The heavy, echoing thud of football boots against the concrete tunnel floor sounded like the march of an exhausted, battered army.
The Manchester City players filed into the home dressing room, their sky-blue kits darkened with sweat and plastered with patches of wet, dark green mud from the grueling first forty-five minutes.
The sheer physical intensity of the Premier League, combined with the suffocating, relentless tactical demands of Pep Guardiola’s new system, had taken a massive toll.
Players collapsed onto the plush, circular leather seating, chests heaving, lungs burning as they desperately tried to draw the oxygen-depleted air into their bodies.
Natan slumped heavily into his designated locker stall, throwing his head back against the cool wooden paneling.
He closed his eyes, his chest rising and falling in rapid, jagged breaths.
His calves throbbed with a deep, dull ache from the relentless kicking he had endured from the Sunderland defenders, and the skin on his right shoulder was raw and stinging from Lee Cattermole’s brutal early tackle.
He reached down, unstrapping his shin guards to let his bruised legs breathe for a fleeting moment.
Suddenly, the heavy double doors of the locker room swung open with a violent, resounding crash.
Pep Guardiola stormed into the room.
He didn’t look like a manager whose team was currently leading 1-0.
He looked like a man possessed, his tailored dark suit radiating an aura of absolute, terrifying intensity.
The low murmur of exhausted chatter among the players instantly evaporated, replaced by a suffocating, pin-drop silence.
Pep marched to the center of the circular room, his dark eyes sweeping over the exhausted faces of his squad.
“Sit down, nobody talk,” Pep ordered, his voice dangerously low, slicing through the heavy, humid air of the locker room like a razor blade.
The few players who were still standing immediately sank onto the benches.
No one dared to make a sound.
The only noise in the massive room was the collective, heavy breathing of eleven world-class athletes.
Pep stood there for a long, agonizing moment, letting the silence stretch until it became physically uncomfortable.
He unbuttoned his suit jacket, placing his hands firmly on his hips.
“Drink water and relax,” Pep commanded, his tone shifting marginally, though the underlying tension remained thick enough to cut with a knife.
Natan opened his eyes, looking to his left.
Sitting on the small wooden shelf inside his locker stall was a bright blue bottle of Gatorade.
His body was practically screaming for it.
He could almost taste the sweet, artificial fruit punch flavor, desperately craving the instant spike of sugar and electrolytes to replenish his drained muscles.
He wanted to ask if he could drink it.
He opened his mouth, preparing to raise his hand like a timid schoolboy to ask the manager for permission to consume the sports drink.
He quickly abandoned the thought, reaching down instead to grab a generic, clear plastic bottle of plain water, twisting the cap off and taking a long, silent gulp.
Pep began to pace.
He walked in a tight circle in the center of the room, running a hand over his bald head, his jaw visibly clenching and unclenching.
And then, the dam broke.
“What is this tempo?” Pep erupted, his voice echoing violently off the locker room walls, his thick Catalan accent thickening with his rage.
“What are we doing out there?
We are playing like old men!
We are playing like a team that is terrified of the football!
I asked you for intensity!
I asked you for speed!
I want the ball moving—boom, boom, boom!
One touch, two touch, move!
You are holding the ball for three, four, five seconds!
You are letting Sunderland completely organize their defensive lines!
You are giving them time to breathe!
We do not give them time to breathe!”
He stopped pacing, pointing an aggressive, accusing finger toward the midfield contingent of the room.
Kevin De Bruyne and Fernandinho stared straight ahead, absorbing the absolute onslaught.
“We are passing in a U-shape!” Pep screamed, his face flushing red.
“Left-back to center-back, center-back to right-back, right-back back to center-back! If the middle is closed, if they have ten men behind the ball, you do not just pass it sideways! You look up! If the short pass through the center is not an option, you look out wide!”
Pep spun around, his hand sweeping dramatically toward Natan’s side of the locker room.
“If it wasn’t an option to play through the middle, look at the right side!” Pep bellowed, entirely focusing his tactical rage on the failure of the team to utilize their young winger.
“Look at him!
Natan keeps making those runs!
He is busting his lungs!
One time, two times, three times in that first half, he makes the explosive run in behind Patrick van Aanholt!
He destroys the defensive line!
And what do you do?
Not one of you plays it over the top!
Not a single one of you has the bravery to reward the run!
Why is he running if you do not pass the ball?
If he makes the darting run, you play the long ball!
You force Sunderland to turn their backs and run toward their own goal!
That is how we stretch the pitch!
That is how we create the spaces in the half-channels for Kevin and David to operate!
If you ignore the run, the system dies!”
Natan sat perfectly still, holding his plastic water bottle in both hands.
He blinked, genuinely taken aback.
He had spent the entire week being mentally tortured by this man.
He had been screamed at aggressively critiqued for five straight days.
