I add the pellets to the mixture, then place the bowl on the central island. Meanwhile, I survey the contents of Callum’s fridge for something I could eat. Cooking is definitely not my strong suit, and doing so whilst watching Fergie would be doubly difficult, so I open the delivery app instead. Safer this way. At least, that’s my excuse to justify yet another night of takeaway this week.
I turn on the living room TV and navigate to the sports channel. This immediately kickstarts a chant from Fergie, who alternates between eating and singing out bursts of lyrics. Luckily, the match has just started.
“Come on, Regents,” I mutter, settling onto the sofa.
Fergie finishes eating, then wipes his beak against the towel Callum keeps folded on the counter. Gliding into the living room, he lands on the armrest next to me.
“Run, Callum!” he squawks as an opposing player takes off down the wing.
I burst out laughing. “You’re a better heckler than the fans.”
“Bad pass!” Fergie screeches when Cameron misses a cross.
He paces along the top of the sofa like an angry coach in a green feather boa, wings twitching every time someone fumbles the ball.Just as things are heating up on the pitch, I hear a knock on the door. Fergie takes flight and starts circling overhead like an excitable drone.
“Dinner!” he shouts.
“Yes, mine.” I stand up from the couch. “Yours is in the kitchen. Did you finish it?”
“All done.” He’s fully focused on the TV, not even looking at me.
I shake my head and hurry to the entryway, careful to close the door behind me before opening the front door to greet the delivery guy.
As I hustle back to the living room, Fergie is still jeering at the TV. I’m just settling down with my food when the screen hones in on Callum charging across the pitch. He goes in for a solid tackle, trying to snatch the ball from his opponent’s feet, but he and the other guy both tumble onto the pitch, Callum clutching his ankle.
Fergie squawks sharply as he takes flight again, flapping wildly around the room. “Get up!”
I lean forward, my heart skipping a beat. Callum grimaces as every other player gathers around the two fallen footballers. The other guy seems fine, but I’m not sure about Callum. What if he’s really hurt? What would that mean for his career? My blood is pulsing hard in my veins, and I’ve suddenly lost my appetite. But a few seconds later, Callum stands up,and after massaging his ankle once more, he falls back into a jog.
I let out a long breath. “He’s okay,” I tell Fergie. “Don’t worry.”
But the restless bird isn’t paying attention to me. Landing on the sofa again, he says, “Half time.”
Sure enough, half time hits, with the Regents tied 1–1 with Manchester, and I seize the opportunity to dig into my food. Fergie is now strutting by the mirror, playing peek-a-boo with himself, and as I glance around the pristine living room, I’m suddenly a little curious. This mysterious man left me alone in his house for an entire night. Does he really not expect me to snoop a little? Actually, no. It’s not snooping if I just want to get to know him better. The guy isn’t exactly famous for being open.
Getting up with my box of takeout, I check out the few pictures he has on a shelf. I linger on one of him standing with who I’m guessing are his younger brother and parents on a beach somewhere. I also browse the various trophies he’s won—some date back fifteen years—and the magnificent special editions of the Harry Potter series that are proudly shelved nearby. That’s definitely a shocker. Who knew Callum read fiction? Especially middle-grade fantasy books. By now, I’m unstoppable, addicted to the possibility of finding out more about the elusive Callum Murray. After checking that Fergie is still perched on the sofa, I wander back upstairs. My feet carry me around the townhouse and past the incredible trove of amenities it boasts.
There’s a gym, obviously—all sleek black machines and a mirrored wall that makes the space feel like a boutique fitness studio. A private office follows, and my eyes flit between the dark wood desk, leather chair, shelves lined with books, and a vintage map of Scotland framed on the wall. The next door opens to a large bedroom—Callum’s. It’s everything I should have expected, yet somehow it still manages to surprise me. The bed is massive, draped in crisp white sheets and a slate-grey duvet that’s probably worth more than my rent. One wall is exposed brick, industrial but warm, whilst the others are painted a moody charcoal. The open wardrobe is spectacular, showcasing rows of suits and athletic wear neatly organised by colour. How much more attractive can this guy be?
As I examine the wardrobe, something catches my eye. A piece of clothing in blue tartan that contrasts against the array of solid-colour athletic wear. I grab it, and my eyes widen. It’s a kilt. The man owns akilt. I knew he was Scottish, but not the kind of Scottish man who wears a kilt! Or maybe all Scottish men do? To be honest, I’ve always had a thing for kilts. I even made one for my Ken doll when I was a kid.
“Foul!” The shrill shout carries from downstairs, which means the match must be back on. I close the door behind me and hop back downstairs to join Fergie.
Callum
The match was brutal, and we were happy to concede a tie with a single point scored on each side. After the match, I resisted the urge to text Millie or check on the security cameras. I forgot to tell her about them, so it would feel like I was invading her privacy, even if she’s technically in my home. Plus, it may sound strange, but I trust her with Fergie. I’m sure she did just fine, and she would have texted me if something went wrong. It’s now the morning after, and I’m the first one at breakfast. I’m not mad about it, either. Nothing worse than sitting through Finn and Archie’s bickering before I’ve had my tea.
I’m coming back to my table with a tray of food when my phone vibrates in my pocket. I whip it out, thinking it might be Millie, but it’s only the smug face of my baby brother.
“You all right, ankle biter?” I tease. “Still in the land down under?”
“Easy, Grandpa. Tough hit last night.” He adjusts his cap on his head. “You ready to retire yet?”
I shoot him a smile while dumping two Weetabix biscuits into my bowl. “Not a chance. But yeah, I’m good. I’ll do some cryo for a few days and be right as rain. You?”
“All good here. Done for the day, so I'm taking it easy for a bit.” He flips the camera to the front view and shows me the sprawling pool he’s lounging beside.
“Working hard, I see.”
