The heavy fire doors of the Thorp Arch Academy wing hissed shut behind them, cutting off the damp chill of the Yorkshire afternoon.
Inside, the corridor smelled of wet leather, laundry detergent, and the deep-heat rub the older lads swore by.
“Seriously though,” Cook muttered, dropping his voice slightly as they walked past the coaches’ office.
“If you make that run on Saturday, Murphy’s going to find you. Just don’t let Rösler see you smiling about it, or he’ll make us do the bleep test again tomorrow just to keep our feet on the ground.”
Callum unzipped his mud-splattered training top, his shoulders finally dropping as the warmth of the building hit him.
His chest was still tight from the relentless pressing drills, but the adrenaline from hitting the top corner was still humming under his skin.
“I’m just trying to survive the week, Lew,” Callum said, a genuine grin breaking through the dirt on his face.
“If I get through Friday without Bellusci actually snapping me in half, I’ll take it as a win.”
“Aye, well, you’ve got the edge on him now,” Cook laughed, throwing his shoulder into Callum’s playfully as they pushed open the main changing room door.
The room was already a wall of noise and steam.
Sol Bamba was ruling the stereo in the corner, a heavy hip-hop beat bouncing off the metal lockers, while Luke Murphy and Liam Cooper were deep in a loud debate about fantasy football near the physio tables.
Callum dropped heavily onto the wooden bench, his name and squad number staring back at him from the laminated plaque above his locker.
His muscles were already starting to stiffen up as the adrenaline from the pitch began to cool, the physical toll of Rösler’s relentless tactical drills settling deep into his legs.
He leaned back against the cold metal locker, letting out a long, slow breath while the chaotic banter of the Leeds first team swirled around him.
Instead of grabbing his phone, he just sat there for a second, unlacing his muddy boots and listening to the absolute madness of the room.
Sol Bamba was still shouting over the music at Kalvin Phillips about a missed interception during the 11-v-11 scratch match, and across the room, Charlie Taylor was calmly wrapping an ice pack around his ankle.
Lewis Cook tossed a clean, dry towel onto the bench next to him, snapping Callum out of his thoughts.
“You look completely spent, Cal. Get in the showers before Bellusci takes all the hot water. I’m serious,” Cook added, grabbing his own wash bag.
“If he gets in there first, he’ll spend twenty minutes singing Italian opera and using every scrap of steam. Move it.”
“Yeah, alright, don’t start,” Callum muttered, though a faint grin snuck onto his face.
He pulled down his socks and unpeeled his damp shin guards, dropping them onto the floor with a heavy plastic thud.
Pushing himself up off the bench, his thighs tight, he grabbed the towel and made his way toward the showers.
He passed Sol Bamba, who was currently laughing uproariously while holding Kalvin Phillips in a playful headlock near the physio tables.
“Hey, kid!” Bamba barked out, spotting Callum.
He let Kalvin go with a grin, pointing a massive, calloused finger at the 17-year-old.
“That header at the back post today? Sharp. Very sharp. Do that on Saturday, and you’ll get off to a proper start for the season.”
“Thanks, Sol,” Callum said, feeling a sudden surge of pride that completely eclipsed the ache in his joints.
Getting a nod from the captain inside these four walls meant everything.
He stepped into the humid, steam-filled shower room.
The hot water hit his neck and back instantly, washing away the mud and the exhaustion of the afternoon, leaving him alone with his thoughts about what was coming next.
Twenty minutes later, the steam had cleared a bit by the time Callum stepped back onto the tiled floor, his skin red from the hot water, but his muscles finally loosened up.
He vigorously rubbed the towel through his damp hair, threw it into the massive laundry skip in the corner, and pulled a fresh, crisp set of Leeds United training gear from his locker.
The clean navy tracksuit felt a million times better than the mud-caked kit he’d spent the morning sweating in.
He slid his feet into a pair of slides, zipped up the jacket, and ran a hand down his face, feeling the familiar, hollow ache of his stomach.
Rösler’s grueling double sessions demanded a lot of fuel, and the squad was required to eat lunch together before heading home.
The changing room was emptying now as the lads moved toward the canteen.
“Come on, Vance, move your legs,” Charlie Taylor said as he walked past the bench, tucking his wash bag under his arm.
