The Football Legends System-Chapter 38: Battle of Thoughts

Chapter 38 – Battle of Thoughts

Click! Click! Flash!

Cameras swarmed like bees over honey, forming a wall of blinding white light as the Leeds players paraded across the pitch. Confetti drifted down in golden waves. Flags flew. The noise was deafening. Some fans wept in disbelief, their hands clasped together as if praying. Others screamed so loud, their voices cracked.

In the middle of it all, Nathan Perry stood, not moving, as though everything around him was still catching up.

The scoreboard behind him flashed boldly:

Leeds 2 – Leicester 1.

Leeds United: Champions.

He had done it. They had done it.

A slap on the back broke his trance.

"Oi! Golden Boy! Smile for the cameras, will ya?!"

Nathan gave him a small smile. "Feels surreal."

"Surreal? Mate, you just scored the goal of the season. You’ve got grown men in Row Z crying into their beer." freёweɓnovel.com

Nathan exhaled a shaky breath. He glanced to the stands again. There they were—the suits. Real Madrid. Barcelona. Manchester United. All eyes locked on him now. His name... had left the shadows.

---

The press room was packed to the brim. Reporters jostled for space, lights beaming off silver tripods and massive cameras.

BBC Sport went first.

"Nathan Perry—the player who changed the Championship equation this season. Your achievements are countless. How does it feel to be standing here today?"

Nathan leaned forward, brushing sweat-matted hair from his forehead.

"It feels... like it was all worth it. Every cold morning. Every missed party. Every time I doubted myself."

The reporters chuckled lightly. One of them, clearly from Sky Sports, followed up:

"Nathan, how do you explain this achievement? What does this moment mean to you?"

He looked sideways for a second, then met the camera with clarity in his eyes.

"Victory is the result of a team effort. I was lucky to have a great squad—now, my team is a champion."

Click!

That photo—Nathan, sleeves rolled up, a boyish grin under serious eyes—would flood headlines across the country by midnight.

Back in the locker room, the energy was riotous.

Shirts flung. Champagne popped. Someone was doing the worm on the wet floor. Music blasted from a wireless speaker—"Don’t You Want Me Baby" remixed into a bass-heavy anthem.

Nathan sat in the corner, towel over his neck, boots off. His phone buzzed non-stop on the bench next to him. Messages. Mentions. A hundred missed calls.

Coach Grayson walked over, quiet in the chaos.

He took a seat beside Nathan, not saying anything at first. Just watched the celebration with a soft, unreadable smile.

Then he spoke.

"You’re a star now. But don’t let this moment define your ceiling."

Nathan turned. "You’re not gonna say ’Well done’ or something?"

Coach smirked. "You did well. Very well. But this... this is only the beginning."

Nathan leaned back, shoulders easing.

"I know."

The moment passed.

Grayson stood. "Go on. Enjoy it. You’ve earned it."

The crowd outside the tunnel was thinning, but a different kind of presence lingered—sharper suits, keener eyes.

A man with a tablet, pressed suit, and unmistakable badge stitched onto his coat pocket watched intently from the shadows.

Manchester United.

He waited for the right moment, then stepped forward.

"Nathan Perry?"

Nathan turned, slightly surprised but not unprepared.

"I’m with United," the man said, voice smooth and confident. "We’d like to schedule a meeting. You, your agent, and our manager."

Nathan arched a brow, amused. "Oh, you’re welcome to. But tell me..." He leaned in slightly, grinning. "Have you really been watching me?"

The scout chuckled. "You’ve been hard to miss. That curl into the top corner tonight? Pure De Bruyne."

He extended a hand.

"Your long-range shooting. Your movement. Your engine. You’ve impressed us."

Nathan shook his hand firmly, feeling the weight of something shift in the air—like a door had creaked open just enough for him to peek through.

"I’d be happy to stay in touch."

---

Tch... The cameras still hadn’t stopped flashing.

Even days after the title parade, even after the confetti had settled and the champagne had dried off Nathan’s jacket, his name still dominated headlines.

"PERRY’S DESTINY: Premier League or Europe?"

"Barcelona. Madrid. Manchester. Who Gets Nathan?"

"A Future England Star? Scouts Say Yes."

Boom! Boom! Boom!

The sound of training balls thudding off the fence echoed around the empty Leeds practice ground. Nathan stood alone, sweat streaking down his temples, eyes locked on the far corner of the goal.

He shifted his weight—quick step, snap of the hip—Crack!

The ball curved perfectly, clipping the underside of the bar before slamming into the net.

"Haaah..." he exhaled, chest heaving.

No crowd. No lights. No chants.

Just him and the echo of a league won... and the storm that followed.

The media circus had been relentless. Reporters chased him into restaurants. Anonymous scouts waited in hotel lobbies. Some even tried speaking to his teammates.

Earlier that week, during a BBC interview, a journalist leaned forward, eyes gleaming:

"Nathan Perry—the player who changed Leeds’ season. Let’s be honest. You’re Championship royalty now. What’s next?"

He gave the practiced smile—small, polite, humble.

"I’m happy here. This team... they believed in me when no one else did."

"But?"

"But every player dreams of the top. I won’t lie."

Then he laughed, easing the tension, masking the truth.

Because deep down...

He didn’t want to just play in the Premier League.

He wanted to own it.

Back at the training center, the locker room buzzed—not with celebration now, but a weird, charged calm. As if everyone knew they’d just lived through something historic... and were waiting for the aftershock.

"Oi, superstar," grinned Jamal, kicking a boot Nathan’s way. "They put your face on the cafeteria menu. Called the pasta ’Perry Penne.’ It’s ridiculous."

Nathan chuckled, catching the boot mid-air.

"Was it any good?"

"Too spicy," said Ollie. "Like your damn goal in the final. Still haven’t recovered from that screamer. 84th minute? Mate..."

"Boom!" Jamal mimicked, throwing his hands in the air.

Nathan just smiled, leaning back on the bench, his gaze drifting up to the locker room ceiling. His body ached—but it was a good ache. The ache of work done. Of steps taken.

Coach Grayson entered the room, his usual stern face a little softer than usual.

"Alright, enough fooling around," he said. "You’re champions. I get it. But if I catch any of you getting lazy, I swear I’ll have you running laps until your boots melt."

A few laughs. But they all knew he was half-serious.

He walked over to Nathan and crouched beside him, voice low.

"You did something special this year. I don’t say that lightly."

Nathan nodded. "Thanks, coach."

"But listen to me, Perry," Grayson said, eyes locking onto his. "One great season doesn’t make a great player. The top? It’s a whole different animal. Faster. Smarter. Brutal. You want to survive there—no, own it—you’ve got to level up. Not just your body, but your head. Your habits."

Nathan sat with those words for a second.

Then, with a steady voice, he said,

"This was just my first season. I’m ready for more."

Grayson smiled and gave his shoulder a firm squeeze. "That’s what I like to hear."