Drifting all the way out to the left flank, Callum hugs the chalk of the touchline, taking a brief breath as the play resets on the far side.
As he steps back into position, he brushes right past Uwe Rösler in the technical area.
Rösler leans in close, his voice cutting over the roar of the crowd, eyes burning with belief.
“He’s gassed, Callum! Look at his legs! Drive at him every single time!”
Callum gives a single, sharp nod, his focus locking onto Matteo Darmian.
The Italian full-back is visibly breathing through his mouth, jersey soaked, heavy legs struggling to adjust as Callum stands isolated against him on the wing.
The ball shifts back across the pitch.
Lewis Cook spots the mismatch instantly and pings a crisp, diagonal pass straight to Callum’s feet on the touchline.
Callum takes the ball smoothly on his chest, letting it drop right onto the chalk.
He doesn’t wait for overlap.
He doesn’t look to build up.
He knocks the ball five yards down the line into open space and simply explodes.
Darmian frantically turns to sprint, but his tired legs can’t match Callum’s acceleration.
Callum blows past him like he’s standing still, leaving the Italian full-back grasping at air as Callum eats up the turf and cuts sharply toward the edge of the penalty box, sending the Elland Road crowd into a deafening frenzy.
With his head up as he charges off the flank, Callum scans the box.
He sees Botaka attacking the back post, Antenucci pulling off Smalling’s shoulder, and Mowatt arriving late on the edge of the area.
Every textbook answer says to pass.
But Callum’s blood is pumping, and he knows that the second they get it in the center of the park, Manchester United are going to pressure and win the ball.
Instead of rolling the ball across, he slows his stride for a fraction of a second, luring Daley Blind into a desperate recovery challenge.
The moment Blind lunges, Callum executes a razor-sharp elastico, flicking the ball out then cutting it back inside, leaving Blind completely wrong-footed and sliding into the grass.
Now inside the box, Morgan Schneiderlin comes flying across to cover the space.
Callum doesn’t even slow down; he uses a subtle drop of his left shoulder and a stepover, feinting a shot toward the far corner.
Schneiderlin bites, throwing his body down to block, only for Callum to drag the ball cleanly past his outstretched leg.
Suddenly, Chris Smalling steps up as the final line of defense, towering over him and closing down the angle.
Callum taps the ball forward with his right, feints a pass to Antenucci on his left, and then brutally chops the ball back between Smalling’s legs with a nutmeg that leaves the stadium gasping.
He’s past all three of them.
Clean through on goal.
Callum leans back slightly and attempts a curled effort with his weaker right foot, aiming straight for the top-right corner.
If it were any other goalkeeper, it probably would have scored.
Except David De Gea is in goal.
The Spaniard uncoils like a spring, launching himself across the frame.
Extending a fingertip-reach at full stretch, De Gea somehow claws the ball out of the top corner, pushing it just wide of the post for a corner kick.
The Elland Road crowd lets out a collective, unbelievable gasp of pure anguish mixed with awe.
Callum buries his face in his jersey, taking a long, heavy breath as the stadium erupts into applause.
Callum trots over to the six-yard box, still catching his breath, and immediately finds himself trapped in a red vice.
Chris Smalling clamps a heavy, physical hand on Callum’s shoulder, using his height to tower over him, while Daley Blind steps up tight on his other side, pinning him from the front.
After being utterly embarrassed by Callum’s dribbling just moments earlier, neither defender is taking any chances; they’re practically wearing his shirt.
“Not again, lad,” Smalling mutters under his breath, wrapping an arm tight around Callum’s chest to prevent him from getting a clean leap.
Callum doesn’t fight it directly.
He lowers his center of gravity, using his hips to nudge back into Smalling, giving himself just enough leverage to push off when the delivery comes.
Over on the right corner flag, Alex Mowatt raises both hands into the air, signaling an in-swinging trajectory toward the near post.
The crowd’s roar rises to a fever pitch.
Callum watches Mowatt’s starting stride like a hawk, waiting for the exact millisecond to break free from his two shadows.
