The intensity at Thorp Arch is palpable.
Yesterday’s draw had hung over the facility like a thundercloud, but today, that uncertainty has burned away, leaving behind a cold, collective focus.
Nobody is joking in the rondos.
Nobody is half-assing their recovery runs.
Every pass is hit with purpose, every tackle carries a bit of extra bite, and the usual banter has been replaced by the quiet, heavy rhythm of hard work.
Callum moves through the passing drills like a man possessed.
His first touch is dead silent, cushioning heavy passes effortlessly before snapping the ball back across the turf into Lewis Cook’s path.
“Good, Cal! Sharp!” Rob Kelly’s voice barks from the touchline, clipboard tucked under his arm as he tracks every movement.
“Keep that tempo! That’s the pace we need!”
Across the pitch, Uwe Rösler paces the perimeter like a caged animal.
He doesn’t need to shout to get their attention today; the squad is already keyed in.
You can see it in Gaetano Berardi’s sliding challenges, in Sol Bamba’s vocal organizing from the back, and in the way the young lads are matching the senior players step-for-step.
As the squad resets for tactical shape work, Callum wipes sweat from his forehead with the collar of his training shirt, breathing heavy, his eyes locked onto Rösler.
The German beckons for him.
Rösler stands by the tactical board, his rain jacket zipped up to his chin, holding a yellow bib in one hand and a whiteboard marker in the other.
He crooks two fingers, beckoning Callum out of the group.
“Callum,” Rösler says, his voice keeping low beneath the wind sweeping across the Thorp Arch pitches.
“Over here.”
Callum jogs over, wiping his brow with his collar, his lungs burning from the high-tempo pressing sequence they’d just run.
Rob Kelly holds up a hand to keep the rest of the squad waiting while the manager pulls Callum aside.
Rösler gets straight to it.
He pops the cap off the marker with his teeth and taps the board hard, right in the half-spaces, the exact pocket where Manchester United’s midfield likes to pull the strings.
“Look at this zone,” Rösler says, his sharp eyes locking directly onto Callum’s.
“They expect a quiet afternoon right here. They think they can drift in, turn, and dictate the tempo.”
He thrusts the bib into Callum’s chest.
“You’re stepping into the first XI for this block. Your job isn’t just to plug holes. You are going to suffocate them the moment the ball moves central. The second a pass is played into that pocket, I want you on their shoulder before it even lands. Give them time, and they destroy us. Deny them space, and you turn Elland Road into a cauldron.”
Rösler leans in, his expression hard, cold, and entirely unyielding.
Rösler’s eyes stay locked onto Callum, not a single flicker of softness in his gaze as he adds the final directive:
“For tomorrow, you are back to watching videos. I want you to be able to envision their movements even in your sleep. Every drop of the shoulder, every blind turn, every trigger pass, I want it burned into your head before you step out of that tunnel.”
He taps the marker hard against the plastic board one last time for emphasis before snapping the cap back on with a heavy click.
“Am I understood?”
“Crystal clear, Boss,” Callum replies, his voice steady despite his heavy breathing.
He snatches the bib from Rösler’s hand and pulls it over his head, the neon fabric contrast stark against his sweat-drenched shirt.
Rösler gives a single, curt nod of approval, stepping back toward the touchline with his eyes already tracking the shape of the back line.
“Good. Now get out there and show me you understand it on the turf first.”
Callum jogs onto the pitch, adjusting the bib as he drops straight into the heart of the midfield block.
Beside him, Lewis Cook gives him a sharp, knowing nod, while Sol Bamba barks a quick adjustment from behind.
“Alright, Cal, locked in!” Sol shouts, his voice booming over the wind.
“Let’s work!”
As Rob Kelly blows his whistle to restart the phase, Callum’s focus narrows completely.
The chatter, the pressure, the weight of the War of the Roses its all resting on the shoulders of him and his team.
On the other side of town, the bright studio lights finally click off as the director calls a wrap on Chloe’s final scene for the day.
Stepping out of her trailer in her comfortable oversized jumper, she sinks onto the sofa, letting out a long, exhausted breath as her makeup artist finishes packing up.
