The Football Legends System-Chapter 60: From Boy To Star
Chapter 60: From Boy To Star
Chapter 60 - From Boy To Star
89th minute.
The scoreboard still read 1–1, but it felt like the air was trembling under the pressure.
One more chance. Just one.
Wembley had gone from chaotic to breathless.
Manchester United pushed forward with every ounce of urgency they had left in their legs.
Valverde surged through the middle like a man possessed. A thud of boots against turf, a flick past Rice—then the ball zipped toward Bruno.
"Turn!" shouted Ten Hag from the touchline.
Bruno didn’t need to be told.
He spun off Ødegaard with a sharp feint—Tch!—and saw it.
Nathan. Edge of the box. Space.
Click! The pass fired through.
Nathan’s eyes locked onto the ball mid-roll.A breath. A step. The goal widening in front of him.
He shifted his weight—
Now.
CRACK!!
A whip of the left foot. The ball flew, rising and bending—an impossible curve arcing toward the far post, curling like a dancer mid-spin.
The crowd rose as one.
"AHHH—!!"
The keeper stretched—not this again—but he wasn’t needed.
WHOOSH!!
Just wide.
By inches.
The ball grazed the outside of the post and skipped out of play, leaving nothing but a ghost trail in the cold Wembley air.
Nathan stood frozen, his hands on his head. Eyes wide.
Whistle!
Pweeeeeeeee!!
The full-time whistle pierced through the fog of exhaustion.
1–1.
A wave of sound crashed over the stadium.
Ninety minutes of war. And now... extra time.
Players slumped to the grass.
Some on their backs. Some bent at the waist, gasping for air like they’d come up from deep water.
Onana pointed at his temple. "Still us! Still focused!"
Valverde punched the air, eyes still burning.
Nathan?
He just... sat.
On the Wembley grass. Head tilted back, eyes closed.
Inside his head?
Stillness.
But beneath that calm? Heat.
Images flickered.
His old goal against Arsenal in a Leeds shirt. That ball from outside the box, that beautiful bend, that brief moment of belief...
Then the final whistle back then.The scoreboard.4–1, Arsenal.Him, kneeling on the grass, tears falling.The cameras catching every second of it.
He’d cried that night—not just because they lost—but because he believed that goal had changed everything.
But belief wasn’t enough.
Not then.
Amorim pulled them into a tight circle. Eyes sharp, voice low.
"I don’t want your heads right now," he said. "I want your hearts."
The players looked at each other—faces pale with exhaustion, drenched in sweat. But they leaned in.
"No more overthinking," the manager continued. "No more fear. Play with feeling. With truth. The game will reward the ones who aren’t afraid to lose."
Nathan smiled.
"It’s time."
----
The scoreboard still read 1–1.
Extra time ticked on—nervous, breathless minutes filled with cautious passes and silent calculations. Both sides wary. Both sides knowing. One wrong move, and this match would be lost.
United held the ball. Bruno Fernandes dropped deep to collect, scanning the field.
Nathan stood near the halfway line, his body still Waiting.
Tch... It’s coming.
Bruno didn’t hesitate. He launched it.
Fwoosh!
The ball soared high, curling over the midfield press, slicing through Arsenal’s defensive line.
Nathan’s boots pounded forward.
Thud!Chest control—clean.
The ball dropped at his feet, and in one flowing motion, he brushed past Tomiyasu. A ghost-step to the right, a flick of the ankle.
Gone.
The keeper was off his line—too eager, too exposed.
Nathan’s eyes narrowed.
Time slowed.
He saw the space, felt the curve, imagined the flight.
And then—
Tchk!
A soft, perfect chip. Delicate as lace, cruel as fate.
Wooooosh... Pluck!
It dropped under the crossbar with a whisper, tucking just behind the fingertips of a desperate dive. The net bulged.
GOOOOOOOOOAL!!!
Wembley erupted.
Red thunder roared from the stands, fans leaping, fists raised to the sky. It wasn’t just celebration. It was release. Explosion. A scream years in the making.
"NATHAAAAAAAAAAN!!!"
Nathan sprinted toward the corner, arms wide, breath burning in his chest. His face was alight with something more than joy—vindication.
He turned sharply toward the Arsenal end.
Now, he pointed to his heart.
"This is for you," he mouthed.
His voice didn’t carry over the noise. But they heard it anyway.
–
Back in the center circle, Arsenal regrouped, stunned but not broken.
"Focus!" Ødegaard barked. "We’re not done!"
104th minute.
Saka surged forward on the right wing, skipping past Shaw with a nasty fake. He squared up Dalot, dropped a shoulder, and burst inside.
One-two with Havertz—Thud! Thud!—and suddenly, the opening was there.
Saka cut loose—
BOOM!
Onana dove.
A blur of gloves, limbs, and pure instinct.
Wham!
Saved.
A thunderous slap echoed off the keeper’s palms, and the ball rebounded high into the air before Casemiro booted it clear.
The Emirates end groaned.
The United bench leapt up, shouting, fists clenched.
Amorim remained still but his fingers tapped once on his thigh. Even he felt it now.
It was Nathan’s night.
–
108th minute.
Arsenal pushed too high.
Valverde intercepted, toe-poked it ahead—and Nathan was gone.
He ran.
Boom! Boom! Boom!
Each stride like a drumbeat of fate. The turf bent beneath him, Wembley gasped behind him.
One defender came. Nathan feinted left, then slashed right.
Another. He slowed, waited, then burst through a gap.
A third tried to press—too late.
He slipped past, a red blur in motion.
Edge of the box.
A shooting lane.
Eyes locked on the far corner.
Crack!!
He unleashed it—low, fast, curling around the trailing defender and swerving away from Raya’s outstretched hand.
BOOOOOM!!!
The net rippled with violent force.
The third goal. His third.
A hat-trick at Wembley.
Against Arsenal.
Against his past.
The entire stadium exploded into sound. Voices cracked. Flares flared. The crowd was a living sea of chaos and awe.
But Nathan didn’t race this time.
No shouting. No fist-pumping.
He dropped to his knees.
Kissed the ground.
A whisper against the earth that raised him. A prayer of thanks to the game that gave him purpose.
The camera zoomed in.
–
Zirkzee came over, slapping his back hard. "Hat-trick at Wembley?
Casemiro jogged past, stone-faced as ever. "One more goal and you’re not allowed to train for a week."
Valverde grinned, wild-eyed. "Let’s bury them."
–
The final minutes of the first half of extra time bled away.
Arsenal was stunned. Their press softened.
United smelled blood.
But they didn’t rush. They didn’t need to.
Because the tide had turned.
Wembley was theirs now.
The red banners, the songs, the rhythm of the crowd—it all pulsed with one name.
Nathan Perry.
From boy to star.
From heartbreak to hat-trick.
–
The whistle blew for the break.
Half-time in extra time.
Nathan walked toward the bench, not tired—alive.
He glanced up at the scoreboard.
Manchester United 3 – 1 Arsenal