He had fully expected Pep to walk into this locker room and tear him to shreds for the missed chip shot.
But Pep wasn’t mad at him.
Pep was absolutely furious at everyone except him.
Pep was actually defending his off-the-ball movement.
Natan slowly turned his head to his right, leaning slightly toward the veteran David Silva, who was busy re-tying his boots.
Natan leaned in, whispering softly in Spanish so the manager wouldn’t hear him.
“I’m just happy he’s not mad at me.”
Despite the massive size of the locker room and the soft volume of the whisper, the manager’s head snapped toward the right side of the room with terrifying, mechanical precision.
Pep stopped his pacing entirely.
He slowly walked over, stopping just two feet in front of Natan’s locker stall.
Oh no.
He looked down at the nineteen-year-old, the righteous fury suddenly vanishing, replaced by a cold, calculating, intensely mocking expression.
“And you,” Pep said, his voice dropping to a dangerously quiet, theatrical whisper.
Natan froze, his heart immediately sinking into his stomach.
He had spoken too soon.
“What are you doing?” Pep asked, his tone dripping with absolute sarcasm.
He stepped back slightly, raising his right leg and executing a delicate, exaggerated, slow-motion scooping motion with his foot.
“Doing this. Doing this.”
He was perfectly mocking the arrogant, failed chip attempt that had sailed over the crossbar and into the stands.
A few of the players in the room, Natan included, had to bite the insides of their cheeks to keep from bursting into laughter at the sight of their highly respected, immaculately dressed manager mimicking a chip in the middle of a serious halftime team talk.
“Don’t even smile,” Pep snapped instantly, his voice cracking like a whip, completely erasing any trace of humor from the room.
Natan’s smile vanished instantly.
He snapped his head up, meeting the manager’s intense, burning gaze, his posture stiffening in absolute respect.
“You don’t do that,” Pep lectured, his voice firm, echoing with decades of elite footballing wisdom.
“You don’t do that when you are 0-0. When the game is locked, when the team is suffering and fighting for every single inch of grass, you do not disrespect the opportunity. You need to take those chances. You need to be ruthless. You need to kill the game.”
Pep took a deep breath, his expression softening just a fraction, transitioning from an angry manager to a philosophical mentor.
He looked around the room, making sure every single player was listening, before bringing his eyes back to Natan.
“You know why Messi is the best player I’ve seen in my life?” Pep asked, the mention of the legendary Argentine instantly commanding the absolute, unwavering attention of everyone in the room.
“Because he is a competitor. Because he is an animal. Messi passes the ball and goes in like a machine. He doesn’t wait for the applause. He smells the goals. He smells the blood in the water, and he takes the most efficient way put the ball in the back of the net. Every single time.”
Pep leaned in slightly, his dark eyes locking onto Natan’s, burning the lesson deep into the teenager’s arrogant, brilliant brain.
“You have to score those goals, Natan,” Pep concluded, his voice barely above a whisper, yet carrying the weight of an absolute command.
Pep held the eye contact for three agonizingly long seconds, before finally pulling back and clapping his hands loudly together, the sharp sound signaling the end of the tactical breakdown.
“Five minutes! Get warm, get focused! We go back out there and we move the ball! Boom, boom, boom! Let’s go!”
The second half began under the blinding glare of the Etihad floodlights, the pitch still slick from the earlier rain.
Sunderland, now trailing 1-0 and desperately needing an equalizer, emerged from the tunnel with a renewed, gritty determination.
David Moyes had clearly instructed his men to press higher up the pitch, abandoning their deep defensive block in an attempt to disrupt Manchester City’s rhythmic passing networks.
As the referee blew the whistle for the restart, Natan took his position on the right flank, his mind racing.
Pep’s words echoed relentlessly in his head.
Be a machine.
Smell the goals.
Move the ball.
In the forty-eighth minute, City was struggling to build out from the back.
Sunderland had committed four men to a suffocating high press, aggressively man-marking Fernandinho and De Bruyne to cut off the central passing lanes.
John Stones stood with the ball at his feet deep in his own half, looking up frantically for a safe option, the towering frame of Fabio Borini bearing down on him rapidly.
Natan saw the danger.
Adhering strictly to Guardiola’s demand for the wingers to initiate the build-up, Natan abandoned his high, isolated position entirely.
He moved thirty yards back toward his own goal, coming deep into the right half-space to offer himself as an outlet.
Patrick van Aanholt, terrified of giving the Spaniard any room to turn, followed him aggressively, tracking Natan all the way into the City half.
Stones saw the movement and immediately zipped a firm, grounded pass to Natan’s feet.
As the ball traveled across the wet grass, Natan felt the heavy, suffocating presence of Van Aanholt right on his back.
In the past, Natan would have tried to hold the ball up, engaging in a physical wrestling match with the defender, or attempted a risky, blind turn into traffic.
But not today.
