BEEP!
A crisp whistle sliced through the air, yanking Zidane's attention back to the present moment.
His gaze refocused on the television screen before him.
Bastia had earned a well-positioned free kick, and the broadcast camera swiftly found Julien in its frame.
Zidane's eyes like those of countless viewers—locked onto the eighteen-year-old prodigy.
Will Julien take this one himself?
He leaned forward slightly. He wanted to see whether that earlier free kick attempt had been genuine confidence or merely a speculative effort.
The difference between the two was great.
Stade Armand Cesari.
The chant of "Julien" seemed endless, never truly fading—even when it wasn't a thunderous chorus of tens of thousands, it resounded through the hearts and minds of every Bastia supporter in the stadium.
As long as Julien stood on that pitch, their eyes would track his every movement with hungry anticipation.
Exactly like this moment.
"Julien, give us another!"
"Show them what that left foot can do!"
The voices of supporters seated close to the pitch carried onto the field, their words wrapped in the distinctive Corsican accent that made the French nearly unintelligible to Basel's Swiss group.
But the visiting players didn't need to understand the language.
One needed to look at those Bastia faces flushed with passion, eyes blazing with belief—it told them everything they needed to know.
Basel's defenders exchanged wary glances as they organized their wall under Yann Sommer's shouted instructions, shuffling into position with tension.
When they saw the player who'd won this free kick—Julien himself taking his position beside the ball, a joint unease rippled through them.
Manager Murat Yakin had warned them before kickoff: De Rocca has a dangerous set piece delivery.
Yet in reality, Julien hadn't taken many direct free kicks. His ability from dead balls remained something of a quantum state in their minds—simultaneously proven and unproven, existing in superposition until observed.
Julien and Kevin stood on opposite sides of the ball, both eyeing their angles.
Julien studied Sommer's positioning, calculating the required power and trajectory. The goalkeeper had turned slightly toward the far post, anticipating an in-swinging delivery.
Thirty minutes had elapsed, and this was only Bastia's third free kick of the match.
The first two had been too deep, distances were too great—Bastia had simply played them short as routine restarts.
The referee's whistle scale had been lavish tonight, letting the physical battles continue with minimal interruption.
Along the touchline, both Yakin and Hadzibegic had expressions of tension, their bodies were coiled with nervousness.
BEEP!
The referee's whistle sliced the night air.
The signal to proceed.
Sommer edged closer to his near post, assuming his ready stance, eyes darting between De Rocca and De Bruyne as he tried to read their intentions.
The instant the whistle sounded—
Julien exploded into motion.
Three powerful strides brought him to the ball. As he reached it, his entire body weight transferred onto his left foot while his right leg whipped through in a vicious strike.
His standing ankle buckled slightly under the torque—not from injury, but from the sheer violence of force he'd channeled through the ball.
The football ripped off the turf, arcing sharply over the wall.
Heading for the near post.
Sommer had read it perfectly. The moment Julien's body shape revealed the near-post target, he was already moving, launching himself through the air the instant the ball cleared the defensive wall.
But—
Julien's technique was ruthless in its precision. He wasn't aiming for the near post. He was aiming for the near-post upper ninety—that geometrically perfect intersection of post and crossbar where physics and impossibility meet.
His Finishing Instinct demanded nothing less: every shot aimed at the absolute limit of what's possible.
Sommer's anticipation was flawless. His reaction time, impeccable. His diving technique, textbook perfect.
Yet—
The ball curved viciously through the air, dipping at the last possible moment before arrowing into the top corner with unstoppable force.
SWISH!
The net bulged, rippling violently as the ball crashed home.
34th minute. Julien's second goal. Bastia 3-1 Basel.
The instant the ball hit net, Stade Armand Cesari erupted.
This wasn't mere celebration—it was a sonic boom of collective ecstasy; the stadium was trembling under the weight of unrestrained joy.
Julien was already sprinting toward the corner flag, arms spread wide like an aircraft in flight, gliding across the turf as ten thousand voices roared his name.
"JULIEN!"
"JULIEN!!"
The fans screamed to hoarse, paying tribute to their legend in the only language passion understands—pure, unfiltered adoration.
Meanwhile, in the TF1 broadcast booth, the commentator's voice cracked with incredulous delight,
"GOAL! IT'S IN! DE ROCCA! ONCE AGAIN IT'S DE ROCCA! His second of the first half! An absolutely unsaveable free kick thunderbolt!
Look at this strike—the moment the whistle blows, he's moving. No hesitation, no elaborate run-up. Just three explosive steps. The power generation is entirely from his legs and that whip-crack ankle rotation.
Watch how his entire center of gravity compresses onto his left foot at the point of contact—his right ankle actually deforms from the torque! That's not technique, that's controlled violence!
And the placement! Absolute perfection! He's not just going near post—he's threading it into the theoretical maximum difficulty zone, that impossible intersection where crossbar meets post!
