Recently, Callum has found himself interacting with or doing things he does not like.
Case in point, he lies on the physio table while the club’s assistant physio ruthlessly digs his thumb right into the meat of Callum’s calf muscle.
Callum grinds his teeth together, burying his face into the padded hole of the treatment table to stifle a groan.
He absolutely hates deep-tissue massage.
It’s a necessary evil of professional football, but to Callum, it feels less like medical treatment and more like targeted torture.
He’d much rather be out in the freezing rain doing brutal shuttle runs than lying here prone, entirely at the mercy of a physio who seems to take sadistic pleasure in finding every single knot in his lower leg.
“Stop squirming, Callum,” the head physio, Terry, who is standing at the foot of the table monitoring the joint, says with a dry chuckle.
“If the calf is tight, it pulls on the Achilles, which puts pressure right back on that lateral ligament we’re trying to protect. You want to get back on the grass today or not?”
“Yeah,” Callum grunts into the upholstery, his voice muffled.
“Just… didn’t think I’d be getting broken in half before training even started.”
“Welcome to the first team, lad,” the assistant physio jokes, deliberately applying a bit more pressure to a particularly stubborn knot.
Callum clenches his fists against the metal frame of the table, counting down the seconds in his head.
It’s exactly the kind of passive, uncomfortable situation he loathes.
He likes being in control, keeping his body moving, and dictating the play.
Lying face down while someone virtually tenderizes his leg muscles is the absolute definition of his personal hell, but he keeps his mouth shut and takes it.
If this is the toll he has to pay to get Uwe Rösler’s clearance to put his boots back on, he’ll endure every agonizing second of it.
After what feels like an eternity of calf-mangling torture, the assistant physio finally lets go, wiping the excess massage lotion off Callum’s leg with a towel.
“Alright, flip over, Callum,” Terry commands, clapping his hands together.
“Time for the actual mobility check. Let’s see what we’re working with.”
Callum swings himself around on the padded table, sitting upright and letting his legs dangle off the edge.
He takes a deep breath, adjusting his training shorts.
This is the moment that dictates his entire day.
If he fails this, he’s banished to the indoor swimming pool or the stationary bike, watching the lads through the glass windows.
Terry steps up, pulling a low rolling stool over.
He places Callum’s right heel firmly in the palm of his hand, lifting the leg slightly.
“Okay, first things first. Don’t resist me, just let me move it. Tell me the exact second you feel a sharp pinch,” Terry instructs.
Callum nods, his heart rate spiking just a bit from pure anticipation.
The physio slowly points Callum’s toes downward into plantarflexion, stretching out the front of the ankle.
Nothing.
Just a normal, tight stretch.
“Fine there,” Callum says.
Next, the physio pushes the foot upward, flexing the toes toward Callum’s shin.
Callum feels the tightness in his calf, but the joint holds firm.
No pain.
“Good. Now for the big one,” Terry warns.
He slowly guides the foot inward, simulating the exact inversion motion that caused the injury on Saturday.
Callum braces himself.
As the angle sharpens, he feels a dull, stiff ache bloom across the purple bruise on the outside of his ankle.
It isn’t the sharp, sickening twist from the match, but it’s definitely there.
He keeps his face completely stoic, refusing to wince.
Terry looks up, his sharp eyes catching the slight tension in Callum’s jaw.
“Honesty, Callum. Scale of one to ten, what is that?”
“A two. Maybe a three,” Callum admits truthfully, knowing if he lies and blows it on the pitch, he’s out for months.
“It’s just stiff, really. No sharp pain, feels like it needs to wake up.”
Terry lets go of the foot, nodding thoughtfully as he stands up.
“The ligament is stable. The swelling dropping so fast means you dodged a massive bullet on Saturday, lad. Right, get off the table. Stand on your right leg, eyes closed, and hold your balance for thirty seconds.”
Callum slides off the edge of the treatment table, his bare feet hitting the cool linoleum floor.
