The Football Legends System-Chapter 64: The Edge of Collapse
Chapter 64: The Edge of Collapse
Chapter 64 – The Edge of Collapse
44th minute.
The cross came from Dalot—deep, looping.
Nathan rose to meet it.
His timing was off, but he leapt anyway.
He twisted mid-air and craned his neck—
THUNK!!
The ball struck his forehead and veered, not toward goal but somewhere between Row Z and the moon.
The crowd groaned in unison.
"Bloody hell..." someone muttered behind the dugout.
Nathan landed and staggered a step, half-expecting applause, half-hoping for a hole to swallow him whole.
That was it? That was your answer?
He didn’t even glance at Amorim this time.
The referee blew the whistle a few seconds later.
Halftime.
Score: Nottingham Forest 1 – Manchester United 0.
The tunnel felt colder than it should have. Grey walls, grey floor, a flickering overhead light—it all blurred into one long, silent trudge.
Nathan walked at the back of the pack.
Alone, in a crowd.
His lips moved, barely audible.
"What’s happening to me...? This isn’t me..."
His voice sounded distant in his own ears. Like someone else was saying it. Some other player. Some other kid who’d forgotten how to breathe with a ball at his feet.
The dressing room was a tomb.
No one shouted.
Even Bruno sat in silence, shirt half-off, head down.
Onana leaned against the locker, staring at the floor like it might offer answers.
Valverde rubbed his temples.
The smell of sweat, grass, and regret hung thick in the air.
Second half.
The crowd didn’t cheer.
Nathan stepped onto the pitch, blinking up at the lights.
His heart beat too fast. His hands were cold.
Just run. Run and maybe you’ll remember how to be yourself again.
49th minute.
Bruno dropped deep, pressed hard, then slipped the ball to Nathan at the halfway line.
He had time.
Just a second.
Enough to look up, survey.
Rashford was peeling wide. Garnacho starting his sprint down the left. The right choice was clear.
Nathan hesitated.
A single heartbeat too long.
Then—he passed.
Too slow.
"No—!" Rashford barked, just as Forest’s midfielder jumped the lane.
SNATCH!!
The counter was instant.
Forest broke like a damn burst—four red shirts streaming forward.
Valverde tracked back. Casemiro lunged—
CHAKK!! A slide tackle—missed!
The ball found Forest’s number 9. One touch. Then—
BANG!!
Low. Near post. Unstoppable.
GOAL.
2–0. Forest.
Old Trafford fell deathly still. Again.
Nathan stood frozen at the halfway line.
Again.
His lungs felt shallow. Like he couldn’t get air, even though he was breathing.
Amorim turned and booted a water bottle.
CRACK!! It exploded against the bench.
"WAKE UP!!" he roared. "This is not Manchester United!"
The rage in his voice cracked the silence.
Onana pounded his gloves. Martinez slapped his thigh.
Valverde swore in Spanish under his breath, turning to Nathan.
"You HAVE to be faster. That was you!"
Nathan nodded once, but his expression didn’t change.
---
57th minute.
The ball was at Nathan’s feet.
He pushed it forward, leaned into the run—Come on, just go. Drive. Drive.
But the moment never came.
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A Forest midfielder—sharp sliced across and took the ball cleanly.
"Too slow," came a voice from behind. Maybe Valverde. Maybe his own thoughts.
Nathan stumbled a half step, then stopped. Watched Forest swing into their next attack.
Tch... I can’t even get past one man.
61st minute.
Forest smelled blood.
The game was already theirs, but they weren’t satisfied.
They pressed.
Casemiro tried to hold the midfield line. Martinez barked orders at the back.
But the gaps kept appearing.
Then—ZHHHT!—a laser pass through the middle.
Perfect weight.
Perfect angle.
The Forest striker didn’t hesitate.
One touch to control.
BOOM!!
Another to bury it past Onana, low.
Goal!!.
Nottingham Forest 3 – Manchester United 0.
The away end erupted, a deafening, joyous riot.
The home sections?
Seats folded. Jackets zipped. Boots echoed up the concrete stairs.
Old Trafford was bleeding fans.
On the pitch, Nathan stood motionless.
Not panting. Not clenching his fists. Just... still.
As if reality hadn’t reached him yet.
As if he hadn’t fully grasped that it was him—Nathan Perry—the ghost wearing the #10 shirt.
65th minute.
He didn’t hear his name called.
Only noticed when Mount jogged past him, glancing sideways.
"Nate," he said, not unkindly, "you’re coming off."
Nathan blinked.
What?
He turned.
The fourth official had already lifted the board.
10 ⬅️
7 ➡️
Amorim stood by the touchline, arms crossed, lips a tight line.
No eye contact.
Just a nod.
The kind of nod that said, Enough.
Nathan’s legs moved, but the rest of him felt stuck.
He walked across the pitch. Didn’t jog. Didn’t wave.
Forest fans jeered, a sarcastic round of applause following his every step.
CLAP. CLAP. CLAP.
"Thanks for the help, superstar!"
"Enjoy the bench!"
A beer cup bounced near his boots. He didn’t flinch.
He sat down—third seat from the left—next to Dalot. Didn’t untie his boots. Didn’t speak.
The final whistle blew.
The score didn’t change.
3–0.
In the tunnel.
The air reeked of sweat and disbelief.
Showers hissed in the background. Someone kicked a locker—BANG!!
Nathan sat still, still in full kit.
He didn’t look at the others. Didn’t have the strength.
BBC commentary – minutes later.
"A disastrous performance... no passion... no fight... and Nathan Perry, the team’s star, looked like a ghost."
Headlines.
"UNITED CRUMBLES IN NOTTINGHAM."
"NATHAN OUT OF SERVICE!"
"WILL HE LOSE HIS SPOT BEFORE NAPOLI?"
Press Room.
The lights were blinding, white.
Reporters swarmed.
First question: "Is Nathan Perry still starting against Napoli?"
A pause.
Amorim exhaled slowly.
"Every player has a bad day," he said. "But now, we need real men."
Click. Click. Click. The cameras ate it up.
He leaned forward.
"The Napoli Match isn’t far. We’ll see who’s ready."
Later that night.
Nathan sat in his room at Carrington. Alone.
The rain tapped gently against the window.
His phone buzzed.
Lauren:
Call me if you want. Even if you don’t want to talk.
He stared at the message.
Didn’t reply.
He got up slowly, walked to the mirror.
Stared at himself.
His hair matted with sweat. Face pale under the fluorescent lights.
His eyes looked empty.
What happened to the kid who couldn’t wait to prove everyone wrong?
Where did he go?
Knock.
A soft one.
The door creaked open.
Bruno peeked in, towel slung around his shoulders.
"You alright?"
Nathan nodded.
Bruno stepped inside. Sat across from him.
"I’ve seen bad games," he said. "Hell, I’ve played worse."
Nathan didn’t respond.
"You think this one defines you?" Bruno asked.
Silence.
"People forget," Bruno said, leaning forward, "that even stars flicker."
"find a way to come back brighter."
A long silence passed between them.
Bruno stood up, gave a soft pat to Nathan’s shoulder.
"Napoli’s coming. Decide who you want to be before then."
And then he left.
Nathan lay back on the bed.
The hum of Carrington’s lights. The distant sound of rain.
Haaah...
