“Alright, settle down, let the media team get their shots,” Uwe Rösler calls out, a rare, proud smile finally breaking across his stern face.
He gestures toward the door, dismissing the rest of the squad.
“Go on, get showered, get changed, and get out of here. Enjoy the weekend. We’re back in on Monday.”
The Sky Sports crew packs up their gear, nodding respectfully to Callum before filing out of the chaotic room.
Normally, the players would scramble for the showers to head out and celebrate, but nobody moves toward the stalls just yet.
Instead, the lads linger around the treatment corner.
“You’re not moving that leg anymore today, kid,” Sol Bamba says, stepping over and snatching Callum’s car keys right out of his open kit bag.
“Give us your keys. Cook, grab his washbag. Let’s get his stuff sorted.”
While Lewis Cook and Stuart Dallas quickly gather Callum’s tracksuits, boots, and extra gear into his duffel, the club physio kneels back down.
He carefully cuts through the heavy compression tape and unstraps the melting ice pack from Callum’s right ankle.
The swelling has stabilized, but it’s stiff and tender to the touch.
“Keep it completely bare for the drive home, Callum,” the physio instructs, wiping away the cold condensation with a towel.
“No tight shoes. Just slip a slider on it, and the second you get home, it goes right back up on some pillows.”
With his gear packed, Cook and Bamba flank the bench.
“Alright, lean on us, big man,” Cook says, offering a shoulder.
Callum places his arms around the shoulders of his teammates, hoisting himself up on his good left leg.
They exit through the player’s tunnel, where the damp air hits them.
Out in the restricted players’ parking lot, Dallas is already popping the trunk of Callum’s modest hatchback, neatly loading his gear, extra water bottles, and a fresh pack of ice the medical staff provided for the evening.
Attenuchi opens the passenger door and sets down some crutches for him, provided by the medical staff.
They help him into the driver’s seat, ensuring his swollen right leg has plenty of room to rest comfortably near the pedals.
“Drive safe, Cal,” Bamba says, tossing the keys into his lap and slamming the door shut with a grin.
“See you Tuesday.”
Callum turns the key, the humble engine of his first car humming to life as he carefully maneuvers out of the Elland Road parking lot.
He navigates the familiar streets, turning the radio down to a low murmur.
The adrenaline from the match is finally completely gone, replaced by a dull, throbbing ache in his wrapped right ankle, but his spirits are still sky-high.
Just as he pulls onto the main road, the car’s dashboard screen flashes, cutting off the music.
Incoming Call: Jonathan Barnett.
Callum blinks, a sudden spike of excitement hitting his chest.
He hits the steering wheel button to answer, bringing the call over the Bluetooth speakers.
Jonathan Barnett doesn’t just manage players; he is the executive chairman of the Stellar Group, a literal titan of the football world who famously brokered Gareth Bale’s world-record move to Real Madrid.
He is also his dad’s long-time friend and his agent.
“Callum,” Barnett’s deep, distinctive London accent echoes through the car’s cabin, wasting absolutely no time with pleasantries.
“I just watched the broadcast. Unbelievable. Absolute ice in your veins on that penalty, son.”
“Thanks, Jonathan,” Callum says, his voice confident but respectful as he keeps his eyes on the road.
“Appreciate it. The lads did brilliantly to hold onto the result in the second half.”
“Forget the second half for a minute,” Barnett cuts in, a sharp, professional edge to his tone.
“The phone hasn’t stopped ringing since you walked off that pitch. You went out there on your debut, terrorized their fullback, took the responsibility of a crucial penalty, and completely changed the game. The pundits are raving about you. Sky just ran a three-minute package purely on your positioning.”
Barnett pauses for a beat, letting the weight of the moment sink in.
“Now, tell me about the ankle. I saw you sitting in the dressing room with the ice. What’s the damage?”
“Nothing to worry about, Jonathan,” Callum says, his voice completely calm as he steers the car down the familiar roads toward his nan’s.
“It’s just a standard impact injury. A bit of swelling, but the physios ran all the tests at halftime. No structural or ligament damage. They’ve got me on the RICE protocol for the weekend, and I’ll be back out on the grass in a couple of days. I’ll definitely be fit for next week.”
