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Virgil Van Dijk was one of those people where you got exactly what it said on the tin. His particular tin happened to advertise an extremely promising and reliable product of hard work, public experience, and…well, you get it.
Works hard, plays hard. Quieter than most, but always ready to help. Reliable. Never crumbles, never breaks. Not affected by anything.
Calm as you like.
Even though Van Dijk loved his song, it was the “calm as you like” part that scared him the most. Because at this current point, he was laid up with an injury while his teammates were left to salvage what they could from their dumpster fire of a season.
He couldn’t deny, being injured brought back memories; but they weren’t exactly ones he wanted to revisit anytime soon. When the physios had told him that he would be out for a month, Van Dijk's mind had immediately flashed back to Pickford’s tackle.
You’re out, Virgil, he remembered the medics saying that day. You’ll be out for an entire year and you’ll probably miss the Euros. Pickford’s tackle blew your ACL and you’ll need to have surgery.
Sitting on the same treatment table, in front of the same doctor, in the same track pants hadn’t helped whatsoever. In fact, it made Van Dijk even more scared of the same thing happening as it did last time.
What if it got worse and worse? What if he couldn’t play for a whole year, again? What if Matip ended up on the treatment table, and then Konate, and then Phillips and then…
That’s why Van Dijk now navigated the world on crutches, even though he didn’t necessarily need them. Every time he watched the matches, he couldn’t help but think how he should’ve been there, helping his teammates. And he’d stopped staying at Kirkby, always finding a reason to drive home and spend the night there. Nobody needed to know that he still woke up from the same apocalyptic nightmares every night. Nobody needed to know that the nightmares had gotten so bad, he’d taken to sleeping with a special throw blanket.
Nobody whatsoever needed to know that the throw blanket happened to be Alisson's throw blanket.
*
The Liverpool players had gotten a rare day off, since their next game was on Sunday. For some, that meant a pool tournament in the cafeteria.
Alisson leaned his cue against the wall as he and Carvalho watched their teammates play pool. Fabinho was outscoring the others on the scoreboard, and Alisson was rock-bottom of the table. It was new to him, considering that he was almost never ranked the worst in anything, but he knew he wasn’t going to be the best of everything.
“A-ha!” Matip cheered, knocking his ball into one of the holes. “Second place! Take that, Joey.”
Gomez pouted, rolling his eyes in mock-annoyance. “You wouldn’t have won if you were playing against The Virg!”
Matip nodded, updating the scoreboard. “Yeah, if Virg was playing Fabi wouldn't be leading either. Ali might still be at the bottom of the table, though.”
“Where is Virg, by the way?” Alisson wondered aloud. “Did you see him, Joel?”
“I invited him to the pool tournament,” said the Cameroonian, deep in thought. “He said he’s got stuff to do at home.”
Carvalho frowned, taking up his cue. “He’s sure got a lot of stuff to do. Did he have a baby or something?”
Fabinho stared at Carvalho like he’d just walked in wearing an Everton shirt. “What makes you think that?”
The young Portuguese put his hands up in defense, stepping back. “He rarely spends time with us anymore! All he does is sleep or think…or isolate himself.”
Alisson didn’t waste another moment. He dropped his cue, heading in search of Van Dijk without any further explanation.
*
Van Dijk wasn’t known to hide. Alisson had the feeling that hiding was exactly what the Dutchman was doing, though—so he searched all the places that he would hide if he were Van Dijk.
The broom closets and the showers were empty. Alisson's inspection of the rec rooms turned out futile, as well, and his pace increased from a slow walk to a brisk jog through the halls of Kirkby.
This was more serious than Alisson had thought. Where was Van Dijk, and why couldn’t he find him anywhere? He wasn’t usually on this end of the situation; but if there was one Alisson was sure about, it was that he could usually find his teammates wherever they were hiding.
What if Virg left Kirkby? Alisson gulped at the thought, throwing aside the curtain to check. Luckily, Van Dijk's car was still in the parking lot. The goalkeeper let out a sigh of relief—Van Dijk was usually a good driver, but emotion could get the best of anyone.
Tell me next time you want to hide, Virg, and I’ll show you some good places.
A clattering noise shook Alisson out of his thoughts. He spun on his heel, glancing towards the source of the noise—the training pitch.
He pushed open the door with the most force he could ever remember, sprinting over the training pitch while calling for Van Dijk. The training pitch was large but very open, and soon Alisson found Van Dijk kicking balls into the net with his uninjured foot, holding onto the goalpost. His crutches had been tossed aside, landing haphazardly on a yellow plastic dummy.
