The Football Legends System

The door to the away locker room groaned shut behind them.

Click.

Silence.

Not the kind that felt peaceful or healing—but heavy, thick.

Boots scuffed against tile. Someone dropped their shin guards.

Nathan sat in the far corner, drenched in sweat, his jersey crumpled in his hands. His head bowed low, dark curls matted to his forehead. Not crying.

His pulse was still hammering in his ears, louder than the final whistle had been.

We were so close.

Amorim stood in the middle of the room, arms behind his back. The Portuguese manager didn't shout, didn't pace, didn't throw a water bottle. He simply looked around—at the team he'd rebuilt, reshaped.

Then he spoke.

"We didn't just lose tonight… we lost an opportunity. But we haven't lost our path."

Bruno stirred near the lockers. The captain, soaked to the bone, jersey half-pulled off, moved with quiet purpose. He crossed the room and knelt in front of Nathan, placing a hand on his shoulder.

"I know how you feel. I've been there many times. Champions League nights where the lights burn you more than they lift you. But… we can't drown in it."

Nathan looked up, eyes tired, jaw tight. His voice cracked.

"I wanted this more than anything."

Bruno didn't flinch.

"Good. That means you'll come back harder."

He squeezed Nathan's shoulder once, then stood and walked away. That was all. No big speech. Just a shared scar.

Minutes passed.

Still no noise, except for the soft hiss of the showers starting. Valverde sat with his elbows on his knees, staring at the floor. Zirkzee leaned back against the wall, silent, a towel draped over his face. Demir hadn't moved since he took off his boots.

Everyone gave everything. And still… it wasn't enough.

Nathan closed his eyes.

That Vinícius goal kept playing in his mind on loop. The curve, the angle, the way it kissed the post. And then—his own miss. That header in the 89th minute. Inches. That was it.

Just a little higher, a little faster…

——

The Next Morning

The headlines were merciless in their precision.

"Bernabéu eliminates the Red Devils"

Nathan stared at his phone, sitting in the breakfast lounge of the team hotel. A half-eaten plate of eggs grew cold in front of him.

He scrolled.

Comments, fan posts, pundits dissecting every moment. Some supportive. Some brutal.

"Madrid had more experience. We'll get them next year."

"This is why we never win anything!"

"Shaw's cooked. Mbappé didn't even try and still beat us."

Nathan set the phone face-down and sighed.

——

Later That Day – Interview Room

Just a short interview. One question. They'd warned him ahead of time.

The lights were hot on his face. The journalist's voice was soft.

"Nathan, what's your message to the fans after this loss?"

He paused.

Everything in him wanted to apologize. To say he should've done more. To blame luck, the ref, fate.

But instead, he looked directly at the camera.

"I promise you just one thing… we'll be back."

——

Evening – Hotel Room

The room was dim. Curtain drawn. The only light came from the TV screen, playing a replay of the match on mute.

Nathan watched himself chase after Demir's goal. Watched Bruno collapse laughing into him. Watched the way they fought—minute by minute.

His phone buzzed.

Lauren

"I know you're broken right now. But I saw something in you I've never seen before… a leader. Even in defeat, you're a leader. Don't forget who you are."

Nathan exhaled.

She always knew what to say.

He stared at the message for a long time before his thumbs finally moved.

"Thank you for always reminding me… of what I can be."

He sent it.

——

Next Morning – Carrington Training Ground

Rain tapped lightly on the windows as the players filtered into the facility.

No music in the dressing room. Just quiet greetings, head nods, the soft squeak of boots against the floor.

Nathan arrived early.

He stood by the tactics board, arms crossed, already in his kit. The others took notice. Not of what he said—he wasn't talking—but of how he stood.

Bruno nudged Valverde and grinned.

"Look at him. Doesn't even need words anymore."

Valverde chuckled softly.

"Maybe we've got a real captain in the making."

Demir gave Nathan a fist bump as he passed.

"I'm getting that assist again. Next time… you're scoring."

Nathan smirked. Just a little.

"Next time… we all are."

Amorim stepped into the room. Clipboard in hand.

"Good. You're early."

——

Rain lashed Carrington's training ground like it had a grudge, the pitch slick and silver under the storm. Whistles shrieked. Studs tore into grass.

Rúben Amorim's voice cracked through the downpour.

"Forget Madrid… now it's the league!"

Casemiro tackled hard. Zirkzee spun a marker, then rifled a shot into the bottom corner.

Thump!

"CHELSEA… YOU'RE NEXT!" he roared, sprinting back with his arms wide.

Valverde passed to Nathan in a tight rondo.

"We're back, my friend," he said through a grin. "Let's smash them."

Nathan didn't reply. He just turned with the ball, left his marker in the mud, and flicked it across to Demir with a grin of his own.

His legs were still sore. His mind still ached from that missed chance.

—

Stamford Bridge – Match Night

The west London stadium glowed like a forge under the night sky. Blue smoke drifted from the stands. Fans sang with the kind of venom that only English derbies could birth.

The cameras panned across Chelsea's side, brimming with energy. Enzo Fernández pulled his socks high and stared at the tunnel wall like he wanted to walk through it.

Nathan exhaled slowly and shut his eyes.

For a second, it was just silence in his head. No chants. No pressure. Just… the hum.

Then—Ting!

A soft blue pulse lit up inside his chest.

[Random Skill Activated: Luis Díaz Dribbling]

Nathan opened his eyes.

The locker room's buzzing chatter faded around him. He glanced down at his boots, then slowly looked across to Valverde, who was bouncing lightly on his heels.

"Tonight," Nathan said, voice calm, "I'm dancing on the line."