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Chapter Text

The dressing room at Anfield was maybe the quietest it had ever been after a win, especially a big win at home to their title rivals. The win wasn’t a pretty or easy one. Liverpool players had fought with everything in them to scrape that 1-0 victory against Arsenal and those 3 points had hit the league table like a rocket, sending Liverpool clear to win the title. The dressing room was quiet because the team was thinking, not of their mistakes or shortcoming or the soon to be victory but of the change seen in their captain. He was always the first guy to hype up the team, especially after a big victory like this. Yet, he was silent, and meticulous in the way he got himself changed. Eyes flickered towards Virgil Van Dijk. but quickly broke as if they would see something, as if he would get mad if they did.

Virgil untied his boots with more care than necessary, he had his match shirt neatly folded beside him, but the under armour stayed. He could feel the sweat drying to his skin, sticking his shirt to it, but he didn't make any effort to remove his top. His stomach twisted and growled, empty but relieving. He felt good about that even if his bones and muscles ached more than what they should have done.

‘We did boss, as the scousers would say’ Alisson beamed, breaking the silence.

‘Yea, clean sheet. Your save in the 73rd minute was vital, Ali.’ Virgil praised, he couldn't match Ali’s enthusiasm but he did praise him.

‘Your defending today out there. Wow,’ Ali gaped. ‘I don't think I could have saved that 42nd minute shot if it weren't for you.’ He was grateful Van Dijk got there to block the shot. He didn't respond. Virgil went to remove his socks, fingers trembling slightly. Virgil silently prayed Alisson didnt see, but of course he did. Goalkeepers make excellent people watchers. He spectated him a bit longer before commenting,

‘What's your go to pre game meal?’ Alisson quiried. Virgil looked up for the first time since the conversation started, his hands no longer shaking, he placed his socks on the shirt. The locker room had gone back to average post win levels,

‘Protein bar.’ Virgil didnt like lying, but Alisson had forced him too, he justified. He knew that Ali probably knew, but if he held firm then maybe he could convince him. Alisson didnt press, just grabbed a water bottle for himself and Virgil, he tapped Virgil’s knee as he had spaced out after the exchange.

‘Hydrate.’ Alisson once again beamed, but the smile was so clearly forced as his eyes gave away the real worry.

Virgil hadnt meant for it to get this far. Tearing his ACL was the hardest moment of his career. Nobody could say for certain whether he’d even make it back onto the pitch, nevermind when and to what level he would be able to play at. Still, he followed every doctor’s order, nutrionists’ note and specialists’ whisper. He clung to their words like gospel and prayed to them to please let him play again. He did everything they asked of him and more, He trained light, ate clean, and rested when he was told to do so. Recovery was slow, far too slow for his liking and when his body didnt keep up to the mentality he cut the corners. He ate cleaner. Low calorie high protein low carbs low fats or whatever the latest diet craze among recovering athletes. It didnt matter that these athletes didnt play the same sport or to the same level, what mattered was getting on the pitch.

Soon he started dropping weight. Nothing drastic and they had been prepared for him to lose muscle definition while he recovered anyway. Nobody noticed anything and the personal trainers praised him. Soon enough he could calculate the calories of a meal in his head. Hunger became his strength and the feeling it gave him was controlling and liberating

–

Robbo found him in the gym at Kirby a day later, on the rowing machine. It had long since emptied out with every going home to families and whatever else they spent their evenings doing.

‘Do you live here?’ He joked as he approached. In typical Robbo fashion he leaned on the machine, towel slung around his neck with a water bottle in hand.

‘You’re here too.’ Virgil retorted back, not looking up.

‘True but I was late, had that meeting with the physios so didnt do gym work today,’ Robbo reasoned, ‘what's your excuse?’ he grinned.

‘Can’t afford to slack’ Virgil stated, still facing forward with sweat pouring through his now looser vest.

‘Slack?’ Robbo raised his eyebrows comically, ‘You’ve played every minute this month and you’re here 9 to 5 as well.’

‘I'm still slow on recovery sprints.’ Virgil panted. Robbo scoffed before he realised Virgil was being serious.

‘Mate…’ Robbo stepped closer to Virgil, he slowed down, ‘You’re a centre back not a winger. You don't need to be able to keep up with Trent.’ Robbo’s voice dripped with sympathy. He had always been Virgil ‘as calm as you like’ van Dijk, yet Robbo’s sympathy had enraged him. He released the handlebar with a clatter.

‘Do you think I'm slipping?’ Virgil accused. Robbo looked frightened, then offended.

‘What? No. I think you’re pushing yourself like a mad man.’ Robbo asserted, his accent slipped and became even more Scottish for a minute there. Virgil blinked, all rage was gone. Everything stood still for a minute.

I'm fine.’ Any rage in Virgil's voice was gone, turned into regret for snapping at Robbo.

‘You sure?’ Robbo asked, less Scottish than before with a much softer tone, ‘because Ali said you’ve been off the food lately’

Caught.
His jaw tightened for a minute. He wiped the sweat off his face and neck before chugging back the water bottle.

‘I'm eating.’ Virgil’s voice was firm and unwavering, more like the ‘calm as you like’ persona than the guy who just snapped at Robbo a minute prior.

‘Not enough by the looks of things.’ Robbo looked him up and down, as if to prove his point further.

‘I'm fine, really.’ Virgil shrugged him off. Robbo didn't flinch, he just stared. Virgil wished him to stop

‘More of us then you’d think have been there y’know,’ Robbo rubbed the back of his neck awkwardly, like he had something more to think about before he committed to what he was going to say, he let out a deep exhale ‘I've been there too. That need to stay ahead, feeling like it's never enough, the desperation and the extent you’ll spiral trying to out pace everyone.’ Virgil had seen Robbo as many things, but vulnerable was a new one. Virgil weighed his next sentence heavily, not wanting to close this avenue of support entirely but not wanting to open that can of worms right now.

‘Im fine. I know when to reach out for help. Thank you,’ Virgil said whole heartedly.

‘Anytime, lad.’ The Scot grinned and slapped him on the shoulders, but it was gentle and Robbo didn't seem any more relaxed.

—---

Mo Salah was the next player who cornered Virgil, wanting to talk about the last thing Virgil wanted to talk about.

In the lounge post training, Salah was fiddling with a protein shake while Virgil went through the motions of getting changed, shirt neatly folded. Later on Salah watched out of the corner of his eye as Virgil poured himself a black coffee, how he took a single calculated sip, and then sat with it cold in his hand.

‘Do you fast?’ Salah asked seemingly out of nowhere. It was obviously a calculated ambush and an opener Salah had considered deeply beforehand. Virgil looked him up and down, his no shoes, shorts and long sleeve combination was iconic and easily recognisable. He was always here at the coffee bar, Virgil should have expected it.

Virgil looked at him confused, ‘what?’

‘I fast for Ramadan, I know you’re not muslim but have you ever fasted?’

Virgil shrugged ‘few times, once out of solidarity with Mane and another to try it on the recommendation of a nutrionist’

‘When I fast, I feel like it has meaning and ties me back to my culture and faith, but it's still hard.’ Salah explained, he was met with silence.

Salah’s voice was subdued when he spoke again, but it was still audible, ‘When you starve yourself for other reasons, the body isn't as unforgiving. If your mindset isn't right with it, your body will struggle.’ Virgil stared, where was this going?

‘I'm not judging,’ He added quickly, ‘I'm just saying, if you ever want to talk about it. I'm always around.’ Salah left him with that and the small lump in his throat, he almost didn't notice it, but he nodded silently to nobody in particular.

He still didn’t know how to explain it.

How had food become an enemy? How the mirror lied to him every morning. How exhaustion had crept into his bones like rot, silent and slow, until even standing up after training felt like too much.

Despite all the uncertainty, there was one. Everyone in AXA saw Virgil for himself, not for his weaknesses, but for his personality, leadership and strength in adversity. Virgil believed they saw him, the tired man behind the wall, and the friend behind the forced smiles.

Chapter Text

There was always this moment he had post training. It was when the world felt too heavy. It was a scheduled moment, always happening after training before the sun set. While his teammates would return home to their families, loved ones, and the quiet peaceful stress free evenings being a footballer had provided them. They would go home to hot showers, steam rooms and dinner on the table, surrounded by their family and friends while Virgil would return home to an empty fridge and a desire to prove he was better than everyone else. He deserved this dream more than everyone else.

Virgil sat alone in the boot room, the laces were undone but his shoes not yet removed. His hands had started shaking too bad for that. His shirt clung to him with sweat and hung off him simultaneously. He was the last one in here as everyone filtered down the hallway, laughter slowly fading. His ears buzzed, his chest hurt, and worst of all that familiar ache that reminded him he hadn't eaten enough had returned. It was always worse when he was alone. When the crowds had gone and his persona cracked, with no expectations except his own impossible to match ones.

