The Football Legends System-Chapter 55: The New Star

Chapter 58 – The New Star

The players stood in a tight circle. No one said a word.

Steam rose from their shoulders, sweat dripping, breaths ragged. The cold night wrapped around them, but the fire in their chests kept them standing.

Coach Amorim looked at them—l

His voice was low. Steady.

"Who’s in the first five?"

A beat of silence.

Then—

"I’m third," Nathan said, stepping forward without hesitation.

Eyes turned toward him. Bruno gave a slow nod. Zirkzee smirked.

"Figured you’d want the pressure."

Nathan’s gaze didn’t flinch. "I want the responsibility."

Amorim clapped once. "Let’s do it."

The teams split and gathered near the halfway line.

The referee and captains walked to the center, the coin tossed. Liverpool would shoot first at the Stretford End.

Zirkzee stepped forward for United’s first.

The crowd began to rumble.

Thud. Thud. Thud.

Each of his steps echoed as he approached the spot.

Alisson stood tall, arms wide.

Zirkzee didn’t blink.

WHACK!!

Bottom left. Alisson guessed wrong.

GOAL!

The crowd exploded. "YEEEEEEAAHHHH!!"

1–1.

Liverpool answered. Cold. Ruthless. Tucked away into the top corner.

Valverde stepped up next.

He jogged, bounced once, shoulders relaxed—but his eyes were steel.

Crack! Low, near post.

2–1.

Liverpool again. This time a stutter-step run. Onana guessed right—but the ball kissed the net anyway.

2–2.

Then came Nathan.

The walk felt longer than it should’ve. Each step deliberate. Measured.

His name began to build in the stands—

"Nathan... Nathan... Nathan..."

He placed the ball down, pressed it gently with his hand, then stood back.

Breathe.

Haaah...

He stared straight at Alisson. No fear. Just stillness.

Fweeeep!

He stepped forward. One stride. Two. Shot.

BOOM!

Top right corner. Unstoppable.

3–2.

The net rippled.

Old Trafford erupted.

Nathan turned, arms out wide, face unreadable—

The chant grew louder.

"NATHAN! NATHAN! NATHAN!"

He walked back calmly, Valverde meeting him with a low five.

"Clean," Valverde muttered.

Nathan just nodded.

Fourth round.

Liverpool’s turn.

A hush fell.

The shooter stepped up.

Crack!

Off the post!

"OHHHHHH!!" the stadium roared.

He missed!

Bruno jumped. Amorim clenched a fist.

Nathan exhaled—just once.

Now it was in their hands.

One kick.

Smith stepped forward for the fifth.

Not Bruno. Not Valverde. Not Casemiro.

Smith.

The academy boy. The quiet one.

Nathan turned to Valverde, confused for a moment.

Valverde shrugged. "Said he wanted it."

Nathan’s eyes narrowed slightly.

Then he smiled.

Good.

Smith walked

The crowd stilled. The stadium was silent.

Not a single chant. Not a single shout.

Just breath.

The ref whistled.

Smith took one look.

Ran—

Whap!!

Low. Bottom right.

GOAL!!!

"YEEEEAAAAAAAAAAAAHHHHHHHH!!"

The stadium detonated into pure, unfiltered chaos.

United wins.

They did it.

They did it.

Nathan didn’t think.

He moved.

He sprinted toward the fans, arms out wide, face lifted toward the heavens. Then he dropped to his knees, sliding across the grass, fists clenched—

"AAAAAHHHHHHHH!!"

The roar from the crowd washed over him.

He raised his hands to the sky—then lowered them, pressing his palms into the pitch, forehead resting against it.

Exhausted. Overwhelmed. Alive.

This is it, he thought. This... is what it means.

Behind him, chaos erupted.

Valverde tackled Zirkzee. Onana leapt into Bruno’s arms. Amorim ran toward the squad, fists flying through the air like he’d just won the Champions League himself.

"NATHAN!!" the coach bellowed, voice hoarse. "You were a beast! This match will be studied! STUDIED!"

Nathan let out a breathless laugh as Amorim grabbed him by the shoulders.

"You led, damn it! You showed heart. Mind. Blood."

Cameras flashed around them

Reporters were shouting. Fans were chanting.

"NATHAN... NATHAN... NATHAN!!"

The noise was deafening. Joy. Euphoria.

Nathan stood there, hands raised again—then brought them to his heart and nodded toward the fans.

Then his eyes scanned the stands.

And found her.

Lauren.

Tears in her eyes, camera in hand, mouth open in the biggest, proudest smile he’d ever seen.

She didn’t say a word.

Just lifted the camera.

Click.

One perfect moment.

Media swarmed the pitch. Microphones thrust forward.

"Nathan, what were you thinking before your penalty?"

"Tell us about the tackle on Salah!"

"How does it feel to carry your team!?"

He answered calmly. Smiling.

"Not carry," he said. "We all fought tonight."

More laughter. More noise.

Everywhere Nathan went, players pulled him in for photos. Bruno. Casemiro. Even Amorim posed for one with a grin and thumbs up.

It wasn’t just respect now.

Later, when the lights had dimmed and the celebrations spilled into the tunnel, Nathan found a quiet corner near the changing rooms.

He sat alone for a moment, sipping water, letting everything settle.

Bruno walked by, paused, then leaned against the wall beside him.

"Crazy night, eh?"

Nathan nodded slowly. "Yeah."

Bruno gave him a look. "You good?"

Nathan smiled faintly. "I think I finally get it."

"Get what?"

He looked down at his boots. At the turf-stained socks. The sweat on his shirt.

"That it’s not about proving I’m better than my past... or my dad... or anyone."

He raised his eyes to the ceiling.

"It’s about being ready when the moment comes."

----

"Nathan isn’t a talent... he’s a human beast."

"He was born a star, and now he’s blazing in the sky!"

"Closest thing to Ronaldo Nazário in the new generation? No doubt—it’s Nathan!"

The media had exploded. Headlines flashed across every screen, dissecting his every move, his every glance, his every touch of the ball. He was a star, no longer a potential.

Marca in Spain was quick to pick up on it:

"Nathan is everything Real Madrid needs! Skill, strength, character... Are we seeing another Vinícius story?"

Nathan shook his head, a small laugh escaping him as he scrolled through his phone. Real Madrid? They’d been quick to notice, sure, but that was the world of football. Every move, every moment, dissected like it was a mathematical formula.

But he wasn’t there yet. Not by a long shot.

L’Équipe, in France:

"If he were French, we’d call him up instantly. A phenomenal player!"

Nathan chuckled to himself. A French national team call-up? He wasn’t even thinking about national teams.

The Athletic, in the UK, was more direct:

"Manchester United has finally found a star who can lead the next generation."

The title echoed in his mind for a moment. Lead the next generation.

And then there was Sky Sports, with Harry Kane offering his analysis:

"He’s not a winger, not a playmaker, not a striker... He’s a blend of everything. A rare player."

Nathan’s lips quirked into a grin as he closed the phone. He’d seen these posts, heard these praises. But they didn’t stick to him the way people thought they would. Sure, they filled the air like smoke, but in the end, it was all just noise.