groaned, pushing Guardiola's hand away. Guardiola didn't take the hint and held Klopp's hand, loudly counting the wrinkles on it.
"Umm...why don't we order now?" Vieira gestured towards the waiter on the side, hoping to break the awkward tension.
Guardiola dropped Klopp's hand and the group breathed a sigh of relief. "Yes, let's order."
The ordering process went mainly without a problem, as the waiter could understand enough pointing and random words in different languages. Vieira helped out as well, and the managers managed to make do with the limited French that they had. That is, until Mourinho tried to speak for himself.
"You sure you don't want some help?" Vieira asked, hiding the wine bottle when he was sure Guardiola wasn't looking.
Mourinho shook his head, stumbling through his words and gesturing wildly to the poor bemused waiter. "I've got this. Listen up waiter, o Especial gostaria da carne."
The waiter shrugged, pointing to the menu again. "Pardon? "
"You're speaking Portuguese," Guardiola pointed out. "Try this. Ze Special Uno vould guste ze meato."
The waiter just stared at the two like they were lunatics.
"I've got this, man!" Marsch stood in front of the waiter, gesturing wildly to Mourinho. "Yo fam, my homeboy Jose here would like that steak, s'il vous plaît."
To everyone's surprise, the waiter nodded and left.
Mourinho looked at Marsch incredulously, his mouth slightly agape. Marsch smiled and gave him a thumbs up, then turned to the rest of the table and shrugged. "What? I took French in high school."
"Which is the miracle of the year," Vieira muttered just loud enough for the other managers to hear. "This guy nearly made us go to a Greek nightclub instead of a French restaurant."
Klopp and Lijnders exchanged horrified looks, while the others just laughed, blissfully unaware.
"Alright then!" Terzic took a notebook and pen out of his jacket pocket. "Let's play Truth or Dare!"
Mourinho rolled his eyes. "What are we, teenagers?"
Terzic laughed. "It's just a game! Come on, it'll be fun!" He looked expectantly at Mourinho. "You can go first. Truth or Dare?"
"Truth," Mourinho said without a minute's hesitation. "The Special One always tells the truth."
"I'd love to see the universe where that actually happens," Guardiola muttered. After devouring one-half of a baguette, the alcohol was slowly drying out from his system.
Terzic smirked, handing Mourinho the notebook and paper. "Draw a satirical cartoon of the person you like the most sitting at this table."
Mourinho took the notebook and paper from Terzic, and began to draw. The others watched with amusement as the pencil moved quickly across the page. When Mourinho finished, he held the notebook up for everyone to see. Everyone was amazed to see that Mourinho had drawn a perfect likeness of Terzic in the span of a few minutes. Except for one thing--he had given Terzic a big bushy tail and wolf ears, and also drawn him inside a banana.
Terzic was flabbergasted. "You like me the best?"
Mourinho nodded, handing the sketchbook back to Terzic. "You have a certain appeal. You're not over-mushy, but not too rigid either. You're like a perfectly good banana. So...you wanna exchange phone numbers?"
Terzic couldn't believe his ears. He had never expected someone to like him the best, and the fact that Mourinho said it so confidently made it all the more surprising. "Friends."
The others around the table applauded, pleased that the two had bonded so quickly. Until Marsch shouted "when's the wedding"?
Mourinho and the rest of the group stared at Marsch in disbelief.
"Congratulations," Conte grumbled, pouring himself a glass of wine. "You just ruined the moment."
*
"This steak is undercooked!" Mourinho pushed the plate away and shook his head in frustration. "What is wrong with this restaurant? I specifically asked for it to be cooked medium-rare!"
Mourinho's face was turning red with anger, much to the concern of his fellow managers. He was so worked up, he didn't even seem to hear the waiter's apology. The other managers glanced nervously at each other, unsure of what to do.
"Does this have something to do with that final you played yesterday?" Terzic asked, barely after the waiter was out of sight with Mourinho's steak.
Vieira facepalmed, pulling Marsch out of the crossfire zone before the actual war of words could start. "And here's me thinking Jesse would ask the armor-piercing question. Who’d guess it would be the newbie?”
Mourinho's face contorted and he slammed his fist on the table. He stood up and pointed his finger at Terzic. "You think you can mess with me? You think I don't know what you're trying to do?! You are trying to disrespect me, and you will respect me. YOU WILL RESPECT ME!"
