CHAPTER 740: HOME TURF, NEW PHASE

Zachary’s return to Merseyside was anything but quiet.

Though he was technically still in recovery, his schedule filled up fast. He landed in Liverpool late Tuesday night, and by the next morning—Wednesday, 29th May 2019—he was back at Melwood.

At 9:00 AM sharp, he was already stepping into the bright, antiseptic calm of Melwood’s medical wing. The familiar hum of equipment and faint scent of antiseptic greeted him like an old companion.

Dr. Andrew Massey was already waiting for him, dressed in Liverpool’s dark-red training kit, a clipboard in hand. Flanking him were two club physiotherapists—Paul Small and James Molyneux—both of whom had reviewed Aspetar’s detailed recovery briefings.

Massey smiled as he stepped forward. "Morning, Zach. Welcome back."

Zachary returned the smile and extended a hand. "Good to be back, Doc."

"Let’s see what five months in the best sports hospital in the world have done for you," Massey quipped, gesturing toward the treatment bed.

Zachary eased himself down, propping his leg slightly on the cushion provided. Over the next twenty minutes, Massey and the physios ran through a detailed assessment—testing range of motion, joint integrity, ankle stability, and neuromuscular coordination. They compared data points to the last set of scans and logged measurements meticulously.

When it was done, Massey straightened and removed his gloves. "I’ve got to say—you’re in excellent condition," he said, tone measured but impressed. "No swelling. No weakness. Ligaments feel strong and stable under load. The surgical site has healed perfectly."

Zachary exhaled softly, relief warming his chest. "So I’m good to go?"

Massey’s expression shifted slightly—still kind, but now firm. "You’re on the right track. But let’s be absolutely clear—we stick to the plan. The six-month mark is sacred. We’re not cutting corners, not even for a Ballon d’Or winner."

Zachary chuckled. "Wouldn’t dream of it."

"You’ve done the hardest part," Massey continued. "Now we focus on the most delicate part: reintegration. The body’s nearly ready, but the brain and joints still need time to sync under pressure. That’s where these two come in."

He turned to Paul and James. "They’re yours now. You’ll train with them daily. Controlled movements, progressive ball work, and performance restoration. And if you need anything—from cryo to video diagnostics to mental conditioning—we’ve got you covered."

"I do appreciate everything," Zachary said, shaking their hands one after the other. "I’m ready to get stuck in."

"You’ve got the full suite," Massey added. "Altitude chamber, neuromuscular re-education tools, cryo-recovery, 3D gait analysis—this place is basically Aspetar North."

Zachary laughed. "Yeah, but with more grey skies."

"Welcome home, then," Massey said with a wink.

After wrapping up, a club liaison led Zachary through the winding corridors of Melwood to the administrative wing. Waiting there, as always with immaculate posture and a sharp dress shirt beneath his blazer, was Michael Edwards, Liverpool’s sporting director.

"Zach," Edwards said, standing to shake his hand. "You look well."

"Feel better," Zachary replied.

They sat across from each other in the sleek glass-walled office. Edwards’s desk was tidy—no clutter, just a few folders and a laptop, his style as always: clinical, efficient.

"I’ve gone through the reports," Edwards said, folding his hands. "Your commitment during rehab has been exactly what we expected. Actually, more than we expected. Not every player handles a setback like this with such focus."

Zachary nodded once, but said nothing.

Edwards leaned forward slightly. "You don’t need to prove anything to us—not now. Klopp’s already got plans for how you’ll rejoin the group in preseason. All we want is for you to take your time. When you come back, we want the best version of you—not the fastest one."

"That’s what I want too," Zachary replied. "I’m not rushing."

Edwards allowed a rare smile. "Good. Enjoy this last stretch of recovery. We’ll be here when you’re ready."

A bit later, Zachary said his goodbyes to the director and returned to the players’ lounge, only to find that most of the first-team squad had wrapped up their morning training. He barely made it through the door before a familiar voice boomed across the room.

"Zach!" Milner shouted, already striding over.

Then came the swarm—pats on the back, firm handshakes, a few playful shoves. Van Dijk and Henderson led a mock group cheer, and Firmino, ever the showman, held up a boot-shaped structure made entirely from protein bars.

"Top scorer’s prize!" Bobby grinned. "Only slightly edible."

Zachary laughed, shaking his head. "I missed this," he said, taking it and pretending to admire it. "You’ve all been behaving, I hope?"

"No promises," Henderson smirked. "But we held it down."

"Just not quite the same without you," said Wijnaldum, giving him a shoulder bump.

"Yeah, especially in midfield," Trent added. "Been running way too much since you left."

