After a good night's sleep, Zachary woke up feeling better than he had in six long, grueling months. The stiffness in his right ankle, the same ankle that had betrayed him in January, was, of course, long gone. His breathing felt easy. His head was clear. It was finally 4th August, 2019.

It was the long awaited matchday between Liverpool and Manchester City. It was the Community Shield, the unofficial battle of England's finest and the curtain-raiser to the season ahead. Wembley awaited.

But Zachary didn't rush. He didn't let the nerves throw him off balance. There was excitement, yes, but controlled. He stuck to his routine with discipline honed through years of repetition.

A twenty-minute yoga session on the mat in his apartment's sunroom to loosen his joints and settle his thoughts. A cold shower. Then breakfast of protein oats, eggs, a slice of avocado toast, and a green smoothie. Nothing fancy, just fuel.

He then called Kristin as he always did before a match. Even on phone, her voice, calm and focused, grounded him.

By 6:15 AM, Zachary was dressed in a clean Liverpool tracksuit, white trainers, and headphones slung around his neck. He slid into the plush driver's seat of his Audi RS7 and tapped the ignition. The engine purred like a beast with purpose. He cruised through the early morning Liverpool streets, traffic still light, city still waking. It was like the calm before the storm.

A bit later, Melwood greeted him like an old friend. He pulled in at 7:00 sharp, only to find that nearly everyone else was already there. That didn't surprise him. Klopp's squad was hungry. Champions League winners just two months ago, but no one was coasting.

He dapped up Milner in the corridor, got a hug from Gini Wijnaldum, shared a quiet word and a smile with Virgil van Dijk. Klopp found him near the physio room, clapped a hand on his shoulder, and said, "Good to have you here, lad. You ready?"

Zachary just nodded. "More than ready."

By 7:30, they were all piling onto the team bus. Mo Salah, headphones in, already deep in his zone. Trent and Robbo cracking jokes in the back. Alisson thumbing through his phone. Zachary settled into his seat near the middle, pulled his hoodie over his head, and stared out the window.

The journey to Wembley took nearly four hours, with a quick pause midway through for stretching and light snacks.

Many of the Liverpool players, including Zachary, were mostly quiet, seemingly mentally preparing for the Community Shield ahead. The bus carried a heavy silence, broken only by the occasional shuffle of feet or the soft hum of someone's music.

This wasn't nerves. It was focus. All of them had been here before. They knew how to prepare for big games and big moments. But for Zachary, this one was different. After six months of recovery and rehab, this felt like a personal rebirth.

As they eventually rolled into the outskirts of London just past noon, the mood began to shift. The city buzzed with matchday energy. Street vendors were already setting up near corners, pubs were spilling over with fans in red or sky blue, and scarves flew like flags in the breeze.

Then, as the team bus turned into the roads leading toward their hotel near Wembley, the pre-match excitement finally caught up with them. Liverpool fans, packed tightly along the pavements, erupted when the bus came into view. Flares lit up in red. Chants of "Allez, Allez, Allez" rang through the air. Some kids on their parents' shoulders waved signs. Others just screamed and slapped the side of the bus as it crawled through the crowd.

Then came the City fans.

They weren't as many, but they made up for it with volume. Boos rained down from a pocket of blue on the far side. A few taunts got tossed around. Nothing new. The Liverpool players mostly ignored them. Zachary kept his eyes on the Liverpool faithful, smiling as he spotted someone holding up a cardboard sign with his name and the words "Welcome Back, Warrior."

Inside the bus, you could feel the pulse picking up.

With a bit of struggle, the driver inched them through the congested entrance, and the bus finally pulled into the lot of the Hilton London Wembley, Liverpool's chosen base for the day. It was sleek, close to the stadium, and familiar from past visits. The staff knew the drill and had already cordoned off the area.

Once inside, the players moved like clockwork. Bags were unloaded. Rooms assigned. Most of them dispersed quickly, heading upstairs to rest. In a suite on the eighth floor, Zachary laid flat on his back for a few minutes, staring at the ceiling, headphones in, letting a soft lo-fi track slow his breathing.

A light meal followed downstairs in a private room. Grilled chicken. Quinoa. Steamed vegetables. Hydration drinks prepped in neat rows. Klopp walked around, speaking quietly with players, making sure energy levels stayed steady, not too low and not too high.