He takes a second to find his center, plants his right foot firmly, and hoists his left leg completely off the ground.
Then, he shuts his eyes.
The moment the world goes dark, his balance wavers.
Without visual cues, his brain has to rely entirely on the proprioception in his injured ankle.
The joint begins to micro-adjust, twitching back and forth as it fights the natural sway of his body.
Callum feels the dull stiffness firing off warning signals, but he locks his core, fixes his posture, and forces the muscles around the lateral ligament to hold the line.
One… two… three… he counts silently in his head.
Terry stands just a foot away, stopwatch in hand, watching the tiny stabilizer muscles in Callum’s ankle working overtime.
The joint is shaking slightly, the purple bruise shifting with the tension, but Callum refuses to let his left foot touch the floor.
He stands like a statue, absorbing the discomfort, channeling all his focus into staying upright.
“Ten seconds left,” Terry mutters.
Callum grits his teeth, his right big toe digging into the floor for leverage.
The stiffness is turning into a hot ache, but it’s manageable.
It’s a battle of wills now, and there is no way he’s letting a simple balance test keep him off the grass.
“And… time. Open ’em up.”
Callum blinks his eyes open and instantly drops his left foot back down, exhaling a breath he didn’t realize he was holding.
He looks straight at Terry, masking the slight throb in his leg with an expectant, confident expression.
Terry looks down at the stopwatch, then back up at Callum, a slow, approving nod breaking across his face.
“Well, you’re a stubborn sod, aren’t you?” Terry says, tossing the stopwatch onto the desk.
“The joint held. You’ve got enough stability to work with.”
Callum’s heart leaps.
“So I’m cleared for the grass?”
“For the tactical walk-through, yes,” Terry clarifies strictly, pointing a finger at him.
“No contact. No full-tilt sprinting. You wear trainers, not boots, for the first part of the session. If Uwe calls for a high-intensity drill, you pull yourself out and head to the bikes. I’ll be watching from the sidelines, Callum. Go get changed before I change my mind.”
Inside, Callum is absolutely buzzing.
A massive wave of relief and triumph washes over him, but he keeps it entirely under wraps.
He doesn’t want to look like a hyperactive academy kid celebrating a basic medical clearance, so he keeps his face cool and professional.
“Brilliant. Thanks, Terry. Really appreciate it,” Callum says, offering a firm nod to the head physio and a quick, polite thumbs-up to the assistant who had spent the last twenty minutes trying to pulverize his calf.
The moment he turns his back and steps out of the medical room, the professional facade drops.
He punches the air silently, a huge grin breaking across his face.
The prospect of sitting by the pool or staring at a wall on a stationary bike had been suffocating; getting out onto the grass, even just for a tactical walk-through, feels like a massive victory.
He walks down the corridor toward the first-team changing rooms, his gait a little stiff but his stride purposeful.
The dull ache in his ankle is nothing compared to the excitement of getting his gear back on.
Opening the heavy door to the changing room, the familiar sights and sounds hit him: the low chatter of the senior players, the smell of deep heat and fresh kit, and the rows of pristine training gear hanging in the lockers.
He heads straight to his spot, eager to strip out of his medical gear and get changed into his training kit before anyone can look too closely at his slight limp.
Before he can even reach his locker, a chorus of voices erupts across the changing room.
There’s no hiding the slight hitch in his stride from a room full of professional athletes, and with Sol Bamba, Liam Cooper, and Lewis Cook already grouped together near the coffee machine, it’s the other lads who turn their attention to him first.
“Look who it is! The golden boy returns!” bellows Gaetano Berardi, looking up from taping his shins and flashing a rare, intense grin.
“But look at that walk. You sure you should be putting weight on that, Callum? You’re hobbling like an old man!”
“Yeah, watch the carpet, Cal, don’t want you collapsing on us,” Tom Adeyemi chimes in from across the room, leaning back against his locker with a chuckle.
“We saw the size of that ice pack on Saturday. Thought we were going to have to wheel you into training this morning.”
