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live-laugh-loverpool · 2 years

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Old Trafford

Tags: @millythegoat, @football-and-fanfics, @alissonbecksfan234

Warnings: bring out Google Translate for this one!

In her eight and a half months with Liverpool, Florrie had only seen the team look like this once. Klopp had explained to her and Kairo (Grace, Ellie, and Henrietta were all asleep) that they had just lost a very important and special trophy, but Lijnders had told her that there wasn’t a trophy involved in this one.

So why couldn’t she find anybody with a smile on their face?

“Boss?” Florrie tried to search for at least one familiar face in the hall. She had spotted Klopp, but he’d disappeared and now she was amongst many legs and hips and stomachs. All she could see for yards around was gray, black and the occasional white of a sneaker.

“Ali? Lindy? Daddy?” Florrie pouted—she couldn’t identify anybody’s faces because she couldn’t see them. She tugged on a random pants leg, hoping that the leg would belong to Henderson or Milner or even Adrian.

The face that looked down belonged to none of the above. Instead, a completely different face stared at her, eyes narrowed into slits. He had some gray hair and a puffy jacket like Klopp, but his face was far too unwrinkled, and his nose much too sharp.

“Who are you?” Even the accent was wrong, and Florrie flinched at the tone. He was loud. Too loud.

“Have you seen the boss?” Florrie asked him, hands over her ears as if his nose would pierce through them even worse than his voice.

The man didn’t flinch at all. He gripped the microphone in his hand, continuing to stare at Florrie. “Erm, yes, but I want to know what you’re doing here.”

“I’m looking for the boss.”

“Yes, but what boss?” The man laughed, and Florrie pressed her hands over her ears even harder. The laugh was wrong—too sharp, too fake, too high-pitched and airy. It was a far cry from Klopp’s deep, booming laugh, and even his quiet, polite one whenever he tried to get rid of the press. “I was manager of Valencia for a few months—at least before I started working at Sky Sports with Jamie as a pundit. So I could be called the boss.”

Florrie had no idea what Valencia even was, much less what the strange man was talking about. He wasn’t Klopp! He was too young, too loud, too different. “No! My boss!”

The man rolled his eyes and leaned closer to Florrie. The little girl could smell the overwhelming scent of breath mints, and she shrunk back in an attempt to avoid the man’s piercing gray eyes. His eyes flickered over Florrie’s shirt, but then settled back on her face. “Tell me more about your boss.”

“He’s really big!” Florrie stretched her arms as tall as she could, and the man backed off a little. “And he wears a puffy gray jacket, and a hat, and he’s always saying Bundes!”

“Wait a minute.” The man’s eyes widened, and he pulled Florrie out of the crowd. “What does he do, little girl?”

“The boss wins us big, shiny trophies!” Florrie frowned as she tried to remember how many. “He won one this month!”

Finally, the man stood up. He pocketed his microphone, and looked around before picking up Florrie. Florrie crossed her arms, thrashing about, but the man was much stronger than her.

“I know just how to find your boss,” he whispered into her ear, and Florrie jerked her head away from him. “But if we don’t hurry, he won’t find you—what’s your name?”

“Florrie! And the boss will always find me!” Florrie argued. She pushed her feet against the man’s stomach in an effort to get out, but he just grabbed her tighter.

“Stop it! You’ll fall and hurt yourself.” He held Florrie’s head so she was forced to look at him. “And the boss won’t be able to find you if you don’t stay put. I’ll take you to a place where he can find you,” he finished with a grin. “Do you want to find your boss, or not?”

“Yay!” Florrie cheered. The man was strange, but if he was going to help her find Klopp, he couldn’t be that bad. She frowned as she tried to remember what Henderson had told her about how to call older people when you didn’t know them. “You’re a nice man, sir!”

“Ah, no need for sir.” The man made the same strange laugh as he began walking up the stairs, still holding Florrie. “I’m Neville. But you just call me Uncle Nevvy.”

Florrie decided that she didn’t like Neville’s walk. It was choppy and too fast, and he didn’t have that bounce in his step like Klopp or the rocking step like Milner. His voice, which was still in her ears, kept going on about strange people from a long time ago, but it wasn’t like when Milner would tell her and the other kids anecdotes from a long time ago.

