Time ticked away with the slow cruelty only football can deliver. Every minute felt like an eternity, every second stretched taut like a string threatening to snap.
Arsenal pressed forward like wolves scenting blood. They weren't satisfied with a draw. Not here. Not at the Emirates. The red shirts swarmed Middlesbrough's half, and goalkeeper Wojciech Szczęsny had abandoned the comfort of his box, standing near the edge of the penalty arc, shouting orders as he squeezed his defensive line higher and higher.
Middlesbrough were suffocating.
By the eightieth minute, Omedo collapsed to the turf, legs trembling from exhaustion. The boos rained down instantly. Tens of thousands of Arsenal fans jeered, convinced it was time-wasting.
But Mark Marrow knew better. His players were breaking. He had no choice.
Three substitutions in one breath — two defenders and a midfielder. Young Abdu was sent on to shore up the middle, his role clear: help Jake Ashbourne, give him one more outlet.
On the opposite bench, Arsène Wenger shuffled his pack too, replacing the ever-dangerous Alexis Sánchez with Theo Walcott — raw pace, chaos embodied.
The fresh legs gave Middles some defensive breath, but Arsenal's siege never let up. Walcott stretched the field, darting into half-spaces, whipping in dangerous runs that dragged Middles' defenders all over. Giroud prowled like a predator, his presence inside the box a constant threat.
And still, somehow, the underdogs resisted.
Block after block, tackle after tackle. Middlesbrough's new subs threw themselves into challenges like men possessed. But Jake could feel it — the tension tightening in his chest, the Golden Thread buzzing faintly in the back of his vision. It felt like the whole game was wound up into one fragile wire, threatening to snap.
Arsenal's frustration grew. The clock was cruel. Five minutes left.
Cazorla pushed higher, drifting forward in desperation, searching for space that wasn't there. Every red shirt hurled forward in waves, trying to batter the Championship side into collapse.
And then — heartbreak almost came.
Eighty-ninth minute. Giroud rose like a tower, meeting a cross with a header that seemed destined for glory. Time slowed as the ball arced toward the net. But Mesías, Middles' keeper, stretched every inch of his frame and clutched it. The ball stuck to his gloves like glue.
The away fans roared as Mesías collapsed theatrically to the ground, hugging the ball like it was his own child. He bought precious seconds, but the referee wasn't having it — a yellow card for time-wasting.
Still, the board went up: five minutes of added time.
The Emirates roared like a storm. Five minutes to break Middles. Five minutes to end the fairytale.
Mesías hoofed the ball long, and Jake leapt with Cazorla for the header. He lost the duel — Arsenal regained possession instantly.
Here they came again. Walcott cut inside, slipping a pass to Flamini. The Frenchman tried a speculative long shot through the crowd of bodies. It ricocheted wildly but fell to Abdu, who pounced on the rebound.
Jake's eyes lit up. He spread his arms, barking the command: Go!
Marcus Tell and Onajeke sprinted forward like sprinters off the blocks — one cutting through the center, the other peeling wide. This was it: their last throw of the dice.
The counterattack roared to life.
Abdo pushed forward but was instantly met by Welbeck. A quick one-two with Jake, slick as silk, sent Abdo surging past halfway. The Emirates gasped as Middles committed numbers for the first time in nearly half an hour.
Four players charging forward.
The clock ticked into the 94th minute.
Every Middles fan in the away corner rose to their feet, hearts hammering, voices breaking. This was it. One attack. The only attack of the half.
Jake's legs burned, but he didn't stop. He darted diagonally, scanning, the Golden Thread beginning to shimmer in his mind. Threads of light stretched ahead of him, showing the faintest path between Arsenal's frantic defenders.
Onajeke cut inside at the perfect moment, dragging Gibbs with him. Space opened. A gap — the gap.
"NOW !" Jake screamed, calling for the ball.
Abdo never hesitated. He slid the pass through. Gibbs lunged desperately, clipping Abdo down from behind. Foul! But the referee raised his arms immediately — advantage!
