In the commentary box, Jamie Carragher gripped his microphone so tightly his knuckles had turned white, his voice was exploding in a roar that nearly distorted the broadcasting equipment: "Oh my word! Julien! JULIEN! Where did this kid even come from?!"
He leaned forward in his seat, eyes locked on the celebrating figure in white below, unable to contain the excitement bleeding through every syllable.
Even his Scouse accent clotted with emotion, "He plays with the composure of a ten-year veteran, not an eighteen-year-old! This isn't some headless chicken running around out there, this is intelligent football!
Look at that bit of skill when two United defenders closed him down—the body feint, the change of direction, what eighteen-year-old moves like that? I played at Liverpool for seventeen years, saw plenty of forwards come through, but I've never and I mean never seen anyone show this kind of composure at Old Trafford in a derby match. This isn't just talent. This is a gift from the heavens to Liverpool Football Club!"
The replay rolled on the monitor, but Carragher had already moved on, counting on his fingers with glee: "Two derby matches. Six goals scored. Nine goal contributions total! Last time out at Anfield, six-nil. Today at Old Trafford, a hat-trick to turn the match around. He's not here to help Liverpool, he's here to bloody save Liverpool!
Think about it. All those years we played United, always coming up just short when it mattered most. What were we missing? We were missing someone who could deliver the knockout punch in the crucial moment! Well, now we've got him. Julien is that missing piece. He's the trump card when we're going toe-to-toe with our biggest rivals!
What he's got, you can't coach that. You can't drill it into someone on the training ground. He just knows when to take someone on, when to pass, when to step up and be the leader. That's instinct. That's in his DNA.
For Liverpool, Julien isn't just a forward, he's the future. He's exactly what we need to build around. With him in the side, we don't have to envy anyone else's attack anymore. We don't have to fear going head-to-head with any team in the world.
Especially in places like this, at Old Trafford, he can turn the opponent's fortress into our stage. He can silence these United fans. That's what he means to Liverpool.
I'll tell you what—after today, every team in the Premier League is going to be studying how to stop Julien. But here's what I'll tell you as well: nobody's going to manage it. Because what he's got—that combination of ruthlessness and flair, that's what Liverpool have been crying out for.
And it's something our rivals can't take away from us or replicate!"
It wasn't just Carragher who had been swept up in the moment.
Every Liverpool fan watching, regardless of where they were, erupted with the same explosive joy.
The opening exchanges of the half had been concerning. The team's performance had left something to be desired. But Julien had stepped up.
A hat-trick and At Old Trafford.
He was absolutely unstoppable.
At this rate, who could possibly challenge him for the Premier League Golden Boot?
The Liverpool fans' section at Old Trafford had transformed into a red cauldron.
Hundreds of scarves whirled high in tireless waves, creating a visual symphony of crimson that surged and receded like ocean tides. In the front row, an older fan wearing a vintage red shirt waved his scarf with trembling hands, his wrinkled face creased into a smile so wide it nearly folded his eyes shut.
He punched the air toward the pitch and roared until his voice cracked: "We're ahead! We're bloody ahead again!"
The young lad beside him immediately threw an arm around his shoulders, and together they bounced on the spot, crashing into each other in delirious celebration. They joined the rest of the away section in serenading their players with vigor.
In pubs across Liverpool, the atmosphere was no different.
"Hat-trick! The kid's a god!"
"Five minutes! That's all it took to flip the script on United!"
"How many years since we've put on a show like this at Old Trafford? Bloody brilliant!"
Even on the streets of Liverpool, someone suddenly thrust their phone into the air and shouted, "Three-two! Julien's scored again!"
Passersby who hadn't been able to watch the match broke into spontaneous grins.
The laughter carried on the wind, mixing with the distant roar from pub speakers, creating the most joyful soundtrack the city streets had heard in months.
In a modest house on the outskirts of Liverpool, the television screen glowed brightly in the dim living room.
Seventeen-year-old Tom sprawled on the sofa, a Liverpool scarf was draped across his knees. When Julien's rebound finish hit the net, he rocketed upright, the scarf tumbled forgotten to the floor.
He rushed toward the TV screen, shouting at Julien's image: "Yes! Julien, you absolute legend!"
In a London flat, lifelong Liverpool fan Mark sat alone at his computer, watching the stream. When the ball crossed the line, he let out a roar with eyes fixed on Julien's celebration. Then, unexpectedly, his eyes misted over.
He fumbled for his phone and typed out a message to an old friend far away, "Mate. We're ahead. Julien's got his hat-trick. At Old Trafford."
As soon as he hit send, the broadcast cut to a wide shot of the Liverpool fans' section in full voice.
Mark found himself humming along to "You'll Never Walk Alone" with strangers hundreds of miles away, singing to his computer screen. His voice was quiet, but every word carried the scalding heat of lifelong devotion.
Separated by hundreds of miles, he and the fans at Old Trafford, in the pubs, in their homes were all bound together by a single goal, united in shared euphoria.
It wasn't only Liverpool fans paying attention.
Far away in France, people were equally captivated by the derby.
In Bastia, the city was buzzing with excitement over Julien's performance as always. Some fans were even discussing organizing a trip to England to watch one of his matches in person while wearing Bastia shirts, naturally.
The idea gained enthusiastic support.
