He yanks himself free from the bottom of the pile, his face flushed and a massive, uncontrollable grin plastered across his face.
Adrenaline completely overtaking the pain in his ankle, he sprints straight toward the advertising boards at the base of the Kop.
The front rows of the stand surge forward in a chaotic wave of limbs, limbs, and pure ecstasy.
Callum leaps onto the ledge and stands there basking in the energy and fervour.
“Come on!” he roars, pumping his fist into the damp Yorkshire air.
The referee jogs over, gently but firmly tugging Callum by the arm to guide him back toward the pitch, gesturing that he has to hand out a mandatory yellow card for leaving the field of play.
Callum just laughs, taking the booking with a shrug.
He wouldn’t trade that moment for anything.
As he limps back toward the center circle, the stadium announcer’s voice booms over the PA system, barely audible over the chanting crowd:
“Goal for Leeds United, scored by number 29… CALLUMMMM!”
The 30,000-strong crowd roars his surname back in unison, “VANCEEEE!” the sound echoing all the way out to Beeston.
With 15 minutes left on the clock until halftime, Brentford are staring down the barrel, and Leeds are ready to see this half out.
Leeds United 2 – 1 Brentford (30′ PEN)
As Callum limps back to his spot on the right wing, the adrenaline starts to level off, and that right ankle reminds him it took a heavy hit from Dean.
He tests it with a short, tentative jog.
It’s sore, but manageable.
He catches Uwe Rösler’s eye on the touchline.
The manager gives him a passionate double-fist pump, but immediately follows it up with a flattening gesture of his hands: calm down, keep your shape, and focus.
There are still ten grueling minutes plus stoppage time before he can get into the dressing room for some ice and treatment on that ankle.
Brentford kick off, their passing suddenly sharper and more aggressive as they look to retaliate before halftime.
Diagouraga and Toumani Diagouraga are spreading the ball quickly, trying to stretch Leeds and exploit any gaps left by the euphoric home side.
The ball is worked wide to Bidwell, who is looking thoroughly embarrassed after being beaten twice in a row.
He looks up, sees Callum tracking back to cover, and drives forward with intent, desperate to redeem himself before the halftime whistle blows.
Callum sets his teeth against the throbbing in his right ankle and completely locks his focus onto Bidwell.
Instead of showing him the line or letting him dictate the pace, Callum steps up aggressively, using his body to cut off the fullback’s inside angle and force him into a tight pocket near the touchline.
Bidwell drops his shoulder, attempting to heavy-touch the ball past Callum’s blind side, but Callum reads the movement perfectly.
He plants his good left foot, throws his frame across the defender’s path to absorb the physical contact, and robustly jams his left leg in to pickpocket the ball.
It’s a beautifully timed, aggressive tackle.
The ball squirts loose into the middle of the park, completely shutting down Brentford’s counter-attack before it can even cross the halfway line.
Lewis Cook snaps up the loose ball, instantly spinning away from an oncoming Brentford midfielder, while Callum works through the sting in his ankle, turning his head to look for the next run.
Cook tries to quickly slide a first-time pass into the channel for Antenucci, but under pressure, he doesn’t get enough purchase on the ball.
It rolls loose across the damp turf, undercooked and well short of its target.
Toumani Diagouraga spots the error instantly.
The Brentford midfielder drops his shoulder, nips in ahead of a scrambling Cook, and aggressively intercepts the ball, immediately sparking a rapid counter-attack right down the spine of the Leeds midfield.
Before Cook can even recover his footing, Diagouraga lifts his head and fires a sharp, penetrating pass straight through the gap into the feet of Djuricin, who is turning right on the edge of the Leeds penalty box with Bamba desperately rushing out to meet him.
Bamba slides in with everything he’s got, throwing his massive frame across the line of fire to close down the angle.
The sheer presence of the Leeds captain panics Djuricin.
Instead of taking a calm touch or picking his spot, the Brentford striker rushes his shot completely.
He skews his boot under the ball, making awful contact on the slick Elland Road turf.
The ball slices off his laces, flying well wide of the target and harmlessly tracking into the front rows of the South Stand.
A collective sigh of relief ripples through the stadium, followed instantly by a chorus of sarcastic cheers from the home fans behind Silvestri’s goal.
