The Football Legends System

Chapter 39 – News That Flooded the Headlines

-

- AFTER ONE MONTH -

-

Thud.

Nathan dropped back onto his bed, the phone still glowing in his hand.

The headlines danced across his screen like fireworks.

"€47 Million Wonderkid: Nathan Perry Signs for Manchester United!"

"The New Era Begins—United Secure the Championship’s Crown Jewel."

"De Bruyne Who? Nathan Perry’s Long-Range Legacy Lives On!"

Tch... He exhaled sharply, eyes fixed on the blinking notification bar. Dozens of interviews, hundreds of articles. Thousands—no, millions—of fans watching now.

His inbox was chaos.

Old academy coaches, ex-teammates, distant cousins. Some congratulating, some already asking for tickets. But one message stood out from the blur.

Coach Tyler Perry

"Proud of you. But don’t forget what we talked about. Headlines fade. Champions keep writing new ones."

Nathan stared at the text for a long time.

Coach Tyler wasn’t a man of flowery praise. But every word he said always carried weight.

Crack!

A sudden burst of fireworks outside his Manchester apartment window startled him. Red and gold—United colors—lit up the night sky.

The fans were already celebrating his arrival.

Somewhere deep in Old Trafford, his shirt was probably hanging behind a display glass. Number 22. PERRY.

He smiled. Not out of arrogance. But because deep down... the kid who used to juggle socks in a cramped hallway just got a key to one of the world’s biggest stages.

---

---

Click.

The camera shutters hadn’t stopped since Nathan stepped off the plane at Manchester Airport. He had expected it, maybe even imagined it—but standing here, flanked by security and flashing bulbs, the weight of the badge on his chest hit him like a punch to the ribs.

Manchester United.

The name was more than a club—it was a legacy, a burden.

"Nathan Perry—welcome to the Theatre of Dreams," a journalist called out, voice just above the chaos.

He smiled politely, lifting a hand in acknowledgment. But behind the calm surface, his mind raced.

€47 million... for me?

Valverde joined for €100 million...

And we finished 11th last season.

This isn’t just about potential anymore. It’s about proving everything.

The press conference had all the trappings of a footballing blockbuster—plush velvet backdrop with club insignias, twin crests of Manchester United and Adidas gleaming under bright lights. Nathan sat beside the club’s new manager, Rúben Amorim—a man with steely eyes, and a reputation for tactical revolution.

"Thank you for the welcome," Nathan said into the mic. His voice was steady, but the moment still felt surreal. "This is a dream come true, but dreams don’t win matches. Work does. I’m here to work."

The manager chuckled beside him.

"Well said," Amorim added. "Nathan represents the hunger we want in this new era. We’re building a team that presses, that dominates, that controls the pitch with intelligence. He fits that vision."

Cameras flashed. Reporters scribbled furiously. But somewhere in the back, someone murmured loud enough to carry:

"Still finished 11th though."

Tch... Nathan didn’t flinch. But his eyes narrowed for a split-second. A quiet fire kindled.

---

—

The roar was deafening.

Old Trafford wasn’t full it was overflowing. Banners rippled in the wind, chants echoed off the walls, and every seat seemed to pulse with energy. Red flares smoked in the corners as thousands of fans rose to their feet, chanting a name that had only just begun to carve itself into club history.

"NATHAN! NATHAN! NATHAN!"

Flash! Flash! Flash!

Cameras went off like a machine gun salvo. Every step Nathan took on the pitch felt watched, every breath magnified through the lens of expectation.

He stood there in full kit—boots laced, United crest pressed over his chest, number 11 bold on his back. A crisp Manchester wind caught the edge of his shirt, billowing it just enough to feel heroic.

Then the question came.

— "Nathan, do you feel pressure being the youngest major signing of the summer for the team?"

A moment of silence.

All eyes locked on him. Microphones tilted toward his lips.

Nathan didn’t blink. He leaned into the mic, his voice calm, his tone absolute.

"I don’t believe in pressure... I believe in opportunity. And this is my chance to prove I belong here."

!!

The stadium exploded—not with literal sound, but with emotion. Applause rippled through the crowd, sweeping up the sides like a wave crashing against rock. Fans cheered, fists raised, flares lit anew.

Even the skeptical journalists—ones already sharpening their knives—paused their scribbles.

That quote would be on headlines before nightfall.

But Nathan wasn’t playing to headlines. Not anymore.

By afternoon, the sky had dulled into a silvery overcast. A fresh drizzle misted the windows of the van as it cruised toward Carrington.

Nathan sat in the back seat, earphones in but music off. Just silence.

The presentation had been a storm. But now? Now came the real work.

The training ground gates slid open.

Carrington. It was quiet, removed, but humming with history. This was where legends were forged, where sweat wrote scripts far greater than any back-page feature.

As the van rolled to a stop, Nathan stepped out and took a long breath.

Haaah...

He was here.

He crossed the threshold into the facility, greeted by the clean scent of turf and iron. Inside, the walls bore photos of past champions. Rooney. Scholes. Giggs. Icons who bled for the badge.

"Nathan Perry," came a familiar voice, full of warmth and legacy.

Marcus Rashford, easy smile and all, extended a hand.

"Welcome, bro. We’ve been waiting."

Nathan clasped it. "Thanks. It’s an honor."

Behind Rashford, more followed—Alejandro Garnacho with a grin and mischief in his eyes, Bruno Fernandes cool and composed like a battlefield general, Onana towering, and Harry Maguire with a measured nod.

Bruno stepped forward, arms crossed with that captain’s air.

"Heard a lot about you, kid... ready to make an impact?"

Nathan didn’t hesitate.

"I was born for this, captain."

A smirk tugged at Bruno’s lips. "That’s what I like to hear."

—

The session began sharp.

No warm welcomes. No special treatment.

Just drills. Precision. Demands.

Coach Amorim stood with a whistle around his neck, eyes sharp enough to cut through excuses. The first thirty minutes were tight passing rondos and positional rotations.

Nathan settled on the right in a wide-midfield quadrant—his comfort zone. But comfort was an illusion.

The ball zipped across the grid. Pass. Move. Press. Reset. Nathan’s instincts took over—he drifted central, dancing past a marker, flaring wide again, floating into open space.

He was electric. Alive. Boom! A no-look touch slipped between two cones, drawing low whistles from teammates.

But then—

Fweeet!

The whistle cut through everything.

"Nathan!"

The drill froze. The entire squad turned.

Coach Amorim’s voice echoed like thunder.

"You’re playing on instinct," he said, stepping forward. "This isn’t street football. This is Manchester. Every step counts. Think with your head before your feet."

Nathan’s heart ticked faster. He nodded slowly.

"Understood. I need time... but you’ll see."

A pause. Then a gruff grunt from the coach.

"See that you do."

Nathan stepped back into line, jaw clenched. The fire was still there—burning hotter now.

As the drill resumed, a quiet voice spoke beside him.

"Don’t worry," came Valverde, cool and assured. "At Madrid, I used to chase shadows. Took time to get it right. But you will."

Nathan looked at him.

Federico Valverde. €100 million man. The midfield engine who never stopped running.

"You got used to pressure at Madrid?"

Valverde cracked a half-smile. "No. I made pressure get used to me."

Nathan couldn’t help but chuckle. The tension in his chest eased, just a little.