For once in her life, Chloë Grace Moretz has found herself completely, delightfully anonymous.
As the heavy glass door of Tharavadu clicks shut behind Callum, leaving only the faint scent of rain and wet asphalt in his wake, Chloë stays standing by the counter for a beat longer than necessary.
Her hands are shoved deep into the warm lining of her oversized winter coat, but her mind is still anchored to the brief, effortless conversation she’d just had.
It’s a bizarre, intoxicating feeling.
Ever since she was a kid, every interaction with a stranger came pre-packaged with an invisible layer of expectation.
People either looked at her like a movie star, treated her with overly rehearsed caution, or tried entirely too hard to play it cool.
But Callum?
He had looked straight at her, seen an exhausted American girl struggling with the miserable weather, and offered a tip on local curry.
No double-takes.
No sudden change in posture.
No glance to see if anyone was watching them.
Just a dry, easygoing local lad in a hoodie and jeans who seemed far more concerned with his food and an impending match on Saturday than who was standing next to him.
A quiet, genuine smile tugged at the corner of her lips.
Beyond the sheer novelty of being completely unrecognized, she finds herself surprisingly intrigued by him.
There was a grounded, unbothered confidence to the way he carried himself
“Miss Moretz?” the local fixer asks softly, tapping the screen of his tablet and pulling her out of her thoughts.
“The host says they can pack the Meen Koottan for us in about eight minutes if you still want to grab it before the set move.”
Chloë glances toward the door one last time, where Callum’s tall figure is already disappearing down the drizzly Leeds street toward the station parking.
After about 10 minutes, the waiter returns from the kitchen carrying a heavy paper bag, the fragrant steam of mustard seeds, coconut, and fresh curry leaves escaping from the top.
“Here we are, miss. One Meen Koottan to go,” the host says with a polite, welcoming smile as he sets the bag down on the wooden counter.
Chloë steps forward, pulling out her card to pay, but as the transaction clears, her curiosity finally gets the better of her.
She glances back at the front glass door Callum had walked through just ten minutes earlier.
“Thank you so much,” she says, leaning slightly over the counter with a casual, warm smile.
“Quick question, that guy who was just standing here, Callum… do you know him? Is he a regular?”
The host’s face immediately lights up with a proud, local nod.
“Ah, yes, miss! That’s Callum Vance. He’s one of the young lads for Leeds United, just made his first-team debut on Saturday, actually.”
Chloë’s eyebrows shoot up in genuine surprise, a small, amused oh escaping her lips.
“Really?”
“Yes, miss. Scored a massive penalty right before half-time, too,” the host adds, placing a small stack of napkins in her bag.
“Very quiet, down-to-earth lad. My son actually was in the same class as him a few years ago. Good Lad.”
Chloë turns back toward the front window, her eyes tracking the misty rain outside.
Through the drizzle, she catches a distant glimpse of Callum slinging his casual bag into the boot of an unassuming Honda Accord.
The production assistant beside her blinks, looking up from his tablet with wide eyes.
“Wait… he’s a professional footballer, and he had zero clue who you were?”
Chloë takes the warm paper bag from the counter, a light, bright laugh escaping her as she shakes her head.
“Not a single clue,” she says, her smile turning into a warm, thoroughly intrigued grin as she steps back out into the rainy Leeds afternoon.
“And honestly? It was the best part of my week.”
As they step out into the crisp Yorkshire air, the warmth of the curry bag heating Chloë’s hands through her gloves, she pauses at the edge of the pavement.
She watches Callum’s Honda Accord pull out of the parking space and blend seamlessly into the city center traffic.
She pulls her dark sunglasses back over her eyes, turning to her production assistant, who is already aggressively tapping away on his tablet to update her call sheet.
“Hey, Marcus,” Chloë asks casually, pulling the hood of her coat back up against the drizzle.
“What’s the schedule looking like for Saturday? Are we filming all day, or do we have a window?”
Marcus doesn’t even look up from his screen, his thumb flying across the glass.
“Saturday? Main unit is resetting the lighting grid at the dales location until noon, so you’re off until about 4:00 PM for the sunset coverage. Why? You wanting to do some sightseeing?”
“Something like that,” she says, a slight smirk tugging at the corner of her lips as she echoes Callum’s phrase once again.
“How hard is it to get tickets to a Leeds United game?”
Marcus stops tapping mid-scroll and looks up, his eyes wide with a mix of shock and pure disbelief.
“A Leeds game? At Elland Road?” He lets out a sharp chuckle, shaking his head.
“Chloë, it’s virtually impossible. It’s a packed stadium, massive fanbase, sold out weeks in advance. Unless you know someone in the club or have high-level corporate hospitality contacts, you’re not getting anywhere near a seat.”
He pauses, realizing the connection, and his jaw drops slightly.