Silvestri gives Bamba a grateful double-fist pump, fetches a fresh ball from the ball boy, and sets it down for a goal kick, giving the whole team, and Callum’s aching right ankle, a much-needed moment to catch their breath.
Silvestri takes his time, adjusting the ball on the six-yard line to milk a few extra seconds so everyone can regroup.
He gestures for the team to push up the pitch.
Callum takes a deep breath, testing his ankle again.
It’s stiffening up, but with only about five minutes left of the half, he knows he needs to push through to the whistle.
He jogs out wide, finding a pocket of space near the halfway line as the Brentford backline drops back.
Silvestri takes a short run-up and launches a booming, high-arcing ball deep into the Brentford half.
Up against Harlee Dean, it’s Mirco Antenucci who goes up strong, putting his body on the line to challenge for the aerial ball.
He gets a clever nod on it, flicking the ball perfectly down into the path of Alex Mowatt, who is driving into space from midfield.
Mowatt controls it cleanly on his chest and looks up, instantly spotting Callum out on the right wing, making a dangerous run behind Bidwell.
Mowatt lofts a perfectly weighted, diagonal pass over Bidwell’s head, dropping it right into Callum’s stride.
The diagonal ball from Mowatt drops just out of Callum’s reach as the fourth official steps up to the touchline, raising the flashing electronic board to signal 5 minutes of added time.
With the first half winding down, those five minutes feel like an eternity with his right ankle screaming at him.
Bidwell manages to get a trailing foot to Mowatt’s pass, knocking it out of play for a Leeds throw-in deep in Brentford’s half, giving Callum a brief second to catch his breath.
Gaetano Berardi jogs up from fullback to take the throw quickly, looking straight at Callum as the academy lad tries to shake off the stiffness.
The Brentford backline is disorganized, desperate to hear the halftime whistle down 2-1.
Berardi hoists the ball cleanly into Callum’s chest.
Callum braces himself, preparing to shield the ball from Bidwell’s immediate pressure.
Even with his right leg throbbing, Callum’s instincts take over the moment the ball hits his chest.
He cushions it down cleanly, and before Bidwell can even plant his feet to jockey, Callum executes a lightning-fast drop of his shoulder.
With a sharp, sudden burst of footwork that defies his pain, he chops the ball inside, leaving the Brentford fullback completely dead in his tracks for the third time today.
The Elland Road crowd collective leans forward, but Callum doesn’t have time to admire the skill.
Toumani Diagouraga immediately snaps over to cover, lunging in with his long strides to close down the angle and snuff out the danger.
Seeing the midfielder rushing out, Callum uses his trailing left foot to subtly roll the ball backward, perfectly laying it off into the path of the oncoming Lewis Cook.
Cook arrives at pace, meeting the layoff on the edge of the eighteen-yard box.
He unleashes a fierce, low drive that keeps rising as it tears through the crowded penalty area.
David Button throws himself across the goalmouth, full-stretch, and just manages to get the barest of touches with the tips of his fingers to tip the ball agonizingly wide of the far post.
Before Leeds can even prepare for the resulting corner, the referee puts the whistle to his lips and blows three sharp blasts.
PWEEET!
PWEEET!
PWEEEEEET!
Halftime.
The whistle signals the end of a breathless opening forty-five minutes.
A massive ovation roars from the stands as the players begin to trudge off.
Leeds United lead 2-1, and Callum Vance, grimacing as the adrenaline finally begins to fade from his battered ankle, heads toward the tunnel, having completely turned his debut on its head.
As Callum limps heavily toward the tunnel, Lewis Cook jogs up beside him, wrapping an arm around his shoulder and giving him a solid shake. Visit g.com for the full chapter.
“What a half, Cal! That penalty was pure ice. And cheers for the layoff, thought I had it!”
Other senior players clip his shoulder and shout words of encouragement as they trudge into the dark brick underbelly of Elland Road.
Sol Bamba gives him a firm, heavy pat on the back that nearly knocks the wind out of him.
“Great fight, kid. Proper performance.”
Inside the dressing room, the air is thick with the smell of sweat.
Callum collapses onto the wooden bench, letting out a long, ragged breath as he reaches for a bottle of Lucozade, desperately trying to rehydrate and reenergize after a grueling forty-five minutes.
