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 a walnut 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.
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, I still 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, not every player. 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.
I slip past them all and march straight into the stadium, treading through the tunnel and toward the circular locker room. I’m the first one there, soaking in the peace and quiet before everyone else trickles in.
After our warmup on the pitch, we file back into the dressing room, change into our match kit, and wait for Francois to burst in with his usual pregame speech.
He arrives shortly after, positioning himself in front of the rolling whiteboard. With a flourish, he grabs a dry-erase marker and draws a heart on it.
“Love,” he says dramatically. “L’amour. How did you all get here?
You fell in love with football. The same way you fall in love with a person—slowly at first, then all at once.
You give it your everything. Your time, your energy, your sleepless nights.
You fight for it. You forgive its bad days.
You show up, even when it’s hard.” His thick French accent gives me a headache, but I try to understand his point.
“But you don’t just fall in love with the game.
You fall in love with each other.” His eyes rove the benches, flitting between us.
“What we have here—this team—it’s not perfect.
No team is. But it’s real. Like a good marriage, it takes trust. Patience.
Showing up every single day. Having each other’s backs, even when things go wrong. ”
He marks a pause, and I look around. Most of the guys are now glancing at each other, some withholding smiles, others nodding along with steely determination.
“So today, I want you to play like you’re in love—with the ball, with the team, and with each other. Love demands effort. So give it everything you’ve got! Let’s go!”
Everyone applauds and high fives, pumping themselves up for the match before pouring into the tunnel. Just ahead, a group of kids are waiting for us to walk to the pitch—a football tradition put in place to promote sportsmanship and community values.
Today, I’m paired with a pigtailed girl who reminds me a bit of Millie. I offer my hand, and she hesitates to take it. When I give her a faint smile, she evidently decides I’m not going to eat her alive and slips her hand in mine.
Finn and Archie, who are standing in front of me, are teaching their kids their secret handshake, and behind me, Cameron is making conversation with the girl he’s paired with.
Finally, it’s time to go. I take a deep breath as I walk onto the pitch, ready to do what I do best.