The Football Legends System-Chapter 72: On The Way To Madrid
Chapter 72: On The Way To Madrid
Chapter 72 – On The Way To Madrid
The scent of sweat, victory, and fresh tape lingered in the dressing room like an afterglow.
Laughter bubbled from one corner, where Dalot and Zirkzee argued playfully over who misplaced a pass in the final minute. Emre sat on the bench, legs swinging, his face caught in that rare, pure smile only a debut goal could conjure. His shirt stuck to his chest, grass-stained and damp, the collar slightly stretched from a tug during the celebration.
Across the room, Amorim stood with arms folded, a faint smile playing on his lips.
He looked at Emre, then at Nathan, then back again.
"This," he said, stepping forward and resting a hand on each of their shoulders, "is the energy we need."
Nathan grinned. He turned to Emre, ruffled his hair.
"First match? First goal and assist?" he scoffed dramatically. "What the hell, kid? Now I’m the one who should watch out."
Emre chuckled, shaking his head. "I only followed your run."
"Liar. That pass had arrogance."
The room laughed.
It had been a while since he’d felt this kind of rhythm—not just the speed, not just the dribbles—but that flow. The unspoken timing. A teammate who could read him in motion, and return it without hesitation.
He knew what it was.
Connection.
The media frenzy began before they even left Old Trafford.
"A new duo? United’s future is forming now."
"Demir and Perry: Young, and playing like they’ve known each other for years."
"United back on track—just in time for the title run-in?"
The praise was loud, but the challenge whispered beneath it.
There was still a long road ahead.
Fifth in the table. Just three points behind Villa... but fifteen behind City. The league leaders were relentless.
And then there was the race for the Golden Boot.
Nathan stared at the updated table the next morning.
Position-Team-Points
1-Manchester City/ 72
2-Liverpool/ 70
3-Arsenal/ 68
4-Aston Villa/ 60
5-Manchester United/ 57
6-Tottenham/ 55
Top Scorers:
Haaland – 21
Salah – 17
Isak – 16
Nathan Perry – 15
Saka – 14
Núñez – 13
"Tch... six goals behind." He sipped his coffee, then tapped the screen with his thumb. "But not impossible."
–––––
Real Madrid vs Manchester United – UEFA Champions League Quarterfinal
–––––
The lights were dim in the video room, but the tension was unmistakable—
A single pause. Then—Click.
The footage rolled.
Rodrygo danced through a defence, striking low past the keeper.
Boom!
The next clip: Vinícius Jr., outside the boot, bending a curling effort from the edge of the box. A goal painted with audacity.
Crack!
The projector light flickered against the focused faces of Manchester United’s squad. No one dared speak.
Amorim stood at the front—his arms crossed.
"You’ve been putting in strong performances," he said slowly. "But the Madrid game... isn’t like a league match."
The silence was absolute.
"This is a different kind of battle."
The final clip froze on Jude Bellingham’s celebration, arms spread under the floodlights of the Bernabéu. The crown prince of Madrid.
Nathan exhaled through his nose. Tch...
Next to him, Valverde leaned in slightly and whispered, his voice touched with awe, "Do you realize we’re going back to the Bernabéu?"
He didn’t need to explain. Nathan knew.
Across Europe, the media fed the flame.
Marca: "United step into the lion’s den—can Perry silence the Bernabéu?"
L’Équipe: "Demir vs Bellingham: The new crown at stake?"
Clips of United’s past matches flooded YouTube, social media, TV. Every touch Nathan made was dissected. Every flick Emre Demir pulled was slowed down to the frame.
Nathan watched one of the pundits say, "They’ve got flair, yes. But against Madrid? That’s when boys become men."
He turned off the screen.
At Carrington, preparations shifted into overdrive.
Two training sessions a day. Tactical walkthroughs. Recovery ice baths. Nutrition dialed to the gram.
Inside the gym, Emre juggled a ball while squatting on a balance board. Wan-Bissaka passed by, smirking.
"Oi, Turkish Messi, don’t pull a hammy showing off."
Emre laughed. "Tell that to your ankles in the next rondo."
Nathan entered just as Zirkzee clapped Emre on the back. "Hey, wonderkid, you nervous yet?"
Nathan spoke before Emre could answer. "He’ll be fine. He doesn’t know fear yet."
Emre looked over and grinned. "But you do?"
Nathan smirked, walking past him to the weights. "I’ve just learned to make it my fuel."
Press day. Cameras flashing. Microphones everywhere.
Nathan’s turn.
Flashes. Buzz.
He sat down, clean-shaven in his black club jacket. There was a small cut near his lip from a training collision—but somehow, it only made him look more ready.
"Nathan," one journalist asked, "do you think this is the biggest match of your career so far?"
He looked down for a second.
Then raised his gaze.
"I think I’ve had a few big moments. But yeah... this one’s special."
Another fired: "You’re facing Madrid. Their stadium. Their fans. Are you intimidated?"
Nathan gave a slight smile.
"I know they’re a great team. I’ve watched them since I was a kid. But I’ve dreamed of nights like this since I was a kid too."
A pause.
He added quietly, "And I’m not the only one in that dressing room who’s ready to make those dreams real.
–––––
Thud! Clap! Whirr!
Boots snapped against turf. Bibs were thrown over shoulders.
But no one was smiling now.
Carrington’s training ground had never felt so heavy.
Nathan stood at the edge of the final third, watching as Emre danced between two dummies and fired a shot that beat the keeper at the near post. Thump!
The net rippled.
Across the pitch, Valverde and Bruno worked tight sequences in midfield, barely exchanging words, breathing in sync. Further down, Shaw barked instructions.
The intensity was suffocating.
The assistant coach blew his whistle and gathered the squad around the digital board.
"We’re preparing for this match like it’s a final," he said. "Because it is."
He tapped twice on the board.
Madrid’s 4-3-1-2 shape appeared.. Overloads. Isolated fullbacks. Rodrygo sprinting in behind. Vinícius waiting for the mistake.
"If we don’t control the tempo," the assistant warned, "they’ll bury us before we realize we’ve blinked."
Nathan stayed quiet, chewing the inside of his cheek. He’d seen this same footage last night on his phone, over and over until the room blurred.
Vinícius’ cutbacks. Modrić’s disguised passes.
Champions don’t wait for the perfect moment—they make it.
