The Football Legends System-Chapter 51: A Name in the Firelight
Chapter 51: A Name in the Firelight
Chapter 51 – A Name in the Firelight
29th Minute – Old Trafford under the lights. Wet turf, heavy air, and hearts pounding in sync with every pass.
Valverde saw it before anyone else.
A sliver of space. A split-second opening. The kind of window you don’t ask for twice.
Tch!
A deft through ball pierced Milan’s midfield line. Clean. . Rolling at the perfect pace.
Nathan was already on the move.
He surged into the channel, the rain slicking his boots, defenders snapping at his heels.
One touch to control.
Another to set.
The center-back lunged.
Too slow.
Nathan dipped his shoulder—woosh!—
then glided past him with a sway so smooth it drew a gasp from the Stretford End.
The second defender closed in. This one was smarter, patient.
Nathan slowed, drawing him in like a matador.
Then—
Tap!
A disguised feint. Left foot over right. The defender blinked—and Nathan was gone, sliding past on the outside.
The box opened before him.
Only the keeper to beat.
He didn’t blast it. No need.
A soft caress from his left foot, curling it toward the far post like a painter brushing the final stroke of a masterpiece.
Thump!
GOAL!!
1–1.
The stadium detonated.
Flags waving, fans screaming, limbs flying.
The commentator’s voice cracked with disbelief:
"This isn’t just Nathan... "
Nathan sprinted toward the corner flag, his chest heaving, his arms wide.
He kissed the armband once. Then again.
"WE’RE HERE!!" he roared to the crowd, fists clenched, eyes burning.
In that moment, he was Manchester United.
But the game wasn’t over.
—
32nd Minute –
A flicked ball from Pulisic. A driving run from Theo Hernández.
But United’s back line, led by a snarling Lisandro Martínez, stood their ground.
Clang!
Martínez slid in with perfect timing, clearing the danger.
"Not today," he muttered, dusting himself off.
Amorim clapped on the sideline, shouting in Portuguese—orders, corrections, praise. The tempo was rising.
By the time the halftime whistle blew, the scoreboard still read 1-1.
—
Second Half – The pitch glistened now. The rain had stopped.
57th Minute –
A Milan corner
Valverde pounced, launching a long ball over the top.
Boom!
Nathan was off like a bullet, chasing it down.
The fullback tried to match him stride for stride—but Nathan had that extra gear. That ruthless, silent acceleration that belonged to the greats.
He chopped the ball inside. The fullback stumbled, eating grass.
Now just the keeper.
Nathan slowed, then flicked the ball with the outside of his boot—right around the diving arms.
Roll... roll...
Wide.
By inches.
The ball kissed the post as it rolled past.
"Oooooohhh!!" groaned the crowd, their anguish echoing through the stands.
Nathan knelt on the grass, gripping his head.
So close. So damn close.
Then—laughter.
Valverde jogged over, hands on hips, smirking.
"Even the Phenomenon missed sometimes," he quipped, tapping Nathan’s back.
Nathan let out a breath—haah..
—and cracked a tired grin.
"Yeah. But I don’t want to be like him," he said quietly. "I want to be better."
Valverde’s smirk faded into something deeper. He nodded once, then walked off, clapping twice toward the bench.
Nathan stood, the grin gone.
His eyes sharpened.
No more close calls.
—
68th Minute –
A corner for Milan. A mix-up.
Shouts. Pointing. Too many red shirts in the wrong places.
Thud!
A header. Not cleared.
Tap! Boom!
A low finish through legs and shadows.
Goal.
2–1.
Milan celebrated near the dugout. Giroud raised his arms to the sky. Theo kissed the badge.
Martínez slammed the turf, furious.
Nathan stared at the net. Then at the stands. Then at the pitch.
The weight came back. That crushing sense of chasing something that just won’t give.
But something had changed in him tonight.
—
74th Minute –
Valverde dropped deep, demanding the ball more often. Bruno, grim-faced, called for runners. Martinez barked at the back line.
Nathan drifted into spaces. Left. Then right. Then center.
Amorim adjusted tactics from the sideline, signaling for Malacia to push higher. Shaw to invert.
—
78th Minute –
Free kick.
Bruno stood over it. Nathan moved near the wall, unnoticed.
The ref blew the whistle.
Bruno chipped it instead of blasting.
Nathan darted forward, splitting through defenders like smoke.
Boom!
He volleyed it first-time—but it struck a shoulder and deflected wide.
"TCH—!"
He clenched his fists. So close again.
But as he turned, the fans stood up.
They clapped.
—
82nd Minute –
Not from fire. Not from smoke.
