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After Lijnders’ motivational talk, the players slowly started to filter out of the locker room and into the showers. Since Liverpool had played at home, they would finish up their media duties before piling onto the team bus for the short ride to Kirkby Ground. Of course almost all the players and staff had their own cars and so could drive to and from their home games, but Klopp and some of the others had decided that the team bus was a safer option because they were all together. Plus, the bus meant less pollution in the air, something that everybody was hoping for.
Now, almost everybody was done showering, and had left the locker room to wait in the hall for the bus. All except Van Dijk, who was taking longer than usual in the showers, Alisson, who was waiting for Van Dijk, and Nunez, who wasn’t really waiting for anybody but had decided to stay behind anyways. They waited and waited, but Van Dijk didn’t come out of the showers.
“You think Virgil’s okay?” Nunez asked after a long time. “He’s been in there for hours.”
Alisson glanced at the watch, his eyes widening when he realized it had been more than half an hour since Van Dijk went to shower. Van Dijk was known for taking long in the showers, especially with his hair, and normally it wouldn't have been too much of a concern. But he never took thirty-seven minutes, and Van Dijk had already looked tired before and during the team meeting. Maybe he’d got locked in, or had some sort of medical emergency? Or maybe he’d taken something? Alisson’s heart raced with anxiety as his mind raced with worst-case scenarios.
Nunez’s phone rang, breaking the tense silence, and Alisson’s heart jumped when he saw the name of the caller on the screen. It was Klopp, sending a text message.
Boss: Hi Darwin, where are you? Could you look for Ali and Virgil, they're taking too long for me to feel comfortable
Nunez glanced at Alisson, his forehead creased with worry. "The boss knows. What should I say?"
“Tell the boss I’ll go check on Virgil. I'll be right back." And with that, Alisson sprinted towards the showers, almost knocking the door over.
*
Words couldn’t describe how relieved Alisson was when he found Van Dijk standing at the counter, brushing his still-damp hair like he always did. That was good news…wasn't it?
"Virgil! Darwin and I were worried about you." Alisson was filled with a mix of relief and concern as he approached Van Dijk, hugging him tightly. His worries subsided, yet tripled, as he assessed his friend's well-being. Van Dijk's other hand, the one not holding the hairbrush, held his forehead as if it was pounding, and his breaths were long and labored as he saw the normally calm and composed player looking visibly exhausted. "You look…”
"Tired," Van Dijk finished with a wry chuckle, setting the hairbrush on the counter. "Of course I am, who isn't? We've played four times in eleven days."
The fact that Van Dijk didn't even try to deny his exhaustion only worried Alisson even more than before. Van Dijk was always the type to deny being tired at least a dozen times before somebody carried him to bed, tied him down there, and threatened to take away his favorite cologne if he didn't catch up on sleep. The Dutchman tended to start feeling drained around this time in the schedule, and the new pressure of captaincy had probably added to it.
"You don't have to carry all this by yourself, you know. That's the reason why we have a captaincy union." Alisson rested a hand on Van Dijk' shoulder, squeezing it tightly in a way that said I'm here . "That's why we have the Clean Sheet Society."
"The Clean Sheet Society isn't a support group. It's one of Joel's jokes that everybody took too seriously." Van Dijk turned towards the wall that didn’t have a mirror on it, shoulders slumped in a way that would alarm even the most ignorant person. “You don’t understand, Ali. I’m the captain. In the media’s eyes, I’m responsible for everything that goes wrong on the pitch. Now Joel is injured, all the media think that Jarell wanted him to be injured, and they’ll keep trashing us for not finishing our chances instead of pointing out how we didn’t let Man. U finish their chances either—”
“Virgil, We are a support group. We’re each other’s support group, whether you’re the captain or not.” Alisson wasn’t going to let Van Dijk think that about himself. Especially not when he knew how he felt. “Yeah, you’ll have to take responsibility for some more things now that you’re captain, but you don’t need to take responsibility for everything. That period between Jordan leaving and you being appointed captain was enough time for the rest of us to learn to get our act together.”
Van Dijk laughed weakly, but it barely reached his eyes. He was many things—serious, furious, even funny sometimes. But now he was exhausted. Alisson felt it was his responsibility to give his friend a much-needed break—and he had the perfect idea.
“You know…I think we still have some of that caramel marzipan Thiago gave us for Christmas. Why don’t we have some when we get back to Kirkby, then I’ll give you a massage? Your shoulders look tense.”
Van Dijk’s entire body sagged in relief. “How did you know?”
“You literally said you were tired.”
“I meant, how did you know I’d just got hit by a caramel craving?”
“You always get hit by a caramel craving, after games, leão .”
The two stayed that way, Van Dijk leaning on Alisson’s shoulder while Alisson ruffled Van Dijk’s hair. It was perfect—until Nunez walked in.
“ Jesucristo, both of you get your act together and start dating!!! ”
*
“Ugh,” Van Dijk groaned, tossing his phone across his bed. After a twenty minute bus ride—it was usually fifteen, but a whole flock of pigeons had settled in the road and delayed them—they were back in Kirkby.
“What's wrong? Are you still worried about the media? Yeah, we drew, but we kept a clean sheet, win for the Clean Sheet Society.” Alisson turned his attention away from the little bottles of essential oils he’d borrowed from the medicine cabinet. He wasn’t sure which oils worked best to relax tense muscles, so he’d taken all thirty bottles and began experimenting, diluting some of the stronger ones in lotion before applying them to Van Dijk’s skin. So far, the lavender and grapefruit oils had been the most effective ones, followed by the peppermint and ylang-ylang oils.
“Yeah, but today's the fullback's turn to choose how we celebrate.” Van Dijk rolled his eyes as he said the last part.
“It can’t be that bad.” Alisson couldn’t help but chuckle at Van Dijk’s annoyance. Robertson and Alexander-Arnold had been getting under the team’s collective skin for years; and they were showing no sign of stopping despite Alexander-Arnold’s nomination to vice-captaincy and Robertson only being two and a half months away from his thirtieth birthday.
“And guess what they thought of doing?” Van Dijk sat up, pulling his sweatshirt over his torso and zipping up the zipper in the front. “Let me warn you: it is very much that bad.”
“Don't tell me skiing.”
“Karaoke night.”
A silence fell upon the room.
“You're joking. You’ve got to be joking. Karaoke night? I can't sing on stage by myself to save my life!” Alisson felt his hands begin to sweat. He wiped them on the towel, but it was almost useless.
Van Dijk crossed his arms, leaning against the headboard with a huff. “I’ll bet you twenty euros that everybody will be scream singing. Forty euros that Kostas will find some way to sneak Thiago in even though he’s an attacking midfielder.”
“I’m not wasting sixty euros on a certainty!”
“There goes my free sixty euros.”