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In truth, Pep hadn’t been expecting a phone call from Jürgen that evening. A loss at Arsenal, dramatically changing the title race by benefiting City and dragging the London side right back into it, was exactly the kind of game about which Jürgen would save any conversation until much later. Until they were both back home, however many days later that was, to talk in person. To comfort one another in person.
Also, Pep wasn’t sure what he was supposed to say yet. Jürgen had lost, perhaps irreparably damaging his team’s title hopes and enormously helping Pep’s own. He could be sympathetic, but was undeniably pleased with the result. Jürgen’s terrible evening in London was the exact reverse for Pep, who’d been watching the game with something close to delight as the second goal went in, and then the third, putting the game to bed. He had elected not to watch the match with his players, though all in the same hotel ready for their own London away game the next day at Brentford. When he had the opportunity to watch Jürgen’s matches, he did so alone. As much as he was watching Liverpool, analysing them, he also knew he spent the majority of his time trying to watch Jürgen, thinking about Jürgen, wondering how Jürgen would be after the game. Thus having to remember to school his emotions during such matches simply wasn’t something he wanted to be worrying about. He’d watch Jürgen’s Liverpool matches in peace. Tonight, he’d stuck to that tradition.
He hadn’t been expecting his phone to start ringing barely an hour after the game. If anything, he’d have thought Mikel would be the one calling him after such a display. He was a strange one, Mikel. Pep was very fond of him, could go as far as saying he was proud of him. They had a close relationship at City, and sometimes Mikel would still ring him; sometimes for advice, sometimes to congratulate Pep on a game, sometimes just a social call. He wouldn’t have been surprised if Mikel called tonight, whether to laugh about helping Pep out in the title race or angling for Pep’s approval. Instead, the contact name flashed up as Jürgen’s.
He of course picked up.
“Hello?”
“Hello, Pep.” Jürgen sounded truly dejected on the other end of the phone, tired and just fed up. Pep’s heart clenched somewhat, knowing that Jürgen must be calling him from somewhere in the Emirates stadium right now. Calling Pep while likely standing in a corridor painted the wrong shade of red, the wrong slogans emblazoned on the walls, after getting what most people asked before the match would have thought the wrong result. 3-1 was Liverpool’s classic scoreline of the season, by Pep’s judgement. Not Arsenal’s, however much they probably deserved it as the match played out.
But why was Jürgen calling him now, from the stadium? He surely had a flight back to Liverpool to catch.
“An interesting choice to call me, Jürgen,” Pep commented honestly. “I would have thought you’d sooner talk in person.”
There was a beat of silence. Or something close to silence; the tv was on mute in the background of Pep’s hotel room, while the inescapable hubbub of a stadium was playing out from Jürgen’s side. Eventually, Jürgen spoke.
“You are in London, yes?”
Oh. Pep immediately knew what the true question was without Jürgen even having to ask it.
“Are you sure you don’t want to fly back with your players?”
“I have already spoken to them and they have the day off tomorrow. I won’t be missed,” Jürgen admitted. “My absence might even be preferred.”
“I doubt that,” Pep replied. “But I’m still unsure if I’m the best choice of person to come to,” he went on, sadly. This was where things could always get complicated for them. However much Pep wanted to comfort Jürgen, to all but teleport him to his hotel room right now, to just hug him and offer whatever he can to make the day feel less of an overwhelming disappointment, everything would always be tempered by the fact he was the City manager. The person other than Mikel this season who’d be expected to take the most joy from Liverpool losing a match. Over the years Pep had tried to hone the skill of separating their jobs from their home life, but it was hard. Whatever he said to Jürgen, the German would know that Pep was pleased by his failure, glad that his team had thrown away the chance to go eight points clear at the top of the table.
“Is it your normal London hotel?”
Clearly Jürgen had made up his mind, Pep supposed. He was hardly going to say no. They were good enough at avoiding the press to make it to this point, so Jürgen coming to Pep’s hotel was unlikely to be splashed all over the front pages the next day – just details of his team’s chaotic performance filling up the back pages. And if any of the City people happened to see Jürgen in the corridors, then Pep would just have them sign extremely strong non-disclosure agreements.
“Yes.”
“Okay. Text me your room number and I will see you later.” Jürgen sounded so glum that Pep found himself feeling relieved by the knowledge Jürgen wouldn’t be spending the night at home alone. Of course he could cope, he wasn’t a child, but it was Liverpool’s first proper loss in a long time. Not one marred by VAR controversy, not one in which they were forced into playing the kids. A genuine loss to an opponent who simply played better. As Pep knew himself, those losses after being on such a successful streak hit the hardest. Yes, having Jürgen in his sight, in his bed, was probably what he wanted this evening.
