No one had predicted Inter Milan would concede first at home—just as no one had imagined Tottenham Hotspur would be eliminated by Bastia.
After weathering Inter's initial onslaught following the opening goal, Bastia had stopped the tide. The Nerazzurri's attacking momentum gradually withered, fading like a storm passing.
Even Inter's most devoted supporters felt a gnawing unease settling in their chests.
How could this obscure backline be so impenetrable?
Bastia's defense had not a single star name. Before this match, most couldn't have named a player in their back four. Kanté? Van Dijk? Sidibé? Perhaps Rothen rang the faintest bell—a name half-remembered, a shadow of recognition, nothing more.
Yet this anonymous defensive line had shackled Inter Milan completely.
Palacio, Kovačić, Guarin—all of them experienced the same helpless frustration that had consumed Tottenham's attackers a month earlier.
Meanwhile, as countless eyes focused on the match, the viewing experiences varied dramatically. Fans absorbed the pure spectacle of football, but other gazes were more calculating. Professional scouts and sporting directors dissected every movement, evaluating whether these players fit their club's needs.
From what they'd witnessed so far, Bastia was a treasure trove. Many clubs were already salivating, waiting impatiently for the "Bastia supermarket" to open for business.
At that moment, in Paris, at Didier Deschamps' home, Zidane had returned to France on business and stopped by to visit his old friend. Deschamps had invited him to stay and watch the match together.
Zidane had come specifically regarding Julien's matters, so he didn't decline.
Both men focused on the Bastia-Inter clash. From shortly after kickoff when Bastia scored, through the thirty minutes that followed, the smile never left Deschamps' face.
Zidane brought up the free kick again. "You're blessed. Every new skill Julien adds is another card in France's deck."
"Absolutely!" Deschamps nodded, continuing, "But Julien's most lethal weapon remains his ability to tear apart defensive lines. Look at these counterattacks—Zanetti, Cambiasso, Chivu, they are completely overwhelmed."
Zidane shook his head with a wry smile. He'd already retired, yet his former opponents were still playing. "Javier's past his prime. It's no surprise he can't keep up with Julien."
In truth, if Bastia's finishing had been sharper, they might already have scored their second goal.
"It's a shame Inter's chance conversion is so poor. That number 99, Cassano—he had a one-on-one and Martinez still saved it."
"This Argentine keeper is excellent. Wenger has an eye for talent, discovering Martinez. Too bad he lacks funds, otherwise I'd want Julien to develop at Arsenal."
Hearing this, Deschamps shook his head. "Arsenal isn't suitable for Julien. You know they sell players every year and barely reinvest."
Zidane nodded. "Of course I know. Are you thinking about Julien at Juventus?"
Deschamps smiled. Old friends understood each other's thoughts too well.
Before Deschamps could respond, Zidane was already shaking his head. "Not suitable. Serie A isn't what it was in our time. If it were, I'd have suggested it immediately. Now he's better suited for the Premier League or La Liga."
"Real Madrid?"
Zidane continued shaking his head. "He's not ready for Madrid yet. His ability is there, but not his reputation. He needs heavyweight trophies and individual honors before Madrid would commit resources to him. Plus, Madrid's currently caught in undercurrents. I understand the situation, so I won't let Julien wade into those murky waters."
Suddenly—
"JULIEN!!"
The commentator's exclamation burst from the television, both men instantly turned their attention to the screen.
They'd been watching Bastia's counterattack push forward. The commentator's cry came as Julien received De Bruyne's pass and instantly eliminated both Cambiasso and Kovačić.
As Julien received the ball, his left foot stepped back slightly on the ball, dragging it rightward from behind his body. His weight appeared to shift toward the outside.
Cambiasso immediately closed him down.
But after Julien planted his left foot, his right foot cut the ball back, then his left foot's outside swept it forward again in one fluid motion.
The ball eased perfectly through the approaching Kovačić's legs—a nutmeg.
Then Julien accelerated through the gap between both players.
This sequence didn't just stun the commentator—it drew gasps from the entire stadium.
Bastia fans watching the broadcast were beside themselves with anxiety, unable to catch the details of Julien's movement, forced to wait for the replay.
Now, no one dared blink.
All eyes were locked onto Julien's every move.
Julien's instantaneous destruction of the first defensive line shocked even Inter's players.
On the touchline, Stramaccioni's furrowed brow could have crushed a football.
Zanetti and Chivu rushed to cover. But Julien's cut inside was ruthlessly decisive!
As Julien drove along the penalty area line cutting inward, Zanetti timed his challenge perfectly and lunged for the ball.
Julien had been calculating how to beat Zanetti, but seeing him commit, he executed a simple touch-and-cut, easily evading while simultaneously creating separation.
The commentator erupted!
"Julien's footwork is too quick! For someone his height to have that kind of foot speed—it's extraordinary! Zanetti's made a critical error—he's out of position!"
Fans' tension reached breaking point. You could have stabbed them in the chest and they wouldn't have noticed—their hearts had already climbed into their throats.
Especially Bastia's supporters!
Everyone froze, every eye fixed on Julien.