He rubbed his temples, and a familiar hunger induced headache returned. He knew deep down this wasn't sustainable, but knowing and changing are two separate concepts that he hasn't quite figured out how to link together yet.

His train of thought led to the heavy breathing and the pain in his chest that wouldn't go away. His thoughts spiraled from there. Every breath and effort and every attempt to soothe his hunger-panged headache made it worse. A soft Brazilian accented voice broke the chain.

‘Hey Virg.’ His voice was soft and gentle. He hung in the doorway and his kit bag over his shoulder. His arms were folded and he had that calm presence about him that made every room feel safe. It felt familiar, it felt close.

‘Thought you had gone.’ Virgil didn't break the intense staring at the wall he had going on. He didn't move.

‘I was going to, but I saw that you hadn't.’ Virgil smiled at that. It's definitely still Alisson, forever noticing things.

‘Just… decompressing.’

Alisson stepped inside and shut the door. He placed his kit bag near the bench, ‘That's what we’re calling this now?’

Virgil feigned ignorance, he raised an eyebrow and looked at Alisson for the first time ‘Calling what?’

‘This thing you have going on, where you disappear into yourself. Don’t eat, overtrain and pretend that nothing is wrong while you ignore every sign of your body giving in and begging for a break.’ Alisson was so sure of himself, he read Virgil well. He had him down to a well studied and very clearly peer reviewed science.

Virgil bristled, ‘I'm fine.’

‘You’re not… and that's okay Virgil.’ There was no judgement in Alisson’s voice, no cruelty, only the truth.

He tightened his jaw, inhaled deeply for a minute, ‘You don't get it Alisson’

‘Then explain it to me. Help me get it.’ Alisson reasoned. His voice remained steady, calm and compassionate. Every sentence was clearly thought out and rehearsed. Virgil remained silent for a moment, inhaling and exhaling deeply in rehearsed breaths. His shoulders relaxed and stiffened as if he weighed the risk of honesty.

He broke the silence, voice low, unsteady and packed with shame, ‘Ive lost control of it,’ Alisson didn't interrupt, simply moved himself beside Virgil with a hand on the shoulder, ‘After the injury,’ Virgil continued, staring down at his shin pads ‘i felt like everything was out of my hands. My body didn’t feel like mine. I was slower. Heavier. Clumsier. I couldn’t… trust my body’

Nobody spoke or moved for another minute.

‘I found what I could control. Calories in, calories out. All those stupid nutrition blogs and medical forms said the best way to hit the ground running was a blank slate.’

‘And then what?’ Alisson invited him to continue, so he did.

‘Now it's become this, something else out of my control. I need this. If I eat less, move more then I can be better than I was before.’

Virgil no longer felt caught out, he laid himself bare. Alisson didn't move, he remained calm and steady, like he expected this answer, He didn't express pity, or sympathy, he was simply just there. They sat in comfortable silence. Alisson’s presence keeps Virgil grounded. The hand on his shoulder moving to rub his back. After a while Alisson broke it.

‘After my dad died, I stopped eating too.’ Virgil stopped staring at the wall, he looked at Alisson for the first time. It caught him off guard.

‘The smell of food knocked me sick. I couldn't taste it. I couldn't feel hunger. It felt like my body had shut down and stopped working. I didn't even notice I was living on auto pilot until one day I collapsed in the bathroom.’

Virgil swallowed hard

‘Everyone carries pain differently, but you can't starve it away. You aren't as alone as you think you are. We’ve all been there. I confided in the gaffer after I collapsed, he helped. The club supported me. They can do the same with you.’ They made eye contact for the first time, Alisson’s hand still rubbing his back soothingly. His throat tightened and the pain behind his eyes was worse, he wanted the world to stop.

‘I don't know how to stop it.’ He finally admitted.

‘Then we can help you.’ Ali offered. Virgil didn't respond verbally. They stayed like that until the vacuums started in the hall. It was their sign to get out. Wordlessly Alisson grabbed both sets of bags and they moved on. Virgil was grateful beyond words.

—---

Virgil lay in bed staring at the ceiling. He wanted to get better. He wanted this to stop and for him to be able to eat. Alisson’s words echoed in his head. He wasn't ready for the whole 10 yards of recovery but he was ready for something natural and real, something authentic. Baby steps in recovering. He flipped over, and grabbed his phone. The blue light hurt his eyes. He had been lying in bed restless for over 2 hours now. He opened the group chat.

-Melwood Boys GC-
VVD: Does anyone want to get breakfast before training tomorrow?
Robbo: Sounds great, what we thinking?
Salah: I've been craving those avocado omelettes we had away against Roma
Ali: So long as there’s a fry up, I’ll be there.
Robbo: Well we knew that. I will ask our scouse guides for some good recs.

Virgil smiled. It felt effortless this time. He knew he wasn't alone.

—----

The cafe was some small quaint independent place near the docks. The sort of place with brick walls, shelves with plants, mismatched mugs and wooden chairs. He had been assured it would be empty just for the Melwood boys, and it was. It felt familiar, and safe. He knows they had been here a year prior with the whole team. It was near the hotel where Klopp liked them to stay in pre match. However it felt different being here again, he had a weight in his chest and a knot in his stomach and the boys seemed terrified that if they looked away too long he would disappear.

Alisson slid into the booth opposite him, Robbo next to Alisson while Salah and his signature coffee slid next to Virgil. They grabbed the menus and began reading. The knots in his stomach refused to loosen.

‘Sooooo,’ Robbo said, holding his O for dramatic effect, ‘you actually going to order something or are we still pretending black coffee is a full meal.’ Alisson and Salah shot him a look, one that said he had deviated from the unwritten list of acceptable topics.

Virgil gave him a dry look. ‘Its 7:30 am’

‘Exactly, prime fry up hours’ Alisson grinned, he was relaxed but still observant.

‘Don't listen to him, Ali. Robbo eats like hes 10 years younger and invincible.’ Salah added.

‘What you saying? I am invincible,’ Robbo mocked the offence, croissant crumbs falling out his mouth. Virgil didn't even realise he had been eating one. He cracked a small smile. The knots were removed for a moment until he looked at the menu again.

There were too many options, eggs, bacon, granola, yogurt, toast, cereal and whatever else. All the calories and macros labelled next to it. His grip tightened on the menu as his thoughts spiralled.

Salah noticed, because of course he did, ‘We can share some bits. Order a few things, pick what you can manage.’ Virgil nodded, lips tightened but he was grateful for the escape.

The waitress came. They made their orders, mostly by the others, with Virgil managing to ask for toast and scrambled eggs, his voice quiet and subdued but he managed to keep it steady. It was a start.

The food arrived ten minutes later. It smelled good. It was warm and buttery and familiar in a way that tugged in his stomach. Virgil plated up what he thinks he may have been able to manage. No one said anything. No one commented. No pressure. No encouragement, either. Just space. Everyone got on with their meals and small talk

He picked up a fork.
One bite.
Two.

The eggs were light. Soft. They didn’t make his stomach turn.

Three bites.

And he was still breathing.

Robbo was in the middle of a story about a training ground prank when Virgil stopped halfway through his toast, fork hovering in midair. His hand was shaking.

Salah notice and gently nudged the orange juice toward him ‘You need some sugar’
Virgil nodded, sipped. The dizziness faded.

‘I hate this,’ Virgil all but whispered, he lost the steady edge to his voice.

Alisson looked up from his plate “Hate what?”

‘Being weak.’

‘Then it’s a good thing you’re not.’ Alisson was ever confident. Virgil looked at him with an eyebrow raised.

‘You’re struggling, sure,’ Alisson said. ‘But weakness? Nah. Weak would be pretending everything’s fine. Strong is showing up and eating eggs and texting your mates.’
‘He’s got a point,’ Robbo said through a mouthful of toast, crumbs going everywhere, ‘I’ve seen you head-butt a ball harder than I kick it. You’re not allowed to call yourself weak, big man.’ Virgil smiled, embarrassed but warmed. It was genuine. Everyone at the table could tell. It eased his anxieties and calmed his nerves. He picked the fork back up and took the fourth bite. He was still absolutely terrified, and uncomfortable but he felt the weight was shared and understood by those around the table.

