The narrow alley settled into stillness after everyone's noisy departure.
Distant sounds riddled in from other streets: dogs barking somewhere, children's laughter from different blocks, a car engine starting and fading, television audio bleeding through thin walls.
Julien and Pauline stood there for several seconds, neither quite sure how to talk after the matchmaking attempt without making things awkward.
Then they started walking, side by side with no discussed destination, just moving forward through the streets wherever it led.
"I had no idea there were places like this so close to Paris," Pauline said, breaking the silence first. "I never knew. Even these small towns seem to have changed quite a bit."
Julien responded thoughtfully: "There are dozens of small towns in the ring around Paris. Hundreds maybe. Most Parisians never see them unless they have specific reason to visit.
And yeah, constant change happens. Buildings age, people move seeking opportunities, new families arrive with different backgrounds. Nothing remains frozen in time no matter how much we might want it to.
Actually, it's fine this way. Better to have people actively living here, maintaining properties, raising children, than letting everything slowly decay into abandonment and ruin."
Pauline nodded understanding, then shifted topics slightly "When you were young here, did you play football constantly with neighborhood kids all the time?"
Julien smiled at the memory, "Pretty much nonstop. There were no organized practices back then. Sometimes we'd play right here in alleys when we couldn't be bothered walking to the gravel pitch.
Drove adults absolutely insane—balls constantly banging against walls, occasionally hitting windows, getting kicked into private gardens. We'd have to nervously knock on doors asking for our ball back.
But mostly we made the effort to reach the gravel pitch because the open space there was bigger."
Their conversation came in fragments with mostly about the small changes in the town, scattered memories from childhood.
Julien was aware that Pauline's gaze kept finding him, and that whenever he noticed, she quietly looked away.
And Julien understood what it meant.
A girl doesn't agree to wander aimlessly through unfamiliar alleys with someone she considers merely friendly acquaintance.
The family made their way back to Paris.
On the drive home, Clémence glanced at Pauline beside her and said brightly, "Tomorrow night is Christmas Eve. Pauline, why don't you spend it with us? The more the merrier."
Pauline blinked, and her eyes drifted instinctively toward Julien before she drew them back.
She hesitated a moment, then gave a small nod. "I'd love that. Thank you."
The house had been dressed for the occasion—warm and full of light.
The sitting room Christmas tree glittered with colored bulbs and gifts. Flames danced in the fireplace, casting a golden glow over every face in the room.
Dinner was abundant.
The family gathered around the table, talking over one another, laughing, teasing. The ease of it gradually dissolved whatever stiffness Pauline had carried with her, and she settled into the warmth of the evening without quite noticing when it happened.
After dinner, Clémence shepherded the younger ones to the sitting room to open presents. Pierre settled into the armchair by the fire with his newspaper.
Julien rose and stepped out onto the balcony. After a moment's hesitation, Pauline followed.
The night air on the balcony carried a chill—gentle, not sharp.
The view showed residential Paris at night: dozens of apartment windows glowing warm yellow from interior lighting, strings of Christmas lights twinkling on balconies and in windows creating constellations of festive illumination, street lights creating orange halos in the crisp air.
Julien leaned against the railing, looking out, and said softly, "I'm busy most of the time. Most of my life is in England—training, matches, away games. Moments this still don't come around often."
Pauline stood beside him, hands resting on the cold railing, carefully absorbing his words and their implications.
She waited several seconds, ensuring he'd finished his thought completely, then said:
"I can come visit you."
Julien turned to look at her directly, genuinely surprised by the response.
'Oh. She's completely serious.'
In the dim light bleeding from the living room behind them, Pauline's face showed faint blush coloring her cheeks—partly from sharp cold, partly from emotional exposure of putting herself definitively out there.
Her eyes were clear and steady meeting his without wavering.
For a moment, neither of them moved.
Before Julien could react, Pauline tiptoed forward and lightly touched his lips.
Then immediately pulling back, face absolutely burning crimson red, courage completely exhausted, using every remaining ounce of nerve to turn and quickly walk back inside before her overwhelming mortification consumed her entirely.
Leaving Julien frozen on the balcony, alone with his racing thoughts.
His hand rose unconsciously to touch his lips, fingertips pressing gently where hers had been just moments before, still feeling lingering sensation of contact.
He stared at the balcony door where she'd disappeared then turned back toward the city view and smiled.
The Christmas lights twinkled in the distance like captured stars. Wind ruffled his hair. Faint Christmas music drifted from a nearby apartment, someone's private celebration.
After lunch, Julien departed for Manchester.
While the rest of the world unwrapped gifts and filled their glasses, he and his teammates had work to do.
An away fixture. Against Manchester City.
Manchester City had established themselves as England's second major financial powerhouse after Chelsea's initial revolution—the two clubs that had genuinely ushered in football's modern golden age of absurd financial excess, where transfer fees and wages escalated beyond anything previously imaginable.
Chelsea first, funded by Roman Abramovich's seemingly infinite Russian billions, transforming overnight from continuous duds to sequential champions.
Then City, backed by Abu Dhabi royal family's incomprehensible oil money, following identical blueprint: buy success through financial injection that made traditional clubs' resources look old.
And now Liverpool joining that elite financial tier, backed by Saudi Group's investment and new ownership money, finally spending at comparable levels to their richest rivals.
Three financial juggernauts. Plus, Arsenal somehow stubbornly hanging on despite relative poverty with Arsène Wenger as always working miracles with limited resources.