Instead of acting intimidated, Terzic stood up and met Mourinho's gaze. "How can I respect a manager who abandons his players—correction, devastated players—on the pitch after losing a major final? You can't expect me to respect someone who takes an Uber back to the locker room!"
"Burn!" Guardiola whispered to a shocked Klopp. They'd seen Mourinho get angry before, but this time it seemed to be something more than an undercooked steak.
Mourinho was so infuriated by that, the veins on his forehead were visibly pulsating. He stepped closer to Terzic, until their faces were literally three inches away from each other. Livid, Mourinho bellowed, "How dare you?! I am the Special One! The most decorated manager of my time! I strike fear into the hearts of my opponents, and I make my own salad dressing when I feel so inclined!"
Terzic felt a chill running down his spine. He was frozen in place, unable to move or speak. Guardiola grabbed Terzic's arm and pulled him away before Mourinho stormed off, leaving the other managers in stunned silence.
"He's never reacted like this before," said Conte. He'd been so absorbed into the argument that he'd forgotten about the manicotti in front of him. "I mean, losses like this usually just roll off his back."
"They don't. I'll be right back." And Terzic stood up from his place, abandoning his plate as he ran off after Mourinho. "I have to apologize."
*
Terzic found Mourinho outside the restaurant, standing in the rain with a blank expression on his face. He didn't even seem to notice the rain.
Terzic put his hand on Mourinho's shoulder, careful not to overstep the older man's boundaries. They'd just agreed to be friends, but if the argument at the table was anything to judge by, Mourinho could switch moods in an instant. "What's wrong?"
Mourinho shook his head, turning his back on Terzic. "Nothing. I just needed some fresh air."
Terzic sighed and turned back to the door, feeling lost. He was determined to be a loyal friend to Mourinho, but it seemed like it wouldn't be easy.
I strike fear into the heart of my opponents.
Wait a minute.
"I'm not afraid of you." Terzic stepped out from under the restaurant canopy and walked towards Mourinho.
Mourinho stepped back, unsure of how to react to the sudden boldness. "I know. So you can go back to dinner and leave me here."
Terzic smiled, knowing he'd gotten through to Mourinho. "Y'know Jose...you don't have to be Mr. Invincible to earn respect. You can be vulnerable and still be strong, a perfect banana. Like me."
"Edin, I'm not like you. I didn't play much professionally. Even Guardiola played professionally. I started as a translator for Barca and then I started coaching." Mourinho brushed the damp strands of hair out of his face. His blazer and shirt were soaked in the pouring rain. "I had to earn a reputation as soon as I became a coach. I wasn't remembered for anything, because nobody knew me. I had to work my way up, and now I'm here. It has taken me a long time to earn the respect I deserve.
"But I respect you." Terzic shook the rain off his own sweater sleeve, staring Mourinho in the eye. "Don't think I didn't read the Wikipedia article about you. You saved your teammate's life in that automobile fire, did the treble with Porto, and got Spurs to the top of the table for over two months. That in itself is a miracle."
Mourinho just nodded. He knew that Terzic was trying to butter him up, but he couldn't help but admire his enthusiasm. "It doesn't matter. I still lost my perfect record. It was so close and I blew it."
Terzic chuckled darkly, thinking of the events of four days ago. "I know how you feel. We were two points ahead of Bavaria and we were so sure that we had it in the bag. But then they scored that lucky goal and we were done for."
Mourinho sighed and nodded. " Siu , we were so close to winning the cup. It's tough...I didn't want to face my players after that. I'd been so sure my system would work and it blew up in my face."
"Let's go inside. I hate the rain." Terzic grabbed Mourinho's arm and gently led him back towards the restaurant. "I could eat a whole basket of krofne now. Those are Croatian donuts, in case you're interested."
Mourinho rolled his eyes, but let Terzic bring him inside. "Those will make you grow a spare tire."
"Look, you lost a final and you're sad about it. You deserve some comfort food." Terzic opened the door, hip-checking Mourinho inside. "Nearly all of us have had a disappointing season."
Mourinho sighed and looked at Terzic gratefully. "This is going to come off as sort of weird, but...thank you. I guess I just needed someone to remind me that I'm not alone."
