On the pitch, only after Sturridge had remained motionless for nearly a full minute did the referee finally blow his whistle, halting play.
Liverpool's dical staff grabbed their kit bag and sprinted onto the field.
The Etihad crowd responded with a chorus of cruel boos and jeers. Sections of City supporters shouted mocking comnts:
"Get up! Stop wasting ti—you've got a bus to catch back to Liverpool!"
"Trying to slow down the ga? Pathetic!"
"Typical Liverpool! Looking for penalties they didn't earn!"
The team doctor knelt beside Sturridge, conducting a careful examination. When his fingers gently probed the ankle area, Sturridge grimaced in pain, gritting his teeth, trying not to cry out.
After nearly two minutes of assessnt, the doctor stood up and turned toward the Liverpool bench. He made a clear gesture with both hands his index finger forming a circle.
Sturridge couldn't continue.
As the dical staff helped him to his feet and supported him off the pitch, Sturridge kept glancing back toward the field, his eyes were full of frustration and regret. He wanted to be out there.
Klopp watched the scene unfold. He bit down hard on his back teeth.
The volcanic rage from monts before slowly compressed, transforming into sothing colder.
He stopped arguing with officials and turned his brain toward the imdiate problem. Sturridge was off. The double-striker system was broken. What now?
His mind raced through options, formations, personnel combinations.
Then ca clarity.
He lifted his head sharply and shouted toward the substitutes' bench, "PHILIPPE! Get ready! You're on!"
Coutinho imdiately stood and pulled off his warm-up jacket, adrenaline was beginning to flood his system.
"We're switching back to 4-2-3-1!" Klopp called out as Coutinho approached the touchline, waiting for the signal to enter. His voice was low but rapid-fire. "You take the central attacking midfield position—Julien's old role. Your job is linking play, threading through balls, controlling our attacking tempo. Keep things moving!"
He grabbed Coutinho's shoulder, making direct eye contact.
"Julien stays on the left wing. He keeps attacking their right side with his dribbling, stretching them, creating space centrally. Make sure you combine with him. Understand?"
Coutinho nodded firmly, his eyes were intense with focus. "Understood!"
Within monts, Coutinho jogged onto the pitch. He quickly talked with Gerrard, exchanging a few words about positioning and responsibilities. Then he turned toward the left flank, catching Julien's eye, gesturing to communicate the tactical adjustnt.
Their eyes t across the pitch. No words were needed. The understanding was already quite there.
"Liverpool forced into a substitution! Their situation has beco incredibly difficult!" Martin Tyler's voice showed sympathy for the Reds.
"Not only are they trailing 3-1, but now Sturridge is injured and off the pitch. Their entire tactical setup has been disrupted. This effectively gives Manchester City breathing room and ti to adjust to Liverpool's second-half changes!"
He paused, consulting his notes.
"Pellegrini's team just needs to maintain their composure, control the tempo, and capitalize on counterattacking opportunities to keep the pressure on. For Liverpool to take any points from the Etihad now looks extraordinarily difficult!"
Tyler's tone grew more somber. "The consecutive setbacks like this is what destroys a team's morale completely. The question now is whether Liverpool can withstand this psychological pressure..."
But Tyler's concerns were premature.
The consecutive frustrations hadn't broken Liverpool's spirit. Instead, they'd ignited a deep-seated toughness that Klopp had been cultivating since his arrival.
Every player on the pitch was channeling their anger into determination, converting rage into aggression.
Back in Liverpool, the Boot Room pub had fallen into chaos.
"WHAT KIND OF FUCKING REFEREE IS THIS?!" A fan with beard slamd his palm on the table hard enough to make glasses jump, pointing furiously at the screen. "Lescott went straight through him! That's a clear, obvious, malicious foul! No penalty?! And now Sturridge's injured?! This is ho-field bias at its absolute worst!"
Voices erupted around him in angry agreents.
"We're already two goals down, and now we've lost a starting forward! How are we supposed to win this?!"
"Is our winning streak really going to end at the Etihad like this?!"
Anxiety hung over the pub like a dark cloud. Fans sat with furrowed brows, eyes glued to the screen showing Coutinho entering the match showing expressions heavy with worry and frustration.
Then one voice cut through the despair.
"WHY ARE YOU ALL PANICKING?!"
The fan who'd been preaching faith in Julien earlier shot to his feet, shouting loud enough to silence the surrounding conversations. "Look at our players on that pitch! Is ANYONE giving up? Is anyone's head down?!"
He pointed at the screen.
"Gerrard's still fighting! Julien's still attacking! Coutinho's just co on! This is LIVERPOOL! We don't fear desperate situations! Istanbul 2005—we were down 3-0 and ca back to win the Champions League! Right now it's only 3-1, and we've got forty minutes left! What are we afraid of?!"
The words struck like a match to kindling.
"YOU'RE RIGHT! COBACK MODE!"
"CO ON, JULIEN! CO ON, LIVERPOOL! WE BELIEVE!"
The chanting resud filling every corner of the pub. Even those who'd been sick with worry sat up straighter, locked their eyes on the screen, and chose—despite everything—to have faith in their team.
And that faith was about to be rewarded.
57th minute.
Liverpool won possession in City's half. Henderson executed a pass, sending the ball down the left flank directly into Julien's path.