Mowatt’s corner is whipped into the dense crowd, but Smalling gets just enough of his head to the ball to send it looping clear out of the penalty box.
Before United can breathe, Philips charges in from the halfway line, pouncing on the loose ball like a predator.
He drives straight into the vacated space, evading Schweinsteiger’s lazy tackle, and slides a sharp, vertical pass into Lewis Cook.
Cook doesn’t even look; it’s second nature now.
He plays a quick, rapid-fire one-two off the chest of Mirco Antenucci, who lays it off perfectly into the half-turn.
With one fluid touch to set himself, Cook looks up, catches the light in his eyes, and sprays a beautiful, pinged diagonal ball out wide to the left flank.
The pass cuts across the entire United defense, dropping perfectly into Callum’s stride as he breaks past Darmian’s desperately chasing frame.
Callum takes it on the run, the ball hugging his foot on the boundary line, with open turf right in front of him and the entire South Stand roaring him on.
Callum takes the bouncing pass in his stride, shifting it smoothly onto his lethal left foot.
With De Gea scrambling across to cover the near angle and Smalling desperately sliding in from behind, Callum shows icy, ruthless composure, shrugging off the pressure and casually tapping the ball past De Gea’s outstretched boot, trickling it right into the bottom corner.
GOAL!
(75′)
Leeds United 2 – 3 Manchester United
Callum doesn’t waste a single second.
The moment the ball hits the back of the net, he sprints straight into the goal, scoops the ball up out of the netting, and turns on his heels.
He ignores a wildly cheering Mowatt trying to grab him for a hug, surging past a shell-shocked Daley Blind, and carries the ball full sprint all the way back to the center circle.
He slams the ball down on the center spot, his face a picture of pure focus, staring down Schweinsteiger and Rooney as if to say we’re not done yet.
“Get back! Get back, let’s go!” Callum roars toward his teammates, gesturing wildly for everyone to get into position.
However, with Leeds overcommitted, pouring body after body forward in a desperate search for the equalizer, Manchester United’s quality ruthlessly exploits the gaps left behind.
Just five minutes after the restart, Schweinsteiger lofts a delicate ball over the top, catching the Leeds backline completely unstrung.
Memphis Depay, fresh off the bench, sprints onto it, cuts inside Berardi, and unloads a screaming strike that bounces off the inside of the post and in.
Goal!
(80′)
Leeds United 2-4 Manchester United
Before Leeds can even regain their composure, the knockout blow lands.
Under relentless pressure, a tired miscommunication between Silvestri and Bamba leaves a loose ball sitting dead in the six-yard box.
Juan Mata reacts first, casually poking it over the line to make it 2-5.
Two goals in fifteen minutes.
Goal!
(90 + 1′)
Leeds United 2-5 Manchester United
The referee lifts the whistle to his lips, and the very moment Callum taps the ball forward at the center spot, three long, shrill blasts cut through the air.
PWEET PWEEET
FULL TIME:
LEEDS UNITED 2 – 5 MANCHESTER UNITED
The suddenness of the final whistle hits like a cold bucket of water.
The scoreline feels harsh, brutal, even, considering the sheer fight Leeds brought to the pitch, but United won the day as they severely outplayed Leeds.
Callum stands stationary in the center circle, his hands resting on his knees, chest still heaving as the adrenaline slowly drains, leaving behind heavy, aching muscles.
Drops of sweat and rain fall from his chin onto the turf.
Around him, players collapse to the grass in exhaustion or exchange tired handshakes.
Chris Smalling trots over, offering a hand to pull Callum up, giving him an appreciative nod.
“Hell of a battle, mate,” the defender says quietly before walking off.
Callum clasps Smalling’s hand, letting the towering defender hoist him back onto his feet.
He gives a brief, respectful nod in return as Smalling turns away.
Before he can even dust off his shorts, Daley Blind approaches, shaking his head with a tired, rueful smile.
“You gave me a nightmare out there,” Blind admits, offering a genuine palm to shake.
“I thought I had you pinned until you started driving forward. Brilliant play.”
