The Football Legends System

Chapter 54 – A Wild Extra Time

61st minute.

Bruno slipped a pass into the box.

Nathan was there—sharp movement, magnetic control. He dropped a shoulder, faked left, and brought it to his right.

Tap—thud!

A snapshot finish!

Clang!

The post screamed.

Nathan staggered slightly with the motion, then turned, fists clenched.

So close.

"Next one," he murmured. "I’ll bury the next one."

74th minute.

A turnover in midfield. Casemiro fed it wide to Bruno. Bruno flicked it forward.

Nathan peeled off his marker and slid into the pocket between the lines, just as he’d practiced.

Valverde saw it, screamed—"GO, NATHAN!!"

Nathan caught the pass in stride.

One touch.

Two.

He glanced up. Zirkzee was making the run—shoulder to shoulder with Matip, carving a path .

Slip—

The pass threaded through.

Zirkzee didn’t hesitate.

Boom!!

Low. Left. Past Alisson.

GOAL!!

2–2!!

The stadium lost its mind.

Roars thundered down from every section. Fans surged, scarves twirling, voices cracking.

Nathan stood at the edge of the box, arms wide, not for himself—but for Zirkzee, who wheeled toward the corner flag in wild celebration.

Valverde tackled Nathan from behind in a joyous heap. "You magician!"

76th minute.

Liverpool struck back fast—Salah, with that blistering pace. Diaz joined him in the break.

But this time, Nathan chased.

A full-speed burst.

Haaah...!!

He caught Salah just outside the box and lunged.

CRACK!

Clean.

Ball only.

Salah stumbled, surprised.

Old Trafford roared.

"NATHAN! NATHAN! NATHAN!"

He got up, face flushed, heart pounding.

83rd minute.

Valverde struck from range.

Boom—!!

It looked good. The crowd held its breath.

But Alisson wasn’t just good—

Smack!

One hand. Full stretch.

He tipped it over the bar.

90+3rd minute.

Final push.

Liverpool weren’t done.

Salah danced through two players, then curled one from the corner of the box.

Whoosh—!

It looked perfect.

Nathan watched helplessly from midfield.

Wide.

By inches.

The entire stadium exhaled as one.

Onana turned and slammed the post with both hands.

Thud.

Too close.

Full time.

WHISTLE!

– "End of regulation... 2–2!"

The commentator’s voice rang out across TVs and livestreams around the world.

– "What a crazy derby! We’re heading into extra time!"

Nathan doubled over, hands on his knees, lungs burning.

Sweat dripped off his chin.

His legs felt like lead. His heartbeat thundered in his ears.

And yet...

He looked up at the sky. The stadium lights burned down like stars.

"Still got time," he whispered.

This was his chance.

Touchline.

Amorim paced. Water bottles were passed around. Bruno stretched his calves. Zirkzee was still riding the adrenaline, bouncing on the balls of his feet.

----

Fweeeet!!

The referee’s whistle cut through the roar of Old Trafford.

Extra time had begun.

It was no longer about tactics or formations. Legs burned. Chests heaved. Jerseys clung to sweat-soaked bodies. What remained now wasn’t fitness—it was will.

Valverde threw his arm up and roared, voice hoarse but burning with defiance.

"Come on! We fight till the end!"

The crowd responded instantly—one giant, pulsing heartbeat rising from the stands.

Thud!

The ball rolled to Nathan near the halfway line.

A flick of his right foot. Then another.

Tap. Tap—skrrt!

He danced past Mac Allister, then twisted through Jones. The stadium leaned forward as one.

Nathan didn’t hesitate.

He slipped the ball to Zirkzee cutting in from the left.

Boom!

Zirkzee struck it low and clean toward the bottom corner.

But Alisson—

Smack!!

Diving full stretch, hand outstretched like a steel trap. The Brazilian keeper had no business getting to that ball.

Groans echoed across the stadium.

Nathan didn’t groan.

He clapped. "That’s it. That’s the tempo."

92nd minute.

Liverpool hit back instantly.

Salah, raced up the flank.

Nathan saw the line breaking and turned to chase, lungs already burning.

Whoosh—!!

Salah cut inside and let loose.

BOOM!

A rocket toward the top right!

But Onana—

CRACK!

A fingertip save, deflecting it just over.

The fans exploded. The camera zoomed in on Onana’s fierce expression, sweat dripping from his brow.

Valverde ran over, slapped the keeper’s gloves.

Onana just nodded. "Keep the line. I’ve got the rest."

Minute 97.

Nathan again—this time further out.

No hesitation.

He took the pass, took two touches, and curled it with intent.

Swoosh...!!

It beat Alisson—just—but curled inches wide of the post.

Gasps filled the air.

The commentator screamed through the feed:"So close! The woodwork’s shaking and so are we! This is a wild extra time—will someone break through or are we headed to penalties?"

Nathan jogged back slowly, arms swinging at his sides.

He’d never felt more alive.

Minute 102.

Ball at Nathan’s feet again—midfield.

