Up in the stands behind the bench, the three new signings rose to their feet to applaud, adding their voices to the noise of celebration surrounding them.
De Bruyne grinned, his eyes were sparkling with fire. "That free kick routine was absolutely perfect. Julien's delivery was pinpoint accurate—look at the bend he got on that ball and Agger's leap was spot on."
Van Dijk nodded appreciatively, his mind was already dissecting the play.
His height and aerial ability were among his greatest assets, and he found himself thinking that perhaps he should work specifically on his heading technique in training—on attacking set pieces as well as defending them.
No sense wasting this body of his, this physical advantage that nature had given him. If he could contribute four or five goals a season from corners and free kicks, that could also be the difference in a title race.
By the thirty-ninth minute, with halftime approaching and Hull City growing increasingly frustrated by their inability to create anything meaningful going forward, there was a brief flare-up on the pitch that looked about to boil over into something more serious.
Suárez, chasing what looked like a lost cause near the touchline, accidentally stepped on Hull's Curtis Davies during a challenge. It was clearly unintentional as his eyes were on the ball, his body position seemed all wrong for an intentional foul—but the contact was undeniable.
The referee saw it and immediately blew his whistle cutting through the tension. He reached into his pocket and produced a yellow card, holding it high for everyone to see. Suárez's name went into the book.
Suárez was utterly baffled by the decision, his face twisted with disbelief and indignation. How many fouls had he suffered in the box over the past minutes? How many times had defenders climbed on his back, pulled his shirt, clipped his heels?
None of them had drawn cards for the perpetrators.
But he accidentally stepped on Davies's foot in a genuinely unintentional coming-together, and he got booked for it immediately without hesitation.
It was ridiculous.
He even sarcastically applauded the referee. "Well done, ref. Brilliant. Absolutely brilliant."
The words didn't need to be heard to be understood.
The referee pointed sternly at him and let him go.
In the forty-second minute, with the first half winding down toward its conclusion, Liverpool created another golden opportunity.
Julien, operating in the space between Hull's midfield and defense where he was most dangerous, received the ball and instantly saw the run Henderson was making. His was perfectly timed, diagonal and purposeful, exploiting the gap between Hull's center-backs who had failed to communicate.
Julien sent a precise through ball from midfield with just the right weight and spin. The pass bisected the defense like a scalpel, cutting through two defenders and leaving Henderson with a clear path to goal.
Henderson latched onto it in the box with a beautiful first touch that took him away from the covering defender, and seeing the opening yawn before him like an invitation, he struck a right-footed shot without hesitation.
The strike was completely unexpected from the goalkeeper's perspective—he'd been preparing for a different angle, expecting Henderson to take another touch.
Goalkeeper McGregor had no time to prepare and adjust his positioning. The ball thundered into the net like a cannonball, hitting the side netting with such force that the entire goal frame shook!
The commentator's voice rose to a crescendo of excitement: "2–0! Liverpool extend their lead! Julien's vision was absolutely crucial there—that through ball split the entire defense like they weren't even there, and Henderson made no mistake with the finish!"
Boom!
Boom boom!!
The bass drums in the Kop thundered their approval.
Anfield descended into another frenzy of celebration. The fans sang "You'll Never Walk Alone" with voices hoarse from shouting, and red scarves fluttered in the winter wind across the stands like a field of poppies swaying in a breeze.
The sight from above must have been spectacular.
De Bruyne, Van Dijk, and Piszczek stood to applaud once more, their appreciation was genuine and growing. They were getting a masterclass in what Liverpool could do at their best, and it was impressive.
Piszczek sighed contentedly and smiled. "An attack like that—the movement from midfield and up front, it's absolutely terrifying to defend against. The passing combinations, the timing of the runs, the clinical finishing. I'm already looking forward to fighting alongside them."
De Bruyne's smile broadened. "Me too, Łukasz. Getting to partner with Julien again after Bastia—it feels amazing."
Van Dijk laughed, his deep voice was rumbling with amusement and nostalgia. "I remember back at Bastia, all I had to do was pass the ball forward to you two and then I could just watch like a spectator enjoying the show. You'd handle everything else and make my job very easy."
Hearing that, all three exchanged knowing grins.
Soon, the brief period of stoppage time ended, the fourth official's board showing just one additional minute.
Beep!
The referee blew his whistle to end the first half.
Thanks to Daniel Agger's headed goal and Jordan Henderson's strike, Liverpool led Hull City 2–0 at home.
Throughout the first half, Liverpool had been utterly dominant—in possession, in chances created, in territorial advantage, in every metric. Hull City had barely threatened, had rarely crossed the halfway line with any conviction and looked thoroughly outclassed.
Liverpool Dressing Room
The atmosphere in the Liverpool dressing room was relaxed.
Once all the players had filed in and found their spots on the benches, Klopp addressed them from his position near the tactics board.
