"Zidane, can you bring Julien to Real Madrid?"
"What? Want to play alongside him?"
"Yes, we played England in the U21s, and we were roommates back then. I think a player as brilliant as Julien should be at the best club. He would definitely become a star player for Real Madrid."
"I'll pass along your words to him, as for whether he'll come..."
Zidane's mind flashed back to his conversation with Rafael.
He looked again at Julien De Rocca, who was charging toward the penalty area with determined strides.
In this moment, he didn't seem so eager to bring De Rocca to Real Madrid—Julien played like a superstar, he was the team's core, he needed possession of the ball.
And these were things that Real Madrid couldn't offer him right now.
Talent?
Real Madrid was never short on talent.
"Julien!"
"Julien!!"
Zidane's thoughts were interrupted by the excited fans.
On the pitch.
De Rocca shook off Lovren and burst into the penalty area. Koscielny became the last line of defense, while Lloris also rushed out at that moment, trying to work with Koscielny to block Julien's shooting angle.
But Julien suddenly slowed down and glanced at the goal.
Then he raised his left foot, feinting a shot. Lloris immediately reacted with a diving save.
Koscielny also stretched out his leg to block the ball.
But as Julien's left foot came down, his ankle flicked—a fake shot turned into a cut.
The ball was knocked to his right foot, pushed forward, breaking free from Lloris's control range.
Lloris was completely wrong-footed, unable even to commit a foul to stop De Rocca.
He could only watch helplessly as Julien slotted the ball into the empty net.
"Merde!"
Lloris pounded the ground furiously, seething with anger.
But his anger was instantly drowned out by the euphoria of the Bastia fans.
BOOM!
The Stade de France erupted with the roar of Bastia supporters, shouting various phrases in French and Corsican.
All of it merged together, as if dispersing the clouds that hung over Paris.
Far away, connecting with Corsica at this very moment.
On the island of Corsica, fans watching the broadcast were shouting wildly in various venues.
"Beautiful!! Julien!"
"So handsome! This is Bastia! This is De Rocca!"
"It has to be him. This dribbling ability—forget Ligue 2, even looking at all of Ligue 1, no one can surpass Julien. This is what a thirty million euro price tag looks like!"
Even Ajaccio fans were cheering along—
"Let those who look down on us islanders see what Corsica is all about!! Let those who call us midgets see what real giants look like!"
"Although I usually can't stand Bastia, this time, please bring back a French Cup for Corsica!"
"Go on, create Bastia's history, and Corsica's history too!!"
"This might be Corsica's first double-winning team. Iam so envious—why didn't De Rocca choose us at Ajaccio?"
Outside the stadium, thousands of emotions swirled.
On the pitch, amidst the celebration, Julien stood among the crowd and once again spread his arms wide.
He became the brightest star at the Stade de France tonight.
Garde, Aulas, and Lyon's players all wore the same expression—anger mixed with helplessness.
But they lacked the heart for a comeback.
They were all angry about conceding the goal, all helpless against De Rocca's ability, yet few were thinking about how to turn the situation around.
Whether in score or performance, Lyon's disadvantage seemed to be gradually crushing the players' spirits.
In contrast, Bastia's players were getting stronger with each battle.
Now their morale had reached its peak with Julien's goal!!
Hazdibegic fell to his knees the moment the goal was scored, feeling an urge to cry.
How many years had it been since he felt this way?
From Yugoslavia to Bastia, France, from player to head coach.
He had devoted these decades of his life entirely to football.
He was a top-class player who could mark Maradona one-on-one, but he wasn't a top-class coach—he had no outstanding achievements to speak of.
Perhaps tonight was the night!
A small double, but still a double!!
He stood up and embraced his assistant coaches, joining the fans in chanting "Julien"—the name that could bring them victory.
"Julien!"
"Julien!!"
The chants made everyone in the stadium involuntarily focus on that high-spirited young man.
Tonight, too many people were captivated by that youth.
The French Cup broadcast commentator couldn't help but say, "The curtain of an era may be rising here, and we are witnessing the birth of a legend."
Julien felt the stadium's roar. But he remained calm.
As he returned to the center circle, he constantly reminded his teammates, "Don't get carded, watch the defense! We have a defensive advantage with the extra man."
His teammates understood too—Lyon was still a top Ligue 1 team, and even playing with ten men, they hadn't won yet. There were still twenty to thirty minutes left.
Tweet!
The match continued.
Bastia maintained their low defensive block. Now they were the leading side, giving them a psychological advantage in defense.
Lyon's attacks were extremely difficult.
Time ticked away minute by minute, and Bastia fans were already celebrating!
But the happiest person in the entire stadium had to be Châtaigner.
His excitement was so infectious that Geronimi beside him couldn't stop grinning.
Châtaigner suddenly turned to him and said, "Mr. President, I think you'll need to go to the bank for a loan this summer window to give Bastia more transfer funds."
"Huh?"
Geronimi immediately became alert at the mention of money. "Isn't Julien leaving? His transfer fee should be enough, with some left over."
Châtaigner directly interrupted him.
He pointed at the scoreboard at the Stade de France: 86:45. "If we're still leading when the time runs out, Julien won't be leaving."
"What?!!"
Geronimi was so surprised he almost stood up. In his plans, De Rocca was supposed to leave—he had even been calculating Julien's transfer fee.
Now Julien wanted to stay!
"How much do we need?"
No matter how stingy Geronimi was, he knew this was an investment.
Julien was simply Bastia's most promising investment right now!
Châtaigner didn't answer directly, but asked Geronimi with burning eyes:
"If we win the French Cup, Mr. President, would you like to have a go at the Europa League next season? Or would you rather give up the cups and focus on Ligue 1 survival?"
"Gulp—"
Europa League—when that name was mentioned, Geronimi couldn't help but swallow.
"Julien!!"
Before he could answer, the fans erupted in wild cheers again.
The two men stopped talking and quickly turned to look at the pitch.
Tweet!
With the whistle, the referee pointed to the penalty spot!!
Bastia—penalty!
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