As he walked toward the elevators, he pulled his phone out again, thumbing over to his dad’s contact.
He didn’t even get a chance to press call.
Just as his finger hit the down button, the phone buzzed violently in his palm, an incoming call taking over the screen.
He glanced down, expecting to see his dad’s caller ID, but the unknown London landline number made him pause.
Curious, Callum swiped to answer, stepping back into the quiet hallway as the elevator doors slid open empty behind him.
“Hello?”
“Callum? Good morning, mate. Hope I’m not calling too early,” a smooth, confident voice came through the speaker.
“My name’s Marcus Hayes. I’m the Senior Sports Marketing Director for Nike Football UK.”
Callum blinked, the lingering tiredness instantly vanishing.
“Oh. Morning, Marcus.”
“I’ll keep it brief because I know you’ve got a massive day ahead of you,” Marcus said, a subtle smile evident in his tone.
“I was at the match last night. Watching an eighteen-year-old run ragged over a Premier League backline on live television… mate, my phone hasn’t stopped ringing since the final whistle. Our global team in Oregon has already seen the clips.”
Callum leaned against the wall, listening intently as the elevator doors closed again behind him.
“We know your current boot deal with Puma is coming to an end in a couple of months,” Marcus continued, getting straight to the point.
“Nike wants to make you one of the lead faces for the new Mercurial Superfly IV line in the UK. We’re talking a full boot sponsorship, custom gear, and immediate inclusion in our national campaigns alongside guys like Raheem Sterling and Harry Kane.”
Callum took a slow breath, playing it cool despite the sudden rush of adrenaline.
“That sounds incredible, Marcus.”
“We’ve already reached out to Jonathan Barnett’s office to set up a formal meeting, but I wanted to reach out directly and formally relay the offer,” Marcus said smoothly.
“Callum, we’re going to put something very special on the table for you.”
“Appreciate it, Marcus. Thanks for the call.”
“Have a good one, Callum. Speak soon.”
Stepping into the next elevator as it arrived, Callum finally hit speed dial for his dad.
“Callum,” his dad picked up on the second ring, his voice warm but clearly anxious.
“I saw the papers this morning, mate. The Yorkshire Post is already running headlines about you. Has Jonathan called you?”
“Jonathan called at midnight, Dad,” Callum said as the elevator began its smooth descent.
“And I literally just hung up with the UK Director of Football at Nike.”
His dad let out a long, disbelieving whistle over the line.
“Nike? Bloody hell, son. The big boys are already knocking on your door. If you ask me, don’t commit to anything, contract or boots, until Jonathan breaks down every single detail. Take your time.”
“I know, Dad,” Callum said, stepping out into the quiet hotel lobby.
“I’m getting coffee now, then meeting Jonathan. I’ll call you the second I know what the plan is.”
“Good lad. Proud of you, Callum. Now go handle it.”
A slow, quiet smile spread across Callum’s face as he walked across the polished marble floor toward the hotel coffee shop.
“Dad,” Callum said, his voice dropping an octave, softening the sharp, business-like edge that had just been in his tone.
“There’s… actually something else, too.”
His dad paused on the other end of the line, catching the sudden shift immediately.
“Oh yeah? What’s that, son?”
“I am not at Nan’s,” Callum admitted, a warm laugh escaping him as he leaned against the counter to place his coffee order.
“I stayed over at a hotel last night, with my girlfriend Chloe.”
His dad paused on the other end of the line, the background noise on his end suddenly vanishing into dead silence.
“Your… girlfriend?” his dad repeated, his voice dropping as the words completely threw him off guard.
“Wait, hold on a second. What girlfriend? Since when are you seeing anyone, Callum? You haven’t mentioned a single girl to me!”
Callum grinned, a warm laugh escaping him as the barista handed him a tray with two coffees, one black with two sugars, and an espresso for himself.
“I know, Dad, I know. I kept it quiet until things settled down. Her name’s Chloe. Chloe Moretz.”
