"What's your favorite song?" the reporter asked.
"Ce train qui s'en va," Julien replied without hesitation.
The reporter's eyebrows lifted in genuine surprise. "I didn't expect you to like such an old song, but it's truly beautiful—the best of Hélène Ségara. There's sothing tiless about it, isn't there? So, who's your favorite footballer?"
Julien's eyes lit up with a gleam. "Hagi from Romania."
"Gheorghe Hagi!" The reporter's voice rose with enthusiasm. "He scored an absolutely stunning goal in the World Cup—that thunderbolt from thirty yards that left goalkeepers grasping at shadows. I thought you'd prefer Ronaldinho with his samba magic, or perhaps Maradona with his divine left foot, Zidane with his ballet-like grace..."
"It was precisely that World Cup long-range strike that made fall in love with him," Julien said, his hands unconsciously mimicking the motion of Hagi's legendary shot. "The Carpathian Maradona—they called him that for good reason. Pure poetry in motion."
The reporter leaned forward, sensing this would make for compelling copy. "Alright, one final question, and this is the one our readers are dying to know the answer to. You boldly told the fans you'd bring Bastia a championship. Do you genuinely believe Bastia will achieve the double this season?"
Julien's response ca resolute and unwavering: "Yes!"
"Thank you, Julien. You've been absolutely wonderful," said reporter Dinard, extending a hand.
As a passionate Bastia fan himself, he couldn't suppress the boyish grin that spread across his face after finishing his professional duties. "I hope you don't mind saying, but I'm actually a trendous fan of yours. Could we perhaps take a photograph together, and would you be so kind as to sign sothing for ?"
Taking advantage of work opportunities to chase stars—nothing inherently wrong with that, surely? After all, it wasn't interfering with the integrity of his journalism.
"Of course," Julien replied easily.
They posed for several shots, Julien's arm draped casually around the reporter's shoulders while cara flashes illuminated their faces against the backdrop of the training ground's floodlights.
Then Julien signed his na on the number 29 Bastia jersey that Dinard had optimistically brought along.
"You know, you have genuinely beautiful handwriting," Dinard complinted as he received the signed shirt, holding it up to catch the light. "It's refreshing, really."
He'd encountered far too many players whose signatures resembled nothing more than careless scribbles—indecipherable scratches that showed either laziness or a complete disconnect from their supporters.
Julien's signature, by contrast, was clearly sothing he'd practiced with care.
After packing up his recording equipnt and tucking away his notepad, Dinard gestured toward his colleague's cara with excitent. "We'll be there in the stands to witness what we all hope will be your championship celebration the day after tomorrow."
Julien's gaze swept across his teammates, who had been observing the impromptu interview with a mixture of amusent and anticipation. "Well, when you're filming, make sure you capture them looking handso. They look hungry."
The entire group erupted into laughter, montarily releasing so of the tension that had been building for weeks.
The day after tomorrow would bring their pivotal ho match in Ligue 2's 34th round against Châteauroux—a fixture that could very well seal their championship destiny.
The players were undeniably nervous, but this wasn't the familiar pre-match jitters that ca first before encounters with superior opposition. This anxiety stemd from sothing far deeper: their desperate, almost painful desire for a specific result that had evaded this club for years.
These were two entirely different breeds of nervousness—one born of fear, the other of overwhelming hope.
Although Châteauroux had a long history—the club had been established way back in 1883 during the early pioneering days of French football—they had never managed to make significant waves in the national Football. Their only mont of genuine glory had co in the 1996/97 season when they claid the Ligue 2 championship, a achievent that remained their crowning mont still more than a decade later.
Florent Malouda, currently dazzling crowds in the Premier League with Chelsea's royal blue, was perhaps the most genuinely elite player Châteauroux had ever nurtured through their academy system in their entire 125-year existence.
Born in Cayenne, the capital of French Guiana, Malouda had received his youth training in the local academies before being discovered by Châteauroux's scouts that launched his career trajectory toward the pinnacles of European football.
From that modest beginning, his ascent had been unstoppable: a crucial transfer to Olympique Lyonnais, where he beca an indispensable midfielder in their unprecedented seven-consecutive-championship dynasty, though he primarily operated as a fleet-footed winger who could slice through defenses like a hot knife through butter.
Following the triumphant 2006/07 season, Malouda had captured the prestigious Ligue 1 Player of the Year award. Chelsea had subsequently acquired his services for approximately 20 million euros.
This current season, Châteauroux had spent most of their campaign nervously glancing over their shoulders at the relegation zone, barely managing to secure enough points to ensure their survival in France's second tier. They were definitively not a formidable opponent for a team having championship ambitions.
The Bastia players' nervousness stemd from an entirely different source: their intense, almost desperate desire to finally bring ho that elusive championship trophy that had mockingly evaded them for years. Their trophy room, with its sparse contents and echoing emptiness, desperately needed a prestigious new addition.
