The dressing room at half-time sounded as though Liverpool had already won the match.
Laughter mingled with the scrape of boots against the floor. Someone clapped Adam Lallana on the back hard enough to make him stumble into a bench, earning a fresh burst of amusement from the players nearby. Roberto Firmino sat with a towel around his neck, grinning as he replayed one of Azim's passes with his hands, exaggerating the angle until Coutinho threw a roll of tape at him.
Brace.
A clean sheet so far.
And forty-five minutes remaining at Anfield.
For Liverpool, it was the sort of first half that made a new manager's ideas feel less like instructions and more like possibilities. Jürgen Klopp had arrived with his relentless pressing, his demand for immediate reactions after losing possession, and his insistence that the team should work together instead of leaving every difficult problem to the player nearest the ball. Against Rubin Kazan, those principles had produced chances, forced mistakes, and ultimately goals.
Abdul Azim had been at the centre of all three.
His opening goal had announced himself to the home crowd. His pass for Coutinho had shown a different side to his game, one that pleased Klopp almost as much as the finish. His header from Coutinho's free kick had completed the first-half spectacle.
Yet Azim sat at the end of the bench, looking down at his boots.
The excitement around him was genuine. He felt it in every congratulatory slap against his shoulders, every teammate who repeated the story of his finish, every little smile that came his way when he lifted his head.
But underneath it all, his body had begun to collect its debts.
His shirt clung to his back. Sweat ran down his temples and gathered beneath his jaw. When he bent forward to loosen his laces, the muscles along his thighs complained, and his calves felt unusually heavy.
He rolled his shoulders, trying to release the tension.
Seventeen more minutes.
That was what he told himself.
He could give the team another seventeen minutes at the intensity they needed. He could press, make the defenders uncomfortable, create something dangerous, and then leave the rest to his teammates.
It sounded perfectly reasonable while he was sitting down.
He wondered whether he would still believe it when the ball started moving again.
"Azim."
He lifted his head.
Klopp stood in front of him with a bottle of water in one hand. The German manager had spent the first few minutes letting the players enjoy themselves, but now his attention had settled on the young striker.
"How are you feeling?"
Azim straightened instinctively. "Good, boss."
Klopp did not look convinced.
"Good?" He glanced down at Azim's legs, then back at his face. "You ran a lot in the first half."
"That's the job."
A smile tugged at Klopp's mouth, but it did not last long.
"Yes. It is the job. But there is running, and there is running until your legs stop listening to your brain." He lowered his voice. "I need you to tell me the truth. Any pain? Any dizziness?"
"No, boss. Just tired."
"How tired?"
Azim hesitated.
He could have said that he was fine. He could have insisted that he was ready for another ninety minutes, even if everyone in the room knew the claim would be ridiculous. Pride urged him to offer the answer that sounded best.
But Klopp was looking at him as if he wanted an honest answer rather than an impressive one.
"I'm tired," Azim admitted. "But I can continue."
"For how long?"
Azim glanced towards the doorway. Beyond it waited the noise of Anfield, the grass, and another forty-five minutes of football.
"Long enough."
Klopp exhaled through his nose.
"That is not a number."
"Another seventeen minutes."
The manager stared at him for a moment.
Then he laughed, short and incredulous.
"Seventeen! Why seventeen?"
Azim shrugged, suddenly aware of how absurd his answer sounded.
"Just a feeling."
"Football is full of people who trust their feelings too much."
"I'll be careful."
"Good. Because I am taking you off in the sixty-fifth minute."
Azim blinked. "Sixty-fifth?"
"Christian Benteke will replace you. We have Southampton at Anfield on Sunday, and I am not going to pretend this game is more important than every game that comes after it. You have done enough tonight. We still need you next week, next month, next year."
The words landed more heavily than Azim expected.
Part of him wanted to argue. Two goals in the first half had given him a taste of something he had never experienced on this scale: the roar of a stadium responding to him, teammates treating him as a source of danger rather than an uncertain newcomer, and the manager of Liverpool placing genuine trust in him.
He wanted more.
He wanted to keep proving that the first half had not been a fortunate accident.
