The Football Legends System

Chapter 88 – [Ability & Potential Analysis Activated]

He imagined it—training sessions with United.

Watching players as they jogged past...

’C potential... solid squad player.’

’B+ ability now, but already peaked.’

’SSS potential... wait, who?!’

**He laughed under his breath.**

**"This... this changes everything."**

Not just for himself.

For the team.

He could help Amorim. Help Ten Hag. Help them build something real.

A dynasty.

He could identify the rough diamonds. Spot those worth polishing—and those slowing the whole system down.

This wasn’t just a tool.

His eyes closed again, a new layer of anticipation swirling beneath his fatigue.

**"Tomorrow... I’ll find out who truly deserves to play beside me."**

Rrrring.

His phone vibrated against the nightstand.

He flinched slightly, blinking as he reached over, still in a daze.The name on the screen glowed gently.

Lauren.

His chest fluttered—not from nerves, but something gentler. Something grounding.

He picked it up.

"Hey..." His voice cracked slightly from fatigue.

Her reply was warm, playful, but honest."You sound like you just ran a marathon and wrestled a bear at the same time."

He chuckled.

"That’s... not far off."

There was a pause. A soft inhale on the other side of the line.

Then—

"You were magical tonight, Nathan. That goal... it wasn’t just a goal. It was a story. A message."

His breath caught for a moment. The praise hit differently coming from her.

"You think so?"

"I know so."Her voice dipped, sincere and steady."I watched it on my laptop. Over and over. The way you moved, the way you made them dance... It wasn’t just football. It was art."

Nathan sank further into the mattress, the edge of his mouth lifting into a quiet smile.

"You always say the right things, huh?"

"Not always." A pause. Then—"But I mean this one."

They talked for a while. No scripts. No forced excitement. Just two people speaking as if they were the last ones awake in the world.

She asked about the dressing room, the champagne, the media, the madness.

He told her about Valverde climbing onto the massage table and declaring himself king of England. About Bruno wiping his tears on Casemiro’s sleeve like a child. About Amorim sobbing into his hands while trying to yell tactical instructions even after the final whistle.

But beneath the jokes, beneath the laughter, the conversation softened.

"You know," Nathan murmured, eyes on the ceiling, "I used to imagine this. Lifting the FA Cup. That crowd. That sound. I’d picture it lying in bed after losses... when things were bad. But I never thought it’d feel like this."

"How does it feel?" she asked.

He hesitated. Then smiled.

"Like... like I finally belong. Like I finally stopped running from who I am."

There was silence on the line for a moment. But it wasn’t empty.

It was full. Full of understanding.

Then Lauren whispered, softly—

"I’m proud of you, Nathan. That trophy is yours... but it’s ours too."

His eyes burned slightly, the weight of her words tugging at something deep. He swallowed the lump in his throat and nodded, even though she couldn’t see it.

"Thank you," he said. Quiet.

Eventually, the call faded like a candle going out. He set the phone aside, letting it fall gently onto the covers.

The room darkened again.

Nathan stared into the ceiling, his thoughts slowing, heartbeat easing.

A breath escaped him.

Haaaah...

Finally, peace.

-------

BEEP! BEEP! BEEP!

The alarm cut through the silence like a referee’s whistle at full-time.

Nathan’s eyes fluttered open, greeted by a splash of sunlight stretching across the ceiling. The bedsheets were a tangle around his legs, evidence of a restless but satisfied sleep.

He blinked, slowly sitting up. His muscles still ached—pleasantly, the way only victory could ache. The image of Wembley still lingered. Bruno lifting the cup. Amorim’s tear-streaked face. That goal.

He smiled, faint but proud.

"Yesterday was a great day..."

He reached for his phone, thumbing away the notification that buzzed in like a midfield press.

[Reminder: 9:00 AM Training – Match vs Newcastle in 3 Days]

"...but the season isn’t over yet."

