In the directors' box, Pochettino also known as Tottenham hotsper manager leaned forward, unable to hide his smile.
"Damn," he murmured under his breath, applauding again. "That kid's got everything. Control, vision, guts."
This was the kind of midfielder he'd been dreaming about. The American playmaker in red and white was slicing Manchester City apart like he'd been born for this stage.
Pochettino didn't wait for the final whistle. He turned to his assistant.
"Get me a meeting with Daniel Levy tonight. We can't let another club move first."
---
Down on the pitch, the Etihad was a mess of mixed emotions. The Manchester City fans were pale-faced, staring at the scoreboard like it was a bad joke. 0–3. To a Championship side.
Jake Ashbourne was the conductor of the chaos — two perfect assists and a goal that felt like a dagger. Middlesbrough had parked the bus after the third, but they still stung City on the break, with Jake pulling the strings.
In the final minutes, City found a lifeline — Sergio Agüero buried a penalty. But the 1–3 scoreline felt hollow. The FA Cup holders were out, and the giant had fallen.
---
Post-match press conference.
Mark Marrow walked in with a grin he couldn't suppress. "Just what I told you," he said to the reporters, "Jake's shown tonight he can dominate against Premier League midfields. He's the core of this team. He's the real deal."
A journalist from The Guardian raised a hand. "Are you prepared to lose him if a big club comes calling?"
Marrow's smile tightened. "We're prepared to keep giving a young talent like him the platform he deserves. Middlesbrough isn't a stepping stone — at least, I hope it's not."
---
The media storm that followed was predictable.
"FA Cup Shock: Manchester City Dumped Out by Championship Side"
"Is Pellegrini's Job in Jeopardy After Tactical Disaster?"
"American Midfield Prodigy Jake Ashbourne Tears Manchester City Apart"
Clubs were already calling. Pochettino wasn't the only one with Jake on a shortlist.
---
When the team bus rolled back into Middlesbrough, the streets were lined with cheering fans. Jake barely made it to the players' entrance before a wall of hands, shirts, and scarves blocked his way.
"Jake! Sign here!"
"Over here! My shirt!"
One girl even shouted, "Tattoo your name right here!" pointing to her collarbone.
Jake laughed, signing with the smooth, looping handwriting he'd practiced in his free time
---
Later, while the rest of the squad headed into town to celebrate, Jake went back to his small flat. The celebrations could wait — the system couldn't.
He fired it up. The familiar interface flashed in front of his eyes.
[Congratulations: Victory in FA Cup Round 4 – Reward: System Lottery Available]
He hit Start. Golden light filled the screen.
[You have received: God-Level Attribute Card ×1]
Silence....
Jake's heart kicked. "No way…"
He'd seen what god-level boosts could do. This wasn't an experience card. This was permanent.
He opened his stats panel:
Body: 80
Stamina: 80
Shooting: 40
Dribbling: 70
Interceptions: 32
Passing: 100
Set Pieces: 38
God-Level Attribute Card ×1
There was no hesitation. "Set pieces," he whispered. "This time it's mine for good."
---
[Set Pieces: 100]
Jake grabbed his boots and jogged straight to the training ground. Under the glare of the floodlights, with the night air biting at his cheeks, he placed the first ball on the edge of the box.
Whip — top corner.
Whip — top corner again.
He stepped back. Twenty-five yards. Thirty. Forty. Still, the ball kissed the net like it was magnetized. From the halfway line, the accuracy only dropped a fraction.
On one last attempt, the ball curved over an imaginary wall, grazing the post and nestling in.
A slow clap broke the silence. Mark Marrow was leaning on the railing, filming on his phone.
"You know," Marrow said, "the rest of the squad's out drinking, and you're here turning into Beckham and Pirlo's love child. Arsenal just faxed us an offer. Five million pounds. They want you in January."
Jake smirked, breathing hard. "Tell them they'll have to do better."
Marrow just shook his head. How long can Middlesbrough really keep him?
--
Mark Marrow sat behind his desk, staring at the fax in his hands like it was a live grenade.
The red Arsenal crest at the top seemed to glow under the office lights, each letter of the club name mocking him with silent arrogance.
Five million pounds.
For Jake Ashbourne.
Mark leaned back in his chair, his jaw tightening. He wanted to rip the paper in half and toss it straight into the bin. But this wasn't just any club—this was Arsenal, one of England's footballing powerhouses, managed by the legendary strategist, Arsène Wenger. For a young player, it was the kind of call you dream about since you were a kid kicking a ball against the garage door.
On paper, it was irresistible.
In Mark's heart—it was infuriating.
He'd already sold his Nigerian striker, Onajeke, to Borussia Dortmund. Losing Jake as well would be ripping the spine out of the team. Middlesbrough with Jake was a lion that hunted in packs. Without him? Just another second-tier club trying to survive.
But the problem was clear: the management upstairs could smell money. And five million pounds wasn't just tempting—it was life-changing for a club that barely scraped together twenty million a year in total budget.
Mark slammed the paper down.
"Not for sale," he muttered to himself. "Not for any price."
He gave his answer the next day.
Firm rejection.
Jake was the core. End of discussion.
But Wenger wasn't a man to give up after one knock on the door. Another offer arrived within 48 hours—six million this time.
The British press went into overdrive.
"Arsenal Circling Teenage Midfield Genius!"
"16-Year-Old Jake Ashbourne Humiliates Manchester City—Now Wanted by Giants"
Clips from the FA Cup match were plastered all over sports networks. Two assists, one stunning goal, and a masterclass in midfield control had turned Jake from "promising" to "must-buy" overnight.
His story spread like wildfire—an American teenager with no elite academy background, briefly rejected by Barcelona's youth system, now dragging a Championship club into the promotion race. The youngest assist leader in the league. The architect of Manchester City's humiliation.
And then came Chelsea.
Ten million pounds. Double his release clause. Abramovich wasn't playing games.
Soon Liverpool and even City themselves entered the race. For the giants, spending £15–20 million on a prodigy wasn't risky—it was pocket change. In their eyes, Jake was a lottery ticket with half the numbers already scratched off.
While the football world buzzed, Jake himself barely looked up from his training.
That's what Pere Guardiola was for.
"Jake," Pere said one evening over dinner, "we need to aim higher. No more mid-table dreams. You're going to a club that needs you, where you'll still get minutes. Even as a sub, you'll prove yourself fast enough. I'll make sure of it."
Jake nodded, cutting his chicken. "Good. You handle the circus. I'll handle the football."
Meanwhile, in London, Mauricio Pochettino was fuming.
He had been first in the stands, first to spot the spark. Now Arsenal and Chelsea were trying to steal his prize.
On the phone to Tottenham's sporting director, he didn't mince words.
"I don't care what it costs. I want Jake Ashbourne. Picture it—Jake in midfield, Son on the wing, Kane up front. It'll terrify Europe."
"Poch, we've already spent thirty million on Sonny," came the reply. "The budget's tight."
"Then forget everyone else," Pochettino snapped. "Just get me Jake. Everything else can wait."
Somewhere in Middlesbrough, Mark Marrow knew the truth he didn't want to admit.
The hunt had begun.
And lions were circling...