The ball skipped loose, hanging in the air like destiny itself.
Jake's eyes locked onto the Golden Thread.
One moment. One chance.
He didn't think. He didn't blink. He just swung his right foot through the ball with everything left in his soul.
CRACK!
The strike echoed around the stadium. A volley as clean as lightning, the ball slicing through the night like a comet.
Onajeke barreled into the box, dragging defenders with him, forcing Szczęsny into hesitation. For half a second the Arsenal keeper was frozen, caught between diving for the ball or guarding against a header.
Too late.
The ball screamed past him, curling into the top right corner.
GOAL!
The net bulged violently. Time stopped. Then — an explosion.
The away corner of the Emirates erupted in a frenzy. Thousands of Middles fans leapt as one, tears streaming, arms flung around strangers. Players poured onto the pitch, mobbing Jake, piling onto him until he disappeared under a mountain of teammates. Even the substitutes and coaching staff sprinted from the bench, screaming, laughing, crying.
Mark Marrow was on his knees, fists clenched, eyes shining.
Arsenal's defenders stood frozen, faces blank, unable to process what had just happened.
The scoreboard lit up. Arsenal 2 - 3 Middlesbrough.
At the death. Against all odds.
The commentators lost their minds:
"JAKE ASHBOURNE! UNBELIEVABLE! IN THE LAST MINUTE OF STOPPAGE TIME, THIS AMERICAN KID HAS JUST WRITTEN HIMSELF INTO FA CUP HISTORY!"
"You can't script this! You can't plan for this! This is why we love football — because anything, anything is possible!"
Jake lay at the bottom of the pile, chest heaving, mind blank. He had no energy left, no words left. But above him, he could still hear it — thousands chanting, a single name rolling like thunder through the Emirates.
"JAAAAKE! JAAAAKE!"
In that moment, a legend wasn't just born.
It was announced to the world.
LOREEEEEEE!"
"You did it, Jake! Oh my God — this kid is unreal!"
"Boss! We won! We actually beat Arsenal at the Emirates!"
Jake Ashbourne could barely hear anything over the explosion of noise around him. His teammates were piling on top of him, tears in some eyes, shouts breaking out like thunder. Strong men who had run themselves into the ground were now sobbing like children, clinging to him as though he had just rewritten their fate.
The scoreboard blazed in the background: Arsenal 2–3 Middlesbrough.
A miracle.
Not a draw. Not penalties. Not a replay.
It was a last-minute dagger that silenced North London.
And Jake had been the one to wield it.
---
The Aftermath on the Pitch
Onajeke wrapped him in a bear hug, yelling in his ear, "Bro, you're not sixteen — you're twenty-seven in disguise! You're the damn Messiah of football!"
Marcus Tell grabbed Jake's face, shaking it with pure emotion. "You insane American! That shot — you had no right to take it! But you did — and you killed them!"
Jake just laughed, chest heaving, arms spread wide to the heavens. He could feel the weight of the moment pressing down on him. This wasn't just a win. This was a statement.
This was Arsenal. At the Emirates. With Wenger prowling the sidelines, Giroud towering in the box, Özil weaving his magic. And yet they had been undone — not by a veteran, not by a superstar, but by a kid from America who refused to bow his head.
The Emirates Stadium had gone silent for a full minute. Then, from scattered corners, applause began to echo. Arsenal fans, bruised by defeat, still rose to recognize what they had just witnessed. Even enemies of the night could not deny greatness when it appeared before them.
---
The Press Conference
After the final whistle, Mark Morrow was nearly shaking at the press conference table. His eyes were red, his voice thick with pride as he addressed the journalists.
"Tonight, Middlesbrough achieved something the world thought impossible. We came into the Emirates against one of Europe's giants. We suffered, we bled, but we never broke."
He paused, then smiled softly.
"And the reason is simple. Jake Ashbourne."
The cameras flashed wildly.
"Halftime, the lads were down. They thought it was over. Arsenal was swarming, and we couldn't breathe. I told them: Hold on. Just hold on. Because one boy kept saying, If you give me the chance, I'll kill the game. And he did. He always does."
