The Football Legends System

Minute 67

FWEEEEET!

The fourth official's board lit up.

OFF: Emre Demir

ON: Xavi Simons

A ripple of reaction moved through the away fans, muffled beneath Stamford Bridge's thunder. Amorim stood at the edge of his technical area, arms folded tight against the cold.

Nathan glanced toward the touchline.

There he was—Xavi Simons, United's newest arrival. Hair tied, jaw clenched, fire in his eyes. Not a flicker of fear in his expression.

"Let's go," Xavi muttered as he passed Nathan on the way in.

Nathan gave a small nod, chest still heaving from the last sprint.

No time for speeches.

The war hadn't ended yet.

Minute 69

Tch—tch—whsshhk!

Xavi's first touch.

He picked up the ball near the halfway line, took on pressure like it meant nothing, and slipped through two Chelsea midfielders with a glide and a hip shift so smooth it made the crowd gasp.

"Go on!" Valverde roared.

Xavi didn't stop.

He dipped his shoulder, cut back inside, and spotted space twenty-five yards out.

He struck.

BOOOOM!!

A thunderbolt of a shot—clean, goal-bound.

"YES!!" Bruno shouted, fists half-raised.

But—

SKRAAASH!!

Kepa flew across the frame like a man possessed, fingertips barely brushing the ball. It curled just past the post.

Corner.

—

But after that brief spark... the fire began to flicker.

Minute 71

The passes became looser.

Bruno sprayed one too far wide.

Valverde hesitated in transition.

Casemiro's legs no longer had their spring—his feet chased ghosts, not players.

Even Nathan… the wind in his lungs started to feel heavier. The rhythm he carried in the first half—the balance between instincts and clarity—had started to crack.

He still tried. Still ran. Still created half-chances.

But United weren't a team anymore.

They were eleven men scattered across a storming pitch, each clinging to the match by their own fragile will.

Minute 75

Valverde dropped deep to collect the ball, shielding from pressure, then spotted Simons in space.

"Xavi!"

Thwack!

A driven pass zipped through the heart of midfield. Simons took it in stride.

One touch.

Two.

He danced.

Tch—tch—tch!

One defender lunged. Beaten.

Second slid in. Too late.

Third closed in—Simons chopped back and exploded forward.

"Hit it!!" Zirkzee screamed.

Xavi did.

CRACK!!!

A vicious strike from outside the box—pure technique.

It screamed toward goal—

CLAAAAAANG!!

The ball crashed off the underside of the crossbar.

"OH MY GOD—" the commentator's voice broke mid-sentence.

The crowd jumped to their feet.

For a second, everyone froze—eyes tracking the ball as it bounced down, then out.

Not in.

Still 4–2.

Bruno slapped his palms together. "That's what we need! Keep going!"

—

Minute 78 – 85

Chelsea weren't flashy anymore.

They were surgical.

Time ticked. Passes recycled. Fouls taken smartly.

Frustration seeped into every red shirt.

Zirkzee stopped chasing down passes.

Valverde barked at Casemiro after another miscue.

Bruno tried to rally, but his voice had started to crack.

Nathan still moved. Still called.

But his mind was drifting. The match… it had slipped away, somewhere between the third and fourth goals. Somewhere between effort and futility.

Every time he touched the ball, he wanted something to happen.

But football didn't care about desire.

Only execution.

And right now, United didn't have enough of it.

Minute 90+3

One last throw of the dice.

Bruno took a quick free kick near the halfway line. Valverde shifted it out wide to Nathan.

He was exhausted. Every breath burned. But he drove forward one more time.

The clock had seconds left.

Chelsea dropped deep, forming a wall of blue.

Nathan slowed, raised his head, and swung in the cross.

Whuuuuump!

It was perfect.

Arcing. Spinning.

Zirkzee rose—

THUMP!!

He connected cleanly.

But Kepa…

SKRRRT!!

The Chelsea keeper launched himself across the line like a cat with steel springs.

Caught it. Held it.

No rebound.

Game over.

FWEEEEEEEEEEEEET!!

The whistle.

Chelsea 4 – Manchester United 2.

The home crowd roared.

Blue smoke filled the air behind the goal. Flags waved. The chants began—mocking, loud.

Chelsea's bench swarmed the pitch.

Enzo hugged Palmer.

Jackson pulled off his shirt and pointed to the badge in front of the home fans.

Kepa lifted both fists and let out a triumphant scream.

On United's side?

Stillness.

Just the ache of another lost battle.

Bruno dropped to one knee again, chest rising and falling.

Valverde bent double, hands on his thighs.

Casemiro trudged toward the sideline, shaking his head.

And Nathan…

He stood on the edge of the pitch, watching the sea of celebration.

Then, finally, he pulled off his shirt—slowly, as if shedding something heavier than just fabric.

The cold night air hit his skin.

He didn't say a word.

Didn't look at the coaches.

Didn't speak to the others.

He walked toward the tunnel alone, boots echoing against the concrete path.

Some fans reached down to shout his name.

He didn't raise his head.

Only once did he pause—just at the edge of the tunnel.

His eyes turned back, just briefly.

The pitch behind him.

The scoreboard.

The shadow of a stadium where he'd once danced and dazzled, where for a moment—just a moment—he'd made Stamford Bridge gasp.

Now, it was just a memory swallowed by smoke and blue flags.

He exhaled.

Haaah...

Then disappeared into the tunnel.

—

Somewhere behind him, Amorim spoke to his staff.

"We've got five days."

"No time to sulk."

"City's waiting."

———

The door to the locker room creaked shut behind Bruno Fernandes.

No one spoke.

The walls held the weight of Sunday's defeat, the 4–2 hammering still raw in their bones. Sweat and regret clung to the air, thicker than the scent of liniment. Cleats hung loosely from benches. Tape wrappers scattered the floor.

Bruno stood at the center of the room. Arms crossed. Brow furrowed. The captain's band still tight on his left arm.

"We lost a match.""Not the season."

Some heads turned. Others remained low. Zirkzee leaned against the wall, silent. Valverde sat forward on the bench, elbows on knees, waiting.

Bruno's eyes swept the room.

"The FA Cup isn't just a consolation prize. It's a statement. It's our chance to end the season with our heads up.""We've worked too damn hard to walk away with nothing."

The silence cracked slightly. A breath.

Then Nathan's voice cut through the room—low.

"I won't accept a trophyless season.""This is our chance to prove who we are."

The room shifted.

Just the tension snapping into something sharper.

Resolve.

Valverde stood up. Zirkzee crossed his arms, chin raised. Even the younger ones—Garnacho, Simons—sat straighter, eyes harder.

Bruno nodded once.

"Training starts tomorrow. The final is in five days.""City will be ready. So will we."