"You all did very well in the first half," he began, his tone was warm with genuine approval. "But everyone here knows how incredibly tough it was to get through the Christmas schedule. That period nearly broke us. Every single one of you worked incredibly hard, pushed your bodies to the limit and perhaps beyond.
For the rest of this halftime break, don't think about anything tactical or complicated. Just relax and recover. Get fluids in, get your legs up, let your heart rates come down. We'll make several substitutions in the second half to give some of you proper rest."
At that, the players visibly relaxed, the tension was fleeing from shoulders and faces. Several players exhaled audibly, relief was evident in their body language.
The past month had truly pushed them to their absolute limits—the collapse against Chelsea was merely the most visible proof of that underlying exhaustion. The accumulation of matches with minimal rest had drained them physically and mentally.
If Chelsea had been sharper in front of goal and more clinical with their chances, Liverpool might well have been thrashed by two or three more goals. It had been that close to disaster.
They were exhausted beyond mere tired legs—this was deep fatigue that affected decision-making, slowed reactions, and made concentration waver.
Klopp continued, moving to his main point. "We're rotating the midfield and attack in the second half—giving some of the other lads a chance to find their rhythm too and maintain their sharpness."
He tapped the tactics board with his knuckles. "Right now, our biggest strategic advantage that could make the difference this season—is that we're only fighting on one front. Just the Premier League and the FA Cup, and we can rotate heavily in the Cup. In the coming weeks, we only have domestic fixtures to worry about, while our Premier League rivals like Arsenal, Manchester City, and Chelsea will soon be back in the Champions League."
His eyes scanned the room, making sure everyone understood the significance.
"The drain of fighting on two fronts simultaneously will be significant for them. Travel to Spain or Germany in midweek, then have to be sharp for a Premier League match on Saturday. The physical and mental toll is enormous. While they're dealing with that, we'll be fresh, focused, training properly between matches."
He gestured largely. "So this is an incredibly favorable condition for us in the race for the Premier League title this season—perhaps a once-in-a-decade opportunity for this club.
We don't have to split our focus or our energy. We just need to concentrate all our firepower, all our resources, on each domestic match. One game at a time with maximum focus and maximum intensity.
We've already established our dominance in the first half against Hull. Rotating in the second half to preserve energy for upcoming fixtures—that's the smartest choice."
The players nodded in agreement, understanding the logic.
This season was indeed Liverpool's most crucial window to challenge seriously for the Premier League crown—possibly their best chance in years, perhaps in a decade.
Klopp then briefly outlined the second-half tactics in more detail like some minoir formation tweaks, positional adjustments, specific instructions for different scenarios.
The main objective was simple: control the tempo and rhythm of the match, prevent any dangerous counterattacks from Hull, and see out the game professionally without expending unnecessary energy.
After finishing his tactical talk, Klopp left the dressing room to let them rest properly and give them mental space to recover.
Steven who was on the bench for this match resting his aging legs, managing his minutes walked over and patted Julien on the shoulder.
"Your runs and passing in the first half were crucial," he said sincerely, "Get some good rest now. We'll be relying on you heavily in the matches ahead, and I need you fresh."
Julien nodded gratefully, then remembered something he'd read in the media a few days earlier, something that had been nagging at the back of his mind. "Steven, I heard from several news outlets that you're planning to retire from international duty after next year's World Cup? Is that true?"
Gerrard paused mid-movement, then nodded calmly. "Yeah, I've been thinking seriously about it. Getting older, you know—thirty-three now, and the body doesn't recover like it used to. Time to give the young lads more opportunities to establish themselves with England before the next European Championship."
"What about the club?" Julien pressed, thinking about the history he knew, about how Gerrard had eventually left Liverpool for the MLS. "Don't go, okay? Not yet. Wait for us. Wait until we've won a trophy together before you even think about leaving. We need you here."
Gerrard froze for a moment, clearly taken aback by the intensity and specificity of Julien's appeal.
Then he laughed heartily. "Kid, I'm planning to retire right here at this club, right at Anfield where I belong. The way you're talking, it sounds like you're actively trying to push me out the door! Like you can't wait to get rid of me!"
"Ha! No, that's not it at all," Julien said quickly, his expression was earnest. "I'm just worried you might actually leave for some reason I can't predict. You're too important to this club, to this team. I figured I should say something now rather than regret not speaking up later."
He thought about the MLS history he knew from his previous life but now the Saudi ownership might not mind keeping a high-earning veteran on the books if that veteran was performing and contributing. Gerrard was, after all, an iconic figure for Liverpool, a one-club man who embodied everything the fans valued. His marketing value alone was significant.
Gerrard wrapped an arm around Julien's shoulder.
"Don't worry about me, lad. I'll burn everything I have left for this team. I've been here since the youth academy—over twenty years now, man and boy. This club is in my blood, in my bones. As long as the club still wants me, and as long as I've still got fuel in the tank, as long as these legs can still carry me up and down the pitch, I'm not going anywhere. This is where I belong."
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