Pierre's voice softened mid-sentence, the crispness he usually reserved for business matters was melting into something warmer like skimming through an old photo album no one had opened in years.
"The second thing," he continued, "comes from Fontenay-sous-Bois. Do you remember the Stade des Murailles? That pitch you always talked about—the one they carved out of the old community dump, all gravel and broken stone, backed up against those medieval wall ruins."
"Hmm?" Julien's tone had a hint of curiosity.
"What, you've forgotten already?" Pierre said with a laugh.
How could he forget?
That memory was etched deep: gravel pressing sharp against his boot soles, wind carrying the earthy scent of ancient brick, half-grown kids chasing a battered football across hard ground.
He couldn't help but laugh, his voice was touched with nostalgia. "How could I forget? Every time before we went on, we'd crouch down and tap our toes against the ground—little stones would come rattling out of our boots like rain. The fronts of our football boots were always torn open from our toes pushing through. The wind would blow straight into those holes."
"That's the place," Pierre said, his laughter was coming through the line.
"The town council wants to properly renovate the gravel pitch now. Not just laying down some cheap grass, they want to replace the gravel completely with real turf, restore that crumbling section of medieval wall, and turn it into the pitch's landmark feature.
They're building a proper changing room beside it, so kids won't have to do what you did back then. This is going to be a real pitch, Julien. The first community pitch that truly belongs to Fontenay-sous-Bois.
"They also want to put up an engraving by the pitch with your name on it. They say you're the town's pride now. So many kids are learning to play football because of you, they finish school and run straight to the pitch. Even the little pub in town keeps the TV tuned to Liverpool matches."
Julien hadn't expected any of this.
Fontenay-sous-Bois had always been the roots he'd made for himself, the foundation of his identity. But he had to admit, he'd been neglecting that place. Apart from a few vivid memories tied to football, he couldn't recall much else about daily life there.
The other scenes had faded into nothing.
He'd never imagined that patch of ground covered in gravel, with goal nets mended over and over until they were more patch than net would one day become a proper community pitch.
"They're really turning it into a real grass pitch? I can barely remember what the wall looked like anymore."
Pierre's laughter paused briefly, then took on the color of reminiscence.
"Ha, don't worry. If you've forgotten, we remember for you. When we moved to Clairefontaine, you clung to the goalpost crying, saying you couldn't bear to leave Louis, couldn't bear to leave the gravel pitch beneath those walls. After we got to Paris, you kept looking for gravel pitches on the way home from school. You said it didn't feel right kicking without stones pressing into your feet.
Later, when you got into Clairefontaine's academy, you were even busier. Sometimes I'd hear from old friends that kids in town were still spreading stories about Julien playing football in Paris, but no one knew you'd already moved much farther away. Back then, you were—ah, well, it's all in the past. The point is, everything's changed now."
Julien listened to Pierre's words as buried memories surfaced: the mayor's baked apple pie, the grape arbor in Louis's family courtyard, the gravel on the Stade des Murailles turned golden by the setting sun.
But the older he got, the more his hometown felt like an old photograph—something he could pull out and look at occasionally, but could never step back into.
"I've been too careless," he said softly, his voice was wrapped in guilt. "After we moved to Paris, I lost touch with Louis. Even when Grandpa and Grandma passed away, it was you and Mom who went back to handle everything. I kept thinking I'd go when I had time later, but later never seemed to come."
"Now isn't too late," Pierre's voice softened.
"The mayor said they know our family moved to Clairefontaine years ago. They deliberately checked your match schedule and scheduled the groundbreaking ceremony for after Christmas, precisely so it wouldn't be inconvenient for you. Louis is a PE teacher in town now. He asked about you—said 'If Julien comes back, I still want to play a match with him. He always used to lose to me back then.' See? Nobody's forgotten you."
Julien sat in Melwood's warm, comfortable rest room, turning his head to look at the soft grass pitches in the distance. Suddenly he remembered how in Paris, he'd always practiced ball control on gravel patches in the park.
When stones got into his boots, he'd tap his toes just like he used to in Fontenay-sous-Bois.
Those habits were carved into his bones—they were all marks his hometown had left on him.
"After Christmas, I'll definitely go back," Julien said. "Let's carve out time to make the trip. I want to see the renovated pitch, play a match with Louis, and taste the mayor's apple pie again."
"Good. Whatever you say," Pierre's voice brimmed with contentment. "The mayor will be absolutely delighted. Kids in town have your posters on their walls now, writing compositions saying 'I want to be like Julien—leave Fontenay-sous-Bois, then come back.' When you return this time, you'll be giving them the best answer possible. After all, you're their role model now."
Julien smiled.
Life's circumstances were wonderfully strange that way. Stories of prodigal sons returning home always carried their own particular charm.
Julien and Pierre talked for a while longer before ending the call. After hanging up, he didn't return to reading the newspapers. Instead, he sat thinking.
