The Football Legends System

The group draw.

England. Argentina. Japan. Nigeria.

A murmur ran through the room. Some eyebrows raised. Others exchanged glances.

Tch…

Argentina. That name alone carried history. Messi might be gone. They were never just a team—they were a myth in motion.

Southgate's voice cut through the tension.

"I know what some of you are thinking. I'm thinking it too. But here's the truth: we're not going there to participate. We're going there to win."

Boom!.

It wasn't loud. The tone. The look in his eyes.

Six weeks.

Six weeks to prepare for the biggest tournament in the world.

Six weeks to prove he wasn't just a flash in training.

He clenched his fist beneath the table.

That afternoon, they hit the pitch.

Sunlight spilled over St. George's Park. A breeze rolled in across the grass. But the mood wasn't light.

The session started with pressing drills. One-touch passing. Position rotations.

"Faster!" the coach barked.

Clack! Tap! Thump!

The sound of boots meeting ball, the snap of decisions made in milliseconds—it was beautiful.

Nathan paired with Jude and Foden in a midfield triangle. Quick touches, switches, little shimmies to lose markers.

"Again!"

Sweat dripped. Shirts clung. But no one slowed.

Then came the tactical work—shapes, counters, transition drills. Nathan was placed in that same hybrid role: left-sided attacking midfielder, floating between lines.

Kieran Trippier played a ball into his feet—Thud!—and instantly Nathan felt pressure from two sides.

He pivoted.

Too slow.

No, not this time.

He rolled the ball back with his heel, spun out wide, and released a first-time pass across the pitch—Foden, free on the right.

Snap!

The assistant coach blew the whistle.

"Perfect!" he shouted.

Southgate, arms crossed, gave a slow nod.

Nathan caught it.

Just a flicker of approval. But it mattered.

After the session, the players sat on the sideline, chugging water and catching breath.

Raheem Sterling nudged Nathan with a grin. "You keep that up, they'll be building the team around you."

Nathan wiped sweat from his brow, chuckling. "Long way to go."

Sterling arched a brow. "You say that now. But you've already got Kane backing you. That doesn't happen for free."

Before Nathan could respond, Kane strolled over, dragging his boots through the grass.

"First match against Argentina," he said, looking out across the empty pitch. "You know what that means, right?"

Nathan nodded. "Everything."

Kane's gaze sharpened. "It's not just football. It's statement. You beat them in the opener, you don't just win a match."

Haaah…

Nathan exhaled slowly, letting the idea sink in.

This wasn't academy ball. This wasn't even the Premier League.

Later that night, the players gathered again—not in the lounge this time, but out on the balcony of the dorms, under a clear night sky.

The air was cooler now, fresh with the scent of cut grass and quiet resolve.

A few of the lads were talking tactics. Others just stared into the stars, their minds already leaping weeks ahead.

Nathan stood off to the side, phone in hand, scrolling through messages.

Lauren had sent another one.

Lauren: "You always talked about the world stage. Feels like it's getting closer, doesn't it?"

He didn't answer right away.

Instead, he looked out at the training pitch, now lit only by the moon. Faint lines still visible on the turf.

He could see it—fans chanting, the roar of 80,000 voices, the pressure, the promise.

He typed back:

Nathan: "Closer than ever."

Then he paused.

Added another line.

Nathan: "And I'm not just going to stand on that stage…"

"I'm going to own it."

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

The countdown had begun.

Seven days.

That was all.

Seven days until the world turned its gaze to the opening match of the 2026 World Cup. Until stadium lights blazed, national anthems echoed across oceans, and billions of eyes locked onto a single ball at center pitch.

Nathan stood in his room at St. George's Park, the same room that had housed decades of England hopefuls. But today, it felt like something more.

The door creaked open.

Lauren stepped in, carrying a water bottle in one hand and a grin in the other. She leaned against the doorframe, eyes drifting toward the kit on the bed.

"Well," she said, "ready to travel with the national team for the first time?"

Nathan turned.

"I'm ready," he said, voice steady, "to let the whole world know my name."

She laughed, walked up to him, and gave a quick hug that said more than words could. Then she stepped back, and together they walked out the door—bags in hand.

Later That Morning – England Team Airport Terminal

Flashes. Shouts.

The private terminal was buzzing. Reporters jockeyed for angles. Fans held signs and phones high, capturing every glimpse they could of their heroes.

