Klopp and Pellegrini had both made their way to the touchline amid the brawl.
Klopp waved his arms signalling his players to stay calm and keep their heads—as for provoking the opposition, he said nothing.
Pellegrini wore a grave expression, roaring non-stop at his players on the pitch, urging them to keep their composure and not let the taunting get inside their heads.
The stands had long since erupted.
A surge of noise thundered through Wembley Stadium.
Liverpool fans roared condemning Nasri's reckless challenge in one breath, mocking Manchester City's players for being sore losers in the next.
City fans fired straight back, hurling insults at Liverpool for "diving" and "dirty tricks."
The two sets of supporters tore into each other.
And yet, on the pitch, the confrontation slowly ebbed.
Robertson pulled himself slowly off the turf, brushing down his dishevelled hair.
As Julien walked away, he gave him a pat and said, almost in passing, "Good work. Keep tight on him."
He meant Nasri, of course.
Robertson gave a nod.
Across the pitch, Nasri was still glaring blades at Julien, though the fire in his eyes had dimmed somewhat, he still had his head, and he knew that if City were to win, he couldn't afford to lose it in moments like this.
Tweet!
Atkinson blew his whistle and restarted the match.
But the aftershocks of the confrontation had not faded.
Both sides played with an edge now, their challenges turned heavier, their elbows came a little wider. The air on the pitch was filled with tension, and from the Wembley terraces, cheers and insults continued to weave together in a relentless noise.
More than a few neutral fans could only grin and say: "Now this is a final."
The match had been back underway for barely four minutes when Liverpool pounced on a fatal City error.
City had been in possession, with Yaya Touré holding the ball in midfield, looking to orchestrate another attack. But his pass carried a slight faint deviation. As he prepared to play the ball wide right to Nasri, he caught sight of Robertson hovering at Nasri's shoulder and hesitated, just for a fraction of a second.
That fraction was all Kanté needed.
He surged forward, pressing tight to Yaya Touré's back, and stabbed the ball away with his boot. In the same instant, he shouldered his way past Touré, sliding in front of him, cutting off any attempt at a counter-press.
He had the ball.
Without a moment's hesitation, Kanté played it forward in one touch to Gerrard, who had dropped short to receive.
The Liverpool captain had no need to settle it. The instant the pass arrived, he swung his right boot and launched a long ball with purpose, sending it soaring towards the front line.
The moment Kanté won possession; the entire Liverpool attack had already begun to move. This was what Klopp drilled into them every day on the training ground: the speed of transition. Get it down. Get it forward. Fast.
And now they were doing exactly that—from Kanté's interception to Gerrard's long ball, barely a handful of seconds had passed.
The ball traced a beautiful arc through the air, clearing City's midfield line and dropping towards Julien.
City's back four scrambled to recover, but Julien's pace was merciless.
He sprinted, shed Fernandinho who had given chase from behind and got to the ball first, cushioning it on his chest with a touch so smooth it barely broke his run.
He drove forward immediately.
Kompany rushed up to meet him, but Julien showed no trace of hesitation. He dropped a shoulder, shifted his weight, and glided past the City captain with a sharp change of direction. Give him space, and there was almost no one who could stop him.
He kept running, carrying the ball at pace directly towards City's penalty area.
Sagna, City's right-back, saw the danger and abandoned his position to cut inside in pursuit, trying to block Julien's path.
But Julien's acceleration was staggering.
He burst clear before Sagna could get across. In a flash, he was inside the City box.
The moment Julien entered the area; City's defensive shape fell apart.
Joe Hart rushed out to narrow the angle. Demichelis spun back to cover, pinching in to form a two-man press with his goalkeeper.
Every pair of eyes on the pitch converged on Julien.
Everyone expected him to shoot. His finishing ability had long since been established, there was no question about that.
But just as the world braced for a goal, just as Hart was setting himself to dive—
Julien did the last thing anyone expected.
He didn't shoot.
Instead, at full speed, still driving forward, he let the ball glide off the tip of his boot in a delicate, angled flick, it was a pass precise to the millimetre delivered to De Bruyne cutting in from the left.
