This truly was Julien's night.
He stood before the stands, arms spread wide, embracing the roar of adulation that washed over him—the cheers reverberating through his chest, the passion crackling in the air like electricity, the praise that seemed to lift him off the turf. He loved every second of it.
He loved the deafening chaos erupting throughout the stadium because of him. He loved watching the fans lose themselves in raw excitement, their faces flushed and contorted, blood pumping with adrenaline triggered by his brilliance. Some were crying. Others stood frozen, mouths wide open, replaying what they'd just witnessed.
His teammates mobbed him, their faces lit with pure astonishment, hands grabbing at his shoulders, his back, his head.
Lukaku flashed his trademark grin, teeth gleaming white against his dark skin. "Jesus Christ, Julien! You've got to teach me that move—that was fucking incredible!" His voice cracked with excitement, the words were tumbling out in a rush.
Even De Bruyne abandoned his usual composure, screaming in Julien's ear with such force that it would ring for minutes afterward: "I never thought you'd shoot like that! You absolute madman! Genius!"
He grabbed Julien's head with both hands and ruffled his hair violently, fingers digging into his scalp as if trying to confirm this wasn't some fever dream.
Kanté sprinted the entire length of the pitch from his defensive position. His usually composed face was transformed—eyes wide, mouth stretched in a grin that showed all his teeth. He pounded Julien's back repeatedly. "Julien, that goal... it's unbelievable! I've never seen anything like it!"
Julien embraced each of them in turn, offering no words—only a knowing smile in response.
The goal hadn't been calculated or premeditated. It was pure instinct, reacting to the moment as it unfolded.
This was what elite ball control and innate finishing ability looked like. He simply knew, at any given moment—which technique would work best.
The substitute bench had completely lost its mind. Players leaped up as if electrocuted, some sprinting down the touchline waving towels overhead like battle standards, others dropping to their knees attempting to replicate the bicycle kick motion in their training gear.
Their voices carried across the pitch, cracking and overlapping: "Holy shit! He actually did it! That guy isn't human!"
"I saw it! I saw everything! From my angle it looked like a rainbow arcing into the net!!"
The coaching staff stood in a stunned cluster, clipboards were forgotten. Even the medical team had their mouths open.
Everyone was utterly conquered by the technique, the audacity, and the sheer beauty of the goal—as if witnessing an impossible miracle materialize before their eyes.
The home crowd's frenzy showed no signs of abating. Wave after wave of noise crashed down from the stands. Scarves whirled in the air in red and blue. Flares ignited in the ultra-sections, sending columns of colored smoke into the night sky.
Online, fans who couldn't make it to the stadium—whether Bastia supporters or not were equally stunned by Julien's strike. Social media feeds exploded within seconds.
"My God! De Rocca just scored the goal of the season! No—the goal of the decade!"
"That flick-up and bicycle kick... I've never seen anything like it. Julien is absolutely a future Ballon d'Or winner. France producing a striker of this caliber? The World Cup is within reach!"
"Skoblar, your record just got shattered by an 18-year-old kid. Forty-two years, and it took a teenager from Corsica to break it."
"I'm not even a Bastia fan, but I just jumped off my couch screaming. My wife thinks I've lost my mind. That goal was otherworldly!"
"Marseille supporter checking in here. Yeah, we conceded two, but that goal? No complaints. Fair play—he's got us beaten. You can't even be mad about that."
It wasn't just the fans.
Even the Marseille players, despite being on the receiving end, couldn't argue with the quality. Some of them had stopped mid-stride when the ball hit the net, hands on their heads or hips, exhaling long breaths that spoke of resignation rather than frustration.
As they trudged back toward the center circle for the restart, teammates shrugged helplessly at one another, their body language defeated. What could they possibly do against Julien when he was operating at this level? You couldn't defend the impossible.
Valbuena, Julien's French national team colleague, even gave him a thumbs-up as they both returned to their positions.
They might be opponents tonight, but that didn't diminish his appreciation for the artistry he'd just witnessed. Some things transcended rivalry.
Whistle!
The match resumed.
The ball felt heavier now in the humid air, the pitch cutting up in patches where the most intensive play had worn through the grass. Marseille's white jerseys were stained with green and brown; their players were moving with the resigned efficiency of men going through motions.
After conceding that goal, Marseille still refused to commit more players forward. Their midfield sat deep, compact, protecting the eighteen-yard box. They seemed content merely avoiding a humiliating scoreline, unwilling to push numbers up and leave dangerous space for Bastia's counter-attacks.
Their manager stood motionless in his technical area, arms folded, face expressionless—already thinking about the next match.
Naturally, Bastia didn't press aggressively either—that had never been their style. They absorbed pressure, stayed organized, and struck when opportunities presented themselves.
