The Football Legends System-Chapter 66: Nathan Passes But No One Receives

Chapter 66 - Nathan Passes But No One Receives

30th minute.

Nathan tracked back as Napoli recycled possession.

Lobotka shaped to turn—no time.

Nathan pounced.

Snap!

He intercepted clean, sliding in and rising with the ball in the same motion. A flick of the ankle, and suddenly the space ahead burst open.

"Go!" he barked, eyes already scanning the field.

Zirkzee peeled left. Rashford darted wide. Nathan drove straight down the center, dragging defenders with him.

He shifted the ball with the outside of his boot, then dropped it off to Bruno and kept sprinting.

The crowd roared behind him.

Voices rose across the stands in Italian.

"Chi è questo ragazzo?""Non era così nella prima partita!""È lui il dieci?!"

Nathan heard it even through the rush of blood in his ears.

Let them talk.

This was a different Nathan now.

34th minute.

Corner to Napoli.

The Maradona erupted again. Blue smoke rolled from the curva as Politano jogged over to take it.

Nathan stood near the edge of the box, next to Bruno, eyes locked on the swarm inside.

"Kvaratskhelia short, Osimhen back post," Bruno warned.

Nathan nodded.

The whistle blew.

Politano whipped it in—fast, low.

Whooosh—Thud!

Osimhen rose. Soaring.

The header—Crack!!

Just wide.

Gasps everywhere.

Nathan’s lungs emptied with the sigh. That could’ve been it.

Too close.

38th minute.

United passed around the back. Martinez to Dalot. Dalot to Bruno. Bruno turned—and found Nathan dropping in.

A quick one-two with Valverde.

Then—flick!

A backheel into space.

Gasps again.

The ball spun just behind Lobotka’s reach.

Zirkzee saw it.

He threaded the return ball first-time—chk!—into the channel. freēwēbηovel.c૦m

Nathan burst through. Right foot. One-touch.

He didn’t look.

He knew where Roque was.

A cutting pass, sharp and unexpected—just like Bellingham would play it.

Boom!

Roque struck it. Low.

SLAM!!

Meret launched to his right—full stretch.

Fingertips.

Tap!

The save of the match. Maybe of the round.

"AHHHHHHHH—!!" Roque yelled in frustration, hands on his head.

The ball rolled away to the sideline. A throw-in.

Nathan stayed down on one knee, staring at the spot the ball had left his foot.

How did he save that?

--

44th minute.

Napoli pressed high again.

Osimhen received a slick pass just outside the box—quick turn, low shot.

WHACK!

Onana exploded off his line, stretching every inch of his limbs.

SNAP!

Fingertips.

The ball flew wide.

The crowd roared.

Nathan exhaled, chest rising and falling. That save was a lifeline—one more near miss and the balance might tip.

45+1.

The clock ticked toward halftime.

Nathan received the ball near the sideline, squeezed tight by Napoli’s pressure.

No space.

His eyes scanned—the only opening between three defenders converging.

No way.

But he saw it.

A thread.

A chance.

With a flick of his boot, the ball sliced through that impossible gap.

Zing!

The pass curved inside the box.

Valverde, sprinting, reached out instinctively.

Thud!

He volleyed.

SHHHH!!!

The keeper stretched—barely—and tipped the ball over the bar.

The crowd erupted in gasps and groans.

"ARGH! SO CLOSE!" Valverde yelled, pounding his chest.

Then—

BLOW!

The referee’s whistle.

Half-time.

The commentator’s voice filled the stadium’s speakers.

"Nathan Perry—silencing all doubters tonight. Genius passes from a young man born for big games."

On the screen, replay after replay showed Nathan’s impossible angle.

Scoreline: 0–0.

Aggregate: 2–2.

The air was thick with tension.

In the tunnel, players shuffled off the pitch, faces slick with sweat.

The stadium lights cast long shadows as the teams retreated.

Nathan’s legs felt heavy.

Coach Amorim’s voice cut through the locker room.

"We need a goal,"

"We need focus!"

