More Than a Game | Mason Mount

Nine

Kyle and Mason were laughing about a moment in the game where I'd slipped as we climbed the stairs to Mason's door.  I just rolled my eyes at the pair, feeling too weary to shout at them.

Walking into the entranceway, a strange sadness hit me.  The place looked just about the same, but small differences instantly jumped out at me: there was a strong scent of perfume in the air, unfamiliar to my nose; flowers decorated the dining room table; extra throw pillows were on his couch.  I swallowed back discomfort at all the obvious feminine touches and instead replied to Mason's offer for tea.

Luckily, the games room downstairs seemed to be void of any Liv-ness.  It was exactly how I remembered: fat sacks, TV that was verging on unnecessarily big, gaming consoles on the floor beneath it, and the ping pong table still in perfect condition.

I plopped onto the couch next to Kyle, careful not to spill my tea.  Mason took a seat on the massive fat sack and instantly picked up a controller. Glancing over his shoulder, he pulled a face.

"We did not think through there being three of us," he muttered.

"Rock paper scissors?" Kyle asked, turning to me.  I waved him off, deciding to take one for the team on the first game.

"I'll play the winner, it's okay."

"Thanks, Becky!" Kyle cheered, grabbing the remote from Mason's outstretched hand.

"You know what," I said, trying to steal the controller off him, "you can't call me Becky and expect me to still let you go first."

After a laughing apology from Kyle and some added abuse from Mase, I conceded again and sat back with my tea, watching the two boys battle it out.  Just as the first game finished (three-one to Kyle), his phone bleeped, informing us that our food was here.  With Kyle rushing back upstairs to get it, Mason and I were left alone.

"I can't believe how long it's been since we last did this," he mumbled.  Taken by surprise at his unexpected words, I frowned at him.  His expression changed.  "What?"

"Nothing."  That same despondency from earlier had returned.  I didn't like the way my chest was suddenly hurting, so I just motioned to the TV screen.  "Come on, let's start before Kyle comes back."

We played as PSG and Liverpool (Mason was determined to prove that the squad wasn't that good after all), and I was one nil up when Kyle came back down.

"What the fuck Mase?" he cried.  Mason and I chuckled like kids, but a moment later Mason was shouting back at Kyle, a pillow lying beside him after deflecting off his head.

"It was Beck's idea anyway," he muttered a while later when, at halftime, Kyle had demanded the controller to finish off his game.

"Yeah, right.  Just eat your burger and let me finish off Beck."

***

By midnight, it was clear that we were fading.  Empty takeout boxes lay strew on the floor and somehow four tea mugs had appeared around them, too.  We'd switched from Fifa to watching a movie an hour ago, but even the Will Smith thriller was barely keeping my eyes from falling shut.

"Fuck, guys, I'm about to pass out," Kyle eventually mumbled.  "I think I'm gonna head."

"I should get going, too," I agreed, stretching my arms above my head.  Kyle had stood up and his lanky frame towered over me as he held out a hand for me to slap.

"See you tomorrow," he was saying as he slung an arm around Mason, who'd just stood up, too.  "Thanks for this; it was fun."

I said goodbye to the striker and watched him depart upstairs, Mason still under his arm.  Looking around at the mess we'd created, I slowly started to gather boxes and serviettes into the brown paper bag in which they'd arrived. I could hear Kyle cackling at something upstairs and the sound brought a smile to my face.