Even Suárez himself, watching the match unfold from the sidelines, couldn't hide the frustration appearing on his face.
He wanted nothing more than to be out there.
On the pitch, the battle between the two sides had settled into a grinding stalemate. City's counter-attacking momentum showed no sign of letting up, while Liverpool matched them blow for blow, biding their time and waiting to strike.
On the touchline, Klopp kept his eyes locked on the game.
His gaze swept back and forth across City's midfield and the arc at the top of their penalty area. A subtle crack in their defensive shape—he spotted it.
Klopp raised his right hand toward Julien, tapping his fingertips to his forehead before slashing down in a sharp, decisive gesture. The meaning was obvious: shoot from distance, exploit the space at the top of the box.
From the corner of his eye, Julien caught the signal and gave a small nod. He understood immediately.
This tactical adjustment was no impulsive decision on Klopp's part.
He could see it clearly: City, in their eagerness to press forward, had pushed their defensive line high and committed their midfielders to the attack, leaving the space at the top of the penalty area dangerously unguarded—there was no one assigned to cover it.
De Bruyne and Gerrard both possessed lethal long-range shots, but both were positioned too deep. Cutting into the arc from their starting positions would have been difficult. Julien, by contrast, drifted constantly between the forward and midfield lines, and was far better placed to shake his marker and arrive at the spot with time to shoot.
The logic was obvious. Klopp wanted Julien on the trigger.
The first opportunity came quickly.
At 38th minute, Liverpool dispossessed City in midfield. De Bruyne collected the ball, stretching City's defensive shape by drawing two of their midfielders into a press then clipped the ball sideways to Julien.
Julien received it without hesitation. With a quick drop of the shoulder and a sharp change of direction, he was free of Fernandinho and cutting smoothly into the space at the top of City's box.
Exactly as Klopp had read it: no City player was there to cover.
Julien drew back his right foot and fired.
The shot had too much on it. The ball ballooned over the angle, sailed over Hart's head, and disappeared into the stand behind the goal where City's fans were packed.
At the same time—
Boo!
A chorus of jeering erupted from the City end. Their fans booed him mercilessly, making their feelings known.
Most of the City players weren't bothered. A few shook their heads, assuming De Rocca had let the moment get to him, chasing a second goal and rushing his shot, nothing more.
Nobody gave the attempt a second thought.
Nobody, that is, except City manager Pellegrini.
His expression shifted subtly as flicker of unease appeared on his face.
As a coach, his instinct told him something was wrong.
De Rocca wasn't the type to lose his head.
Pellegrini's eyes focused on the spot where Julien had struck the shot, his brow furrowed. Then it came to him.
When Julien had shaken Fernandinho and stepped into that space, not a single City player had moved to close him down. That wasn't just bad luck, it was a fault in the defensive system.
He was on his feet at once, waving to get his players' attention, ready to shout the order to tighten up in that zone.
But before the words left his mouth, City were already attacking. His players had surged forward, launching a counter of their own.
The instruction died in his throat.
David Silva received quickly and played a direct ball over the top for Agüero. Agüero tried to spin away from Van Dijk, but Van Dijk was steady—reading his every movement, denying every inch of space.
Agüero had no choice but to lay it back to Nasri.
Nasri, impatient, didn't set himself. He tried to slip the ball into the box anyway but the pass was overhit.
Agger read it seamlessly and rose to nod the ball clear straight to Gerrard.
Gerrard played it first time out to Sterling on the right.
The moment Sterling received; he was off. His pace was startling.
Kolarov gave chase from City's left back position, but Sterling had already burned him, widening the gap with every step of the sprint.
City's entire back line was in ruins.
With everyone committed forward in the press, the defensive shape had collapsed. Nobody scrambled back in time. Sterling raced down the right flank unchallenged, bearing down on City's right channel.
Meanwhile, Sturridge was working relentlessly in the box—darting runs, pulling City's centre-backs this way and that, keeping Kompany and Demichelis pinned, drawing them toward him as they scrambled to cut off his runs.
Sterling reached the edge of the area. His eyes swept the pitch while he let his gaze linger on Sturridge—just long enough, just deliberately enough, to sell the pass. Kompany and Demichelis totally bought it and began accelerating toward Sturridge and opening up the channel through the middle.
Then, at the last instant, Sterling changed his mind.
He sent a gentle nudge with the right foot not to Sturridge but back across the grain, into the path of Julien, arriving in his trail.
Because Julien had tracked the entire move. He had been running on Sterling's shoulder the whole time.
And now, not a single City player stood between him and the goal.
Julien met the pass in full sprint with no touch to control it. He just hit it.
Thud.
The ball screamed toward the City goal—flat, fast, unerring, with a trajectory that bent just enough to be merciless.
Hart saw it and his face went pale. He hurled himself full-length in desperation but he was beaten for pace.
Swish!
The net shook. The ball buried itself in the corner.
Goal.
2–0.
Liverpool had scored again!
The silence inside Wembley was ripped apart in an instant. A tidal wave of red noise crashed across the stadium.
In the gantry, Martin Tyler roared into his microphone: "Magnificent! Julien! My God, what a finish! Pure power, savage angle—Hart didn't have a prayer!
Julien has scored an absolute thunderbolt to put Liverpool two up!
Sterling's dummy fooled everyone. Julien's timing was immaculate. Unmarked, in sprint with no hesitation, he dispatched it in the only way it deserved to be dispatched.
2–0! Liverpool lead by two goals. The League Cup trophy is within their grasp.
Julien is simply a force of nature in attack. Do not give him space. Do not give him any space!"