On the other end of the line, Barnett lets out a short, satisfied chuckle.
“Good. That’s exactly what I wanted to hear,” the agent replies, his sharp mind already moving three steps ahead.
“Because when a seventeen-year-old performs like you just did, everyone wants to know if you’re fragile. Knowing you’re robust and already looking forward to the next match makes my job a lot easier.”
Barnett’s tone shifts, becoming distinctly more business-like.
“Look, enjoy the evening with your family. Eat some good food, keep that leg elevated. But be ready. On Monday, I’m heading up to Yorkshire. Your current academy terms are officially a joke after today, and the club knows it. It’s time we sit down with Leeds and talk about a proper first-team contract. Callum once again. Brilliant job today.”
Callum chuckles, a confident grin spreading across his face as he maneuvers the car down the familiar suburban street.
“Sounds good, Jonathan. I’ll leave the contract stuff to you. You do your magic, and I’ll focus on getting this ankle right.”
“That’s exactly why you pay me, son,” Barnett replies with a smooth, satisfied tone.
“Rest up. I’ll speak to you tomorrow.”
“Cheers, Jonathan. Bye.”
Callum hits the button on the steering wheel to end the call just as he pulls into his nan’s driveway.
He switches off the ignition, and the sudden quiet of the car settles over him.
Looking up at the front window, he can already see the television screen glowing through the curtains.
She’s undoubtedly spent the last two hours watching the post-match highlights on repeat.
Navigating the car door carefully, Callum slides his good foot out, grabs his crutches from the passenger seat, and prepares for what is bound to be an incredibly proud, emotional welcome home.
The front door flies open before Callum can even get both crutches under his arms.
His grandmother practically flies down the small garden path, her cardigan fluttering in the damp evening air, her face a perfect mix of absolute pride and pure, grandmotherly panic.
“Callum!” she calls out, her voice echoing down the quiet street as she reaches the car door.
She doesn’t even let him stand up before she’s hovering over him, her eyes darting straight down to his bare, swollen right ankle.
“Are you alright? Look at you on those blooming sticks!” she asks, her hands fluttering anxiously.
“Did those club physios actually look at it properly? Because I saw you on the telly, sitting there with that massive sack of ice, and I nearly had a fit! You’re sure they know what they’re doing? I can rub some of that heated germolene on it if they’ve missed anything.”
Callum can’t help but laugh, the familiar warmth of her kitchen-window worrying instantly washing away the last lingering stress of the match.
“Nan, Nan, calm down, I’m completely fine,” he says smoothly, giving her a reassuring smile as he hoists himself up onto the crutches.
“The physios were brilliant. It’s just a little knock, nothing broken. They told me I’ll be back playing in a couple of days as long as I keep it up on some pillows.”
“Well, they better be right,” she mutters, though the panic in her face finally melts into a massive, beaming grin.
She wraps her arms around him in a tight hug, careful not to throw off his balance.
“I’ve been beside myself, Callum. The commentators wouldn’t stop talking about you! Come on, let’s get you inside out of this damp air before it settles in your joints. I’ve got the kettle on and your favorite dinner waiting.” This chapter is updated first at g.com.
As soon as Callum hops across the threshold and into the warmth of the hallway, the rich, heavenly aroma of chicken tikka masala washes over him like a physical wave.
It’s the unmistakable scent of home: the deep, smoky fragrance of charred tandoori chicken mingling with a rich, velvety sauce of crushed tomatoes, sweet cream, and a perfectly balanced blend of garam masala, cumin, and coriander.
There’s a sharp, inviting kick of garlic and ginger cutting through the creaminess, a mouth-watering perfume that has been slowly building in the kitchen for hours.
For Callum, the smell is instant comfort.
After the damp, freezing rain of Elland Road, the sterile smell of the treatment room, and the intense, exhausting adrenaline of his debut, inhaling that familiar scent brings a massive, unstoppable smile to his face.
A wave of pure, unadulterated happiness hits him.
He’s no longer the hotshot teenager trending on Twitter or the Sky Sports Man of the Match; he’s just a lad back in his nan’s house, completely safe, incredibly hungry, and about to be thoroughly spoiled.
