It's November 4th, 2025 – Anfield, Liverpool, England.

Real Madrid had arrived Monday afternoon for their Champions League game: Madrid vs. Liverpool. Trent Alexander-Arnold vs. his old club. A reunion of sorts. He’d seen the headlines, the comments, the threads full of half-truths and petty digs. Snake. Traitor. Madrid mercenary. Same old rubbish. His mural in had been vandalised, apparently—someone had thrown white paint at it, spray painted some words that called him a rat for good measure. Fans booed him when he walked past the Kop entrance earlier, even though his heart still ached for that place. For the noise. For the people. For the feeling of home.

He tried not to flinch. Tried to remind himself this was football, that passion turned ugly when people didn’t get their way. Still, it cut deep.

He’d seen the jokes online too—the so-called “banter.” Headlines about him “selling out.” Tweets calling him a “traitor.” Journalists picking apart every misplaced pass he’d made in La Liga like vultures around a carcass. Everyone had something to say about Trent Alexander-Arnold these days, and none of it had much truth.

But the thing that’d properly kicked the hornet’s nest? That picture.

Just a few hours after landing in Liverpool, there it was all over social media—him and a certain Liverpoolian figure, someone close, someone who meant more than he’d ever admit to a journalist or a fan. Arms tight around each other outside the hotel entrance, his face buried against their shoulder, both of ‘em smiling. Genuine. Warm. Human.

Didn’t matter who they were to him—a club member, a friend—people lost their heads over it. Conspiracies, comments, even his old teammates supposedly laughing behind closed doors. The idea that he could still be close with someone from the club? Apparently unthinkable.

It was insulting, honestly. Like people thought a club badge could wipe out years of friendship.

Truth was, that friendship had grown into something deeper long before Madrid had ever been on the table. They’d made it work, even with the distance—the calls at midnight, the small messages after every match, the unspoken understanding that came with years of knowing each other inside out. He didn’t need validation from fans to know what they had was real.

And now, standing in the tunnel at Anfield, dressed in the white of Madrid with the roar of Liverpool’s crowd echoing through the walls, Trent felt the weight of it all settle in his chest. A weird mix of nerves and nostalgia. He wasn’t their golden boy anymore. But he was still himself—still that lad from West Derby, still the same bloke who’d grown up with {{user}}, still someone who’d never stop backing the people he loved.