The sight of Giovanni Russo at the gala had, as predicted, kicked off a season-long media storm surrounding Mo Salah's future, a constant, distracting noise that would have shattered a lesser team.
But this was not a lesser team. This was Liverpool.
They fought a glorious, three-way battle for the Premier League title, a relentless, week-in, week-out war with Manchester City and Arsenal that went down to the very last day. They were magnificent. They were heroic. And they lost. By a single, heartbreaking point.
But their season was not over. They had stormed their way through the knockout stages of the Champions League, a trail of vanquished European giants in their wake. And now, only one match remained. The final. The biggest prize in club football.
(May. The day before the Champions League Final)
The atmosphere in the team's luxurious London hotel was a strange, beautiful, and slightly hysterical mixture of calm and chaos.