“If we’re late, Rösler makes the whole table wait to eat, and I’m not starving because you wanted to perfect your hair.”
“I’m right behind you, Chaz,” Callum said, grabbing his phone from the locker pocket and slipping it into his tracksuit trousers.
He fell into step with Lewis Cook and Kalvin Phillips as they headed down the corridor toward the Thorp Arch canteen.
The smell of roasted chicken, pasta, and steamed vegetables was already drifting down the hallway, a welcome contrast to the heavy smell of deep-heat.
As they pushed open the double doors to the dining area, the noise of clattering cutlery and loud conversations hit them.
The canteen split naturally, divided not by animosity but by the easy comfort of a shared vernacular.
Over by the far window, the Italian contingent, Mirco Antenucci, Giuseppe Bellusci, and Tommaso Bianchi, sat closely together.
Their hands moved dynamically as they spoke in rapid, low-register Italian, occasionally laughing over plates piled high with plain pasta and chicken.
Souleymane Doukara and Sol Bamba hovered near them, shifting effortlessly between French and Italian, bridging the continental side of the squad.
On the larger tables in the center, the domestic lads held court.
It was a wall of broad Yorkshire accents and familiar British banter.
Liam Cooper, Luke Murphy, and Scott Wootton were already dug in, while the younger English core: Cook, Phillips, and Charlie Taylor, slid onto the long wooden benches nearby.
Callum grabbed his tray, loaded with grilled chicken, brown rice, and steamed broccoli, and made his way toward Cook and Phillips.
“Sit here, Cal,” Cook said, knocking his fork against the bench to clear a spot.
As Callum sat down, the contrast in the room was striking.
To his left, Bellusci was aggressively explaining a defensive phase to Antenucci in Italian, while right in front of him, Cooper was loudly complaining about the British weather and the quality of the canteen’s gravy.
It was a bizarre, divided melting pot.
Suddenly, the clattering of forks against ceramic plates died down, a heavy hush rolling across the canteen as the double doors swung open.
Uwe Rösler strode into the room.
He walked with that rigid, commanding German posture, his hands clasped behind his back, wearing a pristine club tracksuit.
Rob Kelly followed a half-step behind him, clutching a tactical clipboard.
Rösler’s sharp eyes scanned the room, taking in the layout of the tables.
His presence alone made Lewis Cook stop mid-sentence, his fork hovering an inch from his mouth.
The gaffer walked slowly down the center aisle between the long benches, the squeak of his trainers against the linoleum floor the only sound left in the room.
He paused near the younger lads, his eyes locking onto Callum.
“The movement at the back post today, Vance, it was correct,” Rösler said, his voice flat but carrying across the silent room.
“But on Saturday, the Brentford defenders will not give you three yards to look up. If you take two touches inside their box instead of one, they will put you straight into the advertising boards. Do you understand me?”
“Understood, boss,” Callum said, holding his gaze.
Rösler gave a single, curt nod, then addressed the room.
“Tomorrow we run lighter drills. I want every one of you to get some rest and recover tonight. Ensure you all enjoy your meals, and head home afterward.”
With that, the manager turned on his heel and walked over to the staff table.
Almost immediately, the volume in the canteen rushed back to life.
“Bloody hell,” Cook muttered, leaning in over his pasta with a low grin.
“For a second there, I thought he was going to tell us we were doing extra fitness work tonight. ‘Into the advertising boards’, he loves that one, doesn’t he?”
“If he did, I wouldn’t blame him,” Kalvin Phillips added, tearing off a piece of crusty bread.
“Brentford at home is always a scrap. They’ll try to kick you out of the park in the first ten minutes just to see if you have the stomach for it.”
Callum dug back into his chicken and rice, the food tasting a million times better now that the manager’s spotlight had shifted.
“Let them try,” he said, the quiet confidence returning to his voice.
“If I get the service, I’ll put it away before they can get close enough to leave a mark.”
Across the room, Sol Bamba raised his glass of water toward Callum with a knowing smirk, acknowledging the lad’s focus.
The atmosphere felt right.
Callum cleared his plate, the warmth of the hot meal finally stripping away the last bit of the day’s fatigue.
As the lunch wound down, the Italian lads cleared their plates and headed toward the exit, shouting a few parting words across the room.
