Chapter 12
Callum
We’ve barely made it back to the training centre when Philip calls us in for a briefing. While I was certainly eager to see Millie and ask her how it went last night, the last thing I was expecting was to see her standing on the auditorium stage again.
I sink into my seat. “Och. This can’t be good.”
“Maybe she’ll make us all do stupid dance videos like Archie does,” Finn says.
Archie flips him the bird. “You’re just jealous because I’m the one getting millions of views. And it’s called branding and using your assets.”
Cameron and Finn puff out a laugh, but I steal a side glance at Archie. Maybe I should check out his account.
Unfortunately, Finn’s idea would have been far better than what they’re really asking of us.
Give me a dance video any day over having to do a photoshoot for a freaking Valentine’s Day campaign titled, “Will you be my Regent?” I will never have Millie pet-sit Fergie again if that leads to outrageous ideas like this one.
We have to choose—and I quote—“romantic, alluring poses, as if you were asking someone on a date. Or be funny.” Two things I’m not and will never be.
“What is this rubbish?” I mutter. “And what’s it got to do with football?”
Almost as if she has Fergie’s powerful hearing, Millie explains, “This will be a great way to boost all the social media accounts—your personal ones and the team’s. Think of it as a fun and entertaining way to increase visibility and connect with your fans.”
Someone asks a question at the front, and I cross my arms tightly over my chest.
“She’s off her rocker,” I grumble. “I’m not posing half naked with a flower in my mouth or something.”
Gordon Abbott, who’s sitting in front of me, turns around and smirks. “I wouldn’t mind getting half naked in front of her.”
My hands ball into fists. “She’s staff. Off limits. Also, you’re a pig, Gordon.”
He laughs, turning back around.
Archie shakes his head. “You just don’t want to do it because you know I’m the most popular.”
“Of the goalies, sure,” Finn retorts.
They keep bickering while I bide my time, waiting for the briefing to end so I can head to cryotherapy. Yes, I would rather stand in a freezing chamber than listen to another word of this ridiculous drivel.
Finally, it’s over and we’re free to go. But before I can turn into the corridor, I hear Millie’s voice calling my name. I pause, hesitating. I could easily ignore her and go straight to cryo, but part of me wants to talk to her. About Fergie, that is.
I spin on my heel and walk up to her.
“Hey. How are you?” she asks, beaming. “And how’s your ankle?”
So, she did watch the game. “I’m good. Heading to cryotherapy, actually. It helps.”
“Oh, okay. Just wanted to say everything went well with Fergie. He was the perfect gentleman. Well, he did wake me up before sunrise with his rendition of “Shape of You,” but I prefer that to the fire alarm.”
I smile. “Oh, yeah. Much better. Glad he didn’t give you too much trouble. You watched the game with him?”
“Yeah. Tough crowd, but he had fun, I think.”
I can only imagine—a heckler like him. “Good. Thank you again.”
“Oh, here’s your key back,” she says, grabbing it from her pocket. “Unless you want me to come back. I’d be happy to watch him again.”
I blink back, caught off guard. “Really?”
Her smile widens. “Of course. We’re friends, remember?”
“I never agreed to that,” I say, crossing my arms.
She levels me with a stare that almost makes me smile, and I cave. It seems like things went well last night, after all, and I do need a sitter. “All right. Keep the key, then.”
“Then it’s settled.” She smiles, slipping it back into her pocket. “So, what’s your pose going to be? For the Valentine’s Day post.”
I frown. “Just when I started to think you were okay, you pull a stunt like that. Not cool, Templeton.”
She crosses her arms to match my posture, arching an eyebrow. “Is this your way of thanking me for watching your very demanding bird?”
“You love him.”
She winces. “Yeah, okay. But still.” Her eyes narrow. “Anyway, you heard Philip; it’s mandatory. Everyone will post at the same time next week, on the fourteenth. We’ll have a photographer here tomorrow. So just think about what you’d like to do.”
“Absolutely not. I’m not taking a half-naked picture with a pink bow on my head or something.”
She rolls her eyes. “How about holding a box of chocolates?”
I scowl.
“Holding a cupcake?”
“Do I look like a baker to you?” I sigh. “I’ll just stay in my kit and smile or something.”
She arches an eyebrow. “How original! Besides, if you were paying attention, you’d remember that I said no one was to wear the Regents kit. It’s kind of the point, to show you in a different setting.”
I grunt. “Brilliant.”
A smile pulls at her lips. “Why not wear a kilt? You’re a Scotsman, after all. That’d work.”