—-----

They parked at Trent’s closer to Kirby and walked to training at AXA together. Thank god for cold autumn and hoodies as they avoided recognition, wevering through the back allies of Liverpool with banter going back and forth. It felt natural and light. Virgil was thankful not to be the centre of attention for a change. He turned back into banter and it was just Robbo insulting Salah’s coat, calling it ‘criminally beige’ and a fashion crime or whatever he was going on about. Alisson rose to Salah’s defence and reminded everyone of the Hawaiian shirts Robb bought to pre pre-season. Virgil did not escape the banter, as Salah reminded everyone of him crashing a meeting of the under 13’s coaches trying to find the physios office. The air was lighter and the space between them felt meaningful.

They arrived an hour late to training, they had been ordered to warm up straight away for the scrimmish. Virgil got through warm ups. He passed, he moved, he tackled. All like he usually would. However just before drills he stumbles slightly. It wasn't hard, or dramatic. It was a pure accident as he stepped out of his sprint, his legs buckled and before he knew it, he was on his knees, hands on the turf and up in the split second between falling and people realising he fell. Alisson was already beside him.

‘You alright?’ Alisson asked, tone ever calm, present, soft and steady.

‘Yea.’ Virgil lied.

Alisson didn't press but he stayed close, but by the time training ended the lie was cracking. Virgil lingered near the locker room door, hesitant to cross into his old routine. He just stood outside the locker room, saying and doing nothing.

“Hey,” Robbo said, jogging past about to enter the locker room with his boots in one hand. “You going to see Doc Morgan later on?”

Virgil blinked, shook his head slightly. “Why would I—?”

“You’re not in trouble,” Robbo added quickly. “But maybe, it’s time?” Virgil hesitated. Then nodded. Slowly.

“Yeah,” he said. “Maybe it is.” his tone wavering slightly.

Chapter Text

The medical office was colder than what Virgil remembered, or maybe that was just him. He wore his now too loose vest and usual training gear. It really did make it obvious what he had actually come to the medical team to discuss. Dr Morgan was a calm, soothing person, but also sharp eyed. She was the sort of woman who had patched up the most gnarly of injuries without blinking twice. He remembers the 2018 Champions League final incident, how bad Salah’s shoulder had been dislocated to the point several teammates couldn't look without gagging, but Dr Morgan didn't even flinch. She was the more ‘calm as you like’ between both of them. However today there was a different sort of coolness and stiffness in Dr Morgan. She looked at him more intently, like she already knew what Virgil had come for and she was going through the scenarios in her head on how to fix it.

‘How can I help today?’ Dr Morgan queried with a smile. Virgil hesitated, maybe he made a mistake? Maybe she was in fact going to judge him, tell him he's Virgil van Dijk and needs to man up, get over this stupid fear and the compulsions. He swallowed the lump, and the fears. He remembered the way Ali, Robbo and Salah would look at him, how proud they had been when he willingly chose to recover. He powered through this.

‘Uh, I've been off the food lately.’ He started, they stared at each other for a minute, her silence inviting him to continue, ‘like not eating at all, or enough. Obsessing over the diet plans and how I can cut corners with my macros and recover,’ He added, trying to reason, she remained silent, nodding along, ‘like intermittent fasting and calorie counting to the point training can make me dizzy.’ He finalised

‘Uh huh- do you know when food stopped feeling like it was a fuel and started feeling like the enemy?’ she asked.

‘During my recovery… from the ACL injury.’ Virgil answered

‘So it's been going on for around a year and a half now?’ She worked out. Virgil pursed his lips together. It didn't feel like it had been that long.
‘Yes.’ He leaned forward, placing his elbows on his knees and head in his answers. He ran it over his slick back.
‘First of all,’ she said, ‘thank you. For telling me,’ Virgil exhaled, ‘We’ll get you help,’ the doctor continued. ‘A proper team, nutritionist, therapist and quiet support. Nothing will be public or available to your teammates unless you want it to be. You’re not alone in this.’
Virgil nodded. “Okay.” Virgil meant every word of what he said.

—

Virgil walked back in the dressing room. Salah was fiddling with his boots, tying then untying the laces as if he was trying to perfect that methodology. Robbo sat in front of his locker leaning forward with hands on the bench. Alisson leaned against his locker with his arms folded. He was met with half smiles as he walked into the changing room. He didn't have to say anything because they all just knew what had happened. Virgil felt lighter, he knew he wasn't fixed or healed but it felt easier to carry now.
‘I'm so proud of you!’ Robbo jumped up to pull Virgil into a hug, Ali joined them next with both Ali and Virgil’s combined height engulfing Robbo, then Salah who also was engulfed into the hug as Virgil laid his hand on the top of Salah’s head.

—-

The therapist’s office smelt like lavender, but not overwhelmingly so. It was the sort of office with soft white lighting, plants, oil diffusers and questionable decoration pieces. It made a sharp contrast to Dr Morgan’s office as the soft white definitely beat out that clinical white every day of the week. The low leather chairs were actually comfortable too. The questionably designed pieces seem to work though, as Virgil felt comfortable and safe here. He felt ready to talk about the issue at hand.
Still, he sat with his arms crossed, his jaw was tense, a lump in his throat and his eyes fixed on a single spot. The therapist entered the office, closing the door behind her with a soft thud.
‘Im Dr Claire Bowly, but just call me Claire please.’ She greeted him with a smile on his face, Virgil gave a nod of acknowledgement, she took her invitation to continue.
‘We will start simply. What is your relationship with food like at the moment?’ She asked
‘Erm, pretty bad,’ Virgil shuffled in his seat awkwardly, ‘I feel guilty when I do eat, like I failed but when I don't eat, I feel guilty because I know the lads are worrying about me.’ He started
‘Why do you feel like you have failed when you do eat?’ She asked, making notes of what he said. Virgil thought for a moment, taking a deep breath in, then out as Alisson would have instructed him to do so if he had been here.
‘Because I feel hunger keeps me focused, driven and on point. I feel sharper when I'm hungrier,’ that train of thought was interrupted by Claire fiddling with his medical and physical reports. He pondered what she was doing for a minute. Her questions were clearly leading, they invited Virgil to walk the edges of honesty before deciding himself if he wanted to divulge more information, or if he wanted to make that step into recovery.
‘Your physical reports paint a different story of that,’ she continued looking at them, Virgil knew what he thought didn't match up with his reality, ‘Immediately after your return, your reaction times, recovery sprints, and other more physically demanding attributes of your play style did not immediately suffer as a result of your eating disorder,’ Virgil made a sound at hearing those words come out of her mouth, something between a gasp and a sharp inhale, but she continued on anyway, ‘however long term they seem to have decreased. I don't believe this decrease is linked to your previous ACL injury, as during that recovery process your reported times were better than average.’ she analysed, pondering more equations and medical reports about him before continuing on
‘Lets talk about your previous recoveries from injury and how it differs. You suffered an ankle injury in the 18/19 season that kept you out of 7 games. How did recovering from that short term injury go for you?’ She lead again
‘Uh, it was easier I suppose,’ He pondered for a moment again, scratching the back of his neck, ‘Like everyone knew I’d come back to playing football again at the top level I was playing at, this time it felt like people couldn't even tell me i’d ever kick a football again.’ he exasperated. He remembers that uncertainty and it lingers in his brain, ‘everyone knew i could come back from the ankle injury, but after the ACL injury people said I was finished. They said my level would drop significantly and my play would be worse.’ Virgil reasoned
‘Did you have the urge to remove food from your life during the ankle injury? She followed up with
‘Sometimes, but I knew I would be coming back from it so there was no reason to.’ He explained, she scribbled something down.
‘Do you remember when you first felt food was the enemy?’ He shuffled awkwardly at this. Calling it the enemy sounded severe, maybe an overreaction. He didn't hate food, he just hated calories, macros and the human need to eat.
‘Maybe just after surgery, I couldn't move and I knew I would be out of training for at least 4 to 6 months. I ate a little less that day, just out of habit like I would do on complete rest days, but it felt so clean and great to have that control.’ He jumped in, no longer just towing the edges of honesty but instead just spilling it all out. Claire nodded, she remained silent, maybe willing him to say more but he couldn't.
‘So it has become a pattern, and a familiarity for you. You’ve sought after comfort during a difficult moment in your career and made it a habit.’ She explained
‘Yea…’ He admitted defeat.
‘It's more common than you’d think. When athletes lose all the structure they rely on, they create their own new structure and routines. When they lose control of their bodies, food can become a common target. Especially athletes of your standing.’ They finally made eye contact. She saw Virgil and he wanted to cry,
‘You’re not broken because of this.’ She stated firmly. He almost believed that.
—--
Progress wasn't linear or clean.
After a long away match, and on the even longer flight home. Virgil felt it all again. The guilt, fatigue, compulsions and the voices that told him he was slipping. The instagram comments that told him he fell off, his levels were bad and that he was finished. He couldn't eat the post-match meal, which was just eggs and rice.
‘You ran like a man possessed out there, come on.’ Robbo begged, Virgil hated that pleading edge in his voice and the look of pure desperation on his face didn't seem like it was his Robbo.
‘I just can't. Drop it please.’ Virgil slumped further into his plane seat. The eggs and rice were left untouched. Robbo did not beg again but the look in his face was almost convincing enough to send. He closed his eyes and let the dizzying feeling overwhelm him.