Harry Kane walked through first, sunglasses on. He gave the crowd a small wave—nothing too showy. He didn't need to be loud.

Bukayo Saka followed, crouching down to snap selfies with a group of wide-eyed kids in England kits. "You lot better stay up late for the matches!" he laughed.

Jude Bellingham called out from the boarding ramp, his voice full of mischief:"It's an all-English flight—Nathan, come sit next to me before this old man Kane claims the emergency exit row!"

Nathan walked hand in hand with Lauren, soaking it in. Every step felt like a step closer to something massive—history whatever you wanted to call it.

The aircraft was stunning. Sleek leather seats. Team emblems stitched into headrests. Custom lighting. It was more than a flight.

Nathan took a window seat. Lauren slid in beside him. Saka flopped down on the aisle with a grin.

"If we win the cup," he said, serious but joking in the same breath, "I'm demanding a rap song in my name. Full-on music video."

"Deal," Nathan said, laughing.

The engines roared.

Boommmmm!!!!!…

The jet lifted off, slicing through the grey English sky and rising into blue.

The cabin hummed with idle conversation and laughter, but the undertone was sharper—purposeful.

Lauren leaned over, eyes curious. "Saka, this your first World Cup?"

Saka smiled. "Second. But this time… this time feels different. First one, I was just happy to be there. This one?" He glanced toward Kane, who was scrolling through match footage. "We're not passengers anymore. We're drivers."

Nathan leaned back, resting his head against the seat, but his mind was sprinting. He opened his phone, checking the system notifications that only he could see.

[System Update – World Cup Mode: United States Activated]

Tch… so it begins.

He turned to Jude, who was flipping through player stats on his tablet.

"Which team's keeping you up at night?" Nathan asked.

Jude didn't look up. "Argentina."

Nathan nodded slowly.

"Not just Messi anymore," Jude continued. "They've got Nico Paz pulling strings, Garnacho stretching defenses, and Valentin Carboni… kid's got sauce. They're fast. Don't care about your name or your club. They just go."

"Haaah…" Nathan exhaled. "Can't wait."

Jude grinned. "You say that now. Wait till you've got three of them hunting you down in the 70th minute."

Twelve Hours Later – Arrival in New York

The door hissed open.

Warm, thick air rushed into the cabin. Summer on the East Coast, alive. The tarmac was quiet, but the welcome was not. Dozens of local organizers stood nearby waving mini England and USA flags.

As Nathan stepped out, a wave of something hit him.

The skyline shimmered in the distance, skyscrapers rising. Helicopters buzzed overhead. Camera drones zipped through the air. Somewhere, stadiums were being polished. Somewhere, fans were chanting already.

And in seven days, it would all begin.

That Night – Team Hotel

The players gathered in the rooftop lounge, overlooking the city. Glass walls. Dim lighting. The soft hum of music and the occasional click of ice in glasses.

No one was partying.

They were laughing, sure—but it was different.

Connor Gallagher was on the pool table. Declan Rice was watching an NBA game on mute.

Nathan stood by the balcony, alone for a moment, watching the city breathe.

Lauren walked up beside him, silent. For a while, they didn't speak. They just stood there, the wind tugging gently at their clothes.

"You nervous?" she asked softly.

"No," he said. Then, after a pause: "Just… ready."

She smiled. "You're going to do great."

He looked down at the street, at the blur of cars and lives and noise. And then, slowly, he looked up—toward the stadium lights glowing faintly in the far distance.

Wembley was gone.

This was new ground now.

The Next Morning – Training Grounds, New Jersey

The sun hadn't even climbed all the way up yet, and already the pitch was alive.

Whistles.Boots slamming into turf.Coaches barking orders.Clack! Tap! THUD!

Training had begun.

Nathan felt it the second the first drill started.

High pressing.

They were running set pieces against a mock Argentina formation. The opponent might've been cones and interns, but the pressure was real.

"Push up! Stay compact!""Track your runners!""Ball's moving—YOU move!"

Haaah…!

Nathan exploded forward to press the pivot, boot smacking the grass hard. He turned his hips, adjusted his angle, and snapped back to cover.

Boom! A pass zipped toward Jude—cut off instantly by Rice.

Again. Reset.

Nathan's lungs burned, but he didn't slow. Every rep, every movement, he imagined blue and white stripes. He imagined Garnacho breaking the line, Paz slipping into space behind.