anwhile, back at Anfield itself, the post-match atmosphere was filled with celebration and satisfaction.
Outside in the stadium, fans continued their jubilant songs, unwilling to leave, wanting to extend the mont indefinitely.
Inside the ho dressing room, players ca in gradually—so still pulling off boots in the tunnel, others having lingered on the pitch acknowledging fans, everyone carrying that particular post-victory glow.
Faces still wet with sweat, smiles impossible to suppress despite exhaustion, the emotional high of comprehensive victory mixing with relief that the pre-Christmas schedule was finally complete.
Soone, probably one of the kit staff, embracing the holiday spirit had placed a small Christmas tree ornant on the corner shelf unit, decorated with tiny red Liverpool crest baubles, LED lights blinking festively.
Julien found himself imdiately surrounded by Sterling and Coutinho, both bouncing with that teenage/early-20s energy.
Sterling jabbed an elbow into Julien's ribs playfully: "Just three left! Three! Next match against City—you gonna break it there? At the Etihad? That'd be perfect! Break Shearer's record on City's ground!"
Julien waved them off with a smile, "We win the match first, then let's see about records. These things happen naturally or they don't. Can't force it."
He shook his head with helpless amusent. Why did everyone act like scoring goals was as simple as breathing? Like he could just will three goals into existence against elite opposition?
That's Manchester City we're playing. Not Cardiff. City. Agüero, Silva, Kompany, Yaya Touré. You don't just casually score three against them because you feel like it.
Suárez who understood goal-scoring's difficulty better than most walked over and clapped Julien on the shoulder.
"Right ntality. But—" he grinned. "—I still think you'll manage it at the Etihad."
Everyone laughed, the confidence was infectious.
Gerrard stood slightly apart, leaning casually against his locker, watching his teammates' banter with an expression of deep satisfaction.
This—this particular scene, this specific group of players, this feeling in the dressing room was what he'd waited his entire career to experience consistently.
He let them enjoy the mont for a while longer then stepped forward and clapped his hands sharply twice.
CLAP! CLAP!
The room gradually quieted, conversations trailing off, all eyes turning to the captain.
"Lads—" he smiled broadly. "—5-0! Absolutely brilliant! Perfect performance!
We've ended all our pre-Christmas fixtures with a perfect victory, temporarily sitting top of the table. What better Christmas gift could anyone ask for?"
Players nodded, faces showing pride and satisfaction. Damn right that was a good Christmas gift.
"But—" Gerrard's tone shifted, becoming more serious, more intense. "—I need to say sothing important:
"This is a milestone. Not the destination. Not the finish line. The Christmas break gives us a chance to recover. Four days to rest properly, spend ti with your families, recharge batteries.
"But—" his gaze swept the room, making eye contact with each player in turn "—don't forget for one second what cos next:
One day after Christmas, we travel to the Etihad to face Manchester City.
Three days after that, Stamford Bridge against Chelsea.
Those two matches will define our season. Not tonight's 5-0. Not our current position. Those two tests against direct title rivals, both away from ho, both against world-class opposition.
His gaze swept the room. "Skrtel's injured. Our defense is stretched thin. We'll need people to step up, to cover gaps, to stand firm when the pressure cos. We're the Premier League's focus now. Every team will raise their ga against us. Every opponent will give maximum effort to knock us off our perch."
"But—" He smiled again. "—I believe in every single one of you. I believe in this team, this squad, this group of players. If we maintain tonight's unity, tonight's focus, tonight's commitnt, Nothing can stop us."
He paused, letting that sink in, then his expression ward.
"rry Christmas, lads.
This is our season. Our ti. The season we've fought for together, suffered together, grown together. This is the season full of hope and possibility and genuine championship credentials.
Enjoy the holiday. You've earned it. Spend ti with loved ones. Eat too much. Rest properly. But rember to stay sharp, stay ready. After Christmas, we reunite and continue the battle. Side by side.
For Liverpool. For the championship we all crave."
He raised his fist.
Every player in the room rose imdiately: "LIVERPOOL! LIVERPOOL! LIVERPOOL!"
Outside the dressing room door, Klopp had been standing quietly for several minutes, listening to Gerrard's speech through the partially open entrance.