Before the ball even reached his boot, Natan played a rapid, one-touch pass directly back to Stones, utilizing the wall-pass to reset the angle.
But Natan didn’t just stand there and admire his pass.
The second the ball left his foot, he violently dropped his right shoulder, feinting an explosive, darting run down the right touchline.
Van Aanholt, entirely conditioned by the first half to fear Natan’s devastating pace in behind, completely bought the fake.
The Dutch defender shifted his considerable weight backward, turning his hips to chase the anticipated sprint.
The moment Van Aanholt committed his balance, Natan slammed on the brakes.
He checked his run instantly, pivoting on a dime and stepping back into the exact same pocket of space he had just occupied.
Van Aanholt’s boots skidded on the wet turf.
The sudden change of direction caught him completely off guard, and the defender stumbled awkwardly, his arms flailing as he desperately tried to regain his footing.
Stones, recognizing the brilliant, microscopic piece of movement, immediately played the ball right back to Natan.
Natan now had the ball, facing forward, with Van Aanholt completely off balance and out of the equation.
The Sunderland high press had been momentarily broken.
Natan looked up.
By dropping deep and dragging the opposing left-back with him, Natan had vacated a massive, gaping hole down the right touchline.
Bacary Sagna, the veteran French right-back, had recognized the tactical rotation perfectly.
Sagna was currently sprinting like a freight train up the right flank, overlapping into the exact spot Natan had just left.
It was a textbook execution of positional rotation.
Natan didn’t hesitate.
He opened his hips and struck a beautiful, sweeping pass with the instep of his left foot.
He applied a heavy, slicing spin to the ball.
It was a wicked inswinger that curled majestically through the dense gap between the Sunderland center-back and the recovering midfield line, bending perfectly into the path of the overlapping Sagna.
The Etihad crowd roared in appreciation of the flowing, beautiful football.
“Go, Natan! Go!” Pep screamed from the touchline, wildly gesturing for his winger to join the attack.
Natan didn’t need to be told twice.
As soon as the ball left his foot, he put his head down and engaged his terrifying, Olympic-level acceleration.
He tore up the pitch, sprinting through the inner-right channel, absolutely desperate to get on the end of the impending cross.
Sagna reached the ball perfectly in stride just outside the Sunderland penalty area.
Without taking a touch to set himself, the French fullback whipped a powerful, first-time cross into the box.
It was a good idea, but the execution was slightly off.
The wet leather skidded off Sagna’s boot, causing the cross to be significantly overhit.
The ball sailed high over the crowded penalty area, clearing the heads of Sergio Aguero and the towering Sunderland center-backs entirely.
But the attack wasn’t dead.
Nolito managed to gather the overhit cross right on the edge of the byline, killing the ball instantly with a velvet touch.
Natan didn’t stop his run.
Instead of retreating back to his right-wing position, he recognized the chaotic, disorganized state of the Sunderland defense and made a highly intelligent, instinctive decision.
He stayed central.
He drifted straight into the heart of the penalty area, occupying the traditional space of a second striker.
Nolito looked up, assessing his options.
He was immediately confronted by Donald Love, the Sunderland right-back, who was rushing out to close him down.
Natan drifted toward the edge of the box, offering a short, safe passing angle.
Nolito zipped the ball into Natan’s feet.
Natan received it with his back to goal.
He didn’t turn.
He played a lightning-fast, one-touch pass right back to Nolito, executing a flawless one-two combination.
The rapid exchange of the ball completely froze Donald Love.
Nolito used the brief moment of hesitation to burst around the outside of the right-back, driving aggressively toward the corner of the six-yard box.
Sunderland was in absolute panic mode.
Lamine Koné, the massive central defender, was forced to abandon his central positioning and step out wide to help cover the immediate danger Nolito was posing.
By stepping out, Koné left a massive, glaring gap in the center of the penalty area.
Nolito, showing incredible vision, didn’t try to force a shot from a tight angle.
He slipped a clever, perfectly weighted reverse pass back through the narrow gap Koné had just vacated.
The ball rolled directly into the path of Natan, who was standing completely unmarked, ten yards out, dead center of the goal.
It was a golden opportunity.
The entire stadium rose to its feet, the collective intake of breath sucking the oxygen out of the air.
Natan pulled his left leg back, cocking his hip to unleash a devastating, first-time strike.
But Sunderland, to their absolute credit, refused to die easily.
Seeing the impending disaster, three different Sunderland defenders—Kaboul, Cattermole, and Rodwell—threw their bodies forward in an act of sheer, suicidal desperation.
They slid across the wet grass simultaneously, creating a literal human wall of red-and-white shirts directly in front of the ball, completely blocking the path to the net.
If Natan had shot, the ball would have undoubtedly smashed into the sprawling mass of bodies and deflected away harmlessly. This story is hosted at novelping.com.