From hope.
From the sound of seventy thousand voices rising as one, screaming for more.
And in the center of it all—
Nathan Perry.
Boots scraping turf. Legs pumping.
The ball arrived at his feet like it was pulled by gravity. Milan’s back line, began to stretch. Panic had seeped in.
Nathan turned. A wall of white shirts surged forward.
Now.
Thud! Thud!
Left foot forward, right foot over. The first feint snapped a defender sideways.
Whoosh!
The second came instantly—he rolled the ball with the outside of his foot, faking a pass. The second defender lunged—too soon. Too desperate.
Nathan slid past.
Crack!
The third was closing fast. But Nathan didn’t stop—he sold the third feint with his body, shifting his center of gravity so sharp it almost looked like he stumbled—
—then slipped between them
The entire backline buckled.
Haaah...!!
Nathan exhaled as the box opened before him. He could’ve shot.
He wanted to shoot.
But just for a second... he remembered Amorim’s voice in training:
"Great players create. Legends trust the moment."
He saw the run out of the corner of his eye.
Antony.
Fresh legs. Hungry. No one marking him.
Nathan slid the pass sideways—perfect weight, perfect timing.
Antony didn’t break stride.
Boom!!
A rocket into the top corner.
GOAL!!!
2–2!!!
The stadium erupted.
There were no words—only noise. Screams. Applause.
Antony sprinted to the corner flag, leaping into the air, fists pumping.
Nathan just stood there, arms wide, eyes scanning the crowd like he wanted to drink it in. All of it.
He turned toward the bench.
Bruno clapped. Valverde raised both fists. Even Amorim, normally stoic, allowed himself a yell of pure release.
—
88th Minute –
Every possession was a punch. Every clearance a gasp.
Lisandro barked at Shaw. Valverde pressed. Antony was electric down the right, dragging two defenders every time.
But Nathan...
Nathan was possessed.
His lungs were burning, legs trembling—but his mind was clear.
We’re not done.
90th minute passed.
+2.
Last chance.
Martínez intercepted a loose ball and immediately launched it forward.
Boom!
Nathan saw it coming and took off.
The last defender tried to block him off. Didn’t matter.
Nathan shoved through the gap. Pure will. He controlled the ball mid-stride—*
Tap! Tap! Tap!
One touch. Two. Three.
Now!
Crack!!!
He let it fly.
Power. Rage.
The ball tore through the air—headed for the top right corner.
But—
Smack!!
Mike Maignan.
He flew.
He flew.
A fingertip save. Maybe even half a finger. It didn’t make sense.
The ball curled wide.
The stadium froze.
Nathan stood there, stunned.
Breathing like a man who’d just come back from war.
Whistle!!
Full Time. 2–2.
—
Some groaned. Others cheered.
Milan had done enough to top the group.
United were second.
But as Nathan walked slowly toward the halfway line, something strange happened.
Old Trafford stood.
Not to leave.
To applaud.
For him.
They clapped. Chanted his name.
"Na-than! Na-than! Na-than!"
He didn’t smile.
Not yet.
—
Post-match.
The tunnel buzzed with noise. Reporters jostled for position. Cameras flashed. Players moved through, some celebrating, some cursing.
Nathan peeled off his shirt in the locker room, sweat still dripping. His muscles ached in every fiber. He was bruised, blistered, and utterly spent.
Valverde flopped down next to him, grinning ear to ear.
"So," he said, "do we call you O Fenômeno now?"
Nathan chuckled. Then winced.
"If I’m that, I need to finish next time."
Valverde raised a brow.
"You gave us the goal. You brought us back."
—
Later.
The locker room had emptied.
Nathan pulled on his jacket, still sore, still tired—but lighter.
He stepped out into the corridor. Cameras swiveled toward him instantly.
"Nathan! One question—how did it feel to—?"
"Nathan, do you feel like the pressure is—?"
"Nathan—do you think you’re the next Ronaldo?"
He kept walking.
Then stopped, turned slightly, and smirked.
"Sorry," he said. "I have a more important date tonight."
He slipped past the cordon, ignoring the murmurs and raised eyebrows.
Outside, the night was quiet.
The rain had stopped.
His car beeped as he approached. Inside, silence—just the soft hum of the engine.
He pulled out his phone.
One message.
"Do you still remember what I look like?"– Lauren
He stared at it for a long second.
Then typed back, thumb pausing just before the last word.
"I’ll see you tonight... I promise."
Send.
He set the phone down.
Leaned back.
Closed his eyes.
And for just a moment—
He wasn’t chasing defenders or goals or legacy.
He was just Nathan.
