The Football Legends System

Chapter 50 – Champions League Night

The second half kicked off with a sense of urgency in the air, the kind of electricity that could spark the fiercest of comebacks.

Nathan felt it too. The tingling pulse of every United fan in Old Trafford, the hum of expectations buzzing . He could already hear their cheers, see their faces, every pair of eyes locked on him. He was their hope. Their dream.

And he wasn’t about to disappoint.

51st Minute –

The ball was at his feet within the first thirty seconds of the second half. Bournemouth was trying to press, but their defense was scrambling—too wide, too unsure. They had forgotten who they were dealing with.

Nathan’s touch was precise, his body a fluid extension of his mind. With a soft flick of his right foot, he spun past a defender—a move that had become so natural it felt like breathing.

Spin!

The first Bournemouth player was beaten, but another closed in.

No matter. Nathan’s mind was already two steps ahead.

With a brilliant flick of his heel—pop—he sent the ball into the path of the next defender, pulling off a double backheel flick. The midfielder lunged for the ball, but Nathan was already moving past him, a blur of red.

The crowd held its breath as he opened up space, curling his foot back, preparing for the shot.

CRACK!

The ball surged toward the far post, a rocket of precision.

Thwack!

It hit the post. The sound echoed through Old Trafford—an agonizing thud that made every fan groan. A goal that could have been, but wasn’t.

Nathan stood there for a split second, staring at the ball as it ricocheted back into play. He clenched his jaw, but there was no time to dwell on it. Not yet.

60th Minute –

As the game wore on, the cracks in United’s defense grew wider. Bournemouth, hungry for a shock victory, took advantage of every opening.

A long pass came down the right flank, and with a quick, well-timed cross, the ball found the feet of a Bournemouth striker in the box. The defense was too slow to react, too disorganized.

Boom!

The shot came in low and fast, cutting through the chaos. Onana had no chance. It was a clean strike, perfectly placed.

1-3.

The air in Old Trafford deflated.

A collective groan rippled through the stands. The players on the pitch felt it too—every last ounce of their confidence from the derby victory slipping through their fingers like sand. The scoreline felt like a gut punch.

Amorim reacted quickly, standing up from the bench, his expression sharp and composed. He called for a substitution.

"Antony. Zirkzee off." His voice rang out, determined, but a trace of frustration lingered.

Nathan’s heart beat faster. Now he was to play as a central striker, more pressure, more responsibility. He could feel the weight settle on his shoulders.

But that wasn’t a problem.

The problem was that they were running out of time.

72nd Minute –

A few minutes later, the ball was with Nathan again, this time in the middle of the park. Valverde sent a brilliant ball into space, and Nathan surged forward, pushing past a tired defender.

One-on-one with the last man. The defender leaned in, his body weight shifting, trying to read Nathan’s next move.

The shadow feint was clean.

Tch!

The defender bit. Nathan surged forward with a flash of pace, but as he entered the box, a sharp tug at his ankle sent him tumbling to the ground.

Whistle.

The referee’s arms stayed crossed. No penalty.

The crowd roared in protest.

"How is that not a foul?!"

Nathan stayed down for a moment longer than necessary. A quick glance upward told him everything he needed to know: no one else could see what he had felt.

But that wasn’t the worst part.

The worst part was that the play continued without him. The confusion, the doubt creeping in...

Had the referee missed it? Or was it just a moment where everything that had worked in the derby suddenly fell apart?

80th Minute –

But Nathan wasn’t done.

Not yet.

On a counter, United’s attack began to build. A quick pass from Bruno to Nathan, who was now on the left side of the pitch. With space in front of him, he whipped the ball into the center—right to Antony, making a near-post run.

Bam!

Antony’s head connected. A clean, powerful finish.

2-3.

The crowd exploded. A small spark of hope, enough to remind the team they were still alive.

The players rallied together, slapping backs and shouting encouragement. But with every minute that ticked away, the weight of their mistakes bore heavier.

Bournemouth hadn’t given an inch.

86th Minute –

The minutes ran down, the clock ticking relentlessly toward their defeat. But United kept pushing.

High ball into Bournemouth’s box.

The chaos was inevitable.

Bournemouth’s defense scrambled to clear, but the ball dropped from the air—right at Nathan’s feet.

A moment of stillness.

His mind flashed through a thousand thoughts—he didn’t even hesitate. His left foot connected with the ball, a vicious strike that sent it flying toward the top corner.

CRACK!

The keeper was already airborne, arms stretched wide.

Whoooosh!

The ball sailed through the air like a comet.

But the keeper was there. A fingertip save.

The crowd exhaled in disbelief. A world-class save, and just like that, the chance was gone.

The final whistle blew.

The players trudged off the pitch, heads hung low. The scoreboard flashed—3-2 to Bournemouth. The game was over, and so was their hope for redemption.

Nathan sank to his knees, drenched in sweat, his chest heaving with each breath. His mind raced with a thousand questions, doubts, and what-ifs. His body burned, but there was no joy, no elation this time. Only the sting of a loss that felt too cruel, too close.

But as he sat there on the grass, in the silence of the stadium, a teammate approached.

It was Valverde. His face was grim.

"Even in defeat," Valverde said, a slight smile curling his lips, "you were the best on the pitch."

Nathan blinked, and for a brief moment, the crushing weight of defeat lifted.

The headlines would come, of course.

"The dancer may have lost... but the show never dimmed."

—

Old Trafford – Night Game Under the Floodlights

A month had blurred by in a haze of draws, narrow wins, and painful defeats.

The press didn’t hold back.

"Manchester United: A Titanic Name in Turbulent Waters."

"From Derby Kings to Midtable Mediocrity—Where’s the Fire Gone?"

"Nathan Perry—Bright Spark in a Sputtering Engine."

The fans were restless. Banners waved in the Stretford End, some in support, many in frustration.

Now, as the players gathered in the locker room before their final group-stage match in Europe, the air was heavy.

The table loomed on the whiteboard like a judgment:

Milan – 13

United – 11

PSV – 7

A draw would guarantee qualification. A win would win the group.

Silence.

Then Valverde broke it.

His voice was calm, but steel edged every word.

"We’re not just an English team. We are Manchester United."

"And if we’re gonna top this group—let’s do it ."

His eyes met Nathan’s.

Nathan, seated in silence, was staring at his boots—his laces perfectly tied, his mind even tighter.

Suddenly—

Ding!

A notification blinked in the corner of his vision:

Skill Activated: Ronaldo Nazário Dribbling

His heart skipped.

He smiled, faintly.

—

Kickoff – Champions League Night

The pitch glistened under floodlights. Rain had touched it lightly earlier, leaving a slick sheen.

Old Trafford roared.

Scarves whipped. Songs echoed from the terraces.

But dreams can shatter fast.

4th Minute

Milan sprung a trap.

A turnover on the right. A fast outlet to Leão. One touch, then a switch.

Theo Hernández surged up the flank.

He whipped in a cross with vicious whip.

Thump!!

GOAL!!

Giroud rose like a ghost between defenders and nodded it home past Onana.

0–1.

The Italian bench erupted. Their manager pumped a fist, coat flapping in the cold.

The commentator bellowed:

"An Italian slap on the English stage! Milan STRIKE EARLY!"

Amorim paced furiously on the touchline, barking:

"FOCUS! The big guns are watching us tonight!"

But Nathan... he stayed still.

He took it in. He let the disappointment pass through him.

And then—he locked in.

—