A "Five-Three Plan": Champions League in five years, Premier League in three.
To Julien, the timeline seemed almost conservative. But naturally, he wouldn't say so at this stage.
After informing Chataigner, giving him time to prepare mentally—Julien opened his laptop and logged into the backend of The Player's Tribune.
He would post his first article as a verified player.
The platform had been ready for weeks. His brother Rene had already spent considerable money on advertising. Once Julien published, the full promotional campaign would launch.
Now was the perfect moment.
By tonight at the latest, news of Liverpool's Saudi-backed takeover would leak—the buyers themselves would ensure it. And they'd make clear their primary target: Julien De Rocca.
The attention would be massive.
Simultaneously launching The Player's Tribune with the article Julien had written last night would introduce the platform to millions of football fans in one stroke.
Then the site would release its backlog of pieces from other players—personal letters, reflections, insider perspectives they'd been preparing.
After that, the platform would essentially be established. It would just need consistent management.
Sponsorship wouldn't be an issue either. Abdullah had already secured a five-year advertising contract.
Julien uploaded his document. The backend automatically formatted it. He previewed the layout—perfect—and published.
The Player's Tribune's inaugural article went live.
"To Antoine"
When I write these opening words, it's 2 AM in Amsterdam. Outside my hotel window, the night sky hangs dark and silent, absolutely still.
Yet in my ears, the roar from the final whistle still echoes like crashing waves.
Just hours ago, my teammates and I completed a celebration that bordered on madness. But when I returned alone to my room and opened the Bastia supporters' forum, I found a post titled: "If There Must Be a Farewell, Let It End in Perfect Wholeness"
I fell silent.
Antoine, I've never met you.
But tonight, through your father's words, I feel I can see you—a young man my age, a soul who once cheered for me.
Two years ago, someone praised my dribbling as "unpredictable as the sea breeze."
Two years ago, we shared the same pitch, the same moment in time.
Fate was cruel enough to take you away, yet mysterious enough to let your father's life intersect with mine.
After reading that post, I sat at my computer for a long time, unable to settle. My fingers hovered over the keyboard repeatedly, rising and falling, searching for words adequate to express what churned inside me.
Finally, I deleted every pale, insufficient sentence and decided to write this letter—to you, to your father, to everyone who made Bastia a lighthouse in my life.
Looking back now, the championship's clamor feels distant—as distant as the dust rising from the gravel pitch in Bondy, drifting across fourteen years to reach me.
I come from Bondy, a suburb of Paris. That place molded my earliest football dreams.
At four years old, the irregular black-and-white ball I kicked at Stade Leo Lagrange was actually something my brother pulled from a rubbish heap. Its stitching had split open, dark stuffing poking through the gaps. But when I kicked it, I felt the entire world vibrating beneath my feet.
Back then, I didn't understand what talent meant. I only knew that when the ball rolled across broken gravel into our makeshift goal—two battered bins—the old men watching from the sideline would drop their bottles to applaud.
Kicking that misshapen ball, I never imagined I'd one day stand on top of European football.
Football was my only escape from reality. But it also became the place where I lost myself amid fame and pressure.
June 7, 2011—a Tuesday afternoon, I think. That year, my form was terrible. An adductor injury made every explosive movement feel like knives cutting through muscle. The player you saw wasn't the best version of me.
These details your father probably didn't know. Just as I didn't know that five months later, you'd be gone.
The world lost someone who loved football.
Around that same time, on my seventeenth birthday, I made the mistake that sent me to prison. I never thought fate would grant me a second chance.
But Bastia gave me that chance.
Monsieur Chataigner told me firmly: "Julien, this isn't the end. It's where you begin again."
Coach Hadzibegic trusted me, saying simply: "Julien—for Bastia."
My teammates passed me the ball with confidence, allowing me to complete our attacks, to finish what we'd started together.
And your father, Antoine—sitting in the second row of the South Stand, his presence became the warmest gaze I felt during every home match.
I didn't know the story behind it. Didn't know that every goal I scored carried the weight of two lives.
Antoine, your father said this trophy was my farewell gift to Bastia.
He's half right.
More accurately, this trophy represents a promise we all fulfilled together—you, your father, Monsieur Chataigner, Coach Hadzibegic, every supporter who roared my name from the stands, and that four-year-old boy kicking a torn ball on Bondy's gravel. All of us won this match together.
It's my repayment to Bastia. My thanks to everyone who believed in me. And my tribute to you, Antoine—the young man who once cheered for me.
Yes, offers from elite clubs have arrived.
I won't deceive you. This will be my final season wearing Bastia's blue.
But please believe me—this decision came with great difficulty.
Lifting that trophy beneath Amsterdam's night sky, I wished desperately that time would freeze in that single second.
Yet this is football's nature: the most beautiful meetings often herald departure.
But departure doesn't mean forgetting. It means preparing for a better reunion.
So through this letter, I want to make a promise—to you, to every Bastia supporter:
No matter where my career takes me, Bastia will always be my second home. Bastia's blue has merged with my blood, becoming an inseparable part of who I am.
Someday, after I've competed across Europe's great leagues, when I feel my playing career approaching its end, I will return here.
Not as some sentimental final act. But as coming home.
Returning to Stade Armand Cesari to take one last shot, make one last run, hear one last time the sea breeze and roar of Bastia's faithful.
When that day comes, I hope to retire as a Bastia player. To hang up my boots here, where it all began.
By then, I hope to use everything I've learned at the highest level to help Bastia develop the next "Julien"—perhaps a kid from Bondy, perhaps a young man who loves football just as you did.
This isn't merely a promise. It's my deepest connection to this land.
Beginning at Bastia.
Ending at Bastia.
Thank you, Antoine, for showing me that football transcends winning and losing—it's about life and legacy.
Thank you to your father for teaching me that every goal carries countless dreams and expectations.
Thank you to every staff member, coach, and teammate who gave me their trust.
Thank you to every Bastia supporter whose roar pushed me beyond my limits time and again.
Tonight, this trophy belongs to Bastia. To Corsica. And to you, Antoine.
If we must say goodbye, let us part in the most perfect way possible.
But remember—this isn't forever.
It's a farewell that promises a better reunion.
When the sea breeze sweeps across Corsica's peaks again, when the roar returns to Stade Armand Cesari, you'll know: that boy from Bondy will always be proud to wear Bastia's colors.
Julien reviewed the published article one final time through the user interface. Everything looked perfect.
He called Rene. "Watch Sky Sports UK. Once they officially announce Liverpool's takeover, start the advertising campaign."
"Got it!" His brother's excitement was obvious. This would be their venture.
That afternoon, Bastia's chartered plane soared across Europe.
Julien leaned against the window, watching the landscape blur past below. A sudden surge of ambition rose within him.
Bastia's story had ended.
A new chapter was about to begin.
________________________________________________________
Check out my patreon where you can read more chapters:
patreon.com/LorianFiction
Thanks for your support!