The top powerhouse in the Premier League.
In the past three seasons? Two league titles, one FA Cup. Dominance in sky blue.
And up front? Sergio Agüero—small in stature, giant in impact.
Since joining the Blue Moon, he'd never dropped out of the Premier League's top ten scorers.
This season, he was in electric form—already leading the golden boot race.
When the FA Cup fourth-round draw paired Middlesbrough with City, the collective optimism that had been bubbling after recent wins fizzled in seconds.
"Man City?!"
"Well… that's the end of our run."
"Doesn't matter. Just give it our best shot—how often do you get to see our lads face a side like that?"
Mark Marrow's players were realistic.
Luck hadn't been kind to them in the draw—but there were still three Championship matches before City arrived at the Riverside.
Three more rounds to balance rotation, points, and preparation.
Marrow made his intentions clear. The league mattered, but this was about sharpening steel for the coming storm.
Not every Championship side got to stare down the best in England.
---
25th Round – Away at Reading
Jake Ashbourne and Onajeke were both rested.
Without them, Middlesbrough looked… hollow.
The slick triangles, the tempo, the clever angles—all gone.
From the touchline, Marrow's jaw tightened.
It wasn't that his team were bad—it was that Jake's vision and passing disguised every crack. Without him, the flaws were exposed like broken brickwork. No organiser, no rhythm, no teeth.
Before, there was always Jake—dropping deep, receiving under pressure, linking everything.
Now?
Nothing.
The first half limped to a goalless close. Dull. Predictable.
Marrow had seen enough.
Second half, Jake and Onajeke came on.
Instant transformation.
The gears clicked back into place, the ball zipped around again, Reading's defensive shape stretched and strained.
In the 65th minute, Jake spotted it—a sliver of space, a run beginning to arc.
His boot met the ball, sending a perfect long pass over two defensive lines, curving like it was drawn on a canvas.
Onajeke's chest control was silk, his acceleration ruthless. Into the box, one-on-one.
He shaped right. The keeper bit.
The shot went left.
1–0.
Goal. Game. Three points.
From the far side, Onajeke's thumb shot skyward toward Jake.
Reading parked the bus after that, and Marrow didn't mind. No need to drain legs with City looming.
---
The Next Two Matches
Both at home.
Both 2–1 wins.
Marrow rotated where he could, but Jake always started—subbed only after the lead was secure.
Fans barely celebrated the league points.
Everyone's eyes were already on Saturday.
---
Training Ground – The Week of Manchester City
Intensity was through the roof.
Facing a Premier League giant wasn't just about the cup—it was a shop window.
Play well here, and a bigger stage, bigger wages, and bigger spotlight could be yours.
Some players shone once against a top side and vanished. Others launched careers.
Jake jogged his cooldown laps in silence after training, the North Sea wind biting at his cheeks.
His mind drifted inward—to the "system."
Cardiff City, last round, had given him another completed growth task :
+10 attribute points.
One god-level breakthrough experience card.
Until now, he'd put all his points into physicality.
This time? Dribbling.
With previous training bonuses plus these 10 points, his dribbling stat hit 70—Championship average for wingers. For a central midfielder like him? Dangerous.
System off. Back to reality.
That morning, Pere Guardiola had dropped by his apartment.
Chelsea had asked if Jake would be interested in moving to Stamford Bridge.
Abramovich himself liked him.
They were willing to pay his release clause and add £10,000 per week to his wages.
Tempting—but Pere was blunt.
The push was from Abramovich, not from José Mourinho. Chelsea's midfield was already stacked: Cesc Fàbregas, Oscar...etc
If Jake went now, minutes would be scarce.
Chelsea talk aside, Pere's real reason for visiting was good news.
A sponsorship deal was on the table.
The offer came from an unexpected corner — an American sportswear brand called IronClad Sports.
In the basketball world, they were already making noise after signing NBA sharpshooter Klay Thompson to a six-year, $18 million USD deal. Now, they wanted to make a serious push into European football — and they saw Jake Ashbourne as their headline signing.
Their proposal: $1.5 million over ten years.
