The anger hit the club like a tidal wave.
Middlesbrough's official website was flooded with abuse.
"Management's a disgrace! You're driving this club into the ground!"
"We're in a relegation fight and THIS is your idea of a signing?"
"What, couldn't find a Sunday league player, so you picked this kid?"
Some comments went further—cruel, personal, and relentless.
A few particularly vicious posts mocked the photo of the teenager in training, sneering about his posture and footwork. Others claimed his signing was proof the board had no ambition. It didn't matter that most of them hadn't even seen him play a single match.
It didn't stop online.
The club's phone lines were jammed with furious season-ticket holders demanding answers. The receptionist tried explaining the situation, but no one wanted explanations—only reassurance that this mystery signing would be gone, and replaced by someone "proven."
The heat was squarely on Mark Morrow, Middlesbrough's manager. He'd been in charge long enough to know fan frustration was part of the job, but this was different. This was personal. His phone lit up with messages from people he'd known for years—local supporters, journalists, even ex-players—all demanding to know what he was thinking.
The board wasn't thrilled either. In a meeting that morning, a senior director had hinted—thinly—that Morrow's autonomy in recruitment might be "reconsidered."
Even with the pressure closing in, Morrow didn't blink.
"Give it a few matches," he told them. "You'll see what I see."
---
That night, Jake Ashbourne slept early, unmoved by the noise.
It wasn't arrogance. It was clarity. The storm outside wasn't something he could control, so he didn't waste the energy.
When he arrived for training the next morning, the first thing he noticed was the crowd outside the gates. Dozens of fans—many in club scarves—shouting, gesturing, holding banners. More kept arriving, the chants growing sharper.
Jake had heard about the reputation of English football supporters—passionate to the point of volatility—but this was his first taste of it.
Morrow gathered the squad before the warm-up.
"Ignore it," he told them. "They'll turn once they see performances. Jake—especially you—don't let it get in your head. The ones cursing you now will be the first to sing your name if you prove them wrong."
Jake gave a short nod. He understood. In football, the crowd's love was conditional.
---
The morning session began under a backdrop of constant jeers. When Jake received the ball in a rondo drill, some fans roared sarcastic applause, as if they'd already written him off.
When Morrow tried to speak with a few of them during a break, the conversation went nowhere. They wanted proof now, not promises.
By midday, the situation reached the boardroom.
Club chairman Robert Lauders arrived unannounced at the training ground, his expression tight.
"Mark," he said, pulling the manager aside, "this is getting ugly. I'm not telling you to change your squad, but you need to be aware—our own supporters are turning against us before kickoff."
Morrow handed him a player dossier. "Jake's the real deal. No academy grooming, no professional minutes before now, but the raw ability is there. You'll see it—just give him the platform."
Lauders flipped through the papers. La Masia. Recommended by a contact in Spain. No competitive history before age sixteen. His brow furrowed.
"You believe in him that much? "
" I do," Morrow said without hesitation.
Lauders exhaled. "Then here's my compromise—one match. One chance to justify this signing. After that, it's on you."
---
From his office window, Morrow watched the players in a small-sided game. Jake's focus never wavered, even as chants bled in from outside. The rest of the squad, though, looked distracted—touches heavy, passes rushed.
It reinforced Morrow's conviction.
Big heart. Cold head. That's how you survive here.
---
That afternoon, the local sports pages dropped their bombshell: Middlesbrough Gamble on Unknown Teen.
The Wolves—next week's opponents—couldn't resist weighing in. A veteran midfielder told reporters he "hoped for a fair contest, not a training exercise," a thinly veiled jab at Jake. Wolves-friendly media piled on with headlines about the "soft underbelly" of the Boro midfield.
By the time Morrow returned to his desk, the matchday squad list was half-written. He filled in the last spots, took the sheet to the pitch, and gathered the players after training.
---
"Starting eleven," he read out. Jake's name wasn't there.
Then he moved to the substitutes list. Jake's name came last.
The reaction was instant—side glances, raised eyebrows. A few of the older players hadn't expected to see him in the matchday squad at all.
Onajike, listed in the starting lineup, grinned and clapped Jake on the shoulder.
"Congrats. If you get on, find me. I'll make the run—you just pick the pass. Let's give them something to talk about."
Jake's eyes stayed locked on the paper, his expression unreadable. One chance. Ninety minutes—probably less—to prove he belonged.
The squad broke up for the day, but the air felt different. Even the doubters could sense it—something in the rhythm of the team had shifted, and it started with the calm teenager in the red training top.