The next afternoon, the Liverpool team bus rolled back into Merseyside.
The journey from London had been quiet. Some players were sleeping, others were locked with headphones in, some were playing cards in the back rows.
When they arrived back at the Melwood training complex around 2 PM, Klopp gathered everyone briefly in the main facility.
"Right, lads—you've got until January 2nd. See your families, recharge properly. Anyone who wants to come in for light recovery work, the facilities will be open, but it's entirely optional. When we reunite, we'll have new boys with us and we'll start preparing for the next match."
The players dispersed with relief, heading to their cars in the Melwood car park.
Julien, however, didn't immediately drive back to his apartment in the city center. Instead, he pointed his car toward Liverpool Lime Street Station, arriving around 3:30 PM.
He'd received texts that morning from both Clemence and Pauline confirming their arrival time—the 3:15 from London Euston. They'd flown into Heathrow the last day and spent the night in London before taking the train north.
Julien parked in the station's multi-story car park, then walked through the main concourse to the arrivals area. The station was busy with the post-Christmas travel surge—families were returning from visiting relatives, tourists, students were heading back to university cities.
He spotted them coming through the barriers about ten minutes later.
Clemence first, pulling a small wheeled suitcase, dressed in jeans and a warm coat, her dark hair pulled back in a ponytail. She'd always had that effortless French style.
And beside her, Pauline who was slightly shorter with lighter hair, wearing a cream-colored sweater under a navy jacket. When she saw Julien waiting, her face lit up with a smile.
Julien walked quickly toward them, and Clemence reached him first, dropping her suitcase handle to pull him into a hug.
"Look at you," she said in French, pulling back to examine his face. "You look exhausted. Are they working you too hard?"
"I'm fine," Julien replied, also in French, grinning. "Two matches in three days is normal. I'm not that fragile."
Clemence made a skeptical sound but released him so Pauline could step forward.
They pulled apart but Pauline's hand found his.
Clemence, observing this with knowing amusement rolled her eyes good-naturedly. "Alright, you two. Let's get out of this crowd before someone recognizes our local celebrity."
She had a point—Julien had noticed a few double-takes from passersby, though in his casual clothes (jeans, hoodie, winter jacket) he was less immediately recognizable than in his kit.
They collected the luggage and headed to the car park. Julien had texted them earlier that morning to not book hotel as his apartment was a spacious two-bedroom in one of the nicer developments overlooking the Albert Dock.
The club had helped him find it when he'd signed, and while it was far larger than a 19-year-old needed, it was perfect for occasions like this.
Once they'd loaded the bags into his car,Julien drove them first to the apartment to drop off their things, then immediately back out.
"You're not letting us rest?" Clemence teased.
"You can rest tonight," Julien replied. "You came all this way—I'm showing you the city properly."
And so began an impromptu tour of his new home.
Their first stop was, inevitably, Anfield.
Julien drove them through the streets of L4, pointing out the terraced houses decked in red flags and scarves, the murals of Shankly and Paisley and Dalglish painted on walls, the pubs (The Sandon, The Park) that had been Liverpool FC for generations.
When they reached the stadium itself, Julien parked on one of the residential streets nearby (residents' parking, but he knew the spot where you could get away with thirty minutes without a ticket) and walked them up to the Shankly Gates.
The gates themselves were iconic, with that immortal phrase arched above in metal letters: "You'll Never Walk Alone."
Even in the off-season, even on a quiet December afternoon, there were a few fans there. Taking photos, touching the gates for luck, leaving scarves and flowers at the small memorial area for the 96 Hillsborough victims.
Julien stood back and let Clemence and Pauline observe it.
"This isn't just a stadium to them," he explained, gesturing to the fans. "It's... it's bigger than football. It's identity, community, family history. There are people who've had season tickets in the same seat for forty years, whose fathers had them before that. Generations are supporting the same club."
Clemence, who had grown up in a France where football culture existed but wasn't quite so intensely ethnic, looked genuinely moved. "It's like a religion."
"Basically, yes," Julien agreed.
Pauline was quieter, just observing. She'd also seen how Bastia fans had treated Julien.
They walked slowly along Anfield Road with Julien pointing out the different stands—the Kop (where the most passionate supporters flocked, creating that famous wall of sound), the Main Stand, the Anfield Road End. The stadium itself looked peaceful in the winter afternoon light like a sleeping giant waiting for match day to roar back to life.
"When it's full—over fifty thousand people—the noise is..." Julien paused, trying to find the words in French. "It's intense. You can feel it in your chest. Especially when they sing the anthem before kickoff. Every single person in the stadium singing You'll Never Walk Alone. It's incredible."
"I'd like to see you play here," Pauline said softly.
"I'll get you tickets for a match," Julien promised. "The atmosphere will be electric."
They spent another twenty minutes around the stadium area before heading back to the car. Julien had more to show them.
Next stop: the Albert Dock.
The drive took them through the city center, past the magnificent Victorian architecture of the waterfront buildings—the Royal Liver Building with its iconic Liver Bird statues, the Cunard Building, the Port of Liverpool Building. The "Three Graces" of Liverpool's maritime heritage.
Julien parked in one of the dock's visitor car parks and led them into the complex itself.
The Albert Dock was a masterpiece of industrial rebuilding with massive red-brick warehouses that once stored cotton, tobacco, and sugar from the British Empire's trading routes, now converted into restaurants, museums, galleries, and high-end shops.
The dock itself was lined with boats and yachts while the water reflected the late afternoon sky.
