September 14th arrived, it was the day before the North West Derby.
At United's press conference, under bright lights, David Moyes maintained composure.
"Regarding Julien De Rocca, there's no point avoiding it, he's one of European football's brightest young talents."
Moyes' voice passed through the microphone as he observed the gathered journalists. "Over the past two seasons, from Ligue 2 to Ligue 1 to Europa League, every step has proven his talent isn't accidental.
"His wide dribbling rhythm, vision for the final pass, composure in key matches, these are elite-player qualities.
I've watched last season's Bastia footage. He finds gaps in packed defenses, can tear through lines individually. That type of player naturally creates problems for any opponent."
He paused, finger tapping the table. "But we've prepared specifically for him. Evra and Smalling will pay particular attention to his movements. Midfield will provide cover. De Rocca can't be completely restricted through individual marking; it requires team coordination to compress his space.
But I must say: respect doesn't mean fear. United's defense has experienced countless big occasions. We know how to handle such threats."
When asked about the North West Derby's significance, Moyes' tone showed the traditional weight: "For United and Liverpool, this match never represents merely three points.
Fans expect us to show Red Devils' fighting spirit, never-say-die mentality. De Rocca is Liverpool's key player, but United's strength lies in our collective. Everyone's desperate to prove themselves in this derby."
A reporter asked whether he'd considered Ferguson's assessment of Julien.
Moyes nodded slightly while maintaining his stance: "Sir Alex's eye is beyond question. De Rocca absolutely merits top-club pursuit.
But now I'm United's manager. My job is leading this team to defeat De Rocca's Liverpool. We won't ponder 'what if he'd joined United', we'll focus on 'how to limit him tomorrow.'"
Finally, his tone firmed with resolve: "Tomorrow at Anfield, our traveling supporters will still be there. We'll respond with defensive focus and attacking efficiency. De Rocca is excellent, but United has one objective: win this derby and take all three points forward."
On the other side, Brendan Rodgers appeared equally calm, showing none of the typical pre-battle tension.
"The North West Derby needs no extra motivation. This is a feast for the supporters, our stage to prove ourselves.
Without Luis, our attacking system requires adjustment, but Julien provided the answer with five goals in two matches. His pace, dribbling, final ball—he's become our front-line weapon.
We'll maximize Julien's wide threat. United losing Rooney significantly impacts them, but Van Persie remains a top-class finisher. Our center-backs must maintain concentration, can't give them counterattacking space.
Anfield's supporters will be our twelfth man. Tomorrow, we carry their expectations, play Liverpool football. This match isn't just about three points, it's continuing our momentum, showing fans this team's growth. We're ready. Now we just wait for kickoff."
September 15th arrived.
Not just Liverpool and Merseyside anticipated this day, the eyes of all English football fans focused on this corner of England.
Countless voices swirled in anticipation.
Until—
As evening's glow gold-plated Anfield's red brick exterior in warm gold, the surrounding streets had long been submerged in crimson.
Before the Shankly Gates, hundreds of Liverpool supporters held scarves printed with "YNWA," singing along with amplified speakers broadcasting You'll Never Walk Alone.
The song rode the evening breeze, carrying far enough that even the hot dog vendor on the corner swayed to the rhythm with his tongs.
Fans in red kits packed both sides of the road. Some wore Julien's number 10 over windbreakers, others held signs reading "Julien, Silence United." Some had painted Liverpool crests on their faces, making three-finger gestures at passing United supporters.
Several teenagers climbed barriers on the road, phones aimed toward the stadium entrance, occasionally turning to shout: "The bus is coming! It's almost here!"
Two streets from the ground, distant cheering grew louder.
Liverpool's team bus rolled slowly forward; red body inscribed with white lettering: "Liverpool Football Club." Player silhouettes decked the windows.
The moment the bus rounded the corner, roadside supporters exploded. Some chased the bus, some threw scarves toward windows, others held high up replica of captain's armbands and screamed: "Steven! Win it!"
The bus slowly crawled forward. Through windows, players were visible—Gerrard leaning against glass, waving out; Julien sitting further back, smiling as he flashed an "OK" gesture to fans.
Sunlight through windows bathed the players, intensifying the roar from outside.
Security jogged alongside the bus, separating pressing crowds.
