Callum blinks afew times, then brings his attention back to his food.
“It’s okay, really. So anyway,” I say, eating another spoonful, “how did you become a footballer? Started playing as a kid, I assume?”
He pauses, then nods. “Yeah. I played for a Scottish club most of my teenage years, then eventually made it into the Scottish Premier League before being bought by Leeds, and eventually the Regents.”
“Did you ever dream of doing something else?”
He shrugs. “School wasn’t my forte, so anything that required studying was a hard no. Lucky for me, I had a great coach and made it to the Premier League. Don’t know where I’d be without football, to be honest.” His eyes meet mine. “What about you? Does Oxford have social media courses?”
I take a sip of my sparkling water, then smile. “They have a marketing college, actually. That’s where I studied. After that, I got an internship in a London marketing firm that eventually turned into a job. My main focus was handling social media for their clients, and then Roxy told me the Regents had an opening. Wade scored me an interview, and now, here I am.”
A smile tugs at his lips. “Congrats. From what I’ve seen, you’re doing a great job.”
I tilt my headplayfully. “High praise from someone who didn’t even want to talk to me when I first started.”
He grimaces. “Yeah. Sorry about that. It just wasn’t really my thing.”
“Well, considering your history with the media, I don’t blame you. But it’s getting better, right?”
He nods. “Yeah. I must admit, being on social media isn’t as terrible as I thought it would be. It did encourage the press to lay off me a bit, and the comments are all right. The fans are mostly there for Fergie, but that works for me. Between the social media exposure and our, um, fake dating situation, everyone seems to have discovered that I’m an actual human.”
“You just had to show them you had a life outside of football,” I tease. “Glad it worked. I’m sure the Valentine’s Day post will be a success too. I’m excited for that.”
He shakes his head, but I can see the faintest smile on his lips. “Can’t wait.”
My phone pings, and I quickly check the notification. “Oh, it’s the shelter chat. You know, where they helped me with Fergie.”
Callum leans forward. “Right, yeah. What’s up?”
I open the chat and read the new message.
@fur-ever_homes_usa
Hi, everyone. We desperately need your help. A few months ago, we started fostering Princess, a pot-bellied pig, following the passing of her mom. Finding her a home has been a major challenge, and she never stays for more than a few weeks with her adoptive parents. She’s a peculiar pig, and a little demanding, but she has the biggest heart. If anyone is interested in adopting Princess or helping us spread the message, we would be extremely grateful. Thank you —The Fur-Ever Homes USA team.
“Oh no,” I say, closing my eyes. “This is so sad. Look at this.”
I show him the message, and he nods. “Yeah. That’s tough.”
“We have to do something.”
He raises his eyebrows. “I can’t adopt a pig. I have my hands full, but if you have the space…”
I arch an eyebrow. “Idefinitelydon’t have the space in my four hundred-square-foot apartment. But maybe you could help.”
“I ca—”
“I know. And even if you wanted to, she’s in the US. But you could post about it online. You have a great platform now—this is the perfect time to use it. Plus, it’ll be good press, and good press never hurts.”
“What will I have to do?” He leans back in his chair. “Can’t exactly fly to the US mid-season.”
“I’m sure we can figure out something.” I meet his eyes, a smile building. “Let’s find Princess a home.”
Callum pays for our dinner, and we step outside to wait for the valet. The moment our feet hit the pavement, a few paparazzi rush forward and take pictures of us. Callum tenses next to me.
“Vultures,” he mutters.
“Excuse me,” a little voice says behind us, and we turn around. A kid of seven or eight years old is standing next to his parents, his big eyes gazing up at Callum. “Can I get an autograph?”