As Natan’s foot swung forward, he didn’t shoot.
He executed a brilliant, microscopic fake shot, chopping the ball softly to his right with the inside of his boot.
The three Sunderland defenders went sliding helplessly past him on the wet turf, utterly removed from the play by the simplest of touches.
Natan had effectively created a completely new, vastly improved angle for himself.
He had an open look at goal.
He raised his foot to pull the trigger.
But out of the corner of his eye, he spotted David Silva.
El Mago had ghosted into the play late, arriving perfectly at the very edge of the penalty arc, completely unmarked and screaming for the ball.
The angle for a shot was infinitely better for the veteran midfielder.
Pass the ball and go in like a machine.
Pep’s words echoed loudly in his mind.
Natan didn’t succumb to his own selfish desire for glory.
He laid the ball off perfectly, a soft, inviting pass right into the path of the onrushing Silva.
David Silva didn’t even break stride.
He opened his body elegantly, his left foot meeting the ball with exquisite, delicate precision.
He didn’t smash it; he stroked it.
It was a breathtaking finesse shot, curling majestically through the humid air, aiming directly for the corner of the net.
It was a guaranteed goal.
But Vito Mannone, the Sunderland goalkeeper, produced an absolute miracle.
Launching himself off his line with incredible, feline agility, Mannone fully extended his body through the air.
At the absolute last possible millisecond, his outstretched fingertips brushed against the leather of the ball.
The slight deflection was just enough.
The ball altered its trajectory by a fraction of an inch, kissing the outside of the post before spinning violently out of bounds for a corner kick.
The Etihad Stadium erupted into a chaotic mixture of groans of disbelief and rapturous applause.
It was a phenomenal, sweeping team move, denied only by an impossible, world-class save.
Natan ran his hands through his sweat-drenched hair, exhaling a sharp breath of frustration.
But he didn’t have time to dwell on it.
The game was moving at a million miles an hour.
David Silva jogged slowly over to the left corner flag to take the resulting set-piece.
Natan, operating purely on instinct and a desire to keep the tempo aggressively high, sprinted out of the penalty area to offer himself for a short corner routine.
He wanted to get the ball quickly, catch the Sunderland defense disorganized, and whip a sudden cross into the box.
He ran toward De Bruyne, calling for the ball.
But as he moved, a heavy, muscular arm wrapped violently around his waist.
It was Lee Cattermole.
The Sunderland enforcer wasn’t even attempting to play the ball.
He physically grabbed a massive handful of Natan’s sky-blue jersey, hauling him backward with pure, brutal strength, completely arresting Natan’s momentum and preventing him from receiving the short pass.
Natan stumbled backward, nearly losing his footing entirely.
He threw his arms up in the air, spinning around to look directly at the referee, his face twisted in an expression of absolute, genuine outrage.
The referee, positioned just outside the penalty area, clearly saw the heavy grappling.
The official simply shook his head, pressing his whistle to his lips and waving his hands forward in a clear, unambiguous signal.
Play on.
Natan couldn’t believe it.
He let out a loud, frustrated groan realizing that complaining was entirely useless.
He instantly abandoned the short corner idea.
He darted away from Cattermole, utilizing a sudden, violent burst of acceleration to escape the grappling.
He sprinted in a wide arc, navigating his way entirely around the chaotic, physical scrum of bodies fighting in the center of the penalty area, arriving completely unmarked at the far right post just as the corner was taken.
The Belgian maestro whipped a terrifying, viciously in-swinging cross directly into the heart of the six-yard box.
It was a nightmare ball for any goalkeeper to deal with.
Vito Mannone, under immense physical pressure from the towering frame of John Stones, was forced to aggressively punch the ball away rather than attempting to catch it.
The heavy, leather ball was parried violently away from the goal, soaring through the air and heading directly toward the far right touchline.
It was spinning rapidly, threatening to bounce out of bounds for a throw-in.
Natan saw the trajectory and knew Sunderland were just going to load up the box, he decided to continue the attacking opportunity.
He engaged his afterburners.
He sprinted like an Olympic track star, his boots tearing up chunks of the wet grass.
He reached the touchline just a fraction of a second before the ball crossed the white chalk.
With a desperate, leaping stretch, he managed to hook his right foot around the ball, successfully keeping it in play and killing the violent momentum dead on the wet turf.
He gathered himself quickly, turning his body to face the Sunderland goal.
He was immediately confronted by a terrifying, impenetrable wall of red-and-white.
Patrick van Aanholt had rushed out to meet him, and he was quickly joined by the veteran John O’Shea.
It was a coordinated, aggressive double-team.
The two defenders stood shoulder-to-shoulder, their bodies perfectly angled to completely block off the inside lane.
They knew exactly who Natan was.
They had done their homework.
They knew that if they allowed him to chop the ball onto his left foot and drive inside, he was absolutely lethal.