De Bruyne was completely unmarked.
Every City defender had been drawn towards Julien. Not one of them had tracked De Bruyne's run.
Without any need to set himself, he lifted his right foot and struck the ball cleanly, sending it crashing towards the City goal with the full force of his follow-through.
Hart's expression changed in an instant. He threw himself to his right with everything he had.
He was a half-step too late.
Thwack!
The ball crashed into the net.
Goal
For a single freezing moment, Wembley fell silent.
Then—
In the red corner, where the Liverpool supporters sat, the silence detonated into thunder. A roar erupted and rolled across the entire stadium.
It sounded like the sea waves.
On the pitch, Liverpool players surged towards De Bruyne, mobbing the man who had put them ahead. Celebrations burst into life.
De Bruyne flung both arms above his head and screamed towards the Liverpool end, his face was wild with joy, every last bit of that pent-up elation poured out of him with the sound.
Julien was first to reach him, wrapping him in a bear hug from behind, hammering his chest with an open palm, roaring in his ear: "Brilliant, Kevin! That's it! That's the way!"
Gerrard and Kanté and the rest came streaming in. They knotted together, arms round each other, hammering one another's chests, their shouts and the crowd's roar were spiralling upward together over Wembley.
Julien shouted at his teammates: "Don't stop! Don't give them room to breathe!"
Every head nodded in response.
In sharp contrast to Liverpool's elation, City's players looked hollow.
Blue figures stood in place, faces were fallen.
Yaya Touré remained rooted to the spot, hands on hips, brow furrowed. The goal had started with him. If not for his error, Liverpool would never have had the chance to counter.
Not far away, Nasri was staring at Touré's back, jaw clenched, eyes dark with frustration and impatience.
He knew. That mistake had been avoidable. If Touré's pass had been a fraction more decisive, or his defensive positioning a shade tighter, Liverpool would have had nothing to work with.
But he didn't dare say it out loud. Partly out of team loyalty. Partly because he knew that blaming a teammate right now would only make things worse.
He swallowed it down.
David Silva came over and rested a hand gently on his shoulder silently asking him to stay calm.
Nasri shook it off with a flash of irritation.
He turned away like a closed door and said nothing more.
The rest of the City players stood apart from each other, no one was saying much, the silence between them was heavier than anything Wembley's noise could quite reach.
On the touchline, Klopp couldn't contain himself the moment the ball hit the net.
He leapt into the air, arms windmilling, screaming at the pitch with unrestrained delight. He pumped his fist towards the Liverpool fans, then spun and crushed his assistant in a embrace, the two of them were clinging together in the way that people do when something they've worked incredibly hard for suddenly becomes real.
But only for a moment. He gathered himself quickly, strode back to the edge of the technical area and roared at his players: "Hold it! Don't give them a second to breathe!"
From the day he had walked through Liverpool's door, he had told his players he wanted them to be terrible—to make every opponent feel a creeping dread just at the sight of them.
Right now, he was making good on that promise.
Across the way, Pellegrini had not moved from his seat. He stayed in the dugout throughout with eyes narrowed slightly.
His face gave little away, but the weight behind his eyes could not be hidden. He spoke quietly with his assistant beside him, and every now and then he would glance up at the pitch, silently working through how, and whether, this could still be turned around.
Liverpool's celebrations filled Wembley.
The red wave washed over everything.
High in the stands, Queen Elizabeth and President Hollande found themselves caught up in the atmosphere, trading remarks about the brilliant counter-attack they had just witnessed.
Both of their gazes had settled, without any prior agreement, on the figure of Julien moving about the pitch below.
The Queen's face carried a warm, wondering smile. She turned to Hollande and said: "That goal was quite extraordinary. Liverpool's counter-attacking speed was near-perfect—and that young man, Julien, really is quite remarkable."
Hollande smiled with obvious pride and gave a slow nod. "You're right. Julien has never been an ordinary young man. He has that quality of leaving an impression on everyone he plays in front of."
