The thunderous applause washed over Julien like a physical force, reverberating through his chest.
He had done it. He'd defeated the kings of the previous era—Spain.
From this night forward, Spain would no longer be an opponent France needed to fear. This French squad might not be at their peak yet, but they were on the rise, with momentum building with every match. Spain, meanwhile, faced a long decline. Ten years? Perhaps longer.
Julien raised his hand toward the stands, acknowledging the roar of the crowd, then carefully removed the captain's armband from his bicep. He handed it to Kanté, who would pass it to Lloris.
He walked slowly toward the touchline, savoring every second.
The applause never wavered. Never weakened.
But even the longest ovation must end.
As Julien reached the sideline, he embraced Valbuena, his replacement, and completed the substitution ritual. Deschamps immediately strode over and pulled him into a fierce hug.
"Well done, kid! That was Magnificent!" Deschamps's voice was thick with emotion.
Julien drew a deep breath, trying to steady himself. The joy refused to be contained—his voice trembled slightly as he asked, "We're going to the World Cup?"
In that moment, Julien channeled all the hunger from his previous life—the desperate hunger to play and dream to reach football's greatest stage. In his mind, playing in the World Cup was sacred. It was everything. The dream that seemed impossible until you touched it.
And now... now he was going.
Deschamps studied the expectation burning in Julien's eyes, he was briefly confused. Why would Julien be so overwhelmed by simply going to World Cup?
Then he slowly understood. Of course—Julien was only eighteen. Still a kid, it would be his first time on that stage.
His excitement softened into something parental. He gripped Julien's shoulder firmly. "Yes. You've taken us to Brazil ahead of schedule. I can't wait to see what you'll do there next summer. I don't know what the final result will be, but I know this—you're going to shock the world. They'll envy France for having you."
Their eyes met. In both gazes burned the same hunger—for victory, for glory, for the ultimate prize.
The broadcast cameras captured the moment: player and manager, locked in an embrace that spoke of shared ambition.
The TF1 commentator's voice rose with emotion: "If Deschamps is the man steering France back on course, then Blanc is the architect who laid the foundation. And discovering and promoting Julien De Rocca—that will be the crowning achievement of Blanc's managerial career.
In seventy minutes, Julien thoroughly dismantled Spain's defensive structure. Three different types of goals. Three lethal strikes, each more precise than the last, each more ruthless. Plus, one sublime assist. And that's not even counting the constant pressure his runs created, the way he stretched and terrorized their backline.
This wasn't a flash of brilliance. This was absolute dominance made flesh.
When he was on that pitch, Spain's defense was nailed to a cross of fear—never knowing how Julien would destroy them next. His presence alone was the most effective tactical weapon on the field.
Tonight, in seventy extraordinary minutes, Julien has shown us the final form of the modern winger. After Zidane, France has finally found their new number ten totem.
When Julien walked off the Stade de France pitch, the deafening roar told us everything: Tonight didn't just crown a hat-trick hero. It crowned the symbol of French football for the next five, ten, maybe fifteen years.
Brazil, prepare yourself. This boy from a small town is coming to set your world on fire."
The commentator's words ignited something in French hearts everywhere. The dream of lifting the World Cup once more suddenly felt real, and tangible.
At that moment, whether it was Deschamps on the touchline, Zidane watching from his television, Blanc in his study, or even young Mbappé far away in Monaco—all of them felt it.
Hope. Real, burning hope for next summer.
In Monaco
Mbappé stared at the close-up of Julien on screen, looking captivated.
"Julien just keeps getting better," Wilfried murmured beside him. "Against Spain, and he still gets a hat-trick."
His father's voice snapped Mbappé out of his trance.
"Yeah... He'll bring us real hope at the World Cup." Mbappé's voice carried a wistful note. "Too bad I'll miss it."
For the first time, Mbappé truly resented being born too late. How desperately he wished he could be on that pitch beside Julien right now, fighting together.
But the more he dwelled on it, the heavier his chest felt. Things at Monaco hadn't been going well. That's why Wilfried had left his coaching job at Bondy and moved here, renting an apartment just to be close.
Mbappé had so much he wanted to tell Julien. But he knew—the gap between them was widening every day.
