The referee's whistle cut through the cool Catalan morning.
Kick-off in the middle circle.
Team B had the first touch.
The ball rolled backwards and the match was underway.
As a cluster of Team A players jogged past Jake Ashbourne, one of them gave him a casual shoulder nudge.
"Go back to America, kid."
Jake had seen this sort of thing before — not just here in Spain, but in high school tournaments back home. A little shove. A muttered dig. A test.
He shifted his weight and let the challenge slide past him. The Team A player stumbled forward awkwardly, nearly losing his balance, while Jake kept moving as if nothing had happened.
The first few minutes were brutal in their own way — Jake didn't get a single touch.
He was a central midfielder, but his own teammates looked straight past him. Even when he showed for the ball, they acted as if he wasn't there. Passes went sideways, backwards, anywhere but to him.
And when he drifted into pockets of space, the defenders on his side almost seemed to pull away from him — either too wary or simply uninterested in linking up.
Up front, Dale Morrison was suffering the same fate. He'd followed Jake's pre-match advice and danced right on the shoulder of Team A's back line, timing runs to flirt with the offside trap. But the passes never came.
The imbalance was obvious after five minutes — Team A's dominance in possession suffocated the game.
And that was the thing about La Masia: it wasn't just talent, it was philosophy. Short passes, constant movement, angles everywhere. Every player was comfortable on the ball, recycling it until a gap opened.
Jake and Dale spent most of their time sprinting into space and watching the ball go somewhere else. To the reporters from back home, it must have looked ridiculous — two American players jogging around without ever touching the game. It could have been a training drill for all anyone knew.
The scouts in the stands certainly weren't watching them. Their eyes were locked on the crisp triangles of Team A's attack.
A sharp "crash" of boots and net signaled the inevitable — 1–0 to Team A. No one batted an eye. If anything, most expected the scoreline to balloon.
Moments later, another attack from Team A sliced straight through Team B's shape, but this time the final shot dragged wide. The goalkeeper took the goal kick short, then thought better of it and went long instead.
For once, Team B tried to push higher, bodies flooding forward. The striker managed to carry the ball to the edge of the box… before being scythed down in a clean, hard tackle. Ball gone. Attack dead.
The clearance arced through the air. Jake read it early, drifted into the path, and let it drop perfectly into his stride.
And then… something clicked.
It was as if the pitch itself shifted into a diagram in his head. Every teammate, every defender, every lane of space lit up in his mind like pieces on a chessboard.
He didn't even bother with a first touch — he volleyed, hooking his instep under the ball to loop it over the nearest defender.
The pass sailed high, then dipped viciously… straight to Dale.
Dale hadn't expected it — after all, he'd been invisible for nearly twenty minutes. He hesitated, almost frozen, then stuck a boot out instinctively.
The ball skimmed off his foot at an odd angle, the spin changing its path just enough to catch the keeper flat-footed.
Top corner.
Goal.
The field went silent for half a heartbeat. Then the murmurs began.
Even the goalkeeper looked confused. Dale glanced back at Jake, half-question, half-disbelief.
The reporters from the U.S. reacted first — "Ashbourne to Morrison! The American link-up!" Cameras clicked in rapid bursts.
The La Masia coaches exchanged quick, quiet comments. Most dismissed it as luck. But one of them kept his eyes fixed on Jake. No one just "fluked" a ball like that.
1–1.
The rest of the 30-minute trial match unfolded as expected — Team A's control returned, the final score settling at 3–1.
Jake had one more flash of brilliance, driving forward from deep and splitting two defenders with a sharp ground pass to Dale, who unfortunately miscontrolled his first touch and lost the one-on-one.
When the whistle blew, Jake exhaled slowly. His chances here were slim. La Masia didn't feel like the right move — not now. He could force his way in, maybe, but actual game minutes? That was a different story.
Sixteen years old, armed with the strange new "system" that fed him tasks and attribute points… he couldn't afford to waste years waiting.
System Task – Active:
Obtain an official professional contract.
Stay here, and that wouldn't happen anytime soon.
Plan B was simple — return to the States, build his level, stack his stats, then come back to Europe ready to dominate.
He was about to leave when a staff member stopped him.
"Coach Maguire wants to see you."
Jake's pulse jumped. Maybe… a turn of fate.
Inside the office, Maguire studied him with a small smile.
"Heading out?"
Jake shrugged. "Doesn't seem like anyone here's interested in an American midfielder."
"Not quite," Maguire said. "Your feet today — that pass — you should keep playing in Europe."
Jake gave a half-smile. "Easier said than done."
"Go to England," Maguire said, sliding a small card across the desk. "I've got friends there. Show them this, tell them I sent you, and they'll give you a trial. The contract? That'll be up to you."
Jake turned the card over — an address and a name.
Middlesbrough Football Club.