“Finally, Virgil!” Alisson tried to sound as cheerful as possible despite Van Dijk's strange behavior. “What are you doing here?”
Van Dijk didn’t respond, slamming another ball into the net.
“Virg?” It was as if Alisson wasn’t even there. “Please, answer me!”
Van Dijk finally stopped booting balls into the net and faced Alisson. His normally tidy man bun had tendrils and puffs of hair sticking out of it, and there were dark circles under his eyes. Alisson then realized just how long it had been since he’d seen Van Dijk in person.
“You…forgot your crutches,” said Alisson, handing the walking aids back to Van Dijk. He wanted to comment on how tired Van Dijk looked, but Van Dijk was rather sensitive about his looks. “The pool tournament started half an hour ago. Didn’t Joel invite you?”
Van Dijk took the crutches and threw them as far as he could. They landed on the same yellow plastic dummy. “Joel’s better off without me.”
“Why would he be better off without you?” Now Alisson knew something was wrong. If there was one person who Van Dijk adored, it was Matip. While the two had their own opinions on certain matters, Matip cared for Van Dijk as much as Alisson did.
Van Dijk's hands clawed and scratched at his hair, further disheveling it. Alisson could only imagine how many scrapes and lacerations were left on the Dutchman’s skull, such was the force he was using.
“Virgil, you’re going to hurt yourself!” Alisson exclaimed once he couldn’t take it anymore. He gently but firmly grasped Van Dijk's wrists and pried them off his head, directing his arms to his sides. “Please tell me what’s wrong. You have eyebags and dark circles under your eyes, you look like you haven’t slept for days.”
“That’s because I haven’t,” Van Dijk confessed, wrestling his arms away from Alisson's grasp. “What am I going to do with myself? I can’t play and I can’t help the team. What if this injury lasts for more than o-one month? What if it lasts for a year, and then a year turns into two years, and then—”
“Acalmar.” Alisson sat next to Van Dijk, trying to appear calm while he was internally freaking out. Van Dijk wasn’t always calm, that was for sure, but Alisson had never been in a situation where he and a not-calm Van Dijk were alone. Simply put, Alisson had no idea what to do.
Unless he did the obvious.
“It’s not going to go that long. The medics won’t lie to you, right? They only want the best for us, Virgil.”
“But…” An excruciatingly long three seconds passed before Van Dijk spoke again. “I’m scared.”
“Scared? Oh…” Suddenly, the reason for all of Van Dijk's strange behavior dawned upon him. “You’re scared of missing a whole year. Just like the last time you got injured.”
Van Dijk nodded, leaning into Alisson's shoulder. The keeper had never seen Van Dijk this vulnerable before—even after losing major tournaments finals and making drastic errors. “I can’t do it again. It’s giving me nightmares…I’m so tired every day.”
Alisson had never been very good with words of comfort. So he settled on pulling Van Dijk into his arms, letting his teammate rest his head on his chest. “Sleep, then.”
Van Dijk yawned, eyes half closed. “I have a secret.”
“Yeah?” Alisson sighed with relief upon seeing that Van Dijk had calmed down from his previous hysterics.
“Don’t tell anyone…I have your throw blanket. The Selecao one,” Van Dijk elaborated. “I wrap myself in it like a cocoon and it’s the only way I can sleep. Yes, I know it’s weird, but…”
Alisson shut Van Dijk up by hugging him even tighter. “Then we can be weird together. I stole one of the boss’s jackets in 2019 and it was one of the only things that kept me from going insane during the lockdown.”
“But that’s you.” Van Dijk yawned again; he was slowly drifting in and out of consciousness. “I’m supposed to be as calm as you like for everyone.”
“Nobody can be as calm as you like all of the time,” Alisson reminded him. He fully untied Van Dijk's hair, gently untangling the various knots and clumps of grass. “Even o patrão freaks out in the moment.”
“What about everybody else?” Van Dijk mumbled sleepily.
“Shhh, acalmar. I’ll take care of that,” Alisson assured Van Dijk. He wasn’t exactly sure how he’d take care of that—he’d left his phone inside the training ground—but Van Dijk didn’t need to know that. What Van Dijk needed now was reassurance—and sleep.
A noise pulled Alisson from his thoughts. He froze, then smiled when he realized the noise was a light snore and that Van Dijk had fallen asleep.
He draped his scarf over his friend, gently stroking him on the forehead. “Doces sonhos, Virgil.”