Hearing Dein's words, De Bruyne's gaze shifted slowly from the television screen to his face. His pale blue eyes carried layers of emotion—nostalgia, anticipation, conviction.
"When we were at Bastia," he began, "Julien told sothing I've never forgotten. He said he didn't know which club he'd transfer to next—we both knew bigger teams were watching. But he made a promise."
De Bruyne paused, a smile spreading across his face.
"He said: 'Wherever I go, I'll make sure they sign you too. Unless—unless you don't want to play with anymore.'"
His hand moved unconsciously to his coffee cup, thumb tracing the rim in slow circles.
"But how could I not want to play with him? We fought side by side at Bastia for two seasons. Our relationship beca so close we could literally wear the sa shirt size." He laughed softly at the mory. "And Julien knew—because I'd told him dozens of tis—that I'd been a Liverpool fanatic since childhood."
His father interjected with obvious pride: "Kevin used to drive absolutely mad on European nights. He'd beg to stay up late—school night, didn't matter—literally begging, to watch Liverpool play. 'Please, Papa, just this one match, I promise I'll wake up for school.' Then the next morning I'd practically have to drag him out of bed."
He chuckled, shaking his head. "He still has a photo on his phone of himself imitating Owen's celebration."
Kevin nodded, a little embarrassed but clearly touched: "It's true. Every big Liverpool match from when I was about eight or nine—I can rember where I was, who they were playing, what the result was. Champions League nights especially. That 2005 final against Milan—"
His voice dropped with awe "—I was eleven years old, watching in our living room in Drongen, absolutely convinced we'd lost at halfti when it was three-nil. My father was also consoling .
And then the coback happened. I rember jumping on our couch, screaming so loud the neighbors complained the next day."
His eyes shone with the mory. "That night made understand what football could be."
His father added, "He still has photos on his phone of himself as a skinny little boy in our back garden, recreating Michael Owen's celebrations. He studied those celebrations like so kids study video gas."
Kevin waved it off good-naturedly: "Okay, okay, we don't need to show everyone those—"
But his father was on a roll: "When Kevin was eleven, so local journalist ca to his youth academy to do a piece on promising young players. And Kevin said on cara, clear as day: 'Liverpool is my favorite club in the world. Michael Owen is my favorite player. Soday I want to play at Anfield.'"
And now that dream was on the verge of coming true.
Kevin picked up the thread again gaining conviction: "So when Julien reached out a few days ago—saying Liverpool wanted , asking if I'd be interested... there was no hesitation. None. Not a single second of doubt.
I want to co to Liverpool for multiple reasons, and they're all equally important.
First, yes—it's my childhood dream club. That history, that weight of expectation? I want it. I've been preparing for that my entire life.
But second, and just as crucial: I desperately want to win more alongside Julien specifically.
At Bastia, we won Ligue 1 together. We won the Europa League together. And those were the best monts of my football career so far. That feeling of fighting side by side through a grueling season, overcoming obstacles together, then finally lifting a trophy with your best friend?"
He paused, searching for adequate words. "It was intoxicating. Genuinely intoxicating."
His eyes brightened visibly, speech quickening with rising excitent: "And now at Liverpool—this Liverpool, specifically, the one Klopp's building—I believe we can surpass those achievents.
I want the Premier League. I want the Champions League. I want everything, alongside Julien and this brilliant squad Jürgen's assembled. Suárez is world-class. Sterling's pace is frightening. Sturridge's finishing is clinical. Gerrard's still Gerrard."
He leaned forward in passion. "This isn't just a career move, David. This is a once-in-a-lifeti opportunity to be part of sothing historic. How could I possibly say no?"
David listened to all of this with visible satisfaction, nodding along.
"Kevin, everything you just said—that's exactly why Liverpool wants you. We see your talent, your vision, your work rate. But more than that, we see the chemistry between you and Julien. Our analysis departnt has basically morized your Bastia combinations. The way you two link up, anticipate each other's movents? That's not sothing you can coach. That's organic, built through thousands of hours together.
And we see your hunger. You're not coming here for money or fa or comfort. You're coming to win. That ntality is what separates good teams from great ones."
He paused, his expression becoming more serious: "Steven Gerrard is an absolute icon. One of the greatest midfielders ever to wear the Liverpool shirt. But people age—it's inevitable. His powers are still imnse, but they won't last forever.
We need the future secured now. Julien is that future. And so are you. Together, you'll carry Liverpool forward after Steven's generation steps aside. That's our vision. That's the plan."
The conversation paused naturally as the television drew their attention back.
Halfti had ended. Players were erging from the tunnel for the second half.
The cara caught a particular image: Julien and Gerrard walking side by side through the corridor, both wearing relaxed smiles, sharing so private joke.
De Bruyne watched that image with sothing like wistfulness, his imagination was clearly operating at full capacity. He was already seeing himself there. The turf at Anfield beneath his boots. The give-and-go with Julien, perfectly tid. Tearing through defenses, one after another. And at the end of it all, lifting silverware with his teammates.
anwhile, Dein experienced his own mont of pattern recognition. And felt it too—that sa quiet current of sothing, sothing already in motion.