“Okay, meu estimat. I will see you later,” Pep sighed, hanging up. The room felt strangely still now, quiet with the muted tv showing some post-match coverage that Pep couldn’t care less about. He wondered how long Jürgen would be, what reasons he’d give to his players, to his staff, for missing the flight home. He wondered how many of them could guess the truth.
It was perhaps an hour later that he heard a knock on his door. All but leaping up from his position sitting up in bed, where he’d been valiantly ignoring the many messages his phone was receiving from well-wishers seemingly trying to congratulate him for a season still very much underway, he went to the door. Opening it, he saw the sight he wholly expected to see. A defeated-looking Jürgen, still clad in his long Liverpool coat and black cap. Quite how he’d avoided being photographed, Pep had no idea. He hoped he had avoided the cameras, but was too tired to bother starting up that conversation. A discussion for a later date; he’d just have to trust Jürgen had been as careful as ever. Maybe he’d gotten a lift, though Pep struggled to think who from.
Pep just reached out to take Jürgen’s arm and bring him inside, firmly closing the door behind them. Then, he just stood and looked at Jürgen. He looked tired, drained from the emotion of it all.
“Oh come here,” he finally said, pulling Jürgen into his arms. The Liverpool manager easily accepted it, wrapping his arms around Pep and dropping his head onto Pep’s shoulder. It was reminiscent of last year, helping Jürgen pick himself up after strings of strangely lacklustre matches and a generally disappointing season. Pep didn’t miss it; sure, his job had been easier, but it hardly made him happy to see Jürgen so upset, so disheartened. No, he much preferred a title race with the German, even if that presented its own strain on their relationship.
But normally, it seemed to be Jürgen’s team chasing down Pep’s. Tonight, Jürgen had been ahead and ended up throwing it away. A unique situation once more. Pep tightened his arms around Jürgen, turned to press a kiss into the hair not quite covered by the cap. He often wondered about the cap. It was a barrier, almost, remarkably good at casting a shadow over Jürgen’s features, obscuring them somewhat. Gently he moved to take it off Jürgen before tossing it in the direction of the room’s desk and raking his fingers through Jürgen’s hair.
“I won’t tell you it’s fine, that it’s just one game,” Pep began, “because we know it’s not.” He sighed, letting the wandering hand settle on cupping the back of Jürgen’s neck. “But I will tell you that I love you. That I’m glad you came rather than going home alone.” He loosened the embrace to look at Jürgen who lifted his head and cast Pep a rueful smile. “And to say feel free to rant about it, if you want to,” he added. He predicted Jürgen might have a few choice words to say about Mikel.
“I love you too, Pep,” Jürgen said easily, hands finding Pep’s own and squeezing. Then he let go, shrugging off his coat. Pep wordlessly took it from him, draping it over an armchair before going to sit on the bed, Jürgen following suit.
Back propped up by the pillows, he opened his arms as Jürgen fell into them, leaning bodily against Pep. One of his arms settled across Jürgen’s shoulders, holding him close. His other hand found Jürgen’s, interlocking their fingers. He listened to Jürgen’s breathing for a while, feeling the accompanying rise and fall as his arm moved gently up and down atop his shoulders. It was undeniably peaceful, probably the calmest passage of time Pep had had in a while. Or it would be, at least, if he couldn’t hear Jürgen’s mind whirring next to him.
“I mean it, you can rant about it all,” Pep said after a while. Jürgen tilted his head up from its position back on Pep’s shoulder. He gave Pep a wan smile.
“I shouldn’t, Pep,” Jürgen replied simply. “You have a game tomorrow, you need sleep.” He paused. “And I would be complaining about Mikel. Who is your friend, and who I respect.”
He had managed many more football games on fewer hours’ sleep than he’d be getting tonight, as Jürgen knew. A full eight hours before Brentford was something Pep could take or leave. There were games he’d won after a night entirely devoid of sleep, so he rather reckoned he would cope. Mikel, on the other hand, was an interesting topic.
From the many games Pep had managed against Jürgen with Mikel as his assistant coach, he knew the immense respect the Spaniard had for Jürgen. He also knew Jürgen wasn’t lying when saying it went the other way as well. But that didn’t mean everything was smooth between them on the touchline. The simple example from a game a few years ago, of Mikel shouting at Jürgen and winding up a previously sleeping Anfield crowd, sprang to mind. A naive move on Mikel’s part, but one done out of passion and love for his own football club nonetheless. He was an emotional character, Pep knew. Perhaps not unlike Jürgen in that regard, or even himself, but certainly today Pep could sympathise with Jürgen’s exasperation.
