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Robertson laid upside down on the bed, staring at his alarm clock. He had set it to go off just before midnight, but if his plan worked out he wouldn’t need it.
His plan was to stay up until midnight to ring in the New Year. Considering his age it shouldn’t have been a problem. But “early to bed and early to rise” was his saying, and the Scot often found it hard to stay awake past eleven P.M. He’d fall asleep after the matches finished, and if he knew a match may extend past eleven, he’d sleep two hours more than usual. He guessed that was why Milner loved matches with extra time.
But 2022 had brought Robertson two trophies, the Scottish assists record, and MBE. And he fully intended to celebrate—past midnight.
It was three o’clock now, and the Liverpool New Year’s Eve party would start in a few hours. Robertson had skipped his FIFA session with Alexander-Arnold to try and catch some sleep, but nothing he tried could get him to take a nap. He’d stayed up late the night before worrying about if he’d stay up late tonight, and his sleep schedule was very thrown off.
“I will stay awake,” he promised himself, pinching his cheek. “I will stay awake.”
Maybe Baccara will help me stay awake. Robertson connected his phone to the wireless speakers and clicked on his Spotify playlist. Disco music filled the room, and Robertson couldn’t help but dance in his seat.
A familiar face peered around the corner, wearing a distinctive scowl. It was James Milner, one of the most sarcastic and grumpiest members of the whole squad. He was also polar opposites with Robertson. He hated oatmeal cookies, he hated Scottish flags, he hated kilts…
To make a long story short, if Robertson liked something there was a good chance Milner hated it. In fact, there were very few things Milner actually liked. One of them was grouching the heck out of Robertson.
And this particular trait, the Scot thought, just may get me over the line.
“Milly, mate!” Robertson leapt off the bed, pouncing on Milner. “How are you? Like the music?”
He knew that Milner hated the music. But it wouldn’t hurt to get under his skin some more.
“Baccara? I hate that music,” Milner huffed. “What are you doing, lad? Everybody else is getting ready for the New Year’s party.”
“Trying to get some sleep,” Robertson confessed. “I want to stay up past midnight but we all know my problem with that.”
Milner snorted, turning off the speakers. “What if you turned off that god-awful music and then I show you how to really stay awake?”
Robertson shrugged, slipping his phone in his pocket and following Milner. “Okay.”
*
Milner didn’t like New Year’s at all. Why, nobody knew. Perhaps it was because the New Year was just as much of a dumpster fire as the old one.
Whatever the reason, Milner found this as the perfect opportunity to get Robertson to behave. If Robertson was busy working his butt off, he couldn’t get into mischief, which meant the Yorkshireman could finally get some much-craved peace and quiet.
So Milner dumped Robertson into the kitchen, where giant trays of mini-wieners and pre packaged pastry lay on the counters. They would soon become just one of the appetizers for the New Year’s party.
“I could use your help in the kitchen,” Nemmer said once Milner was gone. “I need to roll all these crescent wieners before three-thirty so I can get started on the crudités platters. I love parties, but it’s the food preparation that kills my feet.”
Robertson didn’t need to hear any more. He grabbed the giant pot of boiled chickpeas and the food processor, setting up one counter. “I’ll make the mummies. No, I meant lummus. No no no, I meant…”
“I get it.” Nemmer was already busy rolling the sixth crescent wiener. “Now get to it! We still have to mix the drinks.”
*
By the time Robertson finally left the kitchen, it was a quarter to five. The party would start at six-thirty, and everything seemed ready. The auditorium was decorated with gold, black and silver decorations, Tsimikas was in charge of the music—Milner had specifically made a “no original or rap songs” rule—and he had his outfit ready. He was going to twin with Alexander-Arnold, wearing matching black tuxedos and gold bowties.
He disappeared into the shower and came out feeling refreshed. He slipped into his tuxedo and shoes and started to strut out of the shower—until he realized he hadn’t shaved yet.
He reached for the set of razors that was supposed to be on the counter. His hand found nothing, and with a start he realized that the razors were gone.
Who could’ve stolen his razors? As far as Robertson knew everybody had their own. And they didn’t borrow each other’s razors either.
A small piece of paper caught his eye. Robertson pulled it out of the cabinet and found his razor, along with a note:
Remember to shave. Any facial hair kept past October is unlucky if you’re from the UK. Hope you fall asleep at 11:59. Milner.
Robertson shook his head in amusement, pocketing the note. Milner could really be a spoilsport sometimes.
*
“Isn't this exciting, Milly?” Robertson whisper-shouted into Milner’s ear. He and Milner lay on a blanket in the training pitch along with the rest of the team, watching the fireworks go off in the sky. “In my old team we’d never do this fun stuff.”
Milner rolled his eyes, elbowing him. Robertson took it as a sign of affection. “I must admit, this isn’t too bad.”
“Ready for the big ones?” Kornmayer asked, setting up the cannons. Everyone had received a welcome surprise when the assistant manager revealed that he had a license to work with pyrotechnics. “Let’s hear it for the New Year!”
Robertson could feel himself dozing off before they’d reached fifty seconds on the countdown. Just before he fell asleep, he felt a handful of snow getting shoved down his back.
The fireworks exploded, bursting in red and gold and silver. Among the cheers, one quiet, heavily accented voice stood out from all the rest.
“Happy New Year, Andy.”