That chance for Zachary to play a real match came on July 20th.

Liverpool vs Borussia Dortmund at Notre Dame Stadium.

The sun was setting, but the lights had long taken over. Floodlights bathed the pitch in a clean white glow, and the air was filled with that unmistakable electricity only football could generate.

It was a pre-season match in name only.

To the American fans almost filling the 77,000-capacity stadium, this was everything. It was the Champions League winners in their backyard. It was a spectacle of adrenaline and tribal energy all rolled into one. They chanted, waved flags, sang club anthems in accents not quite Scouse but full of heart. The atmosphere felt bigger than any pre-season game had the right to be.

Zachary stood on the pitch during warm-ups, the ball at his feet, his eyes scanning the endless red in the stands. Fans screamed for Salah, Henderson, Van Dijk… and now for him.

He heard his name echo from a portion of the crowd, a cluster of fans holding up a sign that read: "ZACHARY: WELCOME BACK."

It hit him deep.

He nodded once toward them, offering a quick wave. But then he dialed back in. Warm-ups weren't for soaking in moments. They were for sharpening.

Soon after, the lineup was announced:

Alisson in goal

A back four of Clyne, Lovren, Gomez, and Robertson

A midfield trio of Fabinho, Keïta, and Curtis Jones

And up front: Origi, Firmino, and Mané

It was not Liverpool's strongest eleven, but far from weak. Salah, Henderson, Van Dijk…and Zachary were all benched, resting or waiting. Klopp had his reasons. He always did.

Zachary wasn't disappointed. Not anymore. Klopp had already pulled him aside the night before.

"You'll get your minutes tomorrow," he'd said. "Just play free. Don't chase anything. Let the game come to you."

That was all Zachary had needed to hear.

Now, seated on the bench next to the coaching staff and the rest of the substitutes, he watched intently as the first whistle blew. Dortmund, true to form, came out swinging.

Barely three minutes in, they broke through. A quick one-two in midfield, and Pulisic slid the ball through to Paco Alcácer, who took one touch and smashed it low past Alisson.

1–0.

The Dortmund fans celebrated, but even the neutrals were stunned. Zachary leaned forward, elbows on knees. Liverpool looked a step behind.

Then, in the 14th minute, it got worse.

Fabinho was caught in transition, and a simple pass over the top allowed Delaney to dart in behind. Lovren and Gomez hesitated, and Dortmund made them pay. 2–0.

Zachary's jaw clenched.

But then, just before the break, there was finally a spark. Robertson cut inside from the left and floated in a perfect cross. Origi adjusted midair and side-footed it home at the far post.

2–1.

It was the lifeline they needed.

Halftime then came. Klopp didn't waste time. He rang the changes, swapping almost the entire team. Out came the tired legs, and on came youth and energy. But among the academy boys, four names got the biggest reaction from the crowd:

Mohamed Salah. Jordan Henderson. Virgil van Dijk. Zachary.

The roar was thunderous they entered the playing field.

Zachary stepped onto the pitch with the rest, chest tight with anticipation. The turf felt perfect under his boots. The lights hit different now, not as distant, not as dreamlike. He was back under them, where he belonged.

For the first time in six months, he was on the pitch in a real match.

He didn't worry about tactics, or squad rotations, or who was watching. He wasn't thinking about his ankle or the media or the comeback arc everyone wanted to write for him.

All he cared about was the ball. And it was about to roll again.

This was the final test. It was his moment to fully conquer the recovery, not in theory, not in training, but in combat. Against real opposition. Against speed, and pressure, and doubt.

He quickly took his position just behind the front line, Liverpool's attacking midfielder once again. The whistle blew shortly after, and Dortmund restarted play. They immediately resumed their rhythmic passing game of short, sharp touches accompanied by fluid movement as they probed Liverpool's defense.

But Liverpool held their shape. They weren't dominating as too many academy faces made that impossible. But they were organized. Virgil barked instructions at the back, Henderson kept the tempo steady in midfield, Salah hovered on the flank like a waiting blade.

And Zachary? He eased into it.

He didn't try to overdo it. No blind turns in traffic. No reckless lunges or mazy runs. Instead, he played smart. Kept it simple. One-touch passes. Quick layoffs. Quiet movement into space. He stayed close to Henderson, sometimes even letting the younger players feel the ball a bit more, just so he could watch the rhythm. Sync with it.

And slowly, things began to click.

Dortmund lost a bit of control. Liverpool started winning more second balls. Possession evened out. Henderson began driving forward. Salah grew more active. Even the academy lads were starting to believe.

Then came the 66th minute.

Dortmund had just threatened again. Hakimi, always a menace on the flank, ghosted past Liverpool's young left-back and drove a low cross into the box. It was dangerous…too dangerous. But Van Dijk, calm and composed as ever, stepped in with perfect timing and cleared it with a sweeping right foot. No nonsense.

The ball surged upfield, bouncing awkwardly across the border of the final third, unsettled and loose.

Zachary saw it early.

While others hesitated, he stepped up, tracking the ball with laser focus. The moment it came within range, he positioned his body, took it on the half-turn with his left foot, and let momentum carry him forward. Delaney came pressing in fast, thinking he had him cornered. But Zachary had other ideas.

A quick drop of the shoulder. A fake to the right. Then, a smooth glide to the left. Delaney lunged but missed.

Zachary slipped past him like smoke through cracks.

Now, space opened in front of him. A rare pocket in the chaos.

He didn't hesitate.

With the outside of his right foot, he whipped a diagonal pass—low, driven, viciously precise—straight through Dortmund's midfield line. The ball spun like a guided missile, curving away from the retreating full-back and landing perfectly at the feet of Mohamed Salah, who was already in full flight down the right wing.

The stadium roared.

Salah didn't break stride.

He took the pass in motion like it had been rehearsed a hundred times, nudged it ahead with a deft first touch, and ignited the jets. He tore down the flank like a freight train, eating up ground with terrifying speed.

Zachary followed the run, not sprinting, but watching and calculating.

Salah reached the edge of the box, paused just long enough to draw in the center-back, then glanced up. A red blur in the form of Harry Wilson was darting in from the opposite side, making the late run into the pocket of space behind Dortmund's defensive line.

Without hesitation, Salah squared the ball low and sharp across the face of goal.

Wilson arrived like a bullet.

All it took was one-touch. Left foot.

Bang.

Back of the net.

2–2.

The sound that erupted from the crowd was thunder. American fans, English fans, neutrals—they all leapt from their seats in one unified burst of energy. It felt like a final equalizer, not a pre-season friendly.

Zachary didn't throw his arms in the air. He didn't knee-slide or jump onto Wilson's back.

Instead, he stood still for a beat. Took a breath. Then let out a sharp exhale, like he'd been holding it in for months.

He clenched his fist once. A subtle nod followed. No theatrics, but just a quiet declaration to himself:

I'm still here.

Meanwhile, the bench was on their feet. Klopp clapped hard. Henderson jogged over and slapped Zachary on the shoulder with a grin.

"That's it, mate," he said. "That's the one."

Van Dijk, jogging upfield, threw him a thumbs-up.

Salah, catching his breath, gave him that knowing grin, the kind only teammates share after a perfectly timed move.

And Zachary?

He jogged back to his position, his pulse still steady, his lungs filling with confidence.