Against All Odds: Legacy Of A Football King
Chapter 264: MRI Results

Chapter 264: MRI Results

Benjamin barely reacted. He stood up, nodded at his coaching staff, and walked toward the tunnel while limping slightly.

Gertjan Verbeek shook his head and clapped his players, but they looked too drained to acknowledge it.

Jamie Carter: [AZ Alkmaar will feel hard done by, but they can hold their heads high. They gave Liverpool a real scare tonight.]

Rob Townsend: [Absolutely. But Liverpool march on, and with Suárez in this form, who knows how far they can go?]

The Liverpool players walked toward the Kop, applauding their fans. Suárez, grinning, tossed his shirt into the crowd.

The night belonged to him.

*****

The following day, newspapers hit the stands early in the morning, their bold headlines jumping out at every passerby.

"AZ ALKMAAR FALL SHORT IN ANFIELD BATTLE" — De Telegraaf

"LIVERPOOL TOO STRONG AS ALKMAAR FALTER" — Algemeen Dagblad

The front pages were filled with images from the night before—Suárez celebrating his second penalty, Elm’s disallowed goal with the linesman’s raised flag in the background, and a dejected AZ Alkmaar team trudging off the pitch at full-time.

Some headlines praised their fight. Others questioned if they had lost their nerve when it mattered most.

Inside the papers, the match analysis picked apart the turning points. The defensive mistakes. The wasted chances. The heartbreak of that offside goal.

Quotes from Gertjan Verbeek and the players filled the columns, talking about how they needed to move on, how the group stage was still in their hands.

But another story was just as prominent.

"BENJAMIN INJURY CONCERNS – HOW LONG WILL HE BE OUT?"

Rumors swirled. Some papers speculated he could miss weeks. Others feared it could be months. No official word had come from the club yet, only that he had suffered a knock late in the match.

But the images told their own story—Benjamin limping down the tunnel while clutching his thigh, frustration written all over his face.

On social media, fans debated. Some downplayed the injury, convinced he’d shake it off. Others worried AZ Alkmaar’s campaign could take a serious hit if he was sidelined for too long.

By mid-morning, the radio stations and talk shows had joined the conversation.

"How big of a loss would Benjamin be?" one host asked.

"Massive," came the reply. "He’s their attacking maestro. If he’s out for any stretch of time, AZ Alkmaar could struggle big time."

Outside the AFAS training complex, cameras waited, hoping to catch a glimpse of him arriving. But Benjamin was nowhere to be seen. The speculation would only grow until the club broke its silence.

***

Benjamin lay in bed, staring at the ceiling. His thigh still ached, a dull reminder of the previous night. His phone buzzed on the nightstand. He reached for it, glancing at the screen to see Ashley’s profile.

He sighed before answering. "Hey..."

Ashley’s voice came through, upbeat as always. "Morning, sleepyhead. I’m just checking in. How’s the leg?"

Benjamin shifted, testing it. A slight twinge shot through his muscle. "Don’t know yet. Need to do some tests first."

Ashley paused. "Right, right. Well, take it easy. No need to rush back and make it worse."

Benjamin didn’t respond. He knew that. Everyone did. But sitting around waiting wasn’t something he handled well.

Ashley cleared her throat. "By the way, your socials are blowing up. Fans are flooding your pages with messages. ’Quick recovery, Benjamin.’ ’Stay strong, 21.’ Stuff like that. Thought you should know."

Benjamin exhaled, running a hand through his hair. He wasn’t much for social media, but knowing people cared? That meant something. "Appreciate it."

"Just focus on getting better, yeah?" Ashley said. "I’ll keep an eye on things. Call me if you need anything."

"Yeah, will do."

"Good. And hey—quick recovery, mate."

The line went dead.

Benjamin tossed his phone aside and closed his eyes. Tests first and then he’d know. Until then, all he could do was wait.

But then, waiting was the worst part.

Late in the afternoon, Benjamin sat in the medical room at the AZ Alkmaar training facility with his leg stretched out on the examination table.

The club’s head physio, Mark, stood beside him, flipping through his notes while another staff member prepared the ultrasound machine.

"Let’s see what we’re dealing with," Mark said, his voice calm but professional. He pressed the probe against Benjamin’s thigh, the cool gel sending a slight chill through his skin. The screen flickered to life, revealing the inside of his muscle.

Benjamin watched their faces closely. He had been through this before—he knew when physios were hiding bad news.

Mark adjusted the probe, scanning different angles. His brow furrowed slightly. "There’s some swelling, but no major tear from what I can see. That’s a good sign."

Benjamin exhaled. "So, what does that mean?"

"It means we’ll need to do further tests to be sure, but from this, I’d say it’s a strain, not a full tear. Still, you’ll need rest. Maybe a week, maybe longer, depending on how it heals."

A week. Maybe longer.

Benjamin nodded, trying to push down his frustration. It could’ve been worse. But sitting out any games was still a blow.

Mark patted his shoulder. "We’ll know more after the MRI later today. Until then, no stress, alright?"

That was easier said than done.

As Benjamin walked out of the medical room carefully, trying not to limp too much, he pulled out his phone. A quick look at his notifications showed more messages piling up.

"We need you back soon, Benjamin!" #Shadowmile

"The team isn’t the same without you!" #FreddieBoy

"Hope it’s not serious, moi Prince!" #CrazySasha

He sighed, locking the screen. He appreciated the support, but right now, none of them had the answer he needed.

The waiting ended in the evening.

Benjamin sat in the same medical room, the lights dimmed slightly as the MRI results flickered onto the screen. Mark stood beside him, arms crossed, studying the images.

A few feet away, Gertjan Verbeek leaned against the wall in silence, his expression unreadable.

"Alright," Mark finally said, tapping a section of the screen. "It’s a strain on your left thigh. No tear, no serious damage. That’s the good news."

Benjamin didn’t react, he just stared at the screen.

"You’ll need about a week, maybe ten days," Mark continued. "Rehab, rest, light work after a few days—nothing too intense. If all goes well, you should be back soon."

Benjamin exhaled, leaning back slightly. It wasn’t the worst-case scenario, but it still stung. He hated missing games, hated being on the sidelines.

Gertjan Verbeek finally spoke. "We’ll manage without you, but make sure you recover properly. No rushing back."

His tone was firm, but there was no anger, no frustration. Just a quiet acceptance.

Benjamin nodded. "Got it."

Mark clapped him on the shoulder. "We’ll get you started on treatment first thing tomorrow. For now, rest. No unnecessary movement."

As Benjamin stood up, Gertjan Verbeek pushed off the wall. "Take care of yourself, Benjamin."

He nodded again, then limped toward the door, pushing it open.

The hallway was quiet, the evening sun casting long shadows through the windows. His phone buzzed in his pocket. Probably more messages, and more questions.

For now, he ignored them.