The counterattack struck like thunder on flat ground.
Instantly, every eye in the stadium locked onto Julien.
Moses scrambled to catch up, his legs pumping furiously. But as the gap between them narrowed—no, as he realized it wasn't narrowing fast enough, panic crept into his chest like ice water.
Meanwhile, Ramires converged from the opposite flank, looking to trap Julien in a pincer movement between himself and Moses.
But Ramires had badly miscalculated Julien's pace. By the time he arrived, a crucial gap still stretched between the two Chelsea defenders.
Julien knocked the ball forward into that space.
Then exploded.
He burst through the gap like a blade through silk. Ramires, operating purely on instinct now, reached out and grabbed a fistful of Julien's shirt as he flew past.
Julien felt the grip tighten, yanking him backward.
He drove his legs harder, fighting through the hold.
But despite his determination, his physical strength had limits. After two seconds of straining against the pull, his momentum bled away. Moses recovered position, sliding past him. Ramires continued his dark work—tugging, pulling, grabbing.
Thump!
Julien lashed a pass across the pitch, then crumpled to the ground as Ramires finally hauled him down completely. The Brazilian had intended just a quick tug and release, but found he didn't dare let go—once he committed, they both went down in a tangle of limbs.
But the ball was already gone.
ROAR!
Seeing Ramires flatten Julien, the home crowd erupted in fury, thousands of voices chanting in unison: "RED CARD! RED CARD!"
The referee already had his whistle between his lips, but his eyes tracked the ball—Lukaku was charging through the center, bringing it under control.
The whistle stayed silent. Instead, the referee thrust his arm forward, signaling advantage.
Julien didn't lie there nursing his wounds. He scrambled to his feet immediately—only to feel Ramires grab his ankle again, yanking him back down mid-rise.
Unable to keep his balance with his leg suddenly trapped, Julien toppled over a second time.
He actually laughed through his frustration.
South American players and their endless bag of tricks.
But he didn't take the bait. No reckless stamp, no retaliation. Just an "accidental" step on Ramires's hand as he pushed himself up.
The grass was soft. No real harm done.
But the studs were hard.
Very hard.
"AHHH!"
Ramires howled. The referee jogged past, having seen the entire sequence. He knew exactly what had happened—you don't reach this level without understanding every trick in the book.
Sometimes referees aren't as blind as fans think. When they make questionable calls, it's often because they're working to an agenda or personal preference. Professional referees recognize these games within the game.
But right now, he had more pressing concerns.
Because on the other side of the pitch, Lukaku was locked in combat with Ivanović.
The Belgian tried to use his strength and pace to simply bulldoze past the Serbian defender. But to his shock, Ivanović didn't budge—not even after sprinting the full length of the pitch to get back.
For a moment, Lukaku's brain stuttered, unable to process this unexpected resistance.
His decision-making could be slow when things didn't go according to script. Finding himself unable to shake Ivanović, he chopped the ball sideways, planted his foot hard, then unleashed an absolute rocket from twenty-five yards.
Lukaku swung his leg like a battering ram.
Aim? Secondary.
Power? Maximum.
Let fate decide!
As the shot flew, Ivanović instinctively turned his back and raised his leg to block, but Lukaku had gotten good elevation—the ball sailed over the defender's outstretched boot.
The ball screamed toward goal.
Čech produced a world-class save—launching himself through the air, he punched the ball away with his right fist!
Credit where it's due: Lukaku's speculative effort had been struck with venomous power. Čech could only deflect it, unable to control the rebound.
The ball ricocheted to the right side of the box.
Every Chelsea player's stomach dropped as they saw who was racing onto it.
Julien.
Čech saw him too. He scrambled to his feet for a second save, but Julien's movements were too quick, too fluid—
CRACK!
He attacked the loose ball at full sprint, not waiting for it to drop, not taking a touch. The ball came to him slightly behind his body, so he leaped, raised his left leg high, and cushioned it with his instep—redirecting it in one motion toward the far post.
Čech, still rising from his near-post save, had no chance of reaching the far corner in time.
Swish!
The sound of ball striking net rippled through the stadium like an electric current.
Goal.
BOOM!
Stade Armand Cesari exploded. One name thundered into the Corsican night sky—"JULIEN!"
After landing, Julien's face split into a brilliant grin. He wheeled away from goal and sprinted toward the touchline, arm raised high, then leaped onto the advertising boards in front of the home fans.
He spread his arms wide.
Embracing the roar of twenty thousand Bastia fans.
"JULIEN!"
"THE KING OF CESARI!"
The noise crashed over him in waves. Standing on that railing, Julien tilted his head back, gazing up at the crystal-blue evening sky. He could almost hear the Mediterranean surf pounding the shore just beyond the stadium.
Lukaku had clutched his head when Čech saved his shot, but the instant he saw Julien pounce, his arms shot up and he chased his teammate toward the stands.
"That was beautiful, Julien! Absolutely beautiful!"
