Chapter 6
Millie
The next week is still proving a challenge with Callum.
I’ve managed to chat with most of the guys, and some of them have even started following my guidelines, reposting clips or tagging the club account in their new posts.
But I still haven’t exchanged more than a few words with Callum—his being mostly “not now” or “I don’t have time. ”
I wring my hands on my way to Philip’s office, the soles of my shoes squeaking on the gleaming hallway floor.
My anxiety builds with every step. I know he’s going to ask me for a report of my first week, and I don’t want to disappoint him.
He specifically asked me to focus on Callum, but so far, I’ve come up short. And there are few things I hate more.
I knock gently on the heavy wooden door, my palms sweating.
“Come in,” he calls, and I step into his office.
The space is as polished and precise as the man himself—decorated with dark wood furniture, a single framed photo of the original Regents squad, and a stack of neatly organised folders on his desk.
The windows let in the low grey light that feels quintessentially London, and the faint ticking of a minimalist clock adds to the seriousness of the space.
He offers a tight smile. “Ah, Millie. Sit down. How has the first week been?”
“Good, good. Still finding my footing, but I made progress with most of the guys. We went over their content strategy, and everyone has been applying what we’ve discussed.”
Philip arches an eyebrow. “Everyone? I noticed Callum Murray still doesn’t have an account.”
My stomach drops. “Right, um. It’s a bit more difficult with him. I’m hoping to get his account started by the end of next week.”
He nods. “Good. As I said, it’s paramount that everyone participates if we want to reconnect with our fans—especially our younger ones.”
I swallow hard, but I bounce back quickly.
“About that: I had an idea for the team’s social media accounts.
Maybe we could do some behind-the-scenes footage.
I’d take care of that, filming snippets both here at the training centre and at the stadium.
It would definitely help fans connect with the team, feel like they’re part of it. ”
He locks his eyes on me for a moment, his expression unreadable, then he smiles. “Brilliant idea. You can start today.”
I let out a low sigh of relief. At least with this, I can make up for my lack of results with Callum, and I do think it’s a great idea. If the rest of the team banters like the group I hung out with after the last game, the fans are in for a treat.
After my chat with Philip, I wander through the halls of the training centre, camera in hand.
The silence is broken only by the faint echo of trainers squeaking, football boots clacking against tile, and the murmur of conversation drifting from the physio room.
Eventually, I spot Callum entering through the sliding doors, his hair dripping from the light drizzle outside, his kit streaked with mud.
“Hey,” I begin, trying to sound casual. “Can we—”
“Not now. Gotta go to the boot room,” he snaps, quickening his pace.
Of course you do, I silently retort.
Giving up on Callum for the time being, I decide to start filming for the club account at lunch.
The canteen is buzzing with the clatter of trays, the clanging of cutlery, and the hum of overlapping voices.
My eyes are drawn to the soft cream walls with framed black-and-white action shots of past Regents glories, and the scent of roasted chicken and warm bread makes my mouth water.
Players move between stations, grabbing food, tossing out jokes, and stretching their tired legs. The round tables hold a scattering of water bottles, energy bars, and the occasional protein shake. The place feels casual and alive—exactly the kind of setting fans never get to experience firsthand.
I hover near the back of the canteen, phone in hand, and tap Record to start filming. At the nearest table, Archie, Finn, Wade, and Cameron are mid-meal, plates piled high with carbs and protein.
“Oi, is that thing on?” Archie points a fork at me, his mouth half-full. “Should’ve told me. I’d have put on my good face.”
“You don’t have one,” Finn deadpans, stealing a bread roll from his plate.
“Hey!” Archie huffs, throwing a crumpled napkin across the table.
Cameron leans in toward the camera with a too-serious expression. “This is what peak performance looks like. Chaos, bread theft, and deeply hurt feelings.”
Wade nods. “See what I have to deal with?”
They all laugh, and I grin behind the camera. This is exactly what I’d hoped for.
Then, Callum walks in with a tray in his hands and that same storm-cloud expression on his face. When he sees me filming, his eyes narrow slightly.
“Can’t even be left alone at lunch now?” he mutters, not quite looking at me.
“Just a bit of behind-the-scenes stuff,” I say lightly, keeping the camera pointed away from him. “Fans love seeing this more casual side of the team.”