“Oh, Nan,” Callum breathes out, closing his eyes for a second as he inhales deeply.
“That smells absolutely unbelievable. You’ve gone all out.”
“And don’t you forget the basmati rice to go with it, properly steamed with a bit of cardamom, just how you like it,” she says, clicking the front door shut behind him and cutting off the chilly evening air.
She quickly moves ahead of him into the hallway, clearing a path and shooing the cat out of the way.
“Go on, get yourself straight into the living room. I’ve already set up the armchair with three pillows for that leg, and the footstool is waiting. I don’t want to see an ounce of weight on that ankle until you’ve got a full plate of food in front of you.”
Callum smiles, the earthy, fragrant scent of the steaming basmati rice now drifting out from the kitchen to join the rich aroma of the tikka masala.
Carefully maneuvering his crutches over the thick hallway carpet, he heads toward the glowing warmth of the living room, feeling like the luckiest person ever.
He settles back into the armchair, letting out a long sigh of relief as his nan meticulously adjusts the three pillows under his swollen ankle.
Just as she places a coaster on the side table, Callum’s phone starts buzzing violently in his pocket, the screen lighting up with a picture of his mum and dad smiling on a beach from a family holiday a few years back.
He slides the answer button, and before he can even get a word out, his mum’s voice explodes through the speaker, tight with emotion and pitch-perfect maternal panic.
“Callum! Oh my god, Callum, are you okay?!” she gasps, sounding like she’s on the verge of tears.
“We saw you get hit on the telly, and then they showed you sitting there with that massive ice pack, and your dad and I have been absolutely frantic! What did the doctors say? Is anything broken?”
In the background, his dad’s deeper, booming voice cuts right through her fretting.
“Move over, let me speak to him! Cal, son, absolutely sensational first half! Never mind the leg for a second, that penalty was top tier! Absolute ice in the veins, son!”
“Don’t tell him to ‘never mind the leg’, David, he’s injured!” his mum snaps back, though Callum can hear the immense pride fighting through her worry.
Callum laughs, leaning his head back against the cushion, the familiar double-act of his parents instantly making the crazy day feel grounded.
“Mum, Dad, breathe. I’m completely fine, I promise. It’s just a bit of swelling from a heavy tackle. No broken bones, no ligament damage. The physios said I’ll be back training in a couple of days. I’m already at Nan’s, and she’s got my leg up on about fifty pillows.”
“See? I told you he’s a tough lad,” his dad crows, sounding like the proudest man in the country.
“The pundits on Sky wouldn’t stop talking about you, Cal. ‘Man of the Match’ on your debut! They’re saying you’re the brightest thing to come out of the academy in a decade. Your old man’s had about fifty texts from the lads at work already!”
Hearing those words from his dad hits Callum differently.
David Vance wasn’t just a proud parent speaking from the stands; he was a man who knew exactly how brutal the football pyramid could be.
He’d been a gritty, hard-working midfielder who scraped a living in League One, never quite cracking the championship, let alone the top flight.
And then, just as he was hitting his prime, a horrific knee injury had forced him into early retirement, completely stealing his dream and forcing him into a regular nine-to-five.
For as long as Callum could remember, his dad had been his coach, his harshest critic, and his biggest supporter, always pushing him because he knew how fleeting a football career could be.
To hear that legendary, gravelly voice sounding so completely unburdened and full of pure, unfiltered joy makes a lump form in Callum’s throat.
“Thanks, Dad,” Callum says, his voice dropping its usual casual confidence, softening into something genuinely emotional.
“That… that means a lot coming from you. Really.”
“You went out there, and you demanded the ball, Cal,” his dad says, his tone shifting from boasting to a rare, quiet earnestness that makes Callum sit up a bit straighter.
“At seventeen. I never had that kind of composure, son. You’ve got something special. Today was just the start, but bloody hell, what a start.”
Before the moment can get too heavy, his mum chimes back in, her voice thick with love.
“Alright, David, stop making the boy emotional; he needs to eat his dinner. Cal, listen to your nan, keep that leg up, and we’ll drive up to see you tomorrow morning, okay?”
“Yeah, see you tomorrow, Mum. Love you both,” Callum smiles, hanging up the phone just as his nan walks back into the living room, holding a steaming, overflowing plate of chicken tikka masala and fragrant basmati rice.
