At this moment, France's only superstar.
Honestly, the weight of that title was almost too much to bear.
Julien lifted his head to meet Deschamps's gaze, his eyes clear and unwavering, touched with humble determination. "I'm desperate to become the true superstar you envision, but what I want even more is to be the man who can hoist France's banner and carry us forward—not for the empty glory of being called a 'superstar,' but for victories. For our shared dream: to bring the World Cup back to France."
The words came from somewhere deep and genuine.
Deschamps found himself momentarily speechless, the response catching in his throat before finally manifesting as a firm pat on Julien's shoulder. "I believe in you, Captain of France."
'Wait—what?'
Julien's surprise was obvious, his expression changed as the words registered.
Deschamps smiled, settling into the seat beside him and draping an arm across his shoulders. The morning sun at Clairefontaine poured through the windows, bathing their table in golden light, radiant as a brilliant tomorrow waiting to unfold.
Those hands that had once lifted the World Cup now rested with ceremonial severity on Julien's shoulder. "Yes, Captain of France. This isn't a prediction—it's a decision."
Deschamps didn't wait for acknowledgment. His eyes seemed to look past the present moment, gazing into memories decades old.
"More than twenty years ago, I stood where you're standing. I took the tricolor from those who came before me—that banner so impossibly light yet unbearably heavy. It took me a long time to understand: the captain's armband isn't a crown. It's a shackle. The sword of Damocles, hanging over your head every single moment."
"It demands you step forward in desperate times. To unite fractured hearts in chaos. To ignite hope in silence. The captain is the one who, when the team is down, uses nothing but his eyes and body language to tell everyone: 'Fight! This isn't over!'"
Deschamps's grip tightened on Julien's shoulder, as if attempting to physically transfer some intangible force into him.
"Julien, you possess unparalleled talent—that's beyond question. But captaincy requires far more than talent. I've watched too many geniuses flame out; too many dressing rooms tear themselves apart. I didn't want to burden you with this pressure and responsibility so soon. But I saw what you did at Bastia as captain—you were already exceptional.
And right now, France needs a standard-bearer."
He slowly raised his right hand, palm up, as though cradling an invisible armband.
"So now, I'm placing this responsibility in your hands. When you truly wear this armband, I need you to remember—"
"You no longer represent just Julien De Rocca, the player from Bastia. You represent the pride of Les Bleus, the lineage of French football—Platini, Fontaine, Zidane, Blanc, and me, Didier Deschamps. You carry the blue bloodline that stretches back decades!"
Julien drew a deep breath, the light in his eyes transforming from initial shock into something as deep and steady as the Corsican Sea.
He slowly raised his right hand, palm down, placing it firmly over Deschamps's outstretched hand.
Two hands—one old, one young. One symbolizing the past, one representing the future.
They clasped tightly together.
A transfer of captaincy between two generations of French leaders.
Julien's voice wasn't loud, but it carried absolute conviction. "Coach. Didier. I accept the burden of France's captaincy."
No extravagant promises. No grand declarations.
Just those simple words: "I accept."
Deschamps held Julien's gaze, seeing an inextinguishable flame burning there—the same fire he'd seen in his own reflection more than twenty years ago.
The corner of his mouth curved into a faint smile—one warrior's recognition of another, one captain's trust passed to his successor.
Deschamps withdrew his hand, giving Julien's shoulder one final, forceful pat, his voice low but carrying unmistakable relief. "Good."
On an ordinary training morning, just like that, Julien De Rocca became captain of the French national team.
Before training began, Deschamps announced the decision to the squad. Reactions were mixed across the group, but the vast majority had no objection to Julien becoming France's captain.
His ability spoke for itself—they all knew it closely.
Barring any unfortunate catastrophe, he would be the most reliable presence in France's attack for years to come.
Clap, clap, clap!
Kanté, Giroud, Varane, and others erupted into enthusiastic applause. They'd anticipated Julien eventually becoming national team captain—they just hadn't expected it to happen so soon.
They supported the decision wholeheartedly.
No one was better suited to wear the armband than Julien.
As for Lloris, stripped of the captaincy he'd held, there was no resentment. Julien had demonstrated exceptional talent that gained respect.
