Newcastle United's season had become the stuff of sporting folklore. After the high-octane victory over Liverpool, the Magpies refused to blink. They tore through the remainder of their Premier League fixtures with a grit that defined the city itself, securing vital points in matches that felt like wars of attrition. Then came the semi-final: a tactical masterclass against Manchester City where a single, clinical goal was enough to punch their ticket to Wembley.
Now, the world was watching. The FA Cup Final. Newcastle versus Arsenal.
Under the towering arch of Wembley, Devin felt the weight of history. As he warmed up, he spotted a figure across the halfway line that mirrored his own rise—Max Dowman, the sensational young talent who had recently shattered records as the youngest goalscorer in Premier League history.
Max approached him during a lull in the drills. "Hi," he said simply, a quiet confidence in his eyes.
Devin looked stunned for a moment before nodding. "Wassup."
"I heard a rumor about you going to Real Betis," Max said, leaning in slightly. "True?"
Devin didn't hesitate. The ink was practically dry in his mind. "Not a rumor anymore."
Max went quiet, staring at the grass for a beat. "They're after me too. Word is Antony is heading to Al-Nassr, and they need to fill that gap."
Devin offered a sincere smirk. "Cool. I hope you sign for them. We could do some damage together."
The whistle blew, and the atmosphere exploded. Arsenal struck first with a terrifying fluidity. Early in the match, Dowman received a sharp pass and immediately recycled it to Gabriel Martinelli. The Brazilian winger used his blistering pace to stretch the Newcastle defense, scanning the box before whipping a cross toward Viktor Gyökeres. Gyökeres, showing elite awareness, didn't shoot; he cushioned a header backward into the path of the oncoming Dowman.
Max didn't think. He met the ball on the full volley, screaming it into the bottom corner. 1-0 to the Gunners.
But Devin was not a player who stayed down. He demanded the ball immediately from the restart. He began a marauding run that seemed to defy the laws of physics, dribbling and weaving through the heart of the Arsenal midfield. He was a blur of black and white. Approaching the edge of the box, he executed a breathtaking fake rabona that sent William Saliba sliding the wrong way.
Devin opened up his body for a finesse shot, but a voice in the back of his head whispered: What if I make a new move?
He adjusted his strike at the last microsecond. He finessed the ball with a strange, high-arc spin and—in a moment of pure showmanship—didn't even look at the goal as he played it. The ball kissed the underside of the crossbar and entered the top corner.
He didn't celebrate with a sprint. Instead, he stood still and performed the Fernandes "easy goal" celebration, a cold statement of dominance. A no-look finesse shot that silenced the Arsenal end.
The 27th minute saw Arsenal try to reclaim the lead. Dowman was a thorn in Newcastle's side, nutmegging Lewis Hall with a audacious flick and cutting into the box for a curling effort. This time, Dan Burn threw his massive frame in the way, blocking the shot with a thunderous thud.
The loose ball fell to Devin. Dowman came charging at him, desperate to win it back, but Devin was in the zone. With a movement so fast it looked like a glitch in a video game, he put the ball through Dowman's legs—returning the nutmeg favor—and instantly switched the play sixty yards to the opposite flank.
Devin didn't stop. He sprinted into the middle, gesturing wildly. He got the return pass at the perfect height and, without letting it touch the ground, volleyed a laser-accurate ball to Anthony Gordon. Gordon made no mistake, smashing it home to put Newcastle ahead.
The clock ticked into the dying embers of the match. 90+4 minutes. Arsenal earned a desperate corner. Even David Raya had abandoned his goal to join the attack. The cross came in, but Dan Burn rose like a titan, clearing it deep into the Arsenal half.
The ball found Devin. Raya was sprinting backward, a speck in the distance. Jurrien Timber tried to close Devin down, but the playmaker cut inside with a sharp chop and unleashed a "power shot" from just inside the defensive half. The ball sailed through the London air, landing squarely in the empty net.
The final whistle was a mere formality. Newcastle United: 3. Arsenal: 1. The FA Cup was heading to Tyneside.
*******************
Three days into the transfer window, the news broke officially: Real Betis signs Devin for 85 million Euros.
The transition was a whirlwind. While Betis played their opening pre-season friendlies, Devin remained at the training ground, undergoing a rigorous individual program to adapt to the Spanish heat and the La Liga style of play. After a particularly grueling session, he walked into the manager's office.
"Hi, Devin," the Coach said, looking up from a mountain of spreadsheets. "How's your training going?"
"Great, sir," Devin replied, wiping sweat from his brow. "But I have to ask... Antony's gone. Who's gonna replace him?"
The Coach leaned back, sighing. "We were going to buy Max Dowman, but the board is hesitant. We weren't sure of his ability to deliver at this level yet."
Devin leaned over the desk, his voice firm. "Sir, I trust him. He's a friend of mine, and I've seen what he can do at Wembley."
The Coach studied Devin's face for a long, silent minute. "Okay. But if you and Max don't deliver... you both are getting benched for life. No second chances."
The Dream Front Three
Some weeks later, the deal was done. Prince and Devin were sitting in the clubhouse, reviewing film, when the conversation turned to the new arrival.
"If Max comes, we're gonna talk about tactics," Devin said, pointing at the screen.
"But Devin," Prince asked, a hint of doubt in his voice, "what if he can't keep up with the pace of the Spanish league?"
Devin just laughed. "He's gonna. Don't worry."
Right on cue, the door swung open. Max Dowman walked in, looking sharp in his new green-and-white training gear. "Hey guys."
"Right on time," Devin said, standing up to greet him. "We have Real Madrid as our first match in La Liga. It's our debut. This is what we're thinking of doing."
Max walked over to the tactic board, studying the intricate movements Devin and Prince had mapped out for the front three. He looked at the overlapping runs, the decoy movements, and the quick-fire passing lanes.
"Damn," Max whispered, a grin spreading across his face. "That's so good. If this works, we are going to be the youngest, best front three in the world."
Devin looked at Prince, then at Max. The sun was setting over Seville, casting long shadows across the pitch where they would make their debut.
"We get to try it on our first match against Madrid," Devin said, his eyes glowing with anticipation. "Let's show them what the next generation looks like."