He barely has the cap off before one of the club physios drops to one knee in front of him, gently pulling his sock down and unlacing his boot.
The moment the leather is pulled away, Callum winces; the right ankle is already starting to swell and discolor from Harlee Dean’s heavy tackle.
The physio presses firmly around the joint, checking the ligament stability while Callum grits his teeth.
Just then, the heavy double doors slam open.
Uwe Rösler strides into the center of the room, his eyes scanning his squad before locking instantly onto the academy graduate.
The manager doesn’t waste any time.
“Great half, boys, but we keep the intensity up. We don’t let them back in,” Rösler barks, before walking straight over to Callum and looking down at the swelling ankle.
He sighs, shaking his head with a mixture of pride and frustration.
“Callum. You did brilliantly. The goal, the run fantastic,” Rösler says, his tone firm but protective.
“But look at your leg. It’s swelling already. I cannot risk you tearing something. You are being taken off. Sit back, get ice on it, and watch the boys finish the job.”
The dressing room goes dead silent.
Callum stares up at Rösler, his jaw practically dropping to the floor.
Flabbergasted doesn’t even begin to cover it.
He’s seventeen, he just scored a go-ahead penalty on his professional debut at Elland Road, got an assist, and he feels like he’s flying on absolute cloud nine.
To be pulled off at halftime feels like a cruel punch to the gut.
A murmur of surprise ripples through the rest of the squad.
Cook looks over, stunned, and even Antenucci frowns, ready to ask the manager to give the kid five more minutes to see how the ankle feels after the break.
“Boss, please,” Callum protests, his voice cracking slightly as he tries to stand up.
“I can play through it. It’s not that bad”
“Sit down, Callum,” the physio commands gently but firmly, pushing him back onto the bench.
As Callum drops back down, the reality of the situation hits everyone in the room.
The physio completely peels back the tape, and the true gravity of the injury becomes impossible to ignore.
The right ankle is already swollen up like a balloon, sporting a nasty, dark purple bruise where Dean’s studs made heavy contact.
The initial shock in the dressing room quickly turns into a sobering realization.
If Callum goes back out there on a joint that unstable, one bad tackle, one awkward turn on the slick turf, or one heavy landing could easily tear the ligaments.
A minor sprain that needs a week of rest could instantly mutate into a severe tear, sidelining the academy graduate for a month, maybe even two or three.
For a young player who just broke into the first team, a long-term injury right now would be catastrophic for his development.
Cooper looks at the swelling, then looks at Callum, shaking his head.
“The gaffer is right, Cal,” the Englishman says softly, his booming voice now dead serious.
“Look at it. You force it now, you’re out for a couple of months. We need you for the rest of the season, not just the next forty-five minutes.”
Uwe Rösler nods, his expression softening just a fraction as he places a heavy hand on Callum’s shoulder.
“You proved what you can do today, son. You gave us the lead. Now, let the physio wrap it, get the ice on it, and protect your future.”
The physio immediately gets to work, completely packing the ballooning ankle in a heavy wrap of ice and secure bandages, forcing Callum to elevate his leg on an overturned kit skip.
Rösler claps his hands together, turning his attention back to the rest of the room as the tactical board is wheeled forward.
“Right! Botaka, get your kit on, you’re going on the right wing. Boys, we are up 2-1. We defend as a unit, we kill their space, and we win this match for Callum. Let’s go!”
The physio finishes securing the tight elastic bandage, giving the heavy ice pack one final pat to make sure it stays securely molded against the swelling.
He looks up at Callum and gives him an encouraging nod, confirming the diagnosis.
“The gaffer’s spot on, son. It’s just a nasty impact injury,” the physio says, wiping his hands on a towel.
“Standard protocol from here: RICE. You rest it, keep this compression wrap on, keep it elevated on the skip, and keep icing it at regular intervals. Do that properly over the weekend, and the swelling will drop right out. You’ll be back out on the grass in a couple of days.”
Hearing those words finally allows the massive knot of anxiety in Callum’s chest to completely unwind.
It isn’t a disaster.
Around him, the dressing room erupts into a flurry of motion.
Jordan Botaka is frantically pulling his match shirt over his head, nodding eagerly as Rösler barks out his final tactical instructions for the second half.
The rest of the boys are downing their last gulps of energy drinks, slapping each other’s shin guards, and shouting encouragement as they head back out toward the tunnel to defend the 2-1 lead.
