Chapter 2
Callum
“Two briefings in one morning,” I mumble, grabbing a seat at the back of the room. “Are we football players or students?”
“Looks like Grumpy Callum has landed,” says Archie Wilcott, ruffling his brown hair before sitting next to me.
I ignore him, crossing my arms over my chest.
“Has he ever not landed?” asks Finn O’Leary, arching a brow before shooting me a cheeky smirk.
I flip him the bird and settle into my seat.
“What? Has your bloody parrot messed up your sleeping schedule again?” he prods.
Archie wrinkles his nose. “Hate that bird.”
Let’s just say Archie’s first—and only—encounter with Fergie didn’t end well for our goalie.
I roll my eyes. “Leave Fergie out of this. Doesn’t it bother you that we’re sitting in a briefing room instead of out there on the pitch, preparing for tomorrow?”
“Well, he has a point,” Cameron Bexley says, taking a seat on my other side. “We’ve barely touched the grass this morning.”
Archie smirks. “Bet you’re glad you weren’t transferred during the holidays now, huh?”
“That was really a possibility?” I ask, turning to Cameron. First time I’ve heard that bit of information.
Finn sighs. “You should really join our group chat. You’re missing out on a lot of stuff.”
“I’m really not,” I deadpan. “You tell me all about it anyways.”
“Sure, two weeks later,” he retorts, an eyebrow raised.
“Yeah, mate,” Archie chimes in. “Time to grace us with your presence.”
I shake my head. “I already see you way too often during the week. I don’t need the after party.”
“Oh! Here we go,” Finn says, nodding at the door that’s swinging open.
Philip, the club owner, marches into the room, looking as strict as usual, followed by an unusual woman.
Well, unusual might be a weak word. She’s wearing an orange skirt, turquoise tights, and a dotted blouse, but despite her blinding outfit, what strikes me more is her smile.
It stretches from ear to ear, bright and hopeful.
“Lads,” Philip begins, and the room falls silent. “Let me introduce you to Millie Templeton. She’s joining us as the new social media manager, and I’m sure you’ll all give her a warm welcome.”
Most of the room applauds, but I tighten my arms against my chest. What’s this rubbish now?
I don’t do social, or media. If there’s one thing I’ve learned in my career, it’s that the media is pure evil.
They prey on you like a wild animal, gutting you with no mercy.
Your personal life, friends, family—nothing is off limits to them.
Even in Harry Potter, the only books I’ve ever read, the media is malevolent, as depicted by Rita Skeeter.
And just like her Quick-Quotes Quill, the real-world media has a knack for twisting anything you say into a juicy headline.
“As you know,” Philip continues, “we’ve been rebranding the club, and we’re not stopping there.
Football is all about the fans, both on and off the pitch.
Given how challenging our last seasons have been, it’s crucial that we reconnect with our fans.
We need them to be proud to support the Regents.
And that’s where you, and Ms. Templeton, come in.
” He takes a step back and gives her the floor.
She clears her throat and claps her hands together with an annoying level of enthusiasm. “Right. Hi. So, as Mr. Mountford just said, I’m here to help the club, and every single one of you, with your social media strategy.”
Some of the guys chuckle a few rows down, probably after one of them mumbled a crude remark.
“If you don’t have an account on the major platforms,” she continues, “don’t worry, I’ll help you create one. We’ll discuss what to post, when to post, how often and…”
Her words grow muffled as I release a loud sigh and look outside. There is absolutely no way this is happening. I’m here to play football, not become some kind of puppet posting nonsense online to please the club. Philip and his rubbish ideas again.
“Easy, tiger,” Finn mutters, shouldering me. “I can practically see the steam coming out of your ears. It’s not that bad. You’ll get used to it.”
“Won’t do it,” I grunt as I glare back at the girl, who’s now fully talking with her hands.
Francois, our manager, is literally on the edge of his seat, captivated by her every word.
But that doesn’t surprise me. The bloke is probably as eccentric as her, with his knack for showmanship.
He’s been with us since the start of the season, and the jury’s still out on him.