At the penalty area's edge, after beating Zanetti, Julien continued cutting inside. Chivu stepped up to block. Julien immediately cocked his leg as if to shoot.
Chivu turned his back to block.
But it was a feint. Julien pushed the ball forward another step.
Again he shaped to shoot!
Lukaku had already intelligently created space. Juan Jesus slid desperately to block, and even Chivu, having just recovered his footing, threw himself into the challenge, fearing he'd be too late.
Both players formed a sliding pincer from left and right.
Even Handanović had been fooled several times, nearly committing himself from his line.
But Julien sensed the keeper's unbalanced weight.
CRACK!
After his second feint, the third attempt was genuine. His sense of goal positioning was sharp.
He struck fiercely!
The ball curled viciously toward the top corner under his instep.
No one could stop it now. Handanović flung himself desperately but came up short—not even close to a save.
WHOOSH!
Net bulging!
0-2!
Bastia had doubled their lead. Julien with a brace!
At that moment, on the distant Corsican Island, Bastia's fans erupted into absolute pandemonium!
"JULIEN!"
They screamed themselves hoarse, knowing he couldn't hear them but screaming anyway, releasing the wild joy coursing through their veins.
On the pitch, Julien wheeled away after scoring, sprinting toward the away section in the corner of the stadium.
He couldn't hear the roar echoing across Corsica, only the thundering rush of blood in his own ears.
He spread his arms wide, facing that vast blue-black ocean plunged into silence, while also facing his own small corner ignited by white away shirts.
The explosive euphoria in his chest found its outlet, transforming into a roar that pierced the skies—
"C'est moi!!"
Teammates converged from all directions, surrounding him at the center. In that brief, chaotic darkness as his teammates engulfed him, only one thought blazed crystal-clear and burning hot in his mind: This is no dream!
He stood here, truly and completely. He had conquered this place!
The stunned faces of Inter's players, every silent moment from the home supporters—it was all like the sweetest honey, nourishing his fearless pride born of youthful conquest.
This intoxication of conquest transcended any words.
At this moment, dreams once impossibly distant were crashing down upon him in the most brilliant, most savage way imaginable!
He felt an unprecedented certainty—his story had only just turned past its prologue.
The San Siro fell deeper into silence.
But the voices of Bastia's traveling support and the TF1 commentator reached fever pitch—
"Magnificent! BUUUUUT!! Julien! Again Julien! Still Julien! A brace! This is absolutely a crazy night, and this is absolutely a signature night for Julien! Compared to that free kick earlier, this breakthrough, this cut inside, this finish to the corner—this is Julien's bread and butter, his signature weapon. This is how he played in Ligue 2, and unbelievably, in the Europa League, facing the former Treble winners Inter Milan, he's doing it again!"
On the touchline, Stramaccioni's face was ashen. Though he quickly collected himself, his expression remained grave.
Only thirty-some minutes in, down two goals at home—the situation made him deeply uncomfortable.
This wasn't merely about being behind. It meant they were down on away goals as well!
He knew exactly how Tottenham had been eliminated. His mind raced through possible solutions.
Meanwhile, Hadzibegic celebrated without restraint. His tactics might be ordinary, nothing revolutionary, but he had a roster full of quality players!
Two goals down, Inter's players stood helplessly on the pitch, forced to watch their opponents celebrate freely on their own turf.
Surrounded by teammates, Julien walked toward the center circle wearing a broad smile. Along the way, he kept waving toward the away section.
Though the away end sat far from the pitch, he knew they were there, watching him always.
Soon the match resumed.
Inter raised their attacking intensity slightly, but that was all. They still couldn't breach Bastia's defensive wall.
When stoppage time ended, the referee's whistle blew.
Halftime.
No one had anticipated this scoreline. Perhaps some had thought Bastia might score twice, but absolutely no one expected Inter to be held scoreless.
After examinations by both Tottenham and Inter—traditional powerhouses—Bastia's defense was increasingly entering the radar of numerous clubs.
Inter's fans were surely dejected, Stramaccioni especially. As he walked from the bench to the dressing room, he'd already organized his thoughts and knew what needed to be said.
He wasted no words, and spoke directly. "Alright, gentlemen, heads up. No hanging your heads. There's still forty-five minutes left. This isn't the end of the world, but this scoreline—"
Stramaccioni shook his head slightly. "This scoreline is unacceptable, especially at the Meazza, especially when we controlled the match."
He had his assistant bring over the tactical board displaying several statistics. He showed them to the players.
"Look at these—possession percentage, shots, corners... These numbers should have produced goals, not a 0-2 deficit! Where's the problem? Efficiency! Absolute efficiency problem!"
His gaze swept to Inter's attacking players. "How many times did we push into their final third? How many times did we create space on the flanks, in the half-spaces? But look at the result—terrible decision-making!"
Stramaccioni's eyes sharpened, particularly focusing on his two forwards.
"Cassano, that one-on-one chance—with your technical ability, you should have slotted it home easily."
"And you, Rodrigo—your point-blank effort in the box, where was the power? The angle?! Against Bastia's giant goalkeeper, hitting it mid-height is gifting him the save! You need angles, precision, decisiveness!"