Callum shakes his hand, the praise taking a bit of the sting out of the result, though the competitor in him still burns.
Next comes Bastian Schweinsteiger, casually draping an arm around Callum’s shoulder with the easy warmth of a world champion.
“Keep your head high,” the German midfielder says in his measured tone, patting Callum’s chest.
“You pushed us right to the edge. Play like that every week, and you won’t stay in the Championship for long.” Follow the newest chapters on g.com.
As the United stars head toward the away end, Callum’s own teammates start to gather around him.
Lewis Cook jogs over, throwing an arm around Callum’s neck and leaning his weight on him.
“Unbelievable goal, mate,” Cook pants, still trying to catch his breath.
“We had ’em sweating. We really did.”
Mirco Antenucci walks up next, clapping his hands together sharply and offering a firm high-five.
“The movement was right, Callum. The result hurts, but we fought, and that is what matters.”
Despite the bitter defeat, the Elland Road faithful rise to their feet.
A roaring round of applause echoes from the stands, recognizing the fearless, electric display their young squad put on against a top-tier side.
Callum takes a deep breath, claps his hands toward the fans in the South Stand, and slowly begins the walk to the tunnel.
As Callum approaches the touchline, Louis van Gaal steps out from the technical area, his tall frame looming over the boundary line.
Instead of walking past, the Dutch manager reaches out, catching Callum’s arm and pulling him in close.
Van Gaal drapes a heavy arm over Callum’s shoulders, instantly lifting his other hand to cover his mouth, blocking the surrounding TV cameras and lip-readers.
“Listen to me, young man,” van Gaal says, his sharp, commanding voice muffled behind his hand.
“You have exceptional quality. Direct, fearless, dynamic. You caused my backline problems we did not plan for today.”
Callum glances sideways, surprised by the sudden gesture from the opposition manager, but listens intently as van Gaal continues.
“Keep working on your final decision under pressure, but do not lose that aggression,” van Gaal adds, giving Callum’s shoulder a firm, heavy squeeze before pulling his hand away with a subtle, approving nod.
“You have a very big future in this game.”
With that, the United boss turns and strides toward his coaching staff, leaving Callum standing near the tunnel entrance.
The Englishman continues his march forward, avoiding the press on his way to the dressing room.
Callum pushes through the heavy doors into the home dressing room, the smell of sweat immediately hitting him.
The room is quiet, a sharp contrast to the thunderous noise outside.
Players are slumped on benches, unlacing boots with heavy hands, ice packs already being pressed to swollen knees and ankles.
At the center of the room stands Uwe Rösler.
His jacket is off, sleeves rolled up, and his eyes sweep across the room as the last few players file in.
“Heads up. Everyone, heads up!” Rösler’s sharp voice cuts through the low hum of the room, clapping his hands once to command the floor.
Callum takes a seat on his bench next to Lewis Cook, unstrapping his shin pads as the manager paces the middle of the carpet.
“Look at me,” Rösler demands, his tone firm, passionate, but devoid of anger.
“You are hurting right now because you lost 5-2. But I look at that pitch today, and I do not see a 5-2 game. I see a team that went toe-to-toe with one of the biggest clubs in the world and made them sweat blood for an hour.”
He turns, pointing directly at Callum, then toward Cook and Antenucci.
“You pushed their backline onto their heels. You forced van Gaal to change his structure. When we scored that second goal, I looked at their bench; they were nervous. Scared. That is what you built out there today.”
Rösler pauses, letting the words settle, his expression turning serious as he addresses the reality of the scoreline.
“The lesson today is brutal, yes. Premier League quality punishes every half-second of sleepiness. You give them a loose ball, they score. You leave a gap on the counter, they score. That is the standard we are chasing. But if you play with that same heart, that same tempo, and that same courage in our league… nobody touches us.”
Rösler slaps the tactical board behind him, a fiery look in his eyes.
“Be disappointed by the result, but be proud of the performance. Towels on, get cleaned up. We go again.”
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A/N: Brutal, but that’s how football is.
You can’t win with the power of friendship.
And as you can see, Callum is seriously turning heads.