Afternoon sunlight streamed through the floor-to-ceiling windows of Melwood's indoor rest area, casting warm patches across the floor. Outside, the rain had finally stopped over Merseyside's normally grey skies, leaving the training pitches glistening like mirrors.
Julien De Rocca and David Dein sat in armchairs that still smelled faintly new, two steaming coffees and a plate of the club nutritionist's specially prepared snacks was arranged on the low table between them. During the off-season, the facility felt quiet, almost hollow.
Julien poked listlessly at the protein cake on his plate with a fork, his brow furrowed in dislike. "Honestly, David, the weather here—it's fine during training when your blood's up and you're moving, but the moment you stop, the cold gets into your bones. It's this damp cold, you know? Not like winter in the Alps."
He gestured toward the window with his fork. "Give me the Mediterranean any day. And this food..."
He pulled a face, setting the fork down with decisiveness. "It's healthy, I'll grant you that. Too healthy. Everything tastes like necessity. I miss my mother's Boeuf Bourguignon. They weren't lying when they called England a culinary desert. Everything here tastes like it's missing something. Salt, maybe. Or soul."
David Dein chuckled softly, the sound warm and understanding as he raised his coffee cup to his lips. "I hear you, Julien. As an Englishman, I have to admit our local cuisine is... let's say distinctive. Takes some getting used to, even for natives."
He paused, a wry smile appearing at his face. "Though the club's already working on improving the canteen facilities. Can't have our record signing wasting away on protein bars and despair."
He set his cup down, his expression becoming more thoughtful. "London's food isn't much better, if I'm honest. I spent so long at Arsenal—God, that place was home for decades. My office overlooking the pitch, the marble halls, the history in every corner. But being here now, starting fresh at Liverpool, it feels..."
He searched for the right words, hands gesturing vaguely as if trying to shape meaning from air. "Fresh. Like everything's starting over. Almost makes me feel young again, like when I first arrived at Highbury in the eighties, everything ahead of me. There's excitement in it. But also this sense of... grounding. Of landing somewhere new and knowing you're going to build something."
Julien looked up from his untouched protein cake, nodding slowly. "True enough. Though I imagine the club will be under the microscope because of my eighty-million price tag. Everyone's watching, waiting to see if I'm worth it or just another expensive flop. The English media—they build you up just to tear you down, don't they?"
Dein leaned forward, his elbows resting on his knees, his tone turned serious. "Julien, listen to me. That price tag? Other people put that on you—the accountants, the negotiators, the press. You don't have to carry it around like a weight. All you need to do is what you did at Bastia: play football. Enjoy it. Express yourself. Let time take care of the rest."
He gestured with one hand. "The club paid that money for your future, not your past. They believe in you—in what you can become. We believe in you."
Julien settled back into the sofa. "I hope you're right. Speaking of which—will the canteen actually improve? Because I'm practically living on energy bars at this point. Those scones they serve for breakfast, and the baked beans..."
He made a pained expression, waving his hand as if to ward off the memory. "I can't tell if they're supposed to be a meal or a punishment."
Dein's smile turned knowing. "Don't worry, the club's been thorough. They've already hired a chef who specializes in Mediterranean and authentic French cuisine. He starts next week, specifically to cater to players like you from the continent. No more mystery casseroles."
He lowered his voice, leaning in slightly. "Plus, I personally pushed for a small but important addition to the setup—a pastry and sauces specialist trained in Lyon. This man's an artist. His reductions are immaculate.
You watch him work and it's like witnessing a ritual: stocks simmered for hours, skimmed constantly to absolute clarity, reduced until they cling to the spoon like silk. Even something as simple as grilled chicken becomes something else entirely—aromatic, precise, indulgent without excess."
Dein laughed, the sound was regretful. "Of course, you won't be eating most of it. The nutritionists have already stepped in, reviewing his proposed menus. Too much butter, too much cream, too much romance—straight onto the banned list."
Julien laughed too. "Sounds amazing. But surely a little bit wouldn't hurt?"