His nan carefully sets the piping-hot plate down on the small table next to his armchair, clicking her tongue as she straightens up.
“Your dad always did have a massive mouth on him,” she says, gently shaking her head with a fond but knowing smirk.
“Listening to him on that phone, you’d think he invented the game himself. He forgets he spent half his career chasing shadows in League One and getting booked for clumsy tackles.”
She smooths down her apron, her eyes softening as she looks at the gleaming Man of the Match trophy on the side cabinet, then back down to Callum.
“You didn’t get that composure from your father’s side of the family, Callum, that’s for certain,” she says softly, a deep sense of pride humming in her voice.
“You’ve got your grandad’s DNA through and through. Watchin’ you glide past that fullback in the first half… it was like looking at a ghost. Arthur used to do the same thing at Anfield back in the sixties. Absolute poetry on the wing. The defenders would try to kick him into the stands, and he’d just get right back up, dust himself off, and take the mickey out of them all over again.”
She pats Callum gently on his good shoulder.
“Your grandad was a proper baller, a legend in our town long before the money took over the game. If he were here today, he’d have told your dad to pipe down, and he’d have told you that you did a proper job. Now, eat up before it gets cold.”
Callum doesn’t need telling twice.
He dives into the plate, the rich, creamy heat of the tikka masala hitting his palate perfectly, balanced by the fluffy, fragrant basmati rice.
After a grueling ninety minutes of professional football, it tastes like the greatest meal ever cooked.
His nan switches on the telly, settling into her usual spot on the sofa.
Instead of the sports channels, she flips over to the local news, the familiar hum of the evening broadcast filling the cozy living room.
Between mouthfuls of food, the two of them slip into easy, comfortable small talk.
They don’t talk about contract negotiations, agents, or the pressure of the championship.
Instead, his nan fills him in on the neighborhood gossip, how the postman nearly slipped on the neighbor’s overgrown hedges, and how the local butcher had asked about Callum just that morning.
“I told him,” his nan says, adjusting her spectacles as a segment about a local community garden plays on the screen, “I said, ‘You just watch the telly at three o’clock, Arthur, and you’ll see my grandson.’ He didn’t believe me, the old skeptic. I can’t wait to see his face when I go in for the Sunday roast joints tomorrow.”
Callum chuckles, swallowing a piece of perfectly tender chicken.
“You’ll have to bring the Man of the Match trophy with you, Nan. Throw it down on the counter.”
“Oh, don’t tempt me, lad, I just might,” she beams, leaning back.
“It’s just lovely to have you sitting here, football star or not. Just keep eating. I want that plate spotless.”
For the next hour, the pressure of the footballing world completely fades away.
On the television, the news anchors drone on about local weather and upcoming town events, while inside, the warmth of the food and the quiet comfort of his nan’s house completely wrap around Callum, letting him finally rest.
For a lad who usually lives his life at a million miles an hour, Saturday night and the entirety of Sunday were an absolute prison sentence.
Callum is the type of person who gets twitchy if he isn’t moving.
Being confined to the bed, forced to keep his foot elevated while his nan hovered over him like a hawk every time he even looked at his crutches, was driving him completely mental. Get faster updates on g.com.
He spent hours scrolling through highlights, tossing a football from hand to hand against the ceiling, and checking his watch every twenty minutes.
Now, it’s Monday morning.
The alarm on his phone hasn’t even gone off yet, but Callum is already wide awake, staring at the ceiling as the pale Yorkshire morning light filters through his bedroom curtains.
Before he even sits up, he tests the ankle.
He rotates his right foot in a slow, cautious circle.
No sharp sting.
He pulls back the heavy duvet and swings his legs over the edge of the mattress, looking down at his foot.
The transformation is massive.
Over the weekend, the angry, grapefruit-sized lump had gradually flattened out.
The skin around his lateral malleolus (the outer ankle bone) is still painted a dull, yellowish-purple bruise, but the tight, throbbing pain is almost entirely gone.
Callum gingerly presses his thumb against the side of the joint.
There’s a lingering, stiff tenderness right on the ligament, but the intense ache is gone.