Neville finally set her down in a large room. It was big—too big—and it had a lot of dust on the floor. He put her on the only chair in there, and exhaled.

“Okay, now I’m going to tell you a story.” Neville leaned against the desk, filing his nails. “Back in the day, there lived a man called Sir Alexander Ferguson. He was the manager here, and he loved this place so much, he wanted to protect all the little children. So he created a place where they could be found, and,” he gestured around him, “this is it.”

“Will the boss find me here?” Florrie wasn’t so sure about this. There was so much dust, which meant that nobody had been here for a long time. She’d learned this when she’d gone with Klopp to the old attic in Kirkby, and dust bunnies had poured out of every corner.

“Of course. There are just two rules in this place,” Neville explained. “One, don’t leave the room. Otherwise, I won’t know where you are. And two, don’t press any buttons.”

“Why?”

“Sir Ferguson was very protective of the Theater of Dreams,” said Neville, leaning closer to Florrie. She wanted to escape, but she couldn’t get down from the chair. “And he created something very, very special for it. If any bad people got in here, he had a special lockdown button. But he never pressed it, because that would destroy the Theatre of Dreams forever.”

He inched even closer to Florrie, swelling his chest. “Walls crashing! Floors crumbling and furniture cracking! Everything going up in flames, EVERYTHING!”

“Oh!” Florrie gasped, slipping off the chair and hiding under the desk. “I won’t press it Uncle Nevvy, I promise!”

“Good.” Neville finally got away from her, striding towards the door. “I’m going to find your boss now. And just remember— Uncle Nevvy.”

Meanwhile, Sir Alexander Ferguson slowly made his way out of the stands, whistling a jolly little tune as he did. He was happy—happier than he’d been in many a month—and that caused his whistling to turn into singing.

“Should auld acquaintance be forgot, and never brought to mind? Where we score goals on Liverpool, these days of auld lang syne—oh, Kenny!”

The other man, Sir Kenny Dalglish, shrugged. While Sir Ferguson had just experienced one of his best days in almost seven years, Sir Dalglish, somebody who had been with Liverpool his whole life, had just experienced one of his worst days in that same amount of time.

“I beg your pardon, Kenny,” Sir Ferguson spluttered, realizing just how inappropriate his timing was. “That was—quite distasteful of me, considering the circumstances…”

“Alex, it’s all good, ol’ chap.” Sir Dalglish managed to laugh, despite himself. He leaned on a chair, staring down at the pitch. “Last time you and I came ‘ere together, yer old face was all sour while me own face was grinning like I’d just spotted King David ‘imself. So if anything, I'm the one who should apologize.”

“Ye don’t say!” Sir Ferguson tried to remember if he’d seen Sir Dalglish that day. “Yer right, I can barely remember it, Kenny.”

“Yer club played well today, ol’ chap. It’s not yer fault that we’ve been rubbish.” Sir Dalglish stared at the exit. “I was just going to go home, open a bottle of me old-fashioned Scottish whisky, and brood. You going home, Alex?”

“Soon. I was just about to visit the old office.” Sir Ferguson extended his hand to Sir Dalglish. “Until next time, ol’ chap.”

The Scottish took Sir Ferguson’s hand, shaking it, and proceeded to walk away. “Ta-ta, Alex. Enjoy yer Theater of Screams.”

Sir Ferguson shook his head at Sir Dalglish’s nickname for Old Trafford. The former Liverpool manager used it whenever Liverpool had played a bad game there. Sir Ferguson, likewise, called Anfield “Shamfield” when the same happened to United. He began to walk up the stairs, wincing as he heard his joints creaking. He was getting older—but it was all good with him. He’d had his time being young, and now it was time for him to be old.

“Sir Alexander Ferguson!” A young man, probably a steward, bowed to Sir Ferguson, extending an arm. “Would you like assistance in climbing the stairs?”

“Come now laddie, no need for that,” Ferguson chuckled, ruffling the steward’s hair. “I’ve got it m’self, but thank you for asking. Just going up to visit me old office.”