He accepted it without complaint.
In the corner, Evra—the veteran who'd served France with distinction, a former national team captain himself wore a complex expression.
He watched Julien quietly. Not with disappointment, but with a faint, knowing melancholy.
He adjusted his training kit, then slowly, almost soundlessly, raised his thumb toward Julien's direction.
No words were spoken, but the gesture said everything—recognition, blessing, and the graceful curtain call of an era.
His silhouette in the morning light carried a touch of solitude, yet also the composure and pride of an old soldier.
The younger players around him were only beginning to understand the significance of the moment.
But Evra knew: France's future had been placed in the hands of a new generation.
An era was beginning.
The captaincy announcement was merely a prelude to training.
Soon they dove into the session proper.
For this camp, France's preparations were built entirely around facing Spain—they barely considered Georgia a threat worth detailed planning.
After training concluded, Deschamps distributed materials about Georgia's squad to the players—analyze it yourselves, he seemed to say. Most of his emphasis focused on notes and tactical considerations for the Spain match.
Julien flipped through the file on Georgia—player profiles, coaching tendencies, tactical patterns.
Honestly, he knew almost nothing about this Georgian side. The only Georgian stars he could name were Kaladze and, from later years, Kvaratskhelia.
He knew Kaladze from his AC Milan days and because, after retirement, the defender had entered politics and eventually became mayor of Tbilisi, Georgia's capital.
Kvaratskhelia, he knew from Naples.
Georgia certainly wasn't a football powerhouse now. In fact, though, Georgian football had deep historical roots.
July 11, 1960. Parc des Princes, Paris. The inaugural European Championship final reached its decisive moment.
The Soviet Union trailed Yugoslavia 0-1. Georgian winger Slava Metreveli unleashed a thunderous strike that crashed into the net, leveling the score and igniting the Soviet comeback.
In extra time, Viktor Ponedelnik scored again for the Soviets.
Final score: Soviet Union 2-1 Yugoslavia. Four Georgian players' sweat and work had helped deliver that European crown to the USSR.
Four years later, Georgian club Dinamo Tbilisi claimed their first Soviet league title. That same year, rock band Orera composed a tribute song for the new champions—Our Golden Boy.
Half a century later, that same melody would echo through Tbilisi's streets once more, this time dedicated to Georgia's new generation of golden boys: Kvaratskhelia.
After the Soviet Union's collapse, Georgian football plunged into an ice age. Despite Dinamo Tbilisi's 1981 miracle run—defeating West Ham, Feyenoord, then overcoming East Germany's Carl Zeiss Jena 2-1 in the final to lift the Cup Winners' Cup, becoming only the second Soviet club to win that trophy—post-independence Georgia, both national team and clubs, became continuous "background characters."
If anything, the club collapse was even more catastrophic.
In 2004, Dinamo Tbilisi was embroiled in a shocking match-fixing scandal during the UEFA Cup. Betting markets showed bizarre patterns predicting the team would lead at halftime but lose 2-5 after the break.
The match unfolded exactly as predicted. UEFA's investigation went nowhere, but Georgian football's reputation was thoroughly tarnished.
For the next decade, no Georgian club appeared in European competition proper.
Georgia's transformation began with their greatest star: Kaladze.
Last year, 35-year-old Kaha Kaladze ended his illustrious playing career with 284 appearances for AC Milan, two Champions League trophies.
Upon retirement, Kaladze chose politics, openly declaring his ambition to run for president.
In interviews, Kaladze explained his presidential aspirations stemmed from wanting to transform Georgia's fate. His brother Levan had been kidnapped by criminals in May 2001; due to police incompetence, the kidnappers eventually murdered him.
That tragedy scarred Kaladze deeply. Just as he'd become a defensive Lock at Milan, he wanted to protect Georgia itself.
In May, immediately after retiring, he was elected to parliament. By October 2012, he'd been appointed Georgia's Deputy Prime Minister and Minister of Regional Development.
This "Lock of the Caucasus" wasn't just seeking political breakthroughs—he also wanted to revolutionize Georgian football.
