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"I don't get it!" Wirtz exclaimed. The Merseyside derby had just finished 2-1 in Liverpool's favour, but Wirtz was still as grumpy as he'd been when Slot had announced that he'd be on the bench. "I'm going further forward, I'm playing longer minutes, I've even updated my workout playlist! Why can't I click?"
"Patience, bro. Ryan took a whole year to find his feet, and look at him now." Frimpong turned off the tap and hoisted the pot of water to the counter. "Salt."
Wirtz handed Frimpong the salt, as well as a few bay leaves. "Ryan came for free with no expectations. Everybody expected me to join Bayern like the dozens of Bundesliga talents before me, but I didn't."
"And we're all grateful for that. Just back there, everybody was telling you how great you are and how amazing you'll be." Frimpong covered the pot of water and turned to Wirtz, his eyes dancing like sparkles. "Plus, I get to have my best friend with me on the biggest adventure of our lives."
A flicker of a smile crossed Wirtz's face, but it quickly lengthened into a pout. "Definitely a bonus, but that still doesn't help me live up to that 115 million-euro price tag."
Frimpong shook his head, joining Wirtz at the bar counter. "Everybody takes time to settle, Florian. Even Mo took time to settle after coming here from Roma, and look what he's done for us! We're going to click, just like we did at Leverkusen, starting next game versus Southampton."
Wirtz sighed deeply, grating Parmesan cheese into a flowery porcelain bowl. "I hope you're right. Cheddar."
Frimpong handed Wirtz the block of cheddar with a confident grin. "When have I ever been wrong about anything I promised you?"
"Yeah, whatever." But Wirtz cracked a smile, and his cheese shredding grew more vigorous than before. "Let's get this done, Jerry. I had to miss lunch for the game, and I'm starving."
Frimpong chuckled as he ground black pepper from a wooden pepper mill into some flour. "So am I. Try not to eat half the pot this time."
"Hey, that was one time!"
"You ate so much that you fell asleep for three hours."
Wirtz gasped, hurling an apple-patterned dish towel at Frimpong. "Did NOT!"
Frimpong laughed, barely dodging the dish towel. "Yes, you did. I remember Granit celebrating the peace and quiet like it was Christmas."
"A few months ago I would've ended this argument here, but ever since Granit left the Bundesliga runners-up Leverkusen for newly promoted Sunderland, I have considered his opinions and judgments to be irrelevant."
"You were sleeping--did you just throw flour on me?!"
"It was perfect ammunition!"
"That was the roux, idioot! Now we'll have to start all over again!"
"It's literally pouring flour into a bowl!"
Frimpong and Wirtz squabbled among each other as they cooked. Thankfully, the second batch of roux didn't end up thrown in the air, and the macaroni and cheese was ready without further incident. Just as they'd set the pot on the kitchen table and served themselves, Bradley dragged himself into the kitchen. His hair was damp from the shower he'd taken, and he wore a disgruntled scowl on his face similar to Wirtz's scowl from earlier.
"Hey, Conor!" Frimpong held up the sauce-covered ladle. "Macaroni and cheese?"
Bradley grunted under his breath, walking past the table. He took a bowl from the cabinet, then joined Wirtz and Frimpong at the table. "You ever just meet somebody you want to slap?"
Wirtz nodded understandingly, pushing the pot over to Bradley. "Jack Grealish?"
"Jack flipping Grealish," Bradley agreed, ladling two spoonfuls of the macaroni and cheese before pushing it back into the middle. "If that annoying little diver moves to Japan and never comes back, I might actually pop the champagne."
Frimpong tried not to laugh. "Don't worry. Cody said Jack will probably get a calf injury before the next derby."
"I hope he's right," Ekitike chimed in, leaning half his body through the doorway. "Jack is such a--ooh, macaroni!"
Frimpong shook his head fondly, waving Ekitike over. "Hi, Hugo."
"Jeremie!" Ekitike grabbed a bowl from the counter and fell into a chair, enthusiastically serving himself some macaroni and cheese. "I see Florian's feeling better."
Wirtz nodded, stuffing another spoonful of macaroni and cheese into his mouth. "Jerry is the best."
"Indeed." Ekitike nodded in agreement, winking at Frimpong. "It's better than Florian ranting in German while a third of the guys don't understand him."
Wirtz's eyes narrowed into tiny slits, glaring at Ekitike. "A man has his right to complain all he wants in the sanctity of his locker room."
"Ignore him," Bradley chuckled, already in a much better mood after a few bites of food. "Nice goal, Hugo."
Ekitike grinned, a slight blush growing across his cheeks. "Thanks. Hopefully that's one of hundreds to come."
"Where's everybody else?" By now, Wirtz had polished off his first bowl and was eagerly awaiting a second. "Shouldn't they be here by now?"
Ekitike shrugged. "Apparently, they're working on a song about today's game—it’s a fusion of pop, jazz, gospel, and rap. We'll all be performing it this evening for the staff."
Wirtz's eyes widened, and he started eagerly tapping his foot against the tile. "Well, why didn't you tell me earlier?!"
Bradley rolled his eyes. "Because you were sulking inside a hoodie far too big for you and hissing like an insulted cat every time someone spoke to you."
"Moving on," Frimpong interjected for the sake of peace. He turned to Ekitike, his eyes gleaming in excitement. "What are we calling it?"
"Last I heard, they were arguing between 'Clash of The Mersey-Sides', 'Nobody Likes Lunchtime Kickoffs', and 'Purple'." Bradley chuckled, scraping the sides of his bowl. "I don't know who'll win, but I do know it'll be epic."
"That it will." Wirtz opened the pot lid with a dramatic flourish. "Now, who's ready for seconds?"