The steward, who still seemed rather flustered from the hair-ruffling, nodded, heading in the opposite direction. “Good evening, Sir!”

Meanwhile, Florrie stood in a corner of the room, staring at her nails for the tenth time. She decided that she didn’t like it here—it was too big, too empty and too dusty.

And plus, she was bored.

There were no toys to play with, no TV to watch, and nothing to do in general. Nobody to talk to, no flashcards to match, no blocks—wait a minute. From the corner of her eye, Florrie spotted a flat red object under the empty bookcase. Could it be a book?

She ran towards the bookcase and peered under it. Sure as day, it was a book—something for her to read while she waited for Neville to come back. Her little hand fit under the bookcase with ease, and Florrie pulled out a dusty book—so dusty, in fact, that she couldn’t see the color or title of it.

Florrie took her hand—not wanting to use the corner of her Liverpool jersey for fear she would mess it up—and brushed off the dust. The book was a shade of sky blue and had many pictures on it—a green frog, a golden ball, a green ball, a princess in a fancy dress and hat, and three fat, pink piglets, among others. But for some curious reason, Florrie couldn’t read the words on the front cover.

Florrie squinted, tilting the book from one side to another. She could read—the fullbacks had taught her how! So how come she couldn’t read these ones?

She opened the book, and saw that while she still couldn’t read the words inside, there was a beautiful picture of a castle, highlighted with gold and cream-colored walls. On the next page, there was a prince, crowned and walking among a row of princesses.

I’ll just look at the pictures, Florrie decided, going under the desk. It was the only area that was carpeted, so the dust was considerably less than on the open floor. They’re pretty pictures, anyway.

She tried to get comfortable on the carpet, but it was very hard and nubby, and the endless dust permeated in every corner. Florrie finally found a spot with less dust—but immediately shot back to the other side as a rancid-smelling hazelnut poked her arm. She curled in on herself, the book next to her, hoping that Neville would come back soon.

After some effort climbing the stairs and taking elevators, Sir Ferguson finally made it to the office on the third tier of Old Trafford. He turned the knob, only to find it was locked.

“Hmm…I don’t recall locking the door,” he mumbled, fishing for the keys in his pocket. He found them, and inserted the keys in the slot. The door opened with a loud, familiar creeeeak, and he stepped into his office.

The first thing Sir Ferguson noticed was how dusty the place was, like nobody had been there in years. Upon further inspection, he also noticed that there were distinctive footprints leading towards the desk—two sets.

Intrigued, he bent over as far as he could. While one set of footprints were man-sized, with standard shoe-prints, the second pair were very tiny, toddler-sized footprints—even tinier than when Kasper Schmeichel, five years old at the time, had come with his goalkeeper father, Peter Schmeichel, to his first training session.

“Hello?” he called into the room. “Anybody home?”

Of course, Sir Ferguson didn’t expect anybody to answer him. What he didn’t expect was a soft rustling coming from underneath the desk, then a small, high-pitched “ow”.

Intrigued, the elderly Scotsman bent down to take a look, grumbling as he felt his joints creak. All the grumbling vanished into thin air, though, when he spied a tiny child, curled in on themselves and shaking.

“Gee willikers,” he whispered in hushed surprise. “A wee bairn, would ye know it!”

He tried to touch the little kid, grab it from under the desk. But as soon as he touched their back, a leg kicked out. The child rolled over, scooting further into the corner, and Sir Ferguson caught a glimpse of red hair bows—a little girl.

“Relax, wee bairn.” Sir Ferguson chuckled upon seeing her worried face. “Just an old Scotsman, knocking around the grounds. Say, how’d you get ‘ere?”

Instantly, her face brightened upon hearing those words. “You sound like Robbo!”

“Robbo?” Sir Ferguson tapped his forehead, trying to recall who he knew who had that name. Finally, he remembered. “As in Andy Robertson?”

“Uh…yeah!” She sat up, hugging a book to her chest. Her shirt fully on display, she raised an eyebrow, squinting her eyes into slits. “You’re old!”

