The Football Legends System

Chapter 46 – A New Test for the Wonderkid

—

Old Trafford – Just Before Kick-Off

The lights burned white over the pitch, a stage carved out of myth. The roar of seventy-five thousand fans layered the air like thunder stacked on thunder.

Nathan stood by the tunnel, phone still in hand. One final glance before he tucked it into his coat pocket.

"Nathan vs Tottenham "

He smirked. A new test, huh?

Ding!

Skill Unlocked: Free Kicks – David Beckham Style

A low chuckle escaped him.

"Oh... time for some art."

Valverde was sitting a few feet away, tightening his laces with laser focus. His head snapped up. "What?"

"Nothing." Nathan shook his head, grin sharp. "Just remembered something beautiful."

Amorim’s voice rang out from the center of the huddle. The team circled him, boots squeaking lightly on the tunnel floor.

"Tottenham will rely on counterattacks," the coach said. "Stay balanced. Nathan—take every set piece. I don’t care if it’s thirty meters out. It’s yours."

—

Kick-off – First Half

The whistle blew—Tweeet!

—and instantly, the rhythm was frantic.

Tottenham pressed high. Their midfield line surged forward, choking the space. Maddison and Bissouma disrupted flow, swarming Bruno and Mount. Kulusevski dropped deep to turn and run, while Son lurked like a shadow with a heartbeat.

United tried to find their rhythm. One-twos between Bruno and Valverde, probing passes toward the flanks. But it wasn’t clean.

Then—12th minute.

James Maddison spun away from Mount and slipped a through-ball.

Tch! Clean. Deadly.

Son darted in. Dalot too slow. Varane just behind.

BOOM!

Left foot. Bottom corner. Onana couldn’t reach it.

GOAL! 1–0 Tottenham.

A hush swept over Old Trafford—like a sharp inhale before grief.

Nathan stared at the scoreboard, unmoving.

Alright, then.

—

18th Minute – A Chance from Nothing

Valverde drew a foul just outside the box. The ref’s whistle echoed.

Nathan stepped up.

Twenty-three meters. Slight angle. Perfect distance for a right-footed whip.

The wall was set.

The crowd held its breath.

He ran up.

Haaah... TAP. WHOOSH.

The ball curled like it had a soul.

Over the wall. Around the arc.

Dipped—CRACK!!—just under the bar, kissing net.

GOOOOOAL!!!

Old Trafford erupted.

The net bulged like a sail in the wind. The keeper didn’t move. He couldn’t.

A masterpiece.

Nathan stood there. Calm. One hand up. No wild celebration.

Just art.

Bruno ran up, arms out. "That was disgusting."

—

32nd Minute – Growing into Chaos

United pressed harder now. Nathan nearly scored twice—once smashing the post after skipping past two defenders, the other a rocket that grazed the crossbar.

But Tottenham didn’t sit back. Every time United lost the ball, they struck like a pack of wolves.

Son. Kane. Kulusevski. Fast. Direct.

Onana made a flying save in the 39th.

Varane blocked a shot with his thigh in the 42nd—THUMP!

Halftime came.

1–1.

Nathan jogged into the tunnel, panting, drenched in sweat.

Valverde caught up to him. "They’re playing like they’ve got knives in their boots."

"Then we take the knives," Nathan muttered. "And we turn them into brushes."

Valverde blinked. "What the hell does that even mean?"

Nathan grinned. "You’ll see."

—

Second Half – 49th Minute

Tyler Brown picked the ball up near midfield and threaded a pass between two Tottenham shirts.

Nathan made the run.

Tup-tup! Touch out wide—cut in.

Left foot—BOOM!!

Brilliant strike.

But the keeper flew. One hand outstretched—THWACK!

Saved.

Damn.

—

53rd Minute – Punished

Quick throw from Tottenham. Maddison again. No one tracked Kulusevski.

A switch to the right flank. Low cross.

Son touched.

Kulusevski... wide open.

BOOM!

Goal.

2–1.

Old Trafford groaned.

Amorim shouted from the touchline, voice sharp. "Take control again! Now!"

—

60th Minute

Foul.

Valverde hacked down near the arc—right side, 27 meters out.

Nathan walked over.

Bruno stood next to him. "You want it?"

Nathan nodded. "I need it."

He placed the ball carefully.

The wall lined up—five men. Big. Aggressive. Jump-happy.

He stepped back.

One glance at the keeper. The wall. The grass.

Tch.

They’re expecting a whip.

He exhaled slowly.

Then—

Tap. Tap. BOOM!

Low.

The wall jumped.

