Checking his phone has never been something Callum finds constructive; usually, he opts to exercise or go for a jog or a kick-about.
Since his night out with Chloë, checking his cellular has become a ritual for Callum.
Both he and Chloë text each other as soon as they get the chance, exchanging brief words of encouragement and flattery.
However, Callum is now on his phone for a different reason.
Incoming Call: Jonathan Barnett.
Answering the phone swiftly, Callum hears the familiar voice on the other end.
“Morning, Callum. I hope I am not disturbing you.”
“No, of course not. Why the sudden call?” Even though he would never admit it, he is always on edge whenever Jonathan calls.
“Well, I’ll cut straight to the chase,” Jonathan’s voice crackles smoothly through the speaker, crisp and businesslike despite the early hour.
“I’ve just spoken with the board at Elland Road, and they’re finalizing the terms for your updated contract.”
Callum’s grip on the phone tightens slightly, his pulse giving a sudden, familiar flutter.
“They’re impressed with how you’ve handled the pressure lately,” Jonathan continues, sounding thoroughly pleased with himself.
“We’re looking at a significant raise and a three-year extension. But before we sit down to sign anything, I need to make sure your head is completely in the game. No distractions. You understand what I’m saying, right? Let me handle all the contracts and hype; you focus on your game.”
Callum shifts his weight, glancing toward his bedroom window where his training kit is neatly laid out.
The word distractions hangs in the air, a subtle nod to the headlines that have been floating around local media since he was spotted out in Leeds.
“My head is always in the game, Jonathan,” Callum replies, keeping his tone perfectly steady, cool, and composed.
“You know that.”
“Good,” Jonathan says, a rare note of genuine approval in his tone.
“Because if you perform the way I know you can this Saturday, we walk into that boardroom with all the leverage. I’ll email you the preliminary figures this afternoon. Another thing, there are murmurs in the market around your name. I have had teams make enquiries about your availability.” He pauses before continuing.
“Several bigger teams, from the top of the table to the Prem, are itching for your contract to run out or for you to be unhappy, so keep everything under wraps,” Jonathan continues smoothly, his tone sharpening into pure business.
“Don’t give them a single reason to think your focus is anywhere other than on the pitch. Keep those performances up, your head down, and stay away from the noise.”
“I intend to,” Callum replies, keeping his tone calm, collected, and completely steady despite the sudden electric surge in his chest.
“No matter who’s lining up across from us, the job stays the same.”
“That’s what I like to hear,” Jonathan says smoothly.
“Perform on Thursday, and Friday is a formality. I’ll email you those preliminary figures later today. Talk soon, Callum.”
“Talk soon, Jonathan.”
Before the weight of it all can fully set in, the screen in his hand lights up with a soft chime.
Chloë: Hope you’re awake.
Good luck at training today <3
The tension lingering in his shoulders eases, a slow, undeniable smirk breaking through his serious expression.
He shakes his head, typing out a swift reply before setting the phone down to lace up his running shoes.
Despite it barely being 7 am, Callum’s day has already gotten underway.
Moving downstairs, he realizes that his grandmother is not in the kitchen; given the time, it’s understandable.
Callum moves quietly through the dark, quiet house toward the kitchen, the cool tiles chilly under his socks.
He pours himself a tall glass of water and leans against the counter, letting the silence settle over him.
His mind is already racing: Jonathan’s heavy words about Premier League interest, the contract extension waiting for him on Friday, the high-stakes FA Cup clash looming on Thursday, and, despite himself, the soft memory of Chloë’s lingering kiss on his cheek.
It all feels a bit fast-paced for his liking.
He takes a slow drink, staring out the kitchen window at the grey dawn breaking over the garden.
Suddenly, the floorboards overhead creak softly, followed by the familiar, deliberate footsteps of his nan shuffling down the hallway toward the stairs.
A moment later, she appears in the doorway wrapped in her plush robe, her hair loosely pinned back, blinking against the kitchen light.
“Callum?” she asks, her voice raspy with sleep as she eyes him up and down.