Her phone sits on the vanity table, buzzing with notifications, but she ignores the social media chatter and goes straight to her messaging app.
She knows what week it is.
She knows the kind of pressure Callum has been under at Thorp Arch with the looming shadow of the derby.
Smiling softly, she taps out a quick message to break through all the football noise:
Hey!
Just wrapped on set for the day.
I managed to clear my schedule for Thursday, moving a shoot around so I can actually come and support you at Elland Road!
I know you’re probably knee-deep in tactics and video prep right now, but you’ve got this, Cal.
She hits send, watching the message slip through; she sits satisfied before a look of mischief appears on her face.
She quickly fixes her clothes and hair.
After double-checking her hair and pulling a soft knit beanie low over her forehead to blend in, Chloe slips out of the studio and drives down toward Trinity Leeds.
The city centre is already humming with matchday anticipation.
Even days out from the fixture, you can feel the energy in the air, bunting in shop windows, fans sporting scarves over their coats, and hushed, intense chatter on every street corner about line-ups and tactics.
She navigates the busy shopping centre until the bright blue and yellow facade of the Official Leeds United Store comes into view.
Stepping inside, she’s instantly surrounded by racks of white shirts, historical prints of Elland Road, and wall-to-wall crests.
A few shoppers glance her way, but everyone is far too focused on hunting down gear for the upcoming derby to pay her much mind.
Chloe weaves through the aisles toward the customization desk, eyeing the home kits neatly hung in rows.
“Hi there! Can I help you find a size?” the young shop assistant asks with a warm smile, stepping up behind the counter.
“Hi! Yes, please,” Chloe replies, reaching for a fresh home shirt.
“I’d love to get a name and number printed on the back of this one.”
“No problem at all,” the assistant says, taking the crisp white jersey and pulling up the printing interface.
“Who are we going for?”
Chloe can’t help the small, proud smile that tugs at the corner of her lips.
“Vance,” she says clearly.
“Number 29.”
The shop assistant’s eyes light up as she types VANCE 29 into the system, grinning as she grabs the heat-press vinyl letters.
“Great choice,” the girl says, shaking her head with a laugh as she sets up the shirt on the press.
“Honestly, he’s easily our most popular shirt right now. The lads love how hard he works, and, well… half the girls in West Yorkshire are completely obsessed with him.”
She pulls down the heavy arm of the heat press, the warm hiss of steam filling the space between them.
When she lifts it back up, she glances over at Chloe with a playful, dramatic sigh.
“If only I had half a chance with him to catch his fancy,” the assistant chuckles, smoothing down the warm fabric.
“Unlucky for the rest of us, though, there are rumors that he’s completely off the market.”
Chloe bites the inside of her cheek to keep from laughing out loud, her cheeks dimpling with a quiet, knowing smirk.
She pulls her beanie down just a fraction more, keeping her secret entirely to herself.
“Is that so?” Chloe asks innocently, her voice laced with subtle amusement as she watches the Championship sleeve patches get pressed on.
“Oh, absolutely,” the assistant says, folding the freshly printed VANCE 29 jersey with neat precision and slipping it into a navy blue Leeds United gift bag.
“Whoever she is, she’s a lucky girl.”
“I’ll be sure to tell him,” Chloe says softly under her breath, taking the bag with a warm smile.
“Sorry?” the assistant blinks, handing over the receipt.
“I said I’m sure she feels very lucky,” Chloe smoothly corrects herself, tapping her card on the reader with a wink.
“Thanks so much. Have a great day!”
The room is pitch black, saved only by the faint orange glow of the streetlights filtering through the blinds.
Callum doesn’t bother flipping the light switch.
He drops his heavy kit bag by the door with a dull thud and collapses straight onto the edge of the bed, letting out a long, shuddering exhale that seems to pull every last drop of exhaustion from his chest.
His legs are burning, heavy and leaden from the endless tactical shape work Rösler had put them through.
In the quiet dark, the manager’s voice still echoes clearly in his head:
‘Envision their movements even in your sleep.
