The Football Legends System

The balcony lights buzzed softly, blending into the hum of a quiet city below. It wasn't loud tonight. Manchester seemed to exhale with the season's end—its usual tension melted away by the mild breeze rolling in from the west.

Nathan leaned against the railing, his forearms resting on cool metal, eyes scanning the skyline. The stars were faint, barely visible behind the veil of urban glow, but the night didn't feel dark. It felt… open. Full of things he couldn't name yet.

Behind him, the sliding door opened with a shhhk.

Lauren stepped out, barefoot, a cup of tea in her hand. She joined him in silence, eyes mirroring his, searching the horizon like it held all the answers.

And maybe tonight… it did.

"Have you thought about returning to your national team?" she asked, her voice soft but deliberate. "After what you did… the whole world's talking about you again."

Nathan didn't respond at first. His jaw tightened, his eyes narrowing slightly.

He looked up at the sky, his voice calm. "Maybe… But right now, I've got one mission."

She turned toward him.

"To become the best," he said, gaze steady. "Not just in headlines. Not for one season. I mean the best. A name that lives long after the boots are hung up."

He turned his head, meeting her eyes.

"And with you… I think that's going to be easier."

Lauren's smile bloomed slowly, warmly. She slipped her hand into his without a word.

DING.

A chime echoed in his mind. Not loud. Not startling. Just a quiet pulse—like fate knocking politely at the door.

[New Mission Unlocked: Become the Captain of Manchester United]

[Condition: Prove yourself in the next season as a leader and key player]

Nathan blinked once.

Then, a smile tugged at his lips.

Captain, huh?

He looked at Lauren again, her head leaning gently against his shoulder now.

"Next season…" he whispered, more to himself than anyone. "Will be a season for the history books."

The next morning was strange in the best way.

For the first time in months, Nathan woke up without an alarm.

No weight session.

No video analysis.

No 7 a.m. breakfast call.

Just… silence.

He blinked, turned over, and stared at the ceiling. The room was warm. Sunlight poured in through the curtains, turning the wooden floor gold.

He reached for his phone.

No club notifications. No tactical updates. No fitness alerts.

Just one message at the top.

Lauren: I'm free if you want to go out today.

Nathan chuckled.

Finally… a real holiday.

They spent the afternoon walking around the city. Not the busy parts. Not the ones fans knew.

They strolled through Northern Quarter's quiet corners, grabbing coffee from a street cart. Lauren teased him for choosing black—"You're not in pre-season boot camp anymore"—and he just smirked.

They didn't talk much about football.

That's what he loved about her.

He wasn't Nathan Perry the rising star. Not Nathan the miracle-maker at Anfield. Not "the future of England" or "the one who could've gone to PSG."

He was just Nathan. Just a guy on a stroll with someone who saw through the noise.

And when the sun set, and they stood on that little hill above the city, watching the skyline fade into stars, he felt something rare.

Peace.

The next day, the noise returned—but in a different way.

Nathan sat in a sleek studio in London, facing cameras, lights, and a cheerful Sky Sports interviewer whose smile was permanently TV-ready.

Across from him, the interviewer leaned forward.

"Nathan, everyone says you were Manchester's true star this season," she said, voice smooth. "Especially at the end. What's the secret?"

He didn't blink. Just smiled faintly.

"The secret?" he echoed. "Never give up. Even when you feel like there's no hope… just keep going. Keep running. Even when it hurts."

The interviewer nodded, impressed.

"You say it like it's easy."

Nathan chuckled. "It's never easy. But I've learned the hard way that pressure doesn't break you. It reveals you."

She leaned in again, more curious now.

"We've heard rumors—PSG, Barcelona, even Real Madrid showing interest. You're one of the hottest names in Europe right now. What's your take on that?"

Nathan leaned back, resting his forearm on the chair's edge. His smile was relaxed now.

"I'm happy here," he said simply. "But in football… anything's possible."

Click.

The cameras flashed. The image of his smile would be viral by evening.

But behind that cool exterior, Nathan's mind was clear.

He knew what he wanted.