Sommer does everything right! His anticipation is spot-on, his reaction instantaneous, his diving extension reaches maximum length! But Julien's pursuing something beyond mere correctness—he's chasing perfection. The ball speed, the dip, the angle, it's a missile programmed for the one coordinate Sommer's physical dimensions cannot reach!
This is the cruel reality: Sommer's height and reach already his known limitations are mercilessly exposed when facing this level of precision. He can be flawless in every technical aspect and still come up inches short against genius."
Watching from his living room, Zidane gave a satisfied smile.
His hopes for France's World Cup future rested significantly on this young man, and moments like these validated that faith.
Zidane understood better than most: a truly elite playmaker must be complete.
Predictability, even in a specialist creates vulnerability. One-dimensional excellence invites tactical solutions.
But comprehensive mastery? That keeps opponents guessing, second-guessing, drowning in possibilities.
As he watched Julien's celebration unfold—the controlled joy, the connection with supporters, Zidane's conviction solidified.
Julien is exactly what Les Bleus need. That complete, unpredictable core.
Stade Armand Cesari had fallen into beautiful chaos.
The fans were already dreaming ahead, imagining what this season might ultimately deliver. Every match Bastia advanced, every giant they slew, the dream grew more vivid, and more intoxicating.
On the touchline, Hadzibegic embraced his assistants, unable to contain his elation.
Nearby, Murat Yakin stood frozen, brow furrowed, lips pressed into a grim line.
His eyes tracked Julien with the intensity of a man trying to solve an impossible equation.
For Yakin, this wasn't just about tonight. This was about finding an answer for the return leg. And right now, he had none.
After his celebration concluded, Julien jogged back to the center circle with his teammates.
Basel prepared to restart.
The match continued.
Basel's players wore the shell-shocked expressions of a team that hadn't anticipated this—conceding twice in quick succession, falling two goals behind to momentum they couldn't halt.
Yakin didn't dare gamble further. He immediately signaled for his team to drop deeper, consolidate, stabilize. Another goal now wouldn't just make the second half difficult, it would effectively kill the tie before the return leg even mattered.
Basel retreated into a compact defensive shape.
Bastia didn't press their advantage aggressively. Basel's counter-attacking threat remained potent, and Mohamed Salah's several dangerous right-wing runs had already rattled Hadzibegic's nerves.
Besides, Hadzibegic's philosophy prioritized control over chaos. Stability first.
The final ten minutes of the half passed without major incident, both sides were settling into a tactical stalemate.
Finally, after stoppage time elapsed—
BEEP!
The halftime whistle sounded.
Stade Armand Cesari exploded again with celebration and anticipation blending into a single roar of satisfaction.
Bastia's players exhaled jointly, allowing themselves brief smiles. They were forty-five minutes from securing a massive advantage in this quarterfinal.
Basel's players, meanwhile, walked toward the tunnel with darkened expressions, the weight of the two-goal deficit was pressing down on their shoulders.
Yakin didn't even glance back as he disappeared into the tunnel. As the ship's captain, he needed to chart a course correction immediately.
Julien absorbed the thunderous ovation one final time before following his teammates down the tunnel toward the dressing room.
"Three-one! Can I start celebrating early? I think we've got one and a half feet in the semifinals already!"
Lukaku's voice rumbled through the dressing room the moment they entered, he was flashing his trademark grin.
He bounded over to Julien, practically glowing. "Yo! That free kick was filthy, man! Sommer couldn't even get a fingernail on it! Are you sure God didn't personally send you down here just to play football?!"
Laughter flowed through the room. Lukaku had quickly established himself as the dressing room's mood-maker, his infectious energy was impossible to resist.
Choplin joined in, pumping his fist. "Brothers! Did you see it?! The Netherlands! Amsterdam! The final venue is calling our names!"
The word "Netherlands" ignited something in the room.
"YES! The Netherlands! We crush Basel, then whoever's next! We're going to Amsterdam!"
"We're taking that trophy back to Corsica!"
"Bastia will prove themselves on Dutch soil—redemption for what happened before!"
The dressing room became a cauldron of voices, players were feeding off each other's energy, and dreams were spilling out unfiltered.
Everyone knew the history. Bastia had fallen in a European final on Dutch soil before, it was a wound that still ached in the club's memory.
Now, they would return to that same country and claim the trophy that had once slipped through their fingers.
In the corner of the room, Rothen sat quietly, observing the young lions roaring their ambitions.
A wave of bittersweet nostalgia came over him.
He thought back to his only European final—the 2004 Champions League Final.
His Monaco side had felt exactly like this. Young, hungry, invincible.
The trophy had seemed destiny, not hope.
Nearly a decade ago now.
Yet he could still feel it—the electric atmosphere of the Arena AufSchalke, the energy crackling through the air, every breath seemed to be tasting of possibility.
He remembered Deschamps' tense expression. Ludovic Giuly's tears after his injury. And that final whistle—the sickening sound of Porto's jubilant roar cutting through their shattered dreams.