Nathan caught the look in Amorim’s eyes.

We’re not done.

The second half began.

But the spark had dimmed.

United’s passes hesitated.

Pressing slowed.

The crowd sensed it.

Napoli smelled blood.

52nd minute.

Napoli surged forward.

Insigne danced on the edge of the box, twisting.

He fired.

WHACK!

The shot flew just wide.

Nathan watched.

He controlled the ball, waiting, seeking.

Tap. Tap. Tap.

But teammates moved like ghosts—slow, hesitant, absent.

The energy bled away.

Am I the only one still trying? Where is the team?

His fingers curled around the ball as if it might give him answers.

On the sidelines, the traveling English fans had fallen silent.

Their cheers faded.

This isn’t the fight we wanted.

Nathan felt the weight of it all—the silence.

——

60th minute.

The ball clung to Nathan’s boot like it was tethered by string.

One glance.

A breath.

He threaded the needle—shhhhp!

The pass sliced behind Napoli’s high line.

"GO, ROQUE!" Nathan roared.

Roque sprinted, shoulders tilting, feet pounding the grass—he reached it in stride, broke free—

BWOOP!

The flag went up.

Offside.

Again.

Nathan slowed to a jog, hands on his hips, heart thudding.

He looked toward the assistant referee with a blank expression—no anger, just a quiet ache.

So close.

The screen above flashed the replay: Roque was half a boot-length ahead.

"Tch..."

Nathan wiped sweat from his brow as the Maradona crowd jeered, blue smoke curling around the stands like a storm cloud.

Above it all, the commentator’s voice cut sharp.

"Nathan Perry is painting with gold brushes... but no one is finishing the picture."

63rd minute.

Nathan dropped deeper, dragging his mark with him.

Dalot sent it in—flat.

Nathan trapped it, turned, and saw Valverde’s run cutting across the edge of the box.

There. Timing was tight, but the line held.

A grounded pass—precise. Zing! Straight into stride.

Valverde struck it without taking a touch—

Thunk!

Wide.

Goal kick.

Nathan clenched his jaw, hands briefly in his hair.

Not again.

The ball had been perfect.

From the sidelines, Amorim erupted.

"MOVE! MOVE!!" he screamed, veins in his neck bulging. "Where’s the hunger?! You want to go home?!"

Nathan glanced over. Amorim’s voice cracked like a whip—snapping players out of their trance.

But something was missing.

Not from Amorim.

From the team.

From them.

70th minute.

Time dripped away like cold sweat.

Napoli pushed higher, faster.

Their midfield buzzed like hornets—Zambo-Anguissa pressing, Zieliński weaving, Lobotka marshalling the tempo.

United stumbled, a half-step too slow, a half-pass too heavy.

The stands vibrated.

Nathan tracked back, chest burning.

He turned—boom!

A misplaced touch by Martinez.

Lobotka pounced.

Counterattack.

The air changed.

Suddenly, it was all blue.

Zambo-Anguissa sprayed it wide—Politano.

One touch.

Then a curling switch.

Nathan sprinted across to help, lungs burning—but he was too far.

Kvaratskhelia caught it on the run.

Cut in—whip!

Fwoooosh!

The cross bent cruelly behind United’s retreating line.

Osimhen rose—a monster among mortals.

Time slowed.

Nathan’s eyes locked on the moment, helpless.

CRACK!!

The header thundered past Onana before he could react.

GOOOOOOOAAAAAAAAAL!!!

The Maradona exploded.

Roars. Firecrackers. Smoke. Chants that shook the steel beams of the stadium.

Blue flares lit up.

Napoli 1 – 0 Manchester United (3–2 aggregate).

Onana fell to his knees, staring blankly as if he’d just been struck.

Valverde slammed both fists into the turf—BAM!

Nathan stood frozen, breath caught in his throat.

His eyes dropped to the grass. That final blade of green where Osimhen had risen. The pass. The moment. The break.

That’s all it took.

A single breath too late.

"Is this it?""After everything?"