The next morning arrived with autumn sunlight creeping across Anfield's red brick washing the surrounding streets in warm golden light. Laughter drifted through the neighborhood with light, fragmented sounds of fans still riding the high of yesterday's victory.
When John pushed open the door to his usual café, the owner was already holding a radio high up like a trophy with the replay commentary from the previous night: "Seventy-meter sprint, explosive finish! Eighteen-year-old Julien completes his four-goal haul at Old Trafford!"
The moment the commentator's excited voice faded, the five or six occupied tables throughout the small café erupted with laughter and good-natured cursing.
A young fan in blue work overalls slapped his palm against the tabletop enthusiastically. "Play it again! I haven't heard enough of that beautiful sound when the ball hit the net!"
John settled into his customary corner table and ordered his morning cup of hot tea.
Almost immediately, three middle-aged fans from the neighboring table shuffled over, one of them was waving a rolled-up copy of the Liverpool Echo.
The front page headline was printed in bold red letters that seemed to pulse with energy: "Julien: The Red Deity Who Descended Upon Old Trafford!"
"John, did you watch last night?"
The one wearing glasses Mike pointed at the photograph dominating the page, showing Julien surrounded by teammates in celebration, arms spread wide in triumph.
"My son's first act this morning was sticking a poster of Julien on his bedroom wall, right above his bed. Says he's going to study Julien's movement patterns when he plays football from now on!"
John took a sip of his tea, smiling as he nodded in agreement.
"I've never seen a young player dominate at Old Trafford like that, especially in a derby. When we were down 0-2, I actually turned off the television—thought it was over. Then my grandson came running in shouting 'Grandpa! Turn it back on! Julien scored!' Well, we turned it back on and watched pure magic unfold. What a night, eh?"
The café door swung open again, admitting a group of students all wearing Liverpool shirts. The boy at the front was sporting a number 10 jersey with Julien's name across the back.
"Boss!" he called out cheerfully. "Three bacon sandwiches! We're heading to the park to play football—going to recreate Julien's goals!"
The café owner grinned broadly as he acknowledged the order, then reached beneath the counter and retrieved a fresh stack of Julien player cards that had just been delivered that morning.
He tucked one into each sandwich bag before handing them over. "Here you go, lads! These cards sold out completely last night. Had to get a special morning delivery just to restock!"
The students crowded around examining their cards with awe. One of them said loudly, "When Julien eventually becomes captain, I'm buying his armband the first day it's available!"
His words sparked immediate agreement throughout the café, with supporters of all ages joining in the enthusiastic discussion.
John raised a calming hand, still smiling. "Hold on now, let's not get ahead of ourselves. Gerrard's still wearing that armband!"
Mike jumped in with his own perspective. "Sure, but Stevie would be happy to pass it on when the time comes. After he retires, Julien becomes captain—it's perfect succession, isn't it?"
By mid-morning, the community park had filled with fans eager to enjoy the beautiful autumn day.
On the main grass pitch, a group of seven-year-olds had divided themselves into two teams. The boy wearing a red training bib appointed himself leader, clutching a toy whistle as he announced to his teammates: "I'm Julien! Everyone has to pass to me!"
Another small supporter immediately ran over and rolled the football to his feet. "Okay, now do what he did last night—run from our penalty box all the way to theirs! I'll be De Gea and you blast it past me!"
The children scattered across the pitch with delighted shouts, attempting to recreate the magic they'd witnessed on television. Along the edge of the grass, several mothers sat on long benches pushing strollers, chatting while keeping an eye on the spontaneous match.
"My husband nearly knocked over the bed frame last night from pure excitement," said Lena, who wore a floral print dress.
She laughed as she recounted the scene. "He's already talking about taking our baby to Anfield when he's old enough to watch Julien play. Says we'll be witnessing the growth of a future captain!"
Sarah, sitting beside her, nodded enthusiastically. "I was scrolling through the fan forums this morning, and so many people are already discussing the succession—after Steven, it's Julien as captain. Someone even created a photoshopped image of Julien wearing the red captain's armband, standing in the Anfield tunnel. Just seeing it made my heart race!"
As they walked through the neighborhood together, pushing their strollers along the familiar streets, they passed a wall that had been decorated overnight with fresh street art.
Against the red brick, someone had painted in white: "Julien: Liverpool's Tomorrow." Beside the text was an enormous portrait of Julien captured with surprising skill.
Lena studied the mural thoughtfully. "Do you really think when Steven retires, Julien will be ready to carry that weight?"
Sarah's smile widened with confidence.
"Did you see how he handled himself last night when we were behind? No panic, completely composed, then sprinted seventy meters like his legs were fresh in the first minute. That boy has something special inside him—real mental strength.
I'm sure Gerrard sees it too and can rest easy knowing what's coming. We just need to be patient and watch it unfold. Liverpool's red tradition has found its next bearer."
A gentle breeze swept through the park, catching the edges of children's shirts as they ran, brushing past every smiling face in this corner of Liverpool.
On this morning after defeating their greatest rivals, the city's signature red seemed warmer and brighter than ever, as if the very color itself had absorbed some of the previous night's glory and was now radiating it back to everyone who called this place home.
