The small, cozy living room smelled like baked scones and tea, a stark contrast to the high-stakes boardrooms and roaring stadiums of Callum’s week.
Chloe was curled up on the corner of the floral sofa, a mug of English Breakfast resting between her hands, completely enchanted as Callum’s nan, Margaret, flipped through a thick, worn leather photo album on her lap.
“Look at this one, Chloe,” Nan said, holding up a faded glossy photograph with a proud, conspiratorial twinkle in her eye.
“This was Callum when he was six. He refused to take off his Leeds kit for three days straight. Wore it to his cousin’s christening under his blazer.”
Chloe leaned in, letting out a bright, delighted laugh as she looked at the picture of a tiny Callum, mop-haired and scowling at the camera.
“Oh, wow. He really hasn’t changed at all, has he? Still wearing the kit, still looking grumpy when someone takes his photo.”
“Hey,” Callum protested from his spot in the armchair across from them, tossing a sofa cushion toward her, which Chloe effortlessly dodged.
“I was an athlete in training. I had an image to maintain.”
“You were six,” Nan said softly, patting Chloe’s knee before giving Callum a warm, affectionate look.
“And you were always kicking a ball against my garden wall. Drove the neighbors absolutely mad.”
The past three days had been a blur of quiet comfort.
Far away from the relentless churn of transfer deadline day tweets, agent calls, and tabloid speculation, the three of them had insulated themselves in Nan’s little terrace house.
They’d eaten home-cooked meals, taken long, low-profile walks down quiet country lanes, and watched old movies on the small TV in the corner.
For Chloe, coming off high-energy film sets and press tours, the absolute simplicity of Nan’s front room was a breath of fresh air.
And for Nan, seeing Callum grounded, happy, and eating proper meals after his whirlwind rise to stardom was all she ever asked for.
“So,” Chloe said, setting her mug down on the lace coaster and looking across at Callum, her eyes dancing with gentle mischief.
“Now that you’ve signed the big contract, does that mean you’re going to pay for your nan’s roof to be re-tiled?”
Nan immediately waved a dismissive hand, though a fond smile tugged at her lips.
“Oh, don’t you start, Chloe! He’s already tried to buy me a new boiler and three different sofas this morning. I told him my boiler works just fine!”
Callum leaned back in his chair, a relaxed, genuine smile settling over his face as he looked at the two women in his life getting along so effortlessly.
“I’m just saying, Nan,” Callum chuckled, shaking his head.
“The boiler makes a noise like a jet engine taking off every time you turn the hot water on. You’re allowed to let me buy you a new one.”
Callum glanced down at his wrist, his eyes widening slightly as he caught the time on his watch.
“Speaking of jet engines,” Callum said, pushing himself up from the armchair with a groan.
“If I’m not through the gates at Thorp Arch in twenty minutes, the gaffer’s going to blow a gasket that’ll make your boiler sound like a lullaby.”
“Oh, goodness,” Nan bustled up from the sofa immediately, wiping her hands on her apron out of pure muscle memory.
“Have you got your boots? Have you got your shinguards?”
“They’re in the boot of the car, Nan, I promise,” Callum chuckled, leaning down to give her a warm kiss on the cheek.
“I’ll see you later, alright?”
“You take care on those roads, love,” Nan said softly, patting his cheek before turning back toward the kitchen to give them a moment.
Chloe stood up, smoothing down her oversized sweater as she followed Callum toward the small, narrow hallway.
The easy, playful mood in the room shifted into something a little softer, a little heavier.
Her driver was already scheduled to pick her up in an hour for the long drive down to Heathrow, where a flight back to Los Angeles was waiting.
She leaned against the doorframe as he grabbed his jacket and car keys off the side table.
“Look at you,” she murmured, a gentle, teasing smile playing on her lips as she reached out to adjust the collar of his jacket.
“Wouldn’t have it any other way,” Callum said, stepping close and wrapping his arms around her waist, pulling her flush against him.
He looked down at her, his voice softening.
“Sure you can’t delay the flight? I’m sure the director won’t mind waiting another day.”
“Don’t tempt me,” Chloe sighed, resting her hands on his chest and looking up into his eyes.
“Call time is eight in the morning, LA time. If I miss this table read, my agent will have a stroke.”
“Fair enough,” Callum smiled faintly, resting his forehead against hers for a quiet second.
“The last three days… they were good, Chloe. Really good.”
“They were perfect,” she whispered back, her thumb softly tracing his jawline.
“No press, no chaos. Just tea, scones, and your nan threatening to leak your baby photos.”
Callum let out a soft laugh, leaning in to press a deep, lingering kiss to her lips.
She kissed him back, holding onto the front of his jacket just a second longer before finally letting him pull back.
“Text me when you land in the States?” he asked, his hand lingering on her waist.
“Only if you text me the second you finish training,” she countered with a smirk, her eyes bright.
“Get going before I kick you.”
Callum grinned, grabbed his bag, and stepped out, taking one last look at her before heading down the garden path, his mind already splitting between the pitch waiting for him and the flight taking her halfway across the world.
The drive out to Thorp Arch was peaceful, the countryside passing by in a quiet haze of green while the heater hummed softly against the chill in the air.
For the first time all week, Callum’s head felt clear.
