The Football Legends System

Thmp. Thmp. Thmp.

Midfielders closed. He danced through one—

Spun past another—

Shoulder-to-shoulder with Tchouaméni.

Crack! A tackle.

The ball spilled away.

Nathan hit the ground, rolled, got up without a sound.

No call from the ref.

The crowd didn't notice. They were still busy singing Mbappé's name.

Nathan's teeth dug into his lip.

Bruno motioned. Demir screamed for the ball. Casemiro yelled from behind—

But Nathan barely heard them.

He just ran.

He pressed.

He tackled.

He tried.

But nothing broke.

–––––

The final ten minutes passed like smoke.

Bruno's chipped pass?

Intercepted.

Demir's burst down the right?

Tch! Too heavy.

Zirkzee's last header?

Caught.

Courtois cradled the ball like it was gold.

And finally—

Fweeeeeet!

The whistle.

Final score: Real Madrid 3 – 1 Manchester United.

Madrid's players swarmed the pitch, their celebration glowing under the lights like some triumphant painting. Vinícius and Rodrygo embraced, both beaming. Bellingham hoisted his arms to the crowd. Mbappé jogged toward the cameras, laughing.

As for United?

Nothing.

Only stillness.

–––––

Nathan dropped to his knees.

Not in pain.

He just... couldn't move.

The grass beneath him was wet with sweat and sorrow.

He sat back, legs stretched out, hands on the turf, eyes glazed.

Fans were already leaving. A blur of white shirts and echoing footsteps. A city celebrating. A club reminded of its dominance.

His gaze drifted to the scoreboard.

3 – 1.

In the distance, he heard Vinícius' laughter, saw Modrić hugging Rodrygo, watched Mbappé high-five a beaming Carlo Ancelotti.

And then his eyes flicked to the bench.

No words.

Just Amorim, turning his back to it all and disappearing into the tunnel.

–––––

The dressing room door clicked open.

No one looked up.

Bruno sat hunched over, elbows on knees, head buried in his hands. His captain's armband had already been thrown into his kit bag.

Zirkzee sat on the floor, ripping his boots off like they'd betrayed him.

Whump! One hit the bench. No one reacted.

Valverde didn't move. Just stared at the floor like it held the answers to life.

Silence.

Heavy.

Even the air conditioning seemed to have stopped out of respect.

Nathan walked in last.

His shirt clung to his ribs, soaked and heavy. His legs dragged with invisible chains.

He didn't speak.

Just walked to the far bench, collapsed onto it.

He grabbed a water bottle, twisted the cap—

But didn't drink.

Instead, he tipped it over his head.

Shhhhhh…

The cold splash hit his scalp and ran down his face, trailing past closed eyes, over burning cheeks, down to a clenched jaw.

No sound.

Just water and regret.

–––––

They sat there for minutes.

No speech.

No clapping.

Not even a "good effort."

Just the quiet aftermath.

Finally, someone stood.

Casemiro.

His voice, when it came, wasn't loud.

"We lost," he said, not looking at anyone. "But we showed something. In moments."

He paused.

"In moments, we looked like we belonged here."

He looked up, briefly.

"But we need more than moments."

He turned, picked up his jersey, and walked out.

–––––

Nathan remained seated.

Staring at the floor.

His fingers tapped against the bench.

Tap. Tap. Tap.

Not anger now.

All the moments played back in his head. The missed volley. The intercepted pass. Mbappé's smile.

He felt something shift in his chest. Not hope.

Just… something.

A quiet fire.

This wasn't the end.

It was only proof.

Proof of how far he still had to go.

How much higher he had to climb.

He closed his eyes.

Not to forget.

But to remember every second.

–––––

Flash. Flash. Flash.

Outside the dressing room at the Bernabéu, a wall of lights exploded in every direction. Dozens of reporters leaned over the metal barricades, arms outstretched, shouting over each other, trying to catch a moment, a quote—anything.

"Amorim! Is this the end of the Champions League dream?!"

"Bruno, are you still the leader this team needs?"

"Nathan—Nathan Perry! Why weren't you effective tonight?!"

Tch. Nathan walked forward, head low, jaw clenched, sweat still dripping. A reporter shoved a mic in his face. Cameras zoomed .

His voice was tight, barely above a whisper.

"No comment."

A pause.

He wiped his forehead with the back of his hand. His fingers trembled slightly.

Click. Flash. Snap.

That moment—eyes red, lips pressed tight, body hunched as if weighed down by the entire season—became the headline image by dawn.

"The Golden Boy Breaks.""Champions League Dream Shattered."

–––––

Hours Later – Manchester.

The city was quiet under rain.

In his small, sparsely furnished apartment, Nathan sat in the living room, alone. The lights were off. Only the dull blue glow from the TV screen—muted, blank—lit the shadows on his face.

The coffee on the table had gone cold.

His boots were still by the door, mud on the soles.

His body felt hollow. Not tired…

Every miss replayed in his head.

The volley.

The tackle.

Mbappé's smile.

He hadn't cried after the match.

Not even on the flight back.

But now… in this silence… something inside cracked just a little.

Ping.

A message appeared on his phone.

Lauren:"I know you're broken… I'm in Manchester. Can I come over?"

He stared at the screen.

Didn't type.

Just as he was about to put the phone down—

Knock. Knock.

His heart jumped.

He stood up slowly, walked to the door, and opened it.

She was there.

In jeans, a hoodie, and rain-slicked hair. Two cups of takeaway coffee in hand.

And a soft, sad smile.

"Nathan."

Her voice was gentle. Not pitiful.

He didn't speak. Couldn't.

She stepped in.

Closed the door.

Set the coffee down.

Then she looked at him—really looked.

"You don't have to be strong right now," she whispered. "It's okay to be weak for a while. With me."

Nathan's shoulders slumped. The weight finally pulled him down.

He sat on the couch.

She followed.

He leaned sideways…

And rested his head on her shoulder.

For the first time in months, he didn't try to explain. Didn't try to fight it. Didn't pretend.

He just… sat there.

Not "the next Ronaldo."

Not "the system's golden boy."

Just a young man in pain.