Julien wove through teammates still locked in celebratory embraces, his stride was light and purposeful as he made his way toward that section of the stand.
The image from the big screen lingered in his mind—those uneven, heavily pressed letters and the red heart at the end.
The barrier separating pitch from terraces wasn't particularly high. The young fan had already been hoisted onto his father's shoulders in the front row, his small face was flushed crimson with something beyond excitement.
His hands clutched that piece of cardboard so tightly his knuckles had turned bone-white, as though relaxing his grip even slightly might make the whole moment disappear.
When the boy realized Julien was actually walking toward him, not vaguely in his direction, but directly at him with clear intent, his eyes went wider.
His mouth fell open in a perfect circle of shock, and those hands that had been covering his face moments before froze mid-air like he'd been paused mid-frame.
Tears welled up instantly spilling down his cheeks in two clean tracks. But he refused to blink, terrified that closing his eyes even for the fraction of a second might reveal this to be a dream.
Around them, other fans were beginning to notice. The section of the Kop directly behind them had gone quieter.
"Hey there, little man."
Julien stopped at the barrier, had to tilt his head back to look up at the boy perched on his father's shoulders.
He reached out, gesturing gently toward the cardboard clutched in those small, trembling hands. "Your handwriting is brilliant. Especially that heart—that's proper artistic, that is."
The boy, confronted with the actual reality of Julien speaking to him found himself completely unable to respond. His mouth moved but produced nothing except a kind of strangled squeak.
He could only nod, frantic bobbing motions of his whole upper body, tears were flowing harder now but his face split in a grin so wide it showed two front teeth with chipped corners.
His father, standing below with hands locked around the boy's ankles to keep him steady, managed to find words where his son couldn't.
"He made me go over it in marker three times—kept saying it wasn't dark enough, that you wouldn't see it from the pitch!"
Julien felt something warm spread through his chest. He smiled and nodded, then pointed at the sign. "You got a pen? Something I can write with?"
The boy's nodding intensified, transformed into something like a whole-body tremor of affirmation.
Small hands fumbled with the cardboard, nearly dropped the marker in shaking excitement, managed to thrust both items down toward Julien's outstretched hand.
When Julien reached up to take them, he felt the tremor running through the boy's fingers. The marker very nearly slipped through entirely, would have clattered to the floor, but Julien's reactions caught it smoothly.
He steadied the cardboard against the barrier. The marker was thick-tipped, already starting to dry out from being left uncapped. He had to press firmly to get the ink flowing.
His signature came out smooth as he'd signed enough autographs by now that the muscle memory was embedded. Then, taking extra care, he drew a heart in the empty space beside his name, matching the proportions and slightly titled character of the one the boy had drawn.
He handed the cardboard back up, watched those small fingers close around it with desperation.
"Thank you for your support." Julien kept his voice soft but projected it enough that the fans crowding around them could hear. "Those three things you wrote—Anfield, winning, and me?" He paused, then said louder. "Those are my three favorite things too. Well—Anfield, winning, and all of you."
He gestured broadly at the surrounding supporters, taking in the whole of the Kop with the sweep of his arm. He brought his gaze back to the boy's face, to those eyes still streaming tears but shining with light.
"Without you lot here making all this noise, putting that pressure on, singing when we're struggling—winning wouldn't feel half as good. You make it matter."
The boy finally managed to force words through the tightness in his throat, his voice was high and breaking: "Julien, I'll come to every single match to watch you! Every one! I promise!"
Hearing this. Julien reached down to his wrist finding the edge of the red wristband he'd pulled on before the match.
It was soaked through with sweat, the Liverpool crest printed on it starting to crack at the edges from repeated washing.
He worked it off his wrist and reached up to place it carefully in the boy's palm, closing those small fingers around it gently. "This is for you. Next time you come, wear it, yeah? I'll recognize you straightaway. Front row, red wristband, biggest smile in the ground—that'll be you."
The boy's grip on the wristband was firm. Tears were still flowing but his whole face had lighting up with joy.
Then suddenly he lunged forward against his father's hold, reaching out with tentative desperation to touch Julien's hand. His small fingers made contact, soft and damp, pressing against Julien's palm for just a moment.
"Julien—" The boy's voice came out in a rush, sounding urgent and earnest. "You have to keep winning. You have to. I want to see you win the Ballon d'Or!"
The Ballon d'Or. The award he'd watched other players collect on television, that golden ball representing the pinnacle of everything football could be.
"Deal." Julien didn't hesitate. He accepted it straight, matched that childhood certainty with his own. "I'll give it everything I've got. For Anfield, and for brilliant little supporters like you who believe before there's any reason to."