To most young players, that would sound like a dream. But to Jake, it felt like a trap.
Sitting across from Pere in a small meeting room near Rockliffe Park, Jake listened as his agent laid out the numbers. Pere spoke like a man who'd done this a hundred times, highlighting the potential in U.S. markets and the stability of a long-term deal.
Jake leaned back, his hunter-green eyes narrowing slightly. "Ten years is forever in football. I could be on a whole other level by then — different league, different continent. Not locking myself down unless there's an escape hatch and performance bonuses big enough to make it worth my while."
Pere smiled faintly. "That's the American in you. Always thinking about the next play before the whistle blows."
Jake's lips curved into a smirk. "That's how you win games."
They agreed to leave any decision until after the Manchester City game. For now, football came first.
---
The FA Cup had drawn Middlesbrough away to the Etihad.
In the local Teesside press, it was framed as a chance for young players to test themselves — a free hit against one of the best in the Premier League. Win and it would be historic. Lose and no one could fault them.
The national media, though, sharpened their knives:
"The Grumpy Lion Turns Kitten Before the Blue Moon"
"Boro's streak in the Championship means nothing — City will put them back in their place."
"Onajeke and Tell may bully second-tier defences, but against the Premier League elite? Forget it."
Online, Boro supporters pushed back:
"At least we're here. Half the league's watching from home."
"Is losing to Man City even embarrassing? Really?"
"If you're comparing us to Prem teams, you're basically saying we belong there."
Inside the training ground, Mark Morrow didn't shield his players from the noise — he pinned it to the dressing-room wall.
"These are the people who think you're going to fold," he told them before training. "When you walk out at the Etihad, make them regret putting that in print."
---
On the pitch after the session, Onajeke jogged over to Jake, his grin wide.
"My season's nearly up here. Dortmund's calling."
Jake chuckled. "Trading Middlesbrough rain for German rain. Bold move."
They laughed, but the truth hung in the air — teammates would move on, challenges would get bigger, and the spotlight on Jake would only get hotter.
And deep down, he was ready for all of it.
Boom!
Boom!
As the players walked out of the tunnel, a wall of sound hit them. The Etihad was alive — a roaring sea of nearly 60,000 voices, every seat packed, every flag waving in City blue.
Jake had played in front of big crowds before. He'd felt the energy of the Riverside at full voice, the so-called "fortress" of the Championship.
But this?
This was something else entirely.
Not a single cheer was for him or Middlesbrough. The chants were pure City, every decibel meant to drown them.
On the touchline, Manuel Pellegrini stood calm, his team sheet built for dominance: a 4-2-3-1 with Sergio Agüero up top, David Silva pulling the strings, James Milner bringing grit, and Fernando anchoring the midfield.
Middlesbrough took the kickoff.
The whistle blew, and the ball rolled.
Within seconds, City pressed high, swarming like a machine built to suffocate. Jake was just moving into space to receive a pass from Epson when a blur of light blue closed in. Fernando slammed into him shoulder-first — hard.
The ball was gone. Jake was on the turf.
No whistle.
Fernando leaned down as he jogged past, voice low enough only for Jake to hear.
"Welcome to Manchester, kid."
Jake's jaw tightened. So that's how it was going to be. Physical. Ruthless.
Fine.
If England wanted a fight, he wasn't the type to back down. His frame might be lean, but he'd built the strength to hold his own — and he wasn't about to let some Premier League enforcer dictate the tempo.
Still, the gulf in quality was obvious. Every time Middlesbrough got the ball, City swarmed. Passing lanes shut down instantly, long balls to Onajeke were eaten up by Vincent Kompany, and even Marcus Tell on the wing barely touched it.
In Jake's vision, the pitch wasn't green anymore. Passing lanes were white noise — static. Nothing opened.
No. This couldn't go on.
He reached into that reservoir of confidence and mental steel, as if flipping a switch.
- The God-Level Breakthrough.
It was his last resort — and he activated it without hesitation.
"Ball. Now! " he barked to Epson.
Epson didn't even look up, just fired the pass. Milner was already closing in.