Over by the mirrors, Marco Silvestri fixes his hair and looks over his shoulder, throwing a thumbs-up.
“Fantastic penalty on Saturday!”
“Penalty was alright, but he looks like he needs a walking stick now,” jokes Mirco Antenucci, flashing a smirk as he stretches out his hamstrings near the benches.
“I’m fine, lads, honestly,” Callum says, dropping his kit bag onto the bench and offering a confident grin to the room.
“Physio’s just cleared me. Swelling’s totally gone. Just a bit of stiffness, but I’ll be out there for the tactical walk-through today.”
“Tactical walk-through? Lucky sod,” Scott Wootton groans from a few lockers down, shaking his head.
“Uwe’s got the rest of us doing high-intensity press drills in the freezing rain. If your ankle suddenly starts ‘hurting’ when the hard running starts, we’ll know your game, Vance.”
Callum suppresses a chuckle, the banter instantly putting him at ease as he sits down to finish changing.
While Callum is pulling on his training top, the rest of the squad finish off their greetings.
Kalvin Phillips gives him a supportive nod from across the room, and Charlie Taylor offers a quiet, respectful “Good job, mate” as he heads toward the showers.
Chris Wood simply gives him a heavy pat on the shoulder that nearly knocks Callum off his balance, muttering a gruff but approving word.
Just as Callum is tying the laces of his trainers—deliberately keeping the knot loose over his stiff ankle—the heavy double doors of the changing room swing open.
Rob Kelly, the assistant manager, steps inside, his whistle dangling from his neck.
Right behind him is Paul Dews, the club’s press officer, who is already lugging a tripod and a professional video camera, looking slightly harried.
“Right, listen up, lads!” Kelly barks, his voice cutting cleanly through the locker room chatter.
“Gaffer wants everyone out on pitch three in five minutes. Bring your rain jackets, it’s miserable out there.”
He pauses, his eyes scanning the room until they lock onto Callum.
A knowing smirk tugs at the corner of the assistant manager’s mouth.
“Before you lot head out, we’ve got a bit of club business,” Kelly announces, gesturing to the press officer. This story is hosted at g.com.
“Paul here needs a quick bit of content for LUTV. Apparently, the fans have been crashing the website since Saturday night, wanting to hear from our debutant.”
Paul Dews steps forward, setting up the tripod right in front of the club crest on the main wall.
He clicks the camera into place and looks over at Callum.
“Morning, Callum,” Paul says with a warm smile.
“We won’t keep you long, mate. Just a quick two-minute digital interview for the official channels. We want to get a clip of you talking about the penalty, the Man of the Match award, and a quick update on how the leg is feeling for the fans. You up for it?”
The entire changing room instantly erupts into a chorus of mock cheers and wolf whistles.
“Ooh, look at him, our little media darling!” Antenucci laughs, throwing a towel toward Callum’s head.
“Don’t forget to thank your mum, Cal!” Adeyemi shouts, while Berardi just shakes his head, muttering something in Italian about modern football.
Callum chuckles, shaking his head at the banter as he stands up, feeling the eyes of the entire first-team squad on him.
It’s exactly the kind of spotlight he usually finds a bit tedious, but he knows it comes with the territory now.
He steps up to the club crest, squaring his shoulders as Paul adjusts the camera lens.
Paul gives a countdown with his fingers: three, two, one, and the red recording light blinks to life on the camera.
“Callum, a dream debut on Saturday,” Paul says from behind the lens, keeping his voice warm but professional.
“Man of the Match, a crucial penalty under immense pressure, and the fans are absolutely buzzing. Talk us through the emotions of the last forty-eight hours.”
Callum fixes his gaze on the lens, dropping his casual locker-room grin for a mature, focused expression.
“Yeah, it’s been a bit of a whirlwind, to be honest,” Callum says smoothly, his voice steady.