He reached up one more time, ruffled the boy's hair gently.
The supporters surrounding them had multiplied, a whole section of the Kop was now pressed against the barrier, phones were raised. Cheers rose and fell in waves.
Someone nearby called out toward Julien: "That's our boy! That's our fucking boy right there!"
Another voice was directed at the small fan: "You treasure that, mate! That's history, that is!"
In the distance, somewhere deep in the Kop's heart, a group had begun singing. The sound drifted across the terraces, weaving itself into this moment.
Julien waved once more at the boy before turning to rejoin his teammates.
He'd made it perhaps two steps when something made him glance back. The boy was watching him fervently with tears.
Julien grinned and struck his signature celebration. It was the pose that had been turned into murals and banners across the city.
The boy shrieked and bounced so violently on his father's shoulders that the man staggered.
Supporters throughout the entire section had turned to watch. Hundreds of faces, all focused on the same scene. Some were grinning, some had tears in their own eyes.
Anfield's love had never been only about the euphoria of winning. It was also this: the pure, unfiltered bond between people, spanning the divide between pitch and stands.
Julien jogged back toward his teammates. Suárez had been watching the whole exchange, and as Julien approached, he clapped him on the shoulder with enough force to make him stagger slightly. "What were you chatting about with the little lad? You look proper chuffed."
"He said he loves Anfield, loves winning, and loves me." Julien couldn't suppress the smile spreading across his face. "I told him—same here. Those three things, in that order."
Suárez laughed, genuine and warm. "You're going to have ten thousand kids making signs for the next match. You know that, right?"
"Haha," Julien laughed, still feeling the sensation of that small hand touching his. "Could be worse."
When Julien finally made it back to the changing room, the scene with the young fan was still playing through his mind like a film on repeat. Sometimes fans were just that endearing.
Around him, teammates were in various states of undress and exhaustion. Gerrard sat unlacing his boots. Henderson had his head tipped back against his locker, eyes closed, already half-asleep. Sturridge was examining his ankles with attention.
But despite the physical exhaustion settling into the room, there was an ease to the atmosphere that had been absent for weeks. Victory does something to a changing room that nothing else can replicate.
Julien found his spot on the bench and reached for his phone. Not to check messages, though both would be exploding with notifications. He wanted to check something else.
His Victory Points.
Current total: 105
Beating Norwich had added ten points a little low because the opposition wasn't particularly strong and this was the EFL Cup rather than the league. But combined with his earlier accumulation, he'd broken the hundred-point threshold again.
This time, Julien wasn't opening reward boxes. He was investing directly into raising attribute caps.
The Comprehensive Advanced Enhancement still had two balanced abilities locked:
Equilibrium Dominance required Flexibility ≥ 75
Fatigue Distribution required Strength ≥ 80, Stamina ≥ 80, Injury Resistance ≥ 70
Currently his attributes fell short:
- Flexibility: 71
- Strength: 77
- Stamina: 78
- Injury Resistance: 68
Klopp was about to take charge of the team. That wasn't speculation anymore. The German manager would arrive, probably within days, and Klopp's football wasn't gentle.
Julien had watched enough Dortmund matches to understand what was coming. The pressing intensity would be relentless, the physical demands would be extraordinary.
Which meant Julien needed Fatigue Distribution more urgently than anything else. Anything that reduced injury risk, that helped his body manage the demands about to be placed on it was worth prioritizing.
He had the Injury Resistance attribute, sure. But if he actually got hurt, properly hurt in a way that overwhelmed the system's protective capabilities, he'd still be sidelined. Prevention was always better than recovery.
After several minutes of consideration, Julien made his decision.
He invested 80 Victory Points to raise his Strength cap from 77 to 85.
Strength Cap: 77 → 85
Victory Points: 105 → 25
The extra five points above the required threshold weren't arbitrary. From months of training experience, Julien understood there was a diminishing returns effect to attribute development.
Raising an attribute from 70 to 75 when your cap was 90 versus when your cap was 80 wasn't the same difficulty. The higher ceiling gave you more room to grow efficiently, made the improvement come more naturally.
With his cap at 85, getting his actual Strength to 80 would require dedicated work, it wouldn't happen overnight but it was achievable. Within a few months of focused effort he could hit that threshold.
Now he just needed to put in the physical work.
Julien closed the interface and leaned back against his locker. Around him, the changing room had gotten louder as players finished recovery and started processing what had just happened.
But underneath the celebration, there was something else. A current of anticipation, of awareness that tonight's victory was prologue rather than conclusion.
Tomorrow, everything would change.
The press room at Anfield was packed, standing room only at the back, camera operators were jostling for position. The air was filled with anticipation that had nothing to do with the three-nil scoreline.