But he also knew how much work had gone into bringing him here. One bad injury could take the opportunity away before he had truly begun.
"Understood, boss."
Klopp studied him, apparently satisfied that Azim understood the decision even if he did not particularly like it.
"Then use those seventeen minutes properly. Don't waste your energy chasing a defender when we have already closed his passing options. Don't try to win every duel alone. If the ball is lost, react with the team. If we have possession, make your movement count."
"Yes."
"And if your legs give out before the sixty-fifth minute?"
Azim looked up.
"Then you come off."
"No arguments?"
"No arguments."
"Good." Klopp patted his shoulder. "Now eat something, drink, and listen."
He moved towards the centre of the room.
The chatter gradually faded.
Klopp spread his hands, looking around at the players whose shirts bore the stains of the first half. His expression had lost its amusement. He was pleased, but pleasure was not going to be enough for the second half.
"Two goals. Excellent work. You have earned that score, but don't confuse a good forty-five minutes with a finished job."
His eyes moved across the room.
"Rubin have ten men. That does not mean they are harmless. It means they have a problem to solve, and we must not give them an easy solution."
He pointed towards the tactical board.
"They will become narrower. They will protect the space in front of their penalty area. They will try to make us impatient, because when you become impatient, you stop looking after the ball. You force a pass through a space that isn't there. You make a run without checking the defender. Then they win the ball and find their attacking players before our shape is ready."
He tapped the board with a marker.
"We stay compact when they have possession. Our press begins with the right trigger, not with one man deciding he wants to be a hero. If their centre-back takes a poor touch, we go. If he receives facing his own goal, we go. If he has time and his head is up, we don't blindly run into him. We close the useful pass and make him choose the difficult one."
Milner nodded, already listening like a captain preparing to repeat the instructions on the pitch.
"James, you organise the midfield. Emre, watch Carlos Eduardo. Don't follow him everywhere and leave a road through the centre. Philippe, Adam, Roberto, stay connected to Abdul. When we recover the ball, the first pass must have a purpose."
Klopp turned to Azim.
"And you are not required to score another goals."
Several players laughed.
Azim raised both hands in surrender.
"I'll try to disappoint you, boss."
"Don't disappoint me. Make the right decision." Klopp grinned. "A goal is nice. A pass that destroys their defensive shape can be just as beautiful."
Azim found himself smiling.
That was precisely what he wanted Klopp to understand.
He enjoyed scoring. He would have been lying if he claimed otherwise. But the feeling that lingered after Coutinho's goal had been different from the satisfaction of watching his own shots enter the net. There had been something almost private about seeing a teammate receive the pass, take the opportunity, and turn it into a goal.
It made him feel useful in a way that applause alone could not.
Klopp clapped his hands.
"Now finish the job."
The players rose.
Outside, the noise of Anfield met them like a wall.
The Liverpool supporters behind the goal were waiting when the teams returned to the pitch.
They stood beneath the stadium lights, flags waving above their heads, singing with an enthusiasm that made the grass seem almost insignificant beneath the sound. In the family section, Azim caught sight of his parents.
His mother had both hands clasped near her chest. His father stood beside her, attempting to maintain the composed expression of a man who had promised himself he would not embarrass his son by celebrating too wildly.
Neither of them looked particularly successful.
Azim lifted a hand towards them.
His mother's face broke into a smile.
His father raised a fist.
The sight warmed Azim more effectively than the dressing-room heater had. For a moment, the tiredness in his legs seemed less important than the distance he had travelled to reach this pitch, and the fact that the people who had watched him learn the game were now watching him play it for Liverpool.
Then the referee blew his whistle.
The match resumed.
Rubin had changed their shape.
With captain Oleg Kuzmin sent off before half-time, Valeri Chaly had no choice but to rethink how his side could survive the remaining forty-five minutes. The visitors had pulled players into a much narrower defensive structure. Their outside players dropped deeper, the remaining defenders held close together, and the midfielders crowded the central lanes.
It looked less like the adventurous shape they had started with and more like a barricade built in a hurry.
Their forward was isolated.
Their midfield had little room to breathe.
But the arrangement had a clear purpose.
