The players arrived one by one still carrying the faint shadow of the previous night's celebrations on their faces.
They greeted each other with relaxed happy smiles.
A little banter. A little laughter and—
After a short time, Klopp strode onto the training pitch in his red training kit, still wearing that familiar grin. He swept his gaze across the group and said, "Boys, looks like last night's celebrations went pretty well, yeah?"
He let his eyes linger a moment longer, then added with a smile, "Some of you still look like you haven't woken up from the revelry yet. What's the matter—didn't sleep well? Still savouring the moment you lifted that trophy, still feeling your teammates' arms around you, still hearing all that cheering?"
A wave of laughter swept through the training ground.
The players started ribbing each other immediately.
"Jürgen, you were more hysterical than any of us—you wouldn't let go of the trophy all night!"
Sterling hollered it first, and the whole group burst out laughing.
The mood was light and loose.
After a few more jokes, Klopp let the smile fade and turned serious. "Alright, lads—that's enough."
He paused, then spoke slowly, each word landing with weight: "We've finished an old project. We won the League Cup. You've felt that joy, you've earned that glory—and now it belongs to the past."
"The reason I've only given you half a day off isn't because I'm heartless. It's because we have more important things ahead of us. Bigger targets to chase."
Klopp's voice took on a sharper edge. "Now put the celebrations away. Our eyes need to be further down the road—the FA Cup, and most importantly, the Premier League title."
The moment those words left his mouth, everything shifted in the players' eyes.
Especially in Gerrard's.
For a man who had given everything to Liverpool whose entire career was woven into the red of Anfield, the hunger for a Premier League title ran deeper than words could say.
Liverpool, one of England's great traditional clubs, had never once lifted the Premier League trophy since the competition began. The pain of that absence had become almost mythological.
Gerrard narrowed his eyes. A fire raged inside him.
He knew it. This season in these final years before he hung up his boots, this was Liverpool's best chance. Perhaps their only chance.
They had led the table from the front all season, brushing aside Arsenal, Manchester City, every challenger that came their way.
The title was within reach. One step. Maybe less.
That longing had been carved into the heart of every person at this club.
Klopp didn't linger. He waved them forward. "Right. Get your gear sorted. Let's go. We start again—now."
"Yes!"
The players answered as one.
Time moved quickly.
The next Premier League fixture was already upon them.
From the League Cup triumph to the journey out to an away ground, Liverpool had barely two days to recover. The schedule offered no mercy, no room to breathe.
March 5th.
Liverpool away at Southampton.
Klopp had made his rotations which were necessary, calculated, and made possible only because this Liverpool squad had the depth to absorb them.
At the pre-match press conference, he addressed the situation without deflection:
"Two days' rest—that's a challenge for everyone involved. The players gave absolutely everything in the League Cup Final. Their bodies and their minds are running on fumes. Rotation isn't a choice, it's a necessity. I need to protect the key players, but I also trust, completely trust that the players coming in are ready to carry this."
Match day. St. Mary's Stadium was packed to the rafters.
Liverpool's front line featured Sturridge, Coutinho, and Sterling not the full first team, but a rotation unit with more than enough firepower to hurt anyone.
Southampton, meanwhile, were suffering. The fairy-tale early-season run had curdled into a miserable stretch of injuries. Their pre-match injury list ran several names deep, key defenders absent, the back line threadbare.
Pochettino, facing the camera before kick-off, didn't try to hide it: "Injuries are our biggest problem right now. We'll give everything we have but facing Liverpool in this form, I won't pretend our situation isn't very difficult."
The match unfolded exactly as Klopp had hoped.
Liverpool's rotated lineup found its rhythm early, the adjustments were causing no visible disruption. The front three moved with an almost instinctive understanding, they were sharp, fluid, and relentless in their pressing of Southampton's defensive line.
Southampton held on for a while. But they couldn't hold forever.
The injury toll began to tell. Gaps opened at the back. The attack found nothing going forward, leaving them to absorb wave after wave.
The breakthrough came in the 32nd minute.
Coutinho received the ball at the edge of the box, used his dribbling to slice through Southampton's shape. The centre-back was drawn out to cover and that was the opening. Sturridge read it instantly, making his run in behind. Coutinho didn't hesitate, slipping a low pass through to feet.
Sturridge was one-on-one with the goalkeeper.
He finished calmly. 1–0.
Liverpool was ahead on the road.
The second half brought a Southampton push. Pochettino made his changes, trying to inject some life into the attack. It didn't change the story.
Liverpool remained in control, pressing, probing, refusing to give an inch.
Then, on the 68th minute, the game was settled.
Sterling used his pace to leave his marker behind, drove into the box, and cut it back across the face of goal. Coutinho arrived right on cue and gave a simple, composed finish into an empty net.
2–0.
The final whistle confirmed it.
Two-nil. Liverpool win.
Even with a rotated squad, even with barely two days' rest, three pointswere secured completely.
Klopp was smiling in front of the cameras afterwards.
"I'm proud of these players. Two days after a cup final, they went out and performed at that level that tells you everything about who they are. The depth of this squad is what keeps us at the top of this league. This result is a reward for everyone's work. There are more games to come, and I want us to keep this going, keep pushing forward."
He paused, then added. "The most important thing right now is that no one gets hurt. I hope that every single one of them comes back from the international break healthy. Every one of them."
After the final whistle, Julien and Kanté did not travel back to Liverpool with the rest of the squad.
They spent one night in Southampton, then flew directly to Paris.
The March international window had arrived—warm-up fixtures ahead of the World Cup. For both men, that took precedence over everything else. The World Cup came once every four years. Representing your country was an honour unlike any other.
How many players spent their whole careers dreaming of just one chance to walk out in those colours?
