Chapter 24
Millie
Callum and I barely see each other the next couple of days.
The team is preparing for one of their biggest matches of the season—an away match in Liverpool tonight—and they’ve been training like their lives depend on it.
We crossed paths a few times at the training pitch, or when I was filming practice, but we didn’t really talk.
There was always someone around, and he was focused on his practice.
Now, I’m standing by the team bus, filming the players as they load in for the drive to Liverpool.
Each of them says something to the camera—Wade gives a thumbs-up and says something inspirational, Finn makes a joke about Liverpool rain, and Archie, of course, starts dancing and waggling his eyebrows like we’re heading to a party.
Callum is one of the last to emerge from the training centre. He offers me a subtle nod, his lips twitching like he’s trying not to smile, then hands his bag to the bus driver, who stores it in the underfloor compartments.
“Good luck,” I say, lowering the camera. “You’ll do great tonight.”
He glances over, the sunlight dancing in his dark eyes. “Thanks. I assume you’ll be watching with Fergie.”
I take a step toward him, fidgeting with the strap of my crossbody bag. “Well, one of us has to be on your side in your house.”
He chuckles under his breath. “Good point. Glad to have you in my corner.”
I bite my lip to keep from doing something stupid, like leaping into his arms and kissing him in full view of the entire team. Especially since Finn is now tapping on the bus window, whistling, while Archie points and laughs behind him like we’re starring in our own romcom.
“Hard to believe we’re a team of professional footballers heading to our biggest test of the season,” Callum says dryly.
I bubble out a laugh. “Clearly.”
A quiet settles between us, lasting a moment too long.
“Well,” I say, straightening as Francois steps out of the building, clipboard in hand. “Talk to you tomorrow. Bye.”
He holds my gaze for just a second longer, as if he wants to say something more. But then, he gives me a quick nod and climbs into the bus.
Fergie seems determined to test my patience tonight.
He’s restlessly hopping from the coffee table to the top of the sofa, flapping his wings every few seconds and whistling off-key in a bid to summon chaos.
We’ve done three different puzzles—jungle animals, London landmarks, and his personal favourite, “Birds of the World”—and he’s still not settling down.
But I count my blessings. A noisy, fluttering green goblin is better than what @puppymom89 from the Fur-ever homes forum is dealing with.
Her dog literally ate her Valentine’s Day bouquet.
I barely hear the commentators during the first half with all the racket Fergie’s making—a noisy mashup of his favourite songs, the referee’s whistle, and rude phrases as he heckles the players like he’s got money riding on the match.
During the commercial break, I head into the kitchen to get a glass of water when my phone buzzes. Roxy’s name flashes on the screen.
“Hi, Rox,” I say, accepting her video call. “Are you not at your dad’s?” I’m a little surprised. They always watch away matches together.
“Hey, Millie. No, he’s lending a hand to his friend who owns a restaurant in Earl’s Court. I’m at home,” she says, curling up on her sofa.
“Oh, you could have come over to watch with me. If you don’t mind a parrot’s commentary, that is.” I turn the camera toward Fergie.
She laughs. “Oh, there he is! The new internet sensation.”
“Seriously, though. You can still catch the second half with us if you want.”
“Thanks for the invite to Callum’s house,” she teases, raising an eyebrow.
“But I’d never make it there in time, and I’m honestly grateful for some rest. This baby is imitating his dad in my belly,” she says with a little sigh.
“Anyway, I just wanted to check in and see how you’re doing with… you know, everything.”
After the kiss and the impromptu family lunch on Sunday, I ended up calling Roxy and telling her the whole story.
“I’m okay. We haven’t talked much, so still no intel on whether or not he could feel the same. I just need to gather the courage and ask him.”
She nods, her curls bouncing. “You should. I told you, nothing good comes from hiding your feelings. Best to ask him, and if he doesn’t feel the same, at least you’ll know and can move on.”
Yeah, easier said than done.
“I don’t know,” I moan, sinking back into the couch. “I have to see him every day at work. And you don’t move on from someone you love that easily.”
“Wait, love?” Her eyes practically pop out of her skull. “Millie, you love him?”
My cheeks are officially on fire.
“Millie loves Callum?” Fergie jumps to the arm of the couch next to me.
My eyes fly wide with horror. “No, no. Forget that.” I glance back at the screen. “Rox, I’ve got to go.”
Dang it. Why didn’t I keep my big mouth shut? I’m hanging out with a parrot, for crying out loud. Everything I say can and will be repeated. I should know that by now.
I glance at Fergie again, and sure enough, he’s still at it. “Millie loves Callum,” he repeats, strutting along the couch like he’s breaking exclusive news.
