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Lijnders had been waiting for the final whistle to blow, expecting a replay at the very least.
But not this.
He’d not expected to lose at the last minute, in the way they’d beaten many teams before. Now he knew how they felt.
They’d been almost there, only to slip at the last minute. The dream of salvaging something out of this season had shattered like a crystal necklace under an eighteen-wheeler monster truck.
It hurt.
And Lijnders knew he wasn’t the only one.
His best friend had dared to speak out, for once. He’d dared to let himself do the talking instead of staying quiet, as usual. And it had blown up in his face.
They were out of the FA Cup.
They were out of the EFL Cup.
They were 21 points off Arsenal.
They faced Real Madrid in the UCL.
Scheisse.
Who did that remind him of?
Right. Klopp was still somewhere that wasn’t the pitch, the press room or the away office.
Klopp resembled his players in many different ways. He was hard-working like Milner, chaotic like Nunez, commanding like Henderson, and kind-hearted like Alisson.
He was also self-deprecating like Milner, clumsy like Nunez, and overworking like Henderson. And just like Alisson, Klopp didn’t know exactly just how much he was worth.
Lijnders was about to go and find him, when a tiny voice in his mind objected. It was tiny but strong, and soon it took over every other command until he was walking towards the away office.
Leave him alone, the voice squeaked. Let him be. You’ll do no good by harassing him.
I’m not going to harass him, another voice protested. I’m going to help.
Lijnders pushed his chair away from the desk before the first voice made him think twice. What will you do? Give him a red tulip? What do you know about making people feel better?
Lijnders shook his head furiously, trying to clear his head. The bitter disappointment must’ve got to him—where was this strange negativity coming from?
It was so pessimistic, yet so controlling. The squeak became a growl, chasing any progressive ideas away. Eventually, only two voices were left: the intruder and the voice of logic.
Going after Jurgen when he clearly wants to be alone is harassment. Do you hear me?
The voice of reason shivered into his shoes, stepping away from the controls. Okay. I’ll leave him alone.
The intruder cackled wildly, throwing his head backwards in glee. I hope this will teach you your lesson, Pep Lijnders.
*
For the next few hours, Lijnders went about his business: keeping the tactics and players safe. When a pair of officials asked him where Klopp had gone off to, he answered coldly and mechanically— like a calculated, pessimistic, emotionless robot.
Despite it being late at night already, Lijnders stayed by the front door, glancing at the clock every few minutes. He turned down every offer from the waitstaff, even the sympathetically proposed cup of coffee. The scratching scraping voices in his head were enough to keep him awake.
At long last, Klopp trudged through the door. It was a few minutes past ten thirty-one (ten thirty one being the last time Lijnders checked the clock) and he seemed lost.
Lijnders wasted no time in rushing towards his best friend. “Jurgen! I—”
You didn’t find him, remember? You stayed out of the way. Just like always.
“Where were you?” Lijnders tried to break the icy silence with the obvious question.
“I went to a river, and Adam found me. He brought me back to the hotel.” Klopp didn’t even look mad, just…tired. Disappointed, older even. “I was lost because I didn’t have my compass.”
Klopp rarely spoke in metaphors without explanation. Lijnders didn’t need an explanation to know what he’d been told.
“Where were you? What happened?” Klopp went on. He still didn’t raise his voice, or even look, at Lijnders. “I thought we’d promised to find each other, even when we’re lost.”
It wasn’t accusatory, but rather letdown. Lijnders took one look at him and felt horrible; like he’d promised a child sweets only to deny them later.
“I—”
“Gut Nächte, Pep.”
Lijnders watched, numb, as Klopp trudged into the elevator, disappearing behind the metal doors. Now he would never know what happened—at least until morning.
I hope this will teach you your lesson, Pep Lijnders.