The seventeenth round of the EFL Championship brought one of Middlesbrough's toughest tests yet — a home clash at the Riverside against second–placed Bournemouth. The air in Teesside was electric. The four–match winning streak had packed the stands with more red shirts than Jake Ashbourne had ever seen in one place.
It wasn't just local fans turning up. Reporters from across the country — and even a few from the United States — had gathered to see if the young American midfielder could keep his run of form alive against one of the league's best.
Coach Mark Marrow had warned the squad in the pre–match meeting:
"Bournemouth will come here thinking they can take the three points. Let's make sure they leave knowing they never stood a chance."
By kickoff, every seat was taken, the Riverside buzzing with chants. Jake could hear his name being called from the South Stand before the teams even emerged from the tunnel.
"Jake! Jake! Jake!"
It sent a shiver down his spine. Just months ago, he was an unknown. Now, strangers in another country were singing for him like he'd been here for years.
Among the crowd, a visiting American sports journalist named Dylan Mercer was wide–eyed. He'd covered MLS games, college tournaments, even youth internationals — but he'd never seen this kind of devotion for a player outside the Premier League. "Back home, they're already calling you the Lion of Middlesbrough," he had told Jake the day before. Jake had only smiled and shrugged.
The players walked out to a wall of sound. Bournemouth's squad, usually calm and composed, looked slightly unsettled by the sheer noise.
From the first whistle, Middlesbrough pressed high. Less than five minutes in, Bournemouth made a mistake under pressure. Midfielder Jack Epperson stole possession and slid the ball into Jake's path. Ahead of him, winger Marcus Tell was already darting down the left.
Jake's instinct was clear — the left flank had been Middlesbrough's most dangerous weapon all season. Tell's acceleration always forced defenders to panic, dragging them out of position.
Jake threaded the ball perfectly to Tell's feet. The winger immediately drove at his marker, pushing the ball past him and bursting forward. The crowd roared, sensing danger for Bournemouth.
Then it happened — a sharp, ugly collision. Tell went down clutching his ankle, grimacing in pain. The Bournemouth centre–back threw his hands up, swearing it was a fair challenge, but the referee's whistle was already in his mouth.
Mark Marrow was on the edge of his technical area, shouting instructions as the physios rushed on. The Riverside fell into a tense silence, every fan waiting to see if their star winger could continue.
Jake stood nearby, jaw tight. Big games were decided on moments like this — and he could already feel this one tilting towards a battle of grit rather than flair.
Marcus Tell was still on the ground, clutching his ankle, face twisted with pain. Teammates crowded around as the physios knelt beside him.
"My foot! I can't move it ! " he gasped. Tell knew what this meant — when the team needed him most, he was powerless to help.
"It's a red card! That's a straight red!" Jake Ashbourne shouted at the referee, his voice raw.
From the touchline, Mark Marrow was livid.
"He's gone through the man! That's dangerous play ! " he barked at the fourth official, pointing furiously toward the Bournemouth defender.
But when the referee reached into his pocket, it was only yellow.
The Riverside erupted with boos.
Misfortune never came alone. The physio shook his head at Marrow — Tell couldn't continue. Only five minutes into the match, Middlesbrough's most dangerous left–sided threat was being carried off.
Marrow's jaw tightened. This match had just become twice as hard.
Digger, Tell's replacement, was a willing runner but nowhere near the same level. Bournemouth's defenders would feel far less threatened now.
Jake pulled Onajeke aside before play restarted.
"You drop in when you need to. Play it off me — wall passes, quick one–twos. Once you give it, don't stop. Keep running. If you're free, I'll find you every time."
Onajeke nodded. "Got it."
The whistle went and play resumed. Bournemouth clearly weren't here to play pretty football. Their midfielders bumped, barged, and shadowed Jake wherever he went. Man–to–man, no interest in the ball.
Jake adjusted quickly. Instead of trying to dribble through traffic, he linked short, sharp passes, bouncing the ball off teammates to keep Bournemouth chasing shadows. Each touch drew a fresh roar from the home crowd.
"Have you noticed ?" one supporter near the press box said. "He's not even taking extra touches. Just one–touch football. It's beautiful."
Up in the stands, Pere Guardiola — a visiting scout with a notebook full of names — leaned forward. Jake's style ticked every box in his book: vision, control, tempo. Add the fact that he was an American playing in England, and the marketing potential was enormous.
Then it happened — a flash of brilliance. Jake spotted a narrow channel between Bournemouth's centre–backs and slid the perfect through ball into Onajeke's stride.
The stadium gasped. It was defence–splitting genius.
But as Onajeke struck, his foot caught awkwardly in the turf. The shot rolled tamely into the keeper's gloves. A golden chance gone.
From the technical area, Bournemouth's manager Hans was furious — not at the miss, but at how his team was being picked apart by one man. They were supposed to be chasing automatic promotion. Yet here they were, penned back by a side fighting near the bottom of the table.
Still, the danger for Middlesbrough was clear. Without Tell, one slip could turn the tide. Jake knew it. The match was balanced on a knife–edge, and Middlesbrough needed a goal before Bournemouth found their rhythm.
A loose ball fell to Digger in midfield, but before he could carry it forward, Jake's voice cut through the noise.
"Here !"
Training had drilled the rule into everyone — if Jake called for it, you gave it.
Digger passed. The moment the ball left his foot, Jake's eyes lit up. The route to goal unfolded like a golden line in his mind.
He didn't hesitate. From thirty yards out, he stepped into it and struck clean through the ball.
The Riverside held its breath. Was it a pass? A cross?
No. It was a shot....