Unable to help himself, he plants his right foot firmly onto the cold bedroom floorboards.
He applies a little bit of weight, then a little more, gradually testing his limits.
For a seventeen-year-old desperate to get out of the house and back into the first-team picture, seeing that foot hold his weight without buckling feels like winning the lottery.
He can walk.
Just as Callum is testing his weight on the floorboards, his phone buzzes loudly on the nightstand.
The caller ID displays a name that instantly makes him straighten his posture, even alone in his bedroom:
Uwe Rösler.
Callum clears his throat to clear any morning grogginess and hits answer.
“Morning, boss.”
“Good morning, Callum,” Rösler’s sharp, authoritative German accent cuts through the speaker.
He doesn’t do fluff; he gets straight to the point.
“How is the ankle? Give me the honest assessment. Don’t give me the same answer where you tell me it’s perfect just because you want to run. Give me the truth.”
Callum smiles, keeping his voice calm and confident.
“Honestly, boss, the swelling has completely gone down over the weekend. I’ve just put weight on it now. There’s a bit of stiffness and a bruise, but no sharp pain at all. The rest did it a world of good.”
“Good. This is what I want to hear,” Rösler says, his tone softening just a fraction into approval.
“You made a massive impact on Saturday, Callum, but I need you to be strong. I don’t need a player who gives me one good game and then spends three weeks in the treatment room. With your versatility in my system, no way.”
There’s a brief pause on the line, the sound of papers rustling in the background.
“Listen to me. You are to report to Thorp Arch this morning, but you do not go to the changing rooms with the first team. You go straight to the medical room. I want the head physio to run a full mobility check on that joint. If he clears you for light jogging, you can join us on the grass for the tactical walk-through. If he says no, you do pool work. Understood?”
“Understood, boss. I’ll see the medical team first thing,” Callum replies.
“Right.
See you in an hour, Callum.
And by the way…” Rösler adds, just before hanging up, “Your agent, Barnett, has already called my office twice this morning.
The club is handling it, but you keep your head on the pitch.
Let the suits do the talking.”
Callum clicks the phone off and slides it into his pocket, a massive grin breaking across his face.
The crutches are sitting right there against the nightstand, but he deliberately leaves them untouched.
He tests his step again, with a slight, stiff limp, but he’s walking.
He heads down the stairs, carefully placing his good foot first, and steps into the kitchen where his nan is already busy making a cup of tea.
“Morning, Nan,” Callum says smoothly, walking right up to the kitchen island.
His nan turns around with the kettle in her hand, and the second she realizes he is standing there on his own two feet without the crutches, her eyes go wide.
She drops the kettle onto the counter with a loud clunk.
“Callum Joseph Vance! What on earth do you think you are doing?!” she scolds, her hands instantly going to her hips.
“Where are your sticks? Get back upstairs this instant before you ruin that leg completely!”
“Nan, Nan, look, it’s fine,” Callum laughs, holding his hands up and doing a slow, controlled pivot on his right foot to show her.
“The swelling is totally gone. Look at that.”
She hovers over him, looking down at his ankle suspiciously, but she can see for herself that the grapefruit-sized lump has reduced to a light swell.
“Well… it does look a lot better,” she admits grudgingly, though she still gives him a stern look.
“But you’re not out of the woods yet. Who was that on the phone?”
“That was Uwe,” Callum says, his voice full of that quiet confidence.
“He wants me down at Thorp Arch this morning. I’ve got to see the head physio first thing for a mobility check. If I pass, he’s letting me back out on the grass with the first team for the tactical session today.”
His nan looks at him for a long moment, the sternness in her face completely giving way to that familiar, proud smile.
She sighs, reaching out to pat his arm.
“Just like your grandad,” she murmurs, shaking her head.
“You couldn’t keep him off the pitch with a padlock and chain either. Alright, if the manager says so. But you promise me you’ll listen to that physio, Callum. If it hurts, you stop. I mean it.”
“I promise, Nan,” Callum smiles, leaning in to give her a quick peck on the cheek.
“Right, I’m going to grab my gear. It’s time to get back to work.”
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A/N: A bit of a filler chapter and some backstory for Callum and his family life.
Finally, I have made it to ten chapters, once again thank you all for the support.