Dein nodded, his expression shifting as he moved the conversation forward naturally. "Of course. Moderation in all things, including moderation."
He took another sip of coffee. "But building a team is about everything—not just what you put in your body. The entire facility's being rebuilt, renovated. New gym equipment arriving next month, updated physio rooms, even the pitch drainage system is getting upgraded. We're creating what we hope will be Europe's finest training center. As for the squad itself..."
His expression grew more serious. "Luis's heart really isn't in Merseyside anymore. Barcelona and Real Madrid are both chasing him, and you know how that story ends. But the club's being firm—at least this season, he stays. We need his immediate impact, and frankly, we need him to share the pressure with you."
Julien listened intently, setting down his coffee cup. "What about Kevin?"
Dein shook his head regretfully. "José's got him locked down at Stamford Bridge. He sees Kevin as central to rebuilding Chelsea after their transition period. It's disappointing. But we have to respect Chelsea's decision and the player's situation. Sometimes the timing just isn't right."
He brightened slightly. "The good news, though—N'Golo's transfer is almost complete. Just some final paperwork. Brendan rates him highly. His ball-winning ability, his reading of the game, that engine that never stops... that's exactly the steel we need in midfield."
Julien nodded. "N'Golo's brilliant. He'll do well here. What about Virgil? Van Dijk. He's a good defender—the kind who'll be world-class one day."
Dein smiled, though there was a trace of disappointment beneath it. "Virgil's a young man with a clear vision, which is genuinely admirable. We made him a very strong offer, outlined how we see him developing here. But he thanked us for the invitation and the recognition, and then he turned us down—very politely, very professionally."
He spread his hands. "He's adamant about staying at Bastia. He wants one more season as an undisputed starter, especially with them making their historic Champions League debut. He believes performing on that stage will be better for his development than coming to the Premier League to fight for minutes or sit on the bench while he adapts."
Dein's expression showed genuine respect. "We can't fault his mature judgment. He's thinking long-term. We'll keep tracking him, staying in touch. He's got a bright future, and sometimes patience pays off better than force."
Hearing about Bastia brought a hint of nostalgia to Julien's expression. "Yeah... the Champions League. Bastia in the Champions League."
Dein smiled warmly, reading the emotion on his face. "You're already a legend there, you know. The local papers are calling you the greatest player in the club's history. They're talking about erecting a statue outside the stadium—seriously. Getting Bastia into the Champions League, winning the Europa League... that's your legacy. You gave them something they'll remember forever."
He paused, a note of broader reflection entering his voice. "Feels like all of Europe's in upheaval right now. Us, City, Chelsea—massive spending, everyone rebuilding. Barcelona and Madrid locked in their eternal arms race. Everyone positioning themselves, competing. It's like the tectonic plates are shifting under European football."
Dein took another sip of coffee, swirling the cup gently. "It's a turbulent transfer window, perhaps the most active I've seen in years. The entire football world is positioning itself for what comes next. But isn't chaos the perfect stage for heroes to rise?"
He looked directly at Julien. "Are you ready for tomorrow's unveiling? Anfield—it'll be a proper spectacle. Your moment to introduce yourself."
Julien drew a deep breath, straightening in his seat. His eyes regained their intensity, and that challenging smile curved his lips.
"Of course. Since I'm here, since I've chosen to stand center stage, I'm going to make sure all of England—no, all of Europe—remembers the name Julien De Rocca. Starting at Anfield."
They shared a knowing smile and clinked their coffee cups together.
Outside, a stubborn ray of sunlight finally pierced the heavy cloud cover that had dominated the sky all morning, illuminating the rain-washed pitch in bright green.
Julien turned to watch, drawn by the sudden brightness.
His heart surged.
This was it.
This sunlit grass, these training grounds, that famous stadium just down the road—all of it would be the stage where he wrote his legend. The famous Kop would roar his name. The winds off the Mersey would carry his story across England, across Europe, across the world.
He just had to make it happen.
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