More Than a Game | Mason Mount

Forty Two

I expected the champagne to calm me down a bit, but when we pulled into the road and the hotel came into view, my stomach ached with nerves. There wasn't much to be worried about: a short red carpet lined with a few photographers waited outside the hotel and stood at the end was Frank with his wife. All I had to do was pose for some pictures, sign some things for gathered fans, and greet my manager. Easy, right? 

The dull roar from the crowd reached me inside the car and flashes of cameras lit up my dress as I stared down at my lap. Easy for someone like Kyle, maybe, who lapped up this sort of attention. Or for someone like Fran, who looked as natural behind a camera as she did tapping a ball on her feet. Easier for all of them, at least, because of their partners at their sides. 

I lifted my head. Mason sat in the passenger seat, leaving me in the back with Fran and Guilio. His profile gave nothing away, but I wondered how he felt about all of this. Was there some kind of hope at the back of his mind that we'd walk down the carpet together, like there was in mine? I pictured posing for photographers alone, and then imagined being arm-in-arm with Mason in front of a camera lens. Both options seemed equally terrifying. 

Why did I want to come to this again?

As our car pulled to a stop behind Kyle's one in front of us, my stomach flipped. Fran turned to Guilio and asked him something in French. The driver pulled the handbrake up. A voice boomed from a loudspeaker outside announcing Kyle's arrival. 

I shut my eyes for a second and let out a slow breath. You'll be fine, I told myself. This is nothing compared to the 62 000 fans from last night. 

Opening my eyes, I turned to stare out of the window. In front of his car on the pavement, Kyle stood at the edge of the red carpet with Natalie at his side. Ignoring the twist of jealously in my chest, I turned away from the flashing lights and smoothed out my skirt instead. 

"Okay, everyone ready?" the driver asked. 

Before anyone could reply, Mason threw his door open. Guilio followed suit, and within seconds I was alone in the car. Not for long, though, because the driver had stepped outside and now opened my door. 

At once, sounds and sights and the chilly air overwhelmed me. Screaming fans, blasting music, shouting photographers. Camera flashes, laser lights, car taillights. 

I glanced over my shoulder. What happened to Fran? Facing the hotel again, I saw her already just steps away from the carpet, clinging onto Guilio's arm, in conversation with Abby and Jess. My knees shook: too much champagne, too much adrenalin. Unsteady, I stepped forwards but wobbled on an uneven brick in the pavement two paces in. 

Where is Mason? I thought desperately. My eyes flickered from one thing to the next, focusing just enough to make sure I wasn't staring at Mase before moving onto the next thing. A shiver crept up my spine. Why didn't I bring a jacket? 

"Please give it up for London's finest Belgian, Fran Steiner!" 

More cheers, more flashing lights. Panic gripped my chest. This is stupid, I cursed myself. You shouldn't be so – 

"Hart?" 

Hands came down on my shoulders, expelling every ounce of terror in my body. I looked up and almost melted. Mason's eyes lit up with the flash of a camera: so at ease compared to how I'd just felt. 

"You okay?" He lowered one of his arms and stepped in front of me. A grin took over his face as I nodded, searching for my voice. "Carpet's over there, you know." He motioned to the carpet in front of us, where Abby stood waiting with Jess.