To Mourinho's surprise, the other managers were perfectly willing to accept Mourinho's apology. And when Terzic suggested they all order plates of French sweet pastries to celebrate going another season further in their careers, Mourinho just smiled. He’d found a new friend, whether he liked it or not.
*
Ten minutes and a grand platter of dessert later, everybody was back in a positive mood again. Guardiola, Marsch, Vieira, and Conte were arguing over which pastry was the best; Terzic was talking about he and Mourinho's little moment outside to Lijnders, with Mourinho sticking in his two cents; and Klopp, who had been quiet for most of the time, smiled as he watched the argument go on.
"Mille-feuille win the day, no argument," Vieira insisted, holding up the small, rectangular pastry. "I would know, I've been to at least a dozen French cafes."
"No way, Jose! Croissants are the real champions," countered Guardiola, holding one up for everyone to see. "They are a classic, a staple. They have been around for centuries."
"I'm still not convinced," Marsch said, shaking his head. "These religions are so good, I need the recipe."
Vieira rolled his eyes at Marsch's grammar error. "It's called a religieuse because it's supposed to look like a nun in her habit."
"That is absolute nonsense. Nothing can ever beat these crepe suzettes!" Conte turned to Terzic, hoping for an answer.
Terzic shrugged. "What can I say? I'm with Jose on this one. The chouquettes are clearly the kings of pastry."
Vieira shook his head and sighed, "You two are hopeless situations."
"And there's nothing you can do about it." Mourinho held up a chouquette, wearing his classic trademark smirk. "The Special One and The Banana One will always agree."
"The Banana One?" Marsch laughed, popping another religieuse into his mouth. "And I thought 'The Special One' was insane!"
"And you two." Vieira pointed to Marsch and Lijnders. "You're only going with the religieuse because you love chocolate!"
Marsch and Lijnders exchanged mischievous glances. "You know it," Marsch said with a grin. "Can't resist the temptation of religieuse ! What's your opinion on it, Jurgen? You've been awfully quiet today."
Klopp barely looked up from the menu he'd been staring at ever since the "Pastry Wars" had begun.
"I think I'll stick to the éclairs," he finally said. He glanced at Mourinho and Terzic, who were arguing over which flavor of chouquette was better, and sighed. "But it looks like you two have made up your minds already. I'm glad you can argue about something without immediately getting angry at each other, or ignoring each other, or walking away and never answering the others' letters, until the answer finally comes to you, only to reveal that he never wanted to spend time with you anyway and you realize you should have taken his hints long ago."
As soon as Klopp said that, he clapped a hand over his mouth. He shook his head and smiled sadly. He wanted more for his friends, even if it wasn't for himself.
Mourinho and Terzic stopped arguing and looked at Klopp, surprised.
Klopp cleared his throat and smiled sheepishly. "Sorry, that just kind of slipped out. Let's enjoy the rest of our dinner in peace."
"Whoa there, I think we can and should still talk about this." Vieira clapped a hand over Marsch's mouth before he could launch into a rant about how terrific the religieuse were. "This is about Zeljko, isn't it?"
Klopp nodded, still refusing to meet Vieira's gaze. "I know it's simple...just a friendship turned wrong. But it's a twenty-five year friendship gone wrong. It would've been thirty-one years this summer. I don't know how to make it right. I just don't know what to do."
Vieira took his hand, squeezing it tightly. "You need to focus on the present, not the past. You can't change what has happened, but you can make new friends now and find new ways to be happy without him. If he doesn't even want to discuss things civilly like a grown-up, then he's not worth your time and energy."
Vieira paused, looking Klopp in the eye. "You deserve better than that. You deserve to have someone who will respect you and be there for you. Just like I'm there for Jesse, or how Edin and Jose are. You have people in your life who love and care for you, man. You don't have to settle for anything less."
Everybody expected a verbal response from Klopp, who was known to be very verbal. But instead of responding, Klopp just looked away and didn't say a word. Everyone was taken aback by his silence. He finally looked up...and nearly crushed Vieira in a tight bear hug.
" Danke , Patrick."
"Well, then." Marsch fed Monique a piece of salmon from between the bars of her cat carrier, scratching the cat between her ears. "It seems like this dinner turned out well after all."
Mourinho nodded, watching Vieira and Klopp hug. "Yeah...except for one thing.”
"What?"
Conte pointed to Guardiola, who was smooth-talking a solid stone column. "Pep's drunk…and there’s only one car.”