Because this conversation with De Bruyne? This enthusiastic, almost eager desire to join Liverpool? It wasn't unique. It was becoming the pattern.
The truth was, negotiating with these players had been almost effortless. They wanted to co.
A large part of that was Julien.
Mané had barely needed convincing: "I played with Julien at Bastia. Best teammate I ever had. When can I sign?"
Van Dijk had actually laughed when approached: "Julien already told Liverpool would co calling. I've been waiting for the phone to ring."
And Lukaku had contacted Liverpool proactively through his agent which was extrely unusual as clubs normally approached players and with a direct ssage: "I know Julien's there. I want to be part of it."
Even the French players Liverpool had scouted were eager to reunite with their national team captain.
For the first ti in Dein's experience of decades of work, and hundreds of deals—he found player-side negotiations remarkably, almost shadily simple.
Usually this phase was the hardest: convincing players to uproot their lives, to gamble on new projects. Agents demanded maximum money. Everyone hedged and played clubs off against each other for leverage.
But with Julien at Liverpool, players were basically queuing up.
Then, as Dein watched the television showing Liverpool players forming their pre-second-half huddle—shoulders linked, voices in a unified chant—a phrase from a previous conversation with Julien surfaced in his mory.
They'd been discussing squad building, and Julien had said sothing that had seed almost naive at the ti: "I don't just want talented teammates. I want brothers. People who fight for each other, who care about collective success more than individual glory. Brotherhood football—that's what wins titles."
Dein had nodded politely while thinking: 'Nice sentint. But football's a business.'
But now, watching this pattern repeat again and again with forr teammates actively seeking reunions, French internationals eager to play under their captain—Dein understood. Julien hadn't been naive. He'd been describing a competitive advantage most clubs couldn't replicate.
'So this is what Julien ans by brotherhood football.'
Three hundred miles north at Britannia Stadium, the second half whistle pierced the damp night air.
Liverpool showed absolutely no signs of complacency despite the three-goal cushion.
At the break, Klopp had been emphatic: "I don't care that we're three-nil up. We maintain our standards. No relaxation. No coasting. This is a professional performance from start to finish."
His players delivered exactly that.
Still leading 3–0, Liverpool pressed their defensive line aggressively into Stoke's half, giving the ho team no breather, no opportunity to regroup psychologically.
Stoke tried to give so response, launching long balls toward their striker in route-one football in the last resort of teams without better options. But Kanté patrolled central midfield like a patrol guard, his interceptions were chanical in their efficiency, choking off Hughes's desperate aerial strategy.
Every Stoke long ball was headed clear, the second ball fell loose, and Kanté was already there, already collecting it, already transitioning defense to attack.
anwhile Gerrard controlled the match tempo—switching play diagonally to stretch the defensive line thin, threading vertical balls through channels with surgical precision. Liverpool's attacking patterns maintained the first half's sharpness, the sa intensity, the sa ruthless efficiency.
In the stands, ho supporters' vocal support had withered to almost nothing.
The pre-match defiance had vanished. Now: mostly silence, filled by occasional sighs of resignation. Most fans simply watched the demolition with numb acceptance. A few die-hards still tried to rally—"CO ON CITY! FIGHT!" but their voices sounded hollow, already mourning rather than believing.
In the 53rd minute, Liverpool manufactured another dangerous sequence: Sturridge received on the right, cut inside, and drove a shot that Sørensen pushed away with a strong hand. The rebound fell to Suárez, arriving like a shark scenting blood, but his follow-up was blocked desperately by Huth's sliding challenge.
Corner kick.
Another scramble of bodies, another sequence of desperate defending, another near-miss.
Liverpool's attacks ca in relentless waves—each one building on the last, probing different weaknesses, the tactical variety was making them impossible to prepare for. Stoke's defense could only contract further, packing bodies on the six-yard line, hoping weight of numbers might sohow compensate for the quality gap.
But everyone knew—that the dam would break again.
The comntary had long since abandoned any pretense of drama: "This has beco a training ground exercise! Stoke's defensive line looks shell-shocked—they're piling bodies into the box hoping for the best. It's not a question of if Liverpool score again, only when."
When play arrived in the 58th minute.
Gerrard collected deep in midfield, observing with that calm born from fifteen years at the highest level. He saw what he needed: Julien beginning his run from deeper positions, timing it perfectly to exploit the gap opening between Stoke's midfield and defense.
The through ball was inch-perfect—weighted beautifully, threaded through traffic with ease.
Julien collected it on the edge of the penalty area, already moving at pace. Whelan exhausted and dispirited retreated desperately to cover, trying to force Julien wide.
But Julien chose confrontation over avoidance.
He drove directly at the defender, feinting left to pull Whelan's weight across, then dragging the ball back right with the sole of his boot—the elastico again, that signature move which had destroyed better defenders than Whelan all night.
Whelan bit completely but his montum was carrying him wrong and his balance was catastrophically lost.
In desperation—knowing he'd been beaten, knowing this was probably another goal, he extended his leg in a last-ditch attempt to hook the ball away.
The contact caught Julien's ankle cleanly.
Julien went down.
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