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Of all the things Alisson was normally used to dealing with after a defeat, getting sick and injured right after was certainly not one of them. Inside his room, as he undid his post-match bag, he told himself that he would prove his best again, that it wasn't a few bad games that could stop him, no sir. He hadn't won individual awards just to become a poor goalkeeper. Muriel and José taught him well to always look for the best in himself, even if he was, in isolation, the best goalkeeper in the world.
Then, what he did not expect. First, a bad cold, which left him dizzy and drowsy for two whole days. Alisson took good care of his health, after all, easily feeling useless if he was inactive was something he shared with Robertson. What he didn't count on was that, with his carelessness the night before, after being in the rain for just ten minutes, he would get the flu. And then, the injury. Alisson's heart pounded in his chest as he fell to the ground and felt that excruciating pain in his thigh. Not again!
Just like any player, he also didn't like getting injured. Despite being shy, Alisson enjoyed being surrounded by his friends, this made him more comfortable when he was feeling particularly anxious. But, unable to attend normal training, Alisson found himself sinking into a constant state of boredom. Not even the victory against Chelsea, giving them the Carabao Cup trophy, could make him happy. He should have been there, gently bugging Kelleher for his defenses, lifting the trophy with his friends, taking photos for the team. But no. He was lying in bed, with two crutches supporting him, eating cold popcorn while watching each scene from a place where he wasn't. Frustrating.
The boredom was replaced by a kind of sadness. Liverpool started to go through very good times and Alisson felt useless because he couldn't even be there supporting his teammates. The rehabs were tiring and he felt himself falling deeper and deeper. Not even visits every weekend could distract him from his current situation.
The goalkeeper adopted the habit of writing reports about the day. With a small notebook, he would sit under the morning sun and write down how the pain was, the types of exercises he did, his dreams, fears, insecurities. Too familiar for someone who, when he was injured for the first time in his entire life, he cried like a desolate baby. Alisson blushes when she remembers being a crybaby as a child. But he can't cry now, he's a grown man and he knows it's just a temporary injury. So why does he feel such an uncomfortable lump in his throat?
When he finally finishes crying, hugging a couch cushion, his throat burns. Alisson hadn't cried like this since the anniversary of his father's death. Something inside him was broken, hurting so much. And it could only be fixed when he finally returned to the place that had become his home after six years, no matter how many were missing. He smooths the cushion, fingers buried in the down that covers it and he can't stop thinking that he wishes someone were there to hold him. But everyone is busy with a match he isn't watching.
Macca gives him a platonic kiss on the hair when he finally heads back to AXA to get the rest of his treatment there. His friends smile when they see him and he feels himself smiling after so many false and empty smiles. He's good at this, mainly because people are cruel and take advantage of moments of weakness. Ali had learned it the hard way. But he won't let that happen again. Here, though, he can be himself. The friendly boy from the media team smiles at him and asks if he wants to be featured on the team's Instagram. Alisson freezes. Darwin intervenes before he can say anything, gently pushing him towards the locker room, where eyes watch him with a mixture of concern and happiness. Alisson remembers to relax his shoulders and soon his genuine smile is back on his face because Adrián is trying to make him laugh.
Watching the team's games as a "fan" makes Alisson miss home, when he was a boy, watching Internacional games in Beira-Rio with his father and uncle. Separated by a few years and a painful injury. Ali laughs to himself. That doesn't stop him from cheering and celebrating at Alexis's equalizer against City and from grimacing when Lucho misses about two goals in a row. At that moment, he is not Alisson Becker. He's just ten-year-old Alisson, laughing and celebrating, clinging to his father's neck. He grabs the cross chain around his neck. He misses him, still.
What he didn't expect was the sudden fall. Just when he was ready to return, Liverpool started losing a lot of games, starting with the defeat that knocked them out of the FA Cup. Alisson writes a message to himself on a post-it and puts it in the bathroom mirror. Be better. Be faster. You work on it, your damn job. He allows himself to admire his face in the mirror for a few more seconds. His hair is growing back, not like it did when he was hurt that horrible day. It's like he's a new person. Maybe he really was.
A bitter defeat marks his first game back. He wants to vomit. He should have seen the Palace striker coming towards him. Fuck. He forcefully rips the gloves off his hands and takes a deep breath when he hears the sound of tearing fabric. Control yourself. You are no longer a child. Hands rub his back, as if saying: you did well. But not enough, his mind completes. The journey makes him sleep restlessly. He is tired. He didn't expect to have any more work than when he was away. And he certainly didn't expect to be hoarse from shouting the following week, causing them to be dropped from the Europa League. His fists certainly weren't prepared for the punch he threw on the grass when the final whistle sounded. It wasn't fair. He fought for it, didn't he? He tried. So why didn't he make it?
At the weekend, finally a victory. Frustrated but happy. They could have won with a clean sheet. A smile stretches his lips and he smiles somewhere in the crowd, probably towards a kid he saw there befote. Surely, if he were still a child, he would melt with emotion that his goalkeeper had smiled at him. Chuckling to himself, he trots back to the locker room, being pulled against a warm chest, a kiss pressed to his hairline. He feels good. He is in home. Chaotic, irritating, but it's his house, isn't it? And there is no other place he wants to be other than there.