Breakfast the next day was left untouched too. By lunch he was jittery in training, incapable of staying focused and mistiming several bad tackles out of pure desperation and hunger. He snapped at players during passing drills, and was stricter on fining late players out of pure desperation. He lost his cool with a new signing, some young lad with blonde curly hair who looked terrified to the extent Salah stepped in.
‘Virgil..’ Salah started, his voice firm and loud but still maintaining a sympathetic edge. He grabbed the new lad by the arm and pulled him away, arm around his shoulders trying to reason with him. Virgil realised what he had done too late. He felt pretty empty and sick. His eyes welled up but he blinked it away. He did this to himself, he didn't get upset. He’d apologise later. He hoped Mo would comfort the poor boy and selfishly he hoped that would do some damage control.
‘He's a kid, lad pack it in.’ Robbo shouted, running up the pitch with his Scottish accent heavier than usual. By the time Robbo had jogged over to Virgil, he realised what was going on. Robbo grabbed Virgil by the arm, but one of the youth coaches was already on approach to discuss it with Virgil. Robbo mediated as Virgil was told off for being harsh on the new lad, that he was only 17 and to chill it. Virgil accepted his mistake, not looking the coach or Robbo in the eye and promised he’d apologise to the kid.
‘What's this really about mate?’ Robbo asked, arms folded.
‘Nothing im fine.’ Virgil shot it down too fast and too defensively.
‘You’re not.’ Robbo held firm.
‘Drop it’
‘No.’ Robbo asserted quickly, which caught Virgil off guard. Virgil turned to face him and looked him in the eyes. He expected Robbo to be upset, after all he did just upset some new 17 year old and snapped at his own players.
‘I thought you were getting help, man.’ Robbo sounded sympathetic but not accusatory, just worried.
‘I am.’ Virgil tried to shoot down
‘Then what's going on?’ He queried, voice dripping with sympathy
‘I slipped.’ Virgil said
‘You’ve had a bad day, that's normal. It's not a complete reset,’ Robbo reasoned, ‘Come on, let's go inside and we can try and fix this.’ He suggested. Wordlessly Virgil followed. They walked into AXA towards the coffee bar where Salah sat, shoes off, comforting the young boy. Virgil knew immediately he should apologise as a first step.
‘Hey,’ He started on approach, both Salah and Elliot turned to face him. He seemed more at ease now but not fully relaxed, ‘I just want to say I'm sorry for snapping the way I did at you Harvey. It's not your fault and it's entirely on me. I've had a rough day but that shouldn't be your problem to deal with.’ Harvey gave him a half hearted smile.
‘Its okay.’ He accepted
‘It's not but I will make it up to you.’ Virgil continued, Robbo sat down quietly next to Salah, so Virgil sat next to Harvey.
‘During my first Ramadan in Europe, at Basel, I fasted through a champions league qualifier. I thought my body couldn't handle it. I nearly passed out by the 60th minute. The coach took me off the pitch. I was furious at myself for being weak, I really thought I could handle it,’ Salah was met with silence, everybody looked at him, ‘I wasn't weak, I was just being human, and we all screw things up sometimes.’ If Harvey understood the relevance of the story to Virgil, he did not let on.
‘What matters is what we do next.’ Salah finalised. Everyone at the coffee bar nodded along.

Chapter Text

Virgil got home that night and just sat in his car. He didn't go inside. There was food and the couch he slept on during his ACL recovery. He didn't want to try eating again. It was too much. After the day he had then it all felt like there was too much going on for an attempt at eating to be even worth it. Nothing good would come of it. There was no easy way out for him here. He instead just sat with the keys in his lap in his car with no will to go inside. It wasn't even worth trying again. His thoughts spiraled worse and worse until he just hit exhaustion. The noise in his head didn't stop regardless of the exhaustion, maybe the fact he didn't have the energy to find some physical distraction made the noise worse. His limbs did not belong to him

He wanted to eat. He really did. His stomach felt like it was clawing itself from the outside in. His legs felt heavy. His lungs hurt. His body felt too heavy. There really was no good option here anymore. If he did not eat then his body and mind would suffer, but if he did then his mind would suffer worse. He knew it was no longer him just suffering with this. The group chat sharing photos of the post training pre match meals, or discussing what they want to do and eat post match didn't help. It added to his guilt.
He trudged inside the house. Empty and quiet made a sharp contrast to the way his thoughts went. He couldn't be bothered to get up the stairs to bed, he went to the couch and just flopped, with shoes still on. He let the noise in his head consume him. He was getting worse, both health wise, but he felt top of his game during training. This meant it was working for him right?

They play Chelsea on the weekend. It isn't a dead rubber match as there still is technically a title race on, but the poor form of Arsenal meant that the title was all but technically guaranteed. It would be the fumble of the century if they lost the title from their standing. His stomach was in knots, not from the title race, or nerves but instead from the hunger. He wished it was nerves, they had been taught how to handle them but not how to handle this.

—--

A week later, Alisson was banging on his door. He’d offered to drive Virgil to the AXA training centre to catch the team bus together. Virgil had been awake for a few hours by the time he was banging on the door but didn't have the energy to get out of bed. He felt drained in a way that sleep just couldn't fix. Virgil struggled to carry the kit bag into Alisson's range rover, Alisson helped wordlessly.

‘Did you eat?’ Alisson asked casually, putting on his seatbelt and not taking his eyes off the road.

‘Yea.’ Virgil lied effortlessly, it was easier. He didn't have the energy for the lecture.

‘Kids woke me up about 7am, they wanted that pancake recipe you used to make.’ Alisson laughed, as if he tried to play off why he had asked the question in the first place. He probably knew Virgil lied but knew he couldn't stop him.

‘Take it you've not slept well then?’ Virgil tried to change the subject.

‘I went to bed not long after training finished.’ Alisson explained

‘Yea same.’ Virgil lied

‘You know how important it is to eat pre match. Even if it is only a handful of nuts or some fruit.’ Alisson lectured

‘Yea I know, i’ll try.’ Virgil had no intention of trying. He was lying through his teeth, but he didn't have the energy to fight this anymore. The rest of the car ride was spent mostly in silence, except some Brazilian pop tunes playing through a USB stick. Virgil closed his eyes and leant against the window. He was so tired fighting this. Alisson let him sleep and woke him up when they got into the car park of the training ground. They walked into the training ground together. The buzz of pre-match excitement hung around the coffee bar as players huddled to talk tactics, lineups, guess opposition line up and talk football. Virgil pushed past everyone to the new signing from Hungary and Salah sat at the bar talking. He ordered his usual black coffee, he mentally prepared himself to give the captain’s talk. Usually that came easy to him but right now it was the last thing he wanted, to be seen by the entire room of players sounded terrifying. Robbo pushed next to him and took the stool next to him. Virgil sat down finally.

‘What do you think about their line ups?’ Robbo asked and before Virgil got a chance to say anything he continued ‘Their defence on the left seems to be more open with their system so I think I could push forward further’ He beamed. Robbo always loved the chances to assist the counter attacks. Several of the players had gone to the now open breakfast canteen, but Virgil and Robbo stayed at the coffee bar, pondering.

‘I could cover the defence for you.’ Virgil offered since Robbo didn't ask

‘Thanks!’ Robbo shouted. He finally got the attention of the barista and ordered some sugar based concoction that turned Virgil’s stomach,

‘Lets go and get something to eat.’ Alisson came up behind Robbo and Virgil and gestured towards the canteen, Virgil looked back and saw the players. He knows in an hour they will be on the team bus. He knows he needs to eat. He doesn't want to.

‘Yea ok,’ despite every urge in his body to disagree, he relented and went. Virgil had to steady himself against the coffee bar to avoid his knees giving in. Alisson and Robbo either didn't notice or gave him space, then they walked into the canteen together. He copied whatever they did. If they plated eggs, he did so too, if they skipped something, he did too. The only thing Virgil was even willing to try was the fruit. It was low calorie enough that it wouldn't make him feel too heavy before the match but enough of it would keep everyone off his back.