Another heavy pause hung in the air before his dad practically choked over the speaker.
“Chloe Moretz? As in… the American actress?” his dad blurted out, absolute shock reverberating through the line.
“Callum, are you taking the piss out of me? You’re in a hotel room with a Hollywood star?!”
“I’m serious, Dad,” Callum chuckled, shaking his head as he tapped his card on the reader.
“She is here filming a project, and we got to talking. She was at the game last night left her upstairs sleeping.”
His dad let out another stunned, disbelieving laugh, completely overwhelmed by the sudden revelation.
“When your mum hears this, she is gonna flip!” his dad blurted out, chuckling loudly into the speaker.
“Son, she is going to absolutely lose her mind! She’ll demand a full debrief the second you step foot through the door. Blimey, Callum. Nike ringing you at eight in the morning, scoring on Manchester United, and now you casually drop this on me? My head is spinning!”
“Tell me about it,” Callum said, grabbing the coffee tray and heading back toward the elevators.
“It’s been a mental twenty-four hours.”
“I’ll say,” his dad said, his tone gradually softening back into that familiar, grounded warmth.
“Well… mate. I don’t even know what to say. Just… make sure you’re taking care of yourself with all this noise going on. It’s a massive day today.”
“I am, Dad,” Callum said, stepping into the opening elevator.
“I’m going to head back up, give her this coffee, and then go face Jonathan.”
“Right. Good lad,” his dad said, pride beaming through the initial shock in his voice.
“Give her my… well, give her a hello from me, don’t sign a thing without Barnett in the room, and ring me the second you’re out of that meeting.”
“Will do, Dad. Talk soon.”
The soft hum of the air conditioner greeted him first, along with the faint scent of hotel vanilla and fresh coffee.
Chloe was stirring under the duvet, the black-and-yellow Leeds jacket still pooled around her shoulders as she squinted through her messy blonde hair at the morning light pouring past the curtains.
“Coffee arrived?” she croaked out, her voice thick with sleep as she propped herself up on one elbow.
“Black, two sugars,” Callum said, stepping across the room to set her cup on the nightstand before taking a sip of his espresso.
“And I just had two very interesting phone calls.”
Chloe rubbed her eyes, pulling the jacket tighter around herself as a lazy smile spread across her face.
“Let me guess. Your agent and the chairman?”
“Better, Nike,” Callum corrected, sitting on the edge of the mattress.
“And my dad.”
Chloe let out a quiet whistle, sitting up and reaching for her coffee.
“Nike already? Fast movers. And how’d your dad take the news?”
Callum couldn’t help the chuckle that escaped him as he looked at her.
“He practically choked on his tea. Said my mum is going to completely lose her mind when she finds out I’m in a hotel room with an American actress instead of sleeping over at my nan’s.”
Chloe burst out laughing, almost spilling her coffee as she leaned back against the headboard.
“Oh, brilliant. So I’m officially public enemy number one for keeping you out past your curfew?”
“Har, Har.” Callum smiled, leaning down to press a soft kiss to her forehead.
“I’ve got twenty minutes before I have to head down to meet Jonathan. You going to be alright here?”
Chloe took a slow sip of her coffee, the steam rising between them as she looked up at him over the rim, her eyes dancing with amusement.
“I think I’ll survive,” she said softly, wrapping both hands around the warm mug.
“I’ll get dressed, attempt to fix my hair, and maybe scroll through Twitter to see what else people are saying about this absolute phenom of a man I’m hanging out with.”
Callum smirked, standing up from the edge of the bed and running a hand through his hair.
“Don’t let it go to your head. Half of those accounts are just angry Man United supporters.” He shook his head, a quiet laugh escaping him as he grabbed his wallet and phone off the dresser.
“Right,” Callum said, checking the time on his phone.
“I’m going to run downstairs, get this meeting over with, and figure out what the next move is.”