“Wait… you’re not actually thinking about going to watch him, are you?”
Chloë adjusts the strap of her bag over her shoulder, a thoroughly amused, mischievous glint in her eyes behind her dark lenses.
“Well,” she says softly, turning to walk down the pavement toward their waiting car, “we do have a fixer’s budget, don’t we? See what you can pull off, Marcus.”
Unaware of the quiet stir he’d just caused back at Tharavadu, Callum settles into the driver’s seat of the Accord and twists the volume knob up.
The warm, smooth bassline of an R&B track fills the cabin, cutting through the steady patter of the Leeds drizzle against the windshield.
He rolls his shoulders, sinking back into the seat as the tension from the morning’s intense physio session fully melts away.
His ankle feels good, his order of chili chicken and fresh parottas is resting safely in the passenger footwell, and he’s got a rare, golden afternoon completely off from Uwe Rösler’s rigorous regime.
Navigating through the familiar suburban streets, he taps his fingers against the steering wheel to the rhythm of the music, enjoying the simple, low-key solitude.
No cameras, no press officers asking about his debut penalty, and no coaching staff watching his every move with a stopwatch.
Just good tunes, hot food, and a quiet drive.
Ten minutes later, he pulls up outside his nan’s semi-detached house, the cozy, welcoming light already glowing through the living room curtains against the grey afternoon.
He kills the engine, grabs the warm takeaway bag, and swings his kit bag over his shoulder. This story is hosted at g.com.
Pushing the front door open with his elbow, the familiar, comforting smell of lavender polish and tea instantly greets him.
“Nan? It’s just me,” Callum calls out over the soft hum of the radio playing in her kitchen, completely untroubled by the world outside.
Callum kicks off his trainers by the front door, careful with his right ankle, and walks down the hallway into the warm, yellow-lit kitchen.
His nan is standing by the kettle in her floral apron, a wooden spoon in hand, with the afternoon soap opera playing softly on the small TV in the corner.
She turns around, her face instantly brightening into a fond, familiar smile the second she sees him.
“There he is,” she says, wiping her hands on a tea towel.
“I was just about to put the potatoes on. How’s the leg? They haven’t been working you to death, have they?”
“Leg’s sound, Nan, cleared for the grass,” Callum says, setting his kit bag down by the kitchen table and holding up the grease-spotted paper bag with a triumphant grin.
“And don’t worry about cooking. I brought us lunch.”
His nan peers over her reading glasses, sniffing the rich, aromatic air drifting from the top of the bag.
“Oooh, what’s that smell? That’s not one of those greasy chippy meals, is it?”
“Keralan street food from Tharavadu,” Callum says, pulling out the foil containers of chili chicken and warm, flaky parottas.
“Light, properly cooked, tons of flavor. The lads at the club rave about it.”
“Well, look at you, getting fancy,” she chuckles, reaching into the cupboard to pull out two plates and a couple of forks.
“I suppose it’s nice to eat fancily now and then. Sit down, sit down. Let me get you a cup of tea.”
Callum slides into his usual chair at the table, letting out a long, contented exhale as he serves out the food.
The warmth of the kitchen, the familiar clinking of teacups, and the simple comfort of his nan’s house feel a million miles away from the intense pressure of first-team football.
“So,” Nan says, setting a steaming mug of Builders tea down right beside his plate, “big day coming up then? You playing this weekend?”
“Yeah,” Callum smiles, tearing off a piece of parotta to scoop up the chicken.
“Cardiff on Sunday. Boss said I’m leading the line from the start.”
“Sunday!” she repeats, patting his shoulder proudly before sitting across from him.
“Well, your grandad would have been bursting at the seams, you know that. I’ll be watching every second on the box, making sure you don’t let those big Welsh defenders bully you.”
“Don’t worry, Nan,” Callum laughs, digging in.
“I can handle myself.
Callum and his nan spend the rest of the afternoon tucked away in the warm kitchen, enjoying the spicy Keralan food and trading easy, familiar chatter.
Nan rattles off the local neighborhood gossip, tells him which of her garden shrubs didn’t survive the recent frost.
Callum just sits back, sipping his tea, entirely content to listen.
By early evening, the rain outside turns into a heavy, steady downpour, drumming rhythmically against the kitchen window.
After helping his nan clear the table and wash up the plates, Callum feels the exhaustion from the morning’s deep-tissue torture and tactical drills finally catching up with him.
His right ankle is giving a tiny, dull throb—nothing concerning, just a gentle reminder from his body that it needs recovery.
“Right then, Nan,” Callum says, pushing himself up from the table with a soft groan and tossing his tea towel onto the counter.
“I’m going to call it a night. Gaffer wants us back in early tomorrow for video analysis.”
His grandmother looks up from her crosswords, her eyes warm over the rim of her glasses.
