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Love is the path, and victory the goal
They’ve walked hand in hand before
But when one of them spirals out of control
One wins the battle, but loses the war
It was perhaps the second-best piece of poetry Alisson had ever written, only bested by the one after the Real game. But it would never register as such, because it was a poem written in the fog on the sides of the Atalanta showers. After the heat from the showers faded, so would the poem.
He barely talked to anybody in the locker room, which didn’t make a big difference overall. Sure, they’d technically won on the night, but the aggregate scoreline loomed heavily over their heads. It had loomed over them the whole night, but besides the penalty in the seventh minute there had been no proactivity.
But who are you to judge? You couldn’t provide an assist or something when they needed it the most, the logical side of him supplied. For once, he had to agree.
On the bus, Alisson halfheartedly gazed out the window at the blurred streets of Bergamo. Jayden Danns sat next to him, almost as still as a statue. Considering that Danns had been the one to reinvigorate the team after Sunday’s loss to Crystal Palace, his deflated silence was extremely worrying.
Finally, Alisson had had enough of Danns’ silence. The players that played the matches deserved to worry about this, not the under-20s drafted from the youth team that had only played a handful of matches and tried their best in every one of them. “Where’s your mind at, Jayden?”
Danns sighed, leaning on Alisson’s shoulder and closing his eyes. “I don’t know. It’s kind of weird, actually. We won and we kept a clean sheet, but we lost the tie and the chance to extend the boss’s legacy. Now he’s going to have his final game on the nineteenth of May instead of the twenty-second, and I couldn’t do—”
“Jade, you made your debut three months ago. Don’t be so harsh on yourself.” Alisson ran his hands through Danns’ hair, tying it into a ponytail with one of his spare hair ribbons. “It’s almost midnight. You should try and get some sleep, you’re still a growing boy.”
“I’m eighteen,” he grumbled, though he still kept his eyes closed. “Kaylen and Hayla are the growing kids…”
“That’s what Muri always said about me when I was your age.” Alisson waited for a response, but there was none. “Jayden?”
A light snore told Alisson that Danns was, indeed, fast asleep. He shook his head fondly, unzipped his backpack, and took out his jacket, wrapping it around the teenager’s shoulders.
“Sleep tight.”
*
Back in the hotel, Alisson couldn’t sleep. He hadn’t expected to sleep, anyways. The last time he’d played a game in Italy when he was already on the losing side, he’d won the battle but lost the war, just like today.
He tossed and turned, alternating between burying himself in the covers and throwing them off the bed. Eventually he gave in to the insomnia, getting out of bed and pacing the length of the room.
A soft creaking snapped Alisson out of his thoughts. Van Dijk stood in the now- open doorway, his hair tied back in a ponytail instead of a bun. His eyes were red, but he didn’t look sleepy at all. Instead, his arms were crossed and a stern expression rested on his face.
“We need to talk.”
Alisson almost dropped from the jade green poetry book he was writing in, glancing up at Van Dijk. “About what?”
“You know what it is, Ali. Jarell after the United game. I had a feeling you weren’t telling me everything that happened.” Van Dijk closed the door and locked it shut. “What state was he in when you found him?”
Alisson sighed, set the poetry book on the dresser, and sat on the bed. Van Dijk didn’t get mad at his teammates very often, but Alisson could tell that this was one of those times. He would’ve told Van Dijk the whole truth earlier, but Van Dijk had been exhausted after the United game, and the next two games hadn’t been very rejuvenating either.
Best to get it over with. “Jarell called me when he was in the middle of a panic attack. That’s how I found him.”
Van Dijk facepalmed, biting back the urge to groan. “Why didn’t you just tell me that? Jarell had a nightmare the other night that he couldn’t breathe, and I couldn’t identify what caused it. This all makes sense now.”
“I didn’t know Jarell had a nightmare like that! That’s a night terror,” Alisson exclaimed. “I would’ve told you right away, but you seemed really tired and I decided to wait. Then Sunday turned into Monday, and Tuesday became Wednesday…”
“And you lost track of time, huh?” Van Dijk sighed, but then flashed Alisson a knowing smile. "Well, it’s a good thing he had an expert to help him."
Alisson blushed until he was the colour of a flamingo. Thank goodness that the room was barely lit by a single lamp. “Virg, we both know that the only reason I was able to help him was because I’ve lost count of the amount of attacks I’ve had. I’m no expert, and I’m no leader, either.”
“Who said that?” Van Dijk stiffened, clenching his fists as if getting ready to fight someone.
“Nobody said that to me, I figured it out myself. Leaders don’t write denial letters to their best friends in other countries or awkwardly third-wheel with their teammate on his first date. They don’t finally get a chance to start for the national team and be absolutely useless, or have a major breakdown after a home draw against the enemy.” Alisson gestured vaguely around the room, then outside the window. The light of fireworks and flares filtered through the night and into the window. “Leaders don’t do today.”
