More Than a Game | Mason Mount

Forty

Walking back downstairs, wet hair dripping onto Mason's grey hoodie, that nagging feeling remained in the pit of my stomach. Questions bounced around my head. Where was Liv tonight? Would she be okay with me coming for dinner like this? Why had Mason even invited me? Was there some kind of hidden motive? Would this be a Bulgaria situation all over again? 

Back down in the hallway, the spicy smell from earlier swirled around me, enticing me though to the next room before I could overthink the situation more. As I entered, I swept my eyes over the space. Shock sped up my heart as they skimmed from the fireplace, lit for the first time I'd seen, to the long dining room table, where two places were set, to Mason standing behind the stove, his attention focused on two large pots beneath him. Was this all for me? 

"Jeez, Mitchell," I said, walking across the room to the kitchen island. Mason's head snapped up. "What's all of this for?" 

He shrugged a shoulder, his cheeks reddening. "I don't know what you're talking about, Hart." 

Shaking my head, I managed to hold back a smile. Rounding the island, I peered into the pots. Reddish sauce bubbled inside one, thick and presumably delicious, while linguine sat in the other. The season I arrived at Chelsea, Mason spent out on loan in Germany. Apart from tearing it up in the Bundesliga, he'd claimed the year taught him something more important than just football: how to cook. Unlike most of the other football players I knew, Mason now cooked most of his meals by himself instead of hiring a chef or hustling leftovers from Cobham. On the few occasions I'd eaten his food, the quality of it had taken me by surprise. 

I leant against the counter beside the stove, my eyes on Mason's profile. "I'm still waiting for the champagne, though." 

Grinning, Mason turned to look at me. "Okay, I lied about the champagne." He flicked his head towards the fridge as I dropped my jaw in faux disappointment. "There's a lot of wine in the fridge, though." 

"Mason Mitchell drinking wine?" I gasped teasingly but moved across the kitchen. "Surely not." 

Mason chuckled behind me as I pulled the fridge open. Eyeing out a couple of bottles of wine on the bottom draw, I pulled out one at random. 

"Yeah, I'm all out of beer I'm afraid." 

The sound of a cupboard shutting sounded behind me, and when I turned around, wine in hand, Mason set two wine glasses on the counter. Meeting his eyes, my stomach turned. Opening the bottle, I looked back down. 

"This feels wrong," I said, pouring Mason's glass. 

"What do you mean?" I could feel Mason beside me, his arm so close to mine, but not close enough for me to make contact innocently. 

"I don't know." I breathed out a laugh and slide his glass across the counter. "Just feels like we shouldn't be drinking, you know?" 

As soon as I said it, my stomach dropped at the implication of my words. Wide eyed, I looked up at Mason and was about to apologise for underhandedly taking a dig at his escapades of last weekend. But, thankfully, he just grinned down at me. 

"Well, neither of us are playing a Premier League game for at least a week." 

Lifting my glass, I raised my eyebrows. "To bad tackles." 

Mason's eyes crinkled at the corners. "Fuck off," he laughed, but clinked his glass against mine anyway. 

We held our eye contact while each of us took a sip. When he turned away to check on his pot again, I lowered my glass back to the counter. He dumped the pasta into the sauce, lip caught in his teeth as he concentrated. Taking his laugh as a positive sign, I cleared my throat before I spoke.