Jake's first touch felt different — sharper, lighter. His instincts clicked into overdrive. Fernando lunged again, aiming to bully him off the ball. Jake's right foot slid over the top, popping it up and over Fernando's leg in one smooth flick.
Gasps rippled through the Etihad.
Jake didn't stop. He accelerated, burning past Fernando, his stride eating up yards before the second line of defense could react. Tell and Onajeke surged forward, sensing an opening.
Kompany and Dedryck Boyata stepped up together, a defensive wall Middlesbrough had no right to breach. Jake didn't flinch. A right-foot feint slid the ball left, sending Kompany lunging — then a quick drag-back with the left wrong-footed Boyata entirely.
In one motion, he pushed the ball through the gap.
Gone.
Both centre-backs left behind, the Etihad in stunned silence. Even Morrow on the touchline was frozen for a moment before muttering, "Holy shit…"
Jake was through on goal.
City's defenders scrambled, but the danger wasn't just him now. He shaped to shoot, eyes locked on the far corner — and at the last second, he slid a disguised pass across the box.
Onajeke was waiting.
The Nigerian striker didn't miss. He side-footed it into the empty net.
Silence. Then, from the small corner of travelling Middlesbrough fans — an explosion of joy.
0–1.
At the Etihad.
Jake jogged back, breathing steady, a hint of a smirk tugging at his lips. They wanted to test him physically. They just learned he could break them technically.
The roaring Etihad Stadium fell silent.
Onajike sprinted toward the corner where the travelling Middlesbrough supporters were gathered, arms outstretched, before thumbing to the name and number on his back in pure, unrestrained joy.
The away fans went wild.
"What's happening to Manchester City? We're playing Manchester City!"
"Get another one in!"
"Hold this lead! Victory is ours—let's advance!"
The Middlesbrough players swarmed Onajike, the celebration fueled by the knowledge of just how hard it had been to find that breakthrough.
City's relentless pressure had been suffocating.
But now… they had scored.
And everyone knew who had made it possible. Jake Ashbourne.
"You can really pull that off?" Tell muttered, shaking his head in disbelief. Jake had been hiding something from them.
"Picked it up from Thomas," Jake replied with that modest, almost shy grin of his.
The rest of the players could only shake their heads. It wasn't just that Jake had skill — it was that he could bring it out when it mattered most.
Plenty of players could perform a clever trick in training.
Doing it in a match, under pressure, against some of the Premier League's best — and turning it into a goal — was something else entirely.
In football, effort set the floor. Talent set the ceiling.
And Jake's ceiling… was something special.
From the directors' box, certain spectators took notice.
"Didn't they say dribbling was his weakness?"
"Maybe his numbers are just outdated. This kid's on another level right now."
Down on the pitch, the game resumed.
Manchester City wasted no time. After the restart, they ramped up their attack, their midfield pushing higher.
From the technical area, City's manager Manuel Pellegrini barked his orders.
"Mark that American! Don't let him get on the ball!"
City's midfield pinched inward, double-pivot and wingers all tightening the net around Jake.
Their strategy was clear: cut off Ashbourne, and Middlesbrough would lose their spark.
But Jake had been here before.
He didn't chain himself to the middle Marrow's tactics allowed him to roam. At times, Jake drifted wide, pulling Milner and Fernando into uncomfortable territory.
If they didn't follow, he'd break into space like a winger. If they did, they'd leave gaps in City's midfield for Middlesbrough's other players to exploit.
From the touchline, Pellegrini's frustration grew.
Meanwhile, in the stands, scouts and reporters scribbled furiously, already rewriting what they thought they knew about Jake Ashbourne.
City's threat was constant — Aguero prowled the box with dangerous intent — but Boro's backline, led by Ogilvy, held firm.
Then came the moment.
Ogilvy, under pressure, swung a goal-kick short to Jake deep in midfield.
One glance up — no passing lanes. Jake pushed forward with the ball, still under his burst of explosive form.
Milner shadowed him tightly. Jake feinted, slid the ball to Epson, then darted forward into open space.
