More Than a Game | Mason Mount

Forty

"So," I said, drawing it out. "Want to talk about your bad tackle?" 

With a sigh, Mason stopped stirring the completed dish. Before replying, he turned the gas stove off. 

"Not really," he mumbled. On the other side of Mason lay two pasta bowls, which he straightened now, not looking at me. "It's just... The first yellow was such bullshit. Like, it's hard to be upset about the second, but that first one should never have happened." 

I nodded, sensing his frustration. "Yeah, I know. Everyone is saying the same, though." He grunted. "Maybe it'll be overturned?" 

"Doubt it." He flashed me a forced smile and motioned to the food. "Want me to dish up for you?" 

"Please." My cheeks heated up as he held my gaze for a second. He started spooning pasta into a bowl. "There's not much you can do about a shit call though, except try not to feel too bad about it." 

His jaw clenched as he nodded. Worried that I'd taken it too far, I stepped closer to him and wrapped my fingers around his forearm. He stiffened under my touch, so just as quickly as I'd made the movement I pulled my hand back. 

"And no one will be upset with you," I said, feeling my cheeks flush. "Especially once they see the replay." 

"I'm upset with me." 

His words were quiet. With a sigh, he scooped a final dishing into his bowl and picked up his wine glass. After a long swig, he met my eyes again. 

"It's just embarrassing, really. The challenge was so dumb. Don't know why I made it." 

The regret on his face made my stomach clench with compassion. Sure, it had been an unwarranted tackle, but players made mistakes all the time. He wasn't the first player to get a red, and he wouldn't be the last. I told him that in similar words as he carried our bowls to the dining room table, his glass of wine balanced in one hand. His disappointment was still clear when we sat down, evident by how he slumped in his chair. 

"Did Frank say anything?" I asked. 

"He did." Sitting up straighter, Mason grinned. "He told me his first red card was against Spurs, too. And that he wasn't mad at me, just bleak I'd have to miss the Burnley game." 

"See!" I waved my splinted-hand through the air. "Even Frank was chilled! Stop stressing over it!" 

Mason shook his head, lips still raised, and flicked his eyes down to my bowl. "Hope you don't mind a bit of a kick." 

"After tonight?" Mason laughed. "As long as it's not coming from George Carroll I'll be fine." 

I took my first bite of Mason's dinner. As he'd mentioned, the taste of chilli stung my tongue, but it was subtle and flavourful as opposed to overwhelming. 

"Fuck, Mase, this is delicious," I commented, already piling up another forkful.
Mason chuckled humbly, but kept his eyes on his bowl. Worried that I'd overstepped by bringing up his card at all, I nudged his foot with mine under the table.

"Hey," I said quietly. "You okay?" 

He nodded and flashed me a quick smile. "Yeah, I'm fine. Just need some time to accept it." He knocked his socked toes against mine. "At least I have tomorrow to help me get my mind off things." 

At the thought of the gala, my heart leapt. I'd barely thought about it since my conversation with Kyle outside Cobham. Looking down at my wrist – the ugly, obvious brace – I wanted to shrink back. It wasn't exactly going to photograph well.