Later that afternoon, as the sun fell toward the horizon, turning Melwood Training Centre's grass pitches in warm golden tones, Liverpool's training session came to an end.
Players scattered across the sidelines, some sitting on the grass, others standing and stretching. The sound of plastic water bottles being squeezed filled the air while sweat dripped from the hems of training shirts onto the turf below creating dark patches that spread slowly into the grass.
Sturridge suddenly leaned forward conspiratorially, his voice was carrying excitement as he addressed the group.
"Hey, did any of you see today's preview in France Football? This year's Ballon d'Or shortlist of twenty-three names is being announced next month, and some media outlets are saying Julien has a strong chance of making the candidate list."
The relaxed group instantly transformed into an energetic discussion circle, with Henderson laughing as he contributed his opinion. "What's surprising about that? Doesn't Julien's performance deserve Ballon d'Or consideration? In my mind, he's already worthy of winning it."
Julien had just twisted open a bottle of cold water when he heard this comment, and he nearly choked on his first sip.
He quickly wiped his mouth, shaking his head with genuine modesty. "Come on, don't joke about this. I haven't even played in the Champions League yet. The Ballon d'Or judges full-season performance across all competitions. I've only played half a Premier League campaign so far. How could I possibly be in that conversation?"
He set his water bottle down on the grass beside him, his gaze was drifting toward the distant goalposts. His tone carried straightforward as he genuinely didn't think he was ready for such recognition.
In his mind, France had the best chance this year with Franck Ribéry. Unfortunately, if history followed its original course and Julien suspected it would Ribéry wouldn't win the award.
"Why not?" Gerrard's voice came from behind them, interrupting the discussion.
He had just finished some additional shooting practice, his training shirt sleeves were rolled up to his elbows, revealing the powerful forearms that had driven so many passes and shots throughout his legendary career.
He settled onto the grass beside Julien, accepting a water bottle that he handed him. After taking a long drink, Gerrard continued his thought. "I watched your World Cup qualifying matches for France. It was an absolutely dominant performances."
He paused intentionally, his gaze was sweeping across the gathered teammates, and his tone became more serious.
"Next year is a World Cup year, and major tournaments always produce unexpected stars. We English obviously want to win it all, which means we might face France at some point. We'll be opponents on that stage, but I genuinely hope you play brilliantly for your national team. I want the whole world to see what you're capable of."
Julien looked up at Gerrard, and the setting sun was caught perfectly in the captain's hair, the warm light revealed the wrinkles beginning to form at the corners of his eyes that made him look more distinguished rather than diminished.
Before Julien could give a response, Gerrard patted his shoulder and said warmly. "Liverpool has never produced a Ballon d'Or winner who was truly our own, you know. If you could be the first, that would make all of us prouder than anything else you might achieve."
These words created a brief moment of contemplative silence among the group. Several players instinctively looked down, focusing intently on their water bottles. Others turned their heads toward the distant coaching staff.
Nobody mentioned a specific name, but everyone present understood exactly what "truly our own" meant. There was a player who'd once worn Liverpool red who had since been excommunicated from the club's history by the fans—his name had become unmentionable among the fans.
Sturridge was the first to break the tension, shaking his head with forced cheerfulness as he deliberately changed the subject. "Forget about the Ballon d'Or for now! Let's focus on Sunderland next week. If Julien bags another couple, we'll extend our lead at the top of the table!"
Henderson immediately picked up the thread. "Exactly! Sunderland's defense is the kind that's perfect for Julien to practice against—they're a relegation-threatened side, after all!"
Laughter resounded through the group again, and the uncomfortable moment passed without anyone speaking the name that had become synonymous with betrayal in Liverpool circles.
Julien watched his teammates return to their usual banter, then looked down at his boots.
Just months ago, he'd been running on training pitches in Corsica—that small Mediterranean island where he'd developed his skills in relative obscurity. Now here he was, sitting beside Steven Gerrard, casually discussing the Ballon d'Or while the captain told him "I hope you win it."
The transformation still felt surreal at times.
He responded quietly but clearly, his voice was cutting through the ambient noise. "First priority is helping the team win matches. Everything else comes gradually after that."
Gerrard observed Julien's earnest expression, and the corner of his mouth curved into an approving smile. He remembered being on the receiving end of similar encouragement when he'd been the young prospect everyone talked about.
Now it was his turn to pass that warmth forward to the next generation, to be the veteran voice that steadied and supported rather than the rising star desperate to prove himself.
The sun continued its descent, sinking lower on the horizon until the facility's floodlights began flickering to life across the training complex.
Julien gazed at Liverpool's rare display of golden sunset light, the English northwest wasn't known for such clear, beautiful evenings—and felt a smile spread across his face.
His expression wasn't prompted by the Ballon d'Or discussion, despite how surreal that conversation had been. No, he was smiling because he recognized that he was on the right path, surrounded by people who genuinely wanted to push him forward and walk alongside him on this journey.
That knowledge was worth more than any individual accolade could ever be.
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