This renovation of his hometown's pitch had made him realize he could do more—help more kids who loved football find their path into the game. His influence was nothing like what it had been two years ago when he was still unknown.
Now he was Liverpool's number ten, the future core of the team. Captain of the French national team. That kind of weight, that configuration, it belonged only to top-tier superstars.
Of course, given Julien's current performances, no one questioned him anymore.
After his rest, the afternoon's team training session ended, but Julien continued with extra practice. He wanted to unlock the other two abilities in the Balance branch as quickly as possible. The "Symmetrical Coordination" he'd already unlocked was genuinely excellent—dangerous with both feet now.
Both "Equilibrium Dominance" and "Fatigue Distribution" were highly functional abilities. Unlocking them earlier would mean further improvement in his overall game.
The truth was that many of Julien's attributes had now reached the critical threshold of ninety, making further improvement extremely difficult. All he could do was train day after day, relentlessly. After all, how many people didn't even have the opportunity to improve through hard training?
Midway through, Rodgers held a tactical meeting ahead of the next match. Liverpool's fifth Premier League fixture came just four days after the fourth, it was a tight turnaround. The good news was that their opponents weren't particularly strong, and Liverpool would be playing at home.
Their next opponents were the Saints, Southampton.
Since earning promotion to the Premier League last season and successfully avoiding relegation, Southampton had started this season without a single win through four matches. Two draws, two losses. Two points total.
This was already making Southampton fans somewhat anxious, especially given that their first four opponents had hardly been powerhouses: West Brom, Sunderland, Norwich, West Ham United.
Southampton had spent over twenty million pounds in the summer transfer market specifically to secure a foothold in the new Premier League season and ensure they stayed up.
Last season's Southampton had returned to the Premier League in dominant fashion, though their survival situation had been genuinely precarious at one point, especially with a six-match winless run at the season's end. Still, their earlier efforts had been enough to keep them in the top flight.
Their manager, the Argentine Mauricio Pochettino, had said he hoped his team could build on last season's fourteenth-place finish. To strengthen the squad this summer, they'd made significant signings: Kenyan midfielder Victor Wanyama and Croatian center-back Dejan Lovren.
Southampton had paid twelve and a half million pounds to bring the twenty-one-year-old Wanyama from Scottish champions Celtic, where he'd helped win two league titles. Last season, he'd scored against Barcelona in the Champions League and been named Scottish Young Player of the Year.
Lovren, arriving from Lyon in Ligue 1, would provide solid help to their defense. Additionally, the sought-after young English full-back Luke Shaw had rejected advances from bigger clubs to sign a new contract with the Saints, providing a morale boost to the backline.
Last season, Southampton had conceded sixty goals in the league—the same number as relegated Queens Park Rangers. But this season, Pochettino had clearly made targeted improvements in that area.
He had taken over mid-season last year and managed to keep them up, but at just forty-one years old, many fans still questioned whether he with no prior Premier League experience had the ability to keep Southampton stable in the division, or even push them forward. The winless start through four matches had only intensified those doubts.
During the meeting, Rodgers repeatedly emphasized, "Defensively, we cannot repeat last season's mistakes!"
Last season at Southampton's St. Mary's Stadium, Pochettino's team had beaten them 3-1. That day, Rodgers had been thoroughly outcoached.
"Their set-piece conversion rate is third in the league. Lambert wins over sixty percent of his aerial duels. Martin, you're on him tight. Lucas, you need to position yourself between Schneiderlin and their forwards—don't let him slip through passes like last time..."
Sitting among the group, Julien actually thought N'Golo Kanté deserved a chance. Though Kanté hadn't reached his peak yet, his defensive capabilities were absolutely sufficient. But Julien couldn't say that directly—squad selection was the manager's area, not something he could overstep.
Occasionally, Julien glanced at Gerrard. Something unpleasant had happened during this morning's training session.
When the meeting ended, Julien approached Gerrard directly. "Steven, I heard about what happened this morning during training."
Gerrard's movements paused. He looked up, his face still carrying some of the seriousness from the meeting. Hearing this, he let out a soft sigh and stuffed his notebook into his kit bag. "It's nothing. Just a fan who got a bit emotional."
"Emotional?" Julien's brow furrowed; his voice was dropping lower.
He'd been training on another enclosed pitch that morning. Later, he'd noticed some commotion where Gerrard's group was working and caught a glimpse of equipment manager Dave rushing over to intervene. Only afterward did he hear from teammates about the threatening fan.
"They said the fan was shouting about burning down your house, and mentioned your kids. That's not emotion, that's football hooliganism. That's completely over the line."
Gerrard's gaze drifted toward the window.
During free-kick practice that morning, the fan's abuse had stabbed at him like needles. At first, he'd stared at the wall and pretended not to hear. But as the words got uglier and uglier, he couldn't help making a gesture for the man to shut up. He hadn't expected it would provoke actual threats.