It was beautiful.
"This is where wealthy Liverpudlians come to pretend they're in Barcelona," Julien joked, switching to English for the first time since picking them up. His English had improved intensely over the past months—immersion was a hell of a teacher.
Clemence laughed, taking photos with her camera. Pauline walked beside Julien, close enough that their shoulders occasionally bumped.
They wandered through the colonnade, window-shopping at places none of them intended to actually buy from (£300 for a scarf seemed excessive even by football standards), stopping at a café for proper coffee (strong, bitter, the way the French appreciated it—not the milky sweet versions that dominated English chains).
As the sun began to set, the dock took on a different character. Lights began to flicker on in the surrounding buildings. The water turned from gray-blue to looking darker and more mysterious. The tourist crowds thinned out.
They walked slowly along the waterfront path, Clemence slightly ahead now, giving the younger couple some space.
The temperature had dropped with the sunset. Pauline had her hands tucked into her coat pockets for warmth.
They didn't talk much—just walked, enjoying the moment. The soft sound of water lapping against the dock walls, the distant hum of city traffic, occasional laughter from other couples and families enjoying the evening.
As evening approached, Clémence checked her phone and smiled. "I've got a flight back to France tonight, so I'll leave you two young people to it."
She pulled Julien into a hug, then ruffled Pauline's hair. "Look after yourself. Look after her too. Show her around properly."
Julien walked her to where they'd parked earlier, retrieving her suitcase from his car and helping her flag down a taxi.
Before she got in, Clemence pulled Julien into another hug.
"Take care of yourself," she said firmly. "Eat properly, sleep enough, don't let them work you into the ground."
"I promise," Julien said.
Clemence climbed into the taxi, waved through the window, and then she was gone which left Julien and Pauline standing on the pavement alone.
The atmosphere shifted subtly—still comfortable, but charged with possibility.
After she left, the atmosphere between them softened.
Julien and Pauline walked side by side along the path above the Mersey, the evening breeze was lifting strands of her hair. Without Clémence, there were fewer words but something gentle filled the space between them.
At a lookout above the harbour, where the lights of the docks spread out below, Julien stopped.
He turned to face her.
The lamplight settled over them both, and the warmth in their eyes answered each other.
He reached up gently, brushing a loose strand of hair from her cheek. Then he leaned in and kissed her—slowly, softly.
Pauline stilled for a moment, then closed her eyes.
And she kissed him back.
The sound of the Mersey, the distant hum of the city—all of it became the gentlest kind of backdrop.
While Julien was discovering what it felt like to have a normal evening as a nineteen-year-old (something increasingly rare in his life), a very different kind of meeting was taking place in Liverpool Football Club's offices.
The executive suite at Melwood was quiet this late—most of the staff had gone home for the evening. But in one of the larger conference rooms, lights were still on.
Dein sat on the sofa with a thick list in his hands. Across from him: Klopp and his assistant Buvač.
Spread across the table between them were documents—scouting reports, statistical analyses, financial projections, contract templates.
And at the center of it all: the list.
Klopp had a copy in front of him, and even now, having seen it dozens of times over the past weeks as they'd refined it, the names still generated a small thrill of anticipation:
Kevin De Bruyne
Łukasz Piszczek
Virgil van Dijk
Roberto Firmino
André-Pierre Gignac
The list had gone through many rounds of discussion between Dein and Klopp. The targets had been chosen carefully—players suited to the team's identity, a mix of immediate impact and long-term investment.
Dein set it on the table and slid it toward Klopp.
"Jürgen—every player on that list has the club's full backing. I know a squad this transformed will need time to gel, so I don't want you feeling any pressure to produce results. Even if we don't win a trophy this season, that's fine. Next season is when it starts to matter."
He let that sink in, then continued. "Take this group and work with them through the second half. If you find problems, we'll come back in the summer and keep building. Money isn't the obstacle. The club's goal is simple: we want a side that can compete for the title year after year."
Klopp picked up the list. His fingertips moved slowly across the names. Something in his expression shifted, it was a kind of silent disbelief.
He looked up at Dein, and a relieved smile appeared across his face. "Thank you. Thank you for the trust you're placing in me. Honestly? From Mainz to Dortmund, I've never had this kind of backing. With support like this, I'm confident we can take this club in the right direction."
Buvač nodded beside him, eyes full of anticipation.
He'd followed Klopp from Mainz, and he knew exactly what Klopp meant. At both clubs, the transfer window had meant one thing: don't lose anyone you need to keep. The summer budget was whatever the club could scrape together, and you built from within, scratched for every gem.
Now—a real squad. The tactical ideas they'd carried for years could finally be realized properly.
Buvač found himself genuinely looking forward to what came next.
The three of them talked through the squad-building strategy in broad strokes—not the fine print of individual signings, but the architecture of the team they were trying to build, and the rhythm at which it would come together.
Every sentence spoke to Liverpool's future. A new side was quietly taking shape.
None of the three men in that room yet had any real sense of what this squad was capable of becoming.
The calendar turned to the 31st of December.
That afternoon, Julien drove Pauline with him to Liverpool Lime Street station.
He didn't have to wait long.
From the car park, he spotted a familiar figure stepping out from the terminal.
He got out and walked quickly toward him. No words were needed at first—just two pairs of eyes meeting across the crowd, and then a broad smile from both sides, and a firm embrace.
"Welcome to Liverpool, Kevin."
De Bruyne laughed and clapped him on the back. "Happy to be here, brother."
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