Chapter 3

“En’t he one of the Man City boys?” Callum nearly jumps out of his skin when he realizes William Sinclair, their transfer striker originally from Man City, moves to their table. 

“Defo. He’s got the stupid Manc accent.” Callum ignores the way Isaac laughs at his own joke, or how William squawks in protest at the dig. Callum’s cheeks are quickly turning pink. He stands abruptly before he hurries away from the table and over to Alex. He ignores his friends' sounds of protest in favor of getting Alex a little further away from them. He’s not able to get out of their line of sight. He doesn’t even try. For all they know, he’s currently consorting with the enemy and risking a knife to the back for it. They'd probably try to follow them if they moved too far away.

“You’re still here?” Callum asks, keeping his voice low while he looks Alex over. Fuck, but he’s even hotter in the light of day. He offers up a grin that rides the line between lazy smugness and boyish shyness. 

“Left my charger in the room,” Alex supplies. Callum digs in the pocket of his hoodie before he pulls out a phone charging cable. Alex’s eyes light up when he sees the pastel blue cable. “Mint. Dead nice of you to hold onto it for me, yeah?” he asks, taking it. Callum swallows thickly when Alex’s fingers—pleasantly calloused yet gentle—brush against his fingers in the hand-off.

“Yeah. Yeah, no, s’fine. I didn’t want housekeeping to chuck it in the bin or anything,” he reasons. This is a sign, right? Alex had fun last night. Callum knows he did. He’s never gotten complaints about that. He sucks in a breath before he offers him a small grin. They’re still somewhere people can see them. He can’t look too friendly after their match yesterday. “Listen, um—” Callum feels his face burn when his voice cracks. He fumbles for his phone. “There’s still the home match, right? Next month. If you wanted someone to get you a cheer-up shot after we destroy you…” he trails off, then holds his phone out to get Alex’s number. 

“Cocky, aren’t you?” Alex muses, glancing down before he takes the phone. Callum’s grin only widens. “... Don’t answer that, actually. If I ever find myself riding through, totally unrelated to a match you may or may not win, I’ll give you a ring if I want a good time,” he decides. He hands the phone back after he’s added himself as a contact. Callum nods before he tucks his phone away in his hoodie pocket. 

“Yeah. Uh, mint?” he tries, the Manchester slang feeling slightly awkward on his tongue. Even after spending so much time with William, picking up bits and pieces of his dialect, he worries he’ll fuck it up and look like the village idiot from a rural Welsh town that some people joke he is. Alex just nods. 

“Yeah. Mint,” he agrees. He turns and walks off. Callum carries that light, easy feeling close to his chest the entire walk back to the table his mates are at. Maybe this one-night stand can become something a little more, he thinks, smiling to himself before he sits down between Isaac and Matthijs. He doesn’t catch the look Matthijs gives him. He’s still grinning when Isaac nudges him. 

“Oi. The fuck was that for?” he asks. 

Shit.

“We went to school together for a while,” Callum lies. They come easily to him. He wishes they didn’t. He wishes lies didn’t come easier than the truth. It tastes like ash on his tongue. He watches his friends absorb the words. He waits for them to pick it apart, find the root of his dishonesty, and trace it all back to the seed of shame it's born from. They don’t. They never do. Peter just nods. 

“Nice. Catching up with an old schoolmate?” he asks. Callum nods.

“Callum’s got mates all over the bloody UK,” Isaac mutters, rolling his eyes before he slings an arm around his shoulders. “Not that you need ‘em anymore, mind. You got us.” He looks suspiciously proud when he says that, Callum thinks, resisting the urge to cuddle up beneath the heavy warmth that is Isaac’s massive fucking arm over his shoulders. 

“Right. I’ve got the entire first team,” Callum jokes. Matthijs and Peter nod while William scoffs. He drags a fifth chair over to their table before he plops down. 

“If you keep getting distracted by catching up with the enemy, like, then you’ll have to befriend the entire second team,” he retorts. Callum bats at the other man when he ruffles his hair. 

“Will! C’mon, you don’t see me fucking up your hair!” Callum scowls at him weakly just to get a Cheshire cat smile in return. His grey eyes glitter with mischief. His brown hair frames his face with stupidly perfect curls, the morning sunlight streaming in through the nearby window catching the blonde highlights. God. He should be filming another shampoo ad soon, Callum thinks, idly catching one of his own dirty blonde waves between his fingers. Maybe he should look into a perm? William would probably only make fun of him a lot if he asked him about any kind of curling process. They’re unable to think or banter after that, because the gaffer stands at the head of the long table where most of the team clusters.

“OI! You lot better sit down and shut the fuck up!” Roman Keates, an Alexandria legend in his own right, glares at them all until he gets total silence. Everyone sits down and shuts up. Roman isn’t the sort you push back against. Unless, of course, you’re William, who seemingly has a death wish. Even he shuts his mouth dutifully while dark brown, intense eyes sweep over the room. “... You lads busted your arses yesterday,” he begins, each word of heavy, rare praise soaked in rich approval. “You played a full 90 against Man City and fucking won. 2-1. In their own fucking stadium,” he continues. The ghost of a grin curls at his lips. The dark, trim beard that hides the lower half of his face isn’t enough to hide the telltale twitch of his mouth. “So when we get back to Alexandria, it’s a well-earned rest day for everyone. I don’t want to see hide or hair of you twats until tomorrow morning, 8am sharp for match tape review. Am I understood?” he finishes. 

“Yes, Coach!” everyone choruses. Roman nods before he steps away from the long table. 

“Right. Now finish your fucking food and get to the coach in the next 10 minutes. If your arse isn’t in a seat by the time Coach Willis takes a headcount, you’re responsible for getting back to Alexandria on your own,” he instructs. 

“Yes, Coach!” everyone repeats. The dining room in the hotel stays quiet after that, aside from the scrape of silverware against plates. Roman Keates does not joke around. Ever. Callum smiles to himself while he finishes his coffee. He tosses it into the same bin from before and heads out to where the coach is already idling. He might as well get on early, or at least make sure he can get his bag in a good spot in the storage compartment…