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For a day called Sunday, the sky was so grey that it could've been night. The weather wasn't any better; it had rained the whole night before, and it was still raining now. And for the players holed up in the recovery room, the gloomy weather did nothing to improve their already sullen moods.
“Rain, rain, go away, come again another day," Doak mumbled under his breath, absentmindedly trailing a finger through the fog on the window.
Bajcetic tapped away at his Pokemon game, though his eyes wandered and his curls hung listlessly from his head. " Lluvia lluvia vete ya, otro día volverás."
“I’m tired of being useless,” Alexander-Arnold sighed, switching Sky Sports to mute as soon as Gary Neville came on screen. “I mean, the lads need us. The gaffer needs us, and…we’re just here. Injured. We’re letting him down.”
“ Bobagem, rapaz! With Connor and Joey G out, you had to be rushed back before you were ready. None of us had a choice, so you didn’t let us down whatsoever.” Alisson pulled Alexander-Arnold closer, ruffling his hair. “On the other hand…”
“Hold it there!” Jota shot a firm glare Alisson’s way. “You came back from the flu and re-aggravated your recurring hamstring injury. I got injured on the pitch and came off on a stretcher. I feel so guilty about it that I don’t even feel like playing FIFA.”
Everybody gasped, dropping whatever they’d been holding. “You don’t feel like playing EA Sports?!”
“FIFA, rapazes , FIFA. Let a man have his coping mechanisms, okay?” Jota flopped back onto the examination bench, wincing when his booted leg hit into the metal frame. “I wish we could undo today and Friday.”
“Better yet, let’s undo all the injuries!” Szoboszlai leaned on Alexander-Arnold’s shoulder, staring into space. “I’m tired of playing matchmaker, I’m tired of playing Pokemon with Stef, I’m tired of lying around in the physio room like a stale fank . I miss Joel and Thi and Stefan and Trentski, and Curt and Ben and Ali and Diogo and Wino—”
“Uh, Domi?” Bajcetic cast a sceptical glance at Szoboszlai. “We’re all right here next to each other.”
“You know what he means, Stef! I miss all of us on the pitch together, being awesome.” Nunez groaned, leaning his head against the window as he watched the rain stream down the glass. “And now the EFL final is coming up and we aren’t going to get any smokin' hot trophy pics with Domi and I!”
Matip raised an eyebrow, ruffling Nunez’s hair. “What about the Neighborhood Shield?”
Nunez rolled his eyes. “That’s a one-game thing, it barely even counts! I want to win a proper trophy, with semifinals and anxiety and red ribbons and—”
“South Anfield. I remember it from two years ago, it’s magical!” Alexander-Arnold sighed dreamily, then sobered. “But we’ll just be sitting there, completely unable to help in any way.”
Thiago shook his head. “Not like I’m unfamiliar with that. I’m basically the team mascot now.”
“Alright, that’s it.” Jones folded his arms, looking around at the rest of his teammates. “Enough moping around like plastic bags drifting through the wind! I don't know why so many of us are injured now, but right now we all have jobs to do.”
“Jobs?" Jota gestured towards his injured leg. "Are you kidding, CuJo? I'm literally injured now!"
“I am absolutely not kidding. Diogo, you're great at shooting and precise passes. Since you can't use your legs for that now, you'll gather the other strikers and show them how to translate your best EA—sorry, FIFA moves into real life. Ali, you're giving Caoimh some lessons with the ball cannon. Trent, Domi, and Thi, you're on free-kick advice, and Joel and Stefan are on defensive advice."
"Defensive advice?" Bajcetic repeated in disbelief. His gaming console laid on the floor, long forgotten. "I'm nineteen! What advice do I give to somebody who's been around since the dinosaurs like Wataru?”
“You never know, chiquito . Being young can let you see things that older people can't." Thiago tenderly ruffled his work-kid's hair, then hugged Jones before either could respond. "I guess you're right, Curtis. If we can't play, then we have to be—”
"The greatest cheerleading squad of all time!" As if he was a pile of kindling waiting for a spark, Nunez jumped up from his seat, landing on one foot as he waved sparkly, red pom-poms in the air. "Two, four, six, eight! Those Geordie clowns are second-rate! Ten, twelve, fourteen, sixteen! Chelsea sucks, so does Man. City! Eighteen, twenty, twenty-two…”
“I think Thi wanted to say that we have to contribute positive vibes to the guys who are playing. But I guess a cheerleading squad works, too, as long as you wear your hair in those braids of yours." Jota eased himself to a stand, picking up his crutches with relative ease. "Now, who wants aletria ?"
Those in the group who hadn't perked up yet almost immediately did so at the thought of dessert. Jota didn't cook often, but he made lovely, if not simple desserts. Aletria was his specialty dish, one that he'd only made a couple of times before.
"That's the spirit, la'!"
"Let's go!"
"I would've preferred going out shopping for a cheerleading outfit, but dessert sounds great to me."
"Could you show me your recipe? I'm going to try and make this for Edi next time we go on Brazil duty.”
“Me, too! Can we add palinka to the pasta?”
“No!”
“Worth a shot.”