Marcus Tell was still on the ground, grimacing as he clutched his ankle.
Chambers, who had been right beside him, went over with a smirk to mutter something—probably not a compliment. Tell shoved him back.
"What was that?! " Tell barked.
Chambers shoved him in return. "Welcome to the Premier League, rookie."
Before it could escalate, the referee sprinted over, arms wide. "Enough! Both of you, back off!" He turned to Chambers, reached into his pocket, and flashed a yellow card. The Arsenal defender threw up his hands, muttering under his breath as the Middlesbrough fans jeered.
The team physio jogged over to check Tell. "Nothing broken," he said quickly. "Bit of pain, but you can play."
Middlesbrough had a free kick—prime territory for Jake Ashbourne.
Coach Mark Morrow stood rigid on the touchline, fists clenched in anticipation. The away end at the Emirates Stadium was already buzzing. They had seen this before: when Jake stood over a dead ball, magic tended to happen.
"Come on, Jake !" a voice roared from the Middles fans.
Online, American viewers spammed the chat on the livestream.
"Here we go, baby!"
"If you don't know, this guy's 100% on free kicks this season."
"USA represent!"
Jake placed the ball carefully, squinting at Arsenal's wall. Rosický had clearly reorganized their shape—they were covering his preferred angles well. A direct shot? Maybe a 60% chance. But then… his eyes narrowed. A gap. Back post. Perfect for a ghost run.
He stepped back.
Three quick steps forward—his foot struck clean, not with the whip for goal but with a driven arc toward the far post.
"What?! It's a pass !" someone in the stands shouted.
Marcus Tell came flying in, completely unmarked, timing his run to perfection. The Arsenal keeper had stepped forward, expecting a shot. Bad mistake.
Tell calmly side-footed into the empty net.
GOAL!
The away end exploded. Middles fans went berserk, fists pumping, voices raw. Tell sprinted toward them, pulling off a celebratory somersault that sent the section into a frenzy.
"USA! USA!" a pocket of travelling Americans chanted.
On the Arsenal bench, Arsène Wenger's frown deepened. In the home dressing room, Mesut Özil—still in treatment—gritted his teeth at the sight.
Jake jogged over to Tell, giving him a quick chest bump. "Told you the run would be there," Jake said with a grin.
Two minutes later, Arsenal were back in possession, pushing forward. Sánchez and Giroud tried to break down Middles' deep block, probing for space. Gibbs overlapped on the left and whipped in a dangerous cross. Sánchez darted forward and lashed a shot—only for Ogilvy to hurl himself in the way, the ball ricocheting high into the air.
Jake was already moving before it landed. He read the bounce perfectly, cutting in front of Cazorla and cushioning it with his chest.
Onajeke saw him and instantly started his run.
Jake did not even look—just lofted a perfectly weighted ball over Arsenal's back line.
Onajeke burst through, chested it down, and, with the keeper closing, shaped to shoot right—then slid it left into the net.
GOAL! Again!
In just under five minutes, Middles had scored twice. Jake Ashbourne had two assists.
Mark Morrow punched the air on the touchline, roaring toward the fans. "That's how we do it!"
The Emirates crowd sat stunned. The away section? Absolute chaos.
The referee's whistle pierced the roar of the Emirates, confirming it—goal stands!
Middlesbrough, the Championship underdogs, were two goals up against Arsenal in their own fortress.
Mark Morrow's reaction was instant—leaping from the bench, fists clenched, a grin tearing across his face like a man who had just witnessed the impossible. This was not just a dream. It was happening. Against Arsenal. At the Emirates.
Above the pitch, in the far corner crammed with red-and-white scarves of the away persuasion, the Boro fans were losing their minds.
"JAKE!"
"JAKE ASHBOURNE!"
The chants were thunderous, relentless.
The home supporters responded with an equally fierce wall of boos, not just aimed at the visitors but at their own players. A Premier League giant being toyed with by a Championship side? Humiliating.
Social media back in the States even in morning was already melting down.
"Two assists in five minutes?! Someone sign this kid!"
"Jake's passing vision is unreal—prime Michael Bradley meets Pirlo!"
"Arsenal fans better start praying."
Even the livestream servers covering the match for U.S. viewers were struggling under the sudden surge. Jake's name was trending across sports forums faster than a Hail Mary touchdown on Super Bowl Sunday.
On the Arsenal bench, Arsène Wenger rubbed at his temples, eyes narrowing as he studied the American teenager running the show in midfield. The timing, the weight, the precision of his passes—it was surgical.
"Add more money," Wenger muttered to his assistant. "Get him."
The assistant blinked. Just hours earlier, they had decided to pass on him. Now? This was a fire they could not afford to let burn in someone else's colours.
Down on the pitch, Jake raised both arms, acknowledging the Boro fans. But inside, his mind stayed sharp. He knew Arsenal would not sit back now. They would come for blood.
The voice of his system chimed in his head:
[Special Achievement Unlocked: Wenger's Regret]
In proving your worth against a club that walked away from signing you, you've forced them to reconsider.
Reward: Golden Thread ×1
Golden Thread? He did not have time to process it—kick-off was coming.
Mark Morrow barked his orders. "Everyone—defend first! Get the ball to Jake when you can!"
The players nodded, though their faces betrayed exhaustion. Arsenal was coming at them like a hurricane, and the storm was only growing.