Every drop of the shoulder, every blind turn, every trigger pass.’
He rests his elbows on his knees, staring down at the shadowy floorboards, letting his mind replay the day’s drills over and over.
Reaching into his pocket, he pulls out his phone.
The screen illuminates his face, throwing sharp shadows across his tired features.
Resting right at the top of his lock screen is Chloe’s notification.
He swipes it open, reading her message in the quiet stillness:
Hey!
Just wrapped on set for the day.
I managed to clear my schedule for Thursday, moving a shoot around so I can actually come and support you at Elland Road!
Proud of you. xx
A faint, genuine smile breaks through his fatigue.
For the first time all day, the tight knot of pressure in his shoulders loosens just a bit.
He leans back against the pillows, holding the phone above his head, and quickly taps out a reply:
Sorry, I couldn’t answer all day.
The boss had us run into the ground.
And that’s incredible news.
Having you at Elland Road means everything to me.
I’m proper dead on my feet right now, but hearing that made my whole day.
Can’t wait to see you. x
He hits send, watching the small blue bubble pop up on the glowing screen.
For a few long seconds, the silence of the room takes over again, interrupted only by the distant hum of traffic outside his window.
His phone suddenly starts ringing; it’s Chloe.
He swipes the screen to answer, pressing the phone to his ear as he sinks deeper into the pillows.
“Hey,” Callum says, his voice thick with exhaustion, though a soft laugh escapes him.
“You know it’s pitch black in my room and I was two minutes away from passing out, right?”
“Oh, hush, I had to call,” Chloe’s voice comes through crisp and warm, filled with playful energy that instantly brightens the dark room.
“First off, you sound absolutely wrecked.”
“You have no idea,” Callum groans, running a hand over his face.
“Tactics, pressing shapes, video analysis… I think I’m going to be seeing their midfield line in my sleep tonight. He literally told me he wants it burned into my brain.”
“Well, good, because you need to be at your best,” she says, her tone turning sweet.
“Oh yeah, that reminds me I made a little detour on my way to the hotel.”
Callum’s eyebrows furrow slightly in the dark.
“A detour? Where?”
“Oh, just a quick stop by the official club store,” Chloe replies, her voice dripping with mischief.
“Had a lovely chat with the girl behind the counter, too. She gave me a very hard time about a certain number 29 shirt being completely sold out.”
Callum can’t help the chuckle that tugs at his lips.
“Did she now?”
“She did,” Chloe laughs softly.
“Said half the girls in West Yorkshire are obsessed with you, and then she dramatically sighed about how unlucky she was that you’re off the market. I had to bite my tongue so hard not to tell her that I’m the lucky one/”
Callum grins, a genuine wave of warmth flushing through his tired chest, cutting right through the fatigue.
“You got my shirt?”
“Of course I did,” she says softly, her tone shifting into something quieter, more intimate.
“I have to be supportive of my boyfriend, don’t I?”
Callum’s smile turns even softer, a quiet laugh escaping him as he rubs the back of his neck in the dark.
“Boyfriend, huh?” he murmurs, his voice laced with affection.
“I like the sound of that.”
“You better,” Chloe replies warmly, her gentle laugh buzzing through the receiver.
“Because I’m going to be sitting in those stands on Thursday wearing your name on my back, shouting louder than everyone else.”
Callum turns onto his side, clutching the phone closer, the heavy ache in his muscles completely forgotten for a moment.
“I’ll be looking for you in the crowd,” he says softly, his voice thick with a mix of fatigue and complete fondness.
“Just don’t let the supporters hear you out-singing them, or you’ll have a whole new fan club.”
Chloe hums happily through the line.
“Let them try to out-sing me. Now, go to sleep, Cal. You’ve got videos to dream about.”
“Goodnight, Chloe,” he murmurs, a slow smile staying on his face even after the call clicks off.
He sets the phone back down on the nightstand, letting the silence swallow the room once more.
As he closes his eyes and pulls the duvet over his shoulders, the overwhelming pressure of the derby day ahead doesn’t feel quite so heavy anymore.
Within seconds, he’s completely fast asleep.