“Obviously, it’s what you dream about when you’re coming through the academy here at Thorp Arch. But the main thing was just helping the lads get the result. When the gaffer put me on, he told me to be brave, and when the penalty came, I just trusted my technique.”
“We saw you pick up a bit of a nasty knock right at the final whistle,” Paul follows up, angling the mic slightly closer.
“The fans have been desperate for an update. How is the ankle looking ahead of a busy period?”
Callum glances down briefly, then back up with a confident smile.
“It was a bit sore on Saturday night, but the medical staff here have been brilliant. The swelling has gone right down. I’ve just been cleared by the physio to get back out on the grass with the boys for the tactical session this morning, so I’m just looking forward to building on the weekend and putting the work in.”
“Brilliant, thanks, Callum,” Paul says, hitting the stop button.
“Perfect. Short, sharp, and exactly what the digital team needs.”
“Cheers, Paul,” Callum nods, stepping away from the crest as the locker room banter starts back up.
He grabs his rain jacket from his locker, ready to head out into the cold Yorkshire drizzle.
The media bit is out of the way; now it’s time to head out and get back to the grind.
The heavy fire doors lead out to the training pitches, and the biting Yorkshire wind hits Callum the second he steps outside.
The drizzle is fine but relentless, the kind that gets into your bones, but the smell of the damp, freshly cut grass instantly makes him forget about the chill.
He unzips his rain jacket slightly, pulling his hood up to keep the damp off his neck, and consciously focuses on maintaining a steady rhythm to his walk.
No limping.
Not out here.
Down on pitch three, Uwe Rösler is already waiting.
The manager stands tall, zipped up in his heavy club-branded bench coat, his hands clasped behind his back.
Flanking him are Rob Kelly and the rest of the backroom staff, clutching clipboards and plastic cones.
Rösler’s sharp eyes track every single player as they file out of the tunnel, acknowledging each one with a firm nod or a quick word.
Just a few yards away, Paul Dews is already at work with the handheld camera, panning across the group to get some B-roll footage for the LUTV feature.
He catches the lads walking out in pairs, tracking the mood of the squad.
Callum walks out alongside Tom Adeyemi, the two of them sharing a quiet word about the session ahead.
As they approach the coaching staff, Paul swings the camera lens around, capturing the exact moment the young debutant encounters the manager.
“Ah, Callum,” Rösler says loudly enough for the camera to pick up, a brief but genuine smile cutting through his stern expression.
He steps forward, extending a hand.
“The medical team tells me you are stable. Good. But remember what I said, no heroics today. You stick to the tactical work, understood?”
“Understood, boss,” Callum replies, giving Rösler’s hand a firm, respectful shake.
“Just glad to be back out here.”
“Good man. Get yourself into the passing circles to warm up the joints, then Rob will pull you for the shape work,” Rösler nods, patting him on the shoulder before turning his attention to Chris Wood and Sol Bamba walking up behind them.
Callum jogs a few paces toward the cones, a little stiffly, but the adrenaline is already masking the dull ache.
As Callum moves toward the edge of the training grid, a massive shadow falls over him.
Chris Wood falls into stride right next to him, his heavy steps thudding against the damp turf.
The big New Zealand striker is zipped up tight against the drizzle, a snood pulled up high around his neck.
Wood had only just returned from a hamstring tweak himself, having sat out a couple of games earlier in the autumn, so he knew exactly what it was like trying to manage the expectations of a demanding manager like Rösler while your body was still screaming for rest.
“Don’t let him rush you, mate,” Wood says, his deep voice carrying easily over the sound of the wind.
He doesn’t look at Callum, keeping his eyes fixed on the coaching staff setting up the next drill, but the advice is entirely deliberate.
“Uwe wants everything done at a hundred miles an hour. But you’ve got to look after yourself. If it feels tight, you tell the physio. Don’t try to be a hero just because you scored the penalty.”
It’s solid, no-nonsense advice from the club’s number nine.
Wood knows the pressure of a price tag and expectations, and he’s seen plenty of young academy lads burn themselves out by playing through injuries too soon.
