Melwood Training Ground — dark clouds loomed low, almost brushing the rooftop of the tallest building on the complex: the main office block.
The echoes of Luton Town's post-match celebrations still blared from the television. Confetti, chants, and triumphant fists were frozen on the screen. But Rafael Benítez, seated at his desk, had seen enough. He picked up the remote and switched it off with a muted click.
Benítez removed his glasses, placed them carefully on the desk, and walked to the window.
Luton Town had just clinched the League Two title. More importantly for Benítez, they were also Liverpool's opponents in the upcoming FA Cup Final. That was why a manager of a top Premier League side was paying such close attention to a team from the third tier.
But watching Luton play triggered more than tactical considerations. It made Benítez think about Liverpool's own situation in the Premier League.
Liverpool were no Luton, of course—but right now, in the title race, they felt more like Wycombe Wanderers: chasing, not leading.
Six points behind Manchester United with only two matches remaining, Liverpool's chances at the league title were now purely mathematical. Practically gone.
In the 37th round, Liverpool were set to visit The Hawthorns to face West Bromwich Albion. But earlier that same weekend, Manchester United would play Arsenal at Old Trafford. If United managed even a draw, the title would be theirs.
And Benítez knew Ferguson too well.
When a result is all that's needed, Ferguson always finds a way to control the rhythm of a game. Old Trafford was a fortress, and Arsenal—despite their quality—were unlikely to shatter United's composure under pressure.
No miracle. No miracle this time.
Liverpool hadn't lifted the league trophy in nearly two decades. Despite Benítez's European success—most notably the miracle in Istanbul—his league campaigns always fell just short. Even in this, their most consistent season in years, they were once again coming up second best to Manchester United.
Benítez, nicknamed "The Tactician" or even "Cup Master" by fans and pundits alike, had built his reputation on thriving in knockout formats. He could outthink opponents in single-match scenarios. But over the grind of a 38-game season, his Liverpool sides often stumbled against bottom-half teams.
That had always been the criticism: brilliant in cups, brittle in leagues.
This season, Chelsea had knocked them out of the Champions League in the quarter-finals. Another heartbreak. But the FA Cup remained—Liverpool had made it to the final.
And now, standing between them and silverware: Luton Town.
Benítez had watched the Hatters dismantle their opposition with almost clinical ease. Of course, League One sides lacked the structure and talent of Premier League outfits, but Luton's momentum couldn't be ignored. They had beaten Chelsea, Manchester City, and Arsenal en route to the final. Not just flukes—convincing wins. Giant killings.
It was that string of names, that improbable trail of fallen giants, that made Benítez uneasy.
Am I underestimating them? he thought.
A cup final is still just one match. In 90 minutes, anything can happen. Benítez knew this better than anyone.
If Liverpool were to lose to a third-division team in a Wembley final… the headlines would be brutal. The fans unforgiving.
But what really kept him awake was next season. If they were to finally challenge for the league, serious investment was needed. Relying solely on Gerrard and Torres wasn't sustainable. Gerrard had been injured for a crucial stretch this season. During his absence, Liverpool drew several key matches and were knocked out of Europe.
By the time Gerrard returned, the damage was done.
And Gerrard—Gerrard was a complex figure. As vital as he was frustrating. Benítez admired his commitment, his drive. But he also felt overshadowed. In the dressing room, after Benítez gave his instructions, Gerrard would sometimes add his own take—always as a captain, but sometimes sounding like a coach.
Benítez, never one for emotional warmth or political finesse, felt his authority subtly challenged.
And yet, he knew the truth: without Gerrard, this team would fall apart. Not just technically, but mentally. If there was ever a clash between manager and captain, the club—and certainly the fans—would side with Gerrard.
So, even Benítez, famously low in emotional intelligence, made efforts to maintain their fragile balance.
A soft patter of rain tapped against the windowpane. The room darkened slightly.
The door opened, letting in a gust of wind and drizzle. Liverpool CEO Rick Parry stepped in, removing his damp overcoat with a sigh. He headed straight for the coffee machine.
The English preferred tea. Benítez did not. He preferred coffee—strong, black, and bitter.
"What's the latest?" Benítez asked, slipping his glasses back on and facing Parry.
The executive didn't answer right away.
He just stirred his coffee, letting the silence brew first.
"Not feeling optimistic..." He shook his head grimly. "Our two American owners have saddled the club with their debt. It's officially been transferred onto Liverpool's books. And they've already made it clear—any extra revenue next season is going straight into the transfer budget."
"Those bloody Yanks..."
Rick Parry's voice was low, bitter.
Benítez didn't respond. He was used to Parry's grumbling by now. But the reality was undeniable—Liverpool were sitting on a financial powder keg. The owners, Hicks and Gillett, had leveraged the club with massive debt after their takeover. If the repayments weren't managed properly, the consequences could be catastrophic.
Administration.
Points deduction.
Worse still—bankruptcy.
And if Liverpool went bust... what then?
For Hicks and Gillett, it would just mean offloading the club and disappearing, leaving behind a mess of scorched earth and shredded legacy. But for Liverpool Football Club—the institution, the fans, the city—it would mean starting from scratch. The specter of relegation to the lower tiers of English football loomed if the financial crisis spiraled out of control.
That scenario was unthinkable for the Anfield faithful.
Protests had already erupted. Supporters' groups were organizing marches, waving banners calling for the Americans to sell up. Even within the boardroom, discontent was brewing. Some directors had begun to quietly explore ways to oust the owners—through legal means or shareholder maneuvering.
But none of that concerned Benítez directly. He was the manager, not the financial director.
"If we don't bring in reinforcements this summer, the squad we've got isn't strong enough to challenge in the league," Benítez said flatly, his expression unreadable. "The bench is paper-thin."
Parry didn't argue. He knew it was true.
Sir Alex Ferguson's Manchester United were still a dominant force. Chelsea, flush with Abramovich's billions, were a juggernaut. Manchester City had new owners with deep pockets and were clearly trying to replicate Chelsea's model. Even Arsenal, running on a self-sustaining model under Wenger, remained formidable.
The Premier League had become a battlefield of super-clubs, and Liverpool were stumbling through it on crutches.
Parry sighed. "Then let's focus on this season. The FA Cup—there's still hope there. We've got Luton next. That shouldn't be a problem... right?"
Benítez shook his head. "There are no guarantees before kickoff."
Cautious to the core—that was Benítez's trademark.
Parry didn't reply. He simply resumed stirring his coffee, the spoon clinking softly against ceramic.
The silence in the office was heavy. Like the calm before a storm.
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