The Football Legends System

Chapter 41 – Premier League Lights

—

AFTER 2 WEEKS

—

A friendly against Spanish side Villarreal.

—

[Skill Gained: Pedri’s Shooting]

Nathan blinked.

For a moment, nothing changed.

No glowing aura. No electric jolt. Just the low hum of the tunnel’s fluorescent lights, and the muffled roars of the crowd leaking in from the pitch.

He flexed his foot, stared at his boots.

Pedri’s shooting?

Tch...

A gift, maybe. But it wouldn’t mean a thing if he didn’t earn it out there.

—

They were warming up in the corner of the pitch as Villarreal kept the ball moving under the sun-soaked Manchester sky.

A pre-season friendly, yes. But Carrington had filled out for this one, and United’s fans didn’t treat friendlies like casual affairs—especially not when a €47 million talent sat lacing his boots on the sideline.

"Let’s go, Nathan!!"

"Number 11! Show ’em what you’ve got!"

They chanted his name during every stretch, every sprint. A couple kids even held up a sign with PERRY scrawled over a United flag.

He offered a small wave. Nothing too flashy.

But his pulse quickened. The energy? Addictive.

Garnacho jogged past, grin tugging at the corner of his lips. "They’re louder for you than me, and I’m starting," he teased.

Nathan smirked. "I’ll make it up to you. Might even assist you."

"Hah! We’ll see."

—

Second half. 58th minute.

Coach Amorim stood with arms folded, eyes flicking between Garnacho and Nathan.

Then the call came.

"Nathan. You’re on. Right wing. Replace Ale."

His legs were already moving before the sentence finished. Garnacho clapped his hand as they crossed paths.

"Give ’em hell, rookie."

Nathan jogged to the touchline, the stadium buzzing like a lit fuse. A deep breath. Then—

Fweeet!

Substitution confirmed.

He stepped onto the pitch. Old Trafford felt alive beneath his boots.

And in that moment, the Theatre of Dreams wasn’t just watching.

It was waiting.

—

Villarreal played a composed, technical game—lots of possession, tight lines, quick rotations. But Amorim had been tweaking United’s press for weeks, and now they snapped forward with hunger.

Nathan pressed high, forcing a back-pass.

He tracked back with urgency, even clipped a pass into Bruno that triggered an attack down the left. It wasn’t flashy. But it was right.

Still, the ball hadn’t truly come to him yet.

Not like he wanted.

Then—

74th minute.

Bruno intercepted a loose touch near the center circle and drove forward. One glance. One look over the shoulder.

"Nathan!"

The pass split two lines. It was clean. Smooth. Timing perfect.

Nathan’s instincts flared. The touch stuck to his boot like glue.

Here we go...

He faced two defenders—one closing from the right, one shielding the box. He stepped over once. Then again.

Tap. Tap. SNAP!

A sharp feint sent the first defender stumbling. He cut inside—

—The second stepped forward. Nathan flicked it past him, ghosting into space with barely a breath of margin.

And then—

BOOM!!

He let fly.

His boot connected clean—struck not with blind power, but with lethal intent. The ball bent, rose, dipped—

CLANG!!

Off the post!

The stadium erupted.

"OOOOOOOOOH, NATHAAAAN!!"

The sound crashed over him. Not disappointment—admiration. He stood frozen for a second, chest heaving, heart pounding. So close.

So damn close.

He exhaled. Haaah...

His first real chance.

And they were already calling his name.

—

The match ended 1–1.

But Nathan left the pitch with his head high, even as the coach clapped him once on the back without a word.

In the locker room, Rashford patted him on the shoulder.

"Rocket, that one. Another inch and the net would still be shaking."

Nathan gave a wry smile. "Next time, it’s going in."

"You’ll get ten more. Just don’t blink when they come."

—

Later that evening – Coach’s Office

The blinds were half-drawn. A video replay looped in silence on the monitor behind the desk.

"Nathan."

Amorim gestured toward the chair.

Nathan sat, back straight.

"You did well today," the coach said, arms folded. "But I need something more."

Nathan waited.

"I want you on the right wing. But with a twist."

A diagram flickered onto the screen—triangles, rotations, channels of space.

"You’ll cut in. Not just for goals.. Pull defenders. Open up room for Garnacho. Let Bruno thread the needle. And when the shot’s on—"

Nathan raised a brow. "I won’t hesitate."

Amorim chuckled.

"I don’t want you to. Just... be smart about it. No tunnel vision. You’ve got eyes, use them."

Nathan nodded. "Got it. I’ll play wherever you need... but I can’t resist shooting."

"Good," Amorim said

—

The next morning, he was the first on the training pitch.

No cameras. No chants.

Just the wind, the cones, and the bounce of the ball.

He started drills alone—positioning, tracking back, off-ball runs. Things that didn’t make highlight reels.

Sweat dripped down his brow. He kept going.

Then footsteps. A voice.

"Working early?"

Bruno Fernandes.

Nathan stood, panting. "Trying to tighten things up."

Bruno passed him a fresh ball. "You’re a rare talent. Don’t let them compare you to anyone else... just be yourself."

Nathan caught his breath.

"...Thanks. I needed that."

Bruno shrugged. "The league doesn’t care if you’re new or young. But if you stay true to your game—you’ll tear it apart."

They shared a look. No more words needed.

Just mutual understanding.

—

That night, Nathan lay in bed, the echo of the crowd still fresh in his ears.

"Ooooooh, Nathaaan!"