“Appreciate it, Chris,” Callum nods, adjusting the collar of his training top.
“The physio’s got me on a tight leash anyway. Just trainers for the first half hour.”
Wood gives a short, gruff chuckle, a cloud of white vapor escaping his snood.
“Good. Because when you’re back at full fitness, I’m going to need you whipping those balls into the box, not sitting in the treatment room sharing biscuits with the medical staff. Let’s get this warming up over with.”
The two forwards step into the passing circle together, Wood’s physical presence contrasting sharply with Callum’s leaner, sharper frame.
Callum takes a crisp pass on his left foot, rolls it effortlessly across his body to his right, and zips it back across the circle to Adeyemi.
He glances sideways at the big Kiwi with a wry smirk.
“Whipping them in?” Callum chuckles, his tone light with banter.
“I don’t know about that, Chris. I’m a striker, aren’t I? I’m supposed to be the one in the box waiting for the service, not doing all the running on the flank.”
Wood stops a heavy ball with the sole of his boot, a massive grin breaking out through his snood.
He passes it off and looks down at Callum, towering over him.
“A striker?” Wood scoffs playfully, shaking his head.
“Mate, you’re about seventy kilos wet through. If a Championship center-back catches you in the six-yard box, they’ll snap you in half. Leave the heavy lifting to me. You’ve got the legs for the wing, so you do the running.”
“I can hold my own,” Callum shoots back, adjusting his pace as the tempo of the passing circle picks up.
“Besides, if you’ve got the pace, you use it to get behind the defenders, not just run away from them into the corner flag. I’m looking to score goals, not just pad your stats.”
The banter keeps Callum’s mind off the dull throb in his ankle, the camaraderie making him feel completely integrated into the first team.
Despite his desire to play through the middle, trading barbs with the club’s star number nine proves he’s earned his right to speak up.
After the warmups, Rösler gathers the squad into a central circle on the pitch, gesturing for everyone to lock in.
“First of all, before we talk about the weekend ahead,” Rösler begins, his voice carrying authority across the damp pitch, “well done on Saturday. Excellent character.”
He pauses, letting the words sink in.
“We all know the pressure we have been under. Ten games without a victory is a very heavy weight for a club like Leeds United to carry,” he says, nodding seriously.
“But with these three points, we are finally out of the relegation zone. It is a massive relief, but sitting 17th is not where this club belongs. We must use this momentum now to completely turn our season around as we head further into autumn.”
A murmur of agreement and a few claps go around the circle.
Sol Bamba nods in approval, while Tom Adeyemi rubs his hands together, energized by the gaffer’s praise.
Rösler’s eyes then shift directly to Callum, his expression softening just a fraction.
“And a special mention, of course, to the young man,” Rösler says, gesturing toward Callum.
The squad instantly turns to look at him, a few of the lads giving him playful shoves and taps on the head.
“To step up in the final minutes of the first half, right before the whistle, under that kind of pressure on your debut, and put the penalty away… that takes big balls. Well done, Callum.”
Lewis Cook chuckles next to him, muttering, “Don’t let it go to his head, boss; his ankle is already swollen. He doesn’t need his head following.”
The squad erupts into a brief laugh, and Callum grins, feeling a massive surge of pride.
“Alright, alright,” Rösler says, tapping the tactical board to bring the focus back.
The smile vanishes, replaced instantly by his sharp, analytical tactical glare.
“The win is done. It gives us oxygen, but now we must build. We look at Cardiff on the weekend. They are physical, they are organized, and if we are lazy, Saturday means nothing. Rob, show them the shape.”
Rob Kelly steps forward, tapping a plastic marker onto the white magnetic board with a loud clack.
“Right, listen up,” Kelly says, his sharp voice cutting through the damp air.
“We’re keeping the same tactical shape that got us the points on Saturday. The 4-3-3 works if the discipline is there.”
He moves three markers into a tight midfield trio, then slides three more into the advanced attacking line.
