“Hey,” I begin, trying to sound casual. “Can we—”
“Not now. Gotta go to the boot room,” he snaps, quickening his pace.
Of course you do,I silently retort.
Giving up on Callum for the time being, I decide to start filming for the club account at lunch. The canteen is buzzing with the clatter of trays, the clanging of cutlery, and the hum of overlapping voices. My eyes are drawn to the soft cream walls with framed black-and-white action shots of past Regents glories, and the scent of roasted chicken and warm bread makes my mouth water.
Players move between stations, grabbing food, tossing out jokes, and stretching their tired legs. The round tables hold a scattering of water bottles, energy bars, and the occasional protein shake. The place feels casual and alive—exactly the kind of setting fans never get to experience firsthand.
I hover near the back of the canteen, phone in hand, and tap Record to start filming. At the nearest table, Archie, Finn, Wade, and Cameron are mid-meal, plates piled high with carbs and protein.
“Oi, is that thing on?” Archie points a fork at me, his mouth half-full. “Should’ve told me. I’d have put on my good face.”
“You don’t have one,” Finn deadpans, stealing a bread roll from his plate.
“Hey!” Archie huffs, throwing a crumpled napkin across the table.
Cameron leans in toward the camera with a too-serious expression. “This is what peak performance looks like. Chaos, bread theft, and deeply hurt feelings.”
Wade nods. “See what I have to deal with?”
They all laugh, and I grin behind the camera. This is exactly what I’d hoped for.
Then, Callum walks in with a tray in his hands and that same storm-cloud expression on his face. When he sees me filming, his eyes narrow slightly.
“Can’t even be left alone at lunch now?” he mutters, not quite looking at me.
“Just a bit of behind-the-scenes stuff,” I say lightly, keeping the camera pointed away from him. “Fans love seeing this more casual side of the team.”
He just grunts and sits down heavily, slamming his tray onto the table. He starts eating without glancing up.
Taking the hint, I move to the other side of the room, focusing my lens on players who actually want to be filmed. The rest of the squad is easy—chatty, relaxed, and occasionally ridiculous. They toss grapes across the table, try to one-up each other with terrible impressions, and give mock-serious interviews to my phone.
While everyoneelse seems to be loving the attention, Callum seems even more annoyed with me than usual, and every time I see him, he either bolts in the other direction or ducks as if I’m some nosy paparazzo. Frankly, he’s starting to get on my nerves.
After he snubs me for the fifth time this week, I make a pact with myself: next time I see him, I won’t take no for an answer.
And as fate would have it, I spot him first thing the next morning. He’s walking through the corridor near the gym, his broad shoulders squared, hoodie up, earbuds in. But this time, I don’t hesitate. I speed-walk straight toward him and plant myself in his path like a human traffic cone.
He stops, blinking and pulling one earbud out, as if he’s not sure I’m real.
“Enough,” I say firmly. No sugary smile, no soft tone. “I’m tired of this. You have to let me do my job.” My hands are trembling slightly from the adrenaline, so I press them firmly to my hips, willing myself to stand tall. “I don’t care that you don’t want a social media account—you have to comply. And you have to listen to me.”
He studies me for a second, and I swear I glimpse the shadow of a smile. “Fine. After training.”
Holding my breath, I watch him as he stalks away. I wait until he turns the corner before pumping both my fists in the air, not unlike the manager at the game. Finally, progress!
Callum
I hurry out of the training centre as soon as I’m done, not wanting to cross paths with Millie again. I said I’d listen to her to get her off my back, but I have no intention of actually following through. I must say, though, I’m impressed by her stubbornness. But no one beats me at that game.
Rain is still pouring in torrential sheets as I drive home, the steady drumming of fat drops against the car roof matching the tension in my shoulders. Everything’s damp and grey—big surprise—and I’m glad we’re not playing for an entire week, given it’s supposed to rain every day.
Fergie starts singing as soon as he hears the door creak open—his way of welcoming me home.
I kick off my boots, the soles waterlogged, and hang my soaked jacket by the radiator. My socks squelch against the hardwood as I trudge upstairs.
“You all right, lad?” I mutter, flipping off the telly that’s been droning in the background. Fergie is perched high on the side of his cage, flapping his wings once in excitement. “Did you have a good day?”