“Fergie, no,” I plead. “Millie likes Callum. Likes, okay?” I try, desperation edging into my voice.
He tilts his head as if processing what I just said. “Millie loves Callum,” he insists stubbornly before flying to the kitchen.
Just my luck.
I groan and follow him. Grabbing his favourite treat from the cupboard, I wave it in the air. “Look what I’ve got.”
He flutters toward me, eyes laser-focused on the snack.
“Millie loves Callum,” he repeats.
“No, Fergie.”
He clicks his beak, then tilts his head again. “Millie pretty?”
I can’t help but laugh. “Yes. Good boy.” I hand him the treat and stroke his feathery head. “Now, let’s go back to the couch. Second half is starting.”
On screen, the players are filing back onto the pitch, and the camera pans to Callum, who waves to the away stand before jogging into position.
“Callum playing,” Fergie says proudly, bouncing on the edge of the coffee table.
“Yes, he is.”
“You lose,” he adds to the screen, shuffling along the edge of the table. Then, he looks at me. “Callum loves Millie.”
My heart skips a beat, and I freeze, not sure I heard him correctly, but then he says it again.
I blink. “What did you say, Fergie?”
“Callum loves Millie.”
“You mean… Millie loves Callum, right?” I say, my heart thudding like a drum.
Fergie stares at me for a second, eyes narrowed in deep thought. Then, turning back to the TV, he says again with confidence, “Callum loves Millie.”
I sit there, unable to move a finger. The match is starting up again, but I can’t focus. Why would Fergie say that? Did he hear Callum say it at some point? Or is he just switching the words around for the fun of it? I ask him again, but of course he ignores me now, too busy shouting at the TV.
Fergie hasn’t said a word about Callum and me since yesterday.
Part of me is relieved that he’s finally keeping my secrets to himself instead of squawking them like they’re the news of the century.
But the other part of me? That part is desperate to get to the bottom of it.
Roxy’s right. This whole situation is going to drive me absolutely insane.
Time to put on my big girl pants and tell Callum how I feel. So what if he doesn’t return my feelings? At least I’ll stop wondering, stop looping through all the maybes and what-ifs. I’m an adult. I can take it.
But the second Callum walks into the living room, tall, relaxed, and fresh from a win, every ounce of my determination melts away like ice cream in July.
“Congrats on your victory,” I say instead, plastering a smile on my face. “Good game.”
“Thanks.” He kicks off his shoes. “How are you? How’s the little monster?”
“We’re both good.” I nod, a little too fast. “I just fed him.”
As Callum heads upstairs to say hello to Fergie, I trail behind him, my stomach doing somersaults. My hands are clammy, and I keep smoothing my shirt for no reason.
Fergie hops onto the top of his cage, flaps his wings once, and waddles to Callum for his usual scratches.
“You lose,” he tells him solemnly.
Callum rolls his eyes. “Right. Did you even watch the match?”
I laugh. “He was too busy scolding the players. I’m pretty sure he thinks he’s the coach.” Drawing a shaky breath, I glance down at my phone. “Well, I’ll leave you to it. I want to stop by my place before work. Bye, Fergie.” I wave at him.
“Millie pretty,” Fergie chirps. “Cuddles.”
I oblige, then give him a wink before walking out of his room, Callum following close behind.
“Millie loves Callum,” Fergie calls out to us, and I freeze. “Millie loves Callum.”
That little traitor.
My heart jumps to my throat, and I spin on my heel to find Callum staring at me in confusion. His eyebrows are drawn together as he glances between me and Fergie.
“Um,” I manage, my cheeks catching fire as Fergie goes at it again. Well, I guess we’re doing this now. “This is awkward.”
“What—oh,” he says, rubbing the back of his neck.
“Yeah, it’s… well,” I clear my throat. “He heard me on the phone. I was planning to talk to you about this, but I didn’t know how to broach the subject. Anyway, I guess Fergie handled it for me.”
Callum just watches me for a second, then simply says, “Okay.”
My heart falls. Of course that’s all he has to say. There is nothing else to say. He sees me as a friend, not a potential girlfriend. “Well, I’m going to go now. Talk soon.”
As we’re trudging down the stairs, he mutters, “Relationships aren’t exactly my thing.”
“No, of course not. That’s fine. I never thought...” I reach the bottom step and give him the thumbs-up, like an idiot. “All good.”
“Are—”
“I’ve got to go. Bye now.”
As soon as I close the door behind me, tears start rolling down my cheeks. I hurry down the steps and start my car, wishing it could just teleport me out of here.