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Liverpool had just grinded out a difficult win versus Burnley at Turf Moor. The weather had been awful--foggy, misty and rainy all at once. Add in a soggy and muddy pitch, intense wind and the herculean effort of battling the well-conditioned, physical Burnley players, and you could clearly see how exhausted the Liverpudlians were.
“I feel like I just rumbled through the Amazon jungle,” Alisson groaned. He had been tryin to rub all the dirt and sweat out of his hair with a towel, but it had made no difference. His hair was still a mess, as was his kit.
“You’re telling me.” Milner fingered his own white kit, stained with mud and grass from only one minute on the pitch. “Alright chaps, to the showers, now!”
Everybody grapped their things and ran for the showers faster than you could say “You’ll Never Walk Alone”. Milner gathered his own things and prepared to wash, but Van Dijk interrupted him.
“One shower is out of order,” he called out from the showers. “That’s not enough for all of us, you fine with waiting, Milly? We all already started.”
“That’s fine with me,” Milner called back, flopping onto the bench. He wasn’t tired per se, but he hated trips to Burnley. They fouled hard and rough for no reason, and parked the bus so deep that they almost never attacked. It was like their only purpose in the league was to frustrate everybody except Manchester City.
He took out his phone and went to Youtube. If he was going to wait, he might as well listen to some music. He smirked as he sent Alicia Keys’ newest album to Henderson and put in his headphones so as to not be annoying. It was Beatles music, which Milner knew was pretty ordinary and probably just reserved his status as “Boring Milner”, but he didn’t care.
*
Florrie was absolutely bored. After the match had ended, Klopp had to go for interviews and the others went to the locker room, which wound her up with the assistants. But Lijnders had simply left her with Cookie and began chatting with the others, and Florrie had quickly grown restless, wandering away when she thought nobody was watching. All of the Burnley players hurting them had scared her, and she wanted Milner.
“Milly?” she called over and over again, her words echoing through the empty halls. The locker room seemed empty, and Florrie knew she was not to enter the press conference room--but wait, what was that door?
“Ob-la-di, ob-la-da, life goes on, brah, ob-la-di, ob-la-da…”
“Papi!” Florrie recognized the voice, opening the mysterious door. She knew the song and the voice--it had to be Milner!
*
Van Dijk lathered his hair, relishing the suds coating him as hot water poured from the tap. The steaming water was the only sound in the room, peace and quiet afer a rough game. Oh, how he needed this.
“OB-LA-DI, OB-LA-DA!!!”
“Robbo, what are you doing?” Mane called out from another stall. “Trying to imitate Milly?”
“I think I got it pretty good this time!” Robertson called out from the shower. The shower had only seemed to invigorate him, and now he was singing “Ob-La-Di, Ob-La-Da” in a Yorkshire accent at the top of his lungs. Now the pounding water and Robertson’s singing mingled with the pouring rain outside.
“Robbo,” Salah groaned, but Van Dijk could hear the smile in his voice. “Would you stop that please? You’re sounding like Milner.”
“You and Sadio are the only ones who think that,” Robertson began, but he was interrupted by a familiar squeal.
“PAPI!”
For a moment, the world seemed to stop. And then, Robertson restarted it.
“FLORRIE!”
“Get decent, quick!” Matip called out, and the showers sprang into action. Little Florrie watched on in confusion as all the Liverpudlians scrambled about, clothes and soapsuds flying in the air, with occasional screams of “NOO!” and “DECENT, LADS, NOT KNICKERS!” peppering the air.
“Papi, where are you?”
*
It had been very peaceful in the locker room when Milner had decided to wait there alone. He had gone through all his favorite Beatles songs, and was now in the middle of “Smooth Criminal”.
But when Michael Jackson’s screams seemed to increase by twentyfold, he knew something was up.
He threw open the shower door, and tried hard not to laugh at the situation. His teammates, some dressed but still sopping wet and others wrapped in hilarious combinations of towels and jackets, punctuated by screams and shouts, were in a gigantic hurricane of commotion, with Florrie standing in the middle, confused as ever.
A pair of knickers flew through the air, unfolded and landed on his head. It was then that Florrie noticed he was in the room--and his unusual “new hat”.
“Papi’s got knickers on his head!” Florrie announced, holding her arms up to Milner. “Up, Milly, up!”
“Why’d you come here, Florrie?” Milner asked her, obliging to her requests. “Were you looking for me?”
“I’m bored,” Florrie pouted. “Milly, why they tell me go away?”
Milner froze, not ready to talk about nakedness to a two year old. “Well…there’s a reason that--”
“Florrie!” Lijnders burst through the door, gratefully gathering her in his arms. “I’m so sorry, Claudio asked me a question and I got so distracted. Why’d I let you run off? Come, let’s go for a walk.”
“Walk!” Florrie cheered, as Lijnders carted her away from the showers. But just when Milner thought he was safe…
“James Phillip Milner, why in the Bundesliga do you have a pair of boxer shorts on your head?”