Wilfried heard the defeat in his son's tone. He understood what Kylian was enduring at the club. He was working to fix it.
He squeezed Mbappé's shoulder. "Kylian, you have to believe in yourself. You'll become a player like Julien for France. Didn't he tell you? He's waiting for you to become his teammate."
Mbappé's eyes stayed locked on the screen, where the match continued. He nodded with determination.
Wilfried's voice softened. "Don't worry about Irlé. We'll solve that problem. I've already spoken with Pierre—Julien's father. He'll talk to the club's management. If Monaco can't fix this, we'll leave. We'll find somewhere better. I believe in your talent. Zidane believes in you. Julien believes in you. You need to believe it too."
Mbappé exhaled slowly. "I will. I'll train hard. I'll prove myself. I'll force my way into the first team. So, what if I miss Brazil? I want to make the 2016 Euros. And the 2018 World Cup in Russia. I've got three years to fight for that chance."
"Good." Wilfried nodded with relief.
They turned their attention back to the television just in time to see a corner kick swinging into Spain's box. Giroud rose above the crowd, twisting his neck impossibly, and the ball rocketed into the far corner.
5-0!
"Beautiful!" they shouted in unison.
Both men were stunned. Spain had conceded again.
The commentator was nearly screaming: "Spain has always been vulnerable to aerial bombardment, and Giroud's heading has been devastating since his Montpellier days.
Though his conversion rate has dipped at Arsenal, he remains France's most reliable center forward. Compared to Benzema, who shows up for Real Madrid but ghosts for Les Bleus, Giroud is clearly the answer."
On screen, Giroud celebrated with his teammates. With Benzema out of the picture, the number nine shirt was his to claim.
The Stade de France erupted into a sea of blue euphoria.
Del Bosque tried desperately to maintain composure on the sideline, but his trembling hands revealed the turmoil inside him. Fortunately, the cameras missed it—they showed only his stoic, silent face.
Beside him, Deschamps had already reined in his initial excitement. Stay calm. Stay focused. There's still a long road ahead.
On the bench, Payet dropped onto the seat beside Julien, grinning. "You knocked Spain's soul clean out. I swear we're going to score again."
Julien shook his head with a smile. "Nah. Ease off now. No point risking injuries. The end of the season's coming up—everyone's fixture list is brutal."
Payet shrugged. "We've got nothing to play for at Lille. Can't make Europe, can't drop out of the top ten. Just coasting through. Maybe the Coupe de France if we're lucky."
Julien nodded. Payet was right—Lille sat seventh in Ligue 1, too far from European qualification but too comfortable to worry about the teams below.
The two chatted idly as the match wound down. Just as Julien predicted, both teams used their remaining substitutions, and the intensity dropped. Time ticked toward full-time.
The fourth official raised his board: two minutes of stoppage time.
In the stands, French supporters began singing La Marseillaise, celebrating the victory.
A surge of voices rose:
"Allons enfants de la Patrie,
Le jour de gloire est arrivé !"
The chant rolled forward, growing louder and unified,
"Aux armes, citoyens !
Marchons, marchons !"
The sound swept through the stadium like thunder, swallowing everything in its path.
Finally—PHEEEEEP!
Full time.
The French bench exploded onto the pitch, mobbing the players in a chaotic scrum of joy. They'd done it. They'd won!
Five points clear of Spain with three matches remaining—all against weaker opposition. They'd qualified. It was over.
Spain would have to cross the playoffs.
"FRANCE! FRANCE!"
The crowd's chant shook the stadium as La Marseillaise faded.
Spanish players trudged toward the tunnel, heads bowed, leaving behind the image of a dynasty in ruins.
From tonight, everything changed.
Del Bosque departed in silence, ceding the stage to the victors.
Tonight, France sang songs of triumph.
The excitement spread across the nation like wildfire. Every corner of the Republic felt it.
The World Cup!
The highest altar of international football. France was going back.
After the disappointment of 2006, after the disgrace and infighting that followed Zidane's retirement in 2010, this France was different. Reborn.
New core. New squad. New future.
Tonight's demolition of the reigning champions gave French fans reason to believe again.
What might next summer bring?
Could they win it all?
Maybe... just maybe.
