The Riverside Stadium was a wall of noise.
They were still a goal down, but something had changed. The crowd could feel it.
In matches gone by, Middlesbrough looked hopeless—lifeless, predictable. But now… now there was belief.
And that belief had come from a man they'd mocked before he'd even kicked a ball in anger—Jake Ashbourne.
The jeers and crude banners from earlier were disappearing, rolled up sheepishly by the same hands that had held them aloft. People muttered apologies under their breath, though no one could hear them over the din. The lad they'd ridiculed was the one keeping their hopes alive.
"What a pass! He's put it on a plate for Onajeke Ashbourne's strike partner" the commentator's voice cracked with excitement.
"This lad—this midfielder—has vision you can't teach. Precise, composed, and brave with the ball. Hard to believe he never came through an academy. There's only one word for him… genius."
The Wolves' back line had taken the hint. They'd started closing him down the moment he received the ball. But Jake was slippery—not by dribbling through defenders, but by never holding onto it longer than necessary. One-touch passing, always moving, never inviting the tackle.
If you wanted to stop him, you had to foul him before the pass left his boot. And that wasn't easy.
Still, Middlesbrough were under pressure in other areas of the pitch. The Wolves' wide play was stretching them thin. But so long as Jake and Onajeke were in the middle, the visitors couldn't commit fully without risking disaster.
Onajeke, however, was being marked tightly—shadowed by a centre-half all game. Jake scanned the pitch, eyes narrowing. His usual passing lanes were closed.
Then he saw it—an unguarded channel down the left. The ball came to him; he shifted his body and whipped it with the outside of his boot, a bending diagonal that soared over two midfielders and dropped perfectly into the path of Terry, Middles' pacey left winger.
Gasps rippled through the stadium. It was a pass you paid to watch.
Terry controlled it without breaking stride, darted to the byline, and with one glance inside, cut the ball back along the deck to Jake, who had ghosted into space. Without even cushioning it, Jake flicked it on to Onajeke.
One defender, one moment.
Onajeke rose higher, stronger—like an avalanche meeting a wall—and thundered a header past the goalkeeper.
GOAL!
2–2. Level. The Riverside erupted into a frenzy of red and white scarves, bare chests, and guttural roars.
Up in the technical area, Mark Marrow's fists punched the air. On the opposite side, Wolves' manager Schultz looked as though he'd bitten into a lemon. He'd thrown everything at containing Jake, but what could you do? Too tight and Jake played around you. Too loose and he split you open.
"This," the commentator almost shouted, "is the debut of dreams! Two assists for Jake Ashbourne, who's brought a new dimension to Middles' midfield. Wolves have no answer for his movement and vision."
Somewhere in the stand, a group of notorious home supporters shifted uncomfortably. The same lot who'd been chanting abuse now found themselves watching a player they might end up idolising.
"Who was it," their leader growled, "who said he couldn't play football? Does this look like a lad who can't play? We nearly chased off a bloody genius."
Nobody replied. Especially not him—because everyone knew he'd been the loudest voice.
The game was still on a knife edge. Wolves pressed again, targeting Middles' right flank where Jake's defensive work rate was minimal. Sacco drove forward, tried to nutmeg his man, but Epson flew in from behind, winning the ball but conceding a dangerous free-kick and earning a yellow.
The set-piece was twenty yards out, central. The visiting fans rose to their feet. McDonald shaped to shoot, then darted away as Lee Evans curled it into the mixer. Chaos followed—boots swinging, bodies colliding—until Ogilvy hoofed it clear.
Relief swept through the crowd.
"Blow the whistle !" someone shouted. "We'll take the point !"
But football has its own script.
The clearance landed at Jake's feet. He glanced up once, then barked, "Run!"
Onajeke took off like he'd been shot from a cannon. Jake's pass was instant—an arcing ball that split the defence and left the keeper stranded in no-man's-land.
One-on-one. Time slowed. The referee's whistle hovered at his lips.
The crowd's earlier plea for the match to end turned into a collective prayer for just a few more seconds.
Onajeke reached it first, and with one touch, guided it beyond the diving keeper.
The net bulged.
GOAL!
3–2. Middlesbrough had turned it around in stoppage time.
The stadium shook. People hugged strangers. Mark Marrow was leaping like a man half his age. And in the middle of it all, Jake Ashbourne stood with arms raised—not in arrogance, but in quiet defiance.