The Premier League table told the story:
Liverpool - 37 points Arsenal - 36 points Manchester City - 35 points Chelsea - 34 points
Just three points separating first from fourth. Any of them could realistically win the title. Any of them could collapse under pressure.
And this match—Liverpool at City carried absolutely massive importance for the entire season path.
Win, and Liverpool would be five points clear of City with crucial psychological advantage heading into the intense second half of the season.
Draw, and the gap remained manageable but Liverpool maintained Christmas leader status and momentum.
Lose, and suddenly City were just one point behind with belief and momentum, the title race would be completely blown open, Liverpool's period of dominance would be gone.
Christmas was over. The real work was just beginning.
...…..
Christmas Day in Manchester arrived wrapped in bitter cold and sporadic snowflakes that emerged from the gray sky like frozen ghosts, melting almost instantly on contact with the ground.
The hotel lobby, by contrast, radiated warmth and comfort.
Liverpool's players arrived in waves, the younger coming naturally toward each other, swapping stories about their Christmas holidays. Laughter echoed periodically through the lobby temporarily forgetting the pressure that would descend tomorrow.
Julien was among the last group to check in, his flight from Paris having landed barely an hour ago.
"Merry Christmas, Julien!" Steven spotted him first, calling out.
Julien nodded, managing a smile despite his jet lag: "Merry Christmas, Steven!"
Others joined the chorus of greetings, voices overlapping in welcome.
Gerrard returned to the cluster of players he'd been entertaining, picking up his previous thread: "—I'm telling you, my two youngest were up until midnight unwrapping presents! I thought they'd never sleep!"
Laughter rippled through the group, several players were nodding with recognition.
Today, notably, nobody discussed tomorrow's match. Despite its enormous importance—despite this being a potential six-pointer against direct title rivals, everyone maintained the unspoken agreement to simply enjoy Christmas.
Meanwhile, in the hotel's conference room, Klopp conducted the obligatory pre-match press conference, fielding questions about Manchester City.
"Manchester City are an exceptional team," he began, leaning forward with elbows on the table. "Manuel Pellegrini is a brilliant coach—someone I have enormous respect for.
Their attacking firepower speaks for itself. Fifty-one goals scored. Sergio Agüero's finishing, Samir Nasri's creativity—these are world-class players.
We and City are currently the Premier League's two highest-scoring sides. Sixty-five goals for us, fifty-one for them. Perhaps we have a slight advantage in attack, but their defense is considerably stronger than ours! We absolutely must be prepared for that reality.
We respect Manchester City deeply. But we don't fear them.
Pellegrini's tactics are distinctive and well-executed, but we have our own strengths. This match will be a difficult battle."
When the topic shifted to matters off the pitch, a reporter brought up Nasri's recent controversial interview, in which the French midfielder had claimed his exclusion and ban from the national team was part of a conspiracy.
Nasri had said: "This was a calculated move. Someone wanted me gone because without me, there'd be no place for them. Do I lack the ability to play for France? No. I believe anyone with eyes can see I was framed, that I deserve my position in the squad. But clearly, for various reasons that have nothing to do with football, I wasn't included. This situation—being banned from the national team—sent me into a deep depression for a long time. I doubted myself. Fortunately, the club continued to support me, and I managed to pull myself together."
The implication was crystal clear: Nasri was blaming Julien for his national team exile.
In France, most fans had responded to Nasri's comments with scathing mockery. They remembered what the national team looked like with Nasri in it—and what it looked like without him. The contrast was impossible to ignore.
Klopp's smile faded slightly as he addressed the question.
"I'm aware of Nasri's comments. I understand the speculation they've generated. I don't know the internal details of French football, nor would I presume to. But I believe any decision made by the French national team comes from the coaching staff and federation working together. Laurent Blanc made choices he believed were correct—choices aimed at making the team better.
And France is clearly better now, isn't it?"
He paused, letting that sink in.
"I think when Coach Blanc looks at the French team today—qualified for the World Cup, playing exciting football, united—he doesn't regret those decisions for a second."
Klopp then added, "Nasri is a talented player. Nobody denies that. But in football, core positions are never earned through complaining. They're earned through performances on the pitch, through tangible contributions to your team.
If he believes he deserves a place in the national team, then he should produce outstanding performances for Manchester City. He should prove his worth through actions, not words. Use your talent to make it impossible to ignore you—that's how you force selectors to reconsider."
A reporter interjected that Nasri was currently banned from representing France anyway.
Klopp shrugged, allowing himself a slight smirk: "Well, that's unfortunate."
The final question addressed Liverpool's status as Christmas champions and whether this might finally be the season Liverpool won their first Premier League title after decades of near-misses.
"It's far too early to discuss winning the title," Klopp said firmly. "But this match is critically important for us.
City and ourselves—we're both in the title conversation. This result will significantly impact the table's trajectory going forward. Our objective is simple: secure three points, extend our lead over the teams behind us.
We won't become complacent because we're Christmas champions. We also won't retreat because our opponent is strong.
Liverpool's team cohesion right now is exceptional. The players are in excellent form. Julien, Luis, Steven—everyone is contributing, everyone is committed.
This match, we'll implement our attacking philosophy without compromise. We'll win this game our way!
Tomorrow at the Etihad will be a great match. A statement match.
I believe in my players. I believe they'll deliver their best performance and bring victory to Liverpool's fans. Let's see what happens!"
When the press conference concluded, Klopp's eyes burned with confidence and combative energy.
That was simply the kind of manager he was.
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