It was Mombaerts.
The French U21 national team coach had escaped the scandal that cost several of his colleagues their jobs. Thanks to Julien's intervention, Griezmann hadn't joined Mvila, Ben Yedder, and the others who'd abandoned Clairefontaine for Parisian nightclubs. So, while Mombaerts had been fined, he'd kept his position.
Now his voice crackled through the phone, vibrating with excitement. "Julien! I just watched the match replay again. My God, that was pure theater! Congratulations—you left all of England stunned!"
"Thank you, coach." Julien smiled, warming to the sincerity in Mombaerts's tone.
After the pleasantries, Mombaerts revealed his true purpose. "Julien, you know the U21 is the only national team you've represented. I'm still coaching this squad, so I have a request—perhaps an imposition.
Next time we gather at Clairefontaine, I'd like you to come speak to the current group. Not for training—just a talk. Your journey, from Clairefontaine to the Bastia miracle, and now Anfield... for these young men, you're a living textbook. More valuable than anything us old-timers could say."
Julien didn't hesitate. The famous training ground held deep meaning for him, and he genuinely hoped it would produce more world-class talent.
"Of course, coach. I'd be honored."
The next gathering would be in early September, just over two weeks away. France's World Cup qualifying campaign continued—though they'd beaten Spain, they couldn't afford slip-ups elsewhere.
This summer, France had scheduled three friendlies. Two in South America against Uruguay and Brazil. Julien had skipped that tour—he needed the extra training time, and French support would be thin that far from home.
But the South American trip had turned into a nightmare for Les Bleus.
In Montevideo, France's attack had sputtered against Uruguay's organization. A single set-piece goal condemned them to a 1-0 defeat. Then in Recife, facing a Brazil side at the peak of their technical powers, France lacking their explosive attacking threat had been systematically dismantled. Neymar's fluid movement had carved them open repeatedly. 3-0, a humiliation.
Returning to Europe with two losses and zero goals, France couldn't find their shooting boots even against the Netherlands. Despite dominating possession, they'd squandered chances and settled for a goalless draw.
Three matches. Not a single goal.
The French media erupted. L'Équipe ran a front-page image of France's lifeless attack beneath a brutal headline: "Missing Fangs: Without Julien, the Attack Sleeps!"
The article pulled no punches: "After feasting on the goals Julien provided, we must face a harsh reality—this France team is dangerously dependent on him offensively. Against Uruguay and Brazil, our midfield couldn't thread dangerous passes.
The wings offered no penetration. Giroud, Lacazette—they sleepwalked through ninety minutes. Our entire attacking system, stripped of Julien's explosive creativity and clinical finishing, became slow, predictable, toothless. We watched a tiger without fangs—all roar, no bite."
France Football was equally blunt: "These friendlies exposed the gulf between Julien and our other attackers. When our sharpest weapon is absent, we have no adequate replacement. Deschamps must seriously consider how to avoid 'Julien dependency syndrome'—or it will become a ticking time bomb through the World Cup cycle."
The concern wasn't unfounded. French fans understood their World Cup dreams were now tightly bound to an 18-year-old's shoulders.
Julien refocused his thoughts. As the call wound down, Mombaerts added casually, "Oh, one more thing—Antoine asked me to check if he can post on your Player's Tribune' website. He thinks it's brilliant."
Julien laughed. That was precisely why he'd created the platform—to give players an unfiltered voice. Griezmann could register and post whenever he wanted.
Come to think of it, Julien hadn't checked on Griezmann's progress at Real Sociedad since his national team suspension ended.
"Absolutely, coach. Tell Antoine that anyone who completes player verification can post for free. We welcome all authentic voices."
And it was genuinely free—for now. The user base wasn't large enough yet to support widespread revenue sharing. But Julien was considering implementing an advertising incentive program. He understood that ad revenue might mean little to players on top-flight contracts—perhaps a fancy dinner's worth. But for the countless footballers grinding through lower leagues, it could mean a month of focused training without worrying about rent.
This touched on professional football's cruelest, least-discussed truth.
