The Football Legends System

Chapter 63 – Tired of being the golden boy

Carrington.

The day after Napoli.

Rain swept sideways across the windows. The glass rattled softly with every gust, as if the building were sighing. Inside, the dressing room smelled of muscle rub, turf, and that faint bitterness of tired bodies.

Nathan sat on the bench, elbows on his knees, head bowed. His quads felt like stone, and there was a deep, lingering tension in his lower back.

And yet, even as his body protested, his mind refused to slow down.

The goal.

The silence that followed.

Osimhen’s smirk.

Amorim’s voice cut through the fog.

"We’re in sixth."

The players turned. The manager stood by the whiteboard, his arms crossed.

"Forest is right behind us. One point."

No one said a word.

He stepped closer. "You all saw what we did against Napoli. But if we lose sight of the league, none of it will matter. No top four? No Champions League. This next match isn’t a breather—it’s a f*cking trap."

Bruno exhaled hard through his nose. "Forest’s not a trap anymore," he muttered. "They’ve beaten Arsenal and Spurs already."

"Exactly." Amorim’s tone sharpened. "They’ll smell blood. And the headlines?" He gestured to the tablet in his hand. "They’re asking if I’ll rest Nathan before Napoli."

Nathan’s eyes lifted.

"I’m not," Amorim said, gaze locking with his. "You play."

A ripple of surprise ran through the room. Even Bruno looked sideways at Nathan.

"You sure?" Nathan’s voice came low, almost cautious.

"We need you even if you’re tired," Amorim said simply. "You’re the difference."

That should’ve lit a fire.

But all Nathan felt was the weight in his bones.

That night, Carrington’s canteen was quiet. Only a few players lingered—Valverde with a protein shake, Dalot on a FaceTime call. Nathan sat across from Lauren, a half-finished plate of grilled chicken and sweet potatoes in front of him.

He hadn’t touched it in ten minutes.

"I’m lost, Lauren," he said finally, eyes distant. "Like I’m running with no direction. Like I’m sprinting through fog."

Lauren didn’t flinch. She watched him, calm, thoughtful. "You’re not lost," she said. "You’re tired. And maybe... maybe you just need silence. To stop chasing everything for a second and let your mind catch up."

Nathan leaned back, closing his eyes. The warmth of the room, the murmur of the rain, Lauren’s voice—it all pressed into him like a blanket. He didn’t reply.

---

Nathan scrolled through the headlines in the dressing room the next morning, earbuds in, hoodie up. He wasn’t angry. He just didn’t have the energy for it.

A voice behind him.

"Oi."

It was Rashford.

"You alright?"

Nathan nodded slowly. "yeah."

Rashford sat beside him, peeling tape off his wrist. "Don’t let the noise crawl in. You’re not a machine. But you’re also not alone."

Nathan offered a small, tired smile.

"Anyway," Rashford grinned. "If you’re gonna collapse, do it after the Forest match, yeah?"

--

Matchday.

Manchester United vs Nottingham Forest.

Old Trafford shimmered under the floodlights. Rain had passed, but the wind remained. Forest arrived confident.

Random skill: Raheem Sterling-style headers

—

The air inside Old Trafford was alive. Flares had painted the sky red as the teams emerged. The banners waved.

"NATHAAAAAAN! NATHAAAAAAN!"

The sound thundered down from the Stretford End .

But Nathan didn’t hear it.

His head was down, eyes fixed on his boots as he walked to the center circle. He could feel the echo of his name all around him, pounding in his chest.

One more league match before Naples.

But it didn’t feel like just anything.

His body felt... disconnected. As if someone had sewn his limbs together in the wrong order. Each breath tasted metallic.

The whistle blew.

Kickoff.

Minute 5.

Forest came out swinging.

They weren’t sitting deep. They weren’t playing scared. They pressed... two, sometimes three men snapping at the ball every time United tried to build.

Dalot hesitated near the sideline—snatched!

Forest countered. Quick pass. One-two. Then—

WHAM!!

A shot rifled just over the bar.

The crowd gasped. Even the Forest fans rose from their seats.

Nathan stood still, barely twenty yards away, watching as Onana barked orders and clapped his gloves.

Tch... Wake up.

He jogged forward, but his legs still felt wrong. Heavy.

Minute 10.

Bruno dropped deep and found Nathan in the half-space.

"Turn! Turn!" the captain shouted.

Nathan did—sluggishly.

Lifted his head. Looked for Rashford making a diagonal run.

There.

He played it forward...

But it was too soft. Too central.

Forest pounced.

CRACK!!

One pass. Another. Suddenly, they were flying.

Nathan chased, but the gap was already too wide.

Onana came out strong—diving, arms wide—

SLAP!!

A brilliant save to his right.

The crowd roared. But Amorim?

"WHAT’S WRONG WITH YOU, NATHAN?!"

The coach’s voice sliced across the pitch.

Nathan didn’t look over.

He just turned, head low again, and jogged back into position.

Minute 20.

Finally—space.

A ball over the top. Nathan broke the line, outpacing the center-back. He saw it early. The keeper coming. The ball hanging.

Try it.

The random skill. Just once.

He leapt.

THUMP!!

Forehead met ball—but the contact was wrong. Skewed. The ball ballooned over the bar and spun out of play.

Silence.

Just for a second.

Then the sighs.

Nathan landed awkwardly and didn’t move for a second. He just stared at the corner flag.

Valverde approached, clapping. "Next one, mate. Next one."

Minute 27.

Every pass Nathan made was an apology—hesitant, cautious.

Dribbles that usually snapped through tight lines now bounced off legs. His rhythm was gone. The pulse of the game—the internal clock all great players have—felt scrambled.

He looked up. Forest’s shape was tight.

Another touch. Another giveaway.

The Forest fans caught on.

They started chanting:

"WHERE’S MANCHESTER’S STAR?"

"WHERE’S YOUR NATHAAAAAN?"

It was mocking. Cruel. But deserved.

Nathan gritted his teeth.

He wanted to bark back. To answer them.

But there was nothing to draw from.

Only smoke.

Minute 33.

Nathan dropped into midfield to help. Received from Bruno. Turned inside—and lost the ball again.

Clean.

Forest swarmed.

Rashford screamed, "Nate, COME ON!"

Nathan didn’t reply.

He jogged. Not sprinted. Not fought.

Just jogged.

Minute 37.

It came. Inevitable.

Forest moved—left to center, back to left again. Their fullback made an overlapping run, dragging Dalot. A backheel opened the gap.

The pass sliced through it.

Close offside—but no flag.

The ball rolled into the feet of Chris Wood.

He didn’t panic.

He didn’t blast it.

Just opened his body—

THUD!!

A cool, elegant finish into the far corner.

1–0. Nottingham Forest.

Old Trafford fell into a stunned hush.

A few groans. Some scattered claps from the Forest away section.

But the silence in the home end was louder than any cheer.

Onana punched the turf in frustration. "We TOLD you to watch the line!" he shouted.

Casemiro threw his arms up. Martinez gestured in disbelief.

Bruno just stared ahead, jaw tight.

Amorim turned to his assistant. Said nothing.

Just shook his head.

Nathan stood near the halfway line again.

Right where he’d been before the Napoli equalizer.

Same posture. Same silence.

Only this time... he wasn’t angry.

He was tired.

Tired of being the golden boy.

Tired of being the one they always expect magic from.

Tired of pretending like he was okay when he wasn’t.

He looked up at the scoreboard.

MAN UNITED 0 – 1 FOREST

His reflection stared back at him in the glass of the broadcast camera.