Chloe set her coffee mug down on the nightstand and pulled the oversized Leeds jacket back up around her shoulders, giving him a warm, genuinely supportive look.
“Go get ’em,” she said, her voice dropping into something softer, more encouraging.
“Don’t let them bully you into anything you don’t want. You’ve got all the leverage today.”
“I know,” Callum nodded, a confident smile settling on his face.
“I’ll text you as soon as we’re done.”
Before he could leave, his lips were sealed with hers.
The kiss was deep, slow, and completely dulled his senses.
When she finally pulled back, her eyes were bright, a knowing smirk playing on her lips.
“For good luck,” Chloe murmured, resting her chin on her knees as she pulled the oversized Leeds jacket tighter around herself.
“Now go handle your business.”
Callum took a breath, touched his lips, and grinned.
“Consider it handled.”
The sudden quiet of the hallway was stark, but the quiet confidence in his step was new.
By the time he stepped out of the hotel lobby and into the crisp West Yorkshire morning air, a sleek black Mercedes sent by Stellar Group was already waiting at the curb.
The drive through town was brief, the streets of Leeds buzzing with late-morning traffic, but Callum’s mind was miles ahead.
The driver pulled up to the glass-fronted office building, and minutes later, Callum was riding the elevator up to the executive floor.
When the doors opened, Jonathan Barnett was already standing near the window of his corner office, a thick leather folder under one arm and a sleek smartphone pressed to his ear.
Barnett hung up without a word of apology to whoever was on the other end, sliding the phone into his pocket as he turned.
“There he is,” Barnett said, his voice smooth, low, and carrying the weight of a man who managed the biggest deals in world football.
Jonathan gestured toward the glass coffee table in the center of the room, where two fresh espressos were steaming beside a stack of printed dossiers.
“Sit down, Callum,” Barnett said, taking the seat opposite him and unbuckling the folder.
“Because by twelve o’clock today, Massimo Cellino is going to try to lock you into Elland Road for five years on Championship wages; Chelsea and City are poking their head in constantly.”
Callum leaned back into the leather armchair, taking a slow sip of the espresso.
The heat of the coffee matched the sudden rise in temperature in the room.
“Chelsea and City?” Callum echoed, keeping his voice steady, though the names hung heavy in the high-ceilinged office.
“Their head of recruitment rang me before you’d even finished your post-match interview last night,” Barnett said, pulling out three distinct files from the folder and laying them side by side across the glass table.
“City want you for their academy-to-first-team pathway, big money, elite facilities, loan spell lined up if needed. Chelsea want to lock you down early before your valuation skyrockets. And Nike…”
Barnett paused, tapping the top of the middle folder with a gold pen.
“…Nike called my office twenty minutes ago, desperate to lock down an exclusive endorsement before Adidas gets a seat at the table.”
Callum smirked slightly, remembering Marcus Hayes’ early morning call.
“Yeah, Marcus from Nike already reached out directly while I was at the hotel.”
Barnett’s eyes flashed with brief, sharp amusement.
“Did he now? Fast worker. Good, it means they know you’ve got leverage, and leverage is everything today.”
Barnett pushed the thickest document toward Callum.
It was stamped with the Leeds United crest at the top.
“Massimo Cellino is panicking,” Barnett continued, his voice dropping into a razor-sharp, calculated tone.
“He knows Elland Road will riot if he sells the best academy product this club has seen in a decade. He’s going to offer you a new five-year contract today. He’ll promise you the shirt, the fans, the key to the city. But the wages will be mid-tier Championship money, and he’ll fight tooth and nail against putting a reasonable release clause in it.”
Callum picked up the Leeds proposal, skimming the numbers.
“So what’s the play, Jonathan?”
Barnett leaned forward, resting his elbows on his knees, looking Callum dead in the eye.
“The play is we don’t rush,” Barnett said smoothly.
“We let Cellino sweat. We let City and Chelsea build up the pressure. And we make sure that whatever contract you sign next, whether it’s at Elland Road or in the Premier League, you are paid like the superstar you showed you can be last night.”