9:02 AM – Carrington Training Ground

The mood at Carrington was lighter than usual—but not lazy. The FA Cup trophy was still being passed around the building like a newborn baby, but the coaching staff didn’t let the players float too high.

"Alright, bring it in!" Ten Hag’s voice was clipped, but not harsh.

The team gathered around. Some still in recovery vests, some sipping protein drinks. Bruno, already lacing up his boots. Zirkzee bouncing on his heels. Valverde yawning behind a Gatorade bottle.

Amorim stood by the whiteboard, marker in hand.

"I’ll keep it short. The FA Cup was special. But..." He tapped the board sharply. "This is not over."

The marker scratched across the board, revealing the league table.

City – 87Arsenal – 85Chelsea – 78Liverpool – 74United – 71

Two matches left.

Newcastle. Then Liverpool.

"You all know what’s at stake. We want Champions League football. That means we can’t afford anything less than six points. Starting now, full focus. No hangovers. We’re not tourists celebrating. We’re contenders."

Eyes narrowed. Heads nodded. The tension returned.

Nathan glanced at the table.

"Three points behind. Two matches to go."

He didn’t need the math to understand what that meant.

"Win them both... and maybe—just maybe—we steal 4th."

10:27 AM – High-Intensity Drills

Thud!The ball ricocheted off Zirkzee’s boot and slammed into the top corner during finishing practice. "YEAH!" he roared, pumping his fist.

Nathan jogged back to position, sweat trickling down his temple. The pitch smelled of fresh-cut grass and boot rubber. The sun hovered just high enough to start heating the ground, but the tempo stayed fierce.

Short-passing drills, rondos, half-pitch transitions. The kind of session that stripped away any illusions of rest.

Amorim shouting cues in Portuguese to the back line.

And Nathan?

He activated the system.

[Ability & Potential Analysis Activated]

A faint shimmer entered his vision. Transparent. Sleek. Like HUD-glass from a sci-fi movie. The world slowed slightly—only in awareness, not time.

First glance: Koopmeiners.

[Current Ability: B+][Potential: A]"Consistent. Tidy in possession. Still climbing."

Next: Zirkzee, jogging past, a swagger in his gait.

[Current Ability: A][Potential: A+]"Deadly in front of goal. Cold in the box. Exactly what I thought."

He turned slightly. Antony, weaving in and out of cones on the wing.

[Current Ability: B][Potential: B]"Hmm... low ceiling. Effective, but predictable."

Nathan didn’t judge. Not harshly. Not anymore.

He observed. Calculated. The way Amorim would. The way a leader should.

Clatter!

Dalot went into a sliding challenge too hard in a mini-match, clipping Garnacho’s ankle.

"Tch... careful!" Casemiro growled, jogging over.

"My bad!" Dalot called, offering a hand.

Garnacho waved it off, teeth gritted but fine.

Nathan glanced at them both.

Dalot: [B+] current, [A] potential.Garnacho: [A] current, [A+] potential.

"Garnacho’s raw, but damn... he’s going to explode next season."

As he rotated out for water, Nathan sat on the cooler and scanned across the pitch.

Martinez. Lindelöf. Mainoo. Mount. Shaw. Each tag flickered briefly, a cascade of grades and hidden ceilings.

Some had already peaked. Some were still climbing.

But one name caught him off guard.

Bruno Fernandes

[Current Ability: A+][Potential: S]

"...S?"

He blinked.

Bruno wasn’t young. He was already the captain. Already a talisman. Already excellent.

But the system didn’t lie.

Nathan narrowed his eyes. "There’s still another level in him? Even now?"

He watched as Bruno charged toward the ball, released a no-look diagonal switch that landed perfectly on Garnacho’s toe.

Fwip—!

"MAGIC!" McTominay howled from the sideline.

Nathan exhaled.

"No. Not magic.""Work. Vision. Fire."

The kind of fire that didn’t dim with age. Only burned hotter with purpose.