The Football Legends System

Locker Room.

Sweat, steam, the low thrum of exhausted breathing.No music. Not yet.

Nathan sat on the bench, towel over his shoulders, boots still laced. He took a deep breath—and then—

Buzz.

His phone lit up.

[Breaking News: Chelsea 3 - 1 Liverpool]

His eyes scanned the line.

Then he spoke, calm but sharp:

"We're tied on points with them?"

The room went quiet.

Bruno looked up. Zirkzee stopped stretching. De Gea froze with his gloves half-off.

Dead silence.

Everyone did the math in their heads.

One match left.

United vs Liverpool.

Amorim stepped forward, voice low but full of steel.

"Boys…"

They turned. He wasn't shouting. He didn't need to.

"You were written off. After that winter form? Everyone said you were done."

He scanned the room—each face, each heart.

"But you beat City. Took the Cup from their jaws. You bled tonight, chased shadows, clawed your way back. And now…"

He pointed at the crest on his chest.

"This badge has one more mountain. One more step."

Nathan leaned forward, his muscles tight, gaze unblinking.

Amorim's voice dropped lower.

"Next weekend, you're not just playing for points. You're playing for belief. For everything this club used to stand for. Everything we've rebuilt together."

He took a breath.

"You're better than they say."

Then, a beat.

And Onana stood up, voice echoing.

"We're not leaving as losers tonight."

---------------------

Minute 6 –

"Here comes Salah down the right flank!"

Luke Shaw stumbled once. Then twice.

"He's in trouble—Salah skips past him!"

The Egyptian King's feet moved like fire over ice—twisting, jerking, vanishing only to reappear a split-second later.

Nathan lunged from midfield, but he was too far. Too late.

Fwip— a sudden cross.

Núñez broke from Maguire's shoulder. A leap. A crack of the forehead.

BOOM!

Onana didn't move.

The net snapped behind him.

"MY GOD! The Reds strike first! Six minutes in and it's chaos at Anfield!"

The Kop erupted. Red smoke, fists in the air, the ground shaking with the rhythm of the believers.

Nathan stood near the center circle, chest rising with slow, controlled breaths. His jaw tightened—but his eyes were calm.

This wasn't panic.

It was ignition.

Minute 9 –

Bruno got the ball, half-turned, then fired a sharp pass down the left.

"Nathan!" he barked.

Nathan let it run. One touch. Then he slowed—dead stop.

A groan rumbled from the crowd. The full-back hesitated.

Nathan smirked.

Fwip. Heel flick. Spin.

Tap! Tap! Another spin—this time with a roll behind the standing leg.

"HAAAH...!"

The defender lunged—

Too late.

Nathan flicked it over his foot, dragged it back, and burst forward in a blur.

Another defender slid in.

Nutmeg!

The crowd gasped. The Anfield bench stood.

Nathan cut inside.

One breath. No hesitation.

THUD—!

A low rocket screamed off his right boot.

Alisson dived, but the ball was already behind him.

SMASH!!

Net. Rattled. Bent.

"GOOOOOAL!!! WHAT A RESPONSE! NATHAN FIRES BACK WITH HEAT!"

The traveling United fans exploded in a sea of limbs. On the sideline, Amorim pumped his fist once—cool on the outside, but fire in his stare.

Nathan jogged back, not celebrating—just nodding. Calm as a loaded gun.

He caught Salah's eyes briefly.

Not a word. Just a look.

Let's dance.

Minute 21 –

Diallo hesitated. Pressure from behind—Mount. The pass, too soft. Lazy.

Tch.

Nathan read it before it even left Diallo's foot.

He turned, sprinted back like a missile.

Salah was already ghosting in—eyes lighting up.

Mount played it early.

Too early.

Nathan slid in. Grass tore up beneath him.

SCRAPE—CLACK!

Clean. Sharp.

He hooked the ball away, left Salah sprawling mid-step.

"Oi!" Trent shouted.

Too late.

Nathan popped to his feet, slipped it to Valverde.

Fede turned in stride. "Phil!"

Foden peeled off his marker, received, and—WHIP!

The cross bent beautifully.

Zirkzee leapt—head down—

Thump!

Alisson, fingertips.

Barely.

"WHAT A SAVE! Alisson denies United the lead by a breath!"

Nathan stood at midfield, hands on hips. Breathing hard. Sweat down his brow.

But his grin was back.

This wasn't just a match.

This is beautiful.

Minute 33 –

Corner. Trent stood over the ball, arms raised.

The crowd roared in anticipation. "VAAAN DIIJK! VAAAN DIIJK!"

He rose like a tower.

CRACK—!

The header flew.

Onana stretched—

CLANG!

Off the crossbar!

The ball ricocheted like a shot across the box. Chaos. Red and white shirts collided.

Valverde cleared it with a crunching volley. The danger passed—for now.

"This match is madness! End to end, relentless! Blood and thunder from both sides!"

Minute 40 –

Nathan hugged the touchline. His chest thumped. His legs ached—but he didn't care.

He raised a hand. "Here!"

Foden obeyed, swinging it wide.

Nathan's first touch killed it dead. The second ignited it.

He ran straight at Trent.

The Liverpool right-back squared up.

Nathan feinted left.

Then right.

Then slip! —the ball passed through Trent's legs.

"Oi!" Trent turned—but Nathan was already past.

The stadium roared again—but this time, in fear.

Inside the box now.

A flick. Backheel to Bruno.

"Fred!" Bruno snapped it sideways.

Valverde didn't wait.

BOOM—!!

From 25 yards. Low.

It caught a deflection.

Off Van Dijk's shin.

Thunk—ZIP!

Top corner.

Alisson wrong-footed.

"GOOOOOAL!!! UNITED TAKE THE LEAD! VALVERDE AGAIN!"

Pandemonium in the away end.

Nathan laughed—head back, sweat glistening in the Anfield lights.

He looked into the stands. Cameras caught him mouthing it:

"We didn't come for a draw."

Minute 44 –

Salah again. A blur down the right.

This time, he cut inside.

Nathan tracked him—too close, maybe.

Salah saw it.

A quick one-two with Mount—then a split-second slip pass between the lines.

Núñez was through.

Onana charged.

Nathan shouted, "ONA-!"

Too late.

Núñez rounded him—clean touch.

Tap.

GOAL.

"Equalizer! Liverpool answers right back before the break! Núñez with a brace!"

Anfield roared again. The scoreboard flashed: 2-2.

Nathan stood near the edge of the box, hands on his hips, chest rising and falling with slow, deep breaths.

He glanced at the scoreboard. Then at the crowd. Then back at his own boots.

Halftime – Tunnel

The locker room could wait. For now, it was just them in the tunnel—steam rising from sweat, boots clacking on concrete.

Nathan leaned against the wall, sipping water.

Salah passed him, towel around his neck, nodding once.

"You're different now," he said. Not a compliment. Not an insult.

Nathan didn't reply. Just stared forward.

Then he muttered—almost to himself.

"Still not enough."

A voice behind him—Bruno.

"You good?"

Nathan wiped his mouth. Nodded.

"Yeah. Just thinking."

Bruno chuckled. "Don't think too much, mate. We need you dancing again."

Nathan smiled, but it didn't quite reach his eyes.

He looked toward the pitch—backlit by the doorway, the green glow beyond.

Halftime. 2-2.

The second half was waiting.

And so was everything else.