Marcus Tell watched Jake Ashbourne glide past a defender in training, the ball glued to his boots like a loyal shadow.
He couldn't help but grin.
It was clear Jake had already set his sights higher—Champions League football. The sixteenth-year-old wasn't just dreaming; he was plotting his path toward the biggest stage in Europe.
Marcus clenched his jaw. If this kid could be the heartbeat of the team, then he—an experienced winger—couldn't let himself fade into the background. Not now. Not with Arsenal on the horizon.
---
In the streets of Middlesbrough, the mood was oddly… zen. The locals didn't know if they could beat Arsenal, and, for once, they weren't making bold predictions.
Manchester City's upset had humbled everyone.
Nobody had expected them to knock out a Premier League giant—yet they had. That very memory made people cautious—hopeful, but cautious.
The fans' attitude was simple: enjoy the moment. How often does a Championship side get to test itself against a club like Arsenal?
The newspapers, of course, had no such restraint. Headlines screamed across sports pages:
"American Wonderkid Jake Ashbourne Faces Arsenal!"
"Dark Horse vs. the Gunners—Could Lightning Strike Twice?"
"Middlesbrough's Defenders Can't Stop Arsenal… But Can Arsenal Stop Jake Ashbourne?"
---
Elsewhere, rival supporters didn't hold back:
"Middlesbrough beating Arsenal? Forget it."
"Wenger's Arsenal are too organized. Man City were in bad form; Arsenal aren't."
"Sure, Jake's good. But Arsenal's attack will rip that defense apart."
The betting odds told the same story.
At the top sportsbooks, Arsenal were overwhelming favorites—barely over evens for a win but more than ten to one for Middlesbrough to pull off the shock.
---
Manager Mark Morrow stood in front of the whiteboard in the locker room, his face unreadable.
"Gentlemen, I'll be honest," he began. "I've watched Arsenal's tapes over and over. When a team has this much firepower, there's no magic tactic that guarantees victory."
He clicked his marker, sketching the formation on the board.
Five defenders. Four in midfield. Onajeke as the lone striker.
Marcus Tell frowned. "Parking the bus?"
"Exactly," Morrow said without shame. "We defend first. Onajeke, you'll track back when needed. Everyone—if you win the ball, you look for Jake. He decides the next move."
He turned to Marcus. "You'll be our spearhead on the counter. Draw fouls. Get us set-pieces. You know how dangerous Jake's free kicks are."
Finally, he faced Jake directly. "Son, don't waste energy dribbling into trouble. Save it. You're playing the full ninety this time, and you're our only real chance of cracking them open."
Jake nodded once, eyes sharp. "Got it, coach."
---
As the meeting broke up, players filed past Jake, each giving him a pat on the shoulder. It wasn't just encouragement—it was trust. The weight of their hopes sat squarely on his young frame.
And Jake?
He didn't shrink from it.
If he could beat Manchester City and earn a Full 100 attribute from the system… what reward would beating Arsenal bring? His pulse quickened at the thought.
---
The next morning, the team bus rolled out of the training ground. Dozens of local fans were waiting outside, waving scarves and chanting:
"Go on, Boro!"
"Let's go, Jake!"
"Onajeke! Two goals today!"
The warmth carried them down to London.
But the moment the bus pulled up to the Emirates Stadium, the air shifted. Red and white swallowed every corner of the street. Arsenal fans surrounded them, chanting their own battle cry.
"Arsenal! Arsenal! Arsenal!"
As Jake stepped off the bus, a group of home supporters spotted him.
"Hey, kid! You belong at Arsenal!"
"Only the Gunners can give you the stage you deserve!"
Jake smirked, slipping his earbuds in. Let's see if you're still saying that after ninety minutes.
Arsenal were a giant.
Even in the cramped away dressing room of the Emirates, the air felt heavier, the walls closing in under the weight of their reputation. Mark Morrow's voice was low but sharp as he read out Arsenal's starting eleven from the whiteboard.
4-2-3-1.
Up front: Olivier Giroud, a striker built like a marble statue. Behind him: Mesut Özil—the German playmaker whose eyes seemed to see passes others didn't even imagine. On the flanks, Alexis Sánchez and Danny Welbeck, two relentless engines of pace and pressure. The midfield duo: Mathieu Flamini and Santi Cazorla, steel and silk.
Their backline was no less fearsome, and the bench—Rosický, Chamberlain—meant they had reinforcements most Championship clubs could only dream of.
From paper alone, Arsenal were the favourites. And much of that was down to Arsène Wenger. The Frenchman had kept the Gunners competitive even while selling stars and balancing the books—a feat Jake had heard veteran players speak about with respect.
But respect wouldn't win today.
The noise struck them the moment they stepped into the tunnel. The Emirates was a sea of red and white, over 60,000 voices merging into a living, roaring wall of sound. Jake had played at the Etihad, but this… this was different.
He kept his eyes forward—until a voice, dripping with mockery, cut through the noise.
"American Wonderkid, huh?Best hope you don't cry when things get rough," sneered Mesut Özil—though his tone was far colder than the quiet playmaker Jake had imagined from TV. His pale eyes glittered with contempt.
Jake felt a flicker of annoyance. He ignored him.
Özil stepped closer. "Don't think a few clubs showing interest makes you special.
Jake's lips curled into a slow, cold smile. "Maybe. But at least I'm better than you you son of bit@h
Özil's eyes narrowed, the insult sinking in. "what did you call me—"
"Pretty quick on the uptake," Jake cut him off.