As the heavy double doors slam shut behind the team, leaving the dressing room suddenly quiet, Callum leans back against the wooden wall.
He takes a sip of his drink, adjusts the ice pack on his throbbing ankle, and settles in to listen to the distant roar of the Elland Road crowd through the walls, waiting to see if the boys can hold the line.
The physio walks over to the corner of the medical room, reaches up, and clicks on the wall-mounted television.
The screen flickers to life, displaying the live Sky Sports broadcast just as the second half kicks off.
“There you go,” the physio says, tossing the remote onto the treatment table beside Callum.
“Keep that leg elevated, don’t move it, and let me know if the ice starts burning your skin.”
On the screen, the camera pans across the rain-slicked Elland Road pitch.
The commentary team is still dissecting Callum’s first-half performance, showing a slow-motion replay of his clinical penalty.
“…a fearless display from the seventeen-year-old graduate, Callum Vance, who unfortunately had to make way at halftime due to that heavy challenge from Harlee Dean. A massive blow for Leeds, but Jordan Botaka is on to replace him.”
Through the thick walls of the dressing room, Callum can hear the muffled, structural rumble of the home crowd reacting in real-time, just a split second before the television audio catches up.
Brentford is pushing hard straight from the whistle, clearly sensing an opportunity with the teenager who terrorized their left flank now sitting in the dressing room with an ice pack.
On screen, Dallas and Berardi are already working overtime on the right wing to lock down a vengeful Bidwell.
With the remote in one hand and his phone in the other, Callum opens up Twitter.
He searches his own name, wincing slightly as a fresh throb goes through his ankle, but the sheer volume of notifications and tweets completely distracts him from the pain.
The Leeds faithful are absolutely buzzing.
@LUFCMotty: CALLUM VANCE.
Remember the name.
Seventeen years old and stepped up to take that penalty like he’s been doing it for a decade.
Absolute ice in his veins.
🧊 #LUFC
Scroll.
@LeedsUnitedYth: Unbelievable first half from Vance.
Tortured Bidwell from the first whistle.
Cruel that he’s had to come off at halftime, looked like a nasty knock from Dean.
Praying it’s not serious. Read this novel at g.com for the best experience.
We need this lad.
Scroll.
@WhiteRose92: Gutted to see Vance come off for Botaka.
He was the best player on the pitch in the first half.
A proper academy product—plays for the badge.
Hope the injury is just precautionary.
MOT!
#Leeds
A grin spreads across Callum’s face as he leans back against the wall, scrolling through a sea of yellow and blue emojis, praise for his link-up play with Cook, and fans calling him the future of the club’s attack.
It feels entirely surreal.
Just a few hours ago, he was a regular academy player, turned loanie, hoping to get a few minutes off the bench; now, he’s the top trending topic in West Yorkshire.
On the television screen, Brentford earns a dangerous corner, and the muffled roar of anxiety from the Elland Road stands echoes through the ceiling, snapping Callum’s attention right back to the live broadcast.
On the screen, the corner kick is whipped into the heart of the Leeds penalty box, curling dangerously through the damp air.
Alan Judge puts a massive amount of whip on the ball, sending it right into the mixer.
Silvestri comes flying off his line to punch it clear, but he misjudges the flight in the rain and gets nowhere near it.
The ball sails over his outstretched gloves, leaving the goal completely gaping.
Harlee Dean rears back at the back post, rising highest to meet it.
He powers a header downward, and for a split second, Callum stops breathing.
It looks like a certain equalizer.
But the ball hits the slick turf, skips up awkwardly, and clips the very outside of the post, rattling the framework before bouncing agonizingly wide of the target.
Through the dressing room walls, a massive, deafening roar of relief echoes from the South Stand, perfectly mirroring the gasp from the TV commentary.
“How has he missed that?!” the commentator exclaims, as the replay shows Dean holding his head in absolute disbelief.
Callum lets out a breath he didn’t realize he was holding, sinking back into the bench as Silvestri quickly scrambles to get the ball for a goal kick.
A narrow escape, but Leeds are still hanging onto their 2-1 lead.
The remaining thirty-five minutes feel like a grueling war of attrition, and Callum can barely keep his eyes off the screen.