Sure, we’ve been doing better than last season—which doesn’t take much—but his pregame speeches are the bane of my existence.
The room breaks into polite applause again, and Millie is beaming. Philip takes over, droning on, and my ears tune out the words “mandatory” and “best behaviour.” Finally, he dismisses us for lunch.
Lunch already? I glance at my watch. Seriously, why did we even bother showing up this morning?
We all exit the room and make our way to the canteen.
I’m one of the first in line, and I grab my usual table at the end of the large room, tucked near the window overlooking the training pitch.
Soon enough, Archie, Cameron, and Finn join me.
I kind of prefer to eat alone, but they always sit with me.
Of everyone on the team, I’ve known these three the longest, besides our captain, and they’re decent guys, so I don’t really care.
Not that I have much of a choice. I keep telling them off, but it never sticks.
The subject on everyone’s lips is, naturally, the mandatory social media presence—and the new girl.
“We actually met her last Christmas,” Finn says, forking a piece of chicken. “At the charity match.”
“Wait, you guys already knew about this?” I blurt out. “Why didn’t you say anything?” Or do anything to stop it.
“Yeah.” Archie nods, ignoring my question. “She’s a friend of Roxy’s.”
Roxy is married to Wade, our captain.
“Oh, yeah. You mentioned that in the chat,” Cameron adds, then raises his eyebrows at me. “You really should join, Cal.”
I just roll my eyes.
“So, what are you going to name your account?” Archie asks, the cheeky grin spreading on his lips reminding me of my younger brother. “Grumpycal3?”
“Therealgrumpycal?” Finn suggests.
“Shut up. I’m not making an account,” I grumble.
“You heard the boss. We have no choice in the matter,” Finn shoots back, taking a swig of his drink.
“And it might help with the press too,” Archie says. “Saw the article yesterday. For the record, I don’t think you should be kicked off the team.”
I arch an eyebrow. “Why are you even reading that stuff? It’s rubbish.”
“Well, they keep saying I’m the best goalie and the most handsome guy on the team, so I’m a little biased.” He winks.
“Exactly,” I grunt, going back to my food. Even though my agent sends them to me every morning, I haven’t opened an article about me or the team in ages. Don’t need to. Don’t care.
Cameron shakes his head. “Goalies are usually the broody, silent type,” he says, his American accent coming out in full force. “What did we do to deserve this?”
Archie shrugs. “That personality was already taken by my big bro. I had to improvise.”
“You lads should have seen him at the academy,” Finn says. “Most annoying bloke there.”
“Annnd that’s when you fell in love with me. Brotherly love, of course. Same with you two.”
I’m about to fire back that he practically imposed himself as my friend when a flowery perfume washes over me. I turn my head to see Millie approaching our table. Oh, heck no. What now?
“Hi,” she says with a little wave and a big smile. “Just passing by the tables to introduce myself, but we’ve already met,” she adds to Finn and Archie, who welcome her warmly.
Archie gestures to us. “Millie, this is Cameron, one of our midfielders, and Callum, a defender.”
“Nice to meet you,” Cameron says, then elbows me.
“Hi,” I say flatly.
“Philip told me you don’t have a social media account yet,” she says, her blue eyes zeroing in on me.
There’s a smudge of black makeup underneath her left eye and some spatters of mud on her skirt.
Not exactly living up to “Regents standards,” as Philip would say.
He always harasses us about our appearance.
“But that’s okay. We can work on that first thing.
It’s actually better to start with a fresh account. ”
I just grunt in response, and the guys laugh under their breath.
“So, when can we set up a time to get started?” she asks, her eyes brimming with hope and enthusiasm.
“Not sure. I’m busy.”
“Well, maybe we can take a few minutes now?” she asks, smoothing her skirt. “You still have twenty min—”
I stand up at once, squaring my shoulders. I’m only a head taller than her, which surprises me. I thought she was tinier. “I really don’t have time right now,” I say with finality. Then, I pick up my tray, drop it on the trolley, and hurry out of the canteen.
There is no way I’m starting a social media account. I’m here to play football. Nothing else.