In the dressing room, Gerrard, Sturridge, and the rest of their teammates had gathered around.
They all felt the sting of Suárez's misfortune and understandably so. He was too important a scoring threat to simply do without.
"I so desperately want to be out there with you," Suárez said, turning to look at the men beside him. "This is the closest we've come to our first title all season. It's our first real shot at a trophy this big. I want to fight alongside you, to claw for that cup together, to celebrate with you and instead I have to watch from the sidelines…"
He stopped himself mid-sentence.
His throat bobbed as he swallowed. He couldn't hide the ache in him.
This season he had been on fire and perfectly in sync with his teammates. Liverpool's attacking dominance across the Premier League had his fingerprints all over it.
But now, watching his teammates throw everything into their cup final preparations while he stood on the outside looking in; that helplessness stung far worse than the injury itself.
Suárez had always been a man who hungered for victory. Even in training, he had to make sure his team came out on top.
Sturridge gave him a silent pat on the shoulder.
"Luis, don't torture yourself. This isn't your fault. Injuries are part of the game; they always have been. We all know how much you wanted to be out there with us. And we know how much you want this title." He paused. "Trust us. We'll carry your share of this. We'll go all out and we're bringing that cup home."
Gerrard nodded in agreement. "That's right. Rest up and heal. We've got the attack covered—Daniel, Julien, all of them are ready to carry the load. We'll hold our advantage. We won't let you down.
He paused and said smiling. "When you're back fit, there'll be more trophies to chase together."
Julien spoke up too, meeting Suárez's eyes. "Luis. Just sit by the pitch and watch us win."
Suárez blinked. His eyes had gone a little glassy. A small, grateful smile broke across his face, and he gave a slow nod.
"Alright. I believe in you, all of you. I'll be there on the sideline screaming my lungs out for you. Play well. Don't let the moment slip away." He paused. "I want this so badly to see this title born, to celebrate with you. A Liverpool victory. Our victory."
There was regret in him. There was frustration. But looking at these men around him, what he felt most was an ardent uncomplicated desire to stay at Liverpool. To be here for more moments like this, more title charges, more nights worth celebrating.
He hadn't made it to this final. But the next one? He'd be on that pitch.
Time moved quickly after that.
The League Cup Final was almost upon them.
This clash between Liverpool and Manchester City had set the whole of England blazing.
For days before the match, the streets and social media platforms buzzed with nothing else but previews, predictions, both clubs' preparation updates, goal declarations from players and managers.
The anticipation had built into a fever pitch.
After all, this was the first major silverware of the English football season up for grabs.
On match day itself, Liverpool supporters descended on London with hunger of this club that had waited long enough. Red scarves and replica shirts blazed through the city streets.
"This is Jurgen's first chance at a title and Julien's first major trophy. Even without Luis, we believe the Reds can do it!"
The confidence on Liverpool fans' faces was impossible to conceal. Some marched through the streets holding banners that read REDS WILL WIN, with voices rising in song, making the pilgrimage to Wembley to roar their team on.
Manchester City's supporters were no less determined like a tide of blue filling every corner of London.
The venue for the final was Wembley Stadium, the hallowed ground of English football, a place that had witnessed countless iconic confrontations across the decades.
Today, its gates opened once more to host the League Cup Final at its most spectacular.
In keeping with tradition, the Royal Family would be in attendance. Queen Elizabeth was set to arrive with members of the Royal Household which pushed the occasion's profile even higher.
An hour before kick-off, Wembley was already a storm of noise, the atmosphere was thick enough to feel physical.
From a distance, the stadium capable of holding a hundred thousand was filling fast in every permitted section, the Liverpool and City ends a vivid patchwork of red and blue.
As both squads began their warm-ups, the official match commentator's voice came active over the PA.
"Good evening, football fans everywhere, and welcome!
You're watching the League Cup Final live, and I'm Martin Tyler.
Here at Wembley, a hundred thousand voices are already at full volume and the night is only beginning.
In the lead-up to this match, the entire sporting press has been consumed by it. Coverage has been relentless with training ground bulletins, bold predictions, title promises from both camps. The drama was already written before a single ball was kicked.
Many of you will recall, of course, that Liverpool beat Manchester City at the Etihad earlier this season. That defeat has never been far from City's minds.
Their midfielder Nasri was blunt about it in his pre-match interview: 'Losing to Liverpool in the league was one of the biggest disappointments of our season. We're here for revenge; it's that plain and simple. We haven't forgotten what that defeat felt like and we have no intention of letting history repeat itself. Tonight, at Wembley, we will take it back. With a trophy.'
City's manager Pellegrini was equally upfront, and equally confident.
'I've read the glowing tributes to Liverpool,' he said. 'And I won't dispute them, they've been exceptional this season. Their attack, their squad depth, Klopp's work—it all merits recognition. But that doesn't mean we're afraid of them.
City are not a side that yields easily. Our defensive structure has been tested in big matches and held firm. Our attack has firepower. We've prepared meticulously for this tactically, in terms of squad fitness, in every detail. We're ready to beat them and lift this cup.'
Commentators and pundits have noted that while City trail Liverpool in the Premier League table, their quality over a single game is a different matter entirely. The Blue Moon, as they say, tends to shine brightest when the stakes are at their highest.
City will be formidable opponents. They come to Wembley chasing a double target—the cup and revenge.
Now, turning to Liverpool.
Pre-match media coverage of the Reds has been extensive with high praise on one side and concerns over Suárez's absence on the other.
As we've noted, tonight represents a first major trophy opportunity for both Jurgen Klopp and Julien De Rocca.