They were forcing him down the outside line, forcing him onto his significantly weaker right foot, daring him to try and beat them with raw speed rather than technical trickery.
Natan stared at the two massive defenders.
He saw the trap.
He saw the tactical bait.
And he decided to take it anyway.
Natan didn’t attempt a single step-over.
He didn’t try to feint inside.
He relied entirely on pure, terrifying, unadulterated velocity.
With a heavy, audacious touch, he pushed the ball down the right touchline with the outside of his boot and simply exploded past them.
The acceleration was so sudden, so incredibly violent, that neither Van Aanholt nor O’Shea even had the time to extend a leg to attempt a tackle.
Natan was a complete blur.
He burned past the double-team, reaching the byline in three massive, sprinting strides.
He didn’t have the time or the space to cut the ball back onto his left foot.
He was running out of pitch.
Without breaking stride, Natan threw his entire body weight into the motion and violently smashed the ball across the face of the goal with his weaker right foot.
It wasn’t a delicate, floated cross.
It was a low, terrifyingly hard driven ball that skimmed viciously across the wet grass, buzzing through the six-yard box with the speed of a low-flying missile.
Sergio Aguero, possessing the predatory instincts of a great white shark, anticipated the cross perfectly.
The Argentine striker threw his body forward in a desperate, sliding lunge, his studs flashing through the air, trying to connect with the lightning-fast ball.
Whoosh.
The ball zipped past Aguero’s outstretched boot.
He had missed it by absolute, agonizing millimeters.
The cross was so violently hit that it completely bypassed everyone in the penalty area, rolling all the way out to the opposite touchline.
A collective, massive groan of profound disappointment echoed around the fifty thousand fans inside the Etihad.
Natan skidded to a halt, his chest heaving violently, sweat pouring down his face.
He rested his hands on his knees for a brief second, shaking his head in absolute frustration.
He was doing everything right.
He was dropping deep to facilitate the build-up.
He was tracking back defensively.
He was making unselfish runs to open space for his teammates.
He was taking on double teams and creating massive, goal-scoring opportunities.
And yet, the scoreline stubbornly remained 1-0.
As the match ground on past the hour mark, the physical and psychological toll of playing the ‘Pep way’ began to severely test Natan’s patience.
He was completely fine coming deep to play out from the back.
He actually enjoyed the rhythmic, hypnotic flow of the passing triangles with Silva and De Bruyne.
But what he was rapidly growing incredibly tired of was the relentless, suffocating demand to press without the ball.
In Pep’s system, the forwards were the first line of defense.
When City lost possession, Natan was expected to immediately sprint toward the nearest Sunderland player, closing down the passing angles with absolute, furious intensity.
It was exhausting work.
And what made it worse was the severe lack of immediate reward.
In the sixty-fifth minute, Sunderland tried to play a short pass out from their defensive third.
Natan read the pass perfectly.
He sprinted ten yards, completely blind-sided Jack Rodwell, and executed a brilliant, clean standing tackle, winning the ball back deep in enemy territory.
He quickly played a five-yard pass to De Bruyne, completely expecting the Belgian to immediately slip the ball right back to him for a clear shot on goal.
But De Bruyne, adhering strictly to the tactical blueprint of maintaining secure, structural possession, didn’t play the risky return pass.
The Belgian maestro recognized that Sunderland had quickly collapsed their defensive shape, closing the passing lanes.
Instead of forcing the ball into traffic, De Bruyne simply turned his back on goal and played a safe, looping pass all the way back to the center circle to Fernandinho, completely resetting the attack.
Natan threw his hands up in the air, letting out a loud, frustrated groan.
“My God, man!” Natan shouted in English, his accent thick with annoyance.
He had done the gruelling, dirty work of pressing, and his reward was watching the ball get passed backwards.
He was getting increasingly, visibly frustrated.
He tried to channel that anger into his off-the-ball movement.
If they wouldn’t give him the ball when he won it, he would just have to make runs so undeniably perfect that they couldn’t ignore him.
Two minutes later, David Silva picked up the ball in the midfield.
Natan saw the Spanish veteran look up.
Natan instantly darted diagonally across the backline, making a brilliant, explosive run right around Van Aanholt.
The space was completely open.
Silva saw the run.
But, calculating the percentages of the pass succeeding against the dropping Sunderland line, Silva opted for the safer option, playing a short, sideways ball to Nolito on the left wing.
Run one.
Ignored.
Natan gritted his teeth, jogging back into an onside position.
In the seventieth minute, City won a throw-in deep in their own half.
The ball was cycled back to John Stones.
The Sunderland block pushed high up the pitch, trying to trap City near their own corner flag.
Natan saw the high line.
He recognized the massive, empty acres of green grass behind them.
He pointed frantically toward the opposition goal and took off like a rocket, sprinting at top speed down the right touchline.
