More Than a Game | Mason Mount

Thirty One

Without being aware of what woke me up, my eyes opened. I blinked a few times, confusion drawing me to glance at my watch; it was only eight am. I squinted into the light emitting from my wrist and suddenly remembered the events from the night vividly. With this, I realised what had woken me up. 

Noises came from outside my room. Mason had clearly woken up, because I could hear him muttering to himself, along with the sounds of activity coming from the other side of my door. Recounting the night, my heart rate picked up and nerves appeared in my stomach. I took some deep breaths, though, and swung my legs off the edge of my bed. After allowing myself a moment, I headed out of my room. 

Mason was leaning against my kitchen counter, his head in his hands. The bottle of water I'd left was next to him on the counter, as was a half-eaten apple. He was mumbling to himself, clearly unaware that I was standing there. So I cleared my throat softly. 

His head snapped up, and his appearance shocked me. His hair was a mess, his eyes bloodshot and dazed. He frowned, opened his mouth, shook his head, and closed it again. He looked confused, half asleep, and, strangely, a bit angry. 

"Beck," he said, his voice husky and strained. "I'm so, so sorry."

I tried to ignore the pit in my stomach as I walked closer, stopping on the other side of the island. From closer, Mason looked so much worse. Swallowing, I thought of how to reply. 

Eventually, all I came up with was, "What happened, Mase?" 

Mason lifted his hands to his head as he shook it. A loud sigh escaped him and as he lowered his hands, the grimace on his face became apparent. 

"God, I don't..." he trailed off, shaking his head again. I realised that I'd misplaced the anger I'd seen on him earlier. It wasn't aimed at me, but rather himself. "I was so stupid." 

He started sliding down my counters, disappearing from my sight as he reached the floor. Pity washed over me, my stomach clenching at how despondent he seemed. I moved around the island and hesitantly lowered myself down next to him, not really sure how to deal with this situation. Flashes of us cuddling on the couch made me shy all of a sudden: I'd been able to deal with him then knowing the state he was in, but this felt like an entirely new ballpark for us. 

Looking at him, I wondered how much of the night he remembered. He was staring at a patch on the tiles to his side, his legs sprawled out in front of him. I heard him take a deep breath and looked back at his side profile. 

"It was this club opening – or closing, maybe, I don't even know – and I agreed to go ages ago," he said, his voice soft. It felt like I was holding my breath as he talked. "We got there and Liv..." he sighed, leaning his head back and shutting his eyes. "I just hate those kinds of things, so I drank way too much and Liv was preoccupied so I left, without all my shit, obviously." 

The defeat in his voice made the pity I'd just felt intensify tenfold. I wanted to comfort him somehow – take his hand, pull him in for a hug, anything – but I remained motionless at his side, fighting my better judgement. 

"I'm really sorry you got dragged into everything, Beck." Now, he turned his head and met my eyes. Maybe it was due to his hangover, but they were filled with vulnerability. "Liv really shouldn't have called you. And you shouldn't have had to deal with me. Fuck, I shouldn't have done this in the first place." 

"It's okay," I murmured gently. His face was contorted with distress; I was worried he'd start crying if he kept on speaking. "I get why she did." 

Something flashed across his face for a moment, but it was gone before I could figure it out. I remembered Liv telling me Mason mentioned our fight: I wondered if he was thinking about that now. Clearing my throat, I twirled the ends of my hair.