Barnett leaned back, tapping his fingers together in a deliberate, measured beat.
“We stall,” Barnett said plainly, a slick smile creeping onto his face.
“You’ve still got a full year left on your current deal at Elland Road. That gives us the one thing Cellino hates most: time.”
Callum set his espresso cup down on the saucer, listening closely.
“If you sign Cellino’s contract today, you lock yourself to Leeds on his terms,” Barnett explained, pointing a finger at the document between them.
“He gets to dictate your price tag, your release clause, and your future. But if we sit on our hands and refuse to sign an extension right now? Leeds panic. In six months, you can talk to foreign clubs. In twelve months, you walk away for a tribunal fee.”
He tapped the Chelsea and Manchester City dossiers on the glass table.
“By keeping the extension on hold, we force the Premier League heavyweights to make a move now if they don’t want to get dragged into a bidding war next summer. It keeps City and Chelsea at the table, it keeps the pressure on Cellino, and it leaves every single door wide open for you.”
Barnett sat back, his eyes sharp as he watched Callum process the strategy.
“Massimo is going to scream, he’s going to threaten to freeze you out, and he’s going to use the local press to try and turn the fans against us. But as long as you keep performing on that pitch like you did last night? Heads are turning and will stay turned toward you.”
“Let’s not risk that then. Why not a year or two-year extension?” The seventeen-year old asks, the thought clicking into place as he says it.
Barnett paused, his pen hovering in mid-air over the open folder.
He looked at Callum for a long moment, a sharp, appreciative glint entering his eyes, a slow, approving smile spreading across his face.
“That’s actually clever, Callum. Very clever.”
He pulled out a legal pad and quickly jotted down two lines in red ink.
“Here’s why it works,” Barnett explained, tapping his pen against the paper.
“A two-year extension gives Cellino his headline. He gets to walk out in front of the press and brag about how he ‘secured the future of Leeds’ young superstar.’ It calms the fans down and stops him from trying to freeze you out of the squad out of spite.”
He circled the numbers on his pad.
“But the clauses keep you completely in control,” Barnett continued, his voice dropping to a low, calculated hum.
“A £15 million release clause is high enough to make Cellino feel like he’s protected his asset, but still completely affordable for a top Premier League club, or even a major European side, to trigger without blinking. And the bottom-half release clause means if Leeds stall in the Championship or plummet further down the table, you’ve got an immediate eject button.”
Barnett leaned back in his leather chair, tossing his pen onto the table with a quiet click.
“Cellino will still try to fight us on capping it at £15 million; he probably wants double that after last night, but if we frame it as the only way you’ll put pen to paper on an extension today, we back him right into a corner.”
Jonathan looked Callum straight in the eye, nodding slowly.
“It gives you another year or two to play week-in, week-out as the main man at Elland Road, but leaves the door wide open for Chelsea, City, or anyone else the second they come knocking. I like it, Callum.”
Jonathan slid his smartphone out of his jacket pocket and tapped the screen, scrolling straight to Cellino’s contact.
“Watch how this plays out,” Barnett murmured, hitting dial and placing the phone flat on the glass table right between their espresso cups.
He pressed the speaker button.
It rang twice before a raspy, agitated voice blasted through the speaker, heavy with an Italian accent and background noise.
“Jonathan! Finally you pick up!” Massimo Cellino barked, sounding as if he was already three coffees deep and pacing a hallway.
“I have been calling your office since seven in the morning! Have you seen the papers? Have you seen the news? The entire country is talking about Callum!”
Barnett leaned back in his leather chair, totally relaxed, signaling for Callum to stay silent.
“Good morning to you too, Massimo. Yes, I’m aware. It was a good night for the boy.”
“A good night? It was a fucking miracle!” Cellino shot back, the sound of a lighter flicking audible over the line.