Fans saw the glittering surface—Premier League stars, La Liga wages, Champions League glamour. It created an illusion that every professional footballer was a millionaire.
Reality was a different picture. Football's income structure wasn't a pyramid—it was a thumbtack. That gleaming point rising high represented the tiny elite at the summit. The broad, flat base bearing all the pressure? That was the silent majority of professional footballers.
In France, a player in the third tier or lower might earn €2,000-5,000 monthly. Better than average, perhaps—the median French salary hovered around €2,000 but factor in a career barely spanning a decade, potential injuries, and difficult post-retirement employment prospects, and suddenly it wasn't comfortable at all.
Many worked side jobs during the off-season or between training sessions—fitness instructors, delivery drivers or relied on family support. Their dreams were equally real, their sweat often more abundant, yet they lived continuously in the shadow cast by the elite leagues.
If Player's Tribune succeeded, Julien hoped it would benefit these players forming the "thumbtack's base." Let everyone seriously pursuing their football dream earn something extra by sharing their stories and insights.
Perhaps that was the small contribution someone standing on the "thumbtack's point" could make to the broad foundation beneath his feet.
The next day at Melwood, sunshine burned through Merseyside's typical gloom, mingling with the previous day's victory euphoria across the training ground.
The atmosphere buzzed with positive energy.
"Morning, Julien!" Jordan Henderson's greeting rang out as Julien entered the dressing room, triggering a chorus of warm acknowledgments from teammates.
Gerrard nodded with undisguised approval.
Julien returned every greeting. The atmosphere had transformed completely from his early days.
Training focused on recovery and tactical drills. During small-sided games, a clear pattern emerged—whenever Julien received the ball on the right, Gerrard, Coutinho, or Henderson pushing forward would immediately make intelligent, decisive runs. The attacking system was organically reorganizing around him.
After one particularly slick wall-pass combination, even Gerrard directing the defense couldn't help shouting praise: "Beautiful, Julien! Keep that up!"
On the sideline, arms folded in observation, Brendan Rodgers absorbed everything.
His expression remained naturally focused, but his mind churned beneath the surface. He'd always championed a football philosophy built on precise, self-contained tactical systems—emphasizing collective movement, possession, tactical discipline. In his ideal blueprint, players were crucial "cogs" executing instructions to drive the team forward.
But Julien's emergence, particularly that four-goal, one-assist debut, had dropped like a boulder into still water, sending massive ripples through Rodgers' coaching philosophy.
He'd witnessed this French teenager elevate the team's attacking ceiling to heights he'd never imagined possible. Not through pure tactical execution. Through raw talent—explosive individual brilliance and creativity.
"Was I wrong?" A small voice whispered in Rodgers' mind. "Perhaps truly elite players aren't just pieces of the system—they ARE the system. They don't just integrate perfectly; they can single-handedly elevate an entire structure to another dimension."
Watching Julien's effortless brilliance in training, Rodgers realized with clear clarity: he wasn't holding a quality component. He'd been handed a supercharged engine capable of redefining the team's rules.
Rodgers was stubborn about his football philosophy, yes—but as a young manager, he remained open to learning and evolution.
He decided he needed to talk to Julien.
After morning training, as hungry players streamed toward the cafeteria, Julien scanned the serving area. He spotted an unfamiliar face among the kitchen staff—a lean man in a crisp white apron, movements calm and economical, clearly new yet completely at ease in the space.
Julien remembered David Dein mentioning the latest addition to the backroom setup—the Lyon-trained culinary specialist.
He smiled, trying English first.
"Hey—are you the new chef David mentioned?"
The man looked up. Recognizing Julien immediately, his face lit with a mix of professionalism and restrained excitement.
"Yes, sir. I'm Luc Moreau. First official day today. What can I get you?"
His accent was unmistakably French, softened by years abroad.
"Fantastic," Julien said warmly. "David Dein spoke about you the other day. Said your sauces were exceptional—best he'd tasted in years."
Luc's posture straightened almost instinctively, pride was breaking through his initial reserve.
"Mr. Dein is very generous. He remembered the trial dish, then."
