Transfer rumors were swirling again.
Every other week, Middlesbrough's front office seemed to receive new offers for their brightest talents — and lately, Jake Ashbourne and Onajeke were at the top of every scout's list.
Most approaches came from fellow Championship sides, and manager Mark Morrow barely glanced at them before tossing them in the bin. But one letter made him pause — a formal offer from a Bundesliga club.
Germany's top flight.
One of Europe's big five leagues.
He knew the lure was dangerous. Players with ambition, like Onajeke, dreamed of testing themselves at the very top. And Jake? Even more perilous. Premier League sides had started circling — Chelsea, Liverpool… even Arsenal, with whispers of triggering his release clause outright.
"They're all vultures," Morrow muttered, staring at the bids in disgust.
---
After the twentieth league match, Morrow gave the squad two days off to recharge. Invitations to hang out flew Jake's way — teammates wanting to relax together — but he declined them all. His mind wasn't on rest.
Instead, he slipped away to the training ground, boots laced and ready.
Coach Thomas was away, so Jake worked alone, running through drills he'd memorised. Warm-up done, he called up the mental "system " he swore by — tracking his progress and setting new targets.
His latest stats were improving, especially after the last match's five attribute points boost.
He smiled, knowing his body felt stronger than ever, but one thing caught his attention — the system's main objective had changed.
Avoiding relegation was now only an optional task. Two new missions flashed before him:
1. Win promotion.
2. Win the Championship title.
Jake's jaw tightened. He didn't just want promotion — he wanted the trophy.
---
From his office window, Morrow spotted Jake training hard on his day off. The sight hit him in the chest. Talent and work ethic — a rare combination. Middlesbrough couldn't keep him forever… but maybe, just maybe, they could make this season unforgettable.
The gap to league leaders Watford? Nine points.
To fourth place Norwich? Just one.
A crazy thought hit him.
Why not go for it? Why not aim for the top while they still had Ashbourne and Onajeke?
---
Matchday. Riverside Stadium.
Round 21. Middlesbrough vs Derby County.
Inside half an hour, Boro were flying — two goals ahead. Both assists came from Jake's perfect through balls, with winger Marcus Tell, back from injury, doing the finishing.
Derby's game plan had been obvious: smother Onajeke with two centre-backs at all times.
What they didn't account for was Ashbourne's ability to rip them apart without even holding the ball for long.
The crowd roared.
"Tell's back with a bang — but it's Ashbourne pulling the strings!" the commentator shouted.
And then came the chant. Wave after wave, tens of thousands of voices echoing Jake's name.
By the final whistle, the scoreboard read 3–0. Nine wins in a row. The Riverside was shaking.
"Champions !" they cried.
"Our goal is the Championship!"
Middlesbrough had just completed nine consecutive victories.
The Championship was officially on alert.
Teams had tried everything to contain Jake — double-marking him, shutting down passing lanes, forcing him wide — but even if they managed to limit his main striker partner, Jake's vision could still carve them open.
Tell was benefiting. Epson was benefiting. It was becoming impossible to defend against them all.
And that made Jake the number one headache for every opposition manager in the league.
In this round of fixtures, only Norwich dropped points among the top five sides.
That meant one thing — Middlesbrough had broken into the top four. They were now in the first echelon.
Keep this up, and a play-off spot was certain. Win the play-offs, and it was the Premier League.
That's why the fans were daring to chant about winning the Championship title after the match.
Because, for the first time in years, it didn't feel like a fantasy.
At the post-match press conference, manager Morrow stayed quiet.
But the fans… they weren't quiet. They were refreshing the club's official website every few hours, waiting for an announcement — a bold declaration.
A statement of intent.
They got nothing.
Meanwhile, Jake's name was appearing on more and more European scouting reports.
Morrow hated that. The attention was a distraction, and it was coming at the worst time.
Part of him wanted to tell the squad outright: we're going for the top.
But another part feared the backlash if they failed.
The chairman, had even called him personally — urging caution. "Stability first," he'd said. "No need for big proclamations yet."
Morrow decided to wait. A few more wins, then maybe he'd speak up.
But the players weren't immune to the noise.
During training, Jake could see it — distracted faces, half-listening to instructions, eyes elsewhere.
Nobody dared mention the title chase out loud, but everyone had heard the fans.
---
Championship – Round 22
Middlesbrough vs Norwich City.
A top-four clash.
The visitors came out swinging. Their manager's plan was clear: if you can't stop Jake, attack him. Score more than him.
Jake almost welcomed it — more space for him to work with.
But disaster struck early.
Five minutes in, a defensive lapse let Norwich score.
Then came another — 2–0 down before the Riverside crowd had even settled.
The defence was sluggish. Up front, Onajeke was impatient, constantly caught offside.
Her was desperate for a goal, and it was hurting the team.
The stands were full, but the atmosphere felt flat, like the crowd was holding its breath.
Jake knew they needed something to snap them out of it.
He pulled Tell aside.
"I need a set-piece," Jake said firmly.
Tell, clearly frustrated with himself, just nodded.
Moments later, Jake found him out wide. Tell drove forward, inviting pressure, then drew a clumsy foul from a Norwich defender.
Free-kick. Dangerous position. Yellow card for the defender.
Jake placed the ball down. The stadium's cameras zoomed in on him.
Deep breath.
A short run-up, then a clean strike with his right foot.