“That’s true, lassie,” Sir Ferguson chuckled. “Say, what’s yer name, bairn?”

“Florrie. Are you Robbo’s daddy?” she responded promptly, and Sir Ferguson knew that his suspicions were right. Only a kid raised around a Scot would know that much Scottish at three.

“Nae, but I’m from the same country.” He extended a hand to Florrie. “Sir Alex Ferguson’s me name, from jolly ol’ Scotland.”

Florrie giggled, taking his hand. “Now you really sound like Robbo!”

“Do you come from Liverpool?” Sir Ferguson decided to keep his questions clear and straight.

“Yes! Hendo’s my daddy, and the boss kicks butt!” Florrie grinned with pure conviction, and Sir Ferguson couldn’t help but smile. “How’d you know?”

Raising a wrinkled finger, Sir Ferguson tapped the Liverpool badge on Florrie’s jersey. “It helps when ye know yer league rivals, lassie. I played fifty-two games against Liverpool as manager here in the league alone. Of course, that’s before I retired.”

He looked out the office window, saw exactly what he wanted to see, and picked up Florrie. “Look Florrie, we’d better get you back to your gaffer. He’s worried sick about you, no doubt.” And he began walking towards the door.

“Wait!” Florrie grabbed his arm, eyes darting around in panic. “We can’t leave the room.”

To say Sir Ferguson was confused would be an understatement. “Why not?”

“If we leave, they won’t find us!” Florrie exclaimed. “Uncle Nevvy said so.”

“Uncle Nevvy?!”

“He says his full name is Neville, but he said to call him Uncle Nevvy.” Florrie’s face fell as she toyed with her hair. “He said he was looking for the boss, but he hasn’t come back yet!”

“Well, then.” Sir Ferguson instantly realized what was going on, trying to conceal his fury for Florrie’s sake. “I know exactly where your boss is. And I’m the boss around here, so Uncle Nevvy’s word isn’t the last. Mine is.” He puffed out his chest a bit at the last part, opening the door. “And while we head there, why don’t you tell me about how you got here, wee bairn Florrie?”

Florrie nodded, holding up the book. “Okay!”

Meanwhile, Lijnders and Klopp were pacing in the office. As if the manner of the loss wasn’t bad enough, and struggling to bolster the spirits of the squad wasn’t a difficult task, now Florrie had gone missing. And while both the manager and vice-manager were anxious about Florrie’s disappearance, it had definitely hit Klopp the hardest.

“I can’t believe we lost her, Pep,” Klopp repeated for about the third time. “I just can’t believe it. We let her go missing.”

“We’ve searched everywhere,” Lijnders answered with a sigh. Ever since Jennings had rushed in with news of Florrie’s disappearance, the German had been…numb. Of course Lijnders had been surprised as well, but the news had sent Klopp into a state of shock.

“I made a promise to Florrie on the first night, you know.” Klopp finally faced Lijnders, and the Dutchman sighed in dismay at what he saw. Klopp had the cowl up, the one that had been a Christmas present from a long time ago. The German only wore it in very troubled times—like January 2021, or right now.

“She’d been sleeping in Ali’s bed, and Ali had her all bundled up like a little package. I unbundled her because she was too hot, and then…” He paused for quite a while before continuing. “I promised that I’d keep her safe. That no bad guys would get her, ever again, without one of us coming for help. I promised to protect her, Pep, and I couldn’t even do that?”

“We should search again,” Lijnders reasoned, glancing at the map of Old Trafford he’d picked up from the tourist’s center. “This place has three tiers, Florrie could be on one of them.”

“We sent the boys out to search and we stayed here as mission control.” Klopp opened his briefcase and took out a piece of paper. It was the drawing of a trophy Florrie had given him after the Crystal Palace game. He still remembered what she’d said to him.

“If we can’t win a shiny trophy, we’ll draw shiny trophies!” Florrie insisted, hoisting the drawing high above her head.

Klopp smirked. This kid was too precious for this world. “That’s really sweet of you Florrie, but I’m afraid that’s not how it works.”

She frowned. “It isn’t?”