He places two markers on the flanks, then firmly plants the central attacking magnet right in the middle of the box.
He looks up, his eyes locking directly onto Callum.
“Callum, you’re starting central through the middle,” Kelly instructs, pointing a finger at him.
“The gaffer wants your movement, causing chaos between their center-backs in the box. You drop deep when you need to link play, but your main job is to turn them and get into the box.”
Kelly then glances over at the rest of the group.
“Woody, Mirco, you two are on the bench for this one. We need that physical impact and experience ready to come on and change the game in the second half.”
Beside Callum, Chris Wood simply crosses his arms against the chill, his jaw set as he stares intently at the tactical board.
He doesn’t say a word, his silence carrying an unspoken, intense focus and acknowledgement.
Mirco Antenucci just chuckles, nudging Wood’s shoulder and muttering under his breath, “Hey, at least we get to stay warm under the blankets for the first half hour, Chris.”
Callum tries to suppress a massive grin, nodding seriously at the assistant manager to show he’s locked in.
His heart thumps with a sudden rush of adrenaline.
Leading the line as the starting central striker for Leeds United.
It’s a dream come true.
“No complacency, lads,” Kelly warns with a stern but encouraging nod.
“Cardiff is going to try to bully you with their physicality from the first whistle, so you need to be sharp. Right, let’s get into the positional units. Let’s go!”
The players disperse into their specific units, and Callum spends the next forty minutes fully immersed in the tactical shape work, tracking back, making sharp dummy runs, and practicing the patterns of play through the middle.
His movement looks completely unhindered, and his footballing instincts are firing on all cylinders.
Just as the coaching staff begins blowing whistles to transition the squad into a full-pitch, high-intensity scrimmage, a firm hand clamps down on Callum’s shoulder.
Callum freezes, looking back at the manager with a flash of protest in his eyes.
“Boss, I’m fine. The ankle feels solid, I can do the 11-v-11.”
“No,” Rösler says flatly, brooking no argument.
He points a finger toward the sideline where Terry is already waiting with a warm tracksuit top and a bottle of water.
“You did the tactical walkthrough, you know your positioning, and you showed me your movement is sharp. That is the important portion for today. I am not risking a setback in a heavy scrimmage on a slick pitch.”
From the edge of the center circle, Chris Wood pulls on a yellow bib, catching Callum’s eye and giving him a knowing, subtle nod—a silent reminder of the advice he’d given him just twenty minutes earlier.
“Go with the medical staff, get some ice, and do your recovery,” Rösler instructs, his tone softening just a fraction but remaining entirely firm.
“I need you fresh and 100% ready to lead the line from the first whistle against Cardiff. Understood?”
Callum swallows his competitive pride, knowing the gaffer is right, even if every instinct is screaming at him to stay on the grass.
“Understood, boss,” Callum says.
He unstraps his shin guards and jogs lightly toward the touchline, leaving the senior lads to battle it out in the rain while he focuses entirely on making sure he’s ready for the big stage on Saturday.
The warmth of the medical room is a stark contrast to the freezing Yorkshire drizzle outside.
Callum sits on the edge of the treatment table, a heavy ice pack strapped tightly around his ankle, listening to the rhythmic hum of the compression boots on the adjacent player.
The door clicks open, and Uwe Rösler steps inside, bringing the faint scent of damp wool and coffee with him.
He walks over to Terry, who is reviewing Callum’s recovery data on a tablet.
“How does it look?” Rösler asks, his sharp eyes darting down to Callum’s ankle.
“The swelling is completely gone, Uwe,” Terry replies, tapping the screen.
“His range of motion is exactly where we want it after that session. The joint handled the tactical drills perfectly.”
Rösler nods, then turns his gaze directly to Callum.
“Good. You did the work today, you know the shape, and you looked sharp. But we are taking no chances.” He glances back at the physio, who gives a small nod of agreement.