“What on earth are you doing up at this hour? Training isn’t for hours yet.”
Callum smiles softly, setting his glass on the counter.
“Couldn’t sleep, Nan. Had a few things on my mind.”
“Hmph,” she hums, shuffling past him to fill the kettle.
“Things on your mind, or a certain girl? Or is that manager of yours getting in your ear again?” She turns, giving him that sharp, all-knowing look that only a grandmother can pull off.
“Well, don’t just stand there like a spare part. Put the toaster on.”
Callum chuckles, opening the appliance cupboard and taking out the toaster.
Placing the stainless steel on the countertop with a small sound.
Regardless of how quickly life is moving, he knows he can always depend on her to keep him in reality.
He plugs it in and grabs a couple of slices of bread, the familiar, mundane routine.
“She’s fine, Nan,” Callum says, a slight smirk playing on his lips as he pushes the lever down.
“And Jonathan called. We gotta sit down on Friday to talk numbers for the new deal.”
His nan pauses with the teabags halfway to the mugs, her sharp eyes flicking over to him.
She doesn’t gasp or make a big production of it; that isn’t her style, but the small, proud softening around her eyes speaks volumes.
“Friday, is it?” she says, pouring the boiling water with a steady hand.
“Good. About time they paid you what you’re worth. But the money can wait until after your match on Thursday. Besides, £5,000 per week is nothing to scoff at for your age.”
“It’s definitely nothing to scoff at,” Callum agreed, spreading butter over the warm toast.
“Going from academy money to five grand a week was already massive. But whatever Jonathan bumps it up to on Friday, none of it matters if I don’t deliver on Thursday.”
“Exactly,” she said firmly, setting her tea down and taking a seat at the small kitchen table.
“A fat new contract doesn’t mean a thing if you’re sitting on the bench because your head was in the clouds. Cellino might hold the purse strings, but you’re the one who has to put the ball in the back of the net.”
“I know, Nan,” Callum said, his smile turning steady and focused.
“Focus is on the pitch. Ninety minutes first, boardroom second.”
“Good,” she hummed, taking a crunchy bite of her toast.
“Now sit down and eat. You’ve got a long day of running around ahead of you, and I don’t want to hear you complaining you feel sluggish.” Callum sits down across from her, pulling his plate closer as the quiet warmth of the kitchen settles over them.
Their conversation drifts to the simple, everyday things.
She complains good-naturedly about the neighbor’s cat digging up her flowerbeds again, while Callum fills her in on the team’s latest banter in the changing room.
They debate whether it’s going to rain before his afternoon training session, with his nan insisting her knees are predicting a downpour regardless of what the weather forecast says.
By the time Callum finishes his last bite and clears his plate into the sink, the tight knot of nervous energy in his chest from Jonathan’s call has completely smoothed out.
He checks his watch, just after 7:30 AM.
Zipping up his dark blue Leeds United tracksuit, Callum steps out the front door, pulling the crisp morning air deep into his lungs.
The cool Yorkshire breeze bites at his cheeks, instantly clearing away any lingering tiredness.
He sets off at an easy, rhythmic jog down the quiet residential streets before heading toward the heart of the city.
At 7:30 AM, Leeds is just beginning to wake up.
The faint rattle of milk crates, the early morning delivery vans reversing into alleyways, and the quiet hum of commuters heading toward the train station create a familiar, steady backdrop.
As he runs past Briggate, his trainers slapping rhythmically against the stone pavement, a couple of early risers in heavy coats glance his way.
A street sweeper gives him a slow nod of recognition, shouting a coarse, “Good luck Thursday, lad!” over the rumble of his machine.
Callum flashes a quick, appreciative wave without breaking his stride.
The physical exertion feels good.
With every mile, the mental clutter- Jonathan’s warnings, Premier League scouts, new contract figures, and even thoughts of Chloë begins to process and settle into focus.
By the time he loops back toward home, his heart is pumping, his brow is slick with sweat, and his mind is completely clear.