“No, liebling, I’m afraid not. You see, you have to deserve a trophy. You have to earn it, schatzi, by working hard.”

“Deserve?” Her face scrunched up in thought.

“It means that you worked hard for it and did a very good job. One worthy of a reward.”

Florrie scrambled into his lap, her face lighting up. “But you work hard, boss! You protect us all, you already deserve it! And anyways.” Florrie held up the drawing, gazing at Klopp again with those pure indigo eyes. “I love you.”

“Florrie trusts us to find her,” Klopp mumbled, stroking the waxy crayon drawing of a trophy. “And we can’t let her down. She’s not our only kiddo, Pep, but she’s our first one. Our first little Liebling.”

“You’re right, Jurgen.” Lijnders sighed, refilling his coffee mug. “We have to keep waiting. We mustn’t lose hope.”

They remained in silence for a while, Klopp wearing a hole into the floor while Lijnders drank from the coffee mug like it was his lifeblood.

“Say, Jurgen.” Lijnders decided he didn’t like the silence and opted to start a conversation. “Where’d you get that neck-warmer from? I don’t recall you having it when we first arrived.”

“Oh, this?” Klopp fingered the fabric, finally halting the pacing. “It was a Christmas present from my mother. I was always stealing her scarves, and I guess she finally got sick of it,” he added with the slightest hint of laughter.

No calls came in with any news of Florrie.

All of a sudden, Lijnders and Klopp heard strange footsteps echo through the hall. They were soft but large, and carried a certain gravity to them.

“...Jurgen?” Slowly, Lijnders tried to see if Klopp was playing a prank on him. “Was that you?”

“Do I look like I’m in a mood to play games?” Klopp retorted, and Lijnders had to admit he was right.

The same footsteps sounded again louder this time. A large, ominous shadow slowly appeared, flickering in the lamplight. Lijnders jumped in fright.

“I’m scared, Jurgen,” he admitted, ducking behind the German.

“I am as well, Pep, but I can’t hide behind you or we’d look ridiculous,” Klopp pointed out. But he did hide under the desk.

As the shadow got closer, the footsteps got even louder. Soon, a pair of voices mingled with the footsteps—one of which was comfortingly familiar.

“Florrie!” Faster than you could say “Mainz”, Klopp was out from under the desk. Followed by an equally eager Lijnders, Klopp sprinted into the hall, where he saw…

“Sir Alex Ferguson?!” Lijnders squawked in disbelief. “What in the name of Heinekein are you doing here?!”

Klopp paid no attention to Lijnders. His eyes were only one person—the toddler Sir Ferguson was carrying in his left arm.

“Florrie!” Klopp swept her up, hugging her tightly. “Oh, for Mainz’s sake, I was so worried about you, Schatzi!”

“Boss!” Florrie beamed, crossing her chubby little arms. “Me and Mr. Fergie found you!”

“Mr. Fergie?” Lijnders was still in shock over the fact that Sir Alexander Chapman Ferguson was standing right there, in front of them—and after his team, United, thoroughly embarrassed Liverpool, no less!

“Sir Ferguson.” Klopp, with Florrie on his hip, approached the Scot. His tone was grateful, as was his smile. “You don’t know how much this means to us. I’m going to text the rest of the boys and girls, and tell them that we found Florrie.”

Florrie whined just then, wanting to be let down. Klopp obliged, and she immediately ran towards Lijnders, squealing in delight.

“She’s a spry bairn, that’s for sure,” Sir Ferguson chuckled. “You’re lucky to have her, Jurgen. Say, is she Henderson’s kid? Jordan Henderson?”

“Er…no,” he faltered, bewildered. “Why do you say that?”

A barrage of footsteps thundered through the hall. At first the three men thought it was the others, returning from their search, but when they looked back, they saw someone completely different.

A pale-faced man, with streaks of gray hair, a big, pointy nose and a gray, puffy coat stormed towards them. As he approached, they could all smell the overwhelming scent of breath mints on his breath.

“Naughty girl! I TOLD you to stay put!” he roared, crossing his arms. He stared Lijnders down. “What is wrong with this generation?”