The contract was signed, Chloe was en route to Heathrow, and the noise of transfer deadline day had finally been locked behind closed doors.
He pulled his car through the familiar training ground gates, rolling past the security post with a quick wave to Old Dave at the barrier.
As he slotted into his reserved parking space, Paul Dews was already waiting near the main entrance with a handheld camera, filming the players’ arrivals for LUTV.
Callum stepped out into the crisp afternoon air, slinging his leather washbag over his shoulder.
“Morning, Callum!” Paul called out, keeping the lens trained on him with a warm smile.
“How’s the pen hand holding up after yesterday?”
Callum laughed, shaking his head as he walked past.
“Pen hand’s fine, Paul. Just waiting to see what Uwe’s got planned for us today.”
He pushed through the heavy glass doors into the main reception, instantly wrapped in the warmth of the facility and the familiar smell of fresh coffee and deep-heat rub.
“Morning, stranger,” Julie at the front desk called out, looking up from her monitor with a smile.
“See you’ve finally decided to grace us with your presence.”
“You know I can’t stay away from your tea, Julie,” Callum teased, leaning over the counter to grab his daily training schedule printout.
“Get along with you,” she swatted her hand at him affectionately.
“Head physio’s looking for you, wants to get your strap done before Rösler gets everyone out on the grass.”
Callum nodded, heading down the long, carpeted corridor lined with classic photos of Leeds legends.
He swapped hellos with a couple of the academy coaches coming the other way, stopped briefly to chat with the kitman about getting a fresh pair of boots broken in, and absorbed the steady, grounding rhythm of his normal life.
Finally, he pushed open the door to the first-team dressing room.
The heavy bass of house music was already thumping from Sol Bamba’s speaker setup, and the air was filled with shouted banter, the clatter of studs, and the general chaos of twenty-something lads getting ready for work.
As soon as Callum walked through the door, Liam Cooper started banging his locker in a loud, rhythmic beat, while Bamba tossed a rolled-up towel straight at his head.
“Look who it is!” Marco Silvestri shouted from across the bench, grinning as he adjusted his gloves.
“Mind his legs, Sol!” Luke Murphy called out from the corner, lacing up his boots.
“He’s worth twenty million now, we can’t afford to break him!”
Callum ducked the towel, a wide, genuine grin spreading across his face as he walked over to his locker right between Lewis Cook and Alex Mowatt.
“Give it a rest, you lot,” Callum laughed, unzipping his kit bag and tossing his boots onto the floor.
Cook nudged his shoulder with a chuckle.
“Fair play on the deal, mate. Did Cellino actually smoke through the whole meeting?”
“Three packs,” Callum replied with a smirk, pulling his training top over his head.
He was right back where he belonged.
The door to the dressing room swung open, and the noise instantly died down as Uwe Rösler stepped into the room.
Clad in his dark blue Leeds tracksuit, whistle resting against his chest, Uwe scanned the room with those sharp, intense eyes that meant business.
Right behind him stood assistant manager Rob Kelly, holding a clipboard and looking ready to push the group through their paces.
Rob Kelly stepped forward, tapping his pen against the board to get everyone’s attention.
“Out on pitch two in two minutes, lads. Full warm-up, possession drills, then tactical shape. Boots on, shin pads in, let’s go. Don’t make Uwe wait.”
The room erupted into a fresh flurry of activity, lockers slamming shut, studs clicking against the hard flooring, and last-minute pulls of socks.
Sol Bamba killed the music on his speaker, turning to give Callum a heavy, encouraging slap on the shoulder as he walked past toward the door.
“I hope all that money didn’t make you sluggish.”
As soon as they were out on the pitch, Uwe gathered them in a tight circle in the center of pitch two, the damp morning grass glistening around their studs.
He stood in the middle, football held under his arm, his breath misting in the air as Rob Kelly checked off the final attendance on his clipboard.
“Midweek, we go away to Brighton. They are top of the table for a reason, unbeaten, disciplined, compact, and lethal on the counter-attack. Chris Hughton has them organized, and if you give them half a second on the ball, they hurt you.”
Uwe turned his sharp gaze toward the squad, sweeping over Cooper, Bamba, and settling directly on Callum, Lewis Cook, and Alex Mowatt.
“They play a tight 4-4-2,” Uwe continued, pacing slowly as Rob Kelly held up a tactical magnetic board showing their setup.
“They like to clog the middle, force you out wide, and trap you on the touchline. That means our transition speed has to be double what it was last week. Lewis, Alex, when you recover the ball, I want quick, forward play. No extra touches.”
He then looked right at Callum.
“Callum, Liam Rosenior likes to push high from full-back to support their attack, leaving space in behind. That is your pocket. When we win the ball back, you attack that channel immediately before Kayal, or Stephens can cover. You drive at them, force Dunk to make a choice, and stretch their backline.”
Rob Kelly clapped his hands together loudly.
“You heard the gaffer! High intensity from the first whistle! Warm-up with the fitness coach, dynamic stretches, five-meter sprints, let’s go!”
The squad broke out of the circle with a collective shout, heading toward the cones as Callum fell into stride beside Cook, already mentally locking into the midweek battle against the league leaders.
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A/N: Thanks for the support, and yes, a big money move is set up for Callum’s future.