“I don’t have a kilt.”
“Well, that’s a lie. I’ve seen it.” The moment she blurts the words, her face turns red, and she bites her lip.
“Oh,” I say, crossing my arms over my chest again. “Someone went snooping last night.”
She’s now busy studying the tile floor.
A smile twitches at my lips. “Relax, it’s fine. I knew you would. You seemed like the nosy type, which is probably why you and Fergie get along so well.”
She looks up, her face flushing with indignation. “I am not nosy. Just… curious. And you have a very pretty home. I just wanted to see more of it, that’s all. I didn’t touch anything.”
“Glad we cleared that up.”
“So, you’re wearing the kilt, then?” she asks, her eyes gleaming.
“You really think it’s a good idea? Doesn’t exactly scream date, or romantic, or whatever it’s supposed to scream.”
She bites her lip. “Oh, yeah it does.”
My brow wrinkles. “Really?”
“Really.” She nods, her face flushing a deeper shade of red before she spins and walks away.
Well, I guess I’m wearing the kilt.
When my kilt and I show up at the training centre the next day—well, I’m not wearing it yet; it’s deep inside my bag—I’m hit with the fact that half the place has been transformed into a bloody photo studio. There are props and costumes everywhere. It’s honestly disturbing.
Everyone on the team is watching game tape, and we’re supposed to head to the photo room when our name is called. Grand. Can’t wait.
And I don’t have to wait long before Millie calls my name.
Heaving a deep breath, I follow her to the conference room—well, photo studio now.
Overall, the room is dimly lit except for the blinding studio lights aimed at a green screen setup.
The photographer is an older guy with a camera that looks like it’s seen more than a few players stripped down.
Noticing me, he gestures lazily toward a folding screen in the corner.
“You can get changed over there.”
“Cheers,” I grunt.
I step behind the screen and shrug off my top, swapping my shorts for the kilt. When I step out—wearing nothing but my kilt and boots—Millie’s eyes stretch wide, her lips parting as though she forgot how to breathe for a second.
“Um,” I say, scratching the back of my neck. “Where do you want me?”
She blinks, her cheeks reddening. “Right. Uh—on the X. Just there.”
I step onto the taped X in front of the green screen.
“Maybe… we should do the Scottish Highlands behind you?” she suggests, looking thoughtful. “That’d be a good fit.”
I shrug. “Sure. Whatever you think would work.”
She glances over at the photographer, who gives a noncommittal grunt of agreement. When Millie turns back to me, she’s hiding a smile. “What pose are you doing?”
I wince. “I don’t know. Just standing, I guess?”
The photographer doesn’t exactly look thrilled, which makes me wonder what the others did before me. And whether Millie enjoyed the show. Gordon was bragging about making her flustered earlier, but he also claims he once beat Finn in a push-up contest, so, grain of salt.
“I think it’ll work,” Millie says, pulling me back into focus.
“Stand in the middle there, slightly turned to the left, like that.” She steps on the carpet with me and angles me into position.
Her fingers are soft but cold, leaving a trail of shivers in their wake.
She must have noticed it too because she mumbles, “Sorry, my hands are always cold.”
“You’re—” I clear my throat. “It’s fine.”
She glances up at me, then nods. “Can you cross your arms? To give us a bit more, um, definition.”
I suppress the urge to grin like an idiot and do as I’m told. “Like this?” I fold my arms tightly against my chest.
Millie steps back, eyes trailing over me before she catches herself and quickly nods. “Yeah. That’s—yeah. Perfect.”
The photographer starts snapping, and I do my best to hold still without looking like a total plank. Millie is standing in the corner, taking videos with her phone.
“Documenting for social media too,” she explains when she sees me looking.
“Isn’t this whole thing for social media?”
Her eyes rove over my naked torso and kilt. “Yeah, but fans like behind-the-scenes content, you know?”
A few more shots, and it’s over. I step down from the X and trudge back to the changing screen. Once I’ve traded the kilt for my practice gear, I dip my chin to Millie.
“Well, see you tomorrow,” I mumble, opening the door to head off.
“Wait, aren’t you coming tonight?” she calls after me.
I shift back on my heel. “What’s tonight?”
“The sponsors’ gala,” she says, as if it’s the most obvious thing in the world.
I curse under my breath. “Is that tonight already? I thought it was next week.” I hate those stupid galas. Unfortunately, they’re in my contract. “All right. See ye tonight, then.”
“Maybe you could wear the kilt,” she peeps up behind me, sounding a little out of breath. And this time, I can’t hide the stupid grin that springs to my face.