“We didn’t lose the tie today, we lost the tie last week,” Van Dijk objected. The anger was gone from his face, replaced by a resigned annoyance. “If we’d won or even drawn that game, this win would have been enough.”
“But still it wasn’t enough,” Alisson pointed out. “You don’t need to butter it up, Virgil. I failed Marcinho; I couldn’t train him well enough, I couldn’t get Marcinho and Caoimh to get along until Marcinho went on loan to St. Patrick’s, and that was because he felt like he’d never get into the first team otherwise. I failed the boss; I started three games before getting injured, we lost the last game I was in, and I couldn’t keep a clean sheet when it mattered.”
“You kept a clean sheet today.”
“That was only because Atalanta was looking to preserve their aggregate lead. If they were really attacking, then we would’ve conceded at least two goals.”
“How do you even know that?”
“Because I’ve failed you, too.”
“You have not failed me! Our issues were because I was still adjusting to the captaincy and struggling with balancing my new responsibilities and my daily life.”
“I almost accidentally got married to you due to me being so deep in my ambiguous loss that I was too out of it to be specific with Marcinho, who doesn’t understand figurative speech, or to call off things until Bobby and Flaco got to the chapel. Yes, part of our issues over the past ten months were what you said, but the other part was because I was drowning in my longing for the past—so much so, that I forgot to live in the present.”
“Alisson, are you listening to yourself? You’re blaming yourself for having emotions, that’s unreasonable as well as unfair.”
Alisson sighed, knowing that Van Dijk had a point. He knew he had a tendency to be too hard on himself, especially when things didn't go as planned. “Yeah, but you’ve scored important goals this season so it’s easy to say. It’s harder to say when you’ve barely saved anything.”
“Eh, hello? Who literally saved me from scoring an own goal today? Who kept the score manageable when I got sent off and we were down to 10 men?” Van Dijk sat down next to him on the bed. “Look, I’m going to be honest with you. You’ve made mistakes this year, but you made up for them the best you knew how. Yes, your third-wheeling abilities need work, but Lexi and Martin ended up together and are still in love with each other. Yes, you and Marcinho took some time to understand each other fully and learn how to get along. But now he’s having his own adventures in Ireland, learning more and making new friends and enjoying himself.”
Alisson stared down at the floor, unconvinced. “Marcinho’s only enjoying himself now that I’m not there. I’m such a bad leader that even my work-kid wants to run away from me to have fun.”
“Ali, Marcelo is twenty-one. Twenty-one year olds are always trying to rebel in some way. Think of the Double Dutch.” Van Dijk smirked at the thought of his own work-kids. “You’re not a bad leader, you’re a leader that’s still learning. You take time to listen to us even if what we’re saying is utter bull, and you’re…you’re a giant cinnamon roll to everyone! When Joel scored that own goal, you were so worried about him that you invited him for a sleepover just to try and cheer him up. Then after that, you apologised for being a bit mad at me because you were worried that I wouldn’t be able to do everything, which is right. I can’t do all the captaincy duties by myself. When Robbo got injured on Scotland duty—well, the first time, anyway—you wanted to hug him so badly that you sent him those hugging teddy bears in the mail. When Marcinho got his first callup to the Selecao u23s, you gave him extra advice before sending him off to camp with his favourite blueberry marshmallows.”
That got Alisson to smile a little. “He loves it when I make those marshmallows.”
“See? He does love you. You encourage us to be the best version of ourselves. Thanks to you, I started dancing again. Edi started to open up more because you invited him here. The youth choir’s improved massively since you started conducting it, and they’re starting to branch out into different styles of music. Which does involve Bobby a.k.a White Shadow’s ‘Leather Angels’ rock band, but that is an entirely different story.” Van Dijk paused, looking at Alisson with a soft expression. "You may not see it, but you make a difference in our lives. You are a leader. You’re a leader who cares about everyone, who has quite literally dived into an ocean to help them, and who is not afraid to admit his mistakes and learn from them. I could take a page or two from your book."
“Stop it, Virg…I was going to say that about you.” Alisson felt a warmth spread through his chest, his eyes starting to well up. “Great, now I’ll have no tears for when the boss leaves next month.”
“Oh, I’m sure you’ll find some. As we all will.” Van Dijk smiled, prying himself off the bed with a final squeeze to Alisson’s shoulder. "Now, let's get some sleep. We have a flight to catch in the morning."
Alisson nodded, settling back into bed. “Good night, Virgil.”
“Good night, Ali.” Van Dijk turned off the lights, starting to close the door.
As Alisson closed his eyes and tried to fall asleep, he couldn't help but think about Van Dijk's words. Maybe, just maybe, he wasn't such a bad leader after all.
“Virg?”
“Yeah?”
“Can I ‘leader’ you into letting me put ribbons in your hair?”
“NO.”
“Worth a shot.”