Callum walks out of the team bus, his toiletry bag in hand.
Match day at Elland Road is normally as loud and as hectic as can be, but today is Derby Day, and the last thing on the fans’ minds is to be quiet.
The moment his shoes hit the concrete, a deafening wall of sound crashes over him.
Smoke from yellow and blue flares drifts through the air, turning the sky a hazy, atmospheric tint as hundreds of supporters press against the metal barricades.
The chanting is relentless, echoing off the very ground they walk on, drumbeats thumping, scarves raised high, and voices roaring with a raw, historic intensity that vibrates right through the soles of his shoes.
Camera shutters burst into a rapid-fire click as media crews press forward, telephoto lenses tracking every player stepping off the coach.
Blinding flashes pop against the haze of smoke as broadcast cameras track Callum’s arrival, capturing every detail for the pre-match buildup.
The moment the crowd spots him, a fresh wave of cheers erupts along the barrier, fans leaning perilously over the railings, outstretched arms desperately trying to snag a high-five or an autograph from their young star.
Callum keeps his head up, taking a steadying breath of the sharp, flare-tinged air.
He glances up at the sea of faces, his eyes instinctively scanning the crowd near the main entrance, wondering if Chloe’s already made her way into the stadium.
“That. Lads,” Sol shouts over the absolute din of the crowd, a ferocious grin plastered across his face.
“This is what we play for!”
Callum adjusts his grip on his bag and nods, a cold, sharp focus settling over his chest.
The nerves from the night before burn away, replaced by pure adrenaline as he pushes through the glass doors into the tunnel, leaving the flashing lights and roaring sea of white, yellow, and blue behind him.
The moment Callum steps past the threshold of the dressing room, Uwe Rösler is already standing dead centre.
He’s standing in front of the massive tactics board, a black marker clutched in his hand, looking like a man who hasn’t slept in forty-eight hours and doesn’t care in the slightest.
Rösler’s sharp eyes sweep over every player as they file in, locking onto each face one by one.
The hum of the thunderous crowd outside dies away the second the heavy wooden door clicks shut behind them.
“Leave the noise outside!” Rösler snaps, his accent sharp and echoing off the tiled walls.
He slaps the back of his hand against the whiteboard, the magnetic markers rattling violently against the frame.
Callum sets his toiletry bag on the bench beneath his hanging kit, the pristine white jersey with “VANCE 29” pressed neatly onto the back, and sits down, leaning forward with his hands clasped between his knees.
Rösler steps right into the middle of the carpet, uncapping his marker with a harsh pop.
“We spoke about their press. We spoke about their transition,” Rösler says, pointing a rigid finger at Callum and the rest of the midfield.
“They want to make it ugly. They want you to panic under the noise. But if you play our shape, if you make our passes, they cannot touch you.”
He spins back to the board, drawing a thick black arrow straight through the middle of the opposition’s defensive block, before turning back to face the squad.
“No regrets today, lads,” Rösler’s voice drops to a low, lethal hum.
“Give them nothing.”
With Rösler’s final words echoing in their ears, the quiet focus in the room takes over.
Pads are pulled up, boots are laced tight, and the white jerseys are pulled over heads.
Callum smooths down the front of his shirt, adjusting the sleeves before stepping out toward the dark corridor.
The squad gathers in the tunnel as a single unit, the hum of the stadium growing into an absolute roar just beyond the archway.
Right beside them, lined up in crisp red, stands the Manchester United squad, cold, composed, and imposing.
David de Gea bounces lightly on his line, his tall frame filling the space as he taps his palms together with laser focus.
Ahead of him, Chris Smalling and Marcos Rojo loom like brick walls, shoulders broad and eyes fixed straight ahead into the blinding sunlight, while Matteo Darmian pulls up his socks, looking entirely unbothered by the hostility pouring out of the stands.
In their midfield, Bastian Schweinsteiger radiates effortless authority, nonchalantly rolling his shoulders.
Flanking him, Morgan Schneiderlin and Ander Herrera look like hunting dogs on a leash.
Herrera’s eyes dart side-to-side, full of sharp, aggressive intent, while Schneiderlin bounces on his toes, itching to smash into his first tackle.
Up front, Juan Mata adjusts his captain’s armband with quiet composure, while Anthony Martial stands entirely motionless, his face as stoic as it can be.
And right at the head of their line, Wayne Rooney stands chest-out, jaw clenched, glaring down the tunnel like he’s about to step into a ring.
At the front of Leeds’ line, Marco Silvestri taps his gloves together, matching Rooney’s stare.
Behind him, Sol Bamba, Liam Cooper, Gaetano Berardi, and Charlie Taylor set their shoulders, ready for war.
Further down the line, Callum stands shoulder-to-shoulder with Kalvin Phillips and Lewis Cook, the three of them exchanging a quick, determined nod.
Alex Mowatt, Stuart Dallas, and Souleymane Doukara bounce on the balls of their feet, ready to unleash their pace the second the whistle blows.