“Listen to me, Jonathan. I am not having these vultures from London and Manchester buzzing around my club. I have a contract on my desk right now. Five years. Massive upgrade on his wages. I want Callum at Elland Road by two o’clock to sign it. We do a press conference at three.”
Barnett chuckled softly, shaking his head.
“Massimo, breathe. We are not signing a five-year deal on Championship terms today.”
“What?!” Cellino’s voice rose an octave, genuine fury cracking through the speaker.
“What do you mean ‘no’?! I made him! Leeds made him! I will not let you parade him around Chelsea and City like a show pony! If he doesn’t sign, I swear to God, Jonathan, I will let him rot in the Under-21s!”
Barnett didn’t even flinch.
His tone stayed smooth, lethal, and completely in control.
“Massimo, calm down,” Barnett said coolly, tapping his pen on the table.
“You freeze him out, and the Leeds fans will burn Elland Road to the ground by Saturday. Furthermore, he has a year left on his deal. Next summer, he walks for a tribunal fee, and you get pennies. Is that what you want to explain to the supporters?”
Silence fell over the line, save for the distinct, heavy puff of cigarette smoke on Cellino’s end.
“…So what do you want, Jonathan?” Cellino growled softly, the bravado slipping into cautious desperation.
“I will bite.”
Barnett glanced across the table at Callum, a sharp, knowing smirk spreading across his face.
“Here is what happens, Massimo,” Barnett said, laying out Callum’s exact terms.
“We will give you a two-year extension. You get your headline, you get your press conference, and you get to tell the fans Callum is staying. But… we are inserting a £15 million release clause, along with an automatic release clause if Leeds finishes in the bottom half of the table.”
“Fifteen million?!” Cellino shrieked, slamming a hand down on a desk somewhere in Leeds.
“Are you insane, Jonathan?! He is worth thirty! Forty!”
“He is eighteen, Massimo,” Barnett countered smoothly.
“Take the two-year extension with the clauses today, or we never step foot in that room with you, honor the final twelve months of his current contract, and take calls from Man City all afternoon. You’ve got until one o’clock to decide.”
Without waiting for Cellino’s reply, Barnett reached down and tapped the red button, cutting the line dead.
The silence in the executive office settled in like heavy armor.
Barnett leaned back, picked up his espresso, and took a slow sip, looking across at Callum with a cold, triumphant smile.
“And that,” Barnett said quietly, “is how you negotiate with Massimo Cellino.”
For the next forty minutes, the quiet executive office felt worlds away from the madness brewing outside.
Over fresh cups of coffee, Barnett walked Callum through the grander board on the table.
They talked about Nike’s incoming endorsement deal—Marcus Hayes had already pitched an elite boot deal with performance-based bonuses, but Barnett was insistent on holding out for image-rights protections.
They talked about lifestyle management, keeping the media circus away from his personal life, and how to handle the inevitable tabloid frenzy if photos of him and Chloe ever surfaced in London or Los Angeles.
Barnett was impressed by Callum’s focus.
The teenager wasn’t dazzled by the fast cars or the instant money; he just wanted to play, develop, and ensure that every step he took was on his own terms.
Just as Barnett was explaining how they’d structure his image rights into a private holding company, the smartphone on the glass table buzzed, vibrating violently against the smooth surface. This story is hosted at g.com.
Barnett didn’t even pick it up on the first ring.
He let it buzz, taking a slow sip of his espresso and letting Callum finish his thought about his weekly routine before finally reaching down to hit speaker on the fourth ring.
“Jonathan!” Cellino’s voice rasped out, noticeably less hysterical than before, though the heavy strain of a man losing control was still evident.
“Listen to me. I spoke with the board. I am not a stupid man, okay? I want to keep the boy happy, I want to protect the club.”
Barnett stayed silent, leaning back in his leather chair and letting the empty air force Cellino to keep talking.
“Fifteen million is an insult,” Cellino pressed on, the sound of a pen tapping furiously against a desk in the background.
