The fax machine in Mark Marrow's cramped office clicked and whirred. Another transfer offer slid out, its fresh ink still glistening.
Marrow stared at the figures on the page, his heart thumping like a snare drum.
Arsenal – £11 million.
Chelsea – £12 million.
Liverpool – £13 million.
He leaned back in his chair, the paper trembling between his fingers. In all his decades in football, he had only read about these kinds of numbers in the sports pages.
Now they were here, in black and white, for a kid from Ohio who had stepped into English football as if he were born for it.
This was not just about money; it was about prestige. When giants of the game start circling like sharks, the smaller clubs barely even get a seat at the table. These bids were proof of Jake Ashbourne's value—and of the danger he posed to Middlesbrough's future.
---
The Media Storm
By mid-morning, the headlines were already screaming:
"RICH CLUBS RAID CHAMPIONSHIP — WHO IS THIS AMERICAN MIDFIELD MAESTRO?"
"£10M+ BIDS — BORO CAN'T RESIST FOREVER!"
"WHERE DOES THIS LEAVE MIDDLES WITHOUT ASHBOURNE?"
The tabloids did not care about the finer points of his game. They wanted heat, clicks, arguments.
Another rumour rolled in like a tidal wave:
"Manchester City in talks — transfer fee could hit £20 million!"
And then another:
"Liverpool eye midfield overhaul — Ashbourne their prime target!"
Mark Marrow dropped the paper onto his desk with a sigh. "God help me… they're making it sound like the Second Coming."
It only got wilder when Chelsea's manager gave a sly smile in an interview and said, "Jake? Tremendous talent. I'd love to work with him someday."
The press twisted that into a Manchester United link—because the following season, the Chelsea boss was heading there.
The entire footballing world was holding its breath.
---
Round 28 – Brentford Away
But Jake? He was not holding his breath at all.
If there was chaos outside, he did not show it on the pitch.
In front of a hostile Brentford crowd, Jake delivered a masterclass. The passes were razor-sharp, the vision otherworldly. Onajeke thrived on his through-balls, Marcus Tell tore up the wings like a man possessed.
Jake contributed four assists and scored one blistering free-kick goal that curled past the keeper's fingertips.
6–0.
Away from home.
A demolition.
---
The Fans' Plea
When the team's flight landed that night, hundreds of Middlesbrough fans were waiting. Flares lit the dark like little red suns.
Banners waved and voices chanted his name.
One caught Jake's eye:
"Jake, you're our lionheart — please don't leave!"
He did not respond. Pere Guardiola's words still echoed in his head:
"Fans can love you one day and burn your shirt the next. Keep your eyes on the ball, Jake. Show your worth on the pitch—the rest will follow."
---
The Offer from the East
Back in the States, news of Jake's value had gone nuclear. American sports networks were running segments comparing him to LeBron, Brady—you name it.
Then came a twist nobody saw coming: a super-rich Asian club, Heng Tai, was ready to offer £20 million to bring Jake in.
Mark Marrow did not even need to ask Pere for his opinion—the agent shut it down before the sentence was finished.
"No way. I am not sending him into a league where he will rot for paychecks. His future is here in Europe. End of discussion."
---
The Giants Close In
Chelsea raised their bid to £15 million. Arsenal backed off reluctantly. Liverpool sent a scout to the next match.
But Pere's mind was already ticking over with something else. His brother—Pep Guardiola—was leaving Bayern Munich for Manchester City.
That single piece of news changed everything.
Jake's next chapter was not going to be a simple transfer. It was going to be a war.
Manchester City's boardroom was boiling. Year after year, they poured millions into the squad—world-class signings, blockbuster wages—but the dream of conquering Europe still slipped through their fingers.
This season had been no different: erratic league form, frustrating Champions League exits… but the last straw?
An FA Cup humiliation at home.
To a Championship side.
And not just any loss—Middlesbrough, led by a young American midfielder named Jake Ashbourne, had walked into the Etihad and torn City apart.
The board had seen enough. Pellegrini's fate was sealed.
In whispered conversations across private lounges in Manchester, the replacement was already decided: Pep Guardiola. The Spaniard's tenure at Bayern was turbulent, and both parties felt destiny calling. They agreed he would take charge in the summer—armed with full control of transfers and a war chest the size of a small nation's GDP.
Pep's shortlist was ruthless and precise: De Bruyne, Sterling, Otamendi… and Jake Ashbourne.
Two hundred million euros budget.
If that was not enough?
"Add more," City's owners told him.
That was Manchester City's version of "we'll see what we can do."
---
Riverside Stadium – Matchday, Round 29
The air over Middlesbrough carried that crisp, early-spring bite. But inside the stadium? It was electric. Fans poured in wearing Jake's No. 29 shirt. Every seat was taken, banners stretching across the stands like waves of red and white.
When Jake emerged for warm-ups, the chant rolled over him like thunder:
"JAKE! JAKE! JAKE!"
Some held signs that read:
"Thank you for everything!"
"You'll always be our Lion of Middles!"
One massive banner had an image of Jake's now-iconic lob goal against Manchester City, arms raised to the roaring crowd.
It was enough to make a lesser player buckle. Jake? He tucked it away in the back of his mind. He had a game to win.
---
From the opening whistle, Charlton never stood a chance. Jake's movement was poetry—gliding across the midfield, dictating the tempo, threading surgical passes that split defenders as if they were standing still.