The temperature in the tunnel dropped. Onajeke stepped forward like a storm front, placing himself between Jake and Özil. "You got a problem, you take it up with me," the Nigerian striker growled.
Flamini grabbed Özil's arm. Marcus Tell pulled Onajeke back. Hands grabbed at shirts, elbows jabbed, and, in an instant, the tunnel was a mess of shoves and furious glares.
Someone shoved Jake from behind. He twisted, and, in the chaos, his palm cracked across Özil's cheek—once, twice, three times. No one could tell who'd done it, least of all Özil, who was being dragged backwards with fresh red marks across his face.
The referee's whistle shrieked above the commotion. Security surged in, forcing the two teams apart. Hair was mussed, tempers flared, and promises of revenge hung heavy in the air.
Jake met Özil's stare one last time. Neither looked away.
When kick-off came, Arsenal emerged first to a hero's welcome. Jake and Middlesbrough followed, drowned in boos from the home crowd.
Onajeke leaned in as they jogged out. "Watch that dead-fish-eyed bastard. He'll try something. Protect yourself. We've got you."
Jake nodded, his chest warm despite the cold hostility in the air.
The whistle blew. Onajeke tapped the ball back to Jake. In an instant, Özil came flying in—too fast, too close. Jake played the pass wide, but the German made no effort to avoid him, shoulder-checking him onto the turf.
The referee's whistle screamed. Foul.
And just like that, the match caught fire.
Shoulders slammed. Elbows slid in where the ref couldn't see. Every fifty-fifty was a war. Arsenal fans roared for blood.
"Break them!"
"Send these lower-league scrubs home in pieces!"
Middlesbrough's travelling diehards hurled the insults back.
"What's your name again?!"
"You'll remember us when we're through with you!"
It wasn't just football anymore.
It was a street fight in boots.
And the gunpowder had only just been lit.
The Emirates Stadium was a boiling cauldron.
From the stands, the noise wasn't just cheering—it was a storm of curses, jeers, and insults hurled like verbal missiles across the pitch.
If the fans were this heated, the players on the field were pure fire.
Bodies clashed, tackles came harder, and every challenge seemed to carry the weight of pride, vengeance, and perhaps even a touch of spite.
The referee had clearly decided that tonight would not be about yellow cards. His scale for fouls was generous, almost dangerous. He'd blow the whistle, award the free kick, but stop short of punishment. If he had actually enforced the rules by the book, half the players would have been sent off before halftime.
Five minutes in.
Marcus Tell received the ball wide on the left, the crowd roaring in his ears. Morrow's instructions echoed in his head: Don't think, just drive.
He took off, muscles pumping, boots chewing at the pristine Emirates turf.
But he didn't make it far.
Two Arsenal defenders converged like predators closing in on prey, sandwiching him in a crunching tackle. Tell went sprawling, the ball nicked away and recycled into Arsenal's possession.
The pass rolled into the feet of Mesut Özil.
The German playmaker barely had time to scan the field when—BAM!—a shoulder smashed into his side like a freight train. He went down hard, clutching his ribs, his face twisted in theatrical pain.
The whistle blew.
Arsenal free kick. A foul.
From a few yards away, Epson just spat on the turf and muttered under his breath, "Pathetic."
He hadn't forgotten how Özil had been going after Jake in the tunnel. "Picking on the kid, huh? Guess that's your kind of game," he sneered, his voice low enough for only a few nearby players to hear.
Olivier Giroud stepped up for the free kick. He rose, met the ball… but his header was weak, floating harmlessly into the waiting arms of the Middlesbrough goalkeeper.
In one motion, the keeper rolled it out to Epson, who began to push forward. Ahead of him, Jake, Tell, and Onajeke were already on the move—three sharp blades ready to cut through Arsenal's defense.
But Epson's pace wasn't enough. A shadow closed in from behind, forcing him to play it safe by sliding the ball across to Jake.
Jake barely had time to control it before a flash of red and white came tearing in—Özil, sliding in hard. His trailing leg lifted just a fraction too high, a scissors motion disguised as an "accident."
Jake's instincts screamed at him to jump clear, but instead of dodging, he let the tackle connect—and as he fell, his right boot "accidentally" stamped down on Özil's ankle.
Both men cried out.
The stadium gasped.
The whistle cut through the noise as team doctors sprinted in from both sidelines.
On the Middles bench, Mark Morrow's jaw was tight, his pacing frantic.
Please, not Jake. Not now. We can't afford to lose him…
Fans all over the U.S. watching the live stream exploded in rage.
"That was dirty! Straight up trying to injure him!"
"I used to respect Özil—never again."
"Send him off! That was a career-ender attempt!"
What no one knew—except Jake—was that he was fine. He just played it up, grimacing while the physio prodded his leg.
Özil, however, wasn't acting. Blood stained his sock, and when the bandage came off, his ankle was swollen and an angry red.
Arsène Wenger's face looked carved from stone. This wasn't in the script. Özil was supposed to control the midfield all night, not hobble off before halftime. With a reluctant wave, he called for Rosický to warm up.
As Jake jogged back onto the field, the Middlesbrough section erupted.
"Serves you right!"
"Dirty doesn't pay, Özil!"
One fewer Arsenal player made all the difference. The next sequence was lightning—Jake took the restart, launched a laser pass to Tell, who tore down the wing unhindered, the red wall suddenly full of cracks.
The whistle blew again—Middles free kick, deep in Arsenal territory.
The tide had turned.