It was a perfect, defense-splitting run.
Stones looked up.
He saw the run.
He even cocked his leg back to launch the long ball.
But at the last second, fearing the interception by Cattermole who was closing him down rapidly, Stones aborted the long pass and chipped a short ball out to Sagna instead.
Natan pulled up sharply, his chest heaving, his hands resting heavily on his hips.
He stared at Stones in absolute disbelief.
Run two.
Ignored.
The frustration was now rapidly morphing into a dark, simmering volcanic rage.
He was busting his lungs for nothing.
He was executing the tactical system flawlessly, and his teammates were completely failing to reward his grueling, unselfish labor.
Five minutes later, De Bruyne picked up the ball in the right half-space.
Natan didn’t hesitate.
He made another blistering run, curving his path perfectly to stay onside, burning past Van Aanholt for the umpteenth time that evening.
De Bruyne saw him.
But De Bruyne, seeing Sergio Aguero making a simultaneous run into the center of the box, opted to try and thread the needle to the Argentine striker instead.
The pass was cut out brilliantly by Younès Kaboul.
Run three.
Ignored.
Natan didn’t even bother jogging back this time.
He just stood near the Sunderland penalty area, his head dropped, staring at the wet grass.
When City regained possession a minute later, cycling the ball back to Fernandinho in the center circle, Natan almost didn’t make the run.
He was tired.
His legs felt heavy.
He expected to be ignored again.
But as Fernandinho looked up, the Brazilian midfielder locked eyes with the young Spanish winger.
Fernandinho didn’t look at Aguero.
He didn’t look at Silva.
He looked directly at Natan, and he gave a microscopic, almost imperceptible nod of his head.
It was all the invitation Natan needed.
Natan made his fourth consecutive run.
He exploded off the mark, slicing diagonally across the pitch, completely tearing apart the exhausted Sunderland defensive line.
Fernandinho didn’t hesitate.
The Brazilian engine didn’t look for the safe, sideways option.
He leaned back and launched a spectacular, perfectly weighted, sweeping long ball over the top of the entire Sunderland team.
The ball arced beautifully through the dark Manchester sky.
Natan tracked the flight of the ball over his shoulder as he sprinted.
It was absolutely perfect.
It was dropping right into his path, right on the edge of the penalty area.
Vito Mannone, realizing his defensive line had been completely breached, made a desperate, split-second decision.
The Sunderland goalkeeper abandoned the safety of his six-yard box, rushing wildly off his line, sprinting toward the edge of the penalty area to try and clear the danger before Natan could reach it.
It was a terrifying game of chicken.
An elite winger running at top speed against a massive, desperate goalkeeper.
Natan reached it a fraction of a second before Mannone.
Natan didn’t attempt to shoot it.
Utilizing pure, audacious instinct, Natan simply flicked his right boot out, executing a delicate, mid-air touch.
He knocked the ball softly to the right, completely past the onrushing goalkeeper, while he simultaneously attempted to hurdle over Mannone’s sprawling body on the left.
It was a brilliant piece of improvisational skill.
But Mannone, realizing he had been completely beaten and that an open goal awaited the teenager, threw his trailing leg out in a desperate, cynical attempt to stop the play.
Mannone’s heavy, studded boot clipped Natan’s ankle violently.
At full sprinting speed, the contact was catastrophic.
Natan crashed heavily onto the wet, slick grass, his shoulder digging into the mud as he slid wildly toward the corner flag.
The Etihad Stadium erupted into an absolute frenzy of outrage.
The referee, sprinting behind the play, instantly brought his whistle to his lips.
He was reaching into his back pocket.
It was a clear, undeniable denial of a goal-scoring opportunity.
It was a guaranteed straight red card for the goalkeeper.
But Natan didn’t want the foul.
He didn’t want the red card.
He wanted the goal.
As he slid across the wet grass, Natan didn’t roll around clutching his ankle in agony.
The official was playing the advantage, waiting to see what the teenager would do.
The ball was rolling slowly, agonizingly slowly, across the wet grass, completely unattended inside the eighteen-yard box.
Vito Mannone was still lying face-down on the turf, hopelessly out of the play.
The goal was completely, massively open.
Natan scrambled to his feet, took two frantic, desperate steps toward the rolling ball.
He didn’t try to smash it.
He didn’t try to make it look pretty.
He simply opened his left foot and tapped the ball softly, rolling it gently across the white goal line and into the empty net.
2-0 City.
The whistle finally blew, but it wasn’t for a foul.
It was to signal the goal.
The Etihad Stadium absolutely exploded.
The noise was deafening, a physical shockwave of pure, unadulterated joy that rocked the concrete stands.
Down on the touchline, Pep Guardiola completely lost his mind.
The manager didn’t just pump his fists; he leaped into the air, screaming in manic delight.