Marcus Tell and Onajeke feasted on his service, their runs perfectly timed to Jake's through-balls. The American was not merely the heartbeat of Middlesbrough—he was the entire circulatory system.
By the time the scoreboard read 4–0, Jake had notched another hat-trick of assists and was mobbed by teammates. Yet, when the final whistle blew and the fans chanted his name again, his eyes avoided the goodbye banners. He was not gone yet.
---
Post-Match – Manager's Office
"Jake, with me," Mark Morrow said.
Jake raised an eyebrow. "Press conference?"
"Yep. Time they hear it from you."
The press room buzzed with surprise as Jake sat alongside Morrow; he had never been allowed in front of cameras before.
One reporter asked the obvious:
"Coach, why now?"
Morrow smiled. "Because Jake's earned it. He did not want distractions before. Even on his days off, the kid's on the training ground. The morning after we beat Manchester City, while everyone else was resting? He was practising free kicks."
Morrow pulled out his phone and played a video—a ball curling into the top corner from midfield. The room erupted in murmurs.
When the attention shifted to Jake, the first question was blunt:
"With all the transfer rumours, where do you want to go?"
Jake leaned toward the mic. "Right now, I am a Middlesbrough player. My focus is here, and it will stay that way until the season ends."
Another asked about his long-term goals.
Jake's voice grew steadier, almost defiant. "Long-term? Keep improving, keep winning, keep giving fans a reason to believe. Short-term…" he paused, scanning the room.
"I want to bring Middles a championship."
The room went still. Cameras clicked. Somewhere in the stands outside, fans still wearing his jersey were going to read those words in the morning and believe just a little longer.
"I want to bring Middles a championship."
That single sentence from Jake Ashbourne's lips detonated across every corner of Teesside like a thunderclap.
It was not just a promise—it was a declaration of war on the league table itself.
---
The Headlines Explode
The morning papers screamed with excitement:
"Ashbourne: I'll Bring a Title Home!"
"Can the American Prodigy Deliver Middlesbrough's First Championship in Decades?"
"Sixteen Matches to Glory – Dare We Dream?"
Every sports radio host in England debated it. Some laughed at the boldness. Others admired the audacity. And in the pubs along the River Tees, grown men argued about points and goal differences as if they were matters of life and death.
For Middlesbrough's faithful, hope was no longer a fragile whisper—it was a drumbeat in their veins.
---
The Fans' Response
At Rockliffe training ground, supporters began turning up just to watch the squad jog out. Jake could feel their eyes on him—every smile, every chant, every homemade banner painted with his number 29 was a reminder of the weight now on his shoulders.
Inside the dressing room, the lads had noticed it too. Marcus Tell, tying his boots, gave Jake a smirk.
Tell: "Hope you know you have just put the whole city on your back, mate."
Jake: "Good. Feels lighter than I thought."
Onajeke: (laughing) "Wait until you see the headlines after the Arsenal match. Then it will feel heavy."
But even they could not hide their belief. They had seen the way Jake's passes carved defences like a scalpel through silk. They knew—if anyone could lead them to a title, it was him.
---
Across the Atlantic
Back in the States, Jake's name had gone from niche to national. ESPN ran highlights on repeat: the slicing through-balls, the long-range lob against City, the no-look assist to Onajeke. His hometown of Ashland, Ohio, practically adopted Middlesbrough overnight—bars ordered in English beer for match days, schools hung the Union Jack alongside the Stars and Stripes in their gyms.
American sportswriters, usually too busy with basketball and football, suddenly wrote columns about a skinny seventeen-year-old from Ohio making seasoned defenders in England look like training cones.
---
The Table Tightens
Two wins later, Middlesbrough had clawed level on points with Bournemouth. Only goal difference kept them second. And with Watford still nine points ahead, the match in Round 41 loomed like a battle written in the stars.
Watford's coach smiled for cameras, claiming, "We just focus on ourselves." But whispers in the press said training had doubled in intensity. Fear was creeping in.
---
Eyes on the FA Cup
Mark Marrow's mind was already elsewhere. Arsenal were next in the FA Cup—a club whose very name carried a legacy. This was not Manchester City's arrogance or a one-off upset. The Gunners played with the precision of a machine. Wenger's football was as elegant as it was lethal.
That night in the video room, the players watched clips of Arsenal's one-touch passing, their weaving movement. Even Marrow sighed.
Marrow: "We will need more than hard work tomorrow. We will need moments of magic."
Jake glanced at Tell and Onajeke. His mind was already plotting.
---
A Quiet Conversation
The next morning, as the final training session wrapped up, Onajeke approached Jake.
Onajeke: "Hard to believe, huh? Tomorrow we face Arsenal. Two years ago, I was lucky to get a call-up for a Nigerian second-division match. Now this…"
Jake: (smiling) "When you move to Dortmund next season, you will face Bayern. Or Madrid in the Champions League. This is just the beginning."
Onajeke chuckled, shaking his head. But before they parted, Jake stopped him.
Jake: "Next season…" (he paused, locking eyes) "…see you in the Champions League."
Onajeke blinked. "The Champions League?" His voice was half disbelief and half hope.
Jake: "Yes. You will be there. I will be there. Different teams maybe… but we will meet again. On that stage."
The words hung in the air, thick with promise. Neither said anything more—but Onajeke walked away with a grin he could not wipe off.
---
The next day, Arsenal awaited. And Jake Ashbourne had no intention of bowing to history.