“It is practically giving him away to Chelsea! I will do the two-year extension. I will agree to the bottom-half exit clause. But the release clause is thirty million. £30 million, or no deal. That is fair for a player of his talent!”
Barnett glanced across the table at Callum, eyebrow raised, non-verbally gauging his client’s reaction.
Callum met his gaze and gave a small, firm shake of his head—staying silent and letting his agent do what he was paid for.
Barnett smiled faintly, leaning toward the phone.
“Massimo, don’t waste my time,” Barnett said, his tone smooth, uncompromising, and razor-sharp.
“Thirty million is a non-starter. Here is the final offer: £20 million release clause, plus a fifteen percent sell-on fee for Leeds if he moves. That way the club gets protected if his value skyrockets, but my player isn’t priced out of a move if a Champions League club comes calling.”
There was a long, heavy pause on the other end of the line.
Cellino took a long drag of his cigarette, the smoke exhaling loudly through the speaker as he calculated the numbers.
“…You are putting a knife to my chest, Jonathan,” Cellino muttered, sounding exhausted.
“We take the £20 million clause with the sell-on, the bottom-half exit, and a 300% bump on his current weekly wages,” Barnett pressed smoothly, closing the trap.
“Paperwork sent to my office by two o’clock, or we go back to letting his contract run down.”
Silence stretched over the line for five agonizing seconds.
“…Send your lawyer to Elland Road at three,” Cellino finally grunted, sounding utterly defeated.
“We sign the papers, we do the photos. But you owe me an espresso, Jonathan.”
The line went dead.
Barnett leaned back in his chair, a slow, genuine grin breaking across his face as he tapped the phone off and pointed his pen at Callum.
“And that,” Barnett said, taking another sip of his coffee, “is how you get a player everything he wants without even having to say a word.”
Barnett stood up, buttoning his tailored jacket, and tossed the signed preliminary notes into his leather briefcase.
“Time to go make it official,” Barnett said, offering a sharp nod toward the door.
“Massimo’s waiting, the press will be sniffing around, and by four o’clock, you’ll have the best deal in the Championship.”
Callum finished the last drop of his espresso, setting the small white cup back on the glass table.
Standing up, he adjusted his collar and checked his phone, a quick text to let Chloe know the business was done, and he was on his way to lock it in.
They left the quiet, air-conditioned luxury of the executive offices and stepped down to the waiting black Mercedes.
The drive across town to Elland Road felt shorter than usual, the familiar floodlights and towering brick stands of the stadium coming into view through the tinted windows.
As the car pulled through the stadium gates and parked near the West Stand entrance, Callum took a deep breath.
Just twelve hours ago, he’d been walking off that pitch after turning a Premier League defense inside out.
Now, he was walking back in to redefine his entire future.
“Remember,” Barnett muttered low to Callum as the driver opened their doors.
“Let Cellino smile for the cameras, let him pretend he won. We got exactly what we came for.”
Together, they walked through the double glass doors of Elland Road, heading straight upstairs toward the chairman’s suite to sign on the dotted line.
The heavy oak door of the chairman’s suite opened to the heavy smell of stale espresso and cigar smoke.
Massimo Cellino was waiting behind his massive desk, his tie loosened, looking every bit like a man who had fought a losing battle but was determined to look victorious for the cameras.
“Ah, the boy wonder and his shark,” Cellino grunted, standing up and motioning toward the long glass conference table where the thick stack of official Football League contract papers sat laid out.
The formalities moved with practiced precision.
Barnett’s lead lawyer sat beside Callum, methodically flipping through every single page of the document, running his finger down the clauses.
Once the legal team gave the subtle green light, Cellino slid the heavy silver pen across the glass.
“Sign it, Callum,” Cellino said, a forced grin finally breaking through his weary face.
Callum took the pen and steadily signed his name across the bottom of each page, initialing the crucial release clause pages with Barnett watching like a hawk over his shoulder.
