Six-nil. The game still didn't feel real. Sure, Bulgaria weren't a fantastic team, but neither were Czech Republic and we lost to them. Six goals seemed excessive, but the team revelled in the triumph and there was never a point in the game when we dropped our standards, even when we were six goals up.
It did feel strange playing without Mason: I didn't really know international football without him. I felt bad that he missed the match; he would have absolutely thrived in a game like that and would have for sure gotten on the scoreboard. Bella Rushmore had even scored, and she had gone about twenty games without a goal.
It was clear that Gareth hadn't played our strongest team, choosing to keep bit players like Marcus and Harry Sutherland on the bench while giving John Watkins his debut and playing Zach Smith at right back. I felt like an entirely new player in the game, though. It was exactly the match I needed to get my confidence back and I was grateful to the gaffer for letting me play instead of resting me like he so easily could have. With two assists and a clean sheet, the Czech game was just about out of my mind afterwards.
What wasn't out of my mind afterwards, though, was the situation between me and Mason. Since our encounter in the hallway, I hadn't spoken to him. He'd sat and sulked in the stands during our session at the stadium and before the game had disappeared into his room. Somehow, I'd pushed everything to the back of my mind to focus on the match, but with it successfully over, my mind was reeling once more.
We were on a late flight back to England so that we could head home from St George's after a final, farewell meeting the following morning. Climbing onto the plane, I snuck into a seat next to John after watching Mason stick close to and sit beside Zach. Sitting in the dimly lit cabin as we took off, the bleakness that came with the end of the international break hit me. It was a familiar feeling, but the stab in my gut was more intense that it had been in the past. This was certainly a break unlike one I'd had before and I couldn't help but think that with what had happened with Mason, things were going to be different back in London.
The three and a half hour flight was uncomfortable in more ways than one. John passed out as soon as we'd left the ground, leaving me to my own devices. Opening up my laptop, I considered watching a movie to take my mind off things, but before I could even pick something to watch the battery died. Wondering if I could focus on reading something, I paged through an abandoned magazine in the pocket in front of me. But staring at pages of fashion catalogues seemed just as bad as getting lost in my thoughts.
Finally, I took to putting my headphones on and staring past John out of the window, hoping my eyes would shut and I'd open them to find myself back on English soil. Unfortunately, I only sat in a heavy-eyed state, too aware of Mason sitting a few rows behind me and of John's soft snores beside me to get any sleep.
I sought out Kyle as soon as we entered St George's. Halfway through the flight, I remembered the fact that Mason and I were meant to be sharing a car back to London in the morning. At first, it struck me that the drive offered a perfect time to have a conversation about what had happened and, hopefully, to put it all behind us. But the more I thought it through the more I realised how bad an idea it was: stuck in a car with a Mason as moody and silent as he had been all day wasn't what I needed.
I followed Kyle to his room making small talk about the upcoming trip he had planned with Natalie. We made it to his door, where we stopped. Silence filled the space between us as he fished for his key in his jacket pockets. Looking up at me, he chuckled.
"No offence, Beck, but why are you still here?" Inserting his key card, he pushed the door open but didn't enter his room. "Do you need something?"
I took a deep breath, shoving my hands into my hoodie pockets to stop them fidgeting.
"Um, yeah, kind of." Kyle leaned against the doorframe and crossed his arms. "It's not that big of a deal, but Mason and I had a bit of a fight last night," I said in a breath, my throat starting to ache. "And I'm sure it'll be fine but he's being kind of weird right now and we're meant to be sharing a car tomorrow and—"
"Whoa, slow down," Kyle said, his face fixed in a frown. "A fight? Are you guys okay?"
Fighting back shallow breaths, I shrugged. "I don't know." Blinking repeatedly, I looked away. "I'm sure we will be but right now..." I trailed off and shrugged again.
"Was it about the Lance thing?"
I wanted to confide in Kyle, but I also didn't want him know what the 'fight' was really about. Even if he couldn't give me advice on how to approach Mase after what had specifically happened, he did offer up someone who knew the pair of us well. It made me think that any words he gave me would be worth it, though.
But, at the same time, there was a chance Mason had already turned to him. The last thing I wanted was to come between them by asking for Kyle's help. I also didn't want to put Kyle on the spot and force him to choose sides if he'd already been a helping hand to Mase. I couldn't do that Kyle, I decided.
"Um, that was part of it." I swallowed back, aware for the first time of how dry my mouth was.
Kyle's hand came down on my arm. "Well, hey, I'm leaving here at ten if you want to share a ride with me rather."
Glancing up at him, I nodded. "Please, I would really appreciate it."
Kyle nodded, too. "Yeah, I don't mind." Relief flowed through my chest, calming down my racing heart. "I mean, I'll be dropped off at home but you can probably be taken back into the city."
"Thank you, Kyle, really." Stepping forwards, I wrapped my arms around his torso for a quick hug. His chest vibrated as he chuckled.
"It's really not a big deal, Beck." I pulled away and met his now serious face. "Now let me go to bed, jeez, I'm exhausted."
I grinned and said goodnight, heading up to my room with less weight on my shoulders than a few minutes before. Passing Mason's room, though, my stomach twisted again. I hoped that by Wednesday, whatever mood he'd been in would be well over and we could move on. Because what he'd done – or tried to do – had to have been a mistake. Or a misunderstanding. There was no way that Mason's intention that night was what I was thinking. If that was the case, I had no idea how I would face him.