"It was about the national team," Gerrard said softly, his voice was carrying helpless self-mockery. "The media reported it all. We didn't beat Ukraine in Kyiv, didn't qualify directly. He thinks it's my fault."
Julien went still for a moment.
He knew about England's World Cup qualifying situation, but he hadn't imagined someone would take their anger out on Gerrard's family over a national team match.
English football hooligans truly lived up to their reputation.
Just because England hadn't won one match, a player's family was being threatened.
"What does that have to do with you? Losing a match is the whole team's responsibility. What right does he have to pin it all on you and drag your family into it?"
Gerrard's mouth twitched in something that wasn't quite a smile. "He probably figures that as captain; I should carry all the blame. Honestly, at first, I ignored him—fans shouting abuse is nothing new. But he kept getting more extreme. I'll be honest with you—when he started shouting those things, my heart did skip a beat."
Julien could see the fatigue hidden in Gerrard's eyes. This captain, who always stood so straight on the pitch, rarely showed vulnerability in private. He took fans' feelings to heart, even when he was the one being wronged.
"Don't take it to heart," Julien said, passing over the sports drink in his hand.
"That's just one lunatic. He doesn't represent anyone. Look at this morning after training: how many fans crowded around you for autographs? Kids were holding up signs with your name. Those are the real fans."
"Don't worry, I'm fine." Gerrard clapped Julien on the shoulder, his voice regaining its firmness. "I won't let this affect the next match. I've been in this career long enough—what haven't I seen? When Anfield fills up and they're all roaring, that'll drown out any lunatic's words a thousand times over."
Julien said nothing more.
During the last international break, England's failure to beat Ukraine had genuinely hurt. After all, several other national teams had qualified early that round—France, for example.
Italy's Balotelli had used his unerring penalty-taking to help the Azzurri come from behind to beat the Czech Republic 2-1, declaring "We'll be one of the favorites next year."
Meanwhile, Messi had converted two penalties in Argentina's 5-2 demolition of Paraguay, also beginning to dream of leading the Pampas Eagles to glory in Brazil.
At the same time, England had become the slowest-moving former World Cup champion after their 0-0 scare in Kyiv against Ukraine. Manager Roy Hodgson continued to face fierce criticism from all sides.
England legend Gary Lineker had tweeted after the Ukraine match, savaging the national team's performance as "shit to the extreme."
He'd followed up with another tweet: "Look at France next door—I'd rather believe France can win it all!" He'd quickly deleted both tweets.
This wasn't the first time the legendary striker had expressed dissatisfaction with the current Three Lions on social media.
Back in May, after the team was held 1-1 by Ireland, he'd declared that English football had entered a dark age. He believed the players cared more about club interests than playing for their country: "Why do these players all play like this when they put on the England shirt?"
Hodgson knew where the problem lay. After the match, he'd defended himself, "If we'd thrown caution to the wind and gone all-out attack, I might well have ended up losing 1-0, which would have meant losing top spot in the group!"
But passive survival wouldn't achieve greatness.
ESPN had dug up Hodgson's managerial history, arguing that while his style was pragmatic, it was ultimately mediocre, suitable only for mid-to-lower-table teams.
During his Fulham tenure, he'd reached the Europa League final, knocking out powerhouses like Shakhtar Donetsk, Juventus, and Wolfsburg along the way, only to lose in extra time to a Diego Forlán winner for Atlético Madrid. He'd also led West Brom to an unlikely escape from relegation, but his subsequent spell at Liverpool had been a complete disaster.
In this qualifying campaign, England had only managed victories against minnows Moldova and San Marino, failing to beat any of their three genuine qualifying rivals.
The team showed no signs of competitive ambition, triggering discussions across English football about whether this was "the worst period in history" and whether "Premier League prosperity was squeezing the life out of English players' development."
The Independent had gone further, mocking FA Chairman Greg Dyke's predictions directly, "The FA chairman claims England will win the 2022 World Cup? Playing like this, they won't manage it by 3022!"
"Unless they can naturalize French forward Julien. At least Julien has the ability and courage to take on opposition defenses directly, rather than worrying about injuries affecting his club form!"
The London Evening Standard had reported that the FA had received warnings from multiple sources that failure to qualify would cost them fifty million pounds, including FIFA prize money, official merchandise sales, sponsorship deals, and more.
For the broader British economy, the team's elimination would have even greater impact.
Without England in the World Cup, pubs, supermarkets, airlines, betting shops, even television sales across the country would suffer enormously.
The British Retail Consortium estimated that England's qualification for the 2010 World Cup in South Africa had contributed one billion pounds to the UK economy, with total impact including knock-on effects reaching two billion pounds.
The last time England had failed to reach a World Cup finals was USA 1994.
When Julien had read these reports, he'd only wanted to laugh. English media piling pressure on their own team, players, and coaches—that had never changed.
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