After calming down, Callum starts up the engine of his vehicle.
The 2.4-litre i-VTEC engine’s very specific, utilitarian hum.
It’s not the aggressive, growling exhaust note of a sports car; it’s a focused, mechanical hum that reflects the car’s reliable, no-nonsense nature.
Backing out of the garage and onto the road, he connects his phone to the radio via an aux cord and selects a random song from his playlist.
Slowly, the realisation that he is actually headed back to Thorp arch.
Despite literally growing up within the walls of that facility, there is an underlying feeling of nervousness.
The Accord’s heater was blowing full blast, but it still hadn’t quite shifted the damp chill from Cal’s bones.
He kept his hands clamped at ten-and-two on the steering wheel, his knuckles a deep contrast against the grey plastic.
As he merged onto the A1(M), the engine whined in protest, a raspy four-cylinder drone that filled the cabin until he reached cruising speed.
Outside, the grey sprawl of Leeds faded into the misty Yorkshire fields, but Callum wasn’t looking at the scenery.
His mind was spinning.
Through the windscreen, the damp tarmac reflected the red brake lights of the cars ahead like bleeding ink.
Every mile north was a mile closer to the training grounds.
By the time he turned off the main road onto the narrow lanes of Thorp Arch, the motorway drone died down, replaced by the quiet, heavy squelch of his tyres cutting through wet leaves.
He took a deep breath, the mechanical hum of the Honda his only companion, and watched the security gates swing open.
The security at her post motions for him to lower his windows through a simple lowering gesture.
Upon doing so, she gives him a brief nod, and he proceeds into the parking lot, parking his Accord in an empty spot.
Getting out of the 4-door, Callum opens the door to the backseat, picks up his bag, and slings it onto his shoulder.
Turning the key in the slot of the door, he hears the satisfying sound of the auto locks clicking into place.
Walking up toward the main building, he is greeted by the press officer, Paul Dews, a sharp, energetic figure with short, neatly cropped dark hair and a lively, approachable face that always seems ready to capture a story.
Even on a standard training day at Thorp Arch, he carries himself with a professional, media-ready alertness, possessing the quick, observant eyes of someone who spends his life behind a lens or managing the club’s public image.
The light dew didn’t bother Paul, as he stood right outside the doors of the main building.
As soon as he saw Callum, his phone was up, and he hit record.
“Morning, Cal! Welcome back to Thorp Arch,” Paul called out from behind the screen, keeping the camera locked on the young striker.
“Give us a look for LUTV. How’s it feel to be back with the first team?”
“Morning to you too, glad to be here, good vibes all around.” Callum smiles in almost a contagious fashion, putting up a thumb to seal the deal.
Securing the shot and the perfect angle.
Paul follows Callum inside and continues the questions.
“Perfect, mate. Absolute quality,” Paul said, matching Callum’s stride as they stepped through the sliding glass doors and into the warmth of the Thorp Arch reception.
Walking backwards with practised ease to keep the lens focused on the seventeen-year-old, Paul pressed on with the questions.
“The fans on Twitter and the forums have been buzzing since the announcement dropped last night,” Paul said, his voice lowering a fraction to keep it intimate for the mic.
“You’ve been getting stuck down in League Two, scoring goals and playing against some proper veteran centre-backs. How much do you think that loan spell prepared you to step right into the Championship?”
“It prepared me well; the gaffer and teammates were patient and helpful. I will be looking to replicate that for Leeds and put my all out there on the pitch for the team.” Callum responds, the PR training and conditioning from his academy years shining through beautifully, giving him the ability to answer with ease.
Paul pauses the video as they approach the changing room, granting Callum a small reprieve before continuing the questions for his homecoming reveal.
Callum nods, slipping inside the changing room, and the Englishman sees his name and an assigned number 29 training kit.
The kit itself is a sharp mix of navy blue, white, and classic Leeds yellow.
The main body of the training shirts and technical zip-tops is predominantly navy blue or royal blue, with contrasting white and yellow panels running down the shoulders and sides.
The iconic Macron “man” logo sits on the right chest and shoulders, while the traditional Leeds United crest is proudly embroidered on the left.
The kit also features a quarter zip and long sleeves.
Removing his tracksuit and sneakers, he neatly folds the clothing and rests it on the bench.
