“Peek-a-boo,” Fergie says, jolting me out of my thoughts. He’s standing on the arm of the sofa, playing with the mirror hanging next to it.
I chuckle, watching him dance with his reflection, then glance at my watch. I should really leave now if I want to be on time for practice, but since we’re going to an away match tomorrow, I decide five extra minutes with Fergie won’t hurt. He hates having pet sitters. Hopefully, Maria—the sixth one in two years—will last longer than the last.
“Maria’s coming tomorrow,” I tell him. Always best to prepare him a bit in advance. “You remember her?”
Fergie looks up at me. “Away?”
“Yes, playing Manchester City tomorrow.”
Fergie tilts his head. “You lose,” he replies matter-of-factly before turning back to the mirror.
I sigh. “Nice.”
“Millie coming?” he asks after a beat.
My brow furrows. “Millie coming where? To Manchester?”
He turns around, shooting me a thoughtful look.
I raise an eyebrow. “Or here?”
He turns around, strutting along the arm of the sofa. “Here. Millie here.”
“No, she’snot coming here.” I chuckle. “Aye, right then, time to head back in for the day, little monster. I’ve got practice.” I hold out my arm. “Let’s go.”
But of course, he refuses, beating his wings and taking off in a dramatic flutter that makes the curtain sway. I brace myself for a round of hide-and-seek, but to my surprise, he flies straight up the stairs. I follow him to his room, and he’s already in his cage when I get there. I make sure he has everything he needs and flip the TV on, navigating to the music channel for today. The moment the beat kicks in, Fergie bobs his head and starts swaying, breaking into a chirpy rendition of whatever pop song is playing.
As I stand there, Millie’s voice pops into my head, telling me to record him, so I reluctantly grab my phone. I’ll most likely be late for practice, but it’s entertaining, I guess. My last Fergie video—playing ring tosser—got four million views. Or as Millie put it, “went viral.”
So here I am, hovering in the doorframe as I record a video of Fergie’s best dance moves. Yeah, Millie’s rubbing off on me, all right.
Today’s practice is particularly biting. Whether it’s from my lack of sleep or if Delatour has something against us today, I’m not sure. He makes us run high-intensity intervals, sprint drills, and defensive shape rotations until my legs burn and my lungs go raw, all under a curtain of cold, relentless rain. In those moments, I feel every one of my thirty years. Of course, Millie managed to catch all of it on camera, assuring us this brutal torture will be wildly entertaining for the fans. People do have a tendency to take pleasure in others’ suffering.
Then, as if that wasn’t enough, we head inside for tactical analysis and small-sided possession games that are more competitive than half the matches we’ve played this season. Manchester City is second in the league, so yeah. We do need to prep harder for this one. But at this rate, I won’t even make it to the pitch—I’ll be dead on the physio’s table by morning.
“That was intense,” Archie says, slumping into the chair beside me at lunchtime.
“Brutal.” Finn nods, plopping down across from me. “But I’d say we stand a chance tomorrow. Especially if you play likethat,” he adds to Archie.
“I always play like that,” Archie says. He puffs his chest out, his confidence seemingly boosting his energy level.
“Where’s Cameron?” I ask, glancing away. He’s usually the one playing referee between those two.
Archie swallowshis bite of chicken. “Knee trouble again. Hope he can play tomorrow.”
We begin chatting about his injury, digging into our meals when my phone pings in my pocket. It’s a text message from Maria. As I stare at the screen, my heart lurches. No, no, no. Not that.
“Callum, I won’t be able to make it to watch Fergie. I just got a new job. Sorry for the last-minute warning.”
I curse under my breath, closing my eyes. Then, snapping them open, I get to work looking up every pet sitter I’ve ever had and texting them one by one asking for help. I even offer to double their usual fee. Surely one of them will do me this favour. If not for me, at least for the money.
Placing my phone down on the table, I fork another bite of food when it pings. I put my utensils down and check the screen, but it’s just a group chat invitation. Another one.
“Seriously?” I mutter, glaring at Archie and Finn.
These guys keep adding me to their group chat, and I keep having to leave it. Why can’t they get it through their heads that I see enough of them already?
I open the chat invite, accept it, then post the rudest emoji I can find before removing myself from the chat.
