Callum cushions the ball, controlling it with his chest, taking it cleanly in his stride.
He lets it roll effortlessly onto his favoured left foot and snaps a low, lethal strike across the damp grass, driving the ball straight into the bottom right corner of the net.
The ball hits the inner side netting with a crisp, satisfying thwack.
“Nice touch, Cal! Perfect weight on the strike!” Coach Rösler shouts from the sideline, his whistle resting between his teeth as the wind whips through his drill jacket.
“Yes! Exactly that composure!” Rösler barks, clapping his gloved hands together loudly over the sound of the wind.
“That is the clinical finish we need when we catch them on the break. Back to the center, lads, set it up again!”
Callum jogs back toward the halfway line, his left foot feeling lethal and his right ankle completely free of pain.
He’s sharp, confident, and completely dialed in.
Two days out from his second start in a Leeds shirt, and the Englishman is absolutely chuffed.
Since Tuesday, he spent most of his time recovering and running light drills with the lads; however, today was a double session.
An absolute flurry of intense, high-octane training drills, but Callum had breezed through every single one.
His ankle had held up without so much as a twinge, his left boot was practically laser-guided, and Rösler’s tactical game plan felt like it had been custom-tailored just for him.
“That’s us done, lads!” Uwe Rösler’s loud voice echoed across the quiet training complex, his whistle hanging loose around his neck as he clapped his hands together.
“Great tempo all week. Go inside, get your ice baths, get your massages, and rest those legs. Sunday is a big one.”
A cheer went up from the squad as they began gathering the stray balls and carrying the training cones back toward the main building.
Sol Bamba slung a heavy arm over Callum’s shoulders as they walked off the grass, the big center-back giving him a nudge.
“Looking sharp out there today, Cal. Those Cardiff center-halves are going to need oxygen tanks by the hour mark if you keep making those runs.”
“Just lay it off for me, Sol,” Callum grinned, wiping the sweat from his forehead with the collar of his training kit.
“I’ll handle the rest.”
“That’s what I like to hear,” Sol chuckled, patting his back as they reached the boot room.
Inside the warmth of the complex, the energy was electric.
In the changing rooms, the music was blasting, a mix of high-energy grime and old-school R&B, while the physios prepped the ice baths and foam rollers.
Callum kicked off his muddy left boot, giving the studs a quick tap against the floor, feeling an unshakeable, quiet confidence settling in his chest.
He unlaced his boots, slung his towel over his shoulder, and headed down the corridor toward the recovery room, a wide, unstoppable smile plastered across his face.
Sunday couldn’t come fast enough.
Finishing up his light stretches, Callum heads toward the shower.
More than happy to get the grime and sweat off of his body.
Callum turned the shower dial down, letting the steaming water wash away the mud and sweat from Friday’s final session before giving his hair a quick scrub.
The sharp, cold plunge that followed his hot shower left his legs feeling light and completely restored.
As he wraps a towel around his waist and steps back into the bustling locker room, the energy is high.
Steam billows out into the changing area, smelling of Deep Heat and fresh body wash, while a heavy bassline rattles the metal lockers.
“Oi! Cal!” Kalvin Phillips shouts across the bench, tossing a rolled-up pair of socks at him.
“A few of us are grabbing an early dinner over at a restaurant downtown. Proper steaks, light pasta, nothing heavy before Sunday. You in?”
Lewis Cook looks up from tying his trainers, grinning.
“Yeah, come on, speedy. Boss gave us the evening off, and Sol’s paying.”
“Who said I’m paying?!” Sol Bamba roars from the back of the room, throwing a shower towel over his shoulder as the whole changing room erupts into laughter.
“I pay when we beat Cardiff, not before!”
Callum chuckles, drying off his hair with a towel as he looks around at the lads.
Two weeks ago, he’d have felt like an outsider crashing a senior squad night out, but now, sitting here as their starting striker for Sunday, he feels completely at home.
“Yeah, go on then,” Callum says, pulling his dry clothes out of his locker.
“Just keep Sol away from the bill, or we’ll be washing dishes till kickoff.”
“That’s my lad!” Kalvin laughs, clapping him on the back.
“Shower, change, thirty minutes at the restaurant.”
Ten minutes later, smelling fresh and dressed in a clean black hoodie and dark jeans, Callum slings his kit bag over his shoulder.
Leaving the Thorp Arch gates behind him, he heads toward the car with the lads, his appetite ravenous and his spirits sky-high, completely locked in for the big weekend ahead. he full starting XI lines up in a long, rumbling convoy, their engines revving as they leave the wet gates of Thorp Arch behind and make the twenty-minute drive into Leeds city centre.
The fleet of cars pulls up and fills out the parking along the street outside Kendells Bistro, a warm, intimate spot tucked away near the West Yorkshire Playhouse.
The glowing ambient light streaming through the big glass windows casts a welcoming heat out onto the chilly pavement.