He kicks off his trainers at the front door, leaving them by the mat as he heads straight upstairs.
The hot water of the shower washes away the sweat and the morning chill, leaving his muscles warm, loose, and ready for a heavy session on the pitch.
Dressing quickly in a clean pair of joggers and his club hoodie, he grabs his keys, phone, and gear bag.
On his way out, he sticks his head into the living room.
“I’m off, Nan!” he calls out.
“Mind the traffic, and don’t be late!” her voice echoes back from the kitchen.
Closing the front door behind him, Callum checks his watch: 7:55 AM.
Perfect.
He steps out into the cool morning air, tosses his bag onto the passenger seat of his car, and sets off for Thorp Arch.
In no real hurry, he slowly drives.
The early morning traffic thins out as he turns down the long, tree-lined lane leading into Thorp Arch.
The quiet country surroundings are a stark contrast to the pressure furnace waiting inside, but as the steel security gates roll open and the pristine green training pitches come into view, Callum feels the switch flip.
He parks up, slinging his bag over his shoulder, and heads toward the main entrance.
Standing near the doors is Paul Dews, the club’s media manager, clutching a shoulder-mounted camera to capture content for LUTV.
He’s filming the players as they arrive for the massive cup week ahead.
“Morning, Callum!” Paul calls out, panning the camera down to track him as he approaches, a warm smile on his face.
“Looking sharp as usual this morning. Ready for the big one on Thursday?”
Callum flashes a cool, confident grin toward the lens.
“Always ready. Huge week for us.”
“That’s what we like to hear, lad. Go get ’em,” Paul says, giving him an encouraging nod before turning his lens toward the next car pulling into the gravel lot.
Callum pushes through the doors, greeted instantly by the familiar smell of freshly brewed espresso.
Callum speaks to a few of the staff with ease and suave as he moves through the main area.
Moving down the corridor and into the changing room, a few early risers are already idling by their locker, foam rollers out on the floor, and the usual sharp banter echoing off the tiled walls.
“Look who it is,” someone says from across the room as Callum walks in, tossing his bag onto the bench.
“Save some energy for Thursday, will you?”
Callum offers a smirk, unzipping his hoodie.
“Don’t worry about me. Just make sure you can keep up in the rondos today.”
He pulls his training kit on, laces up his boots, and ties them tight, the familiar tug grounding him completely.
Standing up, he gives his studs a quick stamp against the rubber flooring, feeling the sharp, satisfying grip beneath his feet.
Around him, the changing room is steadily filling up, the noise level rising as players file in from the car park.
Callum grabs his water bottle, gives a quick nod to a couple of the lads heading out, and steps out of the changing room, through the double glass doors, and onto the pristine grass of the Thorp Arch training pitches.
Uwe Rosler is already on the pitch with a few of the other staff members, greeting them.
As Callum approaches, Rösler looks up, his sharp, intense eyes locking onto him with a brief nod.
“Morning, boys,” Rösler says, his German accent cutting clearly through the chill.
“Listen up. We get through our high-intensity drills first: sharpness, transitions, pressing. I want maximum focus for ninety minutes out here. Once we’re done and cooled down, we head straight into the media theatre to watch the Cup draw together as a squad.”
He taps his clipboard for emphasis, looking around the gathering circle of players.
“Whoever we pull, whether it’s a Premier League side or not, we prepare the same way. But right now, your mind is on this grass. Let’s get warm.”
The squad breaks into their routine, starting with dynamic stretches and light jogging along the touchline to get the chill out of their muscles.
The standard pre-match rhythm takes over, quick-fire rondos where the banter flows as fast as the ball, followed by passing drills designed to sharpen their touch and build crisp movement in tight spaces.
With the big cup tie just days away, and having just played on the weekend, Rösler and the coaching staff keep the intensity measured.
It’s a light session by design, focused on tactical shape, quick transitions, and keeping everyone’s legs fresh rather than grinding them down.
Callum moves fluidly through every drill, his first touch sharp and his decisions effortless, fully tuned into the rhythm of the ball.
