"Welcome to Middlesbrough, Jake! "
Morrow's handshake was firm, his brief hug perfunctory. Jake returned both politely, but his mind wasn't in the room—it was buried deep in the glowing interface of his system.
The first mission—secure a professional contract—was complete.
[Mission Reward: God-Level Set Piece Experience Card ×1 | Attribute Points ×15]
The set-piece card was a rare one-time boost, allowing him to take a free-kick or corner with perfect, world-class execution. The attribute points could be assigned anywhere.
Two new categories had appeared: Main Missions and Growth Missions.
Main Mission: Save Middlesbrough from relegation.
The club was in freefall—injuries, fatigue, and fractured confidence had dragged them to the brink of Championship relegation. The squad had lost its fight. The manager's belief was threadbare. The abyss was yawning.
Growth Mission: Stack up wins. Each victory meant more points and more attribute slots to unlock. His first win as a professional would earn him an immediate five points.
Jake didn't linger on the menus for long. His path was obvious.
---
Morrow wasted no time finding Jake a place to stay. Since he didn't have housing in Middlesbrough, the manager had him moved into the club dorms.
That afternoon, in the small meeting room off the training ground, Morrow cut straight to the point.
"You know our situation," the coach said. "I can't give you a month to settle. I need you ready immediately."
Jake nodded.
"Your basic technical work—I'll assign a specialist coach for that," Morrow continued. "But in matches, I want your passing. Your vision. That's why you're here. I'll handle the rest."
"No problem," Jake replied.
Back in his dorm room, he reassigned his attributes. With his passing already maxed out, dribbling and shooting could wait. What mattered was staying on the pitch as long as possible. He dumped points into stamina—80 was enough to keep him running box-to-box all game.
---
The next two days blurred into a rhythm of drills and small-sided games.
His passing stunned people. That, and his glaring weaknesses. He could drop a sixty-yard ball on a striker's shoelace… but sometimes his first touch made even the academy kids snicker.
"Our new midfielder can't even bring the ball down," someone muttered during a water break. It wasn't malicious—just the truth.
But in a training scrimmage, Jake silenced them with a single play: under pressure, he cut a ball through the defensive line with surgical precision, putting it on a plate for the striker.
Onajike, the team's explosive but inconsistent No. 9, thrived when paired with Jake. Two goals in one game became routine. The striker still botched chances—spitting out what Jake called "cakes"—but the chemistry was undeniable.
Morrow noticed. Onakeke's not finished—he just needed the right engine behind him, the coach thought. Now he had one.
---
There was no press conference for Jake's signing, no media fanfare. His name barely earned a line on the club's official site:
"Middlesbrough have signed midfielder Jake Ashbourne on a two-year deal. We look forward to his contribution and wish him success."
Jake didn't care. What he did care about was finding an agent—handling contracts and negotiations himself was a drain he didn't need.
After training, he called his sister.
"I need an agent."
"You signed already ? I thought the FA turned you away."
"Not in Spain. I'm in England."
"What? And you didn't tell me —"
"Just get me an agent, Emma." He hung up before she could continue.
---
Two days before matchday, Morrow told him he'd be on the bench, set to replace veteran midfielder Abdo. Jake stayed on the pitch long after the others had gone inside, grinding through basic drills.
By amateur standards, his fundamentals were fine. But in the pro game, fine was useless. His coordination wasn't quite there—simple cone dribbles felt clumsy.
He didn't understand how the previous Jake Ashbourne had gotten into La Masia in the first place.
As the floodlights clicked off, he headed for the dorms.
---
What Jake didn't know was that someone had been watching. A camera shutter had clicked outside the training ground fence, catching shots of him in awkward moments—missed touches, stumbles, the occasional heavy pass.
That night, the photos hit social media.
The reaction was swift and brutal.
Already disillusioned with the team's league position, Middlesbrough supporters now had another gripe: the club had signed a teenager who couldn't even play football.
The real test would come on matchday.