Putting the training gear on, he takes his black gloves out of his duffle bag, along with his boots, a pair of Puma evoSPEED.
Pulling on the training kit, he laces up his boots and walks out of the changing room, his cleats making a distinctive clacking noise each time his feet make contact with the ground below.
Paul, waiting outside, sprang back into action, restarting the video, capturing his satisfied look.
He looks over the top of the screen, his expression shifting from media coordinator to a genuine Leeds fan who wants to see the kid succeed.
He raises the camera one last time for the big closer.
“Last one from me, Cal. Saturday. Brentford at home. If the boss hands you that starting shirt in front of a packed Elland Road… What’s the message from Callum Vance to the Leeds United fans?”
The sound of his boots stops as he contemplates the question, before a confident smile steadies itself on his face.
“I won’t let you down, come on you whites!”
He gives a sharp, decisive nod, seals it with a quick thumbs-up, and turns on his heel.
Paul cuts the recording, staring at the screen for a split second with a satisfied grin.
With a firm push, Callum hits the heavy double doors.
Heading onto the training pitch, he sees members of the squad, both first team and reserve, spread out in circles, engaged in Rondos, with Uwe Rösler standing at the side of the pitch overseeing it all.
Rösler, a tall, imposing German figurehead, stands as still as a statue, arms crossed, observing and noting weaknesses during the rondos.
Seeing Callum’s sudden but expected appearance, the German motions for the youngster to approach.
He blows his whistle, causing the team to pause and fall into stride, over to him.
“Let us welcome back one of our own, Callum, whom I have recalled from loan. He will be playing as our main striker, as both Chris and Doukara are injured.”
Once the gaffer mentions his name, the eyes of everyone on the pitch move to him, lingering on him for an extended period.
Some of the players say small welcomes and pats on the back.
“I trust that he will be able to adapt to our tactics in time for the Brentford match in 4 days. With the help of everyone, of course. Let us start the training session officially with a few drills, then we will break for a tactical breakdown for the next match.”
Rösler dismisses the group while motioning for Callum to come closer.
The two stand facing each other, the German speaks up, his distinctive East German-accented English with a noticeable Manchester undertone cutting through the silence between them.
“Once again, welcome back. Even though I was not the one to send you out on loan, I should tell you that I have no intention of sending you back or selling you. I have watched your highlights, I know what you are capable of.”
Callum’s pride wells up, offering a stern nod so as not to come off as naive or childish, but he cannot help but smile.
The German continues to speak, not giving him a chance to feel good.
“There are several facets of your game which need improving if you were to play a traditional role in my system. But I am giving you freedom, freedom to roam in the centre of the pitch, but not to drift wide; use that pace of yours to break them down. Cause as much havoc as possible and most importantly be a fox in the box. Never come too deep and never push against the defence’s line.”
His assistant coach hands him his tactical board, which Rösler rearranges and flips for Callum to see.
Demonstrating with the pins, his role in the 4-3-3.
“The fullbacks overlap and bomb forward to provide width, while the two centre-backs remain aggressive in stepping up to stop counter-attacks. In the midfield, a deep-lying defensive midfielder to anchor the team and protect the transition, flanked by two energetic box-to-box midfielders who press high.”
Rösler’s hands move the pins up and down the board, then move to the forward line.
“The wingers are inside-cutting wingers who function almost as secondary strikers, playing close to a physical, hard-working focal-point centre-forward. At least that was the plan. I need you to be as dangerous as possible in the middle, draw out the centre backs and expose the spaces in their defence. And make space for the Second Strikers to exploit, while also trying to get into space yourself when they are in possession.”
Callum just stood there nodding, and once the explanation concluded, he processed the information and then asked his burning question.
“Why me? I think I am fully capable of playing as a regular Centre Forward, why have me play as a Fox-In-The-Box?”
The German chuckles, a genuine chuckle escapes his lips, and he places his hand on the young striker’s back.
“You are young and very moldable. I think you are perfectly capable of making those darting runs into the box, and you have an eye for the goal.”
Callum nods, taking in the information, smiling ear to ear.
The boyish joy of actually being able to play for Leeds is bubbling up to the surface once more.
“Go stretch and join in on the training. We are going to start the striking and passing drills soon.”
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This is the most passionate I have been in a long time for a project, thanks for the support on the last one.