After forty-five minutes of crisp tactical work and a brief, competitive small-sided game to cap it off, Rösler blows his whistle to wrap up the session.
“Good sharpness today, lads! Stretch off, grab your drinks, and get showered,” Rösler calls out, gesturing toward the main facility.
“Ten minutes, then everyone in the media theatre for the draw.”
Breathing easy, Callum grabs his water bottle and heads back toward the building alongside the rest of the squad, the quiet hum of excitement building as they prepare to find out who’s standing between them and the next round.
“Got to be a good team, give me Derby or Brighton.” Sol Bamba says calmly, his deep voice carrying over the crunch of their boots on the gravel pathway.
He slings a towel around his neck, looking thoughtful.
“Under the lights, massive crowd behind us, that’s where we give ourselves the best chance against a top-tier team. It tests where we really are as a squad.”
“You just want to smash into their expensive strikers, Sol,” Tom Adeyemi laughs, wiping sweat from his forehead.
“Personally? Give us a lower-league side at home. Professional job, neat two-nil, easy passage into the next round, no drama.”
“No, no,” Gaetano Berardi cuts in, his sharp accent full of intensity as he shakes his head.
“Away. Premier League ground. Stoke, West Ham, somebody where we go, set the tempo early, hit them hard, and show them we don’t care about their money.”
“Aye, because what we really need is you getting sent off at the Britannia in front of four thousand travelling Leeds fans, Gaetano,” Lewis Cook chimes in with a quiet smirk, walking shoulder-to-shoulder with Callum.
Lewis nudges Callum with his elbow.
“What about you, Cal? You want a massive Premier League tie to test yourself, or an easy draw so we can cruise through?”
Callum chuckles as the group reaches the double glass doors of the training center, the blast of warm indoor air hitting them as they step back inside.
“Honestly?” Callum says, glancing at the four of them.
“Doesn’t matter to me. Home or away, top of the Prem or bottom of League Two, if we want to go anywhere in this competition, we’ve got to beat whoever comes out of that bag.”
“Look at him,” Berardi laughs, clapping Callum hard on the shoulder.
“The gaffer’s already taught him the perfect press answers!” A round of laughter passes through the group as they enter the dressing room, with Callum being the first in to shower and the first one to go toward the AV room.
The fresh scent of shower gel and steam clears out the last of the morning’s chill as the rest of the squad quickly dries off and throws on their official club tracksuits.
The room is already bustling.
A large projector screen hangs at the front, tuned to the live Sky Sports broadcast, where the studio lights illuminate the familiar velvet bags and polished glass bowls of the League Cup draw. Follow the newest chapters on novelping . com.
Assistant manager Rob Kelly sits near the front row, a clipboard balanced on his knee as his sharp eyes scan the room to make sure everyone is settled.
Uwe Rösler and the rest of the coaching staff stand along the back wall, notebooks and pens ready to begin opposition prep the moment the numbers are pulled.
Callum slides into a padded fold-down seat next to Lewis Cook and Sol Bamba.
Across the rows, murmurs and low conversations ripple through the team as the TV presenters finish their opening pleasantries.
On the big screen, the hands reach into the bag, the iconic plastic balls clacking together through the speakers.
The chatter in the theatre instantly drops to an expectant hush.
Everyone’s eyes lock onto the screen.
A low collective hum of murmurs passes through the room as the first few big names drop onto the board.
When Number 21, Manchester City, is pulled out of the hat, followed immediately by Hull City, a loud, exaggerated groan of sympathy ripples through the back row.
A few seats over, Tom Adeyemi winces, shaking his head.
“Glad that’s not us going to the Etihad,” he mutters under his breath.
Moments later, the iconic red marker pops up on the screen: Liverpool.
The presenter reaches back into the glass bowl, swishing the plastic balls around before pulling out Exeter City.
A chorus of soft chuckles and collective sighs of relief sweeps through the squad.
“Dodged a couple of massive landmines there, lads,” Sol Bamba says quietly from Callum’s right, leaning back into his padded seat with a relaxed smirk.