Cellino scribbled his signature beside it, stamped the official Leeds United seal on the final sheet, and stood up to shake Callum’s hand as the club’s photographer snapped the official photo.
With the ink dry, Callum was led down the corridor to the media suite where Paul Dews, Leeds United’s Head of Communications, was setting up two leather chairs in front of the club sponsor backdrop.
“Alright, Callum, simple and smooth,” Dews said, adjusting the lapel mic on Callum’s shirt while the cameraman framed the shot.
“The fans have been going wild on social media since last night. We want to emphasize your loyalty, your focus on the project here, and how excited you are for the season. We’ll keep it to about three minutes for LUTV.”
The red recording light on the camera flicked on.
“Welcome back to LUTV,” Dews began, turning to the camera with a warm, professional smile.
“I’m joined by the man of the hour. Callum, it’s been an incredible twenty-four hours for you. Outstanding performance last night, and now you’ve just committed your future to Leeds United with a new contract. How are you feeling?”
Callum smiled, looking straight into the lens with calm, easy confidence.
“I’m buzzing, Paul, honestly,” Callum said, his voice steady.
“This club took a chance on me, the gaffer has given me belief, and playing in front of the Elland Road crowd last night… there’s no feeling like it. Signing this deal was a no-brainer for me. I just want to put my head down, keep working hard, and help get this club back to where it belongs.”
“There’s been a lot of noise in the press over the last twelve hours—speculation about Premier League interest,” Dews pressed gently.
“What’s your message to the Leeds fans who were worried you might be tempted away?”
“The noise is just noise,” Callum answered without missing a beat, pitching it exactly as Barnett had prepped him.
“My focus has always been right here in Yorkshire. My family is here, my football is here, and I’m fully committed to what we’re building at Elland Road.”
“Brilliant,” Dews said, turning back to the camera.
“Callum, congratulations on the new deal, and we can’t wait to see you back out on the pitch this weekend.”
“Cheers, Paul.”
“And… cut!” Dews announced, unclipping his mic.
“Spot on, Callum. That’s going to go absolute gold on YouTube.”
As Callum unclipped his lapel mic and stood up, his phone vibrated in his pocket.
He pulled it out to see a text from Chloe sitting on his screen:
“Your club’s fans are having a field day over on Twitter, could you grab some takeout on your way back?”
Callum couldn’t help the chuckle that escaped him as he walked down the corridor toward the stadium exit, his thumb flying across the screen.
“Field day, are they? Let me guess, half of them calling me the messiah and the other half complaining Cellino didn’t put a fifty-million-pound clause on my head?”
He pushed open the heavy glass doors of the West Stand, stepping out into the brisk afternoon air.
Barnett’s black Mercedes was idling near the gates, but Callum gave his agent a quick wave to let him know he’d take a private car back.
He texted her back:
“And yeah, I can pick up food. Any preference, or should I just blow some of my new wage rise on proper steak and chips?”
A few seconds later, his screen lit up with her reply:
“Steak and chips sounds amazing. Get something really good. And hurry up, ‘Messiah’, your girlfriend is starving.”
As the car pulled out of Elland Road and headed back toward the city centre, he checked Twitter for the first time all day.
His phone was practically melting.
@LUFC: BREAKING: Callum signs new contract extension at Elland Road!
“My focus has always been right here in Yorkshire.” 📝 #LUFC #MOT
Underneath, thousands of replies were flooding in:
“GET INNNNN! CELLINO ACTUALLY DID IT!”
“Best news all summer. Turned Man United inside out last night and signed today. Legend.”
“£20m release clause being rumored… please tell me that’s fake news, we need to hold onto him forever.”
Callum turned off his screen, leaning his head back against the window as the Leeds skyline rolled past.
The contract was signed, the future was secure, and now he had a hot lunch to pick up for an American movie star waiting in her hotel room.
All in a day’s work.
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A/N: Last of the filler chapters before we get back to the actual football.