Tactically, Bastia kept things simple. Two banks of four, solid defensive shape, quick transitions when they won the ball.
But in terms of individual technical ability, they possessed truly elite players. Julien's close control and finishing. De Bruyne's vision and passing range. Kanté's interception ability and tireless running.
Many scouts from the Premier League and La Liga had watched Bastia matches this season and concluded that manager Hadzibegic was wasting this squad's talent with such conservative tactics.
This was precisely why French media had previously run stories claiming Hadzibegic was squandering Julien's potential.
Soon, halftime arrived.
As players walked toward the tunnel, the Stade Armand-Cesari erupted in sustained applause, accompanied by chants of "JULIEN! JULIEN! JULIEN!" that echoed off the stands.
The Bastia Dressing Room
"FORTY-FIVE GOALS! Julien! Forty-five! You fucking did it! You made history!"
Exclamations erupted from every corner of the cramped dressing room.
Everyone celebrated Julien breaking the record—they were witnesses to history, participants in something extraordinary.
Hadzibegic strode through the crowd surrounding Julien. He said nothing at first, simply pounding Julien's back and chest repeatedly with force—heavy thumps that would leave marks. His eyes were slightly wet, though he'd never admit it. That unmistakable expression of pride mixed with vindication radiated from every line of his face—I knew you could do it.
The dressing room was instantly filled with chants of "ALL-TIME BEST!" accompanied by thunderous applause, boots stomping on the floor.
Teammates swarmed him—not with perfunctory high-fives but genuine affection, ruffling his hair aggressively, hammering his shoulders and back in that most direct, instinctual way men express admiration and elation when words fail them.
Lukaku grabbed the tactical board, wiping away Hadzibegic's halftime notes with his forearm and clearing his throat with exaggerated solemnity: "Ahem! Gentlemen, your attention please!"
He rapped his knuckles on the board like a teacher demanding silence. "It is my honor, as Romelu Lukaku, to formally introduce—the Ligue 1 single-season goalscoring record holder, Mr. Julien De Rocca!!"
He barely finished before cracking up laughing.
Even Julien couldn't help but laugh at Lukaku's antics. When things were going well on the pitch, the big Belgian was pure entertainment—all personality and infectious energy. When they weren't... he could be an emotional trainwreck, sulking and invisible.
Amid the chaos, Hadzibegic finally raised his voice, drawing everyone's attention back: "Alright! Lads! Settle down!"
The noise gradually subsided. Players turned toward him, some still grinning, others gulping from water bottles.
His face still wore a broad smile, but his eyes had regained their managerial sharpness.
"Celebrate Julien! This is what he deserves—he's created greatness tonight! We're all incredibly proud of you, son!" He pointed at Julien and emphasized the point again, leading another round of applause.
"But!" His tone shifted, hardening. The smile remained but his posture straightened. "The match isn't over. Forty-five minutes remain. Marseille might lack fighting spirit tonight, but football has a way of punishing complacency. We need to maintain our defensive shape and stay focused. No individual errors, no lapses in concentration."
He paused, letting his words sink in. Some players nodded, wiping sweat from their faces with towels.
"We're going to seal Julien's record-breaking night with a victory—and a clean sheet. We'll make sure everyone remembers this wasn't just Julien's historic night, but also a Bastia team triumph!"
He slapped his palm against the tactical board for emphasis.
"Now, enjoy these two minutes. Drink, breathe, let it sink in. Then I need your heads back in match mode! For Julien, for this club, for every supporter out there—let's finish the job properly!"
Applause and cheers rang out again, but this time with renewed determination and focus.
Julien smiled and nodded to his teammates, meeting their eyes. He understood—the best celebration would be crowning this record with victory. Individual brilliance meant nothing without the three points.
Soon, halftime ended.
In the tunnel, fluorescent lights buzzed overhead, casting harsh shadows. The walls were lined with decades of peeling paint, layers of history. Julien could hear the crowd's muffled roar through the concrete, a constant rumble like distant thunder.
He encountered Valbuena adjusting his shin guards. As national team colleagues, Julien flashed him a smile and nodded in greeting.
Valbuena approached, grinning, though his eyes held competitive fire. "Seriously, forty-five goals is phenomenal. Congratulations, brother. You're an absolute monster—breaking that record in your first Ligue 1 season." He clapped Julien's shoulder.
Then his expression turned serious. "But the second half won't be easy. We're not here to be your victory parade backdrop. I'll be watching you closely. Every run, every touch."
Julien shook his head slightly, patting Valbuena's shoulder with mock sympathy. "Hey, I'm sure you remember getting turned inside-out at Clairefontaine. What was it, three times in the same drill?"
Valbuena laughed, stubbornly defensive. "That was training. I wasn't warmed up properly. And you fouled me on the second one—everyone saw it."
Julien didn't press the point, his smile widening. "See you out there."
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