As a politician, he pushed for football renaissance, convincing UEFA to invest in rebuilding Dinamo Tbilisi's youth academy, importing La Masia principles to the Caucasus.
If Julien remembered correctly, the facility should be nearly complete, set to officially open this summer.
Kaladze had supposedly invited Ronaldo and Shevchenko as guests for the inauguration ceremony.
And among the kids photographed with Ronaldo at that event would be 13-year-old Kvaratskhelia.
Of course, none of that mattered right now. Present-day Georgia posed zero threat to France.
In Georgia's World Cup qualifying campaign so far, they'd managed just one victory—a 1-0 win over Belarus in their opening match.
Since then: nothing but defeats and draws.
March 22, 2013. 8:45 PM.
The Stade de France was absolutely packed, countless French supporters were gathering to watch Les Bleus resume their World Cup journey.
The qualifiers had reached the final round. If France could emerge from this group as winners, they'd punch their ticket directly to next year's World Cup in Brazil.
Both teams assembled in the tunnel.
Then, as Julien emerged first onto the pitch:
ROAAAAAR!
A wave of shocked exclamations swept the stadium. Fans stared in disbelief.
Even the commentators sounded stunned. "Julien! Is that—is that the captain's armband?! My God, Julien is exactly what the media rumors said—he's become France's captain!
But I never imagined it would happen in this match!"
Clap, clap, clap, clap!
After the initial shock subsided, every person in the Stade de France rose to their feet, applauding wildly for their new captain's debut.
French media had been reporting for weeks about Julien potentially receiving the armband—what it symbolized, how it represented France entering a completely new era, from Deschamps's bold embrace of youth to veteran players gradually stepping aside.
The signs had been there.
But only now, seeing Julien actually wearing the captain's armband, did it truly feel real: France's new era had officially begun.
Countless French supporters felt their emotions surge, applauding frantically, chanting in unison: "Captain of France! Julien De Rocca! Captain of France! Julien!"
They'd endured the deepest darkness. Any glimmer of light felt worth seizing.
Last year's Euros, Julien fighting until his muscles literally tore—that image had moved French hearts. This player deserved the armband.
Right now, only he was worthy of it.
Julien's captaincy debut completely overshadowed the fact that this was also Pogba and Varane's international debuts.
As captain, Julien conducted the pre-match ceremonies with ease. He'd worn Bastia's armband long enough to know every procedure by heart.
Throughout the process, the home supporters never stopped roaring their approval.
Meanwhile, the broadcast cut to the VIP box, where French President François Hollande sat applauding with a warm smile.
Soon, as the clock struck nine:
TWEET!
The referee's whistle pierced the air. The match was underway.
At the same time, the other Group I fixture, Spain hosting Finland had kicked off fifteen minutes earlier.
Whether in the stadium or watching broadcasts, French and Spanish fans alike were monitoring both matches simultaneously.
The qualification situation was clear: France and Spain were battling for the sole automatic qualification spot.
Every result in either match would impact the final standings.
Of course, given France and Spain's overwhelming superiority over the other three teams, most fans assumed the real decisive battle would come when the two giants faced each other directly.
Playing at home with several new faces in the lineup, France started somewhat tentatively.
Fortunately, Georgia sat deep, content to let France have possession, giving Les Bleus time to find their rhythm.
The opening minutes passed quietly. Then in the 8th minute, everything exploded into life.
Pogba collected the ball in midfield. Facing defender Kobakhidze's pressure, he deployed those long legs—one touch to control, an elegant turn to leave his marker grasping at air.
THUMP!
A raking long ball split the defense, aimed at the right channel.
Julien burst from the backline, Georgia's left-back Kverkvelia grabbing desperately at his shirt but failed to slow him down.
Julien cut inside along the penalty area line.
Facing the converging challenges of Grigalashvili and Amisulashvili, Julien did something completely unexpected. As the two defenders closed in, instead of continuing his dribble, he unleashed a shot from the edge of the box.
The ball screamed toward the far post, curling viciously toward the top corner!
________________________________________________________
Check out my patreon where you can read more chapters:
patreon.com/LorianFiction
Thanks for your support!