He grabbed his assistant, Mikel Arteta, wrapping him in a suffocating bear hug, jumping up and down on the slick grass like a crazed fan.
Pep absolutely loved it.
He loved the run, he loved the pass, but most of all, he loved the fact that the kid hadn’t stayed down to complain to the referee.
The kid had scrambled on his hands and knees to finish the job.
It was exactly the kind of relentless, killer instinct Pep had demanded at halftime.
Natan, completely overwhelmed by a massive, euphoric surge of adrenaline and exhaustion, turned away from the goal.
He wanted to celebrate with the fans.
He sprinted wildly toward the corner flag, pointing at the roaring supporters behind the net, preparing to execute a majestic, iconic knee-slide across the wet grass.
He dropped to his knees, leaning backward, fully expecting to glide smoothly across the turf.
But his timing was completely off, and the Manchester grass was notoriously unforgiving.
Instead of sliding, his knees dug violently into a thick, muddy patch of turf.
His momentum completely stopped dead, launching his upper body forward.
Natan face-planted spectacularly into the mud, sliding on his stomach for a few feet before coming to an embarrassing, highly comical halt right in front of the advertising hoardings.
The entire stadium saw it.
Natan didn’t even try to get up.
The sheer exhaustion and the hilarity of the moment completely overtook him.
He just rolled over onto his back, lying spread-eagle in the wet mud, staring up at the dark Manchester sky, laughing hysterically at himself.
Within seconds, he was completely buried.
John Stones arrived first, sliding smoothly on his knees to crash into Natan’s side.
Sergio Aguero threw himself on top of the pile, screaming in delight.
De Bruyne and Fernandinho arrived next, dragging Natan up from the mud, ruffling his hair violently.
It was a moment of pure, unified team ecstasy.
When the game restarted, Sunderland was a broken team.
Trailing 2-0 with less than fifteen minutes remaining, their discipline completely evaporated.
Frustrated by the scoreline and exhausted from chasing City’s passing shadows, they resorted to pure, unadulterated hacking.
Natan became their primary target.
Every time he touched the ball, he was violently kicked.
Jack Rodwell chopped him down from behind near the halfway line.
Five minutes later, Donald Love aggressively shoved him into the advertising hoardings while contesting a loose ball out of bounds.
The referee handed out yellow cards like confetti, but the physical abuse continued.
In the eighty-second minute, Natan received the ball on the right flank.
Despite his bruised calves and exhausted lungs, he engaged his terrifying speed one final time.
He dropped his shoulder, effortlessly slipping past Van Aanholt, and drove aggressively into the right side of the penalty area.
Younès Kaboul, the massive French center-back, realized he was completely beaten for pace.
Operating purely on frustrated instinct, Kaboul didn’t attempt a tactical tackle.
He simply launched his massive frame forward, wrapping his thick arm completely around Natan’s neck and violently dragging the teenager backward to the wet turf.
It was a blatant, cynical, undeniable foul.
The referee blew his whistle immediately, pointing aggressively to the penalty spot.
Penalty to Manchester City.
The stadium roared in anticipation.
Natan sat up on the wet grass, rubbing his sore neck.
He looked at the penalty spot.
He looked at the ball resting nearby.
He had two goals.
A penalty kick would guarantee him a hat-trick.
He stood up, walking purposefully toward the ball.
He picked it up, cradling the wet leather in his hands.
But as he stood near the penalty spot, he looked up and saw Sergio Aguero walking toward him.
The legendary Argentine striker didn’t demand the ball.
He just looked at Natan, offering a small, encouraging smile, fully expecting the young winger to take his well-deserved shot at a hat-trick.
Without a word, Natan tossed the ball underhand directly into Aguero’s chest.
Aguero caught the ball, looking genuinely surprised.
He immediately tossed it right back to Natan.
“Tuyo,” Aguero said in Spanish, shaking his head.
(Yours.) “You earned it. Take the hat-trick, kid.”
Natan caught the ball, smiling tiredly.
He shook his head, throwing the ball forcefully back to the veteran striker.
“Take it, old man,” Natan replied in Spanish, “You need the practice more than I do.”
Aguero laughed, a bright, genuine sound of deep appreciation.
He nodded, clutching the ball tightly under his arm.
“Alright, kid. Thank you.”
Natan stepped back, standing completely outside the D, his hands resting heavily on his hips, watching as the master went to work.
Aguero placed the ball carefully on the white spot.
He took four measured steps backward.
The referee blew his whistle.
Aguero ran up, opening his hips perfectly, and slotted a beautiful, precise finish directly into the bottom left corner, sending Vito Mannone completely the wrong way.
3-0 City.
The stadium erupted once again.
The game was absolutely, undeniably over.
Manchester City had completely dismantled Sunderland.
As the players jogged back to the center circle for the restart, the electronic substitution board was raised by the fourth official on the touchline.