“Gary Neville?!” Klopp marched up to him, staring the Brit down. “What do you know about this?”

Florrie turned towards Klopp and Ferguson, clinging onto Lijnders. “That’s him! Uncle Nevvy!”

“You don’t say.” It all clicked for Lijnders, and he set Florrie down. “Stay here, Florrie.”

A flash of panic crossed Neville’s face. He stepped back, unsure of what to do about the three men approaching him.

“You had better tell the truth about what you did to Florrie.” Unsurprisingly, Klopp spoke first. He pulled out an ashwood baseball bat, brandishing it with pride. “Or I will whoop your Hintern with much more than this bat. I will unleash my hands, my feet, the darkness in my soul, some stale pretzels from Oktoberfest 1979, desk furniture…”

“Florrie?” Neville fiddled with the lining of his hood. A nervous smile showed every one of his teeth, crooked as his soul. “W-what do you mean by that?”

Sir Ferguson huffed in disgust, his glare pinning Neville down to the ground. “The poor, defenseless young lassie that you trapped inside my old office!”

“WHAT?!” Klopp took out his ashwood bat again, quickly glancing at Ferguson. “May I whoop his butt with this please, sir?”

Ferguson nodded, and Klopp hit the bat at Neville with all the fury he had pent-up inside of him.

“B-but this is ridiculous!” Neville squawked, after the smarting on his backside had subsided a bit. “I never meant to trap her—OW!!!”

“Done and dusted.” Lijnders had retrieved his own metal flyswatter, and had done quite the job with it. “Pray go on, Sir.”

“Gary Neville, I know you very well.” Sir Ferguson pursed his lips in disapproval, shaking his head. “You knew that she was a young, innocent lassie. You trapped her in the office, on purpose, and you tricked her into thinking it was a place to keep lost children!!!” The Scot sighed, leaning against the wall. “I didn’t coach you that way, Gary. Your soul is as corrupt as Manchester City, to trick and lock up a young girl.”

“You left her all alone there,” Lijnders hissed, venom dripping from his every word. “You left her by herself, in an old office, with nothing to do and nobody with her? Sir Kenny’s right—you are a monster, Gary.”

“An old office!” Klopp grabbed Neville by the shoulders, so tight that the Englishman couldn’t even try to wriggle free. “Are you out of your Bundes-MIND?! Did you think about the surfaces she could fall from? How much dust there is inside? What she could bump against? And it’s old, Gary—she could’ve fell from there, easily!”

“Out, out of my sight!” Sir Ferguson commanded, pointing towards the exit. “And don’t you dare show your face or talk to me until I do.”

Neville raised his arms, looking as if he was going to protest. But one more smack from Lijnders, and he ran off, crying out for the help that was never coming.

“There goes a rotten apple,” Sir Ferguson commented. He stood up, grunting at his old bones. “Well, that’s a day for me. Until next time, you three.”

“Wait!” Florrie ran up to him, holding up the same book from earlier. “What’s this?”

“Oh—oh!” Sir Ferguson smiled as he took the book from Florrie, opening the pages. “It’s that Dutch book of fairytales! Ruud’s young daughter brought it in one day, and I think she forgot it in my office. You can keep it,” he chuckled, handing it back to Florrie. “Moa’s probably too big for fairytales now, anyway.”

“Oh, can I?” Florrie pleaded, eyes darting from Klopp to Lijnders. “Pleeease?”

“Why, of course! I’ll read it to you,” Lijnders offered, scooping Florrie into his arms. “I’ve not seen one of these for years! There’s The Entangled Mermaid, The Golden Helmet, The Boar with Golden Bristles…”

Klopp and Sir Ferguson watched Lijnders and Florrie head back into the office, chattering away. When they finally closed the door, the German looked up at the Scot.

“Thanks again, Sir Ferguson,” he said, finally exhaling a sigh of relief. “If something happened to Florrie, I don’t know what I’d do.”

“It’s my pleasure, Jurgen,” the former manager replied. “Don’t tell anybody I told you this, but you’re a good young man. Keep on managing.”

The two shook hands before parting ways, back to their respective rival clubs.

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