“Callum,” she says. “Have you seen?”
“Why do you think I’m calling?” I snap, then rub my temple. “I’m sorry. Are you okay?”
“Millie pretty!” Fergie squawks again, somehow managing to break his volume record.
“Oh, hi, Fergie,” Millie says in a louder voice, so I pull the phone from my ear.
“Hello,” Fergie continues, looking at the phone.
I toss him a little foam ball to distract him.
“And—wait,you’resorry?” she says. “I’m the one who dragged you into this. I feel awful. The whole point of our work was todeflectunwanted attention from you, not shine a massive spotlight on your life.”
“Don’t worry about it. Honestly, I’m fine.” I lean my head back against the wall. “I skimmed a few articles—they’re not bad, actually. For once, the writers aren’t calling me an iceberg or a robot. I’ve been humanized, apparently.”
“Still, I should have thought it through. With the photographers and the media there…”
“It’s okay. These things tend to die down quickly. Especially since we have a match tonight. Trust me, in a couple of days, no one will care about us. I just hope they don’t bug you.”
“Oh, I’ll be fine. Don’t worry,” she says, her voice muffled. “Just focus on your match tonight, okay?”
“I always do.” I furrow my brow. “Hey, whereareyou? You sound weird.”
“On my way to the car dealership,” she says. “I’m meeting my dad there. Getting my new car today.”
“Big day, then.” I pause. “Well, see you later?”
“Yeah. Fair warning, I’ll be filming in the locker room before the game.”
I groan, half teasing. “I can’t even prep for a match in peace.”
There’s a pause on the line. Then, I hear her chuckle.
“I’m kidding,” I say. “See you later, Templeton.”
When we hang up, Fergie pushes his ball deeper under the TV and pipes up. “Bye!”
Millie
When I reach the dealership lot, I’m hit by the faint scent of motor oil and hot gravel. Rows of cars are gleaming under the sun, decked out with big price decals and discount stickers. Dad looks entirely in his element, hands tucked into his gardening jacket pockets as he scans the options with the same calm focus he probably uses when checking his seedlings in the greenhouse.
“So,” he begins, eyes roving over a row of hatchbacks. “Seems like you’ve been keeping busy with this new job. You’re not still going ‘round to that Murray fellow’s place, are you?”
My stomach churns. “Um, no, not really. We usually work at the training centre.”
“Good, good,” he says, his eyes not meeting mine. “It’s a lot more professional that way. It’s your job, after all, right?
“Um, yeah.” Searching for a distraction, I let my eyes wander when I spot a flash of colour near the edge of the lot. “Oh! Look at that one!” I hurry over before he can press further.
It’s an older model, sunflower yellow with giant daisy decals across the doors. I grin as I trace a petal with my fingertip. “Isn’t it adorable?”
Dad chuckles, catching up with me. “It’s very you, I’ll give you that. But those things are pretty temperamental. Parts cost a fortune too.”
I cringe. “Fair point.”
Good thing I brought my dad along. He knows way more about cars than I do, which is generally true for everything. If it weren’t for him, I’d be living in a drafty flat above a takeaway in Croydon, wondering why I have rats for roommates.
“Nowthisis more my speed,” he booms, giving the hood of an old Land Rover a friendly pat. “Solid. Reliable. Built to last.”