“So, you are finished for the day. Change your clothes, go home, and take the rest of the day completely off. No gym, no extra running. Just rest.”
“I can do some upper body work in the gym, boss, I feel fine,” Callum protests gently, eager to keep the momentum going.
“No,” Rösler counters instantly, raising a hand to shut down the argument, though a small, approving smile edges at his lips.
“When I say off, I mean off. Go home, put your feet up, let your nan make you a cup of tea, and look after yourself. I need you completely fresh tomorrow morning.”
Terry pats Callum on the knee.
“Listen to the gaffer, mate. You’ve earned a quiet afternoon. Go get showered.”
“Alright, thanks, boss. Thanks, Terry,” Callum says, a wave of genuine relief washing over him as he unstraps the ice pack.
Leading the line against Cardiff is the only thing that matters now, and a quiet afternoon at home is exactly what his body needs to make sure he’s ready.
The hot water of the showers feels like heaven, washing away the grit of the mud and the biting chill of the rain.
By the time Callum dries off and pulls on a comfortable gray hoodie, dark jeans, and clean trainers, his ankle feels remarkably loose, and his stomach is absolutely roaring.
Leaving the changing rooms, he slings his casual kit bag over his shoulder.
The gaffer’s words echo in his head:
Go home, put your feet up.
“Yeah, definitely,” Callum mutters to himself with a smirk.
“But first, food.”
He gets the sudden craving for something proper to fuel his recovery before he makes the drive home to his nan’s house in Leeds.
He figures he can swing by a quiet spot in town, grab a proper meal to take away, and then head straight back.
He knows exactly how it’ll play out if he turns up starving, his nan will instantly fuss over him.
Turning up already fed means he can just crash on the sofa with her and relax.
He grabs his car keys, gives a quick nod to a few of the lads still lounging in the common room, and heads out to the car park, the thought of a hot meal already making him forget the grey weather.
The Honda Accord’s engine turns over with a reliable hum, and Callum instantly cranks the air conditioning to clear the condensation fogging up the windshield.
He sinks back into the driver’s seat, letting the car warm up while he pulls out his phone.
He scrolls through a few food apps and local Leeds food blogs, his thumb flicking past the usual burger joints and Italian chains.
His mind is already made up, though.
He’s had a craving for something with a bit of kick to warm him up after the freezing drizzle, and his thoughts keep drifting back to Tharavadu on Mill Hill.
He’d heard a few of the lads rave about the place, proper Keralan street food, miles away from the heavy, greasy takeaway curries they were used to.
A light, fragrant fish curry or some chili chicken with those flaky parottas sounds like the exact kind of fuel he needs.
Plus, it’s right by the station, easy enough to swing by, grab a quick takeaway order, and be back home in no time.
Satisfied with the plan, Callum drops his phone into the cup holder, shifts the Accord into gear, and navigates out of the Thorp Arch gates, his stomach rumbling in anticipation as he heads toward the city center.
The drive down from Thorp Arch gives Callum time to relax both his mind and body.
He navigates the city center traffic with the easy familiarity of a local, eventually pulling into a parking spot just a short walk from the station.
The aroma of fried curry leaves, mustard seeds, and rich coconut milk hits him the second he opens the heavy glass door of Tharavadu.
The restaurant is relatively quiet for a Tuesday afternoon, save for a few business luncheons and travelers from the nearby railway station.
He stands near the front desk waiting for a staff member, eyes scanning the menu board as his stomach does another impatient flip.
Standing comfortably in his casual clothes, he’s already set on getting the chili chicken and some flaky parottas to go as he pulls out his wallet, the bell above the door chimes.
A young woman steps inside, shaking the Leeds drizzle off a black umbrella before pulling down the hood of an oversized winter coat.
She’s wearing large, dark sunglasses despite the grey weather, but as she slips them off to talk to the host, Callum catches himself doing a brief double-take.
It’s not because he recognizes her face, but because a flawless American accent isn’t something you hear every day in the middle of a rainy day in Leeds.
