“Terrific! How are you? Oh my, you’re getting big!” I glance affectionately at the small baby bump peeking through her black jumpsuit. Roxy—who’s pregnant with her first child—is one of my oldest friends. Our dads met in a single parent support group when we were kids, and even though there’s a four-year gap between us, we’ve always been close.
“I know,” she says with a fond smile, resting a hand on her stomach. “I’m doing great, and so is the little guy. But enough about me—tell me everything! How was your first day?”
We order mocktails, mine coming with a bamboo straw and a twist of lime, and I recount the details of my hectic first day—detailing how it began with a bang and smoothed out from there.
“Well, I’m glad it got better after that rough start. And I knew you’d be great.”
“I have a good feeling,” I say, nodding. “Well, except for Callum Murray. But Finn and Archie did warn me, back when you introduced me to them at the Christmas match.”
She winces, then breaks into laughter. “Yeah, well… he’s a bit of a sourpuss. Allergic to anything remotely social. But if there’s anyone who can get through to him, it’s you. Honestly, he’s not that bad once you get past his walls.”
“Yeah,” I murmur, twirling my straw slowly. “Philip did say Callum would need a bit more nudging than the other guys.”
“I’m sure you’ll figure it out. What are you thinking for the team’s socials?”
I launch into my ideas—highlight reels, behind-the-scenes moments, fun personality content. All the while, Roxy listens intently, offering thoughtful feedback along the way. As a writer for a top fashion magazine, she has a sharp eye for aesthetics and tone. And after four years with Wade, she knows a thing or two about football—and more importantly, the London Regents.
“I can’t wait for you to come to your first match!” She grins. “At least now you can’t turn down my invitations.”
She’s been trying to drag me to her husband’s matches for years, but I never really got the football bug. My ex, Trevor, was more into cricket, and even though our relationship ended six months ago, I still refused to take Roxy up on her offer, having no interest in the sport. But that might be about to change.
“Yeah. I must say, I’m kind of curious to see them play—and to watch the crowd. I want to get a feel for what I’m working with.”
Roxy grimaces. “Well, the fans can be a bit brutal sometimes, but it’s gotten better. Callum, especially, was targeted a lot last season.”
“Why’s that? His sparkling personality?” I arch an eyebrow.
She laughs, shaking her head. “The fans don’t really care about his mood. That’s more the media’s territory. No, they turned on him because he scored in the Regents’ own goal during one of the biggest matches of the season. It happens, but it’s a big deal since it’s part of the reason why they won’t be competing in the Champions League—the big European tournament—for the first time in a decade.”
“Ouch,” I say, wincing. “That’s rough.”
Maybe that’s why he’s perpetually grumpy. Still, it makes my job all the more important. Gaining control of the narrative is essential in a situation like this.
My dad calls me just as I’m stepping out of the station, and I chat with him on the walk home. He tells me all about the flowers he’s nursing in the greenhouse at work—new dahlias, an old bonsai he’s been reviving, and a stubborn climbing rose he’s determined to coax into blooming.
Dad’s a gardener, and I love hearing him prattle on about plants. Somehow, listening to him makes me feel grounded. It's as if I were right there with him, pruning leaves and mulching roots, which, let’s be clear, would never happen. I’m not an outdoorsy person—or good with manual labour of any kind.
After grabbing a quick dinner and unpacking the contents of my closet, I collapse onto my couch, letting my rainbow cushions cradle me as I replay the day in my head.
But no matter what memory I try to focus on, my thoughts keep circling back to one person: Callum Murray.
I hadn’t planned on digging up info on any of the guys before starting with the Regents. I wanted to form my own impressions, but I’m way too intrigued now. Lifting myself on my elbows, I grab my phone and type in his name. His imposing frame fills the screen, dressed in the Regents’ white and navy kit. Callum looks carved from stone—sharp jaw, squared shoulders, muscles rippling beneath the fabric. Everything about him screams “strength.” Everything but his deep brown eyes. There’s something in them, a flicker of depth, of restraint, that hints at the man underneath the armour.
Curiosity piqued, I scroll through his Wikipedia page. He’s thirty, Scottish, and one of the Premier League’s best fullbacks, even if the infamous own goal he scored last year put a damper on his stats. He also seems to garner an impressive number of red cards.
As I sift through the other results, I quickly discover the media love to gossip about him. Every day there’s a new talking point—what he eats, where he goes to hang out, how he trains, who he glares at. His temper seems to have landed him in hot water more than once: altercations with paparazzi, broken cameras, and a few verbal spats that made the headlines.
Callum Murray, bad boy of the Regents. The media eats it up with a spoon.
I scan one article after the other, eventually landing on one that references an older incident from the beginning of his career. The headline reads:“Callum Murray Involved in Knife Fight Outside Club. Drunken Night Takes a Turn.”
The article is vague, all smoke and mirrors. No real facts, just heavy insinuations. Apparently, a fight went down in a club parking lot early in his career, but that’s all it really says. No names. No police statement. No genuine context. Just assumptions spun into a sensational headline.
I look for more coverage, digging deeper. But every piece is the same mix of recycled quotes and vague non-details, with no statement from Callum or his team, even though it’s been eight years.
That alone raises some red flags.
Why didn’t he say anything? Give his version of what happened? Maybe he preferred to stay silent—a tactic that can work in your favour sometimes. The problem is, after all these years, journalists still reference that incident in their articles, and it continues to tarnish his image.