Zachary chuckled, touched by the team spirit. It felt good—like he had never left.

But he didn’t linger too long. The mood was light, but the air held tension beneath the surface—Madrid loomed. The Champions League final was just three days away, and the squad was flying out later that evening.

After exchanging a few more words, he made his way toward the manager’s office. A familiar hum of German rock music echoed faintly down the corridor as he approached.

Jurgen Klopp was already waiting, arms wide and grin wide enough to stretch under his glasses. "Zachary," he said warmly, enveloping him in a brief but firm hug. "It’s damn good to have you back."

Zachary smiled, easing into the chair across from him. "Good to be back, boss."

Klopp leaned forward, elbows on the desk. "I heard the medics were impressed. That you’ve done everything right."

"I’ve tried," Zachary said. "Still got a few weeks before I’m fully cleared, but... I’m almost there."

Klopp nodded, eyes soft but focused. "That’s what I expected from you. No shortcuts. You’ve already won half the battle."

Zachary hesitated for a second before speaking. "Boss... about the final—"

Klopp raised a hand, a knowing smile already forming. "You’re going, Zach. We’ve sorted it."

Zachary blinked, a touch of relief in his eyes.

"You won’t travel with the squad," Klopp continued, "don’t want to mess with your physio schedule. But we’ve got a private flight booked for you Saturday morning. Straight to Madrid. VIP pass, full access, everything taken care of."

Zachary let out a quiet breath, his shoulders easing. "Thanks, boss."

Klopp smiled wider. "You’ll be pitch-side, close to the bench. And if—" he paused, correcting himself with a glint of belief in his eye—"when we win it, you’ll be on that podium with us. You’ve earned it."

Zachary’s chest swelled, the meaning of those words anchoring deep in his gut. "Thank you," he said quietly.

"You’re still part of this team," Klopp said, his voice calm but firm. "You never stopped being part of it."

The words settled in the air, heavy with meaning. A quiet understanding passed between them, and for a moment, Zachary simply nodded, feeling the weight of months of isolation lighten just a little.

Then Klopp clapped the table, his energy returning like a flick of a switch. "Now go grab some food before Robertson eats all the fruit again. He’s been on a fake clean diet for two days and thinks we don’t notice."

Zachary laughed. "Right away, boss."

About thirty minutes later, after joining the team for a light mid-morning snack—fruit, protein muffins, and a spirited debate between Salah and Robertson over whose boots were better suited for Madrid—Zachary quietly excused himself. The laughter echoed behind him, but his mind was already shifting gears.

The squad would fly out that evening. Their focus was the final. His was finishing what he’d started.

He changed into his training kit and made his way toward the rehab wing—an annex adjacent to the main gym, tucked away and outfitted with everything an elite athlete could need for recovery. It was quiet there, insulated from the hum of main training, a space reserved for players on the comeback trail. The air smelled faintly of eucalyptus and fresh turf. It felt focused. Intentional.

His two assigned physios, Paul and James, were already waiting, reviewing a few notes on their tablets when he walked in.

"There he is," Paul said, glancing up with a grin. "Survived Massey’s checklist of doom?"

Zachary laughed. "Barely. I think he had a new test for every muscle I didn’t know existed."

James tapped his tablet and nodded toward the turf. "Good news is, you cleared them all. Now we just pick up where you left off in Doha—smooth and steady."

Zachary rolled his shoulders loose. "Let’s get to it, then."

They started with mobility drills. Paul handed him a resistance band, and Zachary looped it around his foot as he eased into a deep hamstring stretch. The rhythm came back quickly—familiar but focused. After band work came single-leg stability exercises on a BOSU ball, designed to test his proprioception and challenge his joint awareness.

"Ankle holding up?" James asked, watching his form closely.

Zachary nodded. "It feels good. Solid. Stable."

"That’s what we want," Paul replied. "But remember, we’re not rushing. You’ve got just under a month left. The goal now is to sharpen, not overreach."

Next came controlled change-of-direction drills across turf—short lateral shuffles, tight pivots, carefully timed deceleration work. Zachary’s movements were clean, precise. He wasn’t just going through the motions; he was testing his body, recalibrating his rhythm.

They wrapped the session with low-resistance cycling and soft tissue work. As James rolled out the tightness in his quads, Zachary let his eyes drift toward the ceiling, exhaling slowly.

"You’ve done well," Paul said, watching him. "This is the part most players mess up—they get impatient near the end. But you’ve stayed on plan. That matters."

Zachary sat up, towel slung around his neck. "I’ve waited five months for this. I’m not screwing it up now."

The two physios exchanged a quick nod, clearly satisfied with where he was. No warnings. No setbacks. Just progress.