The ball soared over the wall and crashed into the top corner.
The Norwich keeper never even moved.
Goal.
Jake didn't celebrate wildly — instead, he pointed to the Middlesbrough badge on his chest, raised a finger to the sky, and mouthed one word to the cameras:
"Champions."
The crowd saw it on the big screen. For a moment, there was stunned silence.
Then the Riverside erupted.
The message was clear.
The most influential player in the squad had just said what nobody else would.
Teammates smiled, the tension in their shoulders vanishing.
"Champions!"
"We're going for it!"
Over 30,000 fans roared the word back at him.
This wasn't the club management speaking.
This wasn't a safe, careful promise.
This was Jake Ashbourne telling everyone exactly where they were heading.
And now, there was no turning back.
The long-suppressed energy of the Riverside crowd finally exploded!
When Jake Ashbourne turned to the stands and shouted that one word—"Championship!"—the tension that had been building for weeks broke in an instant.
"JAKE! JAKE! JAKE!"
More than 30,000 fans raised their arms and bellowed his name in unison.
The sound seemed to shake the air itself.
Jake stood there for a second, feeling the raw, unfiltered power of football.
This—this was why he played.
That fire in the blood. That electricity in the bones. That dizzy rush when the entire stadium moves with you.
His scalp tingled, his heart pounded, and his chest felt like it was going to burst.
The cheers were so loud it was almost disorienting—like standing next to a jet engine.
The Riverside was alive.
Everywhere he looked—scarves, shirts, arms pumping in the air. The kind of sight you don't forget.
This wasn't just noise. This was belief.
And belief is dangerous—especially for the opposition.
Norwich didn't know exactly what had just happened, but they knew something had changed.
Their captain could see it in Middlesbrough's body language: heads high, eyes sharp, movements crisp.
The referee blew for Norwich to restart from the centre circle.
They tried to control the tempo, but suddenly they couldn't string passes together.
Every time the ball moved, Jake was there—closing space, stealing passes, sparking attacks.
"Danger—track back!" the Norwich captain barked, but it was too late.
Jake split their midfield with a quick one-two, slipped it wide to Tell, and the winger tore down the left flank.
A feint. A cut inside. A perfectly weighted inverted pass to the top of the box.
Jake was already there. He barely needed a touch—just slid the ball across the six-yard line for Onajeke, who smashed it first time.
GOAL!
The Riverside erupted again.
"That's brilliant link-up play from Ashbourne!" the commentator shouted over the din. "The vision, the weight of pass—he's tearing Norwich apart!"
Onajeke wheeled away, punching the air, while Jake jogged over to join him, a grin splitting his face.
This wasn't just an equaliser.
It was a warning.
Norwich had just seen what happens when Middlesbrough wakes up.
And now, with the crowd roaring them forward and the players fuelled by that one word—Championship—there was no chance they were letting go of this game.
The thing about pressure is… you either crack, or you rise.
For Jake and Middlesbrough, there was no cracking tonight.
After an electric first half where both sides traded blows, the scoreboard read 2–2. But in the Riverside dressing room, there was no panic—only purpose.
Jake, usually calm and lighthearted, stood in the middle of the huddle with that rare steel in his voice.
"Lads… we win this one. No excuses."
No fancy speech. No sugarcoating. Just a line in the sand.
The nods around the room said it all—they were with him.
Manager Morrow didn't even interrupt. Sometimes, the captain of the midfield is the captain of the room too.
---
Second half.
From the kickoff, Middlesbrough were on the hunt. The press was suffocating—Norwich barely crossed the halfway line before getting swallowed by red shirts.
They tried to play their usual combative style, but now they were penned in, trapped in their own half.
Every time they thought they'd cleared it, Jake was there—receiving, turning, redistributing—resetting the pressure cooker.
It wasn't chaos. It was orchestration.
Jake never forced the shot himself. If the window wasn't perfect, he simply recycled possession, dragging Norwich from side to side until something tore open.
And then… it did.
Tell, normally hugging the left touchline, drifted inside, linking up with Onajike in a sharp one-two that carved the tiniest gap through the yellow wall.
The ball came back to Jake. One glance. One perfect through-ball.
Onajike didn't hesitate—lashing it hard and low into the near corner.
The keeper flung himself desperately, fingertips grazing the ball…
But it was in.
3–2! Riverside erupted.
Another Onajike goal. Another Ashbourne assist.
That made it ten straight league games with at least one assist—a new Championship record for the youngest ever to do it.
And it wasn't just the streak—Jake now sat top of the assist charts by a margin that was starting to look unreachable.
The chants rolled around the ground, wave after wave:
"ASHBOURNE!"
"ASHBOURNE!"
---
Middlesbrough saw it out in style, Jake coming off in the 80th minute to a standing ovation as Morrow protected his legs for the long run ahead.
Final whistle: 3–2, another comeback win. The streak continued. The title charge was no longer a dream—it was breathing in the Riverside air.
At the post-match presser, Morrow smiled when asked about the team's ambitions.
"In August, the goal was survival," he admitted. "Now? Our players have already told you what we're chasing."
Then came the inevitable question about transfer rumours—big clubs sniffing around Jake. Arsenal. United.
Morrow's tone turned firm.
"Jake is the heartbeat of this team. He's not for sale."
The room fell silent for a moment. Statement made.