I’m not sure whether I should laugh, but Roxy is chuckling. “Fallon is a risk analyst, and probably a good one.” She winks. “I mean, her numbers sound about right, but we make it work.”
Fallon gives Roxy an apologetic smile. “You know me. I like my routine, so this wouldn’t be the life for me.” Turning to me, she offers a smile. “How’s your job going so far?”
“Just startedyesterday, and so far, so good. I’ve mostly been auditing the guys’ accounts, and I haven’t found anything alarming yet. I’ll meet with them one-on-one for content suggestions and strategy over the next few weeks. Actually, I already have a few meetings set up for next week.”
“Impressive,” Roxy says, raising her eyebrows. “Callum?”
I sigh. “No luck yet. But with the big match and everything, I suppose he was a bit preoccupied. I’m hoping I’ll catch him next week.”
Fallon frowns. “Wait, Callum has a social media account? What platform?”
I shake my head. “No, he doesn’t, and that’s the problem. Seems like he’s the only one on the team who’s allergic to social media.”
“Oh, yeah. That makes a lot more sense. And it’s your job to convince him to make one? Good luck.”
The corner of my lips tilt as Roxy places a comforting hand on my shoulder. “Thanks. Philip already told them it’s mandatory, but Callum doesn’t seem to think the rules apply to him—well, maybe I’m too quick to judge. I just got here, after all.”
The two women look at each other and nod. “No,” Fallon says matter-of-factly. “Seems pretty accurate.”
They burst intolaughter, and I join them. Yeah, it’ll be fine. I’ll try again next week.
We keep chatting about our lives, and soon enough, it’s time for the match to start. The announcer’s voice booms across the stadium, hyping the crowd until the whole place is vibrating with palpable excitement. Then, the players file onto the pitch, each holding hands with a child dressed in a miniature kit.
I can’t help but notice the differences in their body language. Finn is grinning, chatting to his pint-sized partner and even bending down to fist-bump him before they line up. Cameron looks focused but relaxed, giving his kid a reassuring pat on the shoulder. Archie’s kid is laughing out loud at a joke Archie just made. Meanwhile, Wade ruffles his kid’s hair and whispers something in his ear. And then there’s Callum. His expression is carved from granite, his little partner practically jogging to keep up with his long strides. Still, I don’t miss the way Callum steadies her with a big hand when they pause at the halfway line.
My phone practically burns in my pocket as I watch the scene unfold. This is gold. These walk-outs already make for a great photo op, but I can see short videos too: Finn teaching his kid a handshake, Archie triggering laughter with his jokes, Cameron’s easy smile, and even Callum’s unexpected gentleness. The fans would eat this stuff up. It’s not just football—it’s heart.
As the match gets underway, I struggle to keep up. Watching football in real life is a lot harder than on TV. I’ve watched a few matches with my dad before, but on TV, they zoom in on the ball. Here, your first mission is to find it, and the second one is figuring out who currently has it.
Personally, I’m more interested in watching the fans. They live every second of the match like they’re down on the pitch themselves. You can see it in their body language, their expressions, their shouting. The atmosphere is intense and incredibly fascinating. Philip said the team lost touch with their fans and that they had to reconnect with them, but they seem pretty connected to me. I can only wonder how it was before. If I manage to do my job correctly, the results will be spectacular. Most of these fans would follow their team to the ends of the earth.
A sudden gasp rolls through the stadium like a wave, followed by angry shouting. My head snaps toward the pitch just in time to see Cameron Bexley, one of our midfielders, getting shoved off the ball. The referee doesn’t blow the whistle.
“What!” Fallon shouts, bolting upright in her seat. “That was a clear foul.”
Around us, dozens of voices echo her sentiment—some a lot louder, and with language that’s not quite so polite. One man a few rows down actually stands up and points at the ref as if he's just been personally insulted.
François Delatour, the manager, seems to agree. He’s jumping in place, jabbing his finger at the pitch and screaming like a toddler about to have a tantrum, but even that’s not enough to change the referee’s mind, and the match continues.
The Regents regain possession a few seconds later, and when Archie, our goalkeeper, launches the ball back downfield, a hopeful roar builds again, growing louder with every completed pass.
“Come on… come on…” someone chants behind us.
Unfortunately, our guys lose the ball in midfield, and Manchester surges forward again, fast and organised. The ball moves like it’s gliding on rails, slicing through our defence. And then, just when it looks like their striker’s about to break into the box, Callum appears from out of nowhere.
He doesn’t just intercept the pass. He absorbs it—body angled, stance wide, a brick wall in motion. The forward crashes into him, stumbling back like he’s just collided with a wardrobe.
“That’s Murray for you,” a man behind us says. “Built like a bloody tank.”
Callum doesn’t flinch. He muscles the ball away, pivots, and clears it down the line before the Manchester player can recover. Another fan leans forward in his seat and mutters to himself, half-hopeful, half-panicked, “No red card. No red card.”
Down on the pitch, Callum jogs back into position, his expression unreadable. From here, he looks completely unfazed, like brushing off that kind of hit is part of his morning routine.
The tension rises again as the Regents push forward. François Delatour is practically on the pitch now, yelling at his players. They’re closing in on the goal. Wade’s in the box, waiting. A cross comes in—perfect angle—and Wade gets his head to it.
The ball hits the back of the net.
Down on the pitch, the players swarm Wade, tossing their arms over his shoulders, shouting and shoving like kids at recess. Callum jogs over at a slower pace but still claps Wade on the back. The whole team looks electric—alive with adrenaline and shared triumph.
