For the Bastia fans, Hadzibegic's words were as good as laying his cards on the table: in the season's final stretch, the club would mount an all-out assault on the double.
Yes—the double.
After their historic Ligue 2 double last season, this year they were gunning for the Ligue 1 and Europa League titles. The vision set their blood racing.
On the night of the Basel match, all of Bastia plunged into its now-traditional marathon celebration. Supporters drank deep into the small hours, energetically debating potential semifinal opponents.
Back in his dorm room, Julien opened his phone and scrolled through the other Europa League results.
The quarterfinals had four matches played simultaneously.
All were decided.
Bastia 4-1 Basel
Fenerbahçe 2-0 Lazio
Chelsea 3-1 Rubin Kazan
Benfica 3-1 Newcastle United
The margins were quite decisive with two goals or more across the board. Most pundits agreed that tonight's victors would advance to the semifinals.
Among the potential opponents, Julien's attention fixed on one team in particular: Benítez's Chelsea. That was the real threat.
He found himself already strategizing—if Bastia drew the Blues, how would they approach it? What tactical setup could nullify their firepower?
That evening at Stamford Bridge, Chelsea had deployed their strongest XI against Rubin Kazan. There was no denying it—securing a top-four finish and Champions League qualification remained the club's primary objective.
Yet for interim manager Rafa Benítez, winning a European trophy during his tenure held a deeper, more personal significance. Even if it was "only" the Europa League.
And tonight, Fernando Torres—the man the club had openly put on the market had taken a significant step toward making that dream a reality.
The Spanish striker registered six shots, accounting for nearly a third of Chelsea's nineteen attempts, and bagged a brace that effectively killed the tie.
Post-match, Benítez heaped praise on his tormented forward: "This performance will do wonders for his confidence, but his efficiency was equally impressive tonight. I'm genuinely pleased for him. He works incredibly hard in training every single day, so goals were always just a matter of time. He scored two today—let's hope for the same in the second leg."
Torres's previous Chelsea goal had come three weeks earlier against Steaua București. His 71st-minute strike had proven to be the decisive goal across both legs. Two minutes later, defender Lucian Zucarelli's studs caught him in the face, leaving him bloodied.
Since then, Torres had worn a custom-fitted protective mask for every appearance.
Already lean and sharp-featured, with his newly cropped hair and the stark black mask, Torres looked increasingly like an Austrian figure. Some said he looked like Zorro.
Interestingly, it was only after donning the mask that Torres finally rediscovered his scoring touch.
England legend Gary Lineker joked on Twitter: "Outstanding night for Torres. I suspect that mask is becoming a permanent fixture."
In reality, Torres had struggled throughout early 2013. Over the previous three months, he'd maintained a meager "efficiency" of one goal per month—a disapproving statistic for a striker of his history.
Rumors of Chelsea discarding him had resurfaced with new life. The media cycled through various scenarios: Torres returning to Atlético Madrid as part of a cash-plus-player deal for Radamel Falcao; Torres rejoining Liverpool for £15 million in the summer transfer window.
Whatever the future held, one thing was undeniable: the £50 million price tag from two years ago had become an albatross around his neck.
Julien, for his part, wasn't particularly concerned about Torres's eventual destination. He knew how the Spaniard's Chelsea career would play out—mediocrity punctuated by moments of almost comedic misfortune.
That GIF that would circulate endlessly among football fans—the sublime skill, the empty net, the inexplicable miss said it all.
Stylish. Ineffective.
While Julien tracked rival teams, the football world was buzzing about Bastia's demolition of Basel.
"Bastia have proven they're no fluke—they're the real deal. De Rocca is absolutely a future Ballon d'Or caliber talent! De Bruyne, Kanté... this squad is overflowing with excellence."
"The 4-1 scoreline was brutal but fair. Bastia dominated Basel in every facet. De Rocca's performance was the defining factor."
"Is there even a second leg? Theoretically Basel need three unanswered goals. Against this Bastia defense? Against De Rocca in this form? Impossible."
"Hitzfeld needs to solve his defensive issues—specifically, how to contain De Rocca. But honestly, at his current level, even double-teaming him barely works. Basel's Europa League journey ends here."
As for Bastia's supporters? They were already drunk on champagne and dreams of silverware.
The next day, while Bastia's heroics continued circulating through French football circles, the players returned to the training ground.
In the weight room, Julien gritted his teeth through another set of barbell presses, pushing beyond his current strength threshold. His face was flushed crimson, and veins were projecting along his lean but increasingly well-defined arms.
Supervising nearby, fitness coach Fabruetto stood with arms crossed with a touch of mockery in his voice. "I think we can add another five kilos. Surely Bastia's legend can handle more than this?"
Julien racked the bar, breathing heavily, grinning through the fatigue. "Fabruetto, are you trying to get me to kick those plates like footballs?"
Fabruetto helped reset the weights, shrugging. "Wouldn't mind seeing you try."
Lukaku finished a set of deep squats and lumbered over, clapping Julien on the shoulder. "Yo! Julien! That free kick last night—did you knock Sommer's soul clean out of his body? I heard he woke up this morning still looking for the ball!"
He mimicked the goalkeeper's bewildered expression, drawing laughter throughout the gym.
Kevin De Bruyne stepped off his treadmill, still catching his breath as he joined in. "Romelu, your impression of Sommer is better than his actual save attempt!"
He turned to Julien with genuine admiration. "Seriously though, Julien, that strike was magnificent. The angle, the power—Basel's coaching staff probably spent all morning drilling set-piece defense."
Lukaku barked a laugh. "Won't matter. Julien's technique can't be coached."
Julien shot Lukaku a sly look. "They can't stop me, sure. But next time I line up a free kick, everyone better pray Romelu doesn't get in the way!"
All eyes turned to Lukaku. Then, the laughter intensified.
Everyone remembered—this was Julien teasing Lukaku about blocking Sadio Mané's shot the previous night. It had been a golden opportunity.
And it wasn't a only single incident. Lukaku had an unfortunate habit of occupying space in the box while doing absolutely nothing productive.
Lukaku's face reddened. "Hey! That was an accident! Mané's shot was straight at me! I just happened to be there—"
De Bruyne immediately pounced. "Right, you 'just happened' to be in the perfect tree-trunk position! Romelu, when we play at St. Jakob-Park, try to remember—you're supposed to score, not cosplay as a penalty-spot bollard! Otherwise, Sadio might challenge you to a one-on-one in training!"
Fabruetto observed the banter with folded arms, a slight smirk appearing across his face. "Alright, alright! Whether you're the 'Bollard King' or the 'Free Kick Maestro,' if you want to advance comfortably in Basel, you'll need to back it up with performance."
He pointed at Julien. "Julien, rest over? Next set. Let's reinforce that core strength. Basel will absolutely target you in the second leg."
Julien nodded in agreement. Business before pleasure. His attributes still needed work. "Understood. Let's go."
The others returned to their routines, though several cast glances toward Julien. They all recognized his remarkable focus during training—it was an almost obsessive intensity.
Which is why they genuinely believed Julien deserved everything he'd achieved at Bastia. Few could maintain his training routine, let alone match his natural gifts.
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