He sat with the South Americans, as usual. He preferred them. They’re a lively bunch and speak in Spanish, so Virgil does try and follow along and they make an effort to include him but he also doesn't mind if they don't, he sits down knowing they prefer to converse in Spanish. Alisson must have said something to them that caused them just to leave him alone for the most part, but Alisson did try and get him to eat more than just the strawberries. He refused

‘You remember how the nutritionist went on and on about how important pre match meals and hydration are.’ Alisson lectured

‘I know. I'm following advice from Dr Morgan’’ Virgi lied. It got Alisson to stop bothering him. He binned the rest of the food before Salah, Robbo or anyone else could see. Klopp pulled him aside for team discussions and other captain stuff and then asked him to call everyone to get on the bus.

‘Coach leaves in 15 minutes!’ Virgil bellowed to the room. A series of scurrying followed as everyone rushed to grab kit bags left in the lobby, finish their plates and do other pre match rituals. He spoke to players on their way out, reassurances, hyping them up and offering last minute advice. It took all of Virgil’s energy to stay upright and hype the rest of the team up. He was last to board the coach.

—--

The dressing room at Anfield was not as lively as Klopp would have liked. He blasted the speakers and tried to individually hype up his starting 11. However Alisson, Virgil, Salah and Robbo usually set the tone and carry the atmosphere, but with them not engaging and everyone trying to figure out what's wrong with the Melwood boys.

‘Want a protein bar?’ Robbo all but whispered to Virgil.

I'm good, thanks.’ Virgil shot down.

‘You sure? Their attack has stamina and speed so they’re gonna run us ragged.’ Robbo tried to reason. Alisson and Salah were watching the conversation intently.
‘I know.’ Virgil ended the conversation. He got up, ready to give his captain's speech, gathering the rest of his energy to do so. As he stood up, his vision blurred and spanned. Robbo noticed and held onto Virgil while he steadied himself.

I'm fine.’ Virgil let go of Robertson. Andy looked like he held his tongue on saying something.

Virgil stood next to Klopp as he gave his captain's talk. The staff outside shouted they had 5 minutes to be in the tunnel. Virgil helped address tactical strategy, and then rounded up his starting 11 for the walk down the tunnel. Cameras pointed at their captain and the talks about their quality started. The camera heat made Virgil dizzy and lit up the tunnel in ways he did not like, but he knew how to keep a poker face. He shaked the Chelsea’s captain’s hand, smiled in his face and turned back to his team. Alisson stood behind him with a watchful eye.

‘Lets go!’ he shouted down the tunnel to his players. They started to move. They met the roar of Anfield and the intimidating atmosphere and his stomach flipped. He usually fed off the crowds but his nerves were on fire and the crowd felt like it was seeing through him. At any minute they would chant for Virgil to be subbed, or sold. He squeezed the poor mascot's hand so hard for any semblance of grounding and to be out of the moment while he joined the line up of players as ‘You’ll never walk alone’ started playing in the stadium.

Ali reached out to hold Virgil’s free hand during the anthem, he looked down the line at his players, all holding hands. He’d never seen this before from the team. He didn't understand what was happening but he pretended he did, taking Ali’s hand in his and belting out the lyrics.

—-

The rest of the match went okay, 1-0 at half time with a Salah screamer that lit Anfield ablaze, but Virgil was feeling dizzy with bad chest pains. He sat on the bench in the dressing room with a leg bouncing as he gripped the side of the bench. The ache in his head was sharper than before, his ears rang, his mouth was dry despite the litres of water he drank.

Across the room, Salah watched silently. Robbo engaged with Nunez, Jota and Trent on strategies but that didn't stop the nervous glances he shot towards him. Alisson kept whispering to him but it went in one ear and out the other.
Virgil stood up to talk tactics with Klopp. He pulled himself up

‘Virg?’ was the last thing Alisson heard. He was on the floor, he doesn't remember doing that. The dressing room spun into chaos as everyone reacted to their captain fainting.
‘He's out! Get the medical team in here!’ Klopp barked at somebody.

‘Stay with us yea Virgil?’ The only reason Virgil could tell this was Robbo was the thick frantic Scottish accent. He opened and closed his eyes, it made everything worse. The room wouldn't stop spinning and now everyone was looking at him.

‘Can you hear us?’ Alisson asked, Virgil opened his eyes and tried to acknowledge it but all he could focus on was the pain and dizzying room. He could see Salah trying to get some of the other players further back so the medics could do what they needed to do.
Medical staff ran in and immediately started on the oxygen. Alisson stayed by his side. Virgil was finally coming around to it and the first thing he felt was shame. It was sharp and cruel and sat in his chest like a weighted blanket. It felt like a defining moment of weakness in Virgil’s career as their squad, both old and new, watched him crumple to the floor.

‘Im fine.’ He shrugged off as he came to it, not willing to let the squad see his weaknesses. Somebody in the tunnel barked that the teams have 5 more minutes till they’re back out.

‘We’re dropping Virgil. The rest of the starters need to get back out there.’ Klopp ordered the dressing room back into action. They shuffled about unwilling to move, not wanting to leave their captain as the medical staff started talking about electrolyte levels and re-hydration strategies. Alisson tried to soothe Virgil by gently rubbing his back. He was too exhausted to comment on it or try to stop Alisson.

‘Please get some rest. They’re trying to help you, don't argue back.’ Allison all but pleaded with him, before he pushed himself up off the floor to join the rest of the squad back down the tunnel. Virgil didn't have it in him to fight as they administered an IV and started basic health questions with him. He co-operated fully. Even if he couldn't be on the pitch he wanted to watch them. The guilt sat like a rock in his stomach, if the team lost from now or conceded he knew it would be his fault. He had unsettled them all, worried them all and now couldn't play against them.

The medical staff started talking about his eating disorder in performative dressed up language and asked to see him in the treatment room to discuss. He practically begged to wait till after the match. Reluctantly they agreed otherwise he may not have ever come back to talk about the incident in the dressing room. He darted off to the touchline. Klopp was surprised to see him. He felt like a raw nerve and knew the speculation would start as to why he was subbed off, and why only now he's joined the bench. The initial plan was to just sit down, but he knew the media would be on Klopp’s back, so he made a decision to go and embrace Klopp in front of the cameras.

I've subbed you off. Everything's going well. Get some rest yea?’ Klopp whispered in his ear, pulling him into a tight hug which Virgil melted into as they grinned for the cameras.

‘Thanks for everything gaffa.’ Virgil whispered. He removed himself from Klopp and took a place on the bench.

Robbo waved at him, trying to also play a part for the cameras that there was no backroom arguments or fallout. Alisson smiled when seeing him and gave him a nod but Salah remained ever focused. The team was playing well.

Salah and Robbo rallied the team together. Alisson ran the backline defence like the military, They all kept their composure despite Virgil letting them see him in a moment of weakness. He realised that regardless of them seeing his shortcomings, they’ve got it without him. There was no bitterness to the realisation, instead it felt like a weight had been lifted from his shoulders. He realised the team wasn't holding back his recovery. He didn't need to avoid calories, or certain food groups or obsess over macros the way he did, because the team didn't depend on whether or not he ate that morning or obsessed over his recovery sprints. It was holding him up.

The fans had realised Virgil had entered the stadium and was now sitting on the bench. His chant rang out from the main stand behind them.

Chapter Text

The conversation he had with medical staff was awkward, harrowing and inspiring all at once. He opened up, they got his records from Dr Morgan and he finally felt ready for some real change. When he went back to the dressing room feeling lighter, not only because he felt the weight had been lifted again but also because he knew his team was now helping him carry it. He grinned at his team as he walked back into the dressing room, he still felt queasy and slightly sick but he knew they were here for all of it. The dressing room lit up, finally properly celebrating their 3-0 thrashing of Chelsea. They celebrated with champagne that popped and a speaker.

‘Virgil!’ Alisson almost shouted as he grabbed him in for a tight hug. Robbo also ran over and embraced him in front of the team. Nobody acted like anything had been abnormal. He had been glad for it. Salah joined in on the group hug celebration, smiling warmly.

‘I saw the medical team again. I'm going to get better.’ he whispered to them
.
The team celebrated around him, not just for Virgil’s small personal victory but for the way he led the team to a title. Jota was spraying the new signings with some sort of champagne and running around with his flag causing chaos, the sound of popping corks and scent of the drinks and sweat mixed the adrenaline of a win.

‘I'm so proud of you!’ Robbo cheered.

The celebrations continued after the players broke up the hugs. Virgil sat at his locker watching the celebrations. How Robbo paraded the Scottish flag around and swung off Kelleher’s neck, as Salah and Nunez sung some cheesy song and as Alisson celebrated with Klopp. Elliot sat down next to Virgil and just hugged him. Silently.