The bright red numbers glowed in the dark stadium: 15 IN, 7 OUT.
Natan looked at the board.
Number 7.
That was his number.
He froze, his chest heaving.
He was being subbed off?
For Jesus Navas?
Natan threw his hands up in the air, his face twisting in an expression of absolute, stunned disbelief.
He looked toward the touchline.
Pep Guardiola was standing there, clapping his hands rapidly, signaling for Natan to hurry off the pitch.
Natan didn’t understand.
He was having the game of his life.
He had scored two goals.
He had drawn the penalty.
He was absolutely terrorizing the Sunderland defense.
Why on earth would you take off your most dangerous player with ten minutes still left to play?
He wanted to stay on.
He wanted to score more.
He let out a loud, highly frustrated sigh, dropping his arms to his sides.
He began the slow, annoyed walk toward the touchline.
He didn’t jog.
He didn’t wave to the crowd.
He just stared at the wet grass, his jaw clenched in quiet, simmering anger.
As he crossed the white chalk, Jesus Navas offered him a high-five, which Natan returned weakly, entirely distracted by his own annoyance.
Natan intended to walk straight past the manager and head directly for the bench.
He didn’t want to talk.
He was frustrated.
But as he walked past the technical area, Pep Guardiola didn’t let him go.
The manager stepped forward, wrapping his arms securely around the sweaty, mud-covered teenager, pulling Natan into a massive, suffocating, fiercely affectionate hug.
Natan stood completely stiff, entirely confused by the sheer warmth of the embrace.
After a week of relentless psychological torture, the hug felt incredibly jarring.
Pep pulled back slightly, gripping Natan firmly by the shoulders, looking directly into his dark eyes.
The manager’s face was glowing with genuine, absolute pride.
“Brilliant,” Pep shouted over the roar of the crowd, his voice vibrating with intense passion.
“Absolutely brilliant, Natan. The pressing, the runs, the unselfishness for Sergio at the end. That is exactly what I need from you.”
Natan blinked, completely disarmed by the sudden, overwhelming praise.
He looked at the manager, his brow furrowing in deep confusion.
“Then why bring me off?” Natan asked, his voice raw with exhaustion and lingering frustration.
“I was playing well. I wasn’t tired. I wanted to finish the game.”
Pep’s smile softened into something deeply paternal.
He patted Natan firmly on the cheek.
“This is a long season, Natan,” Pep explained quickly, his dark eyes intense but profoundly caring.
“We have the Champions League midweek.
We have domestic cups.
We have a lot more games to go.
You are only nineteen years old.
You are a kid.
Your body is still growing.
I want you to have a long, beautiful career, not just a spectacular month.
I need you fresh for Wednesday.
Why do you think I gave you a longer break after the Euros?
Because I need to protect you from yourself.”
The words hit Natan like a physical weight.
He stood there on the touchline, the roaring noise of the Etihad Stadium washing over him, and suddenly, the entire chaotic, miserable week completely clicked into place.
The relentless nagging, the brutal tape room sessions, the physical demands, the substitution—none of it was done out of spite or arrogance.
He was trying to mold a nineteen-year-old kid with massive, raw potential into a complete, unstoppable footballing machine capable of surviving the brutal, decade-long grind of elite European football.
The boyish indignation finally, completely evaporated from Natan’s chest.
He saw the bigger picture.
He looked at the brilliant, obsessive, manic manager standing before him, and for the first time since arriving back in Manchester, he felt a profound, undeniable sense of trust.
Natan exhaled a long, heavy breath, a small, genuine smile breaking across his exhausted, mud-streaked face.
“You right Coach,” Natan nodded, his broken English carrying a tone of absolute, profound respect.
Pep smiled warmly, patting him heavily on the back one final time.
“Go. Put on a jacket. Watch the rest of the game.”
Natan walked toward the substitutes’ bench, grabbing a massive, oversized blue coat from one of the kit men.
He sank into the plush leather seat, wrapping the heavy coat around his freezing, aching body.
He grabbed a water bottle, taking a long, satisfying gulp, watching his teammates comfortably pass the ball around to kill off the final minutes of the match.
He was absolutely exhausted.
His body ached, his muscles screamed for rest, and he knew that tomorrow morning, Pep Guardiola would find ten new microscopic things to scream at him about during the video analysis session.
But as the final whistle blew, echoing into the dark Manchester night, cementing a dominant 3-0 victory to kick off the new era, Natan couldn’t help but smile.
He checked his phone in his locker a few minutes later, seeing a new text from Kylie confirming their dinner plans for Sunday night.
The rain in England was miserable, the manager was a demanding lunatic, and he still couldn’t parallel park his car.
But as Natan sat in the locker room, surrounded by laughing teammates and the sweet, lingering taste of a hard-fought victory, he realized that for the first time in a very long time, he was exactly where he was supposed to be.