In the youth dormitories at AS Monaco's training complex, a desk lamp lit the modest room.
Kylian Mbappé sat cross-legged on his bed, behind him a red shirt hanging on the wall, it was Julien's signed Liverpool jersey.
On his laptop screen, the derby was streaming live.
When Julien's finish rolled into the net, Mbappé launched himself off the bed with such force that the hanging shirt fluttered behind him.
He planted both hands on the edge of his desk, leaning so far forward his nose nearly touched the screen. His eyes were shining.
"He scored! He scored! Hat-trick!!!"
His voice passed through the thin walls.
From the next room came a shout, "Mbappé! Keep it down!"
He mumbled a vague apology but didn't take his eyes off the screen.
Julien stood before the Liverpool fans with his arms spread wide in celebration. Mbappé instinctively hit the screenshot button, the "save successful" notification in the corner of his screen was somehow syncing with his racing heartbeat.
He suddenly remembered something Julien had once told him, "If you want to be a top winger, you need more than just pace. You need technique."
The image of Julien drawing two United center-backs before slipping the pass to his teammate, then ghosting into space for the rebound finish, it appeared in Mbappé's mind.
That's technique.
Not just running at full speed in a straight line.
Every time Mbappé watched Julien play, he felt the gap between them grow wider rather than narrower.
When the broadcast cut to the replay, he leaned even closer, studying every detail, even the subtle rotation of Julien's ankle as he controlled the ball.
"I'm going to become that kind of player."
His voice was quiet but absolutely resolute.
Back at Old Trafford, Liverpool's celebration concluded. Both teams returned to the center circle.
The match resumed.
Liverpool had weathered United's early pressure and seized the moment to turn the match around.
Now their tactical approach became even clearer: defend deep and strike on the counter.
It wasn't pretty to watch, but it was effective.
When Rooney knocked the ball to Giggs, Manchester United's midfield surged forward almost as one unit. Even the defensive line pushed up two yards. They clearly had no intention of accepting a 2-3 defeat.
Giggs tried to cut inside with the ball, but the moment he crossed the halfway line, Lucas closed him down. Their bodies tangled together as Giggs attempted to spin away, but Lucas stayed glued to him, eventually forcing the ball out of play.
When United winger Nani jogged over to collect it for the throw-in, he glared at Lucas and appeared to mouth something that looked like: "dirty bastard."
The moment Liverpool regained possession; Julien began his movement on the right flank.
When Sakho launched a long ball in his direction, Büttner was already closing in. The Dutch left-back clearly felt he had something to prove as Julien had torn past him twice in the first half and set up another goal in the second. Now his eyes burned with the need for redemption.
The moment Julien brought the ball down with his instep, Büttner grabbed a fistful of his shirt from behind, just subtle enough to escape the referee's notice.
Julien's center of gravity changed, his body was lurching slightly off balance. He couldn't complete his next movement and was forced to poke the ball hastily toward Henderson in support.
As Julien straightened up, Büttner deliberately brushed against him, his was voice low and laced with provocation: "You're not getting past me anymore."
Julien didn't respond. He simply stared at Büttner's back, something cold was flickering in his eyes. He smoothed down the creases in his shirt where it had been pulled.
Less than five minutes later, Julien took his revenge and he didn't hold back.
When Liverpool advanced again, Gerrard spread the ball out to the right. Julien collected it and deliberately slowed his pace, gently rolling the ball back and forth under his foot.
Büttner lunged forward aggressively, determined to win the ball, his body was committed and his center of gravity pushed forward.
Julien suddenly stepped his right foot across the ball as if to push it down the line, drawing Büttner's weight to that side. Then Julien's left hand came up, palm pressing lightly against Büttner's forearm, it was a subtle contact that locked Büttner's momentum just long enough for Julien to flick the ball inside with his left foot.
As he dropped his shoulder and accelerated past Büttner's left side, Julien's right knee nudged into the back of Büttner's calf muscle, it was not hard, but precisely placed on a sensitive spot.
Büttner's leg buckled. He stumbled and nearly dropped to his knees, instinctively reaching out to grab Julien's shirt again.
But Julien had anticipated it. He leaned deliberately into Büttner's grasping hand, even letting his shoulder brush against Büttner's chest, while simultaneously using his trailing foot to clip Büttner's ankle.
It all happened in a fraction of a second. The referee only saw Büttner clutching Julien's shirt, he completely missed the concealed knee and the subtle trip.
Julien let his momentum carry him into an exaggerated stumble, his left hand was clutching the pulled cloth of his shirt. When he looked up at the referee, his expression was showing a kind of pain with innocence.
Clattenburg caught the moment and immediately blew his whistle, jogging over while waving a finger at Büttner, "Control yourself! Another one like that and you're getting a card!"
Büttner protested desperately while clutching his calf, "Ref! He kneed me! And tripped me!"
Julien spread his hands in apparent bewilderment, shaking his head at the Ref.
Suárez trotted over to add his voice to the discussion, muttering in the referee's ear, "He's been pulling Julien's shirt all match. He tripped him in the first half too!"
Büttner wanted to argue further, but the threat of a yellow card silenced him.
He knew, though. That little bastard had played him.
________________________________________________________
Check out my patreon where you can read more chapters:
patreon.com/LorianFiction
Thanks for your support!