“Whatever you want to say,” Pep began, “I would likely be inclined to agree. I watched the match, I saw how he acted.”
Jürgen huffed out a laugh, to which Pep smiled.
“He is young and it was a good game for him, but yes. It was frustrating,” Jürgen conceded. “Maybe if he kept it to his own area I wouldn’t mind,” he went on, “but he ran down the touchline. Spent most the game out of his box.”
“And had you done the same, you might have got a yellow. Maybe two,” Pep added, to which he felt Jürgen nod. “I know, meu estimat. And you did well not to rise to it.”
Jürgen laughed once more.
“I had no time to, was too busy unsuccessfully trying to fix what my team were doing on the pitch.”
His tone was that mix of being sardonic and just truthful that Pep heard so many times in press conferences, in interviews, whatever. Telling it as it was, that he had his work cut out in the game, and yet managing to deflect a little with humour anyway.
“I assume you’ve seen his post-match antics?”
“The fist pumps? Yes, I saw,” Jürgen answered, tiredly. “Very sportsmanlike, very professional, I must say. But then they reckon mimicry is the highest form of flattery, or whatever the phrase is. So maybe I should be honoured.”
“Maybe.”
“Or it was him taking the piss.”
“More likely.”
They laughed, neither genuinely annoyed, just content to joke about something other than the game itself. Mikel had made himself an easy subject matter.
But Jürgen must be tired. And hungry, Pep supposed. He doubted he had anything to eat before coming over, and although Jürgen seemed just about ready to melt into the duvet and fall straight to sleep next to Pep, he reckoned some food might be a good idea. Suggesting as such, he got a non-committal sound out of Jürgen and decided to take that as agreement that they should order something. Though loath to get up, he reluctantly let go of Jürgen's hand, retracted the arm from around his shoulders, before going to find the room service menu on the desk. Finding a couple of things they could probably share, Pep ordered.
“Twenty minutes, apparently,” Pep stated, returning the phone to its holder. Looking up from the menu he saw Jürgen on his side, somewhat curled up, with eyes softly focused on Pep. Curse bodily demands such as actual sustenance, because otherwise Pep would lie right behind him, arm draped over his waist and just listen as Jürgen’s breathing steadied out, getting deeper as he dropped off to sleep before following suit himself.
“Okay,” Jürgen acknowledged.
Pep looked him over.
“You brought your overnight bag from yesterday, yes?” Jürgen nodded. “Then let’s get in pyjamas. I can answer the door in pyjamas. The server will just think I’m having a midlife crisis and so happy you lost earlier that I’m having my own party all alone, but it is fine.”
Jürgen let out a snort of laughter before sitting himself up.
“They’ll just think you’re having a bite to eat with your coaches. But if a midlife crisis is sitting in bed in pyjamas eating room service, it sounds okay to me.” He begrudgingly got up and found the overnight bag he’d abandoned by the door as soon as he’d arrived.
Later, when they finally were curled up together under the covers Pep found himself glad that Jürgen had come to him. It wasn’t something they had done before, not like this, not in a different city after a game only one of them was involved in. But it did just feel right, in the end, to have Jürgen there. He hadn’t wanted to wait until Tuesday morning to see him, to kiss him, to hug him. He’d wanted Jürgen in his arms straightaway, and here he was. When Jürgen would leave tomorrow, Pep didn’t know. How he would get back to Liverpool, Pep found himself not caring much about either. All that mattered was that for now Jürgen was with him; impromptu, and not in circumstances Pep admittedly expected, but he was there nonetheless.
They had a finite amount of time left in the same league, challenging for the same titles. Pep wanted these last few months to be good for Jürgen, even though he wanted them to be good for himself too. They couldn’t have it both ways, and Pep had that constant impulsive voice in the back of his mind wondering whether to just let Jürgen have it, to craft a title race culminating in the perfect fairytale for Jürgen. But Jürgen wouldn’t want that. He’d want it won fair and square. And Pep couldn’t do that to his players either. It was going to be a bittersweet final season managing in England together, and Pep wasn’t sure he was ready for that chapter of his life to come to an end.
At least for now, things were still. The league table couldn’t change until tomorrow evening. They could both just ignore the media frenzy around the loss after many years of learning to filter it out, could simply exist in each others’ company, limbs loosely entwined as they waited for sleep to come. In the morning, he knew Jürgen would find the motivation to get back to Liverpool, to plan how to fix this. For now, though, Jürgen was drifting off to sleep in Pep’s hotel room, and for the life of him Pep couldn’t think of a place he’d sooner be or someone he’d sooner be there with.