He just grunts and sits down heavily, slamming his tray onto the table. He starts eating without glancing up.
Taking the hint, I move to the other side of the room, focusing my lens on players who actually want to be filmed.
The rest of the squad is easy—chatty, relaxed, and occasionally ridiculous.
They toss grapes across the table, try to one-up each other with terrible impressions, and give mock-serious interviews to my phone.
While everyone else seems to be loving the attention, Callum seems even more annoyed with me than usual, and every time I see him, he either bolts in the other direction or ducks as if I’m some nosy paparazzo. Frankly, he’s starting to get on my nerves.
After he snubs me for the fifth time this week, I make a pact with myself: next time I see him, I won’t take no for an answer.
And as fate would have it, I spot him first thing the next morning. He’s walking through the corridor near the gym, his broad shoulders squared, hoodie up, earbuds in. But this time, I don’t hesitate. I speed-walk straight toward him and plant myself in his path like a human traffic cone.
He stops, blinking and pulling one earbud out, as if he’s not sure I’m real.
“Enough,” I say firmly. No sugary smile, no soft tone.
“I’m tired of this. You have to let me do my job.
” My hands are trembling slightly from the adrenaline, so I press them firmly to my hips, willing myself to stand tall.
“I don’t care that you don’t want a social media account—you have to comply. And you have to listen to me.”
He studies me for a second, and I swear I glimpse the shadow of a smile. “Fine. After training.”
Holding my breath, I watch him as he stalks away. I wait until he turns the corner before pumping both my fists in the air, not unlike the manager at the game. Finally, progress!
Callum
I hurry out of the training centre as soon as I’m done, not wanting to cross paths with Millie again. I said I’d listen to her to get her off my back, but I have no intention of actually following through. I must say, though, I’m impressed by her stubbornness. But no one beats me at that game.
Rain is still pouring in torrential sheets as I drive home, the steady drumming of fat drops against the car roof matching the tension in my shoulders. Everything’s damp and grey—big surprise—and I’m glad we’re not playing for an entire week, given it’s supposed to rain every day.
Fergie starts singing as soon as he hears the door creak open—his way of welcoming me home.
I kick off my boots, the soles waterlogged, and hang my soaked jacket by the radiator. My socks squelch against the hardwood as I trudge upstairs.
“You all right, lad?” I mutter, flipping off the telly that’s been droning in the background. Fergie is perched high on the side of his cage, flapping his wings once in excitement. “Did you have a good day?”
“Good day!” he chirps, bobbing his head like he’s congratulating himself. “Good boy!”
Several of his toys are scattered across the bottom of the cage—one of the bell balls has a new beak-sized dent in it—and most of his food is gone. Only a few sunflower seeds cling stubbornly to the edge of his bowl.
I open the cage door, and he wastes no time, hopping straight to my shoulder, claws digging into the soft cotton of my sweatshirt.
“Och,” I mutter halfheartedly. “You’re going to stretch this one out again.”
“Stretch the jumper!” he repeats proudly.
Despite myself, I crack a smile and walk over to the ring toss toy I left out this morning.
It’s a wooden stand with colourful plastic rings stacked on one end.
Sometimes, I think he’s actually getting the hang of it, but for the most part, he just randomly throws the rings and demands praise like he’s performed a miracle.
“Go on, then,” I say, crouching beside the toy.
Fergie squawks, flutters down from my shoulder, and grabs a red ring in his beak before promptly dropping it on the floor instead of the peg.
“Close,” I say flatly.
“Winner!” he cries.
“Not quite.”
He pecks the green one, scoots it toward the stand, then nudges it into place with what almost looks like precision.
“Och,” I say, watching him carefully. “That was actually decent.”
Fergie puffs up with pride. “Goal!” He hops back onto my shoulder, his beak brushing my jaw. “Treat?”
“You’ve had enough—”
Ding-dong.
The doorbell cuts me off mid-sentence.
Fergie squawks loud enough to set off what sounds suspiciously like his impression of the fire alarm.
I grimace. “Fantastic. All right, back in the cage. I’ll go down to see who it is.”
“Who is it?” Fergie says, turning his head.
I shake my head. “I’ll be right back.”
Closing the cage behind him, I head back downstairs, wondering who it could be. I check the peephole and almost lose my balance when I see who’s on the other side.
Millie Templeton is standing on my doorstep.