More Than a Game | Mason Mount

Fifty Two

Frank's whistle signalled the end of a relatively easy training. Our manager called us in to say his parting words and my legs dragged along the grass, as if weighed down by concrete blocks. In fact, even given the straightforwardness of the session, I'd had to exert extra effort into moving my body the whole time. Thoughts raced around my head, distracting me from the passing and shooting drills laid out for us, and it showed. 

I wondered if the team picked up on it, if they noticed my sloppy first touches and off-target shots. As I joined the huddle of players and coaches, I spotted Mason across the circle from me. Had he picked up on it? If half of his attention had been on me like mine had been on him, he would have. But, just as I'd seen before training, he'd been irritatingly emotionless all afternoon. 

Frank's words went over my head as I played out what I wanted to say to Mason for the hundredth time. I had it all planned, all rehearsed. All I needed was a chance to get him alone, away from the eyes and ears of the team, so that I could have my say. It couldn't be that hard, right? 

Chatter started up around me, bringing me out of my thoughts. Glued to the spot, I watched as my teammates dispersed and made their way back inside. I didn't blame them: the rain had yet to hit, but the air was thick with static and heavy with clouds. My mind begged me to follow suit, but my legs refused to move when I glanced back to Mason. 

Like me, he stood in the same place, body rigid and expression blank. We locked eyes and my stomach lurched. Here's your chance, Beck. With a deep breath, I willed my legs forward, and forward, until I stood in front of Mason. 

"Hey," I greeted. My voice sounded weak, so I cleared my throat as Mason raised his eyebrows. "Um, look—" 

"I'm going to do some free kicks," Mason said in a hurry, eyes wide. I blinked at him. "Uh, do you want to join?" 

"Yeah, okay." 

Mason nodded. His intervention had thrown me off, but I pushed down my alarm. In silence, we ambled towards the goals, gathering loose balls as we went. I leant down and picked up a ball bag, too. One of the coaches was busy throwing balls into them across the pitch from us. Mason caught his attention, motioned to our growing pile, and received a thumbs-up in reply. 

Tension stiffened my shoulders more and more as the silence between us dragged on. Words played on repeat in my head, but my mouth couldn't form them. I glimpsed at Mason. His gaze focused on the ground, eyebrows low over his eyes. Did his mind flip through what he wanted to say, too? Did nerves also hold him back from saying them? 

I swallowed and tore my gaze away. Instead, I tried to engross myself in the ball at my feet. Half my attention remained on Mason in my periphery as I took a couple of steps back. He rested his hands on his hips and raised his head to watch me. Butterflies filled my stomach as I eyed the goal, but I flicked my gaze to him for a millisecond. With a deep breath, I stepped up and fired the ball towards the net. Satisfied as it flew into the back of it, I faced Mason. 

His lips rolled into his mouth. He held my stare for a moment, still speechless, but then turned away and set up a ball in the same way I had. I took my turn to watch him as he ogled the goals. My heart panged as he brushed the hair from his forehead, leaving it ruffled on the top of his head. 

I need to say something.

Mason made perfect contact with the ball and it sailed into the top corner of the goals. He barely reacted, just stood facing the net. 

Say something! 

"How was brunch?" I blurted. It was the last thing I'd planned to say, and my nails dug into my palm in frustration at my words.