Chapter 7
Callum
“What are you doing here?” I demand the moment I open the door.
“You ditched me again,” she says, pushing past me. Her bubble-gum-pink raincoat drips water all over my hardwood floors. “Told you I’ve had enough.”
Just brilliant.
I shut the door slowly, resisting the urge to pinch the bridge of my nose. “Well, I was done for the day. Didn’t realise I needed permission to leave.”
“You gave me your word,” she fires back. “‘After training,’ you said. This is after training.”
I cross my arms against my chest. “Stubborn, aren’t you?”
She imitates my posture, although it doesn’t have the same effect. “I could say the same ab—”
“BEEP. BEEP.”
Millie jumps, eyes flying wide. “Wait—what’s going on?” She spins toward the sound, panicked. “Is that your fire alarm? Should we—?”
For a moment, I actually consider letting her believe it’s real and sending her outside in the pouring rain. Problem solved.
But then, I sigh, dragging a hand down my face.
“Naw. It’s just Fergie.” I angle myself toward the staircase and shout, “Fergie, shut it!”
Millie blinks. “Fergie?”
I gesture toward the stairs and start walking. “Come on. You might as well meet him now.”
She follows me up the stairs, still frowning, as though she’s not sure whether I’m pulling her leg. When we enter the room, she freezes.
There he is—perched dramatically near his swing, feathers ruffled and eyes gleaming with mischief.
“You have a parrot?” she asks, stunned. “A live one? Who does fire alarm impressions?”
“Unfortunately.”
He clicks his beak and squawks out an enthusiastic, “BEEP BEEP!”
Millie turns slowly toward me, her expression brimming with disbelief and barely suppressed laughter.
“And you don’t want to create a social media account?”
I cross my arms again. “Nope.”
“Come on. You’d make millions on the platforms,” she says, grinning now. “Forget football—Fergie’s the real star.”
I look at her, my expression utterly serious. “Don’t encourage him.”
Too late. Fergie breaks into a garbled version of a pop theme I don’t know, bobbing his head like a tiny green backup dancer.
Millie claps a hand over her mouth. “This is… honestly incredible.”
Her laughter echoes through the room, light and unguarded. And suddenly, everything feels different between us. Softer. Warmer. A weird sensation washes over me, and I’m not sure what to make of it.
She ventures a single step toward the cage, stretching her hand out, and I’m pulled back to reality.
“Don’t. He’s not the most friend—”
But Fergie shuffles forward on his perch and, to my complete disbelief, ducks his head toward the bars.
Millie lets out a quiet, delighted gasp and reaches through the bars carefully, scratching the top of his head.
Fergie chirps once, clearly pleased. As for me, I’m in utter shock.
He’s never let anyone but me pet him before.
Not one of the dozen pet sitters he’s had has ever managed to touch him.
Well, one did, but I had to pay for her stitches after that.
“Aww, aren’t you a cutie,” Millie says with a baby voice. “No wonder Callum doesn’t want you on camera. You’d steal the show.” She winks at me.
I just roll my eyes. “Should I give you two the room, or—?”
“Ah, don’t be jealous.” She takes a step back and looks at me. “But if you’re that eager, by all means, let’s get your social media account started.”
I groan. I should have just kept my mouth shut. Fergie was proving useful for once, and I blew it.
We head back downstairs, Millie trailing after me. As we reach the bottom step, she glances up toward Fergie’s room. “So… do you ever let him out of his cage?”
“Yeah. Mornings, and when I get home. He’s usually got free rein then.”
Her eyes land on mine. “Why not let him out now?”
“Because I have to watch him,” I say flatly. “He’s a menace. Can’t concentrate on anything else when he’s flapping about.”
She snorts. “Or maybe you’re just worried I’d get all the cuddles.”
I don’t even dignify that with a reply, just swing a left into the kitchen. “Want a drink?”
“Sure. What have you got?”
I gesture toward the fridge. “Water, juice, leftover energy drink from training. It’s not exactly a cocktail bar.”
“I’ll take some juice,” she says, hopping onto one of the stools at the kitchen island. She watches as I grab two glasses and pour. Her coat is hanging on the back of her chair now. Her damp curls are slowly drying, cheeks still a little flushed.
I slide a glass across to her and settle in beside her, resigned to my fate. “Fine, then. Let’s get this over with.”
She wrinkles her forehead. “You know, I don’t get why you’re so against social media. I’m sure it’ll be good for you.”