This… this was football.
"Hat-trick!"
"Onajeke hat-trick!"
"Jake Ashbourne—assist hat-trick!!!"
The Riverside was a storm.
Onajeke had just buried the third. He didn't even look at the referee waving a yellow card—shirt off, sprinting toward the home end, arms wide, muscles trembling.
He wasn't just celebrating. He was unloading years of frustration. For too long, the fans had forgotten who he was—the ruthless finisher who'd once terrorised defences. But now? Now he could feel it…
It was back.
All of it.
And the roar that left his throat sounded like it could split the North Sea in half.
The stands exploded. Flags whipped in the wind, scarves spun like helicopter blades, football hooligans thumped their beer bellies in unison. Grown men hugged like they'd just survived the end of the world.
They had no idea it would end like this.
Onajeke turned, spotted Jake, and pointed with a grin that was half gratitude, half disbelief.
On the other side, Wolves players looked hollow. Just minutes ago, they'd been 2–0 up—certain of victory. Now they were beaten, and worse, beaten by a team they thought was broken.
Coach Schultz simply shook his head. The kid in red, the one delivering these passes… there was no stopping him.
Genius. Pure and simple.
The ball was kicked off, but before Wolves could string three passes together, the referee blew for full-time.
3–2.
A comeback for the ages.
Jake was swallowed up by his teammates—hands on his shoulders, shouts in his ear.
"Jake! You're unreal!"
"Whoever says you can't play football—I'll break his leg!"
Onajeke pulled him into a bear hug. "Mate, those passes… they were perfect."
Mark Marrow stood on the touchline, drinking it in. The banners mocking Jake were gone, rolled up in shame. The dark cloud over the club had lifted.
One match. That's all it had taken for Jake to prove himself.
Reporters circled, but Marrow waved them away. Not tonight. Not his young playmaker's first taste of glory.
At the press conference, Marrow's praise was plain and proud.
"It's an imaginative pairing—Onajeke and Jake. I pictured it when I signed him, but Jake's done even more than I imagined. He's a natural midfield commander."
---
The streets around Middles stayed alive long after the final whistle. Pubs spilled red-shirted fans into the night, their songs echoing off brick and glass.
They hadn't felt this alive in years.
Before tonight, Middles had only three wins in twelve matches—a disgrace for fans who still saw themselves as proud Lions. Now, hope had returned.
"I have to apologise for what I said before," one fan admitted over pints. "This lad from America —he's too good. He's rebuilt our midfield."
"And his passing," another cut in. "God, I don't even see how he spots those runs."
Someone laughed. "Why do you think he's a genius? He's in the Championship at sixteen. You're thirty and still stuck in Sunday League."
The table roared with laughter—until a single voice cut through.
"With Jake… could we actually go up?"
The group went silent.
Promotion? That was a road no one had dared imagine. Survival was all they'd hoped for. But now…
"Why not? " one finally said.
Glasses slammed the table.
"Promotion!"
"Promotion!"
In their minds, they could already see it—flags unfurled at Wembley, the roar of a packed stadium, their players lifting silver under the lights.
---
That night, Jake lay in bed, staring at the floating system panel only he could see.
Victory: +5 attribute points
Next goal: Win two games → +5 points
He didn't hesitate. All points went to physicality. After tonight, he knew—against professionals, his fitness was still a weakness. One-touch passing could only hide it for so long. Stronger legs and a sturdier frame meant more time on the ball, more freedom to create.
[Body: 65 → 70 ]
[Stamina: 80]
[Shots: 30 ]
[Dribbles: 50]
[Interceptions: 30 ]
[Passes: 100]
Still lopsided, but one day, he'd be complete.
His phone buzzed.
"Brother, you were amazing! " his sister's voice chirped.
"You saw the game? "
"Of course! And I found you the agent you wanted. She's flying to England soon."
"Good."
"I'm exhausted. Talk tomorrow."
When the call ended, Jake stared into the dark. Middles was a good start, but he knew this was only a beginning. Sooner or later, he'd need a bigger stage.
Sleep took him with that thought.
---
The next morning, the local papers bled with praise.
"Assist hat-trick on debut—Championship welcomes a midfield genius from America."
"Marrow: 'He can be our Xavi.'"
"New signing unlocks ex-top scorer—Onajeke's hat-trick sinks Wolves."
The town hadn't just won a game.
It had found a future.