Callum cuts his engine and steps out of his car, pulling his jacket tight against the cold as the rest of the squad spills out onto the pavement around him—a sea of tracksuits and designer coats taking over the quiet street.
“No fuss, no fancy set menus, just proper food on the blackboard.”
“As long as they’ve got pasta or steak, I’m good,” Kalvin Phillips laughs, zipping up his coat.
“I could eat a horse right now.”
“Don’t give the French chef any ideas,” Lewis Cook quips back, making Callum and Mirco Antenucci burst out laughing as the eleven of them push through the heavy velvet curtain at the front door.
Inside, the cozy bistro is buzzing with soft music, clinking wine glasses, and the rich, mouth-watering aroma of garlic butter, grilled steaks, and freshly baked bread.
The waitress’s eyes widen in absolute shock as the entire Leeds United starting line-up files in behind Sol Bamba.
“Table for… eleven?” she asks, a bright, slightly stunned smile on her face.
“Reserved under Bamba,” Sol says smoothly with a proud nod.
“Right this way,” she says, guiding the full team through the candle-lit dining room toward a long, grand wooden table near the back corner, perfectly set up to fit the whole squad.
Callum slides into a seat near the middle, flanked by Kalvin and Lewis, while Sol, Liam Cooper, and Marco Silvestri hold down the ends.
Taking in the relaxed, classic atmosphere, Callum feels at home, the pressure and expectations of performance covered by their banter.
The heavy velvet curtain by the entrance rustles again, letting in a sharp burst of cold evening air.
Callum, mid-laugh at a story Kalvin is telling, glances up as a new group files into the cozy bistro—the director, producers, and lead cast of the film currently shooting up in the dales.
And right in the center of the group is Chloë Grace Moretz.
She isn’t hiding under a cap tonight.
Instead, she’s dressed up for a rare night out off-set in a stunning, form-fitting red dress, Callum’s absolute favourite colour.
The tailored fabric hugs her waist and accentuates her feminine silhouette, striking a perfect balance between classy and effortless.
At eighteen, just a couple of months older than him, she carries a glowing, mature confidence that immediately draws the eyes of half the restaurant.
Callum freezes for a split second, his glass of water held halfway to his mouth.
“Well, well,” Lewis whispers, nudging Callum with an elbow and grinning slyly.
“Looks like we aren’t the only big table in town tonight. She your type, Speedy?”
“Keep your eyes on your menu, Cooky,” Sol chuckles from the head of the table, though even he glances over briefly.
The maître d’ ushers the movie party toward a plush velvet booth situated directly across the warm, candle-lit aisle from the team’s long table.
As Chloë slides into her seat, smoothing out the red fabric of her dress, her eyes sweep across the room and land right on the long table of Leeds players, and specifically on Callum.
Their eyes lock for a brief second across the short gap between them.
Recognizing him, a subtle, knowing smirk curls the corner of her lips before she smoothly turns her attention back to her director’s conversation.
Callum sets his glass down, taking a slow breath and trying his best to look completely unbothered, though his pulse kicks up a beat.
“Oi,” Kalvin mutters under his breath, leaning over with a grin.
“Is it just me, or did Hollywood just give you a look?”
“She’s probably just wondering why eleven football players are taking up half the bistro,” Callum replies smoothly, pulling an innocent face as he grabs a slice of bread.
When the waitress returns to take the team’s order, Callum doesn’t hesitate.
He orders the steak frites, cooked medium-rare, served with a rich garlic, herb butter and a towering side of crispy, golden fries.
In his opinion, the perfect post-training meal.
Across the aisle, the candle-lit restaurant hums with soft jazz and laughter, two completely different worlds sitting just a few yards apart on a Friday night in Leeds.
As the plates are cleared, Callum polishing off every last fry, and the bill is settled with Sol graciously picking up the tab after a few boisterous cheers from the table, the lads start heading out into the cool night air.
Callum pulls on his black jacket, zipped up to the chin, and zips his keys into his pocket.
Stepping out toward the foyer near the velvet curtain, he lingers for just a second while Kalvin and Lewis double-back to grab their coats.
The heavy curtain sways open behind him, and Chloë steps out into the foyer, having excused herself from her table.
Up close, the vibrant red dress looks even sharper against the soft, warm lighting of the entry hall.
Standing just a few feet away, her eighteen-year-old poise and calm confidence are impossible to miss.
“You look a lot more relaxed than someone who’s supposed to play on Sunday,” she says, her voice smooth, light, and carrying a soft American accent that cuts right through the restaurant’s background chatter.
“You look more like a model each time I see you,” Callum turns, catching the faint, playful smirk on her face.
He plays it cool, resting a hand in his jacket pocket.
“gotta stay calm, haven’t I? Worrying doesn’t win matches.”
