The Football Legends System

Chapter 61 - UEFA’s Champions League

"Nathan... Nathan... Nathan!!"

The chant echoed, rolling from the terraces in waves, shaking the steel bones of the stadium. Manchester United fans were delirious. Arsenal fans, bitterly silent moments before, now joined the ovation. Even rivals knew when they had witnessed something transcendent.

Nathan stood near the halfway line, chest heaving, hair damp with sweat. His pulse thundered through his ears louder than the crowd—yet he was calm.

He glanced at the fourth official holding up the board:

10 – Nathan Perry ⬅️ | 39 – McTominay ➡️

Amorim gestured toward him.

Nathan jogged off slowly, his strides heavy with fatigue, but his head held high. As he crossed the touchline. A standing ovation. Arms raised. Fans waving scarves, phones lighting up like stars. Some even wiping away tears.

And then—Amorim embraced him.

Not the cold, professional handshake most managers gave.

"You rewrote history tonight,"

Nathan didn’t say anything. He just nodded, eyes glistening.

He sat down on the bench, wrapped in a heavy coat. Bruno leaned over.

"A bloody hat-trick in extra time? Against Arsenal? You really are the drama."

Nathan chuckled weakly. "I was tired of rewatching the old tapes."

The final whistle pierced the air.

Full-time: Manchester United 3 – Arsenal 1

Wembley roared again. This time, the collective cry wasn’t just for victory—it was for a night that would be told and retold. A night when a boy stepped into his past and came out a man.

Onana dropped to his knees, fists clenched in triumph. Martinez pumped his chest. Casemiro calmly nodded to the bench, another war won. And Nathan, slouched with his coat wrapped tight, simply exhaled.

Pfffhh...

It was over.

The commentator’s voice blared through television screens across the globe:

"Nathan’s hat-trick... against the team where his dream began! What a cinematic moment. Wembley is witnessing a football fairytale!"

Social media exploded.

Clips of Nathan’s chip shot in the 97th minute were being reposted with slow-motion edits, dramatic piano music overlayed with commentary.

"Nathaaaaaaaaaaaaaan!"

Memes. Reaction videos. Fan edits.

And the headlines?

– "Nathan’s Gentle Revenge!"– "The boy who left the cup in tears... returns to control its destiny!"– "Nathan Perry Arrives."

Post-match interview:

A reporter leaned in, wide-eyed. "Nathan, that was... breathtaking. Three goals, two of them from outside the box, one of them—an Olympic chip! What’s going through your head right now?"

Nathan’s smile was tired.

His humility disarmed even the most cynical pundits.

FIFA Rating upgraded: 86Market Value: €110 millionGlobal Rank: 19th best player in the world

The rise was no longer a rumor.

It was happening.

—

In the dressing room, the atmosphere was electric.

Amorim clapped once.

"Enjoy this," he said. "We’ve got Europe calling."

Nathan sat on the bench, unwrapping his boots. Bruno slouched next to him, still laughing. Rashford passed out drinks. Martinez walked by, nodding.

"You killed ’em," he muttered.

Nathan didn’t reply. He just stared down at the ball he’d tucked into his kit bag. The match ball. His hat-trick prize.

But the next moment stole the spotlight.

On the locker room screen, UEFA’s Champions League Round of 16 draw lit up.

The announcer’s voice rang out in multiple languages. The graphics rolled across:

Real Madrid 🆚 ArsenalBayern Munich 🆚 BarcelonaParis Saint-Germain 🆚 MilanManchester City 🆚 Borussia DortmundAtletico Madrid 🆚 Inter MilanManchester United 🆚 NapoliJuventus 🆚 RB LeipzigBenfica 🆚 Porto

The room hushed as the United matchup appeared.

"Napoli, huh..." muttered Valverde, arms crossed.

Bruno raised an eyebrow. "They press high. Kvaratskhelia and Osimhen are no joke."

Amorim turned to face them.

"They’re dangerous," he said.

Nathan leaned forward, gaze fixed on the screen.

Napoli. A tactical puzzle.

He took a deep breath.

Haaah...

No time to rest.

—

Later that night, alone in his hotel room, Nathan stood by the window. Wembley loomed in the distance, quiet now, bathed in silver light. The noise was gone. The stadium empty. But he could still hear it in his bones.

"Nathan... Nathan... Nathan..."

He closed his eyes.

——

The lights at Old Trafford burned like stars pulled down from the sky.

Beneath them, a storm waited.

The Champions Leagues.

The players stood shoulder to shoulder in the tunnel, boots shifting, jaws clenched, hearts pacing. Beyond the archway: a global audience, cameras rolling.

The media had already crowned the duel.

"Nathan vs Osimhen!"

But in the dressing room, the tension was quiet.

Amorim stood in the center.

"This is where the real journey begins," he said softly.

No shouting.

Nathan sat in silence, unwrapping his tape. Around him, the room buzzed—boots thudding on tile, gloves being slapped on, Bruno cracking his knuckles. Valverde leaned against the wall, eyes locked ahead.

Nathan’s fingers paused.

He murmured under his breath, barely audible over the tension:

"this is my night."

---

Nathan’s random skill: Toni Kroos-style long-range thunderbolts

---

Kick-off.

Napoli came out swinging.

In the opening minutes, their high press was suffocating. Di Lorenzo and Anguissa hunted in packs. Zieliński cut off every channel through the center, forcing United wide. And on the flank—Kvaratskhelia.

Minute 6:

Thud!

Malacia’s clearance was smothered. Kvaratskhelia surged down the right, hips swaying, toes dancing.

Whoosh—!He cut in, slipped past Wan-Bissaka, and rolled a pass across the face of goal.

Osimhen arrived.

But—WHAM!!

Onana flew out , gloves slamming against the shot. A save.

"LET’S GO!" he bellowed, fist clenched.

The Stretford End roared back.

Minute 11: Another Napoli break.Minute 17: A long-range shot.Minute 19: Osimhen’s header barely scraped over the bar.

United staggered, but never broke.

Bruno barked instructions. Martinez threw himself into every duel. And Valverde—

Valverde ran.

He pressed. He shielded. He scanned.

Minute 22.

Zambo Anguissa received the ball in midfield. Looked left—Valverde was already there.

Thock!The pass was loose. A mistake.

Valverde pounced like a hawk, swept the ball into his stride, and turned on the half-spin—

—then saw it.Nathan. Dropping into space. Left channel.

A flash of red.

"Nate!"

Valverde didn’t hesitate.

Zip!

A grounded pass tore through the Napoli midfield. Nathan met it with a feathered touch, deadening the ball with his instep.

He turned.

One step.

Then another.

Thirty meters out.

Napoli’s defense was retreating, but the line hadn’t recovered.

No pressure.

Just grass. Just silence. Just—

Boom!

Nathan struck it clean. No wind-up. No wasted motion.

The ball screamed through the air. It didn’t dip. It didn’t swerve.

CRACK!!

The crossbar shuddered.

The stadium held its breath.

For a moment, even the noise seemed stunned.

Thud... thud...

The rebound dropped back into play, scrambled away by Rrahmani. But the shot...

The shot lingered.

"Wooooow! That could’ve been the goal of the tournament!""Thirty meters—he almost snapped the bar in two!"