He'd deliberately waited—giving his captain space to lead, recognizing that sotis the best managent was knowing when not to manage, when to let natural leaders do what they did best.
When Gerrard finished and the chant died down, Klopp pushed through the door and entered.
He didn't need lengthy speeches. Gerrard had said everything essential. But he wanted to add his voice, to emphasize certain points, to bind the team's ambition to his own vision.
"So, lads—enjoy Christmas. But don't lose sight of what we're after.
Championships!
We want the Premier League trophy. We want the League Cup. We want every single piece of silverware available to us!
We ca to Liverpool—all of us, together—to win things. Not to finish top four. Not to 'have a good season.' To WIN. To accumulate trophies. To make history."
His voice rose.
"RRY CHRISTMAS EVERYONE!
Rest well! Recover properly! Then return ready to fight! Ready to suffer! Ready to dominate!
CO ON LIVERPOOL!"
"CO ON!" The response was instant, unanimous, deafening.
Every face wore a smile. Every player looked ready to run through walls.
And Gerrard—veteran of so many disappointing seasons, so many false dawns, so many broken promises smiled more broadly than he had in years.
If this Liverpool—with Julien and Suárez and Sturridge and Sterling and Coutinho and himself and Klopp's tactics and the fans' passion—if THIS Liverpool couldn't win sothing significant?
Then Gerrard genuinely didn't know what Liverpool would need to win trophies.
This was it. This was the shot. Maybe the last great shot of his career.
And God, it felt good to finally, finally believe.
After the match concluded—Julien didn't linger in Liverpool.
He took advantage of the rare four-day Christmas break to imdiately fly back to Paris, to spend ti with family, to briefly escape the intensity of the Premier League grind.
He also needed to visit Fontenay-sous-Bois that had originally been scheduled for after Christmas. With back-to-back crunch fixtures coming up, there simply wouldn't be ti then, so he pushed it forward.
The Christmas break offered four days total. But even that wasn't full rest.
Christmas Day evening, Julien would have to fly back to England—specifically to Manchester—to et his teammates at the team hotel, because the Boxing Day fixture against City kicked off December 26th.
Barely 24 hours after Christmas dinner.
The schedule was genuinely brutal. Inhumane, arguably.
But this was the Premier League. This was English football's particular brand of Christmas masochism. This was the tradition everyone complained about and nobody changed.
When Julien's flight touched down in Paris late that night, the house was dark and quiet. Everyone had already gone to bed.
Only his parents and Élodie were ho. His siblings and extended family would arrive in two days for Christmas proper.
Everyone had their own lives now. The others would arrive in a day or two for Christmas proper.
Everyone had their own lives now. A full family gathering was rare.
The next day, Julien had the unusual luxury of a day with nothing pressing to attend to.
The next day, Julien had the unusual luxury of a day with nothing pressing to attend to.
He exchanged a few ssages with Pierre—confirming they would start pursuing endorsent deals formally once the season ended and touched on the question of Player's Tribune, his content project, including whether to bring in outside investnt.
To Julien these felt like minor details compared to football.
That evening at 8:00 PM, Julien settled onto the couch in his family's living room and turned on the television.
Final matchday of this Premier League round. The marquee fixture that would determine Christmas leadership.
Arsenal vs Chelsea. The Emirates Stadium.
North London vs West London.
Wenger vs Mourinho.
The match had been hyped relentlessly in the buildup. Partially because of genuine sporting importance as both clubs were chasing Liverpool, both needing points to stay in touch.
But mostly because of José Mourinho's mouth, which never stopped creating controversy and headlines.
Pre-match, Arsène Wenger had spoken in puzzlent about Mourinho's team selection, specifically the benching of Ashley Cole:
The logic, really, was straightforward enough.
Cole was thirty-three, but he remained one of the finest left-backs in England—arguably the world. Many in the English press considered him the greatest left-back in the nation's history.
The question of whether he could beco the first Englishman to appear at four World Cups in 2014 was one the dia had largely written off.
The Daily Mail had even floated the possibility that Cole might retire in the sumr, citing sources close to the player—noting that while he hadn't decided, he had begun to question whether it was worth carrying on. Finding himself dropped to the bench at Chelsea, for the first ti since turning professional, had shaken sothing in him.