Colin Pascoe sat at the podium looking more relaxed than he had at any point since taking over as caretaker. His tie was loosened and there was color in his face that came from genuine pleasure rather than stress.
Camera flashes created a constant strobe effect.
"First, I want to congratulate my players," Colin began. "They delivered an outstanding performance tonight. The scoreline speaks for itself—we controlled the tempo from the opening whistle, our attacking play was clinical and purposeful, and defensively we gave Norwich very few opportunities."
He paused to take a sip of water. "I do want to single out a few individuals. Julien's performance was there for everyone to see. He'll turn nineteen next month, which is remarkable when you consider the level he's performing at. He possesses maturity and tactical understanding far beyond his years. Of course, Luis, Sturridge, and Steven were excellent as well."
He shifted to tactical decisions. "We made substitutions in the second half with clear purpose—preserving legs for the weekend's league fixture. We've secured our place in the EFL Cup quarter-finals and given our key players valuable rest. That's what I'd call a win-win situation."
A journalist in the front row didn't wait to be called on. "Colin, congratulations on reaching the quarters. My question is about Sunday—facing league leaders Arsenal at the Emirates. How will the team prepare?"
Colin smiled faintly, took another sip. "Arsenal are a very strong side, sitting top of the table and playing excellent football. They pose serious attacking threat. Sunday's match will be a significant challenge. We'll prepare thoroughly. The players will give absolutely everything. We'll play Liverpool's style of football, that's guaranteed."
The answer clearly didn't satisfy the room. Another reporter immediately pressed forward, tone carrying just enough edge. "You say the players will give everything—but will you be the one leading them for this crucial fixture? There's been considerable speculation about the manager's position."
The moment the question landed, the room's atmosphere changed. The background noise died instantly. Every camera lens spun toward Colin.
Colin's smile faded gradually. His eyes met the questioner's calmly, and he gave just one word: "Perhaps."
That single word landed like a grenade. Hands were shot up immediately, voices were calling out over each other.
"What does 'perhaps' mean? Are you uncertain, or are there other arrangements?"
"Has the club already contacted a new manager?"
"If not you, who takes over?"
But Colin was already standing. He nodded politely. "Thank you all for your questions. That concludes today's press conference."
The barrage of follow-up questions intensified, but Colin was already moving toward the door.
That word—"perhaps" was already ricocheting around the room, being typed into phones and laptops.
Liverpool's fanbase erupted across social media and forums following the match.
On RAWK, the main Liverpool supporters forum, threads were growing at a rate that showed thousands hitting refresh every few seconds.
User RedMan1892 posted: "That 3-0 was absolutely what we needed. Julien ran Norwich ragged down the right—they had three players on him at one point and he still beat them. Suárez and Sturridge were both clinical, and Colin's rotation was genuinely smart management. Took off the key players at exactly the right time."
User KopiteFromKirkby replied: "Winning is brilliant, obviously. But let's be honest—the manager situation is what really matters here. Colin saying 'perhaps' wasn't accidental. That was a man who knows his time is up but can't say it clearly. I'd bet my season ticket we hear an announcement before the weekend."
User ThisisAnfield posted: "Reckon Colin's 'perhaps' is basically confirmation that Klopp's nearly done? All the reports said Dortmund were willing to let him go. His agent being photographed at Anfield tonight, that wasn't coincidence."
User Shanklys_Legacy: "Colin's actually been quite solid. Today's rotation showed good game management. Could he handle Arsenal this way? Possibly. Would I trust him long-term? Different question."
User RedOrDead89: "A caretaker is still temporary. But we need to find the RIGHT manager for this club. Don't panic-appoint. If we stick with Colin for another month while we wait for the right candidate, so be it. The manager position can't be treated casually."
While supporters debated, mainstream media moved past speculation into apparent confirmation.
Sky Sports News flashed a breaking news banner at 23:27: BREAKING: Jürgen Klopp's agent Marc Kosicke spotted at Anfield for Liverpool's EFL Cup victory. Club sources suggest announcement imminent.
The BBC updated their Liverpool page with similar story, accompanied by a photograph of a man who might be Kosicke walking through Anfield's main entrance.
The Daily Mail's headline: Klopp to Liverpool: Agent Seen at Anfield as Reds Prepare Blockbuster Appointment
The Guardian took a more restrained approach: Liverpool Close to Appointing Klopp Following Interim Manager's Cryptic Comments
Every major football outlet was running some version of the same story. The details varied, but the thrust was identical.
Klopp to Liverpool was happening.
________________________________________________________
Check out my patreon where you can read more chapters:
patreon.com/LorianFiction
Thanks for your support!