The exact second the referee blew the final whistle, the Aston Villa squad mobbed Theodore.
Teammates rushed him from all sides, screaming in celebration and ruffling his sweat-soaked hair until it stood up in every direction.
Even Jack Grealish, heavily bandaged and limping from the substitutes' bench, shoved his way through the crowd to get to the rookie.
"Bjorn, you're a fucking menace, kid!" Grealish laughed, pulling him into a one-armed hug. "Look at you, twenty minutes on the pitch and you're already trying to steal my damn job!"
Having watched the teenager dissect the Ipswich defense from the sideline, Grealish was absolutely convinced.
This kid wasn't just a lucky academy call-up, he was a generational prodigy!
His ceiling was limitless.
Theodore just smirked, swatting Grealish's hand away.
He didn't take the teasing too seriously. After all, their natural roles didn't really overlap. While Theodore had stepped into the attacking slot tonight to cover the injury, his physical grit and deep-lying playmaking made him a natural defensive maestro, whereas Grealish was a pure chaotic attacking number 10.
...
An hour later, the media room was packed.
Aston Villa head coach Dean Smith was practically glowing during the post-match press conference.
"It was a brutal, ugly game of football," Smith told the flashing cameras. "Ipswich fought hard and battered our defensive lines. Losing Jack to a dirty tackle was a massive blow, but when Theodore Bjorn step onto that pitch... he gave us life. To come on at 17 years old and orchestrate two flawless assists to flip the game? Unbelievable. Having a talent like that at our disposal is an absolute privilege."
Even Ipswich Town's manager, Paul Lambert, looked shell-shocked at the podium.
"We had them dead to rights," Lambert muttered, shaking his head bitterly. "That victory should have been ours. But unfortunately, Aston Villa's number 33 changed the entire landscape of the match. Our defense completely overlooked the threat he posed... and he punished us for it."
By midnight, the English tabloids and sports sites were already blasting the headlines.
Birmingham Sports: VILLA SURVIVES THE GRUELLING MATCH! 17-Year-Old Asian-Norwegian Prodigy Bags Two Assists in Shocking Debut!
The Times: A Star is Born at Villa Park. Theodore Bjorn Rescues Dean Smith's Squad.
England Sports: Pure Magic! Unknown Teenager Orchestrates Aston Villa's 3-2 Comeback!
Meanwhile, inside a dimly lit, beer-soaked pub just a few blocks from the stadium, the atmosphere was electric.
"To the Villa, lads!" a massive guy with a thick Brummie accent shouted, raising his pint.
"Cheers!"
A seventy-five-year-old die-hard fan named Charlie, slammed his glass on the sticky wooden table.
"Did you see that lad? The Norwegian kid! I swear to God, his passing looked exactly like a young Gerrard or Lampard! I love the kid already. He'll drag us back to the Premier League himself!"
The pub erupted in roars of agreement.
Sitting quietly in a corner booth, nursing half-empty glasses of water, Xia Dongguo and Marianne listened to the drunken praise.
Dongguo couldn't stop a massive, prideful smile from spreading across his face.
Marianne checked her watch. "Dongguo, it's almost midnight. Theodore should be back at the academy dorms by now. We need to go."
"Right, right," Dongguo nodded, throwing a few pounds on the table. "Time to go see our boy."
...
Just as Theodore dragged his exhausted body to the entrance of the first-team apartment block, a taxi pulled up.
"Mom? Dad?" Theodore blinked in surprise, quickly rushing over to usher them out of the freezing cold and into his dorm room.
"Theo, you were incredible!" his father beamed, clapping him heavily on the back. "I can't believe how much you've grown! Supporting your football dream was the best decision we ever made. We were just sitting in a pub down the road, and the local fans couldn't stop raving about you!"
"It was mostly just luck, Dad," Theodore replied humbly, tossing his duffel bag onto the small sofa.
"If Jack hadn't gotten his ankle smashed, I wouldn't have even touched the grass tonight."
His dad's smile only grew. "Good! No arrogance in victory. Stay hungry, stay grounded. I'm proud of you, son."
While they talked, Marianne immediately started picking up empty water bottles and straightening up Theodore's messy room.
"Mom, stop, don't do that," Theodore quickly intervened, gently taking a shirt out of her hands.
He hated seeing her travel all the way from Norway just to clean up after him.
"I've got it. Seriously. Let me book you guys a hotel for the night. You must be exhausted."
Marianne smiled softly but shook her head. "No need, sweetie. Your father and I are heading straight back to the airport."
"Wait, what?" Theodore frowned, his stomach dropping. "You just got here! You said you were staying for three days! It's past 1:00 AM, you can't just turn around and fly back right now."
Xia Dongguo sighed, looking a bit guilty. "Your Uncle called us an hour ago. His son is getting married tomorrow, and they want to rent out our restaurant for the banquet. We're business people, Theo. We're barely scraping by as it is. When a big payout like that comes knocking, we can't afford to say no."
Dongguo pulled Theodore into a tight hug. "We just wanted to see you play. Keep tearing it up out there, son. Get yourself to a top club. Make us proud."
...
Ten minutes later, Theodore stood on the freezing curb, watching the taillights of their taxi disappear into the Birmingham night.
When he finally walked back into his empty room, the adrenaline of the match was completely gone, replaced by a heavy suffocating weight in his chest.
His parents were flying back on a red-eye flight, completely exhausted, just to break their backs cooking for a wedding banquet to keep the lights on.
It made Theodore feel incredibly helpless.
And incredibly angry.
'Forty thousand pounds a year isn't going to cut it,' he thought, clenching his fists.
'I need real money. I need to secure the bag so they never have to work another day in their lives.'
...
The Next Morning. 7:00 AM.
The grass at the Aston Villa training complex was still coated in a thin layer of frost when Theodore walked out onto the pitch.
He didn't sleep.
He was fueled by pure, unadulterated obsession. He set up a row of balls at the top of the penalty arc and began ruthlessly blasting them into the empty net, pouring every ounce of his frustration into each strike.
Ten minutes later, the heavy door to the facility opened.
Assistant coach John Terry walked out, holding a cup of steaming coffee.
He stopped in his tracks when he saw the 17-year-old already drenched in sweat, repeatedly hammering balls into the top corner.
A deep look of respect crossed the Chelsea legend's face.
Terry slowly walked out onto the pitch. "You're out here early, kid."
Theodore paused, wiping his forehead with the back of his shirt.
"Morning, Coach. There's too much talent on this roster for me to get comfortable. I need to put the work in if I'm going to steal a starting spot."
Terry chuckled, impressed by the raw hunger in the teenager's eyes.
He set his coffee down on the grass and walked over to the bench, kicking off his trainers and lacing up a pair of professional football boots.
"I like the fire, kid," Terry grunted, walking back out and picking up a football.
"But stop wasting your energy shooting at an empty net. You're a midfielder. Let's ping some long balls. Show me what that right foot can really do."