The Football Legends System

Chapter 53 – Time for Speed and Composure

Carrington’s training ground was unusually quiet that morning. No music. No banter. Just the thud of boots on grass and the sharp, clean crack! of footballs being struck in rhythm.

A week of mental rest had passed—a rare reprieve in a season that offered none.

Coach Amorim stood at the center circle, clipboard in hand. His eyes scanned the squad

"Next opponent..."

FA Cup

he began, voice calm but loaded with weight. "Liverpool."

The word landed like a cold gust of wind. Silence followed.

Even the rookies stopped fidgeting. Even Bruno lowered his head slightly. They all understood.

This wasn’t just another fixture. This was the match.

Nathan stood still, arms folded, eyes narrowed. "This one’s different,"

Valverde, leaning against a cone, gave a small snort. "If you score, kid," he said, raising an eyebrow, "how much will you ask for in your renewal?"

Nathan smirked without looking at him. "I won’t ask," he replied coolly. "I’ll let them make the offer—and I’ll choose."

Laughter rippled through the squad. Respectful. Nathan Perry had stopped being the boy with potential. Now, he was the one who showed up in big moments.

That night, Nathan sat alone in his room at the Lowry Hotel, lights dim, headphones on but no music playing.

Outside the window, Manchester was quiet—wet streets glowing under the lamplight, city breath humming beneath the clouds.

He stared at his phone.

Lauren: Big game tomorrow... Be the star you always are

He smiled.

Nathan: And if I score, the first celebration’s for you.

He leaned back, hands behind his head, eyes drifting to the ceiling.

He felt something else.

Stillness.

That calm before the starting whistle. The calm before the lightning.

-

Matchday.

-

Old Trafford

Red smoke curled into the sky. Chants echoed. Flags waved.

The clash with Liverpool wasn’t just about points.

And somewhere between all that—Nathan Perry.

The tunnel was cramped, the lights sterile. Salah stood a few steps ahead, tying his laces, focused. His presence was quiet.

Bruno clapped Nathan’s back. "Eyes up, starboy."

Nathan nodded. "Always."

Then came the sound—

Random Skill Activated: Kylian Mbappé’s Finishing

Nathan let out a soft laugh.

"Tch... Time for speed and composure."

----

Boom!

The stadium erupted.

A blur of red streaked across the left wing—Salah. One touch, two touches, then a cruel feint that sent Shaw lunging the wrong way. Before anyone could recover, the ball was already rifling toward goal.

Crack!

The shot bent, dipped, and danced its way past Onana’s outstretched fingertips.

1–0.

The Kop roared , even here at Old Trafford, its noise slicing through the sea of home supporters. In the dugout, Amorim crossed his arms, unreadable. On the touchline.

But Nathan Perry?

He stood at the halfway line, staring at the net, unmoved. No slumped shoulders. No scream of frustration.

Inside, he felt the flicker. That little electric sting.

Tch... So that’s how it is.

He rolled his shoulders, turned back toward the center circle, and met Salah’s passing glance.

Time ticked.

23rd minute. 24th. 25th.

Then—opportunity.

Casemiro intercepted a loose pass. One touch to Bruno. Quick release to Valverde.

Nathan was already moving.

"Now!" he shouted, voice sharp, slicing through the noise.

Valverde didn’t hesitate.

Whoosh!

The pass zipped forward.

Nathan sprinted past the first marker—Konaté—leaving only a wisp of air behind.

Second defender—Robertson. He reached for the tackle.

Too slow.

Nathan feinted right, cut left, the ball dancing at his feet.

Haaah—!

One final stride. The goal opened before him like a stage, and Nathan didn’t blink.

He remembered the flicker.

Random Skill Active: Kylian Mbappé’s Finishing

The angle was narrow, Alisson massive in goal. But Nathan didn’t aim for power.

He aimed for the far post. A flash of composure in chaos.

Thud—!!

The ball rocketed low and clean. A laser.

Past Alisson’s gloves.

Kissed the inside of the post.

Goal.

1–1.

The Stretford End exploded.

"PERRY!!"

Fans surged from their seats, fists in the air.

From the bench, Amorim gave a slight nod. Approval—quiet.

The tempo turned feral.

Liverpool answered. High press. Fast counters. Long balls down the channels.

United responded in kind. Bruno’s vision. Casemiro’s tackles. Rashford hunting space

It was no longer football.

41st minute.

A throw-in for Liverpool. Quick exchange between Mac Allister and Szoboszlai. The ball shifted wide.

Arnold.

He wasn’t in range.

Or so they thought.

One touch to steady. The second.

BOOM!!

The shot flew—spinning, rising, swerving.

Crowd gasped.

Onana’s eyes widened. He dived.

Whap!

Fingertips met leather.

The ball ricocheted upward and slapped the crossbar.

CLANG!!

Gasps turned to roars as the rebound was cleared.

Bruno turned to Onana, heart in his mouth. "You mad bastard!"

Onana grinned. "You love me."

Nathan exhaled sharply.

Half-time.

The dressing room buzzed with half-shouted sentences, water bottles thudding against the floor, breathless gasps.

Bruno was the first to speak. "They’re coming fast down the flanks. We need to force them central."

Casemiro nodded, hands on hips. "And Valverde, pull back five meters. They’re slipping behind you."

Valverde wiped sweat from his brow. "Tell that to Salah. He’s got afterburners, man."

Nathan sat on the bench, jersey clinging to his skin, chest rising and falling in rhythm.

That Mbappé finish? It had felt natural.

And now, he wanted more.

"Coach," he said suddenly, voice steady.

Amorim looked up from his notes.

"If they’re double-marking me in the second half, let me drag them. Have Rashford cut into that space."

A pause.

Bruno looked over. "You sure?"

Then Amorim nodded.

"Good."

----

Thud. Thud. Thud.

Boots struck turf as the second half began. The tempo was different now—sharper. United came out pressing , chasing every loose ball, forcing Liverpool back on their heels.

Bruno roared for the press. Valverde slid into tackles. Casemiro hunted passing lanes

Nathan floated between the lines, alert, waiting for the moment when everything would break open.

But football was cruel.

58th minute.

Corner to Liverpool.

Arnold whipped it in—fast, curling

Boom!

Van Dijk rose crashed into the ball with his head. Dalot had leapt, too—but it was like trying to jump against a wrecking ball.

Wham!

The net rippled.

2–1.

The red side of the stadium exploded in song, but Old Trafford responded with stunned silence.

Nathan stood rooted near the top of the box, lips pressed into a thin line. His eyes followed the Dutch defender’s celebration with cold precision.

Tch... again with the set pieces.

He turned away, jaw tightening, breath fogging as he jogged back toward the center circle.

But there was no panic in his steps.