When the half-time whistle pierced through the Mediterranean night, Stade Armand Cesari erupted into a new dimension of delirium. The roar of thirty thousand voices crashed over the pitch like waves against Corsican cliffs—relentless, primal, overwhelming.
Tonight was transcendent for Bastia's fans. For the most devoted supporters, those who'd driven twelve hours from Paris, who'd named children after club legends—this joy eclipsed every other milestone in their lives. They understood the profound truth: witnessing their club claim the Ligue 1 trophy at home was a once-in-a-lifetime miracle, 108 years in the making.
Inside the away dressing room, Bastia's players went in with grins they couldn't suppress even if they tried. Smiles stretched across sweat-drenched faces as shoulders collided in celebration.
"Brilliant!" someone roared.
"Magnifique!" another shouted.
"Unbelievable!" echoed in English.
Julien found himself swarmed by teammates ruffling his hair with rough affection—the captain who'd delivered this crown to Corsica. His scalp tingled from the assault, but he barely noticed. The adrenaline still sang through his bloodstream, making everything feel distant and immediate at once.
One player lashed off his soaked jersey, the cloth made an audible squelch as it peeled away and twirled it overhead. "We are champions!" he roared, hurling the shirt to the floor where it landed with a wet slap.
Young substitutes mimicked Julien's signature celebration pose, arms spread wide, doubled over with laughter. The cacophony of cheers, whistles, and triumphant roars threatened to blow the roof clean off.
Every face exuded unrestrained joy and pride, smiles so bright they were almost blinding. Yet despite the euphoria, the atmosphere remained controlled—it was ordered chaos at its finest. No one had stripped naked or started pouring water over heads. Not yet. They were professionals, after all, and the match wasn't finished.
At the center of this controlled storm stood Hadzibegic. The manager's eyes swept across each ecstatic face, cataloguing who was still breathing hard, whose legs might be cramping, who had the energy reserves for another forty-five.
There was a smile at his lips, barely contained, the corners of his mouth fighting his professional composure. He allowed the moment to breathe, letting his players drink deeply from this well of pure emotion. Let them have this. They'd earned it.
Then, slowly, he raised both hands and pressed them downward in a calming gesture.
His expression mixed pride with purpose as his steady voice cut through: "Alright. Listen up."
The room fell silent instantly, though the grins remained plastered on every face.
"That first half!" Hadzibegic's voice carried weight and warmth, the slight rasp of someone who'd spent forty-five minutes shouting instructions into the wind. "You just delivered the finest forty-five minutes in Bastia's 108-year history! Three-nil. We've killed this match, gentlemen. The suspense is over."
His gaze traveled across each starter, lingering on three in particular. "Julien, N'Golo, Kevin—you three won't be staying on for the second half."
Julien, Kanté, and De Bruyne all nodded without hesitation. With a three-goal cushion, resting key players for next week's Europa League final made tactical sense.
Hadzibegic's smile broadened. "I know the superstition—pulling your stars at half-time is like popping champagne before full-time. Bad juju, they say."
He pronounced the phrase with intentional comedy; his Bosnian accent made it sound even more absurd.
He shrugged with dramatic nonchalance, scanning the room. "But today? I'm breaking that rule. Because even if Montpellier somehow conjure three goals from thin air—"
He paused deliberately, his expression turning playfully sardonic. "Ligue 1 doesn't do extra time. No penalty shootouts either. A 3-3 draw?"
His pause stretched just long enough for a few players to start grinning in anticipation.
"Still makes us champions!"
Laughter and whistles exploded through the dressing room. Someone, probably Lukaku—let out a sound somewhere between a howl and a battle cry.
Hadzibegic pressed his hands down again, fighting his own grin. "So, these final forty-five minutes—hold what we have. Stay solid. No heroics, no Hollywood passes. Montpellier are dead on their feet; don't wake them up with stupid mistakes. And then—"
He let the anticipation build, making eye contact with each player in turn. The tactical part was over. This was the moment they'd remember.
Everyone leaned forward slightly, looking expectant. His face broke into a full smile.
"Then celebrate like there's no tomorrow! Let all of France hear Corsica's roar! We! Are! Champions!"
