On the other side of the building, Klopp sat with a broad grin, welcoming every question with open arms. He was delighted with his team's performance. He had seen something in this squad that he loved: a relentless will.
Henderson, in particular, caught his attention. Klopp wouldn't have said Henderson was among the most talented players in the squad. But he was absolutely among the most tenacious. And that was exactly the kind of player Klopp adored.
The match had ended, but Anfield and the city it sat inside were far from quiet.
The rain had not stopped, yet it had long since become merely the backdrop to Liverpool's joy.
Outside the stadium, supporters lingered. The streets that ordinarily emptied quickly after the final whistle held a river of red shirts moving without urgency.
The giant screen in the city center square still drew dense crowds around it, showing the highlights on repeat, each goal producing a smaller version of the original reaction.
At the Boot Room pub, old George had turned off the television but made no move to clear out the fans still lost in celebration.
On the riverside path, a young couple shared a single red umbrella and walked side by side through the rain. They hadn't managed to get tickets for the match, had watched the broadcast from outside the ground on a screen that pixelated in the wet and since neither had a car, they were simply walking home together in the downpour, the long way, taking their time. Their small dog trotted at their feet with a tiny Liverpool crest hanging from its collar.
"Look," the girl said, pointing at the water. The rain fell on the river's surface in overlapping rings, hundreds of them spreading and intersecting and dissolving, and in the distance the stadium's lights shimmered in the reflection beneath the grey sky. "Even the river is celebrating with us."
The boy tightened his hand around hers.
"When we get married," he said quietly, as though completing a thought he had been working on for a while, "let's have a football-themed wedding at Anfield. By then, I'm sure Klopp will have brought us a title. And Julien will be a world-class star."
The girl laughed and nodded, rainwater was tracing lines down her face, her eyes were full of something bright and unguarded.
In a hospital room across the city, an elderly fan named Thomas lay in his bed with the match replay running on the television by his headboard. He had no intention of changing the channel.
A nurse brought him a cup of warm water and smiled at the screen. "Mr. Shelby—Liverpool gave you a big one today."
Thomas smiled back weakly. His gaunt hand moved to the red scarf on the bedside table, the one he had carried to Anfield in his younger years, the fibers of it were soft from decades of handling. He gripped it lightly.
"When I'm better," he said, "I'm going to go and see them in person. Cheer them on myself."
The nurse nodded, quietly, and stepped out of the room.
The pale glow of the television fell across the old man's face, the highlights were still running, the goals were playing again, Julien's shot and Suárez's heel and Sturridge's header were cycling through on repeat in the small room, five goals on a wet Saturday, the beginning of something or the continuation of something that had been waiting a long time to continue.
Thomas watched, and his expression was deeply, completely contented.
Outside the players' tunnel, a small group of young fans still stood in the rain, clutching player shirts, shivering in the cold. They had been there for an hour. They were not going anywhere.
When Julien and his teammates finally emerged toward the team bus, the children surged forward, calling out names with the complete force of young lungs.
Julien leaned his head out of the bus window and waved and then, without particular thought, took one of his signed shirts from his bag and tossed it out toward a little boy in the crowd.
The boy caught it. He held it for one second, looking at it. Then jumped — once, twice, three times with the tears and the rain indistinguishable on his face.
He shouted at the retreating bus with everything in his chest: "Julien! Thank you! We'll always support you! Always!"
The bus moved away slowly through the wet streets, its red tail lights were glowing in the rain, growing brighter as the darkness thickened around them, the color of the scarves and the shirts and the flags and the light from the ground were reflected in the puddles on the road.
Like the footballing faith of this city. Something that never goes out.
The rain softened gradually over the city, but Liverpool remained submerged in the warmth of its victory.
Red flags stirred in the wet streets, not quite dry yet, moving in the wind off the Mersey. Echoes of celebration drifted beneath the grey sky and in every lit window there was, perhaps, a small story of its own.
As for Liverpool's players, once the match concluded and the dressing room had been given its time to settle, many were heading straight to join their national teams.
The international break had arrived, and a new round of duty called.
Of course, the nations represented by Liverpool's players had, for the most part, already qualified for their respective competitions.
These international windows were preparation, tactical rehearsal, squad cohesion, the long road toward the World Cup in Brazil the next summer. They were not without value. But they took players away from clubs at precisely the moment when week-to-week continuity mattered most, and there was nothing to be done about it.
Back at Melwood, Klopp gathered the squad one last time before dispersal. He wore his usual easy grin, but his words carried genuine warmth and care.
"Today's result is the reward for all of our hard work," he told them. "You showed exactly the kind of football we want to play, the press, the movement, the way you trusted each other's runs. This victory belongs to every single one of you. And it's sent an entire city into celebration. I am so proud of you." He let that sit for a moment.
A brief round of applause rose and fell.
Then his tone shifted, becoming quietly serious.
"Many of you are leaving to represent your countries. That is your honor, and Liverpool's pride, genuinely, I mean that. But I want to ask a few things of you while you're away. Rest, when you can. Protect yourselves. Don't get injured doing something unnecessary.
