Middlesbrough had been dealt a brutal fixture list.
Fresh from a bruising battle with Wolves, two of their next four matches would be against league leaders Watford and Bournemouth — the best in the Championship this season.
For a club sitting deep in the relegation zone, this wasn't a run-in; it was a slow execution.
Lose these three games, and survival would all but slip through their fingers.
Against Watford and Bournemouth, the odds were stacked.
Against Wolves?
This was their biggest chance to claw back points.
---
The Riverside Stadium throbbed with tension, more than 30,000 fans packed into the stands. The noise was deafening — chants rolling like waves, flags snapping in the cold wind, the smell of rain and beer heavy in the air.
Jake Ashbourne followed his teammates out onto the pitch. Even on the bench, he could feel the eyes — thousands of them — tracking every step. It was his first time playing in front of such a mass of humanity.
For a second, he lost himself in it.
Not the fear of scrutiny, but the fire of possibility.
One day, he thought, they'll chant my name.
One day, they'll travel the world to watch me play.
Emma would be in the stands somewhere, scarf wrapped tight, hands cupped around her mouth. He didn't need to see her to know she'd be watching him like she always did.
---
The diehards in the South Stand were already on edge. Banners unfurled, messages not exactly subtle:
"We don't accept failure!"
"Fight for the badge!"
This was more than a game — this was a lifeline.
The local media had their cameras on Jake even before kickoff, his recent performances in training stirring speculation. He'd been the story all week, the "solution" that some fans demanded be thrown in immediately.
---
Kickoff.
The whistle blew, and Middlesbrough started from the centre circle.
The commentary team wasted no time.
"A notable change in the lineup today — Onajike starts up front. A few years ago, he was one of the most feared strikers in the league. At his peak, his numbers were Premier League calibre. But form's deserted him lately… could this be the match he finds it again? "
Cheers rattled the stands. The fans wanted it to be true.
But hope evaporated quickly.
---
Wolves pressed high from the first minute, suffocating the midfield. Abdo and Epson in the middle couldn't settle on the ball, forced into rushed passes backwards. Any attempt to progress play was snuffed out before it reached halfway.
Onajike drifted along the front line, isolated, feeding off scraps that never came.
The left wing — Terl's territory — was the only outlet, but Wolves had read the script.
Modern football is cruel to predictable sides. When your attack only comes from one channel, you're a locked door with a single key. Block that route, and the whole structure collapses.
---
From the bench, Jake watched Onajike glance his way. It wasn't a request, just a thought written in his expression: If only he were out there.
The scoreboard still read 0–0, but the game was already one-sided. Middlesbrough's possession was sterile — the kind that goes backwards, sideways, then backwards again, until the crowd groans.
"Come on, forward! Find Onajike!"
"We're at home, not in training!"
The Wolves manager spotted the weakness and pushed his side even higher.
---
It broke in the 27th minute.
Abdo's first touch betrayed him under pressure. Lee Evans pounced, stealing the ball and feeding Kevin McDonald in the centre. One look, one perfectly weighted through-ball, and Dicko was racing clear.
No touch. Just a darting header past the keeper.
Goal.
0–1.
The Riverside erupted in fury, boos drowning out even the Wolves' celebration.
"We're gifting them goals!"
"This is hopeless!"
---
From there, the collapse quickened. Middles kicked off, but another loose pass was intercepted almost immediately. Wolves swarmed again, McDonald dictating everything in midfield while Onajike chased shadows.
Then came the moment that sent tempers boiling.
Sako burst into the penalty area, Omeruo slid in to challenge — clean, the fans thought — but the referee pointed to the spot.
The noise was instant and venomous. Coke bottles arced onto the pitch.
Sako stepped up and buried it.
0–2.
For Wolves, the match already felt over. For Middlesbrough, the clock might as well have been ticking down on their season.
From the bench, Jake's hands clenched into fists. His chance hadn't come yet — but when it did, he intended to drag this team back from the edge.
Halftime was over.
Middlesborough's players trudged out of the tunnel under a storm of jeers from their own fans, shoulders slumped, eyes fixed on the ground.
Two–nil down against Wolves at home — and by the look of them, some were already beaten. If Wolves bagged a third, the contest would be dead.