Zabaleta had been anticipating exactly this. He imdiately closed down the space, positioning his body to cut off the inside channel, preventing Julien from cutting centrally toward goal.
But Julien had no intention of going inside—not yet.
His left foot pushed the ball forward toward the byline, his body was surging after it, every movent was indicating he intended to beat Zabaleta on the outside with pure speed.
Zabaleta reacted instinctively, shifting his positioning to block the touchline run.
That was the opening.
In that fraction of a second when Zabaleta committed to block the outside, Julien exploded into action. His left foot chopped across the ball, dragging it sharply back inside. His body executed a violent change of direction—lodging, twisting, accelerating—forcing his way into the penalty area from the left side.
Zabaleta scrambled to recover, trying desperately to stay with the movent.
His defensive work was actually excellent—he'd read the situation well, positioned himself correctly initially. But today, against Julien, he might as well have been a training cone.
By the ti he'd turned his body to track the inside cut, Julien had already accelerated past him, creating separation through sheer explosive power.
Yaya Touré imdiately moved to provide cover, recognizing the danger.
Julien's peripheral vision caught Suárez making an intelligent run across the penalty area, dragging Kompany with him. In that instant, Julien lifted his left foot as if preparing to pass horizontally.
Both Yaya and Kompany reacted to the threat, instable their weight and began positioning body toward the center, looking to cut off the passing lane to Suárez.
The fake worked perfectly.
As their centers of gravity moved, Julien executed the disguise. His left foot, which had appeared ready to pass, instead just grazed the ball slightly, setting it up. His right foot imdiately followed—striking through the ball.
There was no intricate backswing, no announced preparation, just pure, instinctive finishing.
The entire shooting motion took perhaps a third of a second.
CRACK!
Yaya stood directly in front of Julien, blocking most of the goal. Julien had maybe half a body-width of space to work with.
But the ball lifted imdiately off the turf, spinning viciously, curling from the left side of the penalty area toward the far post—a perfectly executed inside-foot finish bending away from Hart's reach.
Hart launched himself desperately, extending every muscle to maximum length, his fingers stretching toward the ball's trajectory—
He didn't even graze it.
SWISH!
The ball hamred into the side netting, the goal was shaking from the impact.
Goal!
3-2.
"WORLD-CLASS! ABSOLUTE WORLD-CLASS! JULIEN! JULIEN AGAIN!" Martin Tyler's voice completely lost all composure, pure excitent was flooding through his tone.
"Forces his way inside! Fake pass, real shot! The execution is PERFECTION! That curling finish into the far corner—there's nothing Joe Hart could do! THREE-TWO! Liverpool pull another goal back—the match is alive!"
Julien didn't engage in wild celebration. He simply turned toward the away section, raising one fist in acknowledgnt of the four thousand traveling fans screaming.
Then he spun and sprinted back toward the center circle.
One goal from level. One goal from the record.
The team ca first. But the history was there, tantalizingly close.
Gerrard was the first teammate to reach him, slapping his hand in celebration. The others followed—fists pumping, smiles breaking through, all jogging together toward the halfway line.
They'd scored again. The deficit was just one goal now.
And the belief—that conviction that they could complete the coback—was burning brighter than ever.
On the touchline, Klopp finally released everything he'd been holding back.
He pumped both fists violently toward the sky, screaming hoarsely, "BEAUTIFUL! JULIEN! EXACTLY LIKE THAT! KEEP GOING!"
Buvač jumped up beside him and the two n began embracing tightly, feeding off each other's excitent.
The Boot Room pub absolutely detonated.
The fans who'd been consud with worry seconds earlier were now on their feet, screaming at the top of their lungs.
"JULIENLLL!! JULIEN IS OUR KING!"
"I TOLD YOU! I BLOODY TOLD YOU HE'D SAVE US! ONE MORE! JUST ONE MORE TO EQUAL THE RECORD!"
"3-2! WE'RE RIGHT BACK IN THIS! CO ON! ONE MORE FOR THE EQUALIZER!"
"RED ARMY! RED ARMY! JULIEN! JULIEN! JULIEN!"
The competing chants rged into beautiful chaos, drowning the entire pub in noise.
Georgie watched it all from his seat. That detachnt he'd carried for so long was shifting—he could feel it changing. He found himself stirred more and more easily by Liverpool's matches. It was the feeling of being young again, watching gas that felt like life and death.
The pub's attention remained locked on the replay showing on every screen—Julien's entire sequence from receiving the ball to the finish. Each movent drew fresh roars of appreciation.
Tyler's voice accompanied the replays, still charged with excitent: "This is the value of a genuine superstar! In the most difficult circumstances, in the most hostile environnt, they RISE! 3-2, and this match is completely alive again! Julien is one goal away from the record—will he create history at the Etihad? I think we all know the answer!"
The Etihad's blue ocean had gone quieter.
City players wore expressions of disbelief and growing concern. This wasn't supposed to happen. They'd been in complete control.
Now suddenly the match was a contest again.
Pellegrini stood at the edge of his technical area, eyebrows furrowed deeply, moving quickly along the touchline to get closer to his players. He shouted instructions, gesturing frantically for them to stabilize, to regain their composure and tactical discipline.
anwhile, Liverpool's players had fire in their eyes.
Hope had returned. The coback was real, achievable, within reach.
And they weren't finished yet.
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