—

Alisson and Virgil left the AXA together, with Alisson dropping Virgil off outside his house. He helped him grab his kit bag out of the car.

‘If you need anything else, let me know please Virg, yeah?’ Alisson all but pleaded to him.

‘Yea of course.’ Virgil gave a genuine small smile back. Alisson matched him and waved him off.

Virgil stood at his own front door. It didn't feel as daunting as it did in the past few weeks. He knew what to do. He went inside, placing his kit bag at the front door. His home felt like it was in the present finally. His home finally felt like it was in the present. The couch wasn’t just the place where he’d recovered from his ACL injury, it was where he played FIFA with the boys. The kitchen, once a source of inner turmoil, was now where he baked with his teammates. The quietness was his escape from the loudness of the gym and the constant media hustle.

He made toast. Then he felt brave, so he made some hard boiled eggs to go with it. When that didn't turn his stomach or make his chest hurt with anxiety, he made his smoothie. He swallowed as the food sat in front of him. He recalled his conversation with Salah previously. It took about an hour for him to finish his food, the occasional feeling of anxiety knotting in his stomach but releasing after every bite, but he did it.

–Melwood Boys Groupchat–

VVD: Thanks for earlier. Eggs on toast makes a great post match meal.

Robbo: You’ll need it for all the running you didn’t do in the second half.

3 dots appeared of Salah and Alisson typing, before disappearing and stopping for a second. Virgil chuckled at himself knowing they were both definitely privately messaging Robbo and scolding him for saying that. They started typing again

Salah: Proud of you big man.

Ali: What did I tell you about the eggs? Bacon would have made it well too.

—---

Virgil was back in the therapist’s office and it didn't feel as daunting. It helped that he knew Claire now and that he had finally gone into therapy with an open mind. He felt his perspective on recovery was more realistic. He no longer expected a doctor's talk and some therapy to fix him. It was still scary, but he knew he wasn't alone.
Claire asked him about how he felt about the setback.

‘I was angry. I feel like I failed everyone and my team.’ Virgil admitted.

Claire nodded, ‘That's understandable, but recovery isn't about never failing or stumbling. It's about getting back up when that happens.’ He stayed silent, ‘it's about relying on your support systems, and about recognising when you can’t handle these things alone.’ Virgil pressed his lips together and looked at Claire.

‘I just don't want them to be disappointed in me.’

‘Who do you think would be disappointed in you?’’

‘My teammates, Klopp, the supporters.’ Virgil added. It sounded stupid now coming out of his mouth but it sounded rational in his head.

Claire looked at him, tilted her head, ‘Do you think they’d be proud if you kept this hidden forever?’

Virgil hesitated, pondering for a moment, ‘No,’ He said quietly.

‘They want you healthy, whole and alive. Your teammates aren't perfect, and they know you don't have to be either. They want to play with you despite your struggles, because everyone else does.’ Virgil nodded, he thought back to Robbo admitting he struggled eating during his injury, he thought about Alisson and his grief over his dad. He stayed silent. He knew they understood that too.

—

After training at the AXA, Virgil sat chatting with Alisson. It was a light conversation that came easy to them these days. Robbo bounced up next to Virgil, Salah in tow. Robbo slid Alisson and Virgil some protein bars.

‘Try these lads, they’re so good!’ he exclaimed. Salah took his seat and ordered his usual. Virgil must have looked hesitant or pulled a face.

‘You don't have to eat it now, but I just wanted to get you some before the rest of the lads got them. The company gave them for free.’ Robbo added casually.

Virgil smiled, he stared at the wrapper for another moment, before opening it and taking a bite. Salah was focused talking to the barista and Alisson was also eating his own, smiling at Robbo as he started to talk about his weekend plans, like this moment meant nothing to everyone at the coffee bar.

‘I have another therapy session next week’ Virgil announced to the coffee bar to their delight. They laughed and lightly cheered for him as he continued to eat the protein bar, ‘Im going to get better…’ He added

—---

It started with a tweet. It was one of those low-effort, attention-hungry “scoops” from a tabloid reporter trying to make a name for themselves as they picked up any media story in an attempt to be the first one to break the story.

@InsideFootyLeaks:
Sources close to Liverpool FC reveal concerns about Virgil van Dijk’s health — reportedly battling an eating disorder following injury rehab. Developing story
Then the newspaper and bigger media picked it up.
By midday, The Mirror had published a speculative piece. The Sun followed. Sky Sports ran a vague segment in the early afternoon: "Concerns Mount Over Liverpool Defender's Health."

All Virgil could do was stare at the blue light of his phone, powerless as the story leaked. A sense of dread washed over him as his problems from the past few months was spelt out in front of him for everyone to read. The story spread like wildfire.

Chapter Text

It took a while before the big news outlets used the words ‘eating disorder’ but when they did it hit like a brick. They wrapped it up in performance language, talking about his ‘mental fragility’ and ‘discipline concerns’. Before he knew it the media took old photos of his body for comparison, they ripped apart his performances looking for any warning signs and before he knew it, those were all splashed along the headlines.

All Virgil could feel was the ache creep into his bones like it had never left, he felt the exhaustion take over. The regret of recovery hit harder now than any negative comment or bad thought had previously. He wanted to go back to those days on the couch, recovering from an ACL injury and just force himself to eat like a normal person. The disorder didn't seem worth it in hindsight, it seemed to just creep up and consume everything about him these days.

By 2pm his phone was unusable, the calls, messages, and notifications of people he hadn't spoken or played with in years suddenly wanting to check in with him. The sky sports pundits threw opinions like darts in the dark. They hit harder than losing the UCL final.

All Virgil could do was watch. He sat in the players lounge as staff stared at him a little extra harder, looking for the supposed eating disorder. Any semblance he had of control over it was now gone. He didn't even know who would have leaked it. He didn't have the capacity to figure it out right now. All he could hope for was that the ground would swallow him whole.

A door threw open, ‘Where is he?’ Klopp barked at nobody in particular, but everybody knew he meant Virgil. One of the data analysts pointed towards the table where Virgil sat, head in hands. Virgil didn't flinch or look when Klopp approached.

‘Virgil?’ Klopp tried to get his attention softly, he didn't move, ‘You didn't deserve this.’ He added. Klopp sat down next to Virgil, who finally looked up at Klopp, teary eyed. The compassion he was showing Virgil made him want to cry. He didn't deserve Klopp

Virgil let out a deep breath before responding, ‘They’ve made me sound fragile or broken. I'm not!’ He asserted, not to Klopp but more so to himself.

‘Most people would have broken under the pressure you’re under, never mind dealing with this on top of it.' Klopp started his point before being interrupted

‘They’re going to say I'm too unfit to lead the squad..’ Virgil started his resignation as team captain. Klopp caught on.

‘Well they’re wrong. I want you as our captain. The lads look up to you, they care for you and that won't change because of this.’ They sat in silence for a while, with Virgil taking a shaky breath or sniffling every once in a while.

‘Is it stupid to say I'm scared?’ Virgil asked like a kid.

‘No. It just means you care, but you’re not alone.’ Klopp grasped his shoulder. They sat in silence again, he let the words sit and absorb. They didn't fix the situation but they anchored him to reality. The dread still sat heavy in his stomach, the media will be all over him, but the team? They wouldn't act any differently. They would support him.

‘I’ll handle the media, you just take care of yourself.’ Klopp added.

He was left alone with his thoughts. He sunk into the chair wishing it would swallow him whole. He never wanted anyone to know, never mind percieve him like this. He knew he could never take back this image of himself, this version of himself he'd let the press run with. This was going to be his legacy, the Dutch footballer with an eating disorder. He'd never outrun that image. He could win 6 more UCLs and then the story would be about how he overcame an eating disorder to do so. This was it.

—

The media was the worst part, but that didn't stop him from hating the idea of walking into training and facing the team. He dreaded it worse. The media would find their next hit piece, but he’d have to live with this team knowing day to day.

Everyone had seen it, staff, players and even the cleaners. He could feel the glances, with caution, sympathy or awkwardness. It wasn't pity, not exactly. however he lost his first line of defence, and it shattered every illusion of him people had. He felt exposed, and suddenly the heart of Liverpool’s backline was shakeable and human, no longer a wall.
He considered skipping training, but he knew he’d have to face it sooner or later. He pushed himself up out of the lounge, and headed to the locker room. As he approached the locker room, he spotted Robbo jogging up to him, he fell next to Virgil and continued walking to him like nothing was up.

‘I thought you'd wear a disguise or something…’ Robbo joked. Virgil looked at him as he had a grin slapped on his face., ‘Come on it would have been funny, the big hoodie, sunglasses, hat and fake mustache.’ He laughed

‘Not my style.’ Virgil answered coolly.