What he needed.

To be more than a name.

Later that evening, after the interviews, the meetings, the polite handshakes and PR nods, he returned home.

He dropped his bag by the door and sighed.

Not from exhaustion—but release.

He walked into the living room, pulled back the curtains, and stared out across the evening sky.

A gentle wind drifted in.

And for a brief moment, he could almost feel the pulse of the crowd again. The weight of the final minutes.

His phone buzzed on the table.

Bruno: Dinner soon, captain?

Nathan chuckled softly.

Not yet.

He stepped out onto the balcony again, alone this time.

The lights below twinkled like the pitch under floodlights.

He closed his eyes.

There were no boots on his feet. No fans in the stands. No whistle blowing.

Just the quiet promise of something greater.

Next season…

——

The restaurant's lighting was warm and golden, casting a soft glow over polished wood and deep crimson walls. Glasses clinked. Laughter echoed across the velvet booths. Plates of seared sea bass and wagyu steak were half-eaten.

"Bro, seriously—I thought you were gonna collapse!" Valverde said, leaning over his plate with a grin. "When you made that sprint in the 93rd minute, I almost pulled a hamstring just watching!"

Nathan rolled his eyes, chuckling. "What, you mean after I covered for you again on the left side?"

"Hah! You love it. Admit it!"

Bruno raised his wine glass, already halfway through his third. "Swear to God," he said, slurring ever so slightly, "if you don't make the Team of the Season… I'm boycotting the FA. Done. I'm out. No more interviews. Just vibes."

"Please," Onana said, wiping his mouth with a napkin. "You say that every season."

"Yeah, but this time I mean it."

They all laughed again. Loud, careless, full-bellied laughter—the kind you only get when pressure finally lifts off your back. The Champions League spot was secured. The season was over. They were allowed, for once, to just be… normal.

For a moment, Nathan leaned back in his chair, watching them. Valverde's animated gestures. Bruno's unfiltered honesty. Onana's calm but mischievous smile. It was strange. He didn't grow up with them. Didn't come from the same country, culture, or youth academy. But right now, this felt like family.

And yet… something tugged at him. Quietly.

Later that night, Nathan left the restaurant before the others. The city had settled into its late-hour hush—car tires swishing on rain-slicked roads, distant horns, the occasional burst of laughter from a nearby bar.

He walked aimlessly through central London. Past closed boutiques and late-night coffee shops. Past neon reflections dancing on puddles.

The world around him moved in slow motion.

And inside? A stillness he couldn't explain.

Tch…

He shoved his hands deeper into his coat pockets, exhaling a heavy breath that turned white in the cold air.

Everything should've felt perfect.

But something was missing.

The next morning, he found himself back on the balcony of Lauren's apartment. The sky was a soft grey, clouds hovering without threat, the air crisp but gentle. The city moved far below, unaware of the quiet conversation about to change everything.

Lauren sat beside him, legs curled up, a blanket draped around her shoulders. A steaming cup rested in her hands.

"You okay?" she asked, tilting her head toward him.

He nodded, distracted. "Yeah. Just… thinking."

She gave him a moment, then said, "What do you think about us buying a place together?"

Nathan turned to look at her. Her eyes were calm but searching.

"You can't keep coming and going like this forever," she said softly. "We're always in-between."

He paused.

It wasn't that he hadn't thought about it. He had. Many times. But his life had always been so temporary—club contracts, international breaks, rented apartments, hotel rooms after away games.

Settling down?

That felt like something for after the story ended. Not in the middle of it.

But now?

"I think I'm ready," he said slowly.

Lauren blinked, surprised at how easily the words came.

"But I don't want an apartment," he added. "I want a house. Big and spacious. Somewhere quiet."

She smiled. "A villa?"

He nodded. "Yeah. On the edge of London. A new life… away from the noise."

They spent the next week looking.

Agent contacts, high-end real estate firms, secret viewings—Nathan Perry's name attracted attention, even when he tried to keep it low-key. Most places were stunning but empty. Glass palaces with no soul. Architectural marvels with no warmth.

Then they saw it.