Leeds completely abandons any attempt at beautiful football, shifting into pure survival mode.
Every time Botaka or Antenucci gets the ball, they drive it straight toward the corner flags, using their bodies to shield it and drain precious seconds off the clock.
When Leeds do try to mount an attack, the fatigue is obvious.
Passes are misplaced, counters fizzle out on the edge of the Brentford box, and a few tame shots roll harmlessly to David Button.
It isn’t pretty, but it keeps the ball far away from Silvestri’s goal.
As the match ticks into the final minutes, Brentford throws everyone forward, launching a desperate aerial assault.
But Sol Bamba and Liam Cooper turn into absolute brick walls.
It’s a chaotic sequence of desperate, towering clearances, balls hoisted into the stands, scrambled away from the six-yard box, and hacked up the pitch without a second thought.
Finally, the referee checks his watch and blows the whistle three times.
PWEEET!
PWEEET!
PWEEEET!
“Full time!” the commentator shouts over the roar of the Elland Road crowd.
“A gritty, gritty second half, but Leeds United hold on for a massive 2-1 victory!”
Callum lets out a massive sigh of relief, pumping his fist in the empty dressing room.
The door flies open a moment later, and the lads come pouring back in, sweaty, drenched from the rain, and shouting in celebration.
Cook sprints straight over to Callum, slapping his hand.
“We did it, mate! Three points!”
The rest of the squad files in close behind Cook, a loud, chaotic wave of adrenaline and muddy kits.
Sol Bamba is shouting, slapping the walls, and pulling Callum into a brief, one-armed headlock.
“Told you we’d finish the job, kid!”
Just as the dressing room noise reaches its absolute peak, the heavy double doors open again.
Uwe Rösler steps inside, closely followed by a Sky Sports floor manager wearing a headset, a cameraman with a heavy rig resting on his shoulder, and a representative holding a sleek, glass Man of the Match award.
The room falls slightly quieter as the Sky Sports rep scans the crowded benches, his eyes locking onto the teenager sitting in the corner with a massive bag of ice strapped to his right ankle.
“Callum? Congratulations, son,” the rep says, walking over and presenting the heavy glass trophy to him.
“Sky Sports Man of the Match. Outstanding debut.”
The entire dressing room instantly erupts.
Lewis Cook starts banging a plastic water bottle against the metal lockers, Bamba is chanting Callum’s name, and Dallas is whistling loudly.
The cameraman kneels, framing Callum against the classic wooden benches of the Elland Road dressing room, the red light on top of the camera glowing live.
“We know you’re icing the leg, Callum,” the presenter says, handing him a branded microphone while the cameraman signals they are live on air.
“But the pundits in the studio couldn’t give it to anyone else. Walk us through the emotions of the last two hours, from a debut goal and assist to watching the lads grind out the three points from the treatment table.”
Callum accepts the microphone, his grip steady despite the adrenaline still coursing through him.
He looks directly into the camera lens, his expression calm, measured, and radiating a quiet confidence that belies his seventeen years.
“First of all, I’m just incredibly proud of the boys,” Callum says, his voice clear and unwavering over the background noise of the dressing room.
“Watching the second half from in here isn’t how I envisioned ending my debut, but seeing the shift every single player put in to defend that lead, that’s what Leeds United is about. It’s a massive three points.”
He looks down at the glass trophy in his hands, a slight, confident smile touching his lips before he looks back at the camera.
“As for the goal, assist, and the performance, I just did what the gaffer asked me to do. When you step out at Elland Road, you can’t afford to be nervous. You have to demand the ball and make things happen. Taking the penalty, taking on the fullback, I knew what I was capable of long before I crossed the white line today. It’s just a brilliant feeling to prove it on the pitch.”
The presenter nods, clearly impressed by the youngster’s composure.
“And the ankle, Callum? The fans are desperate to know how serious it is.”
“It’s just a standard knock,” Callum replies smoothly, dismissing any lingering worry with a confident wave of his hand.
“A bit of swelling from a heavy tackle, but nothing serious. The medical team is already on top of it. I’ll rest up for a couple of days, and I fully expect to be back out on the grass and ready for the next selection. The journey’s just started.”
.
.
.
.
.
.
A/N: Just a development arc for Callum, who knows what he will get up to in his downtime?
Thanks for the support, as always