Jake Ashbourne sat on the edge of his bed in the small flat he shared with his sister Emma, staring at the glowing list of attributes on his phone screen. Two options: Set Piece or Speed.
He chewed on the inside of his cheek. Speed was tempting — every young player wanted to be lightning fast — but he knew better. Without close control, a quick player was just a sprinter who'd lose the ball at full tilt. You either ended up with the player who couldn't pass the ball… or the ball that couldn't pass the player.
He tapped his choice.
Set Piece.
A small confirmation box flashed:
Are you sure you want to select Set Piece? This decision cannot be reversed.
He pressed Confirm.
Immediately, a new stat appeared. Set Piece: 35.
Jake let out a dry laugh. That was barely park-football level. But he'd seen enough games to know the value of a dead-ball specialist. Corners, free-kicks, penalties — they could change matches in seconds.
He dumped his extra five attribute points straight into Physical, pushing it up to 70. He felt stronger in training already, sharper in shoulder-to-shoulder duels.
The system updated his growth mission: instead of winning two matches in a row, it was now three straight wins for the next reward — five attribute points and a random high-value experience boost.
Two weeks of extra training with Middlesbrough's set-piece coach had already nudged his dribbling stat up by one point. A single point — nothing to boast about on paper — but to Jake, it was proof. The stats weren't fixed; they could be improved with sweat and hours on the grass.
Still, reality tugged at him. Every player had a ceiling — talent decided how high it was. The system might help him push his limits, but without it? No amount of drills could make you Kevin De Bruyne if you didn't have the foundation.
---
Championship – Round 16
Carrow Road. Norwich City's home. The Canaries had started the season brightly but had nosedived around round seven, much like Middlesbrough had earlier. Two wins in eight. They were there for the taking.
And Middlesbrough didn't waste the opportunity.
In front of a hostile, roaring yellow-and-green crowd, they played with calm, ruthless precision. Norwich's defensive shape crumbled.
Four goals. Clean sheet.
Jake bagged a hat-trick — one a curling free-kick, one a late run into the box for a driven finish, and one a deft chip over the keeper after a counterattack. His teammate Tell added the fourth.
Back home, Riverside Stadium's pubs and living rooms were buzzing. Four wins on the spin. The first two had been battles; the last two felt almost easy. Fans knew exactly why: Jake Ashbourne had transformed the way Middlesbrough played.
Replica shirts with Ashbourne 29 on the back were popping up everywhere.
---
Press reaction:
"Four-nil! The Lions crush the Canaries!"
"The Midfield General: How Jake Ashbourne is running the show at Middlesbrough."
"Middlesbrough unstoppable? Bournemouth boss says otherwise…"
Mark Marrow sat in his office, chuckling as he flipped through the papers. He'd never been much for the media, but lately he found himself reading every word. They weren't just winning — they were playing with authority.
---
Off the pitch
Jake was halfway through a recovery shake when Emma knocked on his bedroom door. "Jake, someone's here for you."
In stepped a tall, confident woman in her late twenties — Emma's close friend from school, Charlotte Reeves.
"I'm the agent your sister thinks you need," Charlotte said, a faint smile on her face.
Jake raised an eyebrow. Charlotte had a business degree and a knack for networking, but she wasn't exactly known for football management.
Seeing his hesitation, she leaned forward. "I'm not saying I'll be your agent forever. I'm saying I can connect you with the right one. Someone like… Pere Guardiola."
Jake blinked. "You mean Pep Guardiola's brother?"
Charlotte nodded. "One of the most respected agents in the game. If you're serious about a top career, you'll need someone like him in your corner."
It was tempting. But Jake's gut told him to wait. Once he'd made more noise in the Championship, agents would come to him. Walking to someone now felt like bowing his head.
He thanked her, promised to keep the contact in mind, and saw her out.