I snort. “We’ll have to agree to disagree on that. In case you haven’t noticed, the media and I don’t exactly get along.”
“Yeah, I have noticed,” she says, weaving her fingers together. She’s different now, calmer, not overexcited like she usually is at the training centre. “I looked you up.”
I arch an eyebrow. “Oh, you did?”
“Had to understand what I was dealing with, didn’t I? You weren’t exactly the most talkative.” She takes a sip of her juice. “And I’ve seen the headlines—the altercations with the paparazzi, how much attention you get from them. It’s a lot.”
“See? Now you understand why I don’t need any more.” At least we’re getting somewhere.
“I do.” She nods. “But having your own social media accounts will help, I’m sure of that.
It’s your chance to take control over your image, steer the narrative.
Paparazzi won’t chase you around at the grocery store or at the dentist if you’re already posting your own content online.
People don’t know who you are off the pitch.
That’s why those articles thrive. If you give the people what they want, they’ll choose to get their info directly from the source—you. ”
I frown. “I never really saw it that way. So, those tabloids and trash sites will become irrelevant?”
She flashes a big smile, clearly ecstatic that she’s making progress with me.
“For the most part, yes. You’ll strip them of the exclusivity they’ve always had.
And the best part: you can post whatever you want and set your own boundaries.
People will get to know the real you, not the problematic bad boy the press crafted. Here, let me show you.”
She pulls her tablet from her bag and taps it awake, sliding the device across the counter to me.
I glance down. A tidy little presentation fills the screen, slides with clean images and bold titles. She’s gone full professional on me.
“See this tennis player? The press used to hound her constantly, calling her volatile. Then, she started a campaign to turn every troll comment into a charity donation. And this sprinter—always dubbed ‘angry’ by the media. Now, his Instagram stories show him joking around with teammates, pulling pranks. And this rugby player? Everyone thought he was reckless until he went viral cooking with his gran. Showing another side of you can really help your image.”
I frown, staring at the slides longer than I mean to.
It does sound appealing. First, to get back at those vultures who have made my life a living hell since I started my career.
And second, to show who I really am, not this distorted version that the press loves to throw under the bus.
“Aye, all right,” I finally say. “If it can stop them from printing lies about me, it’s worth a shot. ”
“You mean the drunken night thing?” she asks, then covers her mouth. “Sorry, I shouldn’t have pried. It just came out.”
The corners of my lips twitch. “It’s okay.
Yeah, that entire thing was twisted out of proportion.
I was at that bar, and I did get into a fight, but I wasn’t drunk—I actually don’t drink alcohol—and I was only in that fight because I was defending someone.
I didn’t even know the bloke. But next thing I know, cameras are flashing in my face, and my name is slapped on the headlines.
I wasn’t charged or anything, but the media didn’t care.
They kept harassing me, and—well—I have a short temper, so it doesn’t always end well. ”
She sighs, shaking her head. “I can only imagine. I’m sorry that happened to you.”
I nod. “So, you really think this can help, eh? Posting on social media?”
She meets my eyes with confidence. “It can definitely take some of their power away, yes. But I can also work with you on other skills—how to talk to the media and what to do if you’re approached by paparazzi in the street.
Philip said you all had training for media encounters, but maybe I’ll have some fresh tips to offer? ”
I wince, scratching my head. “Aye, I didn’t really pay attention to the media training.”
She rolls her eyes, and for the first time, I notice how pretty they are. Different shades of blue, like the sea when a storm’s coming in. Sharp, dazzling, and hard to look away from. “Wow, real shocker.”
“What would I even post? My life isn’t that interesting, I promise you.”
“Oh, I don’t know. Just the stuff people already love—training clips, match day routines, maybe a few Q&As. And pretty much anything about Fergie. Trust me, he’s a star in the making.”
I arch an eyebrow. “Really got a thing for him, eh?”
“He literally sang ‘Shake It Off’ while hopping around on his perch. You think people won’t eat that up?”
I pinch the bridge of my nose. “I think I’m going to regret this.”
“Too late,” she chirps in a singsong voice. “We’re doing this.”
She grabs her phone and starts typing furiously.
As I sip my juice, I lean my forearms on the counter, grappling with the fact that I’m now being dragged into the very thing I’ve been avoiding for years.
“Right.” She perks up. “First, we’re going to need a handle.”