Make Liverpool play around them. Protect the middle. Deny Azim the space to turn.
And if Liverpool became frustrated enough to overcommit, release the ball towards the flanks and attack the space behind the full-backs.
Klopp recognised it almost immediately.
"Patience!" he shouted from the technical area. "Move them first!"
Liverpool began circulating the ball across the back line.
Škrtel passed to Sakho. Sakho found Moreno, who pushed forward before the nearest Rubin player stepped towards him. Emre Can offered an option inside, but the passing lane was crowded, so Moreno returned the ball rather than forcing it.
The movement continued.
Rubin's defensive line shifted with it, bodies travelling together in small, disciplined adjustments. Whenever Firmino dropped towards the ball, a midfielder stayed close enough to discourage the turn. Whenever Azim moved into the space between the defenders, one centre-back followed while another covered behind him.
It was frustratingly effective.
Liverpool had the ball, the numerical advantage, and a three-goal lead. Yet the space that mattered was shrinking with every pass.
"Stay wide!" Milner called. "Adam, give him the line!"
Lallana spread towards the touchline.
Clyne began an overlapping run, forcing Rubin's left-sided defender to decide whether to follow him or remain close to Azim. The defender glanced over his shoulder and chose to stay narrow.
That gave Lallana room to receive.
The Englishman brought the ball under control, looked up, and shaped to cross. Rubin's defenders immediately packed the penalty box. Kvirkvelia positioned himself between Azim and the near post, while Kambolov stayed deep enough to cover the second runner.
Lallana delivered anyway.
It was a driven ball towards the six-yard box, difficult for the goalkeeper to attack and uncomfortable for the defenders to clear. Azim took two sharp steps towards the near post, dragging Kvirkvelia with him, then checked his movement.
The centre-back refused to follow him across.
Instead, Kvirkvelia held his position and allowed another defender to take over the marking.
Azim's mouth tightened.
They were communicating.
And they were prepared to pass him between them rather than let him find a single defender he could isolate.
The cross struck Kambolov's shin and spun away for a corner.
A roar rose from the Kop, followed by impatient whistles from elsewhere in the stadium.
Azim jogged towards the penalty area.
They won't chase me, he realised. They'll wait until I come to them.
He could continue making the same runs, demanding the ball in increasingly crowded spaces until his legs grew heavier and his frustration grew louder.
Or he could force them to make decisions they did not want to make.
He glanced towards Firmino.
The Brazilian had already noticed the centre-backs' rotation. He gave Azim a small nod, then moved towards the far side of the box.
They would need each other.
Rubin's first dangerous attack of the second half came from the right.
Liverpool had pushed their full-backs high, and when a pass intended for Lallana was intercepted, the visitors found themselves with an opportunity to run into the space Clyne had left behind.
Georgiev collected the loose ball and turned sharply.
"Back! Back!" Milner shouted.
Can moved towards the centre, covering the route through Carlos Eduardo, while Clyne sprinted towards his defensive position. But Georgiev had already found Kanunnikov near the touchline.
The Rubin winger took the ball forward.
Moreno turned to recover on the opposite side, while Sakho called to Škrtel to protect the space between them. For two seconds, Liverpool's defensive shape stretched dangerously thin.
Kanunnikov looked towards the penalty area.
He had time to lift his head and could have attempted a cross, but Azim had tracked back farther than anyone expected. The Liverpool forward was approaching from behind and slightly inside, cutting across the route Kanunnikov wanted to use to find the supporting midfielder.
Azim did not charge at him.
He shortened his steps, held his balance, and waited for the winger's next touch.
Kanunnikov glanced over his shoulder.
That brief look cost him half a second.
Azim stepped across the passing lane just as the ball left Kanunnikov's boot. His toe reached it first, redirecting the pass away from Georgiev and towards the touchline.
The ball rolled loose.
"Mine!" Can called.
He collected it before Rubin's midfielder could recover, using his body to protect possession.
Azim turned and began moving upfield again.
His lungs were burning, but he had prevented a counterattack without throwing himself into a reckless tackle. More importantly, he had allowed his teammates time to recover their positions.