Arnold stepped in.

Nathan feinted left, then darted right—

Skrrt!

He beat him.

But then a shove. Contact. He stumbled—

Thud!

Hit the ground, rolled, bounced up without a pause.

Keep moving. Keep going.

He spotted Valverde cutting inside. Pass—

Whip—!

The Uruguayan one-touched it back into space.

Nathan had already begun his run.

Boom!!

He met the ball at full sprint and laced it.

It was a missile.

Clang!!

The crossbar rattled like thunder had struck it.

"AGHH—!" Nathan gritted his teeth, tried to stay on his feet.

But Robertson collided with him midair.

Crash!

Both players hit the turf hard. Nathan’s back slammed the grass. He groaned, teeth bared, vision blinking.

No whistle.

Play continued.

Nathan rolled, sat up, forcing air back into his lungs.

"Keep going..." he muttered.

Minute 104.

Jota received it in stride, turned, and let fly.

CRACK!

The shot screamed through the air.

But Onana again—SLAP!

With his foot!

Madness.

"He’s saving everything!" someone shouted from the bench.

The tension had peaked.

105+1st minute.

The whistle blew again.

Half-time in extra time.

2–2.

Players dropped to the ground, some clutching thighs, others stretching calves. A few just lay there, arms spread .

One goal.

That’s it.

----

Minute 111.

Time wasn’t just ticking.

It was bleeding away.

And everyone on the pitch could feel it.

Every second. Every touch. Every breath.

Nathan’s lungs burned as he cut inside, eyes locked on Valverde.

"Here!" he barked, voice raspy but sharp.

Valverde spotted him—flicked the pass.

Tap. Thud. Tap—Skrrt!

Nathan controlled it in one swift movement, skipped past Endo, then ghosted between Konaté and Mac Allister. The crowd surged, roaring to their feet—

Boom!!

He let it fly.

But—Thunk!

The ball slammed into Van Dijk’s thigh and deflected out.

Corner.

Nathan let out a long, frustrated "Tch..." and jogged over, sweat pouring down his neck.

He didn’t let the moment linger.

The corner came in short—Bruno flicked it to the edge of the box—

Nathan was already there.

He adjusted his body, let it drop—

CRACK!!

A pure, sweet volley. Caught perfectly on the laces.

Whoooosh—

The ball whistled past the far post, grazing the outside netting.

Aghhh—!! A collective gasp tore through Old Trafford.

So close. Again.

Nathan hunched forward, hands on his knees.

Every shot tonight felt like destiny brushing past his fingertips and pulling away at the last second.

Minute 115.

Salah broke through.

A through ball from Alexander-Arnold sliced the defense wide open.

Just Salah and Onana.

Time slowed.

Boom. Boom. Boom. Nathan’s heartbeat echoed in his ears as he turned and chased, powerless.

Salah shaped to shoot.

But Onana— dialed in—

Thud!

He pounced forward, body wide, arms spread.

Smack!!

Ball blocked. Cleared by Martínez.

The crowd erupted.

"ONANA! ONANA!" they chanted, bouncing in rhythm. A wall of noise.

Valverde clapped fiercely. "He’s not human!"

Nathan jogged back, nodding, lips pressed tight.

They were still alive.

Minute 119.

Nathan drifted wide left this time. Fatigue was brutal now—muscles trembling, vision blurring around the edges—but his focus had never been sharper.

Bruno passed it wide. Nathan took it in stride.

A flick. Then a quick shuffle.

Robertson lunged.

Tap—skrrt! Gone.

Nathan looked up, scanned.

Zirkzee. Middle. Ready.

Whip!! He delivered a curling cross.

Thud! Zirkzee rose, smashed the header clean.

But Alisson—

SLAP!!

Another fingertip miracle.

"No way...!" someone shouted from the bench.

Nathan. "Just one... just one to go in..."

Final minute.

Everything else faded.

The noise. The fatigue.

It was just him. The ball. And the pitch.

It came to him near midfield. A loose pass from Casemiro after a half-clearance.

"NATHAN! NATHAN!" the crowd screamed.

He turned, face blank, body burning.

He took off.

Thud. Tap. Skrrt! Tap.

One player beaten. Then another.

Green space ahead. The edge of the box looming.

He shaped to shoot—

A sudden lunge from Konaté—deflection!

Thwip!

The ball spun wide, just past the post!

GRAHHHHH—!! The agony from the crowd felt almost physical.

Nathan bit down on his tongue, trying to stay calm.

He looked up. The fourth official was already holding the board.

No time left.

One last corner.

Bruno rushed to take it.

Nathan moved to the far post.

The ball came in—

Crack!! Cleared. By Van Dijk. Of course.

Fweeeeeeet!!

The whistle blew.

End of extra time.

Score: 2–2.

The energy drained from the stadium.

Some fans slumped in their seats. Others stood motionless, hands on heads.

Penalty shootout.

Nathan bent down, hands on his knees, sweat dripping from his chin.

He closed his eyes.

Inhaled.

Haaah...