“Good lad. You get yourself up to bed and rest that leg. Don’t go staying up half the night staring at that mobile phone of yours, either.”
“I won’t,” Callum chuckles, leaning down to give her a quick kiss on the cheek.
“Night, Nan.”
“Night, love. Sleep well.”
He heads upstairs to his bedroom, the same room he’d slept in since moving in with her, still lined with old football posters and trophy ribbons from his academy days.
After doing a few light, cautious ankle rotations to keep the joint loose, Callum crawls into bed and pulls the heavy duvet up to his chin.
He sets his alarm for 6:30 AM, props his head against the pillow, and closes his eyes, his mind entirely focused on Sunday’s match against Cardiff.
The next morning, the freezing Yorkshire drizzle has given way to a bitter, grey fog that hangs heavy over the dales location.
Down in the valley, the production crew is moving at a frantic pace, setting up heavy lighting rigs and running cables through the mud.
But inside her heated trailer, Chloë sits in front of the vanity mirror, barely registering as the makeup artist carefully dabs foundation onto her cheekbones.
“Chloë? Head slightly to the left for me, please,” the artist says softly.
Chloë blinks, pulling her gaze away from the fogged-up trailer window.
“Oh sorry, Sarah. Yeah.”
She adjusts her posture, but as soon as the makeup brush resumes its soft rhythm, her mind immediately drifts right back to yesterday afternoon.
It was ridiculous, really.
She’d worked with some of the biggest names in Hollywood, walked red carpets across the globe, and dealt with charismatic co-stars for years.
Yet, for the past twelve hours, her thoughts kept flickering back to a quiet, striking guy in a gray hoodie at a curry house in Leeds.
A quiet sigh escaped her lips as she recalled his appearance.
He was undeniably gorgeous, his rich, dark skin glowing even under the drab, fluorescent lights of the restaurant, contrasting so effortlessly with the soft gray fabric of his hoodie.
But it was his eyes that kept playing on a loop in her head.
Deep, warm brown eyes that had locked onto hers with a look of pure, unpretentious calm.
When he smiled, those dark eyes seemed to melt with a quiet warmth that felt entirely genuine.
He hadn’t been trying to impress her.
He hadn’t even known who he was trying to impress.
“Alright, we’re ready for you on set, Chloë!” the assistant director calls out, tapping on the trailer door before pushing it open, letting in a draft of freezing air.
“Director wants to run the dialogue scene twice before the light shifts.”
“On my way,” Chloë replies, pulling on her heavy lined coat and stepping out into the cold.
Out on the muddy location, as the director talks her through the beats of the scene, her eyes keep darting toward Marcus, who is standing near the video village, clutching his tablet and a steaming paper cup of coffee.
During a pause between takes while the camera crew re-lenses, Chloë weaves her way through the equipment, pulling her gloves tighter against the chill.
Marcus looks up from his tablet, a subtle, knowing smirk instantly spreading across his face.
“If you’re asking about the scene notes, the director wants more pace on line three.”
“I’m not asking about the scene notes,” Chloë says, shooting him a dry look, though a small smile betrays her composure.
“Did you talk to the hospitality team?”
Marcus taps the screen of his tablet, turning it slightly so only she can see.
“Turns out, when a production company calls Elland Road offering to cover a premier executive box for Sunday’s match against Cardiff, doors open remarkably fast. We just got the confirmation email ten minutes ago.”
Chloë’s eyes light up, a sudden, genuine wave of excitement washing over her that has absolutely nothing to do with the freezing film set.
“Two VIP tickets,” Marcus adds, shaking his head with a slight laugh.
“Director has no idea why you suddenly care so much about Championship football, by the way. I told him it was for ‘cultural research.'”
“Cultural research. Perfect,” Chloë chuckles, tucking her hands back into her coat pockets.
She looks back out over the foggy hills, those warm brown eyes and his striking grin flashing across her mind once more.
“Let’s see what you’ve got, Callum Vance,” she murmurs to herself, a subtle, intrigued smile resting on her lips as the assistant director calls for places.
The steep, tiered seating of the Thorp Arch analysis theater is plunged into darkness, save for the bright glow of the projector screen beaming down at the front.
Uwe Rösler stands near the edge of the stage, laser pointer in hand, freezing a frame of Cardiff’s defensive line on the back four.
The room is dead silent, save for the quiet hum of the projector and Rösler’s sharp, accented voice laying out the tactical breakdown.
“Now, look at the gap between their right-back and central defender,” Rösler says, tapping the red laser dot against the screen.
“Callum, this is where your movement must be relentless. When Lewis turns with the ball, you do not wait for the pass, you force their line to drop back by making the run here—”
Right in the middle of the quiet, high-intensity room, sitting between Kalvin Phillips and Lewis Cook in the third row, Callum feels a sudden, sharp tickle in his nose.