Hell, tourists are few and far between here.
Especially one as beautiful as she is.
She’s flanked by a guy carrying a tablet and a production lanyard, clearly a local fixer, and they are discussing shooting schedules in low voices.
“I’m telling you, the director said we have a three-hour window before the light dies,” she says, her distinct accent cutting clearly through the quiet restaurant.
“I just need something hot and fast. Someone on set said the seafood here is incredible.”
The host looks slightly apologetic, checking the reservation book.
“Ah, I’m afraid we’re fully committed for sit-down tables for the next forty minutes, miss…”
Callum, standing just two feet away, catches her eye as she sighs in frustration.
Recognizing the classic stress of someone working on a tight schedule, he decides to speak up.
“You should get the Meen Koottan, the fish curry, to go,” Callum offers, stepping forward with a casual shrug.
“It’s what the lads at my club recommended to me. Takes about ten minutes if you’re in a rush.”
The girl turns, looking him up and down before a sudden smile replaces her stressed expression.
“A local recommendation. I like it,” she says, walking over to stand by him at the counter.
“What club is that? Are you a footballer?”
“Something like that,” Callum replies with a modest, easygoing grin, offering a hand.
“I’m Callum.”
She shakes his hand firmly, pulling off her gloves as she laughs.
“Well, ‘something like that’ sounds intriguing. We’ve been shooting out near the dales since 5:00 AM, and I feel like my fingers are going to fall off. I’m Chloë, by the way.”
“Nice to meet you, Chloë,” he says with a friendly nod, completely unaware that the girl in the oversized coat is actually a Hollywood star.
To him, she just looks like an American tourist or a crew member working on one of the television dramas that are constantly filmed around Yorkshire.
“What brings you all the way over from the States to Leeds, then? Film crew?”
She gives a slight, amused smile, clearly enjoying his lack of recognition and the rare bit of normality it brings.
“Something like that,” she says, echoing his words with a smirk as she gestures vaguely to the guy with the tablet.
“We’re doing a new project up here for a few weeks. The countryside is beautiful, but the weather is absolutely brutal.”
“Welcome to Yorkshire,” Callum chuckles, shifting his weight off his right ankle.
“It doesn’t get much better than this until May. So, you’re the director, then, or…?”
The production assistant beside her covers a sudden smirk with his hand, while Chloë lets out a genuine, bright laugh.
“No, not the director,” she says, her eyes crinkling.
“Just one of the actors. But enough about the cold, tell me about your ‘something like that.’ Do you have a match coming up this weekend?”
Callum chuckles, shifting his weight slightly.
“Yeah, I do. Big one on Sunday, actually. Just trying to stay fit and ready for it.”
Before Chloë can ask another question, the kitchen door swings open and the waiter walks out carrying a brown paper bag, the rich, aromatic scent of chili chicken and fresh parottas instantly filling the air between them.
“Order for Callum?” the waiter calls out.
“That’s me,” Callum says, turning back to the counter and pulling out his card to tap the reader.
He grabs the warm bag, the heat radiating beautifully against his hands.
He turns back to Chloë, giving her a polite, warm smile.
“Well, good luck with the filming. Don’t freeze out there, and definitely get the fish curry.”
“Thank you, Callum. I think I will,” she says, her eyes lingering on him.
There’s a distinct, amused spark of intrigue in her expression.
Whether it’s his sharp appearance, his easygoing confidence, or the completely refreshing fact that he treats her like a normal person without a single clue as to who she is, he’s clearly left an impression.
“Good luck with your match on Sunday.”
“Cheers. Take care,” Callum says with a friendly nod.
He turns and heads out into the drizzly afternoon, his mind already shifting back to the warm food in his hands and the drive home to his nan’s house, entirely oblivious to the fact that he just casually chatted up a Hollywood star over takeaway menus.
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A/N: One of the longest chapters I have ever written, and yes, we have our first interaction between Callum and Chloe.
Thank you all for the support on the recent chapters