Lukaku beamed up at Julien, utterly delighted. Facing his former club, he felt no sentimentality whatsoever.
Professional football demanded cold pragmatism. Everyone served their current employer.
That's why he'd absolutely leathered that shot. Shame about Čech being superhuman—if any ordinary keeper had been in goal, Lukaku would be the one celebrating.
De Bruyne, Rothen, and the others swarmed over, embracing Julien as he jumped down.
This goal sent their morale into the sky.
Two away goals in the bank. Now leading at home. All they had to do was hold on, and they were through to the final.
Meanwhile, the TF1 commentator could barely contain his excitement:
"GOAL! JULIEN! JULIEN!! Unbelievable—Bastia have taken the lead! This is a textbook counterattack, a perfect marriage of individual brilliance and team execution!
Watch this move unfold: Julien receives the ball in midfield and explodes into space. Moses and Ramires converge, resorting to outright fouls to stop him—but even as he loses balance, Julien finds Lukaku with a pinpoint pass!
Lukaku's shot is thunderous, forcing a world-class save from Čech!
But the truly deadly element is Julien's persistent running! Hauled down, he springs back up and charges into the box—and when Čech parries the shot, Julien has already appeared in the danger zone like a ghost!
For Bastia, this goal is the key to the final! They've rewritten the aggregate to 3-2 and hold two away goals! Chelsea now need two just to force extra time!
Stade Cesari has erupted! The Bastia dream has never felt so close! And for Chelsea, this is a crushing blow—their defense looks utterly leaky against Julien's pace and power!
Benítez's team now stands on the edge of the abyss! They must commit men forward, but that will only create more space for Julien to exploit!
It's a genuine crisis!
Julien De Rocca! Once again, he proves himself the undisputed king of this stadium! With this golden goal, he's seized Bastia's destiny in both hands!"
On the touchline, Hadzibegic leaped into the air, fists pumping, roaring with joy.
A few meters away, Benítez stood motionless, face carved from stone, eyes narrowed as he stared at the pitch.
"The score is now—" the stadium announcer's voice boomed.
Twenty thousand fans roared back: "ONE-NIL!"
"The goalscorer is—"
"JULIEN!!"
The noise reached a fever pitch.
In the stands, older supporters shouted themselves to hoarse while tears streamed down their old faces. None of them had truly believed they'd live to see Bastia compete for European glory.
Especially not three years ago, when relegation to the Championnat National had seemed like the death of everything they loved. They'd raged at the club, cursing the board for destroying their team.
But now, everything had returned—and then some.
In the executive box, Abdullah watched Julien's performance with unconcealed admiration.
He turned to Chataigner. "You have a world-class player there. Julien is extraordinary."
Chataigner, still buzzing from the goal, grinned. "Of course. Julien could be the foundation for any club—Bastia, or the French national team."
Abdullah gave him a thumbs up.
Inside, his mind was already racing through calculations. His instructions from above were clear: forget the club for now—secure Julien first.
Abdullah was just a mid-level operative for Yasir Al-Rumayyan's Public Investment Fund. His mission was straightforward: sign Julien. And if successful, extend an invitation for Julien and his family to visit Saudi Arabia, where they would receive world-class hospitality.
Before today, Abdullah had only watched Julien on video. Seeing him live was a revelation. The screen couldn't capture this—the raw explosiveness, the way he turned elite defenders into traffic cones.
Chelsea literally couldn't hold him.
On the pitch, as Bastia's celebrations wound down, the referee summoned Ramires over and gave a yellow card.
Retroactive punishment for the earlier foul. The whistle might have stayed silent for advantage, but the card was always coming.
Ramires shook his head bitterly. Nothing was going right today. De Rocca had absolutely destroyed him.
Tweet!
Play resumed.
Bastia's players didn't let the lead go to their heads. Everyone tracked back diligently—except Julien, who remained high up the pitch as an outlet. Around their own box, Bastia formed a dense defensive shell.
The tension was intense.
Above Stade Cesari, the atmosphere oscillated between suffocating pressure and explosive release.
Whenever Chelsea's attacking players—Hazard, Torres received the ball near the box and tried to turn, the crowd unleashed a deafening roar of warning and hostility.
"DON'T LET HIM TURN!"
"CLOSE HIM DOWN! NO SPACE!"
"WATCH HAZARD!"
Twenty thousand pairs of eyes tracked every pass, every movement. Hearts hammered with each Chelsea attack.
But when the visitors' forays broke down against massed ranks of Bastia blue—forced wide or resulting in hopeful long-range efforts, the crowd's mood flipped instantly from tense vigilance to mocking jubilation.
"THAT'S IT! KEEP SHOOTING FROM OUT THERE!"
"GO ON, PASS IT BACK TO LONDON!"
"AIM FOR ROW Z AGAIN, MATE!"
So, when Ramires skied a shot high into the stands in the 19th minute, the stadium erupted in howls of mocking laughter.