Within minutes, the Gunners adapted—cutting off Onajeke's runs, double-marking Marcus Tell, pressing Jake whenever he came near the ball.
But Arsenal's quality began to show. Cazorla and Flamini kept the ball glued to their boots, shifting it left and right, prying at the cracks.
In the 42nd minute, Kieran Gibbs found a yard of space on the flank. His cross curled perfectly into the box—Giroud muscled past Omédo, leapt, and smashed in a header.
2–1. The Emirates erupted, the sound pounding like artillery fire.
The Boro players sagged. The pressure was unrelenting; the pace, suffocating.
Jake clenched his jaw. If he did not find a way to shift momentum, Arsenal would steamroll them.
Half-time came with no further damage, but the dressing room was heavy with fatigue and dread. No one spoke. They did not have to—the fear of what was coming in the second half was written on every face.
Then Jake stood. His voice cut through the silence.
"Hold on," he said, scanning each teammate in turn. "As long as you hold on—one more goal at most—I'll finish them."
Heads turned. Even Morrow froze.
"I haven't even started dribbling at them yet," Jake said, a smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth. "We burn time, they burn energy. And when they're tired—when they think it's over—that's when I'll kill them."
Tell's eyes widened. Onajeke actually grinned.
For a sixteen-year-old, the confidence was staggering. But this was the same kid who had dragged them from relegation battles into the promotion race. The same kid who could bend a game's destiny with a single touch.
A spark lit in the room.
"Keep the score! " someone shouted.
"Middles must win! " echoed another.
When they walked back through the tunnel, the Arsenal players noticed it immediately—the Boro team they had left for dead now looked like they had just started the fight.
Jake jogged past the halfway line, eyes locked on the enemy, heart steady. He had made his promise.
Now, he would make them pay.
The second half kicked off under the roaring floodlights of the Emirates.
Wenger's half-time adjustments had sharpened Arsenal like a whetted blade. Their passes were crisper, movement more incisive, and the energy from the stands surged like a second wind beneath their boots.
The crowd, dressed in a sea of red and white, roared with renewed belief. Every clap, every chant, every stamping foot on the metal terraces reverberated in Jake Ashbourne's chest like the pounding of war drums.
It did not take long for Arsenal's momentum to bear fruit. A swift move—Cazorla slipping a clever ball through the lines, Sánchez darting inside, a cutback—and the net rippled. The Emirates erupted.
From the Middlesbrough bench, Mark Morrow clenched his fists.
Damn it… this is exactly what we feared.
The restart was chaos. Arsenal pressed high, suffocating Middlesbrough's build-up before it could breathe. The half-time tweaks—tightened cross-field pressing, immediate secondary challenges—were pinning Jake's team deep in their own half.
"Dangerous! Arsenal have completely flipped the script," the commentator's voice cracked through the stadium speakers and living-room TVs alike. "They've cut off Ashbourne's options, forcing him wide, forcing him backwards. And if Middlesbrough can't find a second outlet, this game will tip."
Jake could feel it too. It was not just about skill now—it was about survival. Onajeke could not carry the ball out; Marcus Tell was hounded into mistakes. Middlesbrough's clearance after clearance turned the match into a relentless half-court siege.
Minute 65.
The scoreboard read Arsenal 1–Middlesbrough 2… but the balance was tilting.
Another wave came. Sánchez slalomed past a lunging tackle, cut in, and whipped a shot inches over the bar. The Gunners were swarming.
Then, in the 75th minute, the dam broke. Cazorla's corner arced in with surgical precision. Giroud rose above the pack, and, with the thud of a hammer, headed it into the top corner.
2–2.
The Emirates detonated.
Chants of "Come on you Gunners!" rolled like thunder. Arsenal players surged back to the centre circle, eyes gleaming with predatory hunger.
On the pitch, Middlesbrough's bodies sagged. Sweat poured like rain. Omédo collapsed into cramps, the physio sprinting on to stretch his legs. Even Onajeke was bent over, hands on knees, breathing like a man running through sand.
And yet—Jake Ashbourne's heartbeat stayed steady. His mind, sharpened by the system's quiet hum, was calculating.
From the stands, the Middlesbrough faithful were quieter now. They had seen this story before: a smaller club surviving heroically, only to be crushed by the heavyweights' quality.
But in the shadows of their doubt, one fragile thread of belief remained.
Jake.
The commentators were not shy:
"He needs help. Middlesbrough don't have another player who can break the game open like Ashbourne."
"This is where his limitations show—without support, even the best threads fray."
Jake jogged to Onajeke and Tell during the restart.
"Still got something left?" His voice was low, controlled.
Onajeke forced a grin. "No problem… if you ignore the fact I can barely feel my legs."
Tell managed a chuckle, though his chest was heaving. "Run into space, create gaps—you'll know when to find us."
Jake's gaze hardened. "Good. Just… make the runs. I'll thread the needle."
In his mind, the Golden Thread shimmered faintly—a line invisible to all but him. A thread that, if pulled at the right moment, could unravel even Arsenal's defence.
The ball rolled from the kick-off, and Jake began to move. His running pattern changed—no more static positioning. Now he drifted between lines, darted into pockets, pulling Cazorla left, dragging Coquelin right. Every step was bait.
Arsenal noticed.
Cazorla shadowed him like a second skin, Gibbs stepped up in sync, and at least one more red shirt was always a heartbeat away.
They thought they had him boxed.
But Jake knew boxes had corners… and corners had edges sharp enough to cut.