He tries to fight it.
He pinches his nose, closes his eyes tight, and buries his face into the crook of his elbow, but it’s completely futile.
“ACHOO!”
The sharp, sudden sneeze echoes loudly off the acoustic wall paneling, cutting Rösler off mid-sentence and echoing through the pitch-black theater like a starter pistol firing.
A collective ripple of snickers and muffled giggles instantly breaks out through the dark room.
“God bless you, golden boy!” Berardi calls out from the back row, prompting a few louder chuckles from the squad.
“Watch the screen, Cal, don’t go blowing your nose on the tactics,” Antenucci snickers from two seats down.
Rösler pauses, lowering his laser pointer as the room lights automatically dim up a fraction.
He turns his head slowly, tracking the sound right to where Callum is currently wiping his nose with the back of his sleeve, looking slightly embarrassed.
“You alright there, Callum?” Rösler asks dryly, a slight, disapproving eyebrow raised.
“Not catching a cold before Sunday, I hope?”
“No, boss, sorry,” Callum says, his voice slightly nasal as he adjusts his Leeds hoodie.
“Just… dust from the air con, I think. I’m good.”
“Good,” Rösler nods sternly, though a subtle twitch at the corner of his mouth betrays his serious expression.
“Because Cardiff will not stop playing just because you need a tissue. Back to the screen, lads.”
The room lights dim back down, and Callum settles back into his leather seat, rubbing his nose once more and ignoring Kalvin nudging him in the ribs with a quiet smirk.
Rösler clicks his remote, advancing the footage to a short clip from Cardiff’s previous match as the room lights dim back down.
The video shows their two central defenders, heavy-set, towering men built like brick walls, struggling to turn and cover ground when the ball is played over their heads into open space.
“Now, pay attention here,” Rösler continues, tapping the laser pointer against the screen right over the center-backs.
“Cardiff’s central pair… they are dominant in the air, yes? They want a fight. They want someone like Woody or Antenucci to stand there and battle them for headers all day long. But on the ground, on the turn?”
Rösler pauses, turning his sharp gaze directly back to Callum in the third row.
“They are slow. They turn like battle tanks. And that is where you destroy them, Callum.”
The room falls quiet again as the lads watch the clip play out, showing the defender completely out of position as a quick forward bursts past him.
“Their weakness is pure, flat-out recovery speed,” Rösler continues, his voice rising with intensity.
“They push a high line on set pieces and long balls, but they do not have the legs to track back once you break their line. Callum, you have the acceleration to leave them standing still. You stay on the shoulder of the last defender, you time your runs, and when someone slips that ball through, you do not hesitate. You use your pace to get behind them before they even realize you have gone.”
Rösler points the laser right at Callum’s chest.
“You do not fight them physically, Callum. You burn them with your speed.”
Rösler clicks the remote again, shifting the footage from Cardiff’s defensive line to a series of chaotic attacking clips.
The screen fills with footage of heavy, direct aerial balls raining into the penalty box, followed by aggressive, physical scuffles around the six-yard box.
“Now, attacking-wise… this is where they will try to make your life miserable,” Rösler warns, his voice dropping an octave as he scans the room, locking eyes with Sol Bamba and Liam Cooper.
He taps the laser pointer firmly against the central circle on the screen.
“Cardiff do not mess around with slow build-up play. They are direct. They win the ball, they look up, and they pump it straight into our penalty area. They play for long balls, they play for second balls, and above all, they play for set pieces. Every throw-in past the halfway line is treated like a corner kick.”
A quiet, collective groan ripples through the defenders, but Sol Bamba just cracks his knuckles, a dark, hungry grin spreading across his face.
“They want to turn this match into a dogfight,” Rösler continues, pacing across the front of the stage.
“They will try to bully us on corners, they will slide late, and they will try to get under our skin. If we get dragged into an emotional scrap, we lose. But if we stay organized, win our individual aerial duels, and immediately transition the ball to our feet…” He looks sharply back at the team.
“…we tear them apart on the counter before their big men can even get back into position.”
Rösler switches off the projector, the bright white light vanishing as the overhead theater lights fade back up, illuminating the squad sitting in their leather seats.
“Enough talking,” Rösler says, tossing the remote onto the pod desk with a sharp clack.
“Boots on, weather jackets on. Pitch two in seven minutes. We are going to drill these defensive set pieces until every single one of you can head a ball away in your sleep. Let’s go!”
The squad immediately springs into motion, flipping up their seats and streaming down the carpeted steps toward the changing rooms.
Callum pushes himself up, rolling his shoulders and giving his right ankle a quick, confident stamp against the floor.
The tactical breakdowns are over; now it’s time to put it onto the grass.