"BOOOOOO!"
"ONE MORE! GO ON!"
"TWENTY MILLION POUNDS FOR THAT?!"
The English broadcast commentary was more restrained: "Chelsea need to find a way to unlock this Bastia defense. At this rate, set pieces might be their only hope."
In London, Roman Abramovich watched his team's struggles with a deepening frown.
He loved football. That's why he spent astronomical sums pursuing victory.
But this?
This disappointed him deeply.
Benítez clearly wasn't the man to deliver success. Abramovich shook his head slightly, his thoughts drifting to the manager he hoped would return to bring Chelsea glory again.
But increasingly, his attention focused on Julien.
Every time Chelsea lost possession, Bastia's counterattack flowed through him. Even when Lukaku provided the outlet pass, it inevitably found its way to Julien's feet.
This was a world-class player.
Abramovich had been tempted before. He'd already instructed his people to make contact with Julien—but the feedback had been discouraging.
It irritated him. He'd shown magnanimity, agreed to forget the past, and offered elite-level compensation. What more did the player want?
"Julien!" The commentator's voice yanked him back to the screen.
Another Bastia counter. Julien driving down the wing looked unstoppable.
Moses looked like a training cone—utterly ineffective. Fortunately, Bertrand had some defensive sense, using his body to slow Julien and managing to poke the ball out for a throw-in through sheer luck.
Bastia's throw. They didn't commit many forwards, but Rothen and De Bruyne made runs while Lukaku charged into the box, arms raised, calling for a cross.
He wanted to attack the ball in the air.
The front rows at Cesari sat practically on top of the pitch. Fans screamed at Julien from mere meters away: "JULIEN, TAKE HIM ON!"
"RIP THROUGH THEM!"
Whether Julien heard them or simply trusted his instincts, with Moses, Ramires, and Bertrand all packed into the right channel, he simply knocked the ball toward the byline.
Then—
Instead of stepping back onto the pitch, he accelerated along the outside of the touchline, legs churning faster, faster—
An overtake on the outside!
"OH MY GOD, JULIEN!"
"JULIEN!!"
"LOOK AT THAT PACE!"
The supporters along that flank watched Julien's blistering run unfold right in front of them, erupting in agitated excitement as their blood reached boiling point.
Julien heard nothing but the roar of his own heartbeat.
His eyes saw only the ball.
His speed was unmatched—he reached it first, cutting back inside immediately.
Gary Cahill scrambled across to cover, nerves jangling. Inside the box, he wanted to commit but didn't dare. Julien's close control was simply too good, his change of direction too sharp.
Cahill felt paralyzed by indecision.
Julien feinted left with his foot, as if to continue along the byline. Cahill took one step that direction—
Opening up the space behind him.
Julien's right foot thrashed the ball backward in a cutback pass—
While everyone's attention fixed on him and the runs of Lukaku and Rothen, De Bruyne had ghosted into an unguarded pocket inside the box.
He'd just arrived when Julien's pass found him.
Facing Čech, facing his parent club, De Bruyne showed no hesitation. Without breaking stride, his right foot curled around the ball.
Far post.
Čech had positioned himself toward the near post, anticipating Julien might shoot. By the time De Bruyne's shot left his boot, he was already beaten.
Swish.
The net bulged.
2-0.
Julien assist. De Bruyne goal.
The Chelsea rejects' connection.
ROAR!
"KEVIN!"
"JULIEN!"
When Julien's surgical pass found De Bruyne and the Belgian finished clinically, time seemed to freeze—then the stands detonated like a volcano!
Twenty-three minutes played.
Two goals up.
Nobody had dared dream of this. Most had expected Bastia to park the bus, grind out a 0-0, pray for penalties.
But two goals in twenty-three minutes?
That was pure euphoria!
The noise wasn't just cheering now—it was thousands of people screaming with shock and joy! Arms thrust toward sky, blue scarves whirled overhead, creating a surging ocean of celebration in the stands.
De Bruyne pressed his hands down, trying to contain his emotions. He didn't celebrate demonstratively, but he didn't reject his teammates' embraces either.
"Kevin, that was perfect!" Lukaku, his fellow Belgian and fellow Chelsea reject, grabbed him with both hands, grinning madly.
Seeing De Bruyne score felt like scoring himself—two Belgians discarded by the same club, both thriving on this Mediterranean island.
De Bruyne turned to Julien, face flushed with adrenaline. "Your pass was inch-perfect!"
"Haha!" Julien just ruffled De Bruyne's hair, laughing loud enough to echo across the pitch.
That laughter reached every corner of the stadium.
Except Chelsea's bench.
________________________________________________________
Author's Note:
As this year comes to a close, I want to thank everyone of you for welcoming my stories into your lives. Your support and enthusiasm means the world to me.
May your Christmas be filled with warmth, and joy. Here's to more stories together in the year ahead.
Merry Christmas and Happy New Year!