The memories played like degraded film stock in his mind, flickering and fading but never quite disappearing.
That Monaco team had been just like this Bastia side: young, burning bright, eyes fixed solely on golden glory.
They'd come within touching distance of Europe's summit.
That final breath, the one that would have carried them over the peak had escaped into the German night sky, transforming into a broken sigh and the suffocating silence of the losing dressing room.
Rothen closed his eyes as Lukaku's celebration continued around him. His fingers unconsciously traced the surgical scar on his left knee, the evidence of time's theft, proof that his peak had long since passed.
Nine years. Gone in a blink.
Ligue 1 titles, Coupe de France triumphs, none of them filled the void that Gelsenkirchen had carved into his soul.
The taste of European glory remained his deepest obsession, his most painful regret.
His body no longer responded with the elasticity of youth. The pace that had once made him one of Ligue 1's most dangerous wingers had been gradually stolen by time.
Retirement's clock ticked louder with each passing week.
He'd assumed that dream, the European dream had evaporated along with Gelsenkirchen's echoes, never to return.
Until—
Julien's arrival.
Rothen opened his eyes, focusing on the young captain sitting calmly among his celebrating teammates.
Serene. Controlled. Smiling but restrained.
Rothen saw none of the arrogance that typically accompanied eighteen-year-old stardom. None of the rage that tabloids loved to report.
Just the steady presence of a leader.
Did prison really transform him? Help him find clarity?
This eighteen-year-old kid had arrived like lightning splitting storm clouds, tearing through the gray twilight of Rothen's fading career.
From their first encounter, Rothen had recognized something in Julien's eyes.
Fire.
Not just ambition. Not mere confidence.
Hunger.
Pure, primal hunger for victory.
That fire had ignited the entire squad, set this stadium ablaze, and somehow rekindled embers in Rothen's chest that he'd assumed had long gone cold.
Watching Julien dismantle defenses week after week, watching him bend impossible situations to his will through sheer force of ability and determination, Rothen felt something he hadn't experienced in years.
The shiver of possibility.
That ancient, primal craving for glory was violently reawakened.
The impulse became overwhelming.
He couldn't hold it back anymore.
Rothen stood abruptly, crossing the dressing room with purpose.
Julien looked up with slight curiosity in his expression. Other players noticed Rothen's movement, and conversations started trailing off.
Rothen returned their gazes with a small smile, then sat beside Julien. De Bruyne shifted over to make room.
"Listening to you lot talk about the Europa League final, about winning it all... got my rusted bones burning again, damn it."
Smiles spread across faces, but Rothen's expression remained dead serious.
He drew a deep breath, his eyes were blazing with intensity, as if staring through the dressing room walls toward something distant and sacred.
"Nearly ten years ago—nine, actually—2004. I stood where you're standing now. Full of hunger for a trophy. But when I actually stepped onto that final pitch in Gelsenkirchen, when I got within one step of that goddamn European trophy..."
He shook his head, with voice dropping to something rawer.
"Nine years. I convinced myself I'd finish my career carrying that regret. Before coming to Bastia, I hadn't played a competitive match in over a year. Everyone from agents, friends, to my family—they all said the same thing: 'Jérôme, it's time. You can retire with your head high.'"
"But I didn't. I couldn't. And I didn't know why I was holding on."
His voice strengthened.
"Now I know."
Rothen turned to face Julien directly, his hand was landing heavily on the young captain's shoulder, eyes were boring into his.
"Take me to the Netherlands."
"Let this old bastard fight one more time."
"Let me... let me stand on a European final pitch again. For me. For Deschamps. For every broken heart from 2004. Even if it's 'just' the Europa League."
"This is my last chance. The tank's almost empty. But my blood's still hot."
"Captain."
That single word—Captain—was dropped like a stone into still water.
The entire dressing room fell silent.
Every eye turned toward the aging warrior and the teenage leader.
Rothen's eyes glistened, but his spine remained straight like a rusted sword awaiting one final unsheathing, ready to be pointed toward unfinished glory by someone worthy.
The young Bastia players had only ever known Rothen as the cheerful veteran, the jokester who kept spirits high and tension low.
They'd rarely seen him like this—stripped bare, and deadly serious.
Even Hadzibegic fell silent, recognizing the gravity of the moment.
Bastia needed revenge on Dutch soil for past failure.
Rothen needed redemption before his career ended.
Hadzibegic's gaze shifted to Julien.
He understood the reality: for Julien, this Europa League trophy might merely be a starting point. Whether they won or lost, it wouldn't deeply alter his trajectory.
But for Bastia—this was their final shot at revenge.
For Rothen—this was his last chance at the dream that had eluded him.
The thought echoing through every Bastia supporter's mind remained unspoken but unanimously understood:
Having Julien feels like a beautiful dream.
When he transfers away, that's when we'll wake up.
________________________________________________________
Check out my patreon where you can read more chapters:
patreon.com/LorianFiction
Thanks for your support!