He stared at the ceiling, a grin creeping onto his face despite himself.

—

AFTER 3 WEEKS

—

The air in London was thick with tension.

Not just the weather—though the August sun pressed down on the pitch like a weight—but the hum of expectation that clung to every camera flash and chant inside the London Stadium.

Opening day of the Premier League.

Nathan stood in the tunnel, eyes fixed ahead as his teammates shifted around him. Zirkzee bounced on his heels. Valverde adjusted his wrist tape with quiet precision. Bruno cracked his knuckles. The roar outside swelled as the announcer’s voice echoed through the concourse.

"Manchester United... taking the pitch for the first time this season!"

Thud.

Nathan clenched his fists once, then glanced down at his smartwatch. The screen flashed softly.

[New Skill Acquired: Salah’s Left-Footed Shots]

His lips twitched.

"Heh... Salah’s left foot, huh? Let’s see if I can score with my weaker foot today."

A grin ghosted across his face, but it faded quickly as the noise swelled. He could feel it now.

The crowd. The lights. The cameras.

This was no longer a friendly. No more rehearsals. No more warm-ups.

This was war in ninety minutes.

This... was the Premier League.

—

Kickoff

United played in red. Nathan wore Number 11, stationed on the right of a midfield triangle with Bruno slightly advanced and Valverde deeper.

Zirkzee led the line. Varane and Martinez marshaled the back. Onana barked instructions with that same vocal defiance he was known for.

And Nathan?

He exhaled. Felt the ball hit his foot for the first time.

Thud. Tap. Roll.

Simple passes. Quick movements. Every touch was under a microscope now.

—

11th Minute

Corner. West Ham.

Nathan tracked back to help Dalot, but the cross was perfect. Curled viciously into the six-yard box.

WHAM!

Antonio rose like a hammer from hell. Martinez challenged him, but the forward’s power overwhelmed the resistance. The header smashed past Onana.

GOAL – 1:0 WEST HAM

Nathan winced. Not because of the goal—because he knew he was half a step too late closing the short option. The corner came too fast. His reaction? Too slow.

Tch...

He jogged back to midfield, head low, then forced himself to lift it.

—

24th Minute

Valverde won the ball in midfield with a crunching slide. It skidded toward Nathan in the right channel.

He didn’t think—he moved.

Touch out wide. Acceleration. One-on-one with a defender.

He dipped his shoulder.

Tap. Tap. SNAP!

Cut inside.

His right was open—but this time, he ignored it.

Instead—

Whip!!

The left foot came through like a whip-crack, smooth and sharp. The ball bent like a scythe toward the top corner.

BOOM!!

It sliced through the air and buried itself in the top bin like a dagger thrown from distance.

Silence—then eruption.

The United fans behind the goal exploded. Even West Ham supporters had to blink.

"WOOOOOW!! What a strike! Was that really his left foot?! A Salah-style goal from Nathan Perry!"

Nathan sprinted toward the bench, pure adrenaline in his veins. No control. Just emotion.

He leapt into the air with both fists raised.

"Let’s light it up, Red Devils!"

The team swarmed him. Bruno locked him in a headlock. Valverde slapped the back of his head.

"You’re insane," Bruno said, laughing.

"You’re welcome," Nathan grinned.

1–1.

Momentum shifted.

—

Second Half – 56th Minute

But football is cruel.

Valverde, usually a machine, misjudged a short pass in transition. West Ham pounced.

Boom. Boom. One-two pass.

Counterattack.

Shot. Net.

2–1.

United stunned. Onana furious. Valverde cursed into his sleeve.

Nathan slammed the ground once with his palm. But he didn’t yell. He turned.

Eyes narrow. Jaw set.

Still time.

—

68th Minute

Zirkzee came off. Rashford entered.

Bruno pushed higher. United increased the tempo.

Nathan dropped slightly, rotating with Valverde. Pressing. Hounding. Breathing down passing lanes.

—

79th Minute

West Ham tried to slow it down. Pass around the back. Delay. Drain the clock.

Nathan read it.

Dash!

He pressed hard from midfield—cutting the passing lane like a knife.

Intercepted!

He didn’t stop. Drove forward. Feet pumping. Shirt clinging to his back from sweat. Blood rushing in his ears.

One touch. Then another. Laid it off to Bruno, who switched it wide.

Dalot flew down the flank.

Cross incoming—

Boom!

Valverde rose, header to the bar—

CLANG!!

Rashford pounced.

GOAL!!! 2–2.

Manchester United erupted. The bench cleared. The away end howled.

Nathan pumped both fists in the air. Didn’t celebrate too wildly. Just... nodded.

Like he knew this wasn’t the end.

There was still one moment left.

—

93rd Minute

Final attack.

West Ham were stretched.

Nathan picked up the ball in his own half, burst through midfield with the final fumes of energy.

Rashford peeled wide.

Nathan passed—

Rashford returned it with a deft flick—

Cut. Inside. Left foot again.

SLAM!!

Low. Driven. On target.

The keeper barely saw it—dived late.

Saved!

Thud.

Rebound punched away.

Whistle blew.

Full time: 2–2.

—

The players dropped to their knees. Others stood hands on hips, drenched in sweat. Fans applauded.

Nathan walked off slowly. Shirt soaked. Boots heavy.

Amorim waited at the sideline. Met him with a handshake. Firm. Solid.

"You were the best player today," the coach said, voice steady. "And the best is yet to come."

—