"Second half, I need you to be ruthless! Like assassins! Opportunities are earned through effort, not squandered!"
He reiterated his pre-match attacking instructions, emphasizing that players must execute them precisely.
In Stramaccioni's vision, the situation should never have devolved like this.
Then he addressed the two goals conceded.
"As for those two goals—the first, De Rocca's free kick, that's on me. I must admit this. I failed in pre-match intelligence. We didn't know De Rocca had that weapon. Handanović did his best—you can't stop a dead-ball strike like that."
"But the second one!"
"Look at the replay! Javier, you got skinned alive! Why commit so easily? Everyone knows De Rocca's pace! Your job is to contain, delay, call for cover! Chivu was right there! And throughout the half, don't you think our defense looked panicked? An 18-year-old kid repeatedly broke through our entire right flank..."
Inter's players sat in silence, unable to refute. The facts spoke for themselves.
Though Bastia's attacking chances were limited, each one had left Inter's defense in disarray.
Stramaccioni didn't dwell on it, moving to defensive adjustments.
"Listen! That kid De Rocca will keep coming second half. Javier, I need you more focused, reduce your forward runs. When he starts his sprint, Esteban, you must immediately compress the space! Don't let him build momentum! Tactical fouls if necessary..."
The atmosphere in Bastia's dressing room, on the other side of the tunnel, couldn't have been more different.
Hadzibegic spent the entire time praising his players' performance—aggressive in attack, solid in defense, keep it up. That was essentially his message.
After a few brief words, he mostly urged them to rest while they could. Defending was exhausting work.
Players chatted among themselves, faces bearing expressions that said, "We're actually this good?"
They'd genuinely put Inter to 2-0 at the San Siro.
Though Bastia's squad had changed dramatically this season, loyalists like Angoula, Choplin, and Cahuzac still held starting positions. These men had been Championnat National and Ligue 2 players not long ago.
In the corner, Angoula, a faint scar still visible near his brow from the Tottenham match, unscrewed a water bottle and sipped slowly. Those eyes that had witnessed the muddy pitches of the Championnat National and the storms of Ligue 2 swept across the dressing room.
His gaze passed over teammates panting but grinning beside him.
A powerful wave of wonder and warmth crashed over him.
Once, he, Cahuzac, and Choplin had battled bloodily for promotion spots. Back then, their dressing rooms had reeked of survival desperation, match-result anxiety, outcome-uncertainty panic.
Yet now, in the world-famous San Siro sanctuary, these aging veterans were dancing on the Europa League's center stage alongside these youngsters!
Reflecting on his first twenty years, Angoula's mouth curled into a smile.
Who could have imagined that a kid orphaned at eight, a Muay Thai fighter at thirteen, imprisoned at twenty, someone who'd never had proper football academy training—who could have predicted he'd become a starting defender for a Europa League Round of 16 team at thirty-one?
Angoula's gaze found Julien.
He appreciated Julien deeply. He understood him.
Perhaps because they'd both been in prison. Perhaps because they'd both begun radically different lives after release.
So, whenever Julien faced provocation or targeting on the pitch, Angoula was always first to intervene, to protect him.
Seeing Julien felt like seeing his younger self.
Of course, Julien possessed far greater talent, he had a much higher ceiling.
Angoula wanted to safeguard this kid. Consider it protecting that drifting young version of himself.
Julien felt someone watching him. He turned, meeting Angoula's eyes.
Both smiled.
Julien turned back as De Bruyne continued talking. "...that ball was genuinely beautiful. Really excellent. Keep this up and I'll have nothing left to teach you."
They'd been discussing Julien's free kick.
Julien smiled. "Never happen. I can't learn your passing."
De Bruyne didn't believe him. "Because you play winger, I believe if you want to transition to a playmaker, you can definitely develop your passing skills?"
Julien remained noncommittal.
He'd noticed De Bruyne increasingly mythologized him, believing he could accomplish anything.
Soon, halftime ended.
Both teams returned to the pitch carrying their managers' instructions.
After entering the field, Zanetti studied Julien intently.
This coming August, Zanetti would turn forty. Since arriving from Argentina, he'd devoted everything to this club.
Currently at eight hundred appearances—Inter's all-time record holder! Surpassing club legends like Bergomi, Facchetti, and Mazzola.
And he continued extending that record.
He'd witnessed countless talents in Serie A—Maradona, Batistuta, Van Basten, Baggio, Ronaldo... too many to count, all extraordinarily gifted.
Now De Rocca gave him a familiar feeling.
Zanetti called this sensation "superstar aura." Barring catastrophe, De Rocca would become a generational answer at the striker position.
Perhaps the answer.
After marking Julien for a half, Zanetti understood how difficult the youngster was to contain.
Twenty years of professional experience couldn't match a genius's flash of inspiration.
Soon, as players returned to the center circle, the referee blew his whistle.
TWEET!
Second half underway!
________________________________________________________
Check out my patreon where you can read more chapters:
patreon.com/LorianFiction
Thanks for your support!