The broad consensus is that even without Suárez, Liverpool retain the tools to win this. The absence of European football has kept the squad fresher, and their depth is genuinely impressive…"
On the pitch, warm-ups were concluded. Both squads retreated to their dressing rooms for final preparations.
Inside the Liverpool dressing room, Klopp stood at the centre of the room and clapped his hands together sharply.
"I know you all felt Wembley when you were out there. The atmosphere. City's energy." His voice was charged. "But remember we haven't come here to make up the numbers. We've come here to win a championship.
One last time through the tactics. Lock onto City's three key threats. Not a single lapse in concentration."
He pulled the tactical board over and pointed to City's midfield, his finger landed on Yaya Touré's name.
"N'Golo, Steven you two are my double pivot. Your primary responsibility: neutralise Yaya Touré.
He's City's engine room. He can play, he can shoot, he can drive forward. You divide the job clearly between you.
N'Golo, you stick to him like a second skin. The moment he touches the ball, you press. Don't give him the chance to get past you, even if it means a foul. Stop his forward momentum at all costs.
Steven, cover behind him. The instant he slips N'Golo, you step in and cut the connection. Cut him off from the forwards, cut him off from the wide players. Their entire midfield runs through him. Shut him down, and we've already won half the battle."
Klopp turned to the wide positions, pointing to Nasri's slot, his gaze settled on Robertson.
"Andrew, stay calm. Back yourself. Your job tonight is to track Nasri's movement on the flank.
He'll cut inside constantly. Either to shoot himself or to thread it through to Agüero. Your rule: don't lunge. Position yourself across his cut-inside lane, force him to go wide. No shot. No cross. Don't give him a centimetre of space."
Robertson gave a nod.
Stay Calm, Klopp had said. But how could he be calm? He'd barely arrived at Liverpool and here he was, in a cup final starting eleven. When he'd first seen the team sheet, his heart had nearly given out on the spot.
Klopp, however, had no time for nerves right now.
"Virgil—your main focus is Agüero.
His movement in tight spaces, his finishing instinct's best in the league. You and Agger keep your distance from each other. Don't both commit at the same time. Leave no gaps between you.
Džeko's also starting alongside him, which means Agüero will have more freedom to roam. Keep your eyes on where he is at all times.
Agüero thrives on the run-in behind. Keep your defensive line coordinated, follow your goalkeeper's instructions, and even when he drops deep to collect, stay sharp, he can make that run into space in an instant."
Every player in the room was locked in listening.
On the attacking side, Klopp ran quickly through the plan. With Suárez out, Sturridge moved up to the central striker role. The shape would be more fluid and more adaptable.
Klopp had even outlined scenarios where Julien would push up into a centre-forward position when the moment called for it.
Finally, Klopp addressed the room one last time.
"I know this won't be easy. But this is the closest we've been to our first title all season. Tonight, I want this to be a celebration not a regret about what we didn't do.
Defend hard. Attack without hesitation.
Whatever happens out there, don't panic. We are one unit. We are Liverpool.
Fifty thousand fans are in this stadium screaming for us. The whole city is behind us tonight.
We take this match. We lift that League Cup.
Are you ready?!"
"YES!"
The dressing room erupted as one voice.
The players streamed out into the corridor. As they walked, Julien reached out and clapped Robertson on the shoulder.
"Don't think about it. Treat it like training. Stay on your side, keep your man in front of you, it's all basics. Leave everything else to us."
"Yeah." Robertson nodded hard. The tightness in his chest eased just slightly.
He knew what these players were capable of.
He knew that if he simply did his job on the left and kept Nasri contained, the rest would take care of itself. He didn't need to win the match on his own.
In the tunnel, Liverpool and Manchester City emerged side by side.
Eyes moved. No one showed a thing.
No one was ready to flinch. Not here. Not with a final on the line. Every look, every silence felt like a prelude and everyone in that tunnel knew it.
Julien moved through the middle of the pack, his gaze was drifting casually over the faces opposite him.
It found Nasri.
Their eyes met for a second. Nasri's burned in fury, in a humiliation that had been simmering for months and was finally near the surface.
Revenge.
That's what lived behind those eyes.
Julien's held nothing but a silent bored indifference.
As Julien passed him, his steps never breaking, his lips barely moved and in a voice just low enough for the two of them, he let the word fall like a stone:
"Loser."
One word. Barely inflected. Weightless.
And yet it landed like a blade through the chest.
No theatrics. No raised voice. Just that calm, dismissive contempt and then nothing. Not even a backwards glance.
That was the unbearable part. Not the insult but the ease of it. The way Julien didn't even bother to wait for a reaction, as if Nasri's response was too unimportant to stick around for.
Julien walked to the front of the Liverpool line and didn't look back.
Nasri's hands balled into fists at his sides.
He stared at Julien's back. The fire behind his eyes blazed up into something overwhelming. Every wound, every slight, every humiliation rushed back at once and detonated inside him.
On the national team, Julien had crushed him and kept him permanently in his shadow, until they'd finally banned Nasri and completely thrown him out.
At club level, his City had lost to Julien's Liverpool in the league this season.
And now, here, in the tunnel of the League Cup Final, the man had just walked past him and dropped loser on him like it was nothing.
'I have to win,' Nasri screamed inside himself. 'I frickin have to.'
He couldn't lose to him again. He couldn't live under that shadow for another second.
This final wasn't just about the cup. It wasn't just revenge for City's league defeat. It was about wiping away every last thing Julien had ever done to him and making him feel it.
He wasn't a loser. He would prove it. Anything Julien could do, he could do better.
In that moment, Nasri had become almost unhinged.
He wanted to beat Julien De Rocca more than he had ever wanted anything.
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