The ball slid underneath them like a whisper through the grass.

GOAL!!!

2–2.

Pure cheek. Ice-cold execution.

Old Trafford roared. Shirts flew. Fists punched the sky.

Nathan turned and jogged to the sideline, nodding once toward the coach.

Amorim blinked, then grinned like a man who’d seen a ghost wear his colors.

Valverde ran over. "You’re not normal, man!"

—

—

67th Minute

The roar of Old Trafford was a living, breathing thing now—surging with every pass, every tackle. The game had turned molten.

Nathan’s eyes scanned the pitch as he received the ball in midfield.

Two shadows closed in.

Tch.

He touched it with the outside of his right boot—tap—cut inside the first defender. A feint, a glide, then another surge of acceleration past the second.

Gasps from the stands.

He slipped a pass between two white shirts—

"Valverde! Hit it!"

The Uruguayan did not hesitate.

BOOM!

A missile off his right foot.

It beat the keeper—

CLANG!!

Off the post.

The whole stadium winced.

Nathan gritted his teeth. Hands on his head. So close. So damn close.

Valverde spat on the ground, frustrated. "Damn it. That should’ve been it."

—

73rd Minute

Kulusevski skipped past Shaw with a flick. One pass. Son peeled off his marker like a shark smelling blood.

He didn’t even need to look up.

CRACK!

Bottom corner. Ruthless.

3–2.

The stadium deflated.

Hands on hips. Heads dropped. Frustration, disbelief, fatigue.

Amorim shouted from the touchline, but it felt like his voice couldn’t reach the players anymore.

Until—

Nathan turned, eyes burning.

"We’re not done!" His voice cut through the noise, raw and sharp.

"The next goal is ours! You hear me?! Ours!"

—

80th Minute

United pushed. No time to calculate. Just instinct. Passion.

Bruno found Nathan between the lines. A pass zipped into his feet.

Nathan turned—quick, fluid.

Defender in front. He didn’t care.

HAAAH! BOOM!

A thunderous strike from twenty-five meters.

The keeper dove—THWACK!

Parried.

Gasps, groans. The rebound was cleared.

But Nathan didn’t curse. He didn’t scream.

He jogged back, eyes locked ahead.

Still chasing.

—

84th Minute

Corner.

Valverde jogged over to take it. Nathan moved short.

A glance between them.

"Back to you," Nathan said.

Valverde nodded. Quick touch. Return ball.

Nathan gave it back. One-touch.

Valverde wound up.

WHOOSH—

A wicked, whipped cross.

Zirkzee leaped. Higher than anyone.

THUD!

A powerful header—down, bouncing.

The net rippled.

GOOOOOOAL!!!

3–3!

Old Trafford exploded. Arms raised. Scarves flung into the air.

Zirkzee pumped his fists, sprinting to the corner flag.

Valverde let out a roar, shaking Nathan by the shoulders.

"You called it, you crazy bastard!"

Nathan was grinning, chest heaving.

But his eyes weren’t on the celebration.

They were on the ball being returned to the center circle.

—

88th Minute

Chaos.

Tottenham countered again.

Son broke free—lightning down the left.

He cut inside.

Shot!

THWACK!—Onana!

Flying save. One arm. Unreal.

The ball spilled, cleared by Varane .

The stadium couldn’t breathe.

Valverde screamed instructions. Bruno was waving arms, organizing. Amorim paced the technical area like a general in a losing war.

Nathan wiped sweat from his brow.

"Come on... come on..."

—

90+1st Minute

A long clearance from Onana.

Nathan read it. Jumped. Chest control. Drop of the shoulder—gone.

A defender lunged—late.

CLATTER!

Foul!

Twenty-one meters out.

Slightly to the left.

Silence.

Even the cameras seemed to hold their breath.

Bruno placed a hand on Nathan’s shoulder.

"You got this."

Nathan just nodded. He looked at the ball, then the goal.

Crowd behind him. Keeper ready. Wall set.

He could win it here.

He closed his eyes for a moment.

He could feel the grass beneath his boots. Hear his heartbeat.

Then—breathe in. Breathe out.

Haaah...

Step. Step. Curl—

BOOOOM—

The ball sailed, bent, dipped—

"It’s in!"

No—

THWACK!

A fingertip.

The keeper pushed it over.

Corner.

The stadium groaned in unison. A symphony of frustration.

Nathan stood there, still.

Then slowly walked over to take the corner.

No drama. No magic this time.

The ref’s whistle cut through the air.

Full time.

3–3.

—

Post-Match

Players collapsed to the turf. Some knelt. Some clapped the fans.