Mark Marrow's jaw was tight. In the first half, his side hadn't just been outplayed — they'd lost their bottle. Players who normally pressed high and fought for second balls had retreated into their shells, playing safe sideways passes in their own half.
That had to change.
He stood in the middle of the dressing room, voice carrying above the hum of the stadium outside.
"Cheer up! Even if we lose, we walk off with our heads up. No passengers !"
His eyes swept across the room and locked on the number nine.
"Onajeke — if I see you dropping into our own bloody box to get a touch, I'll have your legs in plaster !"
Onajeke threw up his hands. "Coach, I can't get the ball otherwise! No one's passing me!"
"I don't care. You'll get it." Marrow's voice was a growl. "And you'll get it where it matters."
A murmur rippled through the squad. They knew what that meant before they even looked up.
Jake Ashbourne was standing by the manager's side.
Marrow clapped a heavy hand on the teenager's shoulder. "Jake, I know it's a big ask. But we need someone to break their press and feed the front. This is your debut — go and make it the start of your story. The start of your legend."
Jake nodded, heart pounding.
"You've got one job," Marrow went on, staring him dead in the eye. "Get the ball where it needs to go."
Then, to the rest of the room: "You all know what Jake can do. Work for him. Cover him when he's under the cosh. And for God's sake — make those runs. We need goals."
The players' postures straightened. It wasn't just the words — it was the faith the gaffer had in the kid from nowhere.
Jake, sixteen years old, only weeks out of the youth setup at La Masia, had been signed without a single competitive minute in English football. And now, in front of a furious Riverside crowd, he was about to be thrown into the fire.
---
When they emerged, the substitution board went up: 29 – Ashbourne.
The commentator hesitated, surprise in his voice.
"Middlesborough making their first change — and it's a big one. Off comes Abdo, on comes number 29, Jake Ashbourne. Only sixteen years old, signed a few days ago… half a season at Barcelona's La Masia, no academy record before that. This… is bold."
The fans didn't share the commentator's polite restraint.
"What's Marrow playing at?!"
"A kid? In this match?!"
"Send him back !"
From the South Stand came a low, ugly chant. Wolves' players smirked as they spotted the target of the boos. They'd heard about this signing — a gamble, an unknown.
Jake ignored them. His eyes were scanning the pitch already, tracing passing lanes, judging spaces. Onajeke glanced back at him, remembering the words Jake had murmured in the tunnel: Run, and I'll find you.
---
Whistle. Second half underway.
Wolves pressed as if the teenager wasn't even there. Why bother? A sixteen-year-old in central midfield wasn't going to pick them apart.
Ogilvy, the left-back who had conceded the first-half penalty, intercepted a pass and looked up. He saw Jake gesturing, palms open, demanding the ball.
Marrow's orders rang in his head —pass to Jake.
The pass zipped across the turf.
Jake turned into space. Wolves' midfield line had stepped forward, leaving a pocket just inside their half. No immediate pressure — odd, in the Championship.
He was about to clip a safe pass wide when movement caught his eye.
Onajeke.
The striker had peeled between Wolves' centre-backs, angling his run diagonally. The gap was small, closing fast.
Jake cushioned the ball with his left, pivoted, and with one fluid motion threaded a low, curling pass between the two defenders.
It was surgical. Weight perfect. Onajeke didn't need to break stride.
One touch, then he hammered it past the keeper into the far top corner.
1–2.
The Riverside exploded.
Onajeke roared, sprinting towards the stand, arms wide. Moments ago, the same fans had been hurling abuse — now they were leaping, fists in the air, chanting his name.
Jake didn't celebrate wildly. He just jogged back into position, face unreadable, though inside his pulse was electric.
---
The big screen replay left the stadium buzzing.
Slow-motion showed the precision: Jake's first touch had killed the pass stone dead, his second had sent the through-ball knifing between Wolves' two defensive lines.
No extra touches. No hesitation. A decision made and executed before most players would've even looked up.
On the touchline, Marrow dropped to one knee, punching the turf with both fists. His assistants piled into him, laughing.
"He bloody did it! Sixteen years old and he's just split them like prime Scholes! "
The crowd roared again as play resumed. The boos were gone — in their place, a chant was starting to build.
Jake Ashbourne, la la la la la…
And somewhere, just behind the dugout, a young man knew this was only the beginning.