The Football Legends System

Chapter 90 – A Rocket and a Promise

Minute 24...

Old Trafford trembled under Newcastle’s pressure.

They were no longer probing.

And Manchester United? They were swaying—off balance, reactive.

Nathan dropped deeper to help, eyes darting.He could see it. Newcastle’s rhythm was building—passes coming sharper, faster. The weight on every touch had intent.

Boom!Joelinton thumped a long ball forward—a soaring, targeted missile over the heads of United’s high line.

"Watch him! ISAK!" Varane roared, but his legs had already betrayed him.

Alexander Isak was moving.

No—gliding.

Long strides, elastic control, hips low. A single touch brought the ball from sky to earth with surgical grace.

Thud.

One moment, the ball was falling.The next, it was at his feet.And then—

Boom!A strike with his right foot. From a brutally tight angle, yet the shot had violence behind it. It exploded toward goal.

Onana dove—Haaah!!—arms extended, gloves stretched, hope clinging to fingertips.

Too late.

CRACK!Net. Shattered. Roar.

"GOAL!"

"ISAK!!! NEWCASTLE STRIKE FIRST!"

Nathan froze mid-sprint. He bit his lower lip.

"...SS potential doesn’t joke around."

He exhaled slowly, watching Isak jog toward the away fans, arms raised. That smile again. Cool.

The crowd groaned, restless. Whistles echoed from the Stretford End.

And yet—no panic from the bench. No fury from the captain.Just a quiet, deep breath from Amorim.

Nathan looked toward the sideline.

"One goal down... we’ve been here before."

Minute 32...

Red jerseys began to swirl.

United’s reply wasn’t a wave. It was a storm forming—methodical, precise.

Tap, tap, tap—tap!

Nathan arrived in stride on the left.

His heart skipped—just a little.

Dan Burn was closing. Díaz marking the channel.He didn’t stop to think.

Cut in.Touch. Shift. Cut back in.

Díaz was wrong-footed.

A half-step was all he needed.

"Let’s try Salah’s touch now..."

Left foot primed. Space cleared.

BOOM!

A curving thunderbolt exploded from just outside the box—Salah-style.

The ball sliced the air, curling away from the keeper’s reach and spinning with wicked precision toward the top corner.

"That’s flying in!"

"HOLD ON—!"

THWACK!!Fingertips. No!Just missed by inches!

"GOOOOOOAAAAL!!!"

"NATHAN PERRY! WHAT A GOAL!""A SPECTACULAR CURLER WITH HIS LEFT! UNITED ARE LEVEL!"

The stadium detonated.

Red. White. Smoke. Joy.Chants rang out from every tier, drowning the field in celebration.

Nathan sprinted toward the stands, slid to a stop—and raised one finger to his lips.

Shhhhhhh.

A message to the doubters.To the press.To anyone who said he wasn’t ready yet.

"Mate, what’s in that left foot tonight?!"

Nathan grinned. "Pharaoh’s blessing."

Behind him, Zirkzee whooped. Xavi punched the air. The momentum had shifted—and the players knew it.

Minute 43...

Newcastle weren’t shaken.

They returned with fire.

Bruno Guimarães clipped a ball over the top again—but this time, Varane read it. He stepped forward with a burst of experience.

Clack!A clean tackle. Controlled and dominant.

"YES!" Martinez barked, feeding the cleared ball to Foden.

Nathan was already on the move.

Foden spotted it—and launched it.

Fwoosh—!

A long, arcing ball over the halfway line. It dropped perfectly.

Nathan took it mid-stride, outpacing Díaz in an instant. The stands leaned forward.

He didn’t rush.

He looked.

Low cross.

Fwip!

A perfect delivery. Zirkzee arrived. He slid, boot out, six yards from glory—

"OHHH!"

The shot skidded just wide.

Groans. Gasps. Hands on heads.Nathan covered his mouth, frustrated—but only for a second.

Zirkzee stood up, slapped his own forehead, then jogged back sheepishly.

"I owe you one," he muttered.

Nathan offered a half-smile. "Just don’t keep the tab open too long."

The whistle blew.

HALFTIME – 1:1

-----

Minute 58...

The match had reached a boil. Pressure choked the pitch. Every pass felt like a gamble, every touch like it could tilt fate.

Newcastle, desperate to regain control, sent a hopeful pass from midfield—lazy, loose, and begging to be punished.

Valverde didn’t hesitate.

Thud! His boot met the ball.He surged forward—chest up, strides long.

Nathan watched from the right wing, backpedaling into space, expecting the switch.

But Valverde didn’t even glance sideways. He raised his eyes, saw the keeper slightly off his line, and loaded his cannon.

"No way he’s shooting from there—"

BOOOOM!

A missile. A blazing, whistling rocket from thirty meters.

The ball screamed through the air.

Fwoosh!

It bent slightly mid-flight, rising and dipping with violent curve—an unstoppable arc of pure rage.

CRACK!Top corner.

Net, snapped backwards.

Stadium, erupted.

"GOOOOOOOAL! VALVERDE!!!"

"WHAT A STRIKE! A ROCKET FROM OUT OF NOWHERE!"

Valverde didn’t even look back. He exploded into a sprint, roaring, teeth bared, arms pumping like pistons.

Straight to the sideline.

Straight to Amorim.

He leapt into the coach’s arms like a child who’d just won a war. The bench piled on. Bruno, Zirkzee—all sprinted over in a blur.

Nathan grinned.

"He doesn’t score often," he murmured to himself, jogging over. "But when he does..."

He turned to the crowd, pumping his fist.

"LET’S FIGHT FOR FOURTH!"

Minute 67...

Newcastle responded like wounded beasts.

Bruno Guimarães began pulling strings. Isak dropped deeper, combining, spinning, switching sides.

The tempo quickened.

Tch! Tch! Thud!

In the 72nd, Willock launched a header from a set piece—thud!—but it sailed inches wide.

United bent. But didn’t break.

Minute 84...

A quick one-two between Almirón and Isak inside the box.

"This is it!" the commentator shouted. "A clear chance!!"

Isak struck low—Boom!—across goal.

De Gea dropped like a collapsing wall.

Smack! He saved it with his shin.

The rebound fell to Murphy!

THUD!

Another strike, this time aimed for the roof.

But De Gea sprung up like a man possessed—SLAP!—tipping it over the bar.

Old Trafford lost its mind.

Fans roared. Amorim’s fists clenched. Valverde shouted across the pitch.

"WE HOLD!""FIVE MORE MINUTES!"

Nathan was gasping.His shirt soaked. Legs burning.But his heart?

Pounding. Alive.

Final Whistle.

2-1.

The sound hit like salvation.

United players dropped to their knees. Some screamed, others raised fists to the sky.

Nathan didn’t celebrate wildly. He looked around—at the crowd, the night sky above the stadium, the scoreboard—and smiled.

"We’re still alive."