The scrimmage rolled on, but something had shifted.
Jake could feel it — the wariness from his new teammates was fading, replaced by a tentative curiosity. They had stopped testing him and started… actually looking for him. Every time the ball rolled his way now, the eyes around him were sharper, the runs just a fraction quicker.
He, in turn, had made an adjustment.
If his first touch wasn't elite, then why bother with unnecessary touches at all? No dwelling. No dribbling into pressure. One look, one pass — and the ball was gone again.
The system's full-level passing wasn't about flashy tricks; it was about precision, vision, and timing so sharp it could slice through an entire formation. All he had to do was trust it.
And trust it he did.
Jake became a pivot point in red and white, a living relay station. The ball reached him, and a split second later it was somewhere better — switching flanks to release the left-back into space, threading through midfield to feet, or skimming diagonally into the channels for the wingers to chase.
Always one touch. Always on the move.
From the touchline, Morrow's expression had gone from skeptical to almost… unsettled.
He muttered to his assistant, "Have you seen anyone play like this ?"
The assistant shook his head. "Not in the Championship. Not at this speed, not with this accuracy."
But the players could feel it most. In a league where midfield often meant chaos — clattering tackles, second balls, hurried hoofs — Jake's calm felt alien. It was like dropping a La Liga playmaker into the middle of a street fight.
And then came the moment.
The defenders had been shuffling compact, forcing play wide, but Jake spotted it — a small misalignment, the kind of gap that was invisible to most players but glaringly obvious to him.
He drifted a yard into space, hand raised. The ball came, and without stopping it, he sliced across it with the outside of his right foot.
It bent like it had a mind of its own, curling around the nearest midfielder, swerving just beyond the centre-back's reach, and falling perfectly into the stride of Onajike, Middlesbrough's veteran target man.
The striker's reverse run had timed the offside trap to perfection. One touch to steady himself, and then he hammered it into the roof of the net.
2–0 in the scrimmage. Two assists for Jake.
The celebration was instant. Onajike pointed straight at him with both hands, shouting, "That's the ball ! That's the one !" before dragging Jake into a half-hug, grinning like he'd just been handed a time machine to his prime years.
Jake allowed himself a small smile. This was why he was here. This was why he'd come to England in the first place.
From the sideline, Morrow's mind was made up. "Get the paperwork ready," he told his assistant. "We're signing him today."
---
When the whistle finally blew, Morrow didn't bother with the usual post-training talk. He strode straight onto the pitch, clapped Jake on the shoulder, and said, "Come with me."
Jake followed him into the main building, past a wall of framed shirts from past seasons — Juninho, Mendieta, Viduka. Riverside ghosts, reminders of when Middlesbrough had been more than a Championship relegation battler.
In the office, the assistant was already placing a thin stack of papers on the desk.
Jake glanced at the top page. Professional Player Contract.
Morrow leaned back in his chair, studying him. "Boys like you don't come along often. Your touch? Needs work. But your passing…" He shook his head. "That's not something you can coach."
Jake kept quiet. Praise was nice, but he wasn't here for compliments — he was here for a place to prove himself.
The numbers were modest. Two thousand pounds a week. Two years. One million in release clause. No bonuses worth bragging about. He'd read about academy kids at Premier League clubs making more.
But that didn't matter. This wasn't about money. This was about minutes.
"One thing," Jake said, meeting Morrow's eyes. "Will I get to play ? "
Morrow's answer came with a half-smile. "You'll start on the bench. The Championship's fast, physical — different from training. But you'll get minutes. And when you're ready, you'll run this midfield."
It wasn't the promise of a guaranteed start, but it was a chance. And chances were worth more than signing bonuses.
Jake signed. His handwriting pressed into the page like a stamp. Morrow signed next, the club seal following with a heavy thud.
That was it.
Sixteen years old, an official professional footballer in England.
He slid the pen back across the table, already thinking about the first real match.
Already thinking about the next pass.