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The grey was back. It fogged his vision as he shook hands with the opposing manager, even mustering up a hug for him. He would be the only person he was hugging today.He loved his boys to no end. More often than not, he'd stood in literal and metaphorical harm's way to protect them. But the ones that had gotten on the pitch--he would never fault the injured players or the ones that hadn't played that day--hadn't even tried.
It was ironic. It was painful. It was time to call in Piers Morgan because today he felt betrayed.
They'd said they would try to win everything for him. They said that they would put their lives on the line. Now, four was at great risk of becoming one, a lonely one back in February.
Being a generally optimistic person didn't mean that he wasn't broken. Cracks had appeared when his girlfriend had broken up with him at the hospital on that fateful thirteenth of December in 1988. They had grown when he was rejected by his crush, who ended up being his best friend. They had spread like wildfire after his father passed away from lung cancer in 1998 and exploded when said best friend suddenly left without a reason or an answer to the many messages he sent him. The cracks almost overtook him entirely when his mother passed away, twenty-three years after his father had. Yet they never did overtake him.
Joy bridged the cracks. Attentiveness filled in the canyons. Love glued his heart back together. He'd found all these in the various places he'd gone, in the many adventures and shenanigans he'd taken part in (and started).
The opposite bode true, too. Sorrow broke the bridges. Inattention made the canyons deeper. Indifference made the cracks themselves even worse.
Today, it was the indifference that hit him hardest. He was used to sadness, and he was used to inattention. His boys didn't always make him happy--which human ever did that?--and they didn't always pay attention when they needed to. But they were never wholly indifferent to anything, especially when it had to do with him. In fact, he'd noticed that they seemed to be too worried about making sure he went out with a bang.
Where had that gone?
He'd barely answered the reporters. Thank goodness they didn't decide to test him too much or he would've snapped worse than Undivided. After the interviews were finally done, he made his way to the locker room. He had his hand on the doorknob when he decided against it.
Treffen Sie niemals Entscheidungen mit gebrochenem Herzen, a voice replayed from his memory.
Ich weiß, aber du hast es selbst gesagt. Schlafen Sie niemals mit einem ungelösten Streit ein.
Denken Sie daran, verletzte Herzen sagen verletzende Worte.
Ich weiß, dass du deine Jungs liebst, aber wenn du zu viel sagst, während du verletzt bist, weißt du, was passieren wird.
Aber was wenn--
Sohn.
For a moment, he thought the firm yet loving words were present ones, sent with sound waves through the air instead of brain waves through his memory. He looked around the room, then at his phone. There were reporters, packing up their things and leaving, but not a single one of them was who he was looking for.
Ja, Mama.
"Boss?" Much to Klopp's surprise, Danny Sturridge stayed in the room after everybody else had left. "Are...are you okay?"
Klopp's protective instinct kicked in almost immediately as he cleared his throat. When had the lump come? "Why'd you ask?"
"Gaffer, before I'm a pundit, I'm your ex-player." Sturridge closed his briefcase and glanced both ways before walking over to the press conference desk. "Look, we have two days before Sunday afternoon. The sooner you shake this off and prepare and figure out what the hell went wrong today, the higher chances we have of bouncing back from this."
Klopp didn't smile. He couldn't. But he did ruffle Sturridge's hair, just like he used to when he still played for them.
"Good night, Danny."
Sturridge looked like he wanted to probe further, but swallowed the urge. "Let's both try to have one of those."
That's how, after a silent—except for the speech to the players, which thankfully left them a little less despondent than they’d been after the final whistle—bus ride back to Kirkby, he ended up in the almost-dark, thankfully deserted kitchen, a can of beer in his hand. He'd limited himself to one, since getting drunk after a loss like this would only make things even worse than they were, but he could almost feel the alcohol getting to his head even though it was only one third of a very mild beer.
Bz, bzz. It was his phone.
JesseDa🐐: hey man, love u 💙
JesseDa🐐: btw, that was as bad as Real
JesseDa🐐: and you still came back from Real
Klopp shook his head and typed out a reply to Marsch. Somehow the American always knew how to cheer him up and put his foot in his mouth at the same time.
Boss: 💛. Thanks, Jesse. We have to bounce back from this.
He hit send and took a sip of his beer. He knew Marsch was trying to lift his spirits, but the comparison to Real stung. That had been a devastating loss, one that had almost ended their season. But they had come back from it, and he knew they could come back from this one too. He just needed to figure out what had gone wrong and how to fix it.
He finished his beer and headed upstairs to his office. He needed to get some rest before they started preparing for the next game. He knew he couldn't let this loss consume him, he had to keep moving forward. With a heavy heart, he sat at the desk and closed his eyes, hoping that tomorrow would bring a clearer head and a better plan.
“Nuh-uh, Yuri, you’re not going to do that tonight.” Buvac appeared out of nowhere, leaning on the desk. “To the bedroom. You need proper sleep, not the anxious and depression-infested variety.”
Klopp wanted to argue, but he knew he couldn’t. Buvac had always that effect on him, and he knew he was only trying to help him. “But where will you sleep? You’ve been staying in my room since you came back.”
Buvac shrugged, turning off the lights in the office. “It doesn’t matter. We can share a bed for tonight.”
Klopp hesitated for a moment, but then nodded his agreement. Despite the events of the past few years, he still trusted Buvac to an extent. They made their way up to the bedroom, dressed, and got ready in complete silence.
As they settled in on opposite sides of the bed, Klopp couldn't stand the external silence anymore. “Zel?”
Buvac poked his head out from under the cover, propping himself up on one elbow. His hair, which was still as long as it had been when he’d left six years ago, fell over his eyes in long, black ringlets. “Yeah?”
All of a sudden, Klopp felt like his throat had closed up. “What do you do when you feel unloved? Like, you don’t feel like that often, but…”
Buvac's expression softened as he looked up at the ceiling. "Well, I remind myself of the people who do love me. Like all the coaching staff, and the boys, and your family and friends. Well, maybe Jesse doesn’t quite love me yet, but he loves you. And even though it may not feel like it at the moment, I know that I am loved and appreciated by those who matter most to me."
Klopp nodded slowly, taking in Buvac's words. "Is it easy?”
“It’s not, but it works.” Buvac laid back down, crossing his arms behind his head. “Now go to sleep, you’ll feel better in the morning.”
“Alright.” He yawned, much to his own surprise. He thought he’d never get to sleep. “Zel?”
“What is it now?”
“Love you.”
Buvac hesitated, before smiling in the dim light of the bedside lamp. “Love you, too.”