The referee grabs the match ball off the pedestal and steps toward the light.
“Alright lads, let’s go!” Bamba roars, his voice echoing over the thunderous chant of Marching On Together cascading down from the stands.
Callum takes one deep, sharp breath, rolls his shoulders.
They step out of the shadows of the tunnel and onto the pristine green pitch, met instantly by a deafening crescendo of roaring fans and exploding pyrotechnics.
The two teams march out side by side, lining up neatly along the center circle facing the main stand.
Above the thunder of forty thousand voices, the sharp, energetic horns of the Carabao Cup anthem blast over the stadium speakers, ringing off the rafters of Elland Road and setting a tense, grand stage for the derby.
Callum stands tall in the line, his chest rising and falling as he stares straight ahead into the crowd, letting the blare of the anthem wash over his surging adrenaline. The source of this chapter is g.com.
Once the music fades into a renewed barrage of chanting, the ritual begins.
Led by their captain, the Leeds players turn and begin walking down the line of match officials and Manchester United stars.
Callum steps forward, clasping hands with the referee and his assistants before moving down the red line.
He trades firm, respectful handshakes with Wayne Rooney, whose grip is brief and steel-hard, followed by Bastian Schweinsteiger, who gives a subtle nod of recognition.
Callum moves right down the row, Herrera, Martial, Smalling, down to De Gea at the end, exchanging sharp eye contact with each opponent as the final pre-match formalities wrap up.
Breaking away from the line, Callum jogs toward his designated position at the halfway line, standing over the ball with Mowatt.
Callum taps the ball with the sole of his boot, feeling the soft turf give just a fraction beneath his studs.
Beside him, Alex Mowatt stands with his hands on his hips, leaning in close so his voice carries over the deafening roar of the stands.
“Straight back into Lewis or Kalvin, Cal,” Mowatt says, his eyes locked onto Rooney, who is crouching at the edge of the center circle like a sprinter on the blocks.
“Set the tempo early.”
Callum nods once, pulling a deep, steadying breath into his lungs.
He glances up past the sea of red shirts, his eyes sweeping high toward the executive suites in the West Stand, specifically Box 14.
Somewhere behind that glass, Chloe is watching.
He adjusts his stance, resting the tip of his boot right behind the leather of the match ball, positioned on his side of the line with Mowatt ready to take the initial touch forward into United’s half.
The referee checks his watch, looks to both touchlines, and raises the whistle to his lips.
The entire stadium holds its breath for one fraction of a second, suspended in total silence, and then comes the sharp, piercing blow.
Mowatt taps the ball forward over the halfway line, and Callum instantly steps up, knocking a crisp, firm pass back into the midfield to start the war.
Kalvin Phillips takes the pass on his back foot, reading the press instantly as Ander Herrera snaps forward to close the space.
Without hesitation, Phillips cushions the ball with his right boot and threads a crisp, low pass straight into Alex Mowatt’s feet.
Alex looks up and plays a pass out wide to Taylor, who gets closed down by Martial.
Charlie takes the pass on the stride, but Anthony Martial tracks back with blistering speed, closing down the space in an instant and forcing Taylor onto his back foot near the touchline.
With Martial pressing tight and denying the line, Taylor chops back onto his right foot, keeping his body between the ball and the Frenchman, before laying a safe, square pass into Cook.
He collects Taylor’s square pass with a smooth, effortless touch, instantly opening up his body as Bastian Schweinsteiger steps out to close him down.
Cook attempts to drop his shoulder, pretending to switch the play back out wide, but the World Cup winner doesn’t bite.
Schweinsteiger reads the feint instantly, stepping smartly into the passing lane and using his physical presence to block Cook’s path.
The ball ricochets off Schweinsteiger’s boot into the path of Morgan Schneiderlin, who immediately snuffs out the Leeds attack and plays a sharp, forward pass into the feet of Juan Mata.
In a heartbeat, United are on the counter.
Mata turns gracefully, scanning the field as Martial and Rooney break forward, forcing the Leeds backline to scramble back into shape.
Mata slides a weighted, diagonal ball into the path of Herrera, who quickly lays it off to Martial on the left wing.
The French forward cuts inside, drawing Berardi and Bamba toward him, before threading a crisp pass across the edge of the box.
Rooney doesn’t even need a touch to control it.
Latching onto the moving ball, he strikes it first time with ferocious power.
The shot rockets through a tiny gap in the defense, swerving wildly through the air before slamming into the top corner of the net, completely out of Silvestri’s reach.
As the net bulges, Rooney turns and sprints toward the corner flag, throwing his arms wide as if to swallow the hostile atmosphere whole.
He launches himself into a smooth knee-slide across the turf, coming to a halt directly before the away end.
Leaning back, he pumps both fists wildly into the air, roaring at the traveling United supporters as they crash forward against the advertising hoardings in absolute bedlam.
