"Nervous?"
Julien's hand landed on Kanté's shoulder. He could feel the tension radiating through the small midfielder's frame.
Kanté snapped back to reality, drew a deep breath, and nodded honestly. "A bit. This isn't like any match we've played before."
Across the dressing room, De Bruyne was repeatedly adjusting his socks, his fingers were precise, almost ritualistic. "It's exactly the same, N'Golo," he said without looking up. "Think about Inter. Think about Chelsea. We've already lived through this kind of pressure."
"Just get me the ball," De Bruyne continued, finally meeting their eyes. "Leave the rest to us."
Rothen glanced up from his seat, his voice was as steady as bedrock. "I think Montpellier are more nervous than we are."
Lukaku finished checking that his braids were secure, then boomed in his unmistakable voice, "What's there to be afraid of? Their defenders turn like bloody tanks! One good touch and I'll blow right past all of them!"
Kanté felt the warmth of Julien's palm on his shoulder. Heard his teammates' voices wrapping around him like a protective layer. He nodded slightly, unable to find words, just smiling that shy, genuine smile of his.
The dressing room door swung open. Hadzibegic's silhouette filled the frame. Every conversation stopped dead. Every eye turned to the manager.
His gaze swept slowly across the room, and then—rare as a comet—a smile tugged at the corner of his mouth. "Championships. Records. The entire nation watching. These words can suffocate you, can't they?"
He paused.
"Wrong."
"This is just the 36th match of our season. Like the previous 35, it's ninety minutes, one pitch, one ball. Forget the table. Forget the roar of the crowd.
You need to remember three things: First, move like you always do. Second, pass like you always do. Third, trust the person wearing the same shirt as you.
As for tactics—I have nothing more to say. We've drilled them a thousand times. Now I just need you to play on instinct. Like when you were kids on the street, except now there are tens of thousands cheering for you instead of a handful."
He walked toward Julien and pressed a hand gently on his shoulder. "And trust your captain."
The room erupted in laughter, tension bleeding out like air from a punctured tire.
Hadzibegic's eyes made one final sweep. "If you feel nervous, listen for the wind outside the stadium. That's the Mediterranean. The same waves you hear every day at our training ground. They've never changed."
"Go."
"Go play the purest football this island has ever seen."
"Leave the rest to fate."
Hadzibegic strode to the center of the room and extended his hand. The players surged forward—every single one, plus assistant coach Dominique and the rest of the staff. Hands piled on hands.
Then, as one voice:
"FORZA, BASTIA!"
As they filed out, every player carried the same look in their eyes—determination. Win this match against a beatable opponent, and they'd etch their names into history.
The two teams met in the tunnel. Most faces were unfamiliar to each other. No one spoke—except Rothen, who struck up a conversation with Montpellier's right winger, Camara.
Julien noticed him too.
Aboubakar Camara was in the twilight of his career now, still holding one distinction: Ligue 1's all-time leading substitute goalscorer. At just 174 cm, he was stocky, explosive, and had once been a player Didier Deschamps personally scouted during his Monaco days.
Camara had joined Monaco at sixteen. At nineteen—during the 2001-02 season—Deschamps gave him his first-team debut. And on his nineteenth birthday, he scored his first professional goal. Some lives, it seemed, came pre-scripted.
That breakthrough season earned him a call-up to Senegal's national team. He played in the 2002 Africa Cup of Nations, then the World Cup—the youngest player in Senegal's squad. It was a dream start for any footballer.
But after the World Cup, his trajectory flattened. He drifted. Eventually, he landed at Montpellier, helping them climb from Ligue 2 back to Ligue 1. Last season, as a key player, he'd helped them win their first-ever Ligue 1 title—the crowning achievement of an uneven career.
After chatting with Rothen, Camara turned to Mané, exchanging a few words. Mané was Senegal's rising star now, hyped by the media back home as the future answer on the left wing.
Tonight, Hadzibegic had gone bold—fielding a 4-3-3 with Mané in the starting XI.
Camara's conversation with Mané seemed more heartfelt than the one with his old teammate Rothen. Julien even caught him quietly say, "Congratulations."
Inside Stade Armand-Cesari, the atmosphere had reached a fever pitch.
The stadium DJ was announcing Bastia's starting lineup.
"Kevin De Bruyne!"
"N'Golo Kanté!"
Each name triggered a deafening roar.
Then, slowly, deliberately, the DJ called out: "CAPITAINE! Number ten! Julien—JULIEN—!"
BOOM.
The noise peaked. The stadium seemed to physically shake. After the eruption, the fans chanted in unison, three times:
"CHAMPION! CHAMPION! CHAMPION!"
Tonight was Championship Night.
Julien stood closest to the tunnel exit. The cacophony of Stade Cesari hit him harder than anyone else. Inside the tunnel, voices were completely drowned out. What filtered in from the pitch was a chaotic, overwhelming wave of sound—impossible to decipher, but rich with raw emotion. The kind that made your blood pump faster.
Julien clenched his fists. He could feel his pulse syncing with the vibrations in the air.
One beat.
Then another.
Heavier. Faster.
"Let's go! Move out!"
The referee checked his watch and waved them forward.
Julien exhaled deeply, squared his shoulders, and stepped toward the first top-league championship of his life.
The moment he emerged from the tunnel, the world opened up.
A torrent of sound crashed over him. Across the stands, banners hung in defiant declaration:
"108 YEARS OF WAITING"
"WELCOME TO THE TITLE PARTY!"
"1 STORY: JULIEN!"
"Julien, Score for Us!"