On the pitch, Julien turned away toward the stand with his arms flung wide.
The red sections of Wembley erupted while thousands of Liverpool supporters were heaving, leaping, howling his name. The noise built and built until the stands themselves seemed to tremble.
Bodies in red crashed together in embraces. Fists punched the air. Strangers embraced each other's shoulders. Arms shot up across the terraces, his name was ringing out over and over:
"Julien!"
"Julien!!"
On the pitch, his teammates were already swarming him.
Julien spun around after the goal with both arms thrusted toward the skies, screaming toward the fans with exhilaration.
Sterling reached him first, wrapping him in a bear hug from behind, hammering his back and roaring: "Julien! You absolute legend! What a strike—what a strike!"
Gerrard, De Bruyne, Sturridge—they all piled in around him creating a knot of red jerseys locked together in celebration.
And as Liverpool's euphoria swelled, the mood in the City end drained away.
The blue sections sagged. Faces fell. The furious jeering had vanished; in its place, only the hollow sound of despair. Someone beat their fist against the railing. Others simply lowered their heads.
Two goals down, in a cup final. The dream of revenge was fading with every second.
On the touchline, the moment the ball hit the net, Klopp's tension dissolved. He threw his arms wide, unleashed a great bark of laughter, and punched the air with both fists.
"Yes! Julien!! Perfect! That is exactly what I wanted!"
He was already pulling his assistant into a crushing embrace.
Beside him, Pellegrini's face had darkened like a storm front. The composure he'd maintained through the first half had crumbled; his jaw was tense and clenched as his expression turned ice-cold.
He stared out at his players, and the despair behind his eyes began to spread slowly like a stain.
He had seen the gap. But he hadn't been fast enough to close it.
And there was more than that.
Liverpool had simply been better today.
They covered more grounds. Their counter-attacks were sharper, and more clinical.
City had looked competitive and even aggressive but the truth was they had been on the back foot for most of the match. They created no genuine threat for Liverpool.
Miles away, at the Boot Room pub, the Liverpool fans who hadn't made it to Wembley sat jammed around every screen they could find.
When the ball hit the net, the pub detonated.
Cheers, shouts, the bright crack of pint glasses touching, scarves being swung, all of it was folding together into one long, unbroken roar.
A white-haired old fan raised his glass with a trembling hand and turned to the young lad beside him with shining eyes: "Beautiful! Beautiful! 2–0—we're nearly there, son! We're nearly there!"
All around him, glasses were lifted, arms were raised, and voices joined together: "Come on, Liverpool! Up the Reds! Julien, you beauty!"
As the celebrations died down and both teams of players returned to the centre circle, City still hadn't found their footing again.
The scoreline and Julien's goal sat like a splinter in every City player's chest.
Nasri glared after Julien's departing figure with knuckled fists and, grinded his teeth, the fury in his eyes was about to overflow.
He'd been simmering since before kick-off. They were two goals down now. And that strike kept replaying in his head, over and over, each loop accompanied by the sound of fifty thousand Liverpool fans going mad—drilling into him, making the minutes feel interminable.
He kicked at the turf beneath his feet. Grass and dirt scattered. He muttered some curse under his breath.
Bleep!!
Referee Atkinson's whistle cut through the noise. The play was set to restart.
City's players swallowed their anger and moved back into position, and stubbornly fixed eyes on their opponents. The decision had been made without anyone saying it aloud:
A cup final with two goals down. There was only one thing left to do.
"Go for it."
On the touchline, Pellegrini waved his arms furiously, roaring at his players to push forward—now there was no cost too great or no risk too large. He wanted a goal before half-time. He needed one. Even pulling one back would change the shape of the second half.
City relaunched their assault the moment the whistle blew.
They completely abandoned the patient passing game. Instead: long balls, diagonal switches, direct running at Liverpool's wide men—they began to try anything to bypass the press and get in behind.
But urgency had gelled into desperation.
Agüero never stopped moving in the box—hunting every cross, every flick-on. Van Dijk and Agger met him every time looking relentless and untroubled. His headers drifted wide. His lay-offs were snuffed out by them.
Nasri drove at Robertson and Piszczek again and again down the flanks, and became increasingly reckless, conceding fouls, hunting contact, trying to force a decision out of anything. Neither full-back gave him a yard.
Yaya Touré burst forward three, four times, swinging efforts from range. Gerrard and Kanté blocked what they couldn't smother. What got through missed the target by fractions.
Against City's storm, Liverpool were unflustered.
Klopp's system was built for exactly this. The high press. The endless running. The machine that only got faster.
Liverpool's players—Julien and Sterling in the front line, Gerrard and Kanté in the engine room with every defender holding their shape kept their intensity burning through every second. Chasing. Hounding. Winning the second ball.
They gave not a single second of breathing room for City.
The tempo was grinding them down.
City's passing that was usually so fluid grew scrambled and erratic. Balls were given away cheaply. First touches started failing. Players who were usually extremely composed their whole careers were now hurrying and stumbling under the press.
Their legs were beginning to lie to them.
Breathing grew harsher. Their Sprints and runs began shortening. Those routine recovery runs now arrived a half-second too late.
The surge they'd launched had peaked and Liverpool were now burying it.
On the touchline, Klopp watched it all unfold with satisfaction. He kept gesturing to his players to signal: Keep the tempo. Keep pressing. Wear them out.
"Run!" he shouted. "Just like that! Keep running—take them apart!"
His madman-pressing philosophy had been built for moments exactly like this.
Fitness was Liverpool's weapon.
Fitness would be City's undoing.
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