GOAL!
(15′)
Manchester United 1 – 0 Leeds United
The Elland Road home crowd falls into a stunned, bitter hush, drowned out by the deafening roar of the away end.
Silvestri slams his gloves against the grass in frustration while Cooper claps his hands together, trying to rally the squad.
Callum pulls his shirt collar up to wipe the sweat from his chin, looking back toward the center circle as Rooney trots back with a grin, high-fiving Schweinsteiger and Mata along the way.
United have struck first, and the pressure on Leeds just jumped tenfold.
Callum bites back his curse as he gets handed the ball by the ball boy, his fingers squeezing the leather so tight his knuckles turn white.
He jogs back to the center circle, the bitter taste of early concession heavy in his mouth, but he forces his chest out and his head up.
Callum looks around at his teammates, Cook grinding his teeth, Cooper shouting instructions to tighten up the backline, and Bamba aggressively clapping his hands together to shake off the blow.
Callum plants his boot behind the ball, his eyes fixing right on it.
The next 20 minutes of the game were Leeds holding on as Utd battered them in almost every facet of their game.
It was a relentless, agonizing onslaught.
Schweinsteiger operated like a puppet master in the center of the park, casually picking passes and dictating the tempo, while Schneiderlin acted as a brick wall, snuffing out every single attempt Leeds made to clear their lines.
Martial’s pace on the wing kept Berardi on a tightrope, every one-on-one looking like a near-catastrophe, and Rooney dropped deep to pull Bamba and Cooper entirely out of position.
Callum found himself running on pure instinct and burning lungs, chasing shadow passes, doubling up on Schneiderlin, dropping deep to receive passes and trying his hardest.
But the frustration slowly mounts.
Every time Leeds managed to win back possession, the red shirts collapsed on them like a trap.
Lewis Cook was stripped of the ball near the edge of his own box; Kalvin Phillips was forced into a desperate, lunging tackle that earned him a stern word from the referee; and Silvestri had to produce an acrobatic, fingertip save to tip a curling effort from Herrera over the crossbar.
Marco Silvestri takes a deep breath, steps back, and launches a towering punt high into the Yorkshire sky, sending the ball soaring past the halfway line.
Stuart Dallas tracks the flight perfectly.
Climbing above Marcos Rojo, Dallas wins the aerial duel with a firm, clever header, flicking the ball into the path of Gaetano Berardi on the right flank.
Pressed instantly by Darmian, Berardi doesn’t panic; he slides a crisp, diagonal pass along the turf straight to Alex Mowatt.
Callum, operating just ahead, has been watching and taking notice of Daley Blind’s positioning.
Seeing Blind stepping up tight to deny him the short option, Callum plants his foot hard, dropping his shoulder to feint coming short.
Blind bites, shifting his balance forward, and in that fraction of a second, Callum shifts his weight, turns on a dime, and bursts into the vacant space behind him.
Mowatt catches the movement in an instant.
With a glance up, he wraps his left boot around the ball, lifting a perfectly weighted, curling pass over United’s backline and directly into Callum’s bursting path.
The ball hangs in the chilly air, dropping right over Daley Blind’s head.
Callum locks his eyes onto the descending leather, letting it drop over his shoulder as he tracks it into his stride.
Out of the corner of his eye, he sees Chris Smalling sprinting across to cover, while David de Gea begins to slide off his line, calculating the distance.
With one smooth, cushioned touch off his chest to bring the ball under control, Callum drives straight into the penalty box, before quickly chopping the ball away from the oncoming Chris Smalling, whose lunging slide sends him skidding uselessly past across the wet grass.
The sharp cut by Callum just enough daylight.
David de Gea is already spreading his massive frame, narrowing the angle at the near post, while Marcos Rojo comes charging back in a desperate effort to block the shot.
Callum opens his hips and uses the outside of his favored left boot to rifle the ball into the bottom corner.
The outside-the-foot strike swerves with vicious late tail, curling beyond the fully extended fingertips of David de Gea and kissing the inside of the far post before nestling into the back of the net.
For a fraction of a second, time freezes, then Elland Road completely detonates.
The stadium explodes as Callum peels away from the box, sprinting straight toward the West Stand; the noise washes over him like a tidal wave.
He stops up just before the touchline, plants his feet, closes his eyes for a brief beat, and presses a single index finger firmly against his temple.
Mowatt, Phillips, and Cook swarm him instantly, breaking his cold stance by tackling him into a chaotic group hug, screaming in his ear as the South Stand threatens to tear the roof off.
GOAL!
(37′)
Manchester United 1 – 1 Leeds United
Against the run of play, against the odds, Leeds are back in it.
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A/N: It may seem a bit too easy for them to come back, but trust me.
They are going to suffer horribly.
As Callum is their only good offensive option.
Man U are going to realize that and exploit it.
Thanks for the support on the latest chapters; engaging with y’all is interesting.