Chapter 23 #2
“Of course, sir. It’s entirely my fault.”
“No, it’s not,” I say, my volume rising as every muscle in my body goes rigid. “It’s a little cut, and I’m perfectly fine. I know you usually know what’s best for me, Dad. But I’m an adult, and I promise you I know what I’m doing. Now, please, can we eat? I’m starving.”
Dad watches me for a second, then nods. “Fine,” he mutters. “Let’s eat.”
We finally tuck into our food, and after a few mouthfuls, the weirdness of the situation dawns on me. Here I am in my cramped dining room, eating Sunday roast with my dad and Callum Murray. The walls feel tighter than usual, like the air's grown thicker with the sheer strangeness of it all.
“So, you think you’ll make Top Four this year?” Dad asks eventually, reaching for the gravy.
Callum arches an eyebrow as he chews. “Football fan?”
“Of course.”
“And your team is…” Callum leans forward a few inches, intrigued.
Dad chuckles, and the tension in my shoulders finally eases. “Regents, since I was a boy.”
Callum seems to relax as well as he wipes his mouth with his napkin. “Phew. Had me worried for a second.”
They both laugh, and I’m not sure whether to love this new mood shift or brace myself for whatever’s coming next.
“To answer your question,” Callum continues, “yeah, I think we will. Last year was complicated—our toughest season—but we’re doing better this time around.”
“I wasn’t sure about that Delacour bloke,” Dad says, cutting into his roast, “but he’s not that bad, huh? Seems to know his stuff. I kind of like the new style.”
“He’s definitely something,” I chime in. “He probably burns as many calories as the players during the matches. And his speeches are already legendary.”
“Yeah, we don’t always understand his metaphors,” Callum replies with a half-smile. “But it works, I guess.”
“That’s what matters most.” Dad nods. “It’s painful to miss the Champions League this year. Let’s not do it twice.”
“No, sir,” Callum says, his voice firm.
“And I’ve heard what people were saying about you last year because of that Own Goal,” Dad continues, pointing his fork for emphasis.
“They needed someone to blame, and you were their scapegoat. But a Top Four finish doesn’t depend on one match alone.
Sure, if we’d won that match, we’d have made it—but barely.
We wouldn’t have been in that position in the first place if we’d had a better season overall. ”
“Thanks, sir. I appreciate that.” Callum nods with quiet sincerity. “But I don’t mind. I’m used to the media and the fans lashing out. I learned a long time ago that it’s better to let it go.”
“Smart man,” Dad jokes, giving Callum a friendly slap on the back.
“I told you not to listen to the media, Dad,” I say, shaking my head.
“Yeah, well. Guess I didn’t know better,” he says with a grimace, then nods to Callum. “It’s not my world. But you’re an all right bloke.”
“What do you do, sir?”
“I’m a gardener, and you can call me William.”
They’re now chatting like they’re old mates at the pub, voices low and easy. The clinking of cutlery and the occasional scrape of a chair are the only other sounds in the room.
“So, what do you think about Millie’s work so far?” Dad probes after a sip of water, leaning back in his chair.
“Oh, she’s brilliant,” Callum responds without hesitation. “She taught us a lot about social media, and our fans are loving the behind-the-scenes content she posts. Everyone’s happy with her work, and I’m particularly grateful.” He glances at me, something warm and unspoken flickering in his eyes.
I can feel my cheeks catching fire. “Thanks.”
“I mean it,” he continues, more serious now. “I didn’t have any social media accounts and avoided the press as much as possible. Now, I’ve got control over my image again. It’s weird not being the bad boy anymore, but I could get used to it.” He winks.
“Yeah, she sure is something, my Millie,” Dad says proudly.
“To be fair,” I say, clearing my throat, “Callum has an irresistible weapon when it comes to entertaining fans on social media. So, it was easy to get people on his side.”
Dad frowns, intrigued. “I’m listening.”
Callum grins and pulls his phone from his jean pocket. “William, let me introduce you to Fergie.”
Dad and Callum have been watching videos of Fergie for the past hour, laughing like old friends. And as nice as this is, it’s not helping with my inconvenient crush on Callum. At all. Why does this man have to be so perfect?
To make matters worse, he even helps us clear the table and wash the dishes, rolling up his sleeves and rinsing plates like he’s done it a thousand times.
“Well, I think I’m going to head home,” he says eventually, drying his hands on a tea towel. “Gotta check on Fergie.”
“It was nice meeting you,” Dad says, shaking his hand again, this time with a firmness that carries more approval than suspicion.
“I’ll walk you to the door,” I say, as if my apartment was big enough to ‘walk him to the door.’
We step toward the entryway while Dad sinks onto the couch, switching on the TV with a contented sigh.
“Thanks for having me over,” Callum says. “Well, guess I kind of invited myself.”
I chuckle, hugging my arms. “No worries. We had enough to feed the entire team. I’ll be eating leftovers all week.” I clear my throat, staring at the floor. “And thanks for coming all this way to bring me my earring.”
“It’s no big deal.” His voice is soft, almost gentle.
Our eyes meet, and the air between us grows heavy with something unspoken. The memory of yesterday surfaces—the heat of his hands on my back, the way his lips moved tenderly over mine, how my heart thudded in my chest like it might explode. What if we were to kiss again?
Something sparks to life in his eyes, and his gaze darkens with what looks like desire. Could he be feeling this too? Does he want to—
“Aaaachoo!”
We both jolt as my dad sneezes, loud enough to rattle the lamp on the console table.
“Bless you!” Callum calls out, smirking as he glances over his shoulder.
“Well,” he adds, his voice dropping again as he turns back to me. “I’ll see you tomorrow.”
I nod and squeeze the door handle, needing something solid to keep me grounded. “See you tomorrow.”
I close the door softly behind him, pressing my forehead against the wood for a second. Darn it, Dad—of all the moments to sneeze. Now, my mind is spiraling even faster than it was this morning. With no sign of stopping.