---
Back at Rockliffe Park training ground, Mark Marrow caught up with him. The coach had heard about the "agent meeting" from Emma but didn't know the details.
"Jake, listen to me carefully," Marrow said, his tone serious. "Choosing an agent is one of the biggest decisions you'll make off the pitch. The right one opens doors. The wrong one… closes them. Don't get dazzled by names. Think long-term."
Jake nodded. "Understood, Coach."
Marrow's expression softened. He clapped Jake on the shoulder.
"You will definitely become a world-class star."
---
The moment passed. Training resumed. But the message stuck with Jake.
Middlesbrough's next challenge: Bournemouth, sitting second in the league table.
The match hadn't even kicked off yet and the local media were already stirring the pot:
"Bournemouth — how many goals will you ship on your way home?"
"We've taken down the league leaders; what's the second place to us?"
The arrogance wasn't from Jake or the squad — it was the town itself, riding the wave. And Jake knew the only way to keep that energy alive… was to deliver on the pitch.
The four–game winning streak had done more than just push Middlesbrough up the table — it had put Jake Ashbourne's name in headlines across the Championship. His free–kick against Norwich was still looping on highlight reels, each replay seeming to make the strike look even more unstoppable.
In the United States, where Jake's rise was being picked up by soccer outlets hungry for a new home–grown star in Europe, the buzz was growing. ESPN ran a segment titled "The American Midfield Prodigy Taking England by Storm", while Bleacher Report posted clips of his goals with the caption: "Is this the most technically gifted American in football right now?"
Even the forums Jake used to browse back home were alive with discussion. One thread, buried among matchday analysis and tactical debates, read:
- Username: OhioSoccerDad
"This kid is legit. Not just hype. Vision, composure, passing range — he's got the tools to go all the way."
Jake scrolled through the posts during a quiet moment at the training ground, a faint smile tugging at the corner of his mouth. It wasn't arrogance — more a mix of pride and disbelief. Just months ago, he'd been grinding away in obscurity, wondering if his career would ever take off.
Coach Mark Marrow noticed him lingering by the locker area, phone in hand.
"Don't get too caught up in that," Marrow said, stepping closer. "The praise is nice, but it disappears the second you have a bad game. Keep your head in the work."
"I know," Jake replied, locking the screen. "Just… feels good, you know?"
Marrow gave a short nod. "You've earned it. But we've got Bournemouth next. They're not going to care how many clips you've got trending online."
Bournemouth were sitting second in the table — quick in transition, ruthless in attack, and disciplined enough to punish even the smallest mistake. The local papers in Middlesbrough had already started the war of words, printing bold predictions that the home side would "send Bournemouth back to the south coast empty–handed."
Jake wasn't one for trash talk, but he understood the importance of belief. Four wins in a row had given the squad a sense of rhythm and confidence he hadn't seen before. The dressing room was louder now, the banter sharper, the training more competitive. Every player wanted to be in the starting eleven.
The day before the match, a media crew from a US streaming platform arrived at Rockliffe Park, filming a short feature on Jake for their "Americans Abroad " series. They caught him juggling a ball after training, then interviewed him under the low, grey Teesside sky.
"What's the goal for the rest of the season ?" the reporter asked.
Jake hesitated, glancing towards Marrow, who was watching from a distance. "To help this team get promoted," he said finally. "We've got the talent. We've got the fight. Now we just have to prove it."
That night, as he sat in his small flat overlooking the quiet streets of Middlesbrough, Jake called Emma. She had watched every game so far, waking up early back in the States to stream the matches live.
"Bournemouth's a big one, huh?" she said.
"Yeah," Jake replied. "They're the best side we've faced yet. But I'm ready."
"Good," Emma said, her voice firm. "Because every time you step on that pitch, you're not just playing for Middlesbrough — you're playing for all of us back home who believe you belong there."
Jake sat back in his chair after the call, the words sinking in. Tomorrow, he'd have ninety minutes to prove them right.