All Chapters of The Footballer's Secret: Chapter 1 - Chapter 10

Callum Harris wakes up the morning after the match against Man City with a screaming headache, a crick in his neck from sleeping wrong, and a case of cottonmouth that leaves him feeling like he could drink a liter of water in one go. His usually bright green eyes are bleary. The hangover is intense. He groans quietly before he swipes a hand across his face, feeling the crust of sleep near the corners of his eyes. Sitting up takes monumental effort. His memories of the previous night all get hazy after their win against Man City. 2-1, with him getting an assist off their right-winger and a last-minute goal of his own. Not too shabby. Callum yawns until his jaw pops from the stretch of it. He glances to his right. He’s relieved when he sees that side of the spacious hotel bed is empty. He doesn’t hear the shower running, either, so his “friend” he brought home from the club seems to have cleared out fast this morning. He sits up and stretches. His muscles ache pleasantly, though the pe

“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

It’s nearly lunchtime when Callum wakes up, his mouth dry and stale once more. He blearrily accepts the bottle of water Isaac pushes at him. He drinks it before he mumbles a thanks, then leans back in his seat. Most of the other players are in the same sort of sleep Callum was in, heads pillowing against hoodies they’ve jammed between their faces and the windows, a few of the more friendly players using each other as makeshift pillows while they lean against each other in their sleep. He can hear Roman and Willis talking quietly, probably discussing strategy for their next training drills or something. “Don’t go back to sleep,” Isaac murmurs. Callum blames the flush that creeps up in his cheeks on the fact that Isaac’s voice stays at a perpetual low rumble that belongs better to an audiobook than an athlete. “Look.” He gestures behind them. Callum stifles a yawn before he stretches up in his seat, turning just enough to see what Isaac’s pointing at. He blinks at the sight of a sleepi

Callum’s drive home is uneventful. He knows all the shortcuts and backways that can cut his usual 30-minute drive down to a 20-minute one, and he keeps his music loud so he can ignore anything that isn’t the motorway in front of him, and he soon finds himself in his stupidly posh neighborhood, putting in his security code at the gate before he pulls up to his stupidly posh home. He sits in his car for a moment. It idles—engine silent—before he shuts the music off now that he’s back in a neighborhood where people will call the police over noise pollution. He lingers. There’s always this sort of subtle melancholy that strikes in these moments. Callum stares up at his house. It’s a sprawling, two-storey mansion with a small, immaculate front garden. The eastern cyclamens that Matthijs recommended are just starting to bloom, dotting the flower beds with little bursts of light pink and purple amidst the stark white of the snowdrops. His eyes trail over them. He’d wanted to plant them him

The next hour passes in a blur of stretches, sun salutations, and the good-natured ribbing Callum expects from a bunch of women in their 60s. Once they call it quits and have a proper cooldown, Maureen directs them to the den for their regularly scheduled time with the telly. Soon, everyone is sprawling across couches with glasses of wine and nibbles from the charcuterie board Doris always brings. Callum feels fantastic. The wine is a hit with everyone—even Doris begrudgingly admits it compliments her charcuterie board—his cheeks are pleasantly warm, and he’s gasping along with everyone at the latest scandal that rocks the Isle of Seduction.They’re in the middle of a very heated discussion regarding their favorite contestant, Brandy, getting betrayed by their least favorite contestant, Anthony, when the doorbell rings. They all pause at that. Callum watches Maureen get up, her steps a little tottering for his taste, and he follows after her wordlessly. Even with his cheeks being pink