I know that when you pull on your national shirt, you'll want to give everything and you should, that's right, that's what representing your country demands. But nothing in football matters more than your health, and Liverpool needs you back fit and ready. Our schedule from here is demanding, and every one of you is irreplaceable to what we are building."
He finished with a smile full of expectation. "Enjoy your time with your national teams. Learn from it. Recharge. And when you come back, we move forward together. Toward what we're building here."
The applause that followed was loud and heartfelt.
Captain Steven Gerrard rose to his feet and added simply: "Remember what the manager said. Look after yourselves. We'll see each other in the national teams and we'll see each other back here at Liverpool."
One by one, national team players embraced their club teammates and said their goodbyes.
Julien took advantage of the early finish and caught a flight to Paris that same evening as it was a rare gift of time with his family.
On the plane, he invited Kanté to come and visit at his home. Kanté also wanted to go home though, and didn't have free time just yet, perhaps after the national team camp, he said.
Julien understood. Kanté's situation was complicated in ways that went beyond football. Julien had already done a great deal for him, pulling him away from the Vulture agent who had been exploiting him but Kanté still carried the financial weight of supporting many people's livelihoods around him. There was only so much Julien could do about that.
The plane touched down in Paris.
When Julien rolled his suitcase through the front door of the family apartment, the warmth of the living room wrapped around him instantly.
His mother, Isabelle Marine De Rocca, was the first to reach him, throwing her arms around him, her clothes carrying the sweet scent of crêpes fresh from the pan. "My darling, you're finally home!"
Pierre stood a step back with a restrained smile on his face, reaching out to clap Julien firmly on the back. "Well played—5–0. We watched the stream this afternoon. Clémence nearly brought the ceiling down with her screaming!"
Laughter erupted in the living room.
His older brother Arnaud pulled him toward the sofa with an arm around the shoulder. His younger brothers, Loup and Les, launched themselves at him like small cannonballs, one grabbing his arm, the other tugging at the hem of his shirt. "Brother! You were incredible! That thunderbolt of a shot was the coolest thing we've ever seen!"
His little sister Élodie sat on the sofa with her sketchbook open on her lap. A small figure in a red number 10 shirt looked back from the page. When she saw him come in, she scrambled up and held it out proudly. "Brother—I drew you!"
Julien crouched down and studied it with real attention, ruffling her hair affectionately. "This is wonderful. Your drawing is getting better and better, Élodie."
Isabelle arrived carrying a plate of freshly made crêpes and set them on the coffee table. "Try them—your favorite since you were small. I made them specially, knowing you were coming home."
Julien took one, and the soft, sweet taste hit him somewhere old and deep. He closed his eyes for a moment. "Still the best I've ever had, Mum."
Pierre sat back in his chair with his coffee. "Your national team schedule—it's all sorted? No need to rush off straight away?"
"I don't report to Clairefontaine until the day after tomorrow," Julien said. "We have one extra day together."
Arnaud slapped his thigh. "Perfect. Tomorrow, we play football. Let me feel what an actual Premier League player is made of."
Loup and Les immediately raised their hands. "We're playing too! We want to be on your team!"
Julien grinned and looked at his younger brothers. "Deal. I'll make sure we win."
The two of them cheered.
He asked Loup how things were going at the Paris youth academy. Loup shrugged, a touch of self-deprecating humor in his expression. "No chance of promotion anytime soon. I'm not like you, I can't just skip grades straight into the first team. Every time my teammates bring you up—eighteen years old, starting as a regular for Liverpool—they say there's no way we're actually brothers."
There was a burst of laughter.
His older sister Clémence arrived with a bowl of fruit and settled beside him on the sofa. She raised an eyebrow with a teasing smile. "Speaking of which, you're quite the celebrity now. My friend Pauline talks about you constantly."
Julien blinked. "Pauline?"
Clémence's smile widened. "A friend of mine. A massive fan of yours, apparently. She specifically asked me to get her a signed shirt." She paused dramatically. "I should mention—Pauline is very pretty. Incredible figure. Maybe I could introduce you two? She's only a year younger than you."
From across the room, Arnaud looked up. "Is that the model who's taller than me?"
Clémence laughed. "That's the one. She's 181 centimetres—who told you to be so short?"
Arnaud scratched the back of his head. "173 centimetres is not short…"
Julien answered Clémence's original question with tactful simplicity: "Of course—a signed shirt is no problem." For the straightforward wishes of people he loved, he almost never said no.
Whether Clémence had something more in mind, Julien wasn't entirely sure but she opened her phone and showed him a photo anyway, watching his face for a reaction.
She nudged his elbow. "Well? Pauline—she's beautiful, isn't she? What do you think?"
Julien had a reasonable idea of what his sister was nudging him toward. He scratched the back of his head and replied with cheerful vagueness, "She's very pretty."
It was Élodie who rescued him from the moment, tugging at his sleeve. "Brother—I want a signed shirt too. For my best friend Lily. She likes you as well."
Julien pinched his little sister's cheek gently. "Of course. I'll get one ready for you—and we'll put Élodie's name on it, too. How does that sound?"
Élodie bounced on her heels. "Yes! Thank you, brother! Come on—I have another drawing to show you!"
Julien followed her away gratefully.
Clémence shot her little sister a look that went entirely unnoticed.
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