Morrow's voice rose with emotion. "He's our heart. Our engine. The core of Middlesbrough. Without him, tonight is impossible."
---
Wenger's Response
When Arsène Wenger spoke, he carried the calm dignity of a man who had seen everything football could offer — except perhaps this.
"In this match, I cannot fault my players," Wenger said, hands clasped. "We dominated possession, created chances, pressed until the last second."
Then he leaned forward, voice grave.
"But football is cruel. And tonight, we did not lose to Middlesbrough. We lost to Jake Ashbourne."
The room went silent. Wenger continued:
"He is sixteen. Sixteen! But he plays with the vision of a master and the heart of a warrior. We know his name already — we made an offer for him before this match, and we will continue to pursue him. A talent like this deserves the grandest stage."
The words reverberated through the press room. Arsenal's legendary manager admitting defeat to a Championship teenager.
---
The Media Frenzy
The next morning, Jake's face dominated every sports headline in England.
"Emirates Stunned: Middlesbrough Slay Arsenal in FA Cup Thriller!"
"From Ohio to Emirates Glory: Who is Jake Ashbourne?"
"Wenger: We Didn't Lose to Boro, We Lost to Jake!"
Some tabloids screamed that Arsenal were ready to double their bid for him. Others asked whether Middlesbrough — Championship underdogs — could actually lift the FA Cup with this wunderkind at their core.
For Middles fans, though, the answer didn't matter. Jake was already a legend.
---
Back With the System
Jake, exhausted in his hotel room, finally had a moment to himself. He collapsed onto the bed, chest still buzzing with adrenaline, when the familiar chime rang in his head.
[Congratulations: You defeated Arsenal. Reward unlocked. Choose one of two.]
Option 1: One lottery draw.
Option 2: Golden Thread ×5.
Jake smirked. "Golden Threads are good. But attribute points last forever. Let's roll the dice."
The system whirred.
[Ding! Reward: +40 Attribute Points.]
Jake whistled low. "Forty? That's insane."
He pulled up his stats, eyes dancing. He could feel his game shifting already. His dribbling — already sharp — was now elite. His set pieces and passing? World-class. And for the first time, his speed was climbing.
"Soon," Jake whispered to himself, fists clenched. "Soon I won't just survive against giants. I'll destroy them."
---
Closing Thoughts
On that February night, under the floodlights of the Emirates, something unforgettable had happened.
A teenager from America, mocked by some for daring to dream in the land of football, had silenced one of England's greatest clubs with a single strike.
Not just a goal.
Not just a win.
A moment of lore.
The legend of Jake Ashbourne had truly begun.
The morning after the miracle at the Emirates, Middlesbrough's training ground was unusually quiet. Mark Morrow, ever the stern yet fatherly manager, had done something unexpected: he gave the entire squad a day off.
The Arsenal match had drained them — physically, mentally, emotionally. His players had emptied their tanks in that unforgettable FA Cup clash. And though another league fixture loomed in just three days, Morrow decided rest was the greatest weapon they could carry forward.
"Football isn't only about running harder," Morrow had told his staff. "It's about knowing when to breathe."
But for Jake Ashbourne, rest wasn't in his vocabulary. Sixteen years old, with the whole of England suddenly whispering his name, his body might have felt the toll, but his mind — his burning hunger — refused to ease.
While his teammates scattered across town, some enjoying coffee shops, others retreating home to families, Jake sought out Thomas, the club's fitness coach.
"Thomas," Jake said, sweat already glistening on his brow from the jog he'd taken just to clear his thoughts. "I want to work on my speed."
The coach nearly dropped his clipboard. "Speed? Jake, you played ninety minutes against Arsenal yesterday. Ninety minutes of being hunted by Flamini, Ramsey, and bloody Özil breathing down your neck. You need recovery, lad."
Jake shook his head, curls bouncing stubbornly. "That's exactly why. I can't just stand still and celebrate one goal. If I want to compete with the best, if I want to stay at this level, I need to get faster. Stronger. Sharper."