He paused, then continued: "I've said it to you before—for France, he is what Zidane once was. A standard-bearer for French football, and the current captain of our national team. In Ligue 1, he proved himself time and again. He led Bastia to a Europa League title. And now, coming to the Premier League, he has adapted without missing a step, carrying Liverpool forward—a player like this is destined to become a legend."
The Queen gave a calm nod. "He truly a rare football genius."
And a thought surfaced in her mind, as it had before: 'It would be great if he was English.'
With a player like that, perhaps England might finally end half a century without a World Cup.
On the pitch, play went on.
Commentator Martin Tyler, steadied after his own burst of excitement, continued:
"This goal doesn't just give Liverpool a one-goal lead. More importantly, it has shattered the tactical equilibrium that both sides had built. Before this, City had possession; Liverpool played a high press; both teams had moments without either able to break the deadlock.
Conceding like that will inevitably shift City's mentality and it will force Pellegrini to rethink his setup. From here on, the game will open up. It will be more intense. You can expect the transitions to accelerate, the attacking play on both sides to grow more decisive, and the atmosphere—already barely containable to grow sharper still…"
Martin Tyler was, as ever, right.
After a short time, Pellegrini rose from his seat and came to the touchline, making rapid adjustments, gesturing to his players to abandon their cautious, possession-based approach and push forward with greater urgency.
One goal down, with no road left to retreat. Only attack could give them a chance to level.
Liverpool held firm to Klopp's blueprint: maintaining the press, and leaning on rapid counter-attacks to expose City's back line again and again.
At 20th minute, Nasri received the ball from Yaya Touré and using his nimble footwork, slipped past Robertson along the left channel, worked forward at speed, and delivered a cross. The ball flew accurately into the centre of the box.
Agüero had read it, and darted in but couldn't shake Van Dijk, and the Dutchman was there first, heading it clear.
At 25th minute, Gerrard played a long ball from deep, connecting with Julien in the final third. Julien brought it down, spun, and drove past two City defenders in quick series, making directly for the box. Kompany tracked back urgently, positioning himself to block the shooting lane.
Julien didn't force it. He played it immediately to Sturridge, overlapping on the right.
Sturridge met the ball and struck it cleanly—Hart threw himself at it and pushed it away; Sterling followed up with a close-range attempt, but Kompany stretched to divert it behind for a corner.
Gerrard took it.
He curled it into the danger area. Van Dijk rose above Kompany, meeting the ball with his head, directing it towards goal but he caught it too thin. Hart came and gathered.
Julien watched Hart hold the ball and gave a faint shake of his head. It was close. Van Dijk's aerial work still had room to sharpen. For a man built like that, he was a natural header of the ball—there was more in him yet.
At 28th minute, City came again. Nasri picked up Agüero's lay-off on the left and let fly from distance.
The shot had real pace on it, aimed straight at goal.
Gerrard, tracking back, threw himself in front of it without a moment's thought, blocking with his body.
The loose ball fell to De Bruyne, who instantly found Julien.
Liverpool launched a counter. But City's recovery was quick, and when Julien played it through to Sturridge, Kompany slid in and broke it up.
At 31st minute, De Bruyne picked up the ball in midfield, scanned the pitch with that wide vision of his, and drove a precise through-ball splitting the defence and finding Sturridge, who shrugged off Sagna's challenge and burst clean through into the box.
One-on-one with Hart, who came rushing out to close him down, Sturridge placed his shot—
—and watched the ball roll narrowly wide of the post.
The Liverpool end let out a joint moan.
De Bruyne's pass had been perfect. Sturridge had gotten himself in behind. All that was needed was the finish.
And in those moments, a thought flickered through the minds of many in the stands: 'What if Suárez were out there?'
Suárez's eye for goal was something Liverpool fans believed in without reservation. It was why they hadn't wanted him to leave in the summer. His finishing, his instinct in front of goal, he was irreplaceable in Liverpool's attack.
Right on cue, the broadcast cut to a close-up of Suárez on the bench.
________________________________________________________
Check out my patreon where you can read more chapters:
patreon.com/LorianFiction
Thanks for your support!