Fergie’s eyes widen. He tiptoes around the image, then looks at me. “Moo.”
“Good job,” I say, pressing the dog button next.
“Woof,” Fergie echoes—then again, louder and with attitude. “WOOF.”
He starts hopping between buttons, activating them like he’s DJ-ing some bizarre farmyard rave.Moo. Baa. Meow. Quack.
We keep going for a while, then we play some ring tosser before it’s time for me to go get ready. I take him back to his cage, ignoring the reproachful look he’s giving me.
“Come on, it’s not like your cage isn’t half this room. You probably have the biggest parrot cage in England.” I actually had to get it custom-made.
He starts singing the Lions anthem again, just to torment me, but I ignore him and fetch the rest of his food from the kitchen. I slide it into his cage.
“Here, for later,” I tell him, but he’s already swaying on his parrot swing at the other end of the cage. I swear, this bird has a better life than I do.
I hit the shower and grab my phone, which is still on my bedside table. The second I turn it on, I’m blasted with the usual slew of emails from my agent, who sends me daily articles about me. And I delete all of them without reading a single one. He keeps telling me it’s important to “stay on top of the narrative,” but I’ve learned the hard way that it’s all poison and not worth my time. The paparazzi harassed my parents, followed my brother at school, and eventually scared off the only real girlfriend I’ve ever had.
I glimpse one of the headlines as I’m deleting it:“The insane amount Callum Murray paid in Red Card fines this season.”
I grit my teeth. What baffles me most is that these stupid articles must be of some interest to people, otherwise they would stop writing them.
I go check on Fergie one more time, making sure he’s got everything he needs for the day, then say goodbye to him.
“Bye, good day,” he says without even looking at me, his eyes glued to the TV. He’s watching the highlights of a hockey game from last night. New York Raptors won 4–1.
“I have a match this afternoon, okay? I’ll be back later.”
“You lose,” he says matter-of-factly, and I roll my eyes in response.
“Later,” I call out before exiting his room.
The drive to the training centre is short, and my mind’s already in match mode. We’ve been on a decent run—three games without a loss—and we’re hungry to keep the momentum going.
But the moment I step into the lobby, Millie Templeton has her sights set on me. It’s as if she was waiting for me to show up or something.
“Hi!” she says, her voice far too chipper for this early in the day. She’s dressed in yet another blindingly colourful outfit, complete with some kind of patterned scarf. “I was wondering if we could talk for a minute. About your social media strategy—and maybe about how to handle the press.”
“No need,” I grunt. “I don’t talk.”
She gives me a small smile. “Exactly, that’s the problem. If you’d just—”
“Look, it’s match day. I don’t have time for this. I’m already late for a meeting with my tactical trainer.”
I don’t bother to wait for a reply. Just keep walking, fast and firm, toward the gym where Michael is already warming up. He dips his chin to me as I enter, no questions asked, and we get to work.
We’re up against a tough fixture today—Manchester. Strong, technical, aggressive. But we’ve trained hard, and I feel sharp, focused.
As I make my way to lunch, a flash of colour moves in my periphery. There she is again, all smiles. “Callum, hey. I thought we could have lunch together, to—”
“I’m having lunch with my teammates,” I grumble, cutting her off as I grab my tray and stalk to my usual table before she can say anything else.
But somehow, Istill can’t escape her. She’s everywhere. Laughing with Archie near the coffee machine. Chatting with Finn outside the weight room. Wafting her darn flowery perfume through every corridor. I swear, Millie Templeton is haunting me.
She’s persistent—I’ll give her that. Most people would have walked away by now. Heck, I was counting on it. But not her.
Thankfully, she doesn’t board the bus to the stadium with us. I’m not even sure she’s coming to the match.
The VIP entrance is swarming with fans, who start calling out every player’s name as we get off the bus. Well, noteveryplayer. But I don’t care. I’m grateful, actually. I came here to play football, not pose for selfies. My teammates, however, are always happy to play this game, chatting with kids, signing their stuff. Finn even takes it a step further—the guy is notorious for asking kids to sign his cap. He probably has thousands by now.