‘Exactly. You don't hide. You walk around with your head up because everyone knows you’re still here, capable of playing the exact same.’ Robbo asserted. Virgil shook his head and laughed, but the knot in his chest loosened a bit. His stomach still didn't feel like it was sitting right and all the clothes suddenly felt too tight.

Alisson jogged up behind them, he had an Argentina Mate in hand and a smile on his face.

‘Media asked for comment on it. They’re waiting outside the training grounds.’ He said casually. Virgil winced.

‘What did you say?’ He asked nervously.

‘You’re the strongest guy I know and if anyone wants to doubt that they can try and take you on in training.’ Alisson beamed.
‘I’d pay to see that.’ Robbo chuckled.

Later on at the coffee bar, Virgil sat next to Salah, who had his usual and a chess board in front of him. Silently he slid a note across the bar towards Virgil. No words were exchanged, they sat in comfortable silence, which was what he needed. He was tired of over analysing people’s opinions and thoughts on his eating disorder. He unfolded the note.

‘You didnt hide when we lost the champions league final. Don’t hide now. We’ve got you. -S’

—-

Klopp held a press conference that afternoon. Virgil sat beside him as he felt the cameras bore down on him. He felt exposed. He felt the media analysing the way he looked, or acted. They were all trying to spot the signs and symptoms on his body of the supposed eating disorder. He wanted to run away and cry, but he didn't. He sat there as Klopp began his introductions.

‘I want to say one thing before we start talking about Saturday’s fixture…’ Klopp was cut off by the door of the media room opening. Alisson came in, followed by Salah, then Robbo, then Trent, then Jota and the rest of the team followed in. They sat at the back in a quiet show of support. Klopp continued

‘You’ve all seen the reports and heard the rumours.’ He paused, letting them catch up. Virgil scanned the room again, the attention had shifted from Virgil to the team, their act of support had become the centre of attention.

‘Virgil van Dijk is one of the strongest people I’ve ever met. On and off the pitch. What he’s going through is not weakness. It’s not shameful. It’s human, and anyone who twists that into something ugly should take a hard look at themselves before casting judgement.’ Klopp finalised, staring angrily at the reporter from the Mirror as he did so. He walked off.

The clip went viral within an hour. The story was no longer about Virgil Van Dijk and his eating disorder, but about how Klopp reacted. Virgil reasoned that Klopp would have known how calling out one of the reporters he specifically invited would go down in the media, the press protect their own after all, but he did ti anyway, because it detracted all reporting of the story to how the media even got it. suddenly something changed online. It was no longer just about Virgil van Dijk and his eating disorder, but also about privacy in the day to day life of footballers. Klopp started a new conversation that didn't centre his centre half, and for that, Virgil was grateful.

–

That evening, Virgil checked his messages finally. Most were overwhelming, with strangers wanting more details or showing support, but the one that stood out was an anonymous ‘former’ premier league player’s article in ‘The Athletic’. It detailed the struggle of an eating disorder and how they struggled to keep it under wraps, while also balancing a career. It sounded just like his own story, with it starting from an injury and the writer captured the raw emotion he felt playing while starving. There was a line that stuck out to him though, the writer described a Hawaiian shirt they wore to pre-season training and referred to a teammate’s outfit as ‘criminally beige’. He remembered how Robbo wore the shirt described, and the way he insulted Salah. All he could do was smile as he realised who wrote this piece.

He knew Robbo wanted Virgil to realise it was his writing. This was his show of support. A way of opening a new dialogue that didn't centre Virgil but instead football as a whole. He smiled as he texted Robbo, 'Thank you.'

Virgil placed the phone face down. He still felt raw and still felt he could never trust talking about how felt ever again, but he figured that maybe the truth wasn't the enemy.

—-

Matchday arrived quicker than what Virgil would have liked. It arrived cold and wet, the typical Liverpool weather that soaked socks and numbed fingertips, with no amount of warm ups.

Virgil stood in the tunnel at Anfield, hands clenched at his side, head down. The headlines had given up on his story but the damage was done. People looked at Virgil differently, there was a shift in how he saw himself. He felt less like the ‘Wall of Anfield’ and more like a question mark that couldn't be answered.

‘Breathe.’ Alisson whispered in his ear, ‘They’re not here to break you. They’re here to watch you lead us to victory.’ Virgil nodded, then began the Anfield call out.
The Kop roared like it always had but it sounded different this time. It wasn't any louder, not softer, but warmer. Like something had changed it. There were no jeers or unease. Just red flags, scarfs and unwavering loyalty.

A tifo unfurled in the Kop end: “Even Walls Need Rest. YNWA, Captain.”
Virgil stopped mid-stride.

It was Mo who caught his arm and kept him moving forward. “They still see you,” he said. “And they still sing.”

Virgil blinked hard, jaw clenched. He didn’t cry but the threat sat behind his eyes like pressure from a dam.

—-

They won the match 2–0. Keeping a clean sheet that was worth celebrating to the Liverpool defenders, a goal for Salah and a wonder-goal from Robbo that sent the stands into chaos.

After the final whistle, Klopp ran onto the pitch and called for a huddle near the center circle. Virgil stood arms around Matip and Robbo.

‘Listen’ he started, voice hoarse from the screaming and celebrating but there was still fierceness behind it. ‘You know the world out there?’

The team nodded in understanding, unsure of where Klopp was going with this.

‘They’ll build you up, knock you down, and forget the pieces they leave behind, but this?’ he thumped his chest over the badge, ‘this is different, we’ll look after each other. Understand?’

The team nodded again, cheering and celebrating this time.

‘Good. Now clap the Kop before they riot.’ Laughter broke the tension. Virgil let himself smile, and as he walked toward the fans, clapping their support, he heard his chant being sung. It felt easier then it ever did before, here he was supporting them as they supported him. They didn't care that he had shown vulnerability or weakness, if anything it made him more human and relatable. He let the celebrations take him. He chanted for himself, his teammates and for the fans. He knew he wasn't alone in how he felt anymore, Robbo beamed as the stands started his chant. He smiled at Virgil, which was maybe the only acknowledgement he’d ever get that it was him who wrote the piece pretending to be a former PL player.

He let himself enjoy it. No worrying about new articles or his public image, just enjoying his time at Anfield as the armband sat tightly around his bicep.

Chapter Text

The media room in the hall was modest. Not big or flashy but big enough to hold the media, professional health workers, academy players and Liverpool’s backroom staff. They all gathered under a banner that said ‘The Van Dijk Foundation: Strength That Looks Different’

Klopp had given Virgil the idea 2 years after his on and off field victories. It had been essentially a parting gift before the new manager took Klopp’s place. Virgil was in his last year of contract at Liverpool with uncertainty about what the future held, but he still felt stable. He knew he could play his best and the fans would love him regardless of whether he stayed or left.

Virgil want immediately sold on the idea of a creating a namesake foundation, several players he knew had one like Robbo’s AR26 and Sadio Mane’s charity work, but he didnt want the pity that would come with or the spotlight, but after a long talk with Klopp he became committed to the idea Klopp sold him.

‘Everyone’s heard the story, but not from you. Tell them yourself.’ Klopp reasoned. This time Virgil would tell his story, nobody else would tell it for them.

Salah, Robbo and Ali stood on the wings of the stage as Virgil stood under his banner. Robbo joked that if he got stage freight then he’d carry Virgil off like a ‘noble bride’. Virgil smirked at the joke again as he approached the microphone, his heart thudded like he was in a champions league final.

The foundation’s launch was mostly an outreach event, including mental health support for young athletes, ED screenings in sports academies, and scholarships for therapy and nutritional education, however the media didn't care about that. They cared about hearing Virgil tell his own story.

He kept his voice low and steady as he raised the microphone to his mouth,

‘I don't like talking about myself much. I never have.’ He opened it with. The response was a soft laugh

‘But I think sometimes that silence can do more damage than honesty.’ He took a pause as he re-read the notes.

‘My image has always been the ‘Wall of Anfield’, that big strong defender whose spirit was unbreakable even when conceding. That's what defenders and team captains are supposed to be like.’ The room listened intently in complete silence, he looked back over at Robbo, Salah and Ali who nodded at him to continue.

‘But last year after my injury, I felt something changed.’ He took a deep breath, ‘I stopped trusting my body. I felt like it was no longer working with me. Every mistake felt like a moral failing. Every time I ate I felt ashamed. I felt out of control totally as I no longer listened to what my body needed or wanted but instead was pushing myself beyond all limits to get where I thought the team needed me to be. I thought that by limiting what i put into my body, I could fix these issues.’ He looked at the academy kids, all sat in the front row, ages 13 up to the under 18’s. They sat wide eyed staring at Virgil. He saw himself in them so much, looking up to your footballing heroes like that. He smiled at them then continued.

