“Well, he has a point,” Cameron Bexley says, taking a seat on my other side. “We’ve barely touched the grass this morning.”
Archie smirks. “Bet you’re glad you weren’t transferred during the holidays now, huh?”
“That was really a possibility?” I ask, turning to Cameron. First time I’ve heard that bit of information.
Finn sighs. “You should really join our group chat. You’re missing out on a lot of stuff.”
“I’m really not,” I deadpan. “You tell me all about it anyways.”
“Sure, two weeks later,” he retorts, an eyebrow raised.
“Yeah, mate,” Archie chimes in. “Time to grace us with your presence.”
I shake my head. “I already see you way too often during the week. I don’t need the after party.”
“Oh! Here wego,” Finn says, nodding at the door that’s swinging open.
Philip, the club owner, marches into the room, looking as strict as usual, followed by an unusual woman. Well,unusualmight be a weak word. She’s wearing an orange skirt, turquoise tights, and a dotted blouse, but despite her blinding outfit, what strikes me more is her smile. It stretches from ear to ear, bright and hopeful.
“Lads,” Philip begins, and the room falls silent. “Let me introduce you to Millie Templeton. She’s joining us as the new social media manager, and I’m sure you’ll all give her a warm welcome.”
Most of the room applauds, but I tighten my arms against my chest. What’s this rubbish now? I don’t do social, or media. If there’s one thing I’ve learned in my career, it’s that the media is pure evil. They prey on you like a wild animal, gutting you with no mercy. Your personal life, friends, family—nothing is off limits to them. Even in Harry Potter, the only books I’ve ever read, the media is malevolent, as depicted by Rita Skeeter. And just like her Quick-Quotes Quill, the real-world media has a knack for twisting anything you say into a juicy headline.
“As you know,” Philip continues, “we’ve been rebranding the club, and we’re not stopping there. Football is all about the fans, both on and off the pitch. Given how challenging our last seasons have been, it’s crucial that we reconnect with our fans. We need them to be proud to support the Regents. And that’s where you, and Ms. Templeton, come in.” He takes a step back and gives her the floor.
She clears her throat and claps her hands together with an annoying level of enthusiasm. “Right. Hi. So, as Mr. Mountford just said, I’m here to help the club, and every single one of you, with your social media strategy.”
Some of the guys chuckle a few rows down, probably after one of them mumbled a crude remark.
“If you don’t have an account on the major platforms,” she continues, “don’t worry, I’ll help you create one. We’ll discuss what to post, when to post, how often and…”
Her words grow muffled as I release a loud sigh and look outside. There is absolutely no way this is happening. I’m here to play football, not become some kind of puppet posting nonsense online to please the club. Philip and his rubbish ideas again.
“Easy, tiger,” Finn mutters, shouldering me. “I can practically see the steam coming out of your ears. It’s not that bad. You’ll get used to it.”
“Won’t do it,” I grunt as I glare back at the girl, who’s now fully talking with her hands. François, our manager, is literally on the edge of his seat, captivated by her every word. But that doesn’t surprise me. The bloke is probably as eccentric as her, with his knack for showmanship. He’s been with us since the start of the season, and the jury’s still out on him. Sure, we’ve been doing better than last season—which doesn’t take much—but his pregame speeches are the bane of my existence.
The room breaks into polite applause again, and Millie is beaming. Philip takes over, droning on, and my ears tune out the words “mandatory” and “best behaviour.” Finally, he dismisses us for lunch.
Lunch already?I glance at my watch. Seriously, why did we even bother showing up this morning?
We all exit the room and make our way to the canteen. I’m one of the first in line, and I grab my usual table at the end of the large room, tucked near the window overlooking the training pitch. Soon enough, Archie, Cameron, and Finn join me. I kind of prefer to eat alone, but they always sit with me. Of everyone on the team, I’ve known these three the longest, besides our captain, and they’re decent guys, so I don’t really care. Not that I have much of a choice. I keep telling them off, but it never sticks.
The subject on everyone’s lips is, naturally, themandatorysocial media presence—and the new girl.
“We actually met her last Christmas,” Finn says, forking a piece of chicken. “At the charity match.”
“Wait, you guys already knew about this?” I blurt out. “Why didn’t you say anything?” Or do anything to stop it.
“Yeah.” Archie nods, ignoring my question. “She’s a friend of Roxy’s.”
Roxy is married to Wade, our captain.
“Oh, yeah. You mentioned that in the chat,” Cameron adds, then raises his eyebrows at me. “You really should join, Cal.”
I just roll my eyes.
“So, what are you going to name your account?” Archie asks, the cheeky grin spreading on his lips reminding me of my younger brother. “Grumpycal3?”