By the time they finished their meal, the clock was ticking towards the 1:45 PM mark, and everyone was moving again. Track suits back on. Bags zipped. Boots checked twice. A few of the players swapped handshakes with hotel staff before heading out.

At 2:00 PM sharp, they were back on the bus.

This time, the ride was short, and the mood was very different. No more easing into it. No more quiet. This was the final switch.

Zachary once again experienced the excitement of the crowd as they neared Wembley. The second the stadium came into view, the noise doubled. The fans weren't just loud. They were electric. Arms waved. Faces pressed against barricades.

Red and sky blue battled for dominance in every corner. Chants swirled through the air like smoke. Zachary looked out his window and saw flares igniting again, banners rising above the crowds, and the occasional face-painted kid on someone's shoulders, holding up phones and signs like it was a concert.

A few fans spotted him through the tinted glass and pointed. He gave a small nod. Nothing exaggerated. Just enough to acknowledge them.

Meanwhile, the bus rolled past layers of security and pulled into the bowels of Wembley, the stadium looming above like a fortress. Inside the bus, the energy had transformed into something sharper. Controlled adrenaline.

The players filed out with minimal chatter. They moved like they'd done this a hundred times. Most of them had. But for Zachary, every step felt new again. He wasn't a rookie, not anymore, but after six months out, this was his reset.

The dressing rooms inside Wembley were spacious and clean, but there was no time to admire them. The clock was ticking.

Kit managers handed out warm-up tops and training pants. Zachary changed quickly, tying his laces with practiced ease. The physios were already in motion, applying final stretches, slapping muscle activators on calves and hamstrings. Klopp walked through, giving nods, claps, the occasional shoulder squeeze. No speeches yet. Just presence.

Then came the warm-up.

They jogged onto the pitch in formation, greeted by a rising wave of noise. The stadium wasn't full yet, but it didn't matter. The people who were there made themselves known.

Zachary followed the warm-up routine to the letter. Dynamic stretches. Passing drills. Sprints. Short possession games. Everything to get the body hot and the mind sharper. No one wanted to be off pace against City. They'd punish you in seconds.

Thirty minutes later, they were back inside.

This time, the match kits were waiting. Brand new for the 2019–20 season. Clean, deep red with subtle detailing. Zachary peeled off his warm-up top and slipped into the jersey. The fabric felt different. Lighter. Sleeker. His number on the back felt like it weighed something again.

Boots on. Shin pads in. Tape wrapped.

It was then that Klopp took center stage, his eyes scanning the squad.

"This is just the start," he said. "But you treat it like a final. Because it is. Everything you do today sends a message. Not just to City. To the whole league. You want to show them we're not satisfied. That we're still hungry."

He made eye contact with each of them. When his eyes landed on Zachary, there was no pity, no special treatment. Just trust.

"Stick to our football. Control the tempo. Press when it's time. And stay smart. Play smart."

Zachary nodded subtly. He sat back down, leaned forward with his forearms on his knees, and took one slow breath.

It was then that Kristin's grandfather, Mr. Stein, came to his mind out of nowhere. That dinner they'd enjoyed together had stuck with him more than he expected.

Zachary remembered how the old man had spoken in a calm but certain manner, with each word deliberate, like he was passing on something earned. He hadn't been talking about just routines or eating clean or training hard. It was deeper than that.

He'd spoken about discipline on the pitch. The kind that kept you in the game for years, not just months. Knowing when to push forward and when to pull back. Not lunging into reckless challenges when the game was already won. Not trying to take on three players in the middle of the pitch when a simple pass would do more damage.

The message was clear. Play smart. Protect yourself. Make the right decisions, not just the flashy ones. If you want to last in this game, you have to use your head as much as your body.

Zachary hadn't said much at the time, but the words stuck. Now, with the stadium roaring above them and kickoff looming, he thought about that advice again.

A few minutes later, the teams exited the dressing rooms and lined up in the tunnel. Liverpool to one side. City to the other. The officials waited ahead, calm and neutral. The roars above were now shaking the walls.

Zachary rolled his shoulders. His fingers twitched slightly, then settled. He wasn't nervous. He was just locked in.

As they stepped out into the light, the full stadium hit them like a wall of heat and sound.

Red flares. Flags waving. People screaming his name and dozens of others. Phones held high. It was chaos. It was beautiful.

And in the middle of it all, Zachary felt something close to peace.

He was back and about to play his first official competitive game in months. He was where he belonged.