The sound of rain hitting his window wakes Callum Vance before his iPhone even has a chance to wake him.
Tossing off the covers, he runs a hand through his hair and sits on the edge of his double bed.
Looking around his room, Liverpool memorabilia is strewn across the walls, with posters of Steven Gerrard, Luis Suarez, and Philippe Coutinho adorning the wall facing his bed.
Sitting up, he slides on his slides and checks the time on the digital clock, which reads 5:30.
He removes the flat sheet and spreads the fitted sheet over the mattress.
Absent-mindedly making his bed, his mind is brought back to his own career.
From playing in the Leeds Youth set up from the U8s all the way up to U18, to being sent out on loan to Accrington Stanley F.C.
Despite being only 17, he has had to leave his parents and other family members behind in Liverpool to go live with his grandparents in Leeds and play for them.
And being told that he is surplus hurt him in ways that even he is unsure of.
It gave him the motivation to be where he is now, at the top of his game.
Closing the door of his room and shifting into the bathroom, Callum rinses off his face, splashing it and rubbing in a circular motion.
Looking back at him in the mirror, a young man with dark skin, high, prominent cheekbones, and a strong, sculpted jawline that is just beginning to lose its teenage soft edges, giving him a more mature look.
His eyes are his most striking feature, dark brown, incredibly sharp yet lazy, with eye bags from his extensive late-night workouts.
Refreshed, he brushes his teeth quickly and moves back to his room.
He removes his top and does a few sets of incline and decline push-ups.
A tradition that he sticks to, as he finds it the best way to wake his mind up in the morning.
While others may prefer coffee or tea, Callum would work out over that any morning.
“15…16…17…18..19…20-”
His counting is cut off by a voice calling his name from downstairs.
He slips his shirt on, and he makes his way down there.
He sees his grandmother, or nan, as he calls her.
A plate of fried eggs, plantain, and bread is laid bare on the kitchen counter for him.
“I know you were gonna be up early, so I made sure to be up to make you breakie.” Her Jamaican accent bleeds over into her Scouse accent, which has always made her inflection with certain words difficult to understand.
“Thank you, grandma.” Callum pulls his chair out from under the table, the wood scraping against the Vinyl Tile.
She does not even glance over her shoulder, engrossed in the television, nodding in response.
While not the most expressive person in the whole world, she still tried to be as polite as possible.
The television, visible from the table, replays the Accrington versus Exeter match.
Seeing himself on the screen, he watches with an analytical look.
The commentators’ voices are elevated as his grandmother turns up the volume.
“Now it’s Conneely, who plays a ball over the top to Vance.” On screen, the veteran midfielder lofts the ball perfectly over the top of the defensive line for Callum’s darting run, sprinting past the defenders.
“It’s a one-on-one.” On cue, Callum cushions the ball perfectly, taking it down and into stride, and Bobby Olejnik, the Exeter number one, holds his line.
Seeing this moment again causes him to replay it in his mind.
The sweat and the feeling of his lungs burning hit him like a freight train.
Due to his concentration, his vision is narrowed, and his mind is made up.
He is going to blast it.
Hearing the approaching footsteps of the Exeter defenders makes the decision all too easy.
He plants his right foot beside the ball, opening up his body, and swings his left foot, hitting the ball with his instep.
While not seeming powerful, the strike was hit with sublime technique and finesse, and it made its way past Bobby Olejnik, who dived the right way but was unable to stop it.
“And it’s a Goal! What a finish!” The commentator raises his voice an octave, and as the ball nestles into the bottom corner, the Crown Ground erupts into cheers.
Callum takes off, spreading his arms wide and running toward the corner flag, planting his feet and deliberately dropping his center of gravity.
He leans his torso slightly backward to distribute his weight and prevent his knees from digging too deeply into the grass.
He snaps to his feet and screams into the cheering fans.
And his teammates rush to him, jumping onto him and celebrating wildly.
“His 10th goal in 14 matches, he is absolutely clinical. When you are in trouble and need a goal, he is your man. Accrington 2, Exeter 1.”
The other commentator chimes in, breaking Callum out of his thoughts.
Glancing down and wondering why his fork isn’t picking up anything else, he realizes that he had finished his food already and that it’s already time for him to leave.
Heading back upstairs, Callum takes a quick shower, puts on his tracksuit, and grabs his house key as well as his key to his 2012 Honda Accord.
Slinging his equipment bag over his shoulder, he makes his way back downstairs; the light tapping of his shoes on the wood of the stairs echoes through the house.
Walking toward the door, he steps into the Living Room, standing behind the couch, he bids farewell to his grandmother.
“I am off, Nan. Remember to take your medication.”
Callum leans down and kisses her cheek, giving her a quick hug, a small smile etched on her face.
“You’re late already, why are you still here?” The 70-year-old woman jeers, the pride from watching him score welling up in his chest.
Exiting the house, he takes a look back at his grandparents’ house.
The bricks are a deep, dark red, often weathered by decades of northern rain and old factory soot.
The window frames and doorways are trimmed with heavy grey stone lintels.
Turning away from it, he opens the garage door and walks up to his Accord.
It features a sharp, somewhat boxy but aerodynamic eighth-generation design.
It has a clean, wide stance, a distinctive bold front grille, and multi-reflector halogen headlights.
Sitting on standard 16-inch alloy wheels.
The paint is a sensible gray or deep silver, and it sports light grime from his daily commute to and from his temporary accommodation in Accrington.
Just before he settles in and starts up the car, he gets a call.
It’s his loan manager, Jermaine Mitchell.
Callum felt he was not given a proper chance to prove himself in the first team under the new manager and was shipped off to a lower league team as surplus.
Despite this, he still kept his head up as encouraged by Mitchell.
“Mr. Mitchell, Good Morning,” Callum says, buckling his seatbelt and fixing his rearview mirror.
On the other end of the phone, he hears a heavy Geordie accent quickly addressing him.
“How are ya, lad? Y’know, I saw your latest match, and so did the manager. He wants you back on the team.” Mitchell wastes no time getting into the topic of the conversation, causing Callum to pause in his tracks.
“Sorry, could you repeat that for me?” Callum’s eyes widen, feeling both confusion and boyish joy.
He asks for confirmation so that he can be sure that he is hearing correctly.
They want him back.
“Spoke to the manager after your last match. He said he likes what he sees, and he can really see a place for you on the team. With Chriss and Doukara out due to his tactics, you are the only one suitable. And officially, you are being recalled from your loan.”
Callum smiles, doing a quiet and quick fist pump, not making a sound to seem unprofessional before Mitchell.
“Thank you, Mr. Mitchell.” Callum beams, his chest filling with unbridled joy and gratitude.
“This is your big break, Lad. I told you hard work pays off.” Mitchell exchanges a few more messages with him from the coaching staff at Leeds.
“Rösler himself wants to have a word with you today, and he wants you to begin training with them today as well.”
After relaying the messages, Mitchell hangs up, the phone’s screen goes dark, and Callum pumps his fists and lets out a triumphant shout.
“Yes! Finally!”
.
.
.
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A small introductory chapter before we get into the actual football, practicing, and his first matchday back in his boyhood club.
I was heavily inspired by Becoming the Best by Dstephen37; read his book, as it is just down right addictive
This is my first time doing a football book.
I watch a lot of it, especially with the World Cup currently underway.
I have been having a lot of ideas about writing a football book, and here I am.
I was also heavily inspired by Becoming the Best by Dstephen37; read his book, as it was one of the driving forces behind penning this book.