Bastia had endured considerable turmoil over the decades, particularly during the devastating fire of 1990 when their historic office building had collapsed in a catastrophic blaze that seed to symbolize the club's perpetual struggles.
The precious trophies and even cherished match-worn jerseys stored within those walls had been either consud by flas or buried beneath tons of debris.
After clearing most of the charred rubble and debris, the club had constructed their current office building on the exact sa site, as if refusing to surrender the ground where so much history had been written.
The modern trophy room now contained only two official pieces of silverware: the modest 1997 UEFA Intertoto Cup—a competition that most football purists barely recognized as legitimate—and the previous season's Championnat National trophy, their ticket back to professional football's second tier.
This season represented their golden opportunity to add a genuinely significant new mber to that sparsely populated trophy cabinet.
However, not every player was overwheld by pre-match anxiety—most notably Julien and the experienced Rothen, who approached the upcoming fixture with distinctly different mindsets.
Julien felt that this season's Ligue 2 championship was well within their grasp. Even if they didn't secure it in this match, so what? There were still four gas remaining. Could they really lose them all?
As for Rothen, he had experienced plenty of big occasions during his ti at Monaco and Paris, winning nurous championships. He'd even played in the Champions League and for the national team.
Coach Hadzibegic didn't say much about anything beyond this match. He simply emphasized repeatedly during training: "Focus on defense! Pay attention to your defensive positioning!"
He was treating this ga as the final warm-up before facing Lyon. This was their last training opportunity!
Against Lyon, Hadzibegic had already decided they would play defensively, so he absolutely had to get the defensive side right.
As for the attack, he had only one tactical approach.
When persistent reporters pressed him about his tactical innovations during pre-match interviews, Hadzibegic's response carried a teasing, almost mischievous quality: "You want to know about my tactics? I'll give you the only answer that matters: pass the ball to Julien and get out of his way."
Julien continued his thodical training, laughing and joking with his teammates as they prepared for the match.
While warming up, Julien thought about their current points situation. In the previous two matches, he had only gained 6 victory points—3 points per win, which was far too few. His total was now only 31 points, still far from the victory treasure chest.
He wondered whether winning this championship-deciding match might yield more points. And what about the French Cup match against Lyon—how many points would a victory there bring?
Naturally, his thoughts also drifted to the constant stream of information his father regularly shared: this prominent club had made discreet inquiries, that renowned coach had placed personal phone calls, various sporting directors had expressed serious interest.
The nurous dia outlets that fed greedily off transfer speculation surrounding Julien could easily compile their endless reports into a comprehensive special feature titled "Where Will De Rocca's Journey Take Him Next?"—a question that seed to generate more headlines with each passing week.
Julien wasn't alone in his ntal wandering—during their warm-up routines, almost every player's mind drifted toward concerns beyond the imdiate tactical preparations, their thoughts pulled between present responsibilities and future possibilities.
Inside the Bastia training facility, the atmosphere maintained a curious blend of nervous tension and professional orderliness, with players and staff going through their established routines while everyone silently acknowledged what lay ahead.
But outside Bastia, boiling currents of excitent flowed ceaselessly through the sea waters, streets, taverns, and beaches of the city.
The local Bastia police force had prudently requested substantial reinforcents from every other Corsican police station, with additional officers being deployed throughout the city to maintain public order during what promised to be an emotionally charged evening.
Only those law enforcent officials who had worked Bastia matches truly understood the passionate intensity of the local supporters and the creative extres they might pursue to express their devotion.
These weren't casual fans who attended matches for weekend entertainnt—these were genuine fanatics whose emotional well-being rose and fell with their team's fortunes.
Fireworks displays? Those represented just the opening course of their celebratory nu.
If legal constraints didn't exist, these supporters would gladly set the iconic Notre-Da Cathedral ablaze if it ant honoring a Bastia championship—their passion burned with that intensity and complete lack of proportion.
The people of Bastia embodied fanaticism in its purest form.
Even during the club's darkest periods—relegations, financial crises, administrative chaos—loyal supporters would philosophically say, "Supporting Bastia is precisely like paying a mortgage: there are several days each month when you genuinely want to end your suffering, but next month you'll inevitably continue paying for dreams that logic says are worthless."
At the atmospheric Sunset Café Bar, core mbers of the Ultras Bastia gathered around tables to plan their championship celebration.
The very thought of their preparations made Modoso tremble with excitent, but he forced himself to maintain composure while repeatedly instructing each mber seriousness: "Rember exactly what you're responsible for! This is Bastia's most significant mont in half a century! We absolutely cannot afford to ss this up!"
Modoso knew that no one could predict when Bastia's next championship opportunity would co. They were destined to lose their genius player Julien to bigger clubs and brighter lights.
"FORZA Bastia!" The rallying cry erupted from every corner of the bar.
Listening to the thunderous chants, Bertrand was already wondering what that legendary barrel of pastis that Bel had been saving would taste like when they finally had legitimate cause for celebration.
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