And that bothers me more than I expected. Because even if I don’t know him well, I’m sure he’s not that bad. Yes, he’s a little gruff. Yes, a glaring scowl seems to be his default expression. But maybe that’s just his armour. And honestly? It makes me want to fight harder for him.
I think back onother athletes who’ve been dragged by the press before flipping the narrative: the tennis player who turned trolls into a charity campaign, the sprinter who used Instagram stories to reveal his goofy personality when all the headlines were about his temper. Even that rugby player who went viral for cooking with his gran. Fans love authenticity. It changes everything.
I lean back on my rainbow cushions, turning off my phone’s screen. Everyone has something. I just have to discover what Callum’s thing is and how to make him more endearing to the public. If anyone could benefit from the power of social media, it’s Callum Murray. Now, I just have to figure out how to convince him to give it a chance.
Chapter 4
Callum
BEEP.
BEEP.
BEEP.
I bolt upright in bed, heart hammering, breath caught in my throat. I immediately assume it’s the fire alarm. Again.
But then I hear it—Fergie’s little shuffle on his perch, followed by that smug throat-clear he does when he knows he’s being an arse.
BEEP.
BEEP.
BEEP.
“Oh, for the love of—Fergie!” I groan, dragging myself out of bed. I trudge all the way down the corridor until I reach his room, and there he is. Top perch, perfectly calm again.
“Hello. Hungry,” the parrot says, flapping his lime green feathers.
“Yeah, yeah. Breakfast is coming.”
I open his cage for his morning fly, and he follows me down to the kitchen. Flicking the kettle on, I start prepping his breakfast like the obedient servant I apparently am.
He watches my every move. The second the chopping starts—steamed veggies, a bit of banana, some pellet rubbish I mix in to feel like a responsible adult—he starts singing the anthem of the London Lions, our rival team.
“You done tormenting me yet?” I ask with a sigh.
He doesn’t answer. Just lifts one foot and gives me his usual one-eyed stare.
Once I’ve got his bowl sorted, I slide it onto the central island, and he flies to it. He hops across the table like he owns the place and makes a big show of ignoring the food.
“Och, we’re doing this again?” I lean back against the counter. “Gonna pretend you’re above courgette for ten minutes, then inhale the lot of it when I turn my back?”
He nibbles at awalnut and side-eyes me. Doesn’t say a word. Just crunches on the nut with his thick beak.
“You woke me up, Fergie. Now you’re going to eat.”
He glares at me for a second, probably debating whether pleasing me was worth fulfilling his hunger, before his stomach makes the decision for him.
I glance around the room, double-checking that it’s safe for Fergie before heading back upstairs to his room. Snapping open the blinds, I get to work cleaning his enormous cage. Next, I replace his chew toys, throw in a new treat-dispensing puzzle cube, and turn on the TV, navigating to the sports channel. He obviously hears it because he flies into the room seconds later.
“Already done eating, are you?”
“Play time?” he asks, tilting his head.
I can’t help but smile. I really didn’t want this bird, but I can’t deny he’s got a certain charm. I walk over to the large wardrobe where I keep his enrichment toys, pulling out the large soundboard carpet for babies and unfolding it on the floor. I sit down next to it, and Fergie homes in on the colourful display, landing right on the cow.
“Moo,” the toy responds.