Milner reached him as Liverpool advanced.
"Good work."
Azim gave a breathless nod.
"Had to stop the pass."
"Exactly. Keep doing that. Don't chase the man if you can kill the pass."
The captain's approval was brief, almost casual, but Azim carried it with him.
He was beginning to understand why Klopp valued these moments so highly. They rarely produced the kind of reaction a goal did. There was no stadium-wide eruption when a forward blocked a passing lane or made a defender hesitate long enough for a midfielder to recover.
But those moments changed the match all the same.
Rubin had been denied its counterattack. Liverpool had kept its lead without allowing the game to become chaotic.
The next attack belonged to them.
Coutinho took possession near the left touchline and slipped past a challenge with a quick movement of his shoulders. He entered the half-space before Rubin's right-sided midfielder could close him down.
Azim started towards him.
Kvirkvelia followed.
The Brazilian looked up, saw the defender moving with Azim, and chose to recycle the ball towards Emre Can instead of forcing it into the crowded penalty area.
Azim continued his run, then slowed.
For a second, he felt the old instinct to demand the pass anyway. He had scored two times already. Perhaps he could turn an impossible ball into another goal.
Then he noticed the second defender closing the gap behind Kvirkvelia.
There was nothing there.
He turned away and moved into a different pocket of space.
Coutinho's eyes followed him.
The Brazilian smiled faintly.
He had seen the change.
So had Klopp.
Rubin's resistance became more aggressive as the minutes passed.
They knew they could not hold Liverpool at bay indefinitely if they spent the whole half defending inside their own penalty area. Every clearance returned possession to the red shirts, and every failed attempt to escape meant another long spell of defending.
Chaly moved along his technical area, shouting instructions towards the players nearest the ball.
"Слева! Закройте пространство!" "Left! Close the space!"
"Не давайте ему развернуться!" "Don't let him turn!"
The commands carried across the grass in sharp, urgent bursts. Azim did not understand the Russian words, but he understood the pattern. Whenever he checked towards the ball, somebody moved to deny him the turn. Whenever he drifted wide, the nearest defender passed him to another man instead of abandoning his position.
Their strategy was clear enough without a translation.
They intended to make him invisible.
Kvirkvelia found him near the edge of the penalty area after an aerial challenge, planting himself between Azim and the loose ball. He leaned close enough that their shoulders touched.
"Two goals," the defender said in English. His tone was dry. "You think the game is finished?"
Azim looked towards the ball rather than at him.
"No."
"You won't get another."
"Then you should stop worrying about it."
Kvirkvelia's jaw tightened.
Azim stepped away before the defender could answer.
It was a small exchange, almost childish, but Azim felt a flicker of satisfaction. Kvirkvelia wanted him to become obsessed with proving the boast wrong. If Azim began forcing shots merely to punish the defender, Rubin would have achieved part of what it wanted.
He had no intention of helping them.
The ball returned to Liverpool.
Milner received a pass from Moreno and moved it quickly to Can. Can looked forward, saw Firmino dropping into midfield, and played a firm pass into the Brazilian's feet.
Firmino let the ball travel across his body.
A Rubin midfielder stepped towards him.
Firmino returned it to Can with one touch, drawing the midfielder out of position. The move had been simple, but it forced Rubin's central line to shift a few steps towards the ball.
Azim noticed the opening before he could fully explain it.
He moved away from the penalty spot and towards the space between Kvirkvelia and Nabiullin, pulling one defender with him. Firmino continued his run into the gap the defender had left.
Can saw it too.
The German midfielder played forward, but Ozdoev intercepted the passing lane and knocked the ball towards the sideline.
For a moment, Rubin had possession.
Then Liverpool reacted.
Firmino pressed from the front. Coutinho moved inside to block the return pass. Lallana closed the outlet along the touchline, and Milner stepped towards Ozdoev as soon as the midfielder's first touch carried the ball away from his body.
It was a pressing trigger.
Not a command to sprint blindly, but a moment when the receiver's poor touch and lack of forward-facing options made the next pass predictable.
Ozdoev tried to play backwards.