He allowed himself a small smile. "That reduction is something I've worked on since my apprenticeship in Lyon. My mentor used to say a sauce should finish a dish, not dominate it."
He plated a standard portion of grilled chicken breast onto Julien's tray—immaculately presented but strictly nutritionist-approved then added a light herb jus.
"If you're ever in France during the off-season," Luc added, lowering his voice slightly, "you should let me know. My family still runs a small restaurant near Croix-Rousse. Nothing fancy—but everything is done properly. The real versions."
"Call me Julien," Julien said. "It's a deal, Luc. If I get the chance, I'll take you up on it."
From behind them, Sturridge leaned in, grinning.
"Oi, you can't just invite Julien. If there's good food involved, the whole squad's booking flights to Lyon."
Laughter rippled through the cafeteria.
Shortly after lunch, a staff member approached Julien quietly. "Julien, Brendan wants to see you in his office."
Julien nodded, unsurprised.
He walked the familiar corridor and knocked on the door.
"Come in."
Rodgers stood before his tactical board—the content different from their first meeting. He turned, expression considerably warmer than before, and gestured to the sofa. "Sit, Julien."
Julien settled in, waiting.
The atmosphere felt completely different from their initial, businesslike tension.
Rodgers didn't waste time on runups. He sat across from Julien, hands clasped on the desk, his tone sincere. "I wanted to talk about your debut. I have to say again—I'm delighted with your performance. Phenomenal. You exceeded everyone's expectations, including mine."
He paused, choosing his words carefully. "Remember our first conversation here? I said you weren't my first choice in planning. The team needed you, but I needed to see you integrate into the system."
Julien nodded acknowledgment.
Rodgers leaned forward, meeting Julien's eyes directly. Voice steady and purposeful: "Today, I'm telling you my perspective has evolved. I still believe in tactical systems—they're a team's foundation. But I must acknowledge that certain players, through sheer talent and influence, can elevate or even redefine a system's ceiling. You, Julien, are that caliber of player.
You're not just needed by this team anymore—you're a critical element on my tactical board. I've watched Steven, Jordan, Philippe, Daniel naturally gravitate toward playing around you. That's chemistry—something no coach can completely design. I want us to build absolute trust."
Rodgers allowed himself a self-deprecating smile. "I'll be honest—some of my earlier thinking was too rigid. I said the Premier League wasn't Ligue 1. But now I see that for truly elite players, maybe league differences aren't as significant as I imagined. You've proven that."
He concluded: "So relax. Keep training and playing as you are now. Your ability has earned everyone's respect, including mine. We'll build more aggressive tactics around you. What we need between us is open communication and absolute trust."
Julien sensed genuine sincerity—no longer an assertion of authority, but a real recognition and partnership offer.
He responded calmly: "I understand, coach. My goal has always been helping the team win. I'll give everything and trust you and the team's decisions."
"Good." Rodgers nodded with satisfaction. "Keep it up. Don't be late for afternoon recovery training."
Julien rose and left.
As the door closed, Rodgers exhaled deeply.
This conversation wasn't so much "damage control" as necessary "recalibration." He realized that managing genuine talent might not mean forcing them into rigid frameworks, but building a stage where they could perform freely.
The four-goal, one-assist debut had been too spectacular—it had shaken his "system above all" conviction to its core.
Now he needed to determine how to unleash this supercharged engine's full performance in the Premier League's intense competition.
If he couldn't manage that, the club would find someone who could.
Meanwhile, Julien's thoughts expanded as he left the office.
Rodgers' transformation didn't surprise him. Any rational manager who watched his record-transfer, top-earner signing score four and create five on debut would understand the necessary response. Whether Rodgers had genuinely abandoned his previous philosophy didn't particularly matter to Julien.
He only needed to ensure the coach provided sufficient trust and tactical freedom in practice.
His steps quickened slightly. He sent Rodgers' recognition away temporarily. The real battlefield was the training pitch and that green rectangle. Everything else was just a byproduct of winning.
Now he needed to prepare for the next match. Continue his conquest.
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