Julien even found himself thinking, he remembered how, when France won in 2018, centre-back Umtiti had been willing to destroy his own career by playing through injury with pain-killing injections, just to be on that pitch. Just to be there.
That was what the World Cup meant. That was its pull.
Inside the cabin, Julien leaned against the window and watched the clouds drift by.
His mind was somewhere else.
When the plane touched down in Paris, the two of them walked out of the airport together, then took a car towards the Clairefontaine training base.
Along the way, the streets of Paris told their own story.
Julien's face appeared in graffiti across walls and alleyways, in the art painted by supporters, these were expressions of belief, of expectation. He watched them pass outside the window and felt a smile form.
The fans had done this. It was their support. Their hope.
He understood what it meant. The weight on his shoulders had only grown heavier but he had no fear of it. Only the desire to be worthy of it.
The afternoon sun lay warm and golden over the Clairefontaine training base.
The weather in France was incomparably better than England's relentless grey misery, something Julien had complained about more than once.
When he and Kanté arrived at the entrance, Deschamps was already there waiting, dressed in the navy blue of the national team training kit. Beside him stood several teammates who had reported early.
The moment Julien stepped out of the car—
A burst of cheering rose from the group. Faces lit up, all of them.
Deschamps crossed the distance quickly and pulled Julien into a fierce embrace. When he stepped back, his hands stayed on Julien's shoulders, and he turned to the others with a grin.
"Look who it is, everyone—our captain's home!"
"Julien!"
"Julien! It's been too long!"
"Congratulations, mate—you've barely been in England five minutes and you've already won a cup!"
The teammates crowded in with handshakes, embraces, congratulations offered with unmistakably genuine admiration. Their eyes said what their voices only partly expressed: they had watched from afar, they had seen what he was doing, and they believed in what was coming.
Julien laughed and answered each of them in turn. "Thank you. Thank you, all of you."
After the greetings subsided, most of the group drifted inside. Deschamps held Julien back, and the two of them stood together near the entrance side by side, speaking quietly.
Deschamps looked at him steadily. "Julien—you've been making waves in Liverpool. I'm not exaggerating when I say I see something about you almost every day, even here. Watching you play like that, watching you lead that team to a title, watching you take the Premier League by storm one game at a time—I'm genuinely proud of you."
He paused, then placed a hand on Julien's shoulder,
"The World Cup is getting close. I want you to bring everything you've found at Liverpool, that form, that confidence, that edge and bring it here. Carry it into this shirt.
And I'll tell you something else: if you maintain the level you're at right now, the Ballon d'Or is yours at the end of this year. I'm certain of it.
You need to understand, France hasn't produced a winner in a very long time. But you—you are the next one.
You are the hope of French football. You are the axis around which this World Cup campaign turns."
There was no hedge in Deschamps' voice. No admonition, no qualification—only certainty.
Julien met the old man's gaze and smiled with confidence.
"Didier," he said, "don't worry. I won't let you down. I won't let down the fans who believe in me. And I won't let myself down."
Deschamps studied him for a moment, then nodded slowly, with clear satisfaction.
Their conversation drifted naturally toward the World Cup itself.
Deschamps' expression grew more serious.
"Julien—I'm not worried about your form. You know that. But there's one thing I need you to hear, and to remember: protect yourself. There must be no injuries. We can't afford it now.
The World Cup is less than three months away. Every training session, every match between now and then—you have to be careful. You can't take any unnecessary risks.
You are the core of this team. You are the reason we believe we can win this thing. We cannot do it without you.
Don't let a single moment of carelessness cost you everything. Don't let an injury take the World Cup away from you."
Julien listened carefully. He nodded understanding the reason behind it.
He had seen it too many times. Players were in tears with dreams cut short by a moment of bad luck or bad judgment. The most famous example that came to mind: Marco Reus of Germany. A player of extraordinary talent and a tragic figure who seemed to carry the curse of the tournament.
Julien looked at Deschamps and said: "I know."
Deschamps let out a breath, the tension in his shoulders were easing slightly. He gave Julien one last firm pat. "Good lad. Now come on—let's get inside. The squad is mostly set, and I want us to use this window, and the May camp, to really build something together. Get the combinations sharp."
Julien nodded, and they walked in.
With the international window now underway, the French media pivoted away from club football and fixed their gaze on the national team with full intensity.
Clairefontaine became the centre of the French football world.
And at the centre of Clairefontaine, there was only one story: Julien De Rocca.
L'Équipe ran a full-page feature: "Julien: After Zidane, the Irreplaceable Soul of Les Bleus."
The piece left nothing unsaid:
"The call-up has come, the squad has assembled, and France has only one true focal point—Julien De Rocca.
This young man, not yet twenty, is no longer the promising talent who arrived on the scene with a flash of brilliance. He is the captain of the national team. The tactical heartbeat of the side. The spiritual anchor of the whole enterprise.
His role within this group echoes that of Zidane in his prime—both the axis around which the system moves, and the flag under which the team rallies. He carries the hope of French football on his back.
At Liverpool, he announced his arrival in the Premier League with a League Cup title. The Reds lead the table by a comfortable margin, one step away from the first top-flight championship in the club's Premier League era and Julien is the beating heart of it all.
Back at Clairefontaine, nothing changes. He is still the indispensable one.
Through the Euros, through the World Cup qualifiers, he has never stopped performing at the highest level, rescuing France when it mattered most, driving the team forward when others faltered. The captain's armband on his arm is not a reward. It is a responsibility. And he has never shied away from it.
Deschamps has made it clear: the tactical identity of this France team will be built around Julien.
As it was with Zizou, so it is now with Julien replicating the legend, and perhaps even surpassing it…"
________________________________________________________
Check out my patreon where you can read more chapters:
patreon.com/LorianFiction
Thanks for your support!