Chloë tilts her head slightly, her eyes twinkling with genuine amusement.
“Fair point. Though I have to say, seeing eleven professional athletes take down half a menu was almost as entertaining as a script reading.”
Callum chuckles softly.
“We train hard, we eat hard. Can’t let my captain pay for a light meal.”
She smiles, stepping a bit closer into the quiet space between the inner restaurant doors and the street outside.
“Well, good luck on Sunday, Callum. I’ll be watching from executive box 14, so you better put on a good show.”
“Box 14, received,” Callum grins, meeting her gaze squarely.
“I’ll make sure it’s worth the ticket.”
Before she can reply, Kalvin comes barging through the curtain, mid-sentence about his car keys, only to freeze dead in his tracks when he sees who Callum is talking to.
His eyes go wide, a brilliant grin instantly spreading across his face.
“Oh, sorry, mate! Didn’t mean to interrupt,” Kalvin stammers, throwing up a quick hand and taking a step backward.
Chloë laughs softly, giving Callum one last subtle, lingering look over her shoulder as she turns back toward her table.
“See you Sunday, Callum. And I will try to look even better then.”
Callum stands there in the warm glow of the foyer, watching her walk back through the velvet curtain until it settles still.
He lets out a breath he didn’t realize he was holding, a faint, lingering smirk still tugging at his lips.
Before he can even turn around, two pairs of hands grab him by the shoulders and yank him back into the corridor.
“Unbelievable!” Kalvin wheezes, practically bent double with laughter.
“Absolute joke! I turn my back for two minutes to grab my coat, and you’re chatting up Hollywood in the foyer?!”
“Box 14, received!” Lewis mimics in a high-pitched, dramatic voice, fanning himself with his car keys.
“I’ll make sure it’s worth the ticket! Oh, save me a goal, Callum, my hero!”
“Shut up, Cooky,” Callum chuckles, shoving Lewis’s arm away as his cheeks heat up, though he can’t stop the massive grin from breaking across his face.
“Nah, nah, don’t ‘shut up, Cooky’ us!” Kalvin says, slinging a heavy arm over Callum’s neck and putting him in a gentle headlock.
“She was wearing red, Cal! Red! She knew what she was doing. You’re proper rattled, aren’t you?”
“I’m not rattled, I’m focused,” Callum says, pulling himself free and adjusting the collar of his black hoodie.
“She’s just coming to the match, that’s all.”
“Right, just coming to the match,” Lewis snorts, shaking his head as they finally push through the front doors into the crisp Yorkshire air.
“Just happened to stroll over in a dress that cost more than my car, single out our starting striker, and wish him luck. Totally casual.”
Sol Bamba is leaning against his car further down the street, waiting for the rest of the squad, and as soon as he sees the three of them laughing, he squints.
“What’s going on over there? Why is Kalvin looking like he just won the lottery?”
“Callum’s got a fan in Box 14, Sol!” Kalvin shouts across the quiet street, echoing off the brick walls of the bistro.
“Hollywood’s coming to see the boy play!”
“Keep your voice down, man!” Callum laughs, throwing a stray chip wrapper at Kalvin, who effortlessly ducks out of the way.
“They grow up fast, don’t they?” Sol joins in on the teasing too, leaning heavily against his car door and enjoying the hearty jokes.
“One week he’s scoring penalties and the next he’s waving off Hollywood stars.”
“That’s what I’m saying, Sol!” Kalvin howls, slapping his own knee as Lewis doubles over against the bonnet of his car.
“We’re out here worrying about Cardiff’s back five, and Callum’s out here booking VIP guests for Box 14!”
“Hey, I didn’t book anything!” Callum protests, though he can’t hide the massive, unshakeable grin plastered across his face.
He shakes his head, leaning over his open car door.
“You three are absolute nightmare material, I swear.”
“Hey, don’t look at us, starboy,” Lewis grins, tossing his keys into the air and catching them cleanly.
“We’re just the opening act now. You’ve got a whole production to put on come Sunday.”
Sol lets out a deep, booming laugh that echoes down the quiet street, shaking his head with a grin.
“Alright, alright, leave the boy alone before his head gets too big for his helmet. But Sol’s serious, Cal, you better score at least two now, or we’re never letting you live this down.”
“Two goals, minimum!” Kalvin calls out, finally hopping into his driver’s seat and starting the engine.
“See you at the ground, Hollywood!”
“Yeah, yeah, get out of here, Kal,” Callum laughs, waving them off as the engines rev and the fleet of cars begins to scatter into the chilly Leeds night.
Pulling out onto the main road, Callum grips the steering wheel, the cool night air blasting through the vents.
The banter with the lads still rings in his ears, but as the city lights stream past his window, a quiet, sharp focus settles over him.
.
.
.
.
.
A/N: Been down with the flu over the past couple of days.
Still am; apologies for bad grammar and flow of the chapters.