Milner's angle removed the easy pass to Kambolov. Firmino's approach stopped the return through the centre. The midfielder had little choice but to send the ball towards the crowded middle.
Coutinho was waiting.
He intercepted and turned towards goal.
"Go!" Milner shouted.
Azim accelerated, but Kvirkvelia stayed with him.
Coutinho carried the ball forward, drawing another defender before shifting it to Firmino. Firmino could have attempted a quick shot, but the defender directly in front of him had closed the angle.
He glanced at Azim.
Their eyes met.
Azim began to move towards the ball as though he wanted it to feet. Kvirkvelia followed him, wary of the strength that had caused Rubin trouble in the first half.
That was the mistake.
At the last instant, Azim stopped and pivoted away.
Kvirkvelia's weight carried him one step beyond the right position. It was not enough to lose the defender completely, but it created the smallest seam between the centre-back and the covering midfielder.
Firmino slid a pass through it.
Azim saw it coming, but another Rubin player lunged across his path. The forward could have tried to control the ball under pressure. Instead, he allowed it to pass between his legs.
The ball continued into Firmino's running path.
A wall pass, completed without a touch from the man who had started it.
Firmino took the return on the move.
Ryzhikov rushed off his line, spreading himself to narrow the angle. Firmino kept his composure and struck low across the goalkeeper, sending the ball into the far corner.
For a heartbeat, the stadium seemed to hold its breath.
Then Anfield erupted.
Liverpool 4–0 Rubin Kazan.
Firmino sprinted towards the corner, laughing, while Coutinho hurried after him. Lallana followed with both arms extended, and Milner punched the air before turning to shout towards his teammates.
Azim stood near the edge of the box, chest heaving.
He had not touched the ball during the final combination.
He had not needed to.
The movement had pulled Kvirkvelia away from Firmino. The disguised pass had let the Brazilian continue his run, and the finish had rewarded it.
Azim grinned.
That felt wonderful.
Perhaps because he knew precisely what he had done. Perhaps because he had resisted the temptation to make himself the centre of the attack. Or perhaps because Firmino was laughing so hard that, when he reached Azim, he nearly collided with him.
"You let it through your legs!" Firmino said, grabbing him by the shoulders.
"It was going to you."
"You could have taken it!"
"And then you would complain I never pass."
Firmino burst out laughing.
"Never. I would only complain about the pass!"
Azim shoved him lightly.
They separated as Coutinho joined them, pulling both players into a brief embrace.
On the touchline, Klopp erupted.
He sprinted several steps down the technical area, threw both arms into the air, and punched a fist towards the sky. His roar was audible even beneath the crowd. Then he turned towards Željko Buvač, grabbed his assistant by the shoulder, and began speaking rapidly.
Buvač smiled and nodded, but his eyes had stayed on Azim.
"That's the movement," Klopp said. "He takes the defender away, then gives the ball to Firmino without touching it."
Buvač nodded again.
"And he doesn't force the pass to himself."
"Exactly!"
Klopp slapped his assistant's shoulder before returning his attention to the pitch.
The commentators were equally impressed.
"Liverpool have made that look extraordinarily easy," one said. "But look at Azim. His movement takes Kvirkvelia away from Firmino, and he leaves the ball alone because he knows where the Brazilian is going. That's intelligent forward play."
"Absolutely. We talk a great deal about pressing with Klopp, and rightly so, but there is more to it than chasing people down. Liverpool have won the ball, moved Rubin around, and now their attackers are exchanging positions. The defender is being asked a question on every single movement."
"And every time he answers, another space opens."
Rubin's players walked back towards their positions with expressions that had changed from frustration to concern.
They had expected another difficult half.
They had not expected Liverpool to score again so quickly.
Chaly called Kvirkvelia over as the players prepared for the restart. His instructions were brief and sharp. The central defenders exchanged positions, and one of Rubin's midfielders dropped even closer to the defensive line.
The visitors were becoming more compact.
More cautious.
More determined to prevent another humiliating goal.
Azim watched the adjustment.
"They're going to make it even tighter," he told Firmino as they jogged back.
Firmino glanced towards the defenders.
"Then we make them move."
Azim nodded.
That was easier said than done.