"Julien!"
"You have to score!"
As the bus approached the players' entrance, singing at the Shankly Gates suddenly crescendoed. Hundreds of red scarves rose in the air simultaneously, like a surging crimson sea.
The instant the bus stopped and doors opened, Rodgers emerged first in a dark suit, nodding to fans.
Next came Gerrard, high-fiving front-row supporters, Julien following behind.
The moment Julien stepped from the bus, waves of "Julien! Julien!" washed over him. Smiling, he accepted a scarf from a supporter, draped it across his shoulders, and followed Gerrard toward the players' tunnel.
Distant pockets of United fans chanted sporadically, but were quickly drowned by Liverpool voices.
Nearby at the Boot Room pub, fans clinked glasses, every conversation circling "Can Julien break through Evra?" "How do we stop Van Persie's counters?" "How many can we win by today?"
George had heard fan debates for decades since opening this pub.
But this time felt different.
Julien was like sunlight piercing gray clouds, spilling across Liverpool soil, illuminating every supporter's heart.
George's lips curved slightly.
He turned toward the window.
Sunset gradually fell as Anfield's lights ignited one by one, illuminating the stadium like a crimson castle.
The cheers and songs surrounding that castle steadily pushed the North West Derby atmosphere toward its peak.
Such emotion intensified further when players emerged for warm-ups.
Each of Julien's touches drew waves of cheers from the crowd.
In this moment, Sky Sports broadcasting was well underway.
Martin Tyler spoke with escalating enthusiasm: "Listen to those cheers!
Just a warm-up touch, and Anfield responds like this, that's Julien De Rocca's standing with Liverpool supporters right now.
Eighteen years old, €80 million transfer fee—everyone questioned whether he was worth it. But with five goals in the Premier League's first two matches, 14 goals in seven World Cup qualifiers leading France to direct qualification, he's turned all doubt into applause.
Watch that touch—the ball's glued to his boot. Even in warm-ups, you see the genius."
Soon enough, as warm-ups concluded, both sets of players returned to dressing rooms for final preparations.
Liverpool's changing room lights glared extremely bright.
Rodgers stood centrally, finger lightly tapping the tactical board. "Three final points. First, Julien: Evra will mark you tightly. Use first-touch acceleration and direction changes. Henderson will cover behind you, don't worry about defense.
Second, Daniel: pin Ferdinand centrally, wait for Julien's crosses.
Third, remember Anfield's voice. They're our twelfth man."
He paused as his gaze swept every face. "This isn't an ordinary match, this is the North West Derby. Show them what you've brought to training. Win these three points."
Gerrard was first on his feet, lifting the captain's armband from his seat, slowly wrapping it around his left bicep. His voice was heavy: "Lads, we lost here last season. Today we reclaim it. Julien just arrived and we've already won twice together, now it's our turn to fight alongside him. Look at those fans outside. They've been waiting since afternoon just to see us win."
Teammates nodded in unison.
Gerrard raised his hand. Everyone instinctively gathered close, palms stacking together.
"LIVERPOOL!"
He roared the first call.
"LIVERPOOL!" Players responded in chorus, hands pressing firmly together. Julien's voice merged with theirs resolutely.
Finally, Gerrard declared, "Let's go. Show them who owns Anfield."
Julien followed Gerrard toward the players' tunnel. Passing the tactical board, he glanced back at those red-pen markings—next to Evra's name, Rodgers had written a small note: "rhythm variation."
His lips curved slightly as he quickened his pace to catch the group.
Outside the tunnel, fan roars were already audible, like tidal waves crashing closer, propelling them toward the pitch.
The air in the players' tunnel grew increasingly suffocating.
Through the gap at the tunnel's end, Anfield's floodlights leaked through, mixed with indistinct but overwhelming cheers.
Soon enough, following referee André Marriner's entry, Gerrard took the first stride out of the tunnel. Julien followed his teammates onto the field.
The instant they emerged, the entire stadium's roar slammed down on him.
Not sound, but actual vibration.
Julien even felt the turf trembling beneath his boots. Countless red scarves rose in the air above the stands like a roiling crimson ocean. Cheers wrapped in heat waves crashed against his face, nearly forcing his eyes shut.