‘I wasn't chasing thinness, but instead performance, control and perfection. However the truth is that perfection doesn't exist, but people do and people are not perfect.’ He smiled thinking of the stupid mistakes he's made on and off the pitch, he inhaled and kept going.

‘People get tired, people break down. I broke under this pressure.’ Virgil admitted. There was no gasps or pity, just the weight in the air that was shared. It didn't threaten to suffocate him as it usually did.

Eventually I realised I needed to lean on those who showed up and support me. When I stopped hiding it, the team was there,’ he looked over at the wings to his friends, then back out to the coach and team.

“So we’re starting this foundation for every young athlete who feels the pressure to disappear in order to succeed. For every academy kid who thinks the number on the scale matters more than the strength in their legs. For anyone who’s been taught that suffering is strength.” He looked up.

“Real strength is letting people in. Real strength is saying: "I'm not okay, but I want to be.” Another pause. His throat tightened, but he didn’t stop.

“There’s no finish line in recovery. No medal at the end. But there is peace. And trust me, peace is worth more than applause.” He nodded once, stepped back, and let the applause roll over him. It was not thunderous, but honest and for the first time since this began, he didn’t feel like a man recovering from something.

He felt like a man building something. Backstage he was greeted by Ali and Salah grinning at him, grabbing his shoulders and wishing him well. Robbo stood behind them drying his eyes. Virgil would be lying if he said part of his speech wasn't directed at him, and clearly Robbo knew that too.

‘You sentimental bastard. I wasn't prepared for that!’ Robbo cried jokingly.

‘You cried.’ Virgil teased while grinning at him

‘I was not crying, the chefs just started cutting the onions.’ Robbo laughed back at him as Ali and Salah laughed with him.

‘You did what you needed to do.’ Ali stepped forward and hugged him. It was grounding and tight. Virgil returned the hug and smiled at Robbo and Salah as he looked over Ali’s shoulder. They separated and Mo clapped him on the back.

‘Are you okay?’

‘I think I am.’ Virgil smiled at him.

—-

During a visit to the under 18’s academy, while Virgil was talking to coaching staff, a young U18’s player approached him and asked to talk to him. Virgil had seen that demeanour before in people. The hoodie he had on despite the summer heat, the sleeves pulled over his hands and the nerves that showed on his face.

‘Virgil?’ he asked softly. Virgil turned, smiled.

‘Yeah?’

‘I just… I’ve been dealing with something like that for a while. Didn’t even realise what it was until you talked about it.’

Virgil’s voice was gentle. ‘Did you tell anyone?’ The boy shook his head.

Virgil offered a card, it was the foundation contact info on the front, his own name handwritten on the back.

‘Start here. You’re not alone. You never were.’ The boy nodded, eyes glassy and walked away lighter.

—-

The sun was bright over AXA. It was warm and easy. No humidity to suffocate the air. It was the kind of day that made you forget how brutal Merseyside winters could be. Virgil was doing a light drill with the U13s. It had been Klopp’s idea.

‘They’ll learn more from one hour with you than a month of lectures,’ Klopp reasoned with Virgil. Half the boys were nervous. One had accidentally called him ‘sir’ and another asked if his biceps were real.

Virgil was just finishing up when he noticed one of them. Another boy who he saw himself in. He was tall for a midfielder but, quiet, and lagging behind during cooldowns, jaw tight, face pale. Virgil saw the way he pushed himself even during the supposed ‘cooldown’ Virgil dropped beside him on the turf.

‘You alright?’ he asked gently.

The kid shrugged. ‘Yeah.’

‘You sure?’

A pause ‘I saw your speech. The foundation one.’

Virgil looked over, patiently waiting.

The boy let out a shaky breath. ‘Sometimes I do that thing. Skip meals. Try to feel lighter.’

Virgil didn’t answer straight away.

He just nodded slowly. ‘I used to do that too.’

The boy looked down, like hearing it out loud made it more real.

Virgil leaned forward, voice calm. ‘You don’t have to fight this alone.’

‘I don’t know what to say.’

‘You don’t need to say everything,’ Virgil said, ‘You just need to start.’

The kid nodded, silently. He inhaled again, before exhaling sharply. Virgil hoped that his speech left the mark on him it hoped.

—-

Training that day was awkward, but not badly so, because it had been bought on in Virgil’s terms.

Klopp didn’t call him often anymore. They didn’t need to as there was a chemistry and bond between them now, it had been built over seasons, setbacks, and shared understanding. Jürgen had waved him in with a grin and two cups of coffee in hand.

‘No lectures,’ he promised as Virgil sat down, and Klopp slid his coffee to him. ‘Just one thing.’

Virgil raised an eyebrow. “What’s that?” Klopp leaned back in his chair, mug in hand.

‘You did something most captains and hell even footballers never do,’ he said. ‘You showed people how to stand up without pretending to be untouchable.’ Virgil looked away, a little embarrassed.

‘You’ve made this club better,” Klopp continued. “Not just stronger, not more successful but you have changed the foundation of the club to reflect this. The players who come after you, who come through the Academy will get the support the players before you should have got. The support you should have got.’ That word hit harder than he expected.

‘Thanks, gaffer’ Virgil said, voice low. Klopp grinned.

“You’ll still yell at me next time I bench you though, right?” Virgil smirked at the light remark.

“Obviously.”

—-

The tunnel was alive again as the football boots thudded, voices shouting last minute advice, and his nerves hummed just under the surface.

Virgil stood in the middle, armband snug around his bicep, eyes closed for a moment of quiet. It had been 2 years. 2 years since the leak. 2 years since the worst days. Ali leaned in behind him whispering in his ear to breath, that was a new habit they had started.

He walked out to the steady roar of Anfield. It felt purposeful, it was not frenzied, not wild, just solid. The sound of fans who come here to forget, the fans who support and hold their players and the sound of the fans who see him, not just the wall but the player, and the person.

There was a tifo again in the Kopp ‘Still Standing. Still Leading.’ He stopped to look at it. Salah pushed him back into the lineup again. They exchanged smiles. Salah didn't need to repeat himself because Virgil knew it was real this time.

The match was tight and scrappy. It was a hard-fought 1–0. In the 88th minute, Virgil made a sliding block that stopped a sure equaliser, the goal was open, it was 1 on 1 with Virgil having to make a record breaking sprint, but he did it. He blocked that goal

Anfield rose to its feet, he could feel the appreciation of the fans as Anfield celebrated that block like a goal. He heard his name, they still knew he was as calm as they liked. They knew what he’d walked through to be there. They saw him and still loved him

Chapter Text

2 years before the foundational launch, Anfield celebrated their title win. Virgil wasnt fully recovered, everyone knew that, but he was on the right path.

After the stands had cleared out, the fans finished celebrating and the only people left in Anfield was the players, staff and family of those here, they grabbed some BBQs and started their own party. Fans set off flairs and fireworks outside. The chanting could still be heard from outside the stadium.

The league had been won for games now but they finally had their medals and trophy, it finally felt real and official. Players grabbed their families for group photos with the trophy at Anfield. They grabbed their national flags and other props for celebrations. The players finally got a private celebration in the stadium where they won it.
Alisson started grilling various meats, while Salah set up other picnic foods for players to have. They set up a drinks table for everyone to take from.

Virgil grabbed some sort of kebab Alisson had made him with a smile and a coke. He sat down with Kelleher, Robbo, and Jota on the grass and started mindlessly eating the kebab, laughing along as the boys started to talk about darts and the races. The match had finished at 4:30pm but they was there until 8:30pm and a golden sky fell upon Anfield.

The staff started clearing up and out. Players left to the changing rooms and to go home with family, or to head out to town for further celebrations. The club had rented out a nightclub there for the players to celebrate, no media or staff.

Robbo and Kelleher stood up.

‘Im proud of you big man.’ Robbo clapped his shoulder as he turned to leave. Kelleher mutterd a little ‘Me too’ before they informed him that they would be at the club later on.
Virgil stood up to leave too, and took one last glance at the stadium. Jota remained sat down, looking over at Anfield with the trophy next to him.

‘Are you coming Jots?’ Virgil asked as they were the last 2 players left in Anfield. The sky a soft pink and golden reflecting in his face.

‘I think im going to stay here for a little while,’ Jota responded.

‘I’ll see you soon.’ Virgil smiled back. He took one last glance at the trophy, of the sky, of Anfield and left.