Deschamps's restraint shattered the moment the final whistle blew. He pumped his fist violently into the air, the force of it almost primal, as if trying to punch through reality itself. The roar that burst from his chest carried twenty-five years of warrior's pride and present joy combined.
He embraced every player. He waved to the supporters. From his playing days to now, managing the national team, he harbored one ambition above all: to become the first person in history to win the World Cup as both player and coach for France.
1998, Saint-Denis—Deschamps had lifted the trophy as captain. Now he wanted to do it again in Brazil, this time from the technical area.
As the players made their way around the pitch, thanking the fans, the crowd chanted Julien's name over and over.
Deschamps stood watching, smiling.
Blanc had left him a complicated inheritance—some problems, yes. But also a treasure.
Social media sites exploded right now. Headlines flooded timelines within minutes:
"France 5-0 Spain: Complete Annihilation!"
"Former Kings Crushed in Paris!"
"France's New Number 10 Legend: Julien De Rocca Destroys Spain Single-Handedly"
The news spread like wildfire.
Zidane left Florentino Pérez's residence and immediately made another phone call, arranging tomorrow's editorial coverage. He was riding this wave, using it to cement Julien as France's new football icon.
And Julien's performance had earned it. More than earned it. The media work felt effortless—everyone wanted to write about him. It barely counted as a favor anymore.
At the post-match press conference, Deschamps was lavish, his mood was soaring.
"Tonight was special. To defeat a generational team like Spain—it means everything to us. It means we can dare to dream of something extraordinary.
These young players remind me of ourselves in 1998. Julien has Zizou's genius with an added Corsican ferocity. Pogba's long passing reminds me of Djokaeff. Varane's composure at nineteen is more solid than I was! And Kanté—he's Makélélé evolved. An unending motion destroyer. We have so many talented youngsters: Matuidi, Payet, and more...
Journalists always ask me about targets. The answer was written on that pitch tonight. So yes—we can dare to expect something worth expecting."
He emphasized those final words deliberately.
Across the city, Spain's press conference began late. Del Bosque arrived looking drained.
He shrugged with forced humor. "You'll have to forgive the delay. I needed a moment to... compose myself."
A few reporters smiled sympathetically. But the questions that followed were merciless.
Del Bosque weathered them with dignity.
"The 5-0 scoreline is a hammer blow to every Spaniard's heart. As manager, I accept full responsibility. France demonstrated astonishing dominance tonight, particularly Julien De Rocca. His performance was phenomenal. Destructive. We were consumed by a storm of youth and power.
Regarding Sergio's red card—it was a desperate choice in a desperate moment. He tried to stop what would have been a certain goal. That's a defender's instinct. That's a captain stepping up when everything is collapsing.
Yes, the cost was severe. But blaming him alone oversimplifies the game and absolves the rest of us. Sergio has bled for this team countless times. His heart beats for Spain. Tonight's mistake belongs to all of us.
This match exposed many problems. Our passing rhythm disintegrated under France's high-intensity press. Our defensive solidity crumbled against De Rocca's attacks. Our attacking edge dulled when it mattered most. This isn't one player's fault—this is systemic failure. This is a warning bell. The tiki-taka that we perfected has lost its magic against raw speed and power. Football is evolving, and we were half a step too slow.
But this is not the end of Spanish football! The spirit of La Roja will not die from one defeat. Our academy system still produces world-class talent. Our philosophy still has deep roots. We just need time. Time for the next generation to mature. Time to adapt to football's new rhythms. We still have time. The playoff is just another match. We'll go to Brazil and prove that our success these past years was no accident."
He stood, voice firm with defiance: "To all the loyal fans—thank you. Spain's dignity won't be incinerated by a 5-0 loss. We will return. With our scars. With our lessons learned. With the pride of La Roja that can never be extinguished."
As Del Bosque left the room, his posture was straight, but his silhouette carried undeniable weight.
He knew what awaited him back home. The fury. The calls for his resignation. But he walked out with his spine straight, shoulders stiff.
That night, Paris refused to sleep. Celebrations echoed through every arrondissement. Fans sang Julien's name in bars, in streets, in Metro stations.
"He's God's gift to French football."
It became the most repeated phrase across the city.
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