The Liverpool bench exploded. The fans drowned out the world. The Champions League title was theirs.
Zachary didn’t move at first. He just stood there, watching the madness unfold, including the swirling red flags, the smoke flares, the eruption of noise and joy. It was like watching someone else’s dream e true... except it was his team, his season, and somehow, still his victory.
Kristin touched his shoulder gently.
He nodded, slowly.
All that mattered was that Liverpool were the Champions of Europe. Again. Just like in his previous life.
Shortly after, as the players sprinted onto the field, arms outstretched and faces lit with disbelief and triumph, Zachary followed, but at a slower pace. Every step felt like it was happening underwater. He moved through a blur of photographers, security, staff, and fans pressed against the barriers. The grass felt foreign beneath his shoes, but familiar too.
A bit later, he joined the players at the podium. Klopp was there, grinning, arms thrown over Henderson and Van Dijk’s shoulders. The captain hoisted the trophy, and silver confetti rained down from above, catching in beards and hair and jerseys. Zachary clapped, smiled for the cameras, wrapped an arm around Firmino during the medal ceremony.
It was all so surreal.
The medal hung heavy around his neck, colder than he thought it would be. There was pride in his chest, but also something else. Not quite regret. Not jealousy. Just... inpleteness. He hadn’t played a minute of the final. Hadn’t touched a ball petitively in five months. His injury in January had stolen that from him. But it hadn’t stolen his will.
So, he promised himself then. Next season, he’d be back. He’d play his part. He’d help them win more.
The celebrations that followed ran deep into the Madrid night. Champagne. Music. Fans singing on every corner. But eventually, even the longest nights end.
The next day, Zachary flew back to Liverpool with Kristin and the rest of the club delegation. The plane was mostly filled with stories, laughter, replays of the goals looping endlessly on phones and tablets. But Zachary stayed quiet for most of the flight, lost in his own thoughts. The cup was won, but his journey wasn’t over.
With the Champions League Final behind everyone, summer arrived, and with it came a month without matches. For Zachary, it wasn’t time off, but time to rebuild.
Back at Melwood, he resumed his rehabilitation. The medical team routinely ran tests, tracked his muscle response, monitored every sprint, every twist of the knee. The sessions were long, sweaty, and quiet. No crowds. No chants. Just pain, repetition, and the sound of his own breath.
Fortunately, in the evenings, he gave himself permission to breathe. Kristin was his anchor. They explored the quieter corners of the city together and immersed themselves in sunsets on the Mersey, late dinners at hidden spots, walks along Sefton Park. With football temporarily on pause, their relationship grew deeper, more intimate. There was no rush. No spotlight. Just moments that mattered.
And just like that, five weeks slipped by.
Then, on Saturday, July 6th, 2019, Zachary received the message he’d been waiting for: the pre-season schedule.
An assistant coach handed him the printed itinerary in the gym. Seven matches.
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11 July – Tranmere Rovers (Home)
14 July – Bradford City (Away)
20 July – Borussia Dortmund (Notre Dame, USA)
21 July – Sevilla (Boston, USA)
25 July – Sporting CP (New York, USA)
28 July – Napoli (Edinburgh, Scotland)
31 July – Blackburn Rovers (Geneva, Switzerland)
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Zachary grinned as he read through the schedule. Pre-season was no walk in the park. Dortmund, Sevilla, Sporting, Napoli... these weren’t warm-ups. These were tests.
And he was ready.
Or so he thought.
But when Klopp posted the lineup for the Tranmere Rovers match, Zachary’s name wasn’t there.
He was benched.
He wasn’t the only one, though. Most of Liverpool’s core starters were also sidelined. Klopp had chosen to field a squad full of academy talent and fringe players for the opening two friendlies, easing the senior players, especially those returning from injuries or international duty, back into action gradually.
Still, it stung.
Again, for Bradford City, Zachary remained on the bench. Klopp’s message was clear and calm:
Zachary understood. These early matches were about building rhythm, not risking setbacks. And he hadn’t played petitively since January. Klopp was only protecting him.
But that didn’t make it easier.
Watching from the sidelines as the young lads tore through Tranmere 6–0, then handled Bradford 3–1, was harder than he expected. He applauded the goals. Gave advice in training. Kept his interviews tight and optimistic. He was professional.
But beneath the surface, he was a fuse waiting for the spark.
On July 16th, two days after the Bradford match, Liverpool boarded their flight to the United States. The full squad was nearly intact now. The international players had returned from their post-tournament breaks, and the familiar rhythm of first-team training was back in full swing. Only the long-term injured were absent.
Zachary was on that flight, headphones on, mind already focused on what was ahead. A long journey across the Atlantic, yes, but also a crucial stretch of training: one that could define how ready he truly was.
They landed in South Bend, Indiana, and quickly settled into their base near Notre Dame Stadium. There was no time wasted. From the very next morning, it was all business: double sessions, tactical drills, and high-intensity training.
Zachary dove into it with everything he had.
His movements were sharp. His touches clean. For every sprint, every turn, every pass, he felt in control again. Not rusty. Not second-guessing. It was almost unnatural, how fluid he felt after more than six months away from petitive football. It was almost like his body had been storing this hunger, with this energy, waiting for permission to be unleashed.
Still, he kept his head down. He followed instructions, didn’t push recklessly. There was no ego in how he trained, only just purpose.
But he could feel it. He was close.
Three days of sessions flew by just like that. Tactical shape, small-sided games, shooting drills. Klopp rotated squads, tested binations, adjusted pressing triggers. Zachary thrived in the chaos. The only thing missing now... was a real match.
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