Cole had co through Arsenal's academy, of course, before his controversial move to Stamford Bridge. Wenger had spoken up for him all the sa.
"I am genuinely surprised he has been made a substitute at Chelsea. I have watched him in several important matches this season and he remains impressive. Whether he is still England's finest left-back, I cannot say—that's for Hodgson to judge."
As for Mourinho, he had dominated Wenger historically: unbeaten in their last 9 encounters. During that stretch, they'd clashed repeatedly both on the touchline and in press conferences.
Mourinho had once claid he could "compile Wenger's aggressive language into a 120-page book." He'd mocked Wenger as a "voyeur" for supposedly watching Chelsea training. The insults had been constant and creative.
Now, as their teams prepared to et again, Mourinho had dropped the dramatic swagger—at least slightly. "This is not a war between and Wenger. It is simply Chelsea against Arsenal. Past records and statistics an nothing for tomorrow's 90 minutes. History doesn't win matches.
What I will say is that we used to play better than this, and we deserved to win more than we did—and in fact we did win. The one result I rember going wrong was a draw at ho, when Essien equalized late. That's the only one I'll grant them."
Julien spent the evening gleefully watching the London derby serve up its drama—Wenger and Mourinho in their pri, so vivid, so combative, so magnificently insufferable. How different they seed from the diminished, worn figures he'd known from the era after the pandemic.
Julien, watching from his Paris couch, couldn't have asked for a better outco.
He shook his head.
The match ended: nil-nil.
Which made it the best possible result for Liverpool.
The draw handed them the top of the table outright. Liverpool were the Premier League's Christmas champions.
But the drama didn't end with the scoreline. The match had been absolutely chaotic.
The referee for this London derby was Mike Dean—a na that made Arsenal supporters' blood pressure spike on sight.
Dean had a docunted history of questionable decisions in Arsenal matches. Missed calls that hurt the Gunners. Controversial interpretations that favored opponents. A pattern suspicious enough to generate genuine conspiracy theories among Arsenal fans.
And sure enough, tonight Dean lived up (or down) to his reputation:
Missed penalty for Arsenal: Clear foul in the box, ignored completely
Missed red card for Mikel: Reckless stamp on Arteta's ankle, only yellow shown
The combination nearly sparked a full brawl. Players from both sides were confronting each other, shoving, shouting. Coaches were screaming at the fourth official. Dean was losing control of the match.
Sohow he managed to restore order without sending anyone off.
After the final whistle, both managers held press conferences dripping with subtext and accusations.
Wenger led with his grievances about officiating.
"That was a penalty. Clear penalty. If I'm wrong, I'll publicly apologize, but I haven't seen the replay yet to confirm what was obvious from the touchline.
I understand why Chelsea people think the referee perford well tonight. They benefited from his decisions. But I strongly disagree with that assessnt.
The Mikel incident should've been a red card. The penalty should've been awarded. Those decisions change matches. Change seasons potentially."
His frustration was obvious despite his polite phrasing.
Mourinho, anwhile, reverted fully to his "Special One" arrogance in the post-match presser.
"Arsenal love crying like won. Always complaining, always looking for excuses. I prefer the English ntality: even if you're hurt, even with rough contact, even if opponents provoke you—get up and continue playing. That's English football. That's what I respect.
As for the league table—okay, fine, we're not Christmas champions this year. But we're improving dramatically compared to last season.
Last season at this stage? We'd already lost realistic title hopes. Twelve points behind the leader. Out of the race.
Now? We're only 3 points behind Liverpool. Three! United and Spurs have fallen out of the top four. The title race is wide open. Of course we can win it. Especially when you contextualize where we were versus where we are. The trajectory is clear.
Liverpool had a great first half of the season. Congratulations to them for that. But seasons are 38 matches long. Let's see who's standing at the end."
Julien put his phone down and began getting ready for bed, still smiling at the spectacle—Wenger and Mourinho at each other's throats, larger than life, gloriously themselves. Such a different world from what ca after.
He exhaled slowly.
Tomorrow morning, he was up early. There was still Fontenay-sous-Bois to visit before Christmas was over.
________________________________________________________
Check out my patreon where you can read more chapters:
patreon/LorianFiction
Thanks for your support!
User Comments
0 comments from readers