Lewis Cook nudges Callum, nodding toward the front row, where Uwe Rösler and Rob Kelly remain unmoving, their eyes deadlocked on the screen as the remaining numbers tick down.
“Still plenty of heavyweights left in that bag,” Lewis whispers.
Callum leans forward, elbows on his knees, his focus tightening on the glowing projector screen as the next number is drawn.
“Number 15, Leeds United…”
The noise in the room instantly dies.
On the screen, the draw official holds up the second paper slip, completely oblivious to the sudden drop in temperature inside the Thorp Arch analysis room.
“Will play… Number 25. Manchester United.”
Silence falls like a heavy blanket.
Nobody moves a muscle.
Callum feels a cold, heavy sink in the pit of his stomach.
Across the room, Tom Adeyemi just stares at the projector screen, his mouth slightly open, while Sol Bamba slowly rubs a hand over his face, letting out a long, quiet breath that sounds a lot like a sigh.
In the reality of their season, sitting 15th in the Championship, struggling for form, and desperately trying to find consistency, drawing Louis van Gaal’s multi-million-pound squad isn’t a dream tie.
It’s an executioner’s block.
“Well,” Lewis Cook mutters softly beside Callum, his voice flat, staring blankly at the red crest glowing on the screen.
“There goes a cup run.”
“At home, though,” Gaetano Berardi says, breaking the quiet, though even his usual fire is tempered.
He winces slightly, shifting in his seat.
“At least… at least it’s at Elland Road.”
“They’ll destroy us if we play as we did on the weekend,” someone from the back row mutters bitterly.
At the front, Rob Kelly doesn’t say a word; he just uncaps his pen and writes MAN UTD (H) at the top of his notepad with a tight, tense jaw.
Uwe Rösler turns around slowly to face the room.
The sharp, nervous tension among the players is thick enough to cut with a knife.
He looks at his squad, taking in the pale faces and slumping shoulders.
“What is this?” Rösler demands, his German accent thick and sharp, cutting through the heavy silence like a blade.
“Look at you! Heads down? Sighing? You look like you’re going to a funeral!”
He slams his hand against the whiteboard beside the screen, the loud CLACK echoing off the walls and making half the squad jump.
“That is Manchester United,” Rösler snaps, pointing a finger directly at the glowing red crest.
“And that game is at Elland Road. Do you have any idea what that means? This is a derby, not just any match.”
He paces the front of the room, his jaw clenched, intensity radiating from him as his eyes sweep the room.
“I don’t care where we are in the table right now. I don’t care how many millions they spent on their squad. When those red shirts step out of that tunnel in Yorkshire, they are coming into our house. Our fans will be breathing down their necks and ours, expecting us to fight for every single blade of grass!”
Gaetano Berardi sits up straight, his jaw tightening as the manager’s words begin to hit home.
Sol Bamba nods slowly, a dark, dangerous spark returning to his eyes.
“They think this is going to be an easy afternoon,” Rösler growls, leaning over the front row of seats, his voice dropping to a low, venomous rumble.
“They think they can walk into Leeds, take a comfortable win, and go home. I want us to make it a nightmare for them. I want ninety minutes of pure, relentless pressure. Physical. Sharp. Relentless. If you have any pride in your badge, you will fight.”
He stands tall, surveying the room.
The mood in the AV room has completely shifted; the slump is gone, replaced by a tense, nervous, but fierce edge.
“We do not fear them,” Rösler finishes, his voice echoing with absolute conviction.
“We make them respect us.
Now get out there, get fed, and get ready to work.
Because when they come to Elland Road, we show them what this derby actually means.
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A/N: Well, they are screwed.
The reaction from the players is totally warranted; they are just getting their footing after almost being in the drop zone, only to draw Man Utd.
At least Uwe is optimistic; hell, I am writing it, and I know they finna get smoked.
Van Gaal’s Man U?
With Rooney, De Gea, Schweinsteiger, and Mata against a championship team?
Yeah, long day.