The room erupted. Even Julien, normally the composed one couldn't maintain his cool. Who could resist being part of history?
They'd done it.
"WE ARE CHAMPIONS!"
The interval evaporated quickly. Hadzibegic held his substitutions as they emerged from the tunnel and stepped back into the cauldron.
The Bastia fans—a heaving blue ocean under the floodlights welcomed them with new thunder. The temperature had dropped a few degrees, but the heat from thirty thousand bodies created its own microclimate. Julien felt it wash over him like stepping into a sauna, could taste the beer and cigarette smoke and sheer emotion in the air.
The TF1 commentator's voice rose with flair: "Welcome back to Stade Armand Cesari! These next forty-five minutes won't be a football match for Bastia—they'll be the final ceremony of a grand coronation!
At 3-0, championship suspense has been executed. Bastia's hand is firmly wrapped around that trophy they've pursued for 108 years! Now, all of Corsica holds its breath, waiting for the final whistle to freeze this moment in amber for eternity!"
Pheeeeet!
The referee's whistle launched the second half. Julien jogged to his position, feeling the pitch beneath his boots—the grass had been cut short for the occasion, and the groundskeeper had clearly watered it at sunset.
Montpellier showed no urgency, maintaining their defensive shell from the first forty-five, nine men behind the ball in two firm banks of four with a lone striker stranded upfield. Perhaps they, too, were simply waiting for the inevitable conclusion. Their body language told the story.
The first stoppage came before the 50th minute, a goal kick that Montpellier's keeper took his time with, wiping his gloves repeatedly despite having barely touched the ball.
Immediately, Bastia made their move—a triple substitution.
Off came Julien, De Bruyne, and Kanté.
Instantly, the entire stadium rose as one. Applause rolled down from every tier like an auditory avalanche, merged with roaring ovations.
"Hadzibegic is rotating his troops now," the TF1 commentator observed. "De Rocca, De Bruyne, Kanté—three absolutely vital players receiving a standing ovation from every soul in this stadium. They've earned every decibel!
Especially Julien De Rocca! His 46th goal of the season! He hasn't just rewritten the record books—he's carved his name into the legend of Bastia and French football itself. From today forward, his name belongs to this stadium, this city, immortalized as a monument for future generations to admire!
What remains now is pure celebration—release for every ounce of effort and hope invested this season. For the players still on the pitch, one simple mission remains: protect this strong advantage and place the perfect full stop on a magnificent campaign!
Enjoy these final forty-five minutes! Savor every second of this championship birth! Because tonight, Bastia burns for football and blazes for history!"
Julien descended from the pitch. He exchanged crisp high-fives with incoming substitutes Vincent, Ilan, and Clauss. He shared a brief embrace with Hadzibegic before heading to the bench, waving continuously to supporters in every section of the ground.
Behind the technical area, he spotted Pierre, his father, and the other siblings. Loup waved frantically, screaming "JULIEN!" beside Chataigner and Geronimi, both already flushed with pre-celebration emotion, faces red as overripe tomatoes. His father stood with arms crossed, but the smile was unmistakable even from this distance.
Settling onto the bench, Julien felt De Bruyne drop down beside him, towel draped casually over his shoulders. De Bruyne's hair stood up in sweat-stiffened spikes, making him look vaguely deranged. He gazed at the one-sided match unfolding and the ecstatic stands beyond.
"Honestly? I'm already wondering what that champagne's going to taste like in the dressing room."
Julien chuckled. "Easy there. Let them run around a bit longer. Besides, that long-range rocket of yours nearly knocked some grandpa's dentures into orbit."
De Bruyne barked a laugh. "Mishit it completely. Was aiming top corner, caught it on the laces instead of the instep. Pure luck it went in." He lowered his voice. "Want to bet? First person to grab that trophy will definitely be Romelu."
They both glanced at Lukaku, who was pressing Montpellier's backline with overexcited intensity despite the match situation, harassing defenders who were perfectly content to let him run himself into exhaustion and burst into synchronized laughter.
"We'll see when we've won," Julien said.
"We already have," De Bruyne replied.
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