Julien and his teammates absorbed it all in a glance, then refocused. The fans could celebrate early. The players had to wait another ninety minutes.
Meanwhile, the TF1 commentator was already setting the scene:
"This may be the most historically significant match of the season. Here at Stade Armand-Cesari on the island of Corsica, the air is thick—not with the salt of the sea breeze, but with suffocating anticipation.
Bastia, this Mediterranean island club, stands just ninety minutes away from their first-ever top tier championship in 108 years. All they need is a draw. One point. And their name will be engraved on the trophy forever.
Their opponents are last season's champions—Montpellier. It's as if fate wrote the script: last year's Cinderella story now stands as the final obstacle before this year's coronation.
On paper, there may be a gap between these sides. But tonight, all statistical analysis and tactical breakdowns pale before the sheer force of emotion. Bastia have a dream 108 years in the making—and a record-breaking superstar in Julien De Rocca. They want to lift the trophy at home."
The broadcast cameras panned across the pitch, offering close-ups of the players, then swept over the Bastia supporters. Everywhere—blue and white, passion and noise.
In the VIP section sat familiar faces: Didier Deschamps, Zinedine Zidane, Laurent Blanc, Reynald Pedros—legends of French football, all were gathered on this remote island to witness history.
On the touchline, Hadzibegic tried to maintain a stern, focused expression. But visions of lifting the trophy kept invading his mind. He pushed them down. They surged back up. He was on the verge of a dream coming true—together with this small island club.
Julien and Montpellier captain Camara met at the center circle for the coin toss. Camara won and chose to kick off. Julien selected the attacking direction.
Everything proceeded like clockwork.
But the massive tifo display the Bastia ultras were known for—expected, anticipated—never appeared. As if it wouldn't come at all.
In the Ultras Bastia section, their leader, Modoso, simply waved flags and led the chants, one after another:
"Hear the Med'—it roars and crashes,
Cesari's blue light burns and flashes,
A hundred years we stood and waited,
Tonight we roar—united, unstoppable, consecrated!"
TWEET!
The referee's whistle pierced the air. The match was underway.
The crowd erupted again.
THUMP.
Montpellier kicked off and immediately recycled possession backward. Away from home, they had no interest in pressing early. They wanted to settle, to organize.
Bastia didn't press high either. That wasn't their style. Every player—especially the defenders held their positions first. Hadzibegic's philosophy was always defense first, attack second.
Even in a championship decider.
The tempo was slow. Fifteen minutes passed without a single shot from either side. The match settled into a stalemate.
Bastia probed patiently in the attacking third. No clear chance? Pass it back. The players knew better than to force things. Positional play wasn't their greatest strength anyway. And even a draw would crown them champions.
No need to rush.
Time ticked on. The crowd never quieted.
But the breakthrough—when it came—arrived in a heartbeat.
17th Minute
De Bruyne received the ball on the right side of midfield. It seemed like a routine touch. But after a quick scan, he slid a precise, low pass through the lines—finding Julien, who'd dropped deep to receive.
Julien took it with his back to goal. Montpellier left-back Bedimo pressed tight immediately.
But Julien didn't give him the chance to close in.
The instant the ball touched his foot; he didn't stop it—he flicked it backward with the outside of his right boot while spinning sharply to his right.
The turn was instantaneous. In Ligue 1, no defender could match Julien's acceleration or change of direction.
Bedimo saw a blue blur and was left behind.
Another defensive midfielder, Estrada from Chile, had already rotated over. He didn't hesitate—sliding in hard and low.
In a flash, Julien lifted the ball with his left toe—just ten centimeters off the ground, enough to hop over the outstretched leg and glided past like a dancer, reclaiming possession on the other side.
ROAR.
The crowd exploded at the back-to-back dribbles. Watching Julien weave through defenders was pure art.
Now inside the box.
The last defender, Kaoutari, backpedaled frantically, cutting off the near-post angle. The goalkeeper crouched low, eyes glued to Julien's hips.
Julien didn't hesitate. He dropped his left shoulder hard, as if winding up for a thunderous shot to the far corner. The feint was perfect—Kaoutari's weight shifted left, and the keeper's feet began sliding toward the far post.
But just as the ball left his control zone, Julien's left ankle made a subtle, lethal adjustment.
CRACK.
He struck.
The ball didn't fly toward the far corner. Instead, it bent just slightly, arcing over the goalkeeper's instinctive dive and kissing the inside of the near post before nestling into the net.
WHOOSH.
Goal.
1-0.
The moment the net rippled, Stade Armand-Cesari detonated.
Every face in the stands contorted with ecstasy. Blood roared through veins. Hearts pounded like war drums.
"JULIEN!"
"JULIEN!!"
His name wasn't just chanted—it was worshipped. The sound built and built, wave after wave, threatening to tear open the Corsican sky.
Julien wasn't just their hero. He was the man who turned dreams into reality. He was their KING.
A young father hoisted his toddler onto his shoulders. The child wore an oversized number 10 shirt, waving tiny hands in confusion while below, his father and everyone around him screamed.
"1-0! WE'RE WINNING!"
The realization hit them all at once: the trophy they'd dreamed of for over a century had never been this close. This tangible. This real.
"CHAMPIONS! CHAMPIONS! WE ARE CHAMPIONS!" The chant intertwined with Julien's name, a hymn of joy and relief.
Julien sprinted toward the corner flag. He spread his arms wide, facing the roaring sea of blue.
His teammates mobbed him from every direction.
In this moment, he wasn't just the goalscorer. He was the chosen one, about to deliver the island's first-ever top league title after 108 years of heartbreak.
Faith had been answered.
Hope had become tangible.
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