Chapter 2

Isaac’s idle chatter fills the elevator when they take it from the fourth floor down to the ground floor. It stops quickly when they step out into the hall. The lobby, Callum realizes, is packed with his teammates. A stubbornly paranoid part of him keeps his eyes peeled for Alex. He doesn’t spot him in the sea of Alexandria players. He relaxes a bit before he heads out. He finds their kitman, a rather spry lad named Nathaniel, and passes him his bag so he can load it into the luggage compartment of the coach. He sits between Isaac and Matthijs Van der Meer, the recent transfer from the Netherlands. The tall, blonde bastard is deeply engrossed with Peter Keller, their residential walking encyclopedia from Switzerland, on the latest crime thriller they’re working their way through.

“I just think you should give more weight to my theories. Statistically speaking, in the cases of murder during an ongoing divorce, it is most likely the to-be-divorced spouse that is the culprit,” Matthijs argues. Callum blinks before he glances at Peter, who only shrugs. 

“Yeah, normally, but what about the weird neighbor? She seems to be taking the loss harder than the woman’s husband. She keeps insisting she and the wife had this ‘profound bond’. That sounds textbook psychotic to me,” Moe insists. Their voices quickly overlap while they talk. Callum shakes his head before he glances at Isaac. They trade a look that speaks volumes without a single syllable being uttered.

The careful arch of Isaac’s eyebrow. Are you hearing this shit, bruv?

Callum’s lips are twitching into a half-smile. They’re as weird as ever, aren’t they?

Isaac is rolling his eyes. Yeah, but they’re our weirdos, aren’t they?

Callum is giving his shoulders a little shrug. If you insist on claiming them. 

That gets a laugh from Isaac. They listen to the other pair bicker for a moment before Isaac gets up. He pats Callum on the back again. 

“Grabbing some grub. D’ya want a cup of coffee, mate?” he asks. Callum nods. 

“Decaf, three pumps of caramel syrup if they have it out, and—”

“And honey instead of sugar, I know.” 

Callum preens a bit when Isaac lumbers off to get him coffee. Predictably, Isaac takes his own coffee the same way he takes his tea: no sugar with just a splash of cream. He listens to Peter and Matthijs start arguing in earnest over how their little show will end. It’s the same old circle they spin in together. Find a new show to watch, develop opposing theories about the show, argue, gloat when one of them ends up being right, and then inevitably apologize when the gloating forces them apart for a couple of days. Their chatter is comforting in the same way reruns of a childhood sitcom relegated to the background are comforting. There’s a familiarity, a reliability, a certainty in how they interact. No matter what, they’ll spend two or three days sulking. No matter what, they both lick their respective wounds in private. No matter what, they’ll find some new show or podcast to obsess over so they can come back together. 

Wash, rinse, and repeat. 

Sometimes, Callum thinks he hears a laugh track play when one of them lands a particularly funny joke, or the live-studio audience goes ooooh collectively when a jab is too sharp, too real. He jolts back to reality when a cup of coffee appears in front of him. Steam still rises and curls lazily above the recyclable cup the hotel chain insists upon. Callum glances to his right when Isaac settles back into his chair with a plate overladen with breakfast food. Honestly, he’s a bit surprised it can handle the weight of the full English Isaac is treating himself to. He raises an eyebrow at the sight of it before he takes a sip of his coffee.

“Oooh, this is one of the hotels with the syrups at the coffee station,” Callum muses, sticky-sweet, artificial caramel flavor bursting across his tongue. He delights in the way Isaac’s face twists into a mildly disgusted scowl at his naked enjoyment. 

“Can’t believe caffeine makes you sick, but all that sugar and artificial crap don’t," Isaac mutters, shaking his head before he stabs his fork into one of his fried eggs. “You never fucking eat anything solid in the morning. It’s all decaf coffee and fruit smoothies. You need something with substance, bruv,” he chides. Chides. He takes being the captain a step too far at times. Callum rolls his eyes before he nicks the banana off of Isaac’s plate. He ignores his squawk of protest in favor of unpeeling it. 

“My fruit smoothies have protein powder in them, bruv, and lots of vitamins. Quit your mithering.” Callum devours the banana quickly, then tosses the peel into the nearest bin with pinpoint accuracy.

“Fuck, I hate that you’re good at that. It’s too bad you’re all short and shit, or you’d have been great at basketball instead of football.” Isaac heaves out a great big sigh at the thought. “We’d have never been mates, though. You’d have stayed down in Cardiff your whole life.” His eyes narrow accusingly at Callum before he points his fork at him in warning. “So stay short,” he commands. 

“... I’m 25, Isaac. I’m pretty sure I’ll be 5’8 forever,” Callum snorts. “Unless I’ve just been really overdue for a growth spurt. Or unless I can steal some of Matthijs’ height.” That catches the attention of their Dutch defender. He frowns, his head tilting to the side a bit like a confused dog. A very tall, very broad confused dog that was terrifying to face down on the pitch, but a dog nonetheless.

“He’s not that tall,” Isaac mutters, rolling his eyes. Peter pats Matthijs on the shoulder. 

“Mate, he’s 6’4. The prick’s nearly a full foot taller than me. He’s pretty fucking tall,” Peter says.

“Yeah, and I’m 6’1. So he’s not that tall, comparatively, like,” Isaac insists. Callum bites his lower lip while they start arguing over something just as ridiculous. He uses the chaos to his advantage so he can steal some sliced pineapple out of the fruit bowl Isaac got. He enjoys the tang and slight sting of it on his tongue and lips. He lets the noise of his three greatest friends talking wash over him like the tide.

It’s going to be a good day, Callum decides, which is probably why the universe decides to remind him that it isn’t going to be a good day.

“Callum!” Everyone looks up. Callum feels his face blanch at the sight of Alex, one of Man City’s centre-backs. The same Alex he got onto his back last night. 

Fuck.