Milner hesitated for just half a second — enough time for Epson to return the ball.
Jake's head lifted instantly.
"Onajike!"
The Nigerian striker was already moving, bursting between defenders.
Jake's pass split the backline, a curling, lofted delivery that dropped perfectly into Onajike's stride.
No need to control it — Onajike leapt, meeting it with a precise header that slammed the ball into the turf, sending it bouncing past Caballero and into the net.
2–0.
And the first half wasn't even over.
The away section exploded into delirium.
"Who said the weak can't defeat the strong?"
"We are Middlesbrough!"
"We are always chasing victory!"
"JAKE! JAKE!"
Etihad Stadium was roaring—but not in the way the home fans had expected.
It was the away section, a sea of red-and-white, belting out one name over and over.
"JAKE!"
"JAKE!"
They were diehards, the kind who'd follow Middlesbrough through rain, wind, or heartbreak. At home they were loud, but here, in Manchester's fortress, with their team leading 2–0 against one of the richest clubs in the world? They were deafening.
On the City bench, Manuel Pellegrini couldn't sit still. The first half wasn't even over, and they were two goals down to a Championship side. Outrageous. And worse—the goals had come less than ten minutes apart.
He barked instructions from the touchline, urging his players to tighten the press and push forward. But even as he did, his eyes kept drifting back to Jake Ashbourne.
Manchester City had been chasing Kevin De Bruyne from Wolfsburg, but this American kid… this midfield conductor from Middlesbrough… might be the real gem.
Why not both? the Chilean thought. De Bruyne would cost sixty, maybe seventy million. Jake Ashbourne? Ten, twenty at most. Chump change for City's owners.
The crowd gasped. Pellegrini's thoughts snapped back to the pitch—Sergio Agüero had unleashed a rocket from outside the box, only to see it rattle off the post. So close.
Moments later, Jake danced through midfield like it was a schoolyard scrimmage, dragging blue shirts with him before sliding a perfect ball to Onajike. But the Nigerian slipped at the vital moment, sending his shot high into the stands. He grimaced, thumbs-upped Jake in apology. That could have been three.
When the halftime whistle blew, the scoreboard still read Manchester City 0 – 2 Middlesbrough.
In the dressing room, Mark Morrow's voice was sharp but steady.
"Hold on to this lead! Everyone drops back when we lose the ball—yes, even you, Marcus, and you, Onajike. Delay their attack if you have to foul. Make every second count."
The players nodded. They already knew the unwritten plan: get the ball to Jake, and trust him to make the magic happen.
The second half began, and the Etihad's early swagger was gone. The home support was restless; the away end was electric. This was Manchester City—oil-rich, star-studded, double Premier League champions in three years—yet they were being humbled by a side from the second tier.
City came out pressing hard, choking off passing lanes. Fernando nicked the ball from Epson and immediately fed David Silva, who slipped Agüero through. The Argentine pulled the trigger—
—but Omedo flung himself in front, the ball ricocheting away.
Middlesbrough countered instantly. Jake picked it up in his own half, spotted Marcus Tell sprinting down the left, and lofted a 40-yard pass onto his boot. Tell drove forward, with Onajike charging through the middle. Just before entering the box, Tell was yanked down by Vincent Kompany.
The whistle shrieked. Yellow card. Free kick.
Jake stepped over the ball. Everyone knew it would be him—no discussion needed. He took a slow breath, remembering the countless hours he'd drilled these situations.
The wall leapt. The ball soared. Then it dipped like it had been pulled down by a string, curling viciously toward the near post. Caballero flung himself across, but the net bulged before his gloves could get there.
0–3.
At the Etihad.
Jake turned toward the home stands, index finger pressed to his lips, silencing the jeers that had greeted him earlier. Then he sprinted to the away section, arms wide, swallowed by the roar of the travelling fans.
Manchester City players trudged back to the center circle. The fans who had mocked Middlesbrough before kickoff sat stunned.
Because tonight, under the bright lights of Manchester, this wasn't a contest.
It was Jake Ashbourne's solo show.