“Right,” Cook said, stretching his arms over his head until his knuckles cracked.
“The gaffer said head home and recover, and I am going to do exactly that. My bed is calling me.”
“Aye, see you tomorrow, lads,” Callum said, sliding off the wooden bench.
He checked his phone one last time, still just the usual notifications, and slipped it into his pocket.
Walking out of the warm, noisy canteen and heading toward the Thorp Arch car park, the crisp West Yorkshire air hit his face, completely waking him up.
He had a quiet evening ahead to clear his head.
Pressing the button on his key fob, the yellow lights of his Honda Accord flashed in the overcast car park, the sharp clack of the doors unlocking cutting through the quiet afternoon.
Callum pulled open the driver’s side door, throwing his bag onto the passenger seat before sliding into the fabric interior.
He slotted the key into the ignition and turned it, the engine humming to life with a familiar, steady purr.
He clicked the heater dial up a few notches, waiting for the vents to clear the damp Yorkshire chill from the windscreen.
Before shifting into reverse, Callum rested his hands on the steering wheel, looking out across the quiet training ground.
He pulled his phone from his tracksuit pocket and set it down in the cup holder next to the handbrake.
The screen remained dark for now, a quiet contrast to the buzzing noise of the changing room he’d just left behind.
He checked his mirrors, slipped the Accord into gear, and navigated his way out of the Thorp Arch gates, ready for the quiet drive home to rest up for the next day, which was thankfully a lighter training block.
The smooth, bassline-heavy rhythm of an old-school Usher track drifted through the Accord’s speakers, filling the cabin with a comfortable warmth.
Callum leaned back into the seat, his shoulders dropping completely as the winding country lanes outside Thorp Arch gave way to the familiar, gray tarmac of the A64.
He hummed along softly, his right thumb rhythmically tapping against the steering wheel to the beat.
The intense, focused striker from earlier in the day had entirely melted away into an average lad on his way home.
Callum pulled into the garage, the heavy door closing automatically behind him and sealing out the damp evening.
Letting out a sigh of relief, he grabbed his bag, exited the Accord, and pressed the lock button on the fob, listening to the familiar chirp of the doors securing.
He pushed open the interior door leading straight into the warmth of the house, ready to drop his gear, kick off his slides, and completely switch off his brain.
His grandma, seated in her favorite chair, greeted him warmly with a smile.
“Judging from your face, training was good.”
Callum nodded, feeling the brunt of the high-intensity workout landing squarely on his shoulders; his feet felt remarkably heavy, almost as if he were trudging through water with weights on his legs.
“I think I will head straight to sleep, Nan. The gaffer ran heavy drills today.”
“Alright, I made you some dinner, but you can eat it for breakfast tomorrow.” His grandma got up and took his heavy kit bag from him, giving him a thorough once-over before pointing up the stairs.
Even as a retired physio, she did her best to look after him and keep him in peak physical shape at home.
“Straight to bed. No extra exercises, no stretching, nothing strenuous.”
“Will do, Nan,” Callum responded, his mind too tired to focus on anything but resting.
Heading upstairs, each step felt like a monumental effort.
The plush carpet under his bare feet offered some comfort, but his calves were so tight they felt like he had run a marathon.
He trailed his hand along the banister, practically hauling his deadweight frame up to the landing.
He pushed open his bedroom door, the familiar, quiet sanctuary welcoming him.
The room was dark, save for the ambient streetlights filtering through the blinds.
Without even turning on the main light, Callum navigated by memory, kicking off his slides and letting himself fall face-first onto the mattress.
He groaned into the pillow as his muscles finally stopped working completely.
His grandmother’s advice echoed in his ears, pure recovery.
She knew exactly what his body needed after a grueling day, and right now, his body was demanding a total shutdown.
He rolled over onto his back, pulling the heavy duvet over his shoulders.
As he lay there in the quiet room, the steady hum of the house replacing the roaring chaos of Thorp Arch, his eyelids felt impossibly heavy.
He reached into his pocket one last time, blindly pulling his phone out and setting it face down on the nightstand without even checking the screen.
Tomorrow would bring more tactical walkthroughs, as the days wound down toward the match in four days on Saturday.
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A/N: Extra chapter cuz I felt like it.
I want to get to the action with Brentford, but patience maketh the man…
Or something like that.