"STEVEN! STEVEN!" Chants rose and fell. With every step Gerrard took, nearby fans screamed.
Julien's gaze swept the stands.
Supporters held a massive number 10 shirt. Front-row teenagers pressed faces against advertising boards were shouting toward him: "Julien! Beat their entire defense!"
"Julien, another hat-trick!"
"Julien, you're our hope!"
Others held signs in English and French: "From Ligue 2 to Anfield, You Are The Miracle"—the zeal was practically overflowing from every letter.
This passion, this intensity permeated the very air.
When Julien reached the touchline, he instinctively tapped his boot against it.
The moment his boot struck turf, Anfield's roar transformed into louder, denser than before, like thunder detonating beside his ears.
He instinctively paused, turning toward the stands, meeting a forest of waving arms. Someone shouted in French: "Julien, allez!"
The scenes before him summoned memories of that dream he'd had in prison—the dream where his shattered leg forced him to watch others play from behind chain-link fencing.
That hadn't really been a dream.
But regardless, here he stood now beneath Anfield's floodlights, surrounded by tens of thousands cheering his name.
Julien drew a deep breath, chest filling with grass scent and the aroma of passion hanging in the air.
He raised his hand toward the stands in acknowledgment. That simple gesture triggered another surge of cheers, some fans were pounding advertising boards in excitement.
As he walked toward his lined-up teammates, Patrice Evra moved through United's formation, glancing at him as he passed.
Evra's expression was very somber as he knew Julien's abilities too well.
Anfield's cheers continued rolling through the stands.
Players lined up along the center circle, handshakes carrying the derby's characteristic tension.
Meanwhile, near the dugouts, it was as though someone had pressed mute.
The two managers, Rodgers and Moyes stood several meters apart at the edge of their technical areas, expressions were grave in stark contrast to the surrounding frenzy.
Rodgers didn't pace as usual, merely slightly hunched forward, gaze locked on Liverpool's players, especially Julien.
Across from him, Moyes embodied another flavor of tense silence.
He unconsciously smoothed his hair; his suit jacket was lifting in the breeze though he paid it no mind. His gaze swept United's back line like a searchlight from Evra to Vidić to goalkeeper David de Gea.
With each player scrutinized, his lips pressed tighter.
Anfield's You'll Never Walk Alone still echoed, cheers capable of lifting the roof.
Yet within these two managers' worlds, seemingly only the match existed.
They stood at this crimson tide's edge, meeting the impending 90-minute battle with silent gravity.
Soon enough, pre-match ceremonies concluded.
Everyone took positions around the center circle, awaiting official kickoff.
Referee Marriner appeared somewhat nervous himself.
This match carried too much weight.
Too much attention!
In this moment, Martin Tyler's commentary came continuously: "Look at this small area around the center circle—right now it's the heart of the entire Premier League.
Marriner just adjusted his whistle again. Even a referee of his experience can't hide the nerves on an occasion like this.
No avoiding it—this match carries enormous weight, enough to influence both teams' entire seasons, enough that billions of eyes worldwide are fixed on Anfield's turf!
Now look at the key players on the pitch. Gerrard's captain's armband gleams under the lights. He understands better than anyone that Anfield needs victory to maintain attacking momentum.
Van Persie stands near the penalty arc, fingers unconsciously drumming his thigh. He's United's sharpest attacking weapon today.
And Julien De Rocca—this 18-year-old French prodigy, standing beside the center circle for his first North West Derby clash. There's no hesitation in his eyes. This match he'll face Evra's tight marking, the attention of United's entire defensive line.
Everyone's waiting for that whistle!
Marriner takes a deep breath, whistle to lips... it's about to sound!
This North West Derby that global fans have anticipated for two weeks, this clash concerning honor and season trajectory, is about to begin!
Will Liverpool use Julien's impact to tear through United's defense, or can Moyes' team secure victory away from home?
"Let's find out together—listen!"
The broadcast cut to a close-up of Marriner filling his lungs and blowing hard.
The whistle shrieked.
TWEET!!!
Martin Tyler's voice instantly soared with excitement:
"THE WHISTLE! THE MATCH IS UNDERWAY!!!"
________________________________________________________
Check out my patreon where you can read more chapters:
patreon.com/LorianFiction
Thanks for your support!