Thomas sighed heavily. He'd dealt with obsessive players before, but this was different. Jake wasn't just obsessed — he was… destined. "Fine," the coach relented, pointing a finger sternly. "But light. You hear me? Thirty minutes, no more. If you go beyond that, I'll drag you out myself."
Jake grinned, the fire in his chest refusing to dim. "Deal."
And so, while Middlesbrough rested, Jake pushed himself again. Sprint drills. Acceleration bursts. Footwork ladders. Every step was a promise to himself: he wouldn't just be good, he'd be unforgettable.
---
Two days later came the 31st round of the Championship. Middlesbrough hosted Birmingham, a once-proud club now trapped in mediocrity. Morrow fielded a heavily rotated side, saving his stars. Jake started on the bench.
By halftime, Boro trailed 0–1. The Riverside grew tense. The second half brought little improvement, and in the 80th minute, Morrow glanced down the bench, jaw tight.
"Jake," he finally said. "Warm up."
The crowd erupted when the boy wonder stepped onto the pitch. And instantly, the sluggish Middles midfield found rhythm again. In the 83rd minute, Jake slid a sublime through ball to Tell on the wing. The winger was hacked down brutally — free kick.
Jake placed the ball, eyes narrowing. The stadium hushed.
One breath.
One step.
One strike.
The ball soared, curling viciously into the top corner. Net bulged. Goalkeeper frozen. Equalizer.
1–1.
The match ended in a draw, but the headlines weren't about Birmingham. They were about him.
---
The weeks that followed saw Middlesbrough climb again. A 3–1 against Leeds. A 4–0 demolition of Bolton. A tight 3–2 win over Sheffield Wednesday. Jake orchestrated everything — assists, goals, passes that split defenses like a scalpel.
By March, the league had named him Player of the Month. At sixteen. An American kid whom nobody had heard of six months earlier was now on every pundit's lips.
The British press compared him to Gerrard, to Lampard, to Pirlo. American media have hailed him as the "savior " U.S. soccer had always dreamed of. Yet Jake ignored it all. Hype was dangerous. He had only one focus: getting better.
---
It was on a rainy March afternoon, in a quiet café tucked away from the main streets of Middlesbrough, that his world truly shifted.
Jake sat with his agent, Pere Guardiola, who had brought along his older brother. The brother was no ordinary man — he was Pep Guardiola, the genius of Barcelona's golden era, now crafting his next empire in Europe.
Jake stirred his coffee nervously. He'd faced Arsenal at the Emirates and stared down world-class midfielders. But sitting across from Pep felt like facing destiny itself.
Pep leaned forward, eyes alight. "Jake, I've watched every one of your matches. Leeds. Bolton. Arsenal. Even your early games in the Championship. You're not just talented — you see football differently. The way you dictate tempo, the calmness in your passes, the courage in your shots…" Pep smiled. "It's rare. It's the kind of rare managers build dynasties around."
Jake swallowed hard. "But… I'm only sixteen."
Pere cut in smoothly. "And that's why we must be careful. Minutes are everything. Development is everything. We can't afford you sitting on a bench, Jake."
Pep nodded, acknowledging his brother's point. "True. I won't lie to you. At a big club, you won't walk into the starting XI. You'll fight for it. You'll prove yourself every training, every match. But I can promise you one thing." He leaned closer, voice steady. "You will play. I'll give you minutes. I'll give you chances. And if you take them, Jake… the whole of Europe will know your name."
Jake's heart pounded. For a boy who once juggled a ball in American suburbs, dreaming of stadiums he'd only seen on TV, this wasn't just an offer — it was a promise of immortality.
And yet, his mind flickered back to Morrow. To Onajeke's grin. To Marcus Tell's teasing shouts in training. To the Riverside crowd chanting his name.
Was he ready to leave all that behind?
Pep's eyes didn't waver. "Jake, football careers are short. You must decide what kind of story you want to write."
Jake gripped his coffee cup tightly. He didn't answer