***
I drove into Cobham on Wednesday with a knot in my stomach the size of a football. I was going on two full days without speaking to Mason, something that hadn't happened since I came back into the first team in August.
Kyle had ended up being a useless source of information: when he'd asked about our fight driving back to London, I'd thrown it back at him by asking if Mason had already turned to him. He hadn't. So, without speaking to Mason again, I had no idea what was going through his head.
I hated how uneasy I felt. Several times the previous day I'd picked up my phone and thought about calling him, or stared at my car keys and considered driving to his house. But, truthfully, I didn't have any idea of what I would say to him. Hey, Mase, did you really try to kiss me the other night? didn't quite seem like an ideal conversation starter. And the conflicting thoughts Emma left me with weren't helping me either.
She was the only other person who actually knew what had gone on in Bulgaria. I'd called her and talked for an age the evening I got back, expecting her to be more sympathetic than she actually was. The only guidance she offered had left me more of a mess than before I'd called her.
"You're really telling me that if Mason was single you would have done the same thing?" When I hadn't replied, she'd followed up by saying, "If his girlfriend was the only thing stopping you, maybe you have bigger things to think about than Lance and George."
Early even by my standards, I sat in the canteen and ate an egg by myself, watching the steady stream of players and staff come in for the day. Kyle and Fran entered together and, as we had after the last international break, we spent some time talking about our own games and those of our teammates. When Fran's eyes turned mischievous, I had a feeling what was about to come up.
"I heard Mitch got in a fight with that United trash bag," she said, dropping her voice despite there being no one close enough to hear her. "Is that true?"
Meeting the uncomfortable eyes of Kyle, I sighed. "It's a long story." Fran shook my knee, her gaze intense.
"Come on; tell me! Please?"
We all knew that the fight would get out somehow, even if the true events of what happened were twisted. With Lance and Mason not included in the squad for the Bulgaria match, questions had naturally fallen on Gareth. He'd played it off as a simple disagreement, but after scouring the headlines with Kyle on our return journey, it was clear that no one believed him. Speculations, thankfully, leaned towards a Chelsea-United rivalry causing the fight instead of anything else, though.
I looked to Kyle for support. I'd expected some interrogations from teammates that were too shy to ask Mason about it, but my apparent connection to the situation made it awkward for me to answer them.
With a clear of his throat, Kyle faced Fran. "Well, Randall is a trash bag, you got that right. I think he got what he deserved, to be honest."
"But what happened?" Insistent, Fran frowned. "Annika said he was teasing Mitch about Chelsea."
"It wasn't about that," I muttered. My unease was steadily growing again; I just wanted Fran to stop talking about it all. "Lance bullied me and Mason the whole time and then got him all riled up one night and Mason cracked. That's it."
"Yeah, check at the number he did to Beck's face," Kyle added, motioning to my eye.
Alarmed, Fran reached up to touch it. Wincing at the temperature of her fingers, I let out a shocked giggle. The nasty bruise that had appeared the evening of the weight incident faded remarkably fast, but the scar from the stitch was still there.
"Did you also fight him?" Fran asked. I laughed, but stopped myself as I saw the genuine concern in her eyes.
"No, this was an accident."
"Apparently." I rolled my eyes at Kyle's side comment.
"This happened before Mason?" I nodded as clarity came over Fran's face. "So it was about you; I see!"
I was fast growing tired of this conversation and was about to tell Fran my thoughts when Olly wandered in, a welcome change of topic. Before long we were joined by Annika and her elaborately plaited hair, and for the moment it seemed Mason and his scandal was forgotten.
When it came time for us to boot up, Mason's presence was still unaccounted for. I tugged on my boots in silence, whipping my head up every time the sound of footsteps came from down the passage. My agitation grew as I headed onto the pitches, Kyle at my side. I was a moment away from asking if he knew where Mason was when the pitches came into view, and so did Mason.
He stood with Frank, a pile of balls at their feet. From across the pitch it was impossible to make out what they were saying, but Mason's fallen shoulders and Frank's crossed arms made me think it was about Mason's misconducts. Frank lifted his head, saw us coming, and placed a deliberate hand on Mason's shoulder. He nodded, his head still down.
"Wonder what that's about."
I shook my head at Kyle's sarcastic comment, not looking at him as he chuckled. Frank was walking towards Jody and some of the other staff, leaving Mason by himself. He flicked up a ball, juggled it for a few seconds before pinging it towards the goals. The ball sailed over the crossbar, leaving Mason standing with his hands on his hips watching it go.
Frank's whistle drew my attention away from a downcast Mason. Most of the team had gathered around the coaches, chatter still humming through them despite Frank looking ready to start. His whistle sounded again and, just as final words of conversations were said, Mason slipped into the group between Daniel Gregory and Spencer Ingle, as far away from me as he could get.
Frank's welcoming remarks were lost as I stared at Mason, willing him to meet my gaze, shoot me a smile, raise his eyebrows, or something. But as Sam took over from the gaffer and gave us warm up instructions, I'd still gotten nothing out of him.
***
The first chance I got to talk to Mason was that afternoon, during our fitness session. It felt like he'd been avoiding me, but it was hard to tell exactly. He'd kept to himself all morning, unusual for Mase. He spoke to barely anyone, didn't partake in any of the banter he usually thrived off, and only cracked a smile when Spencer nutmegged Kyle in a rondo. Whether it was because he didn't want to speak to me specifically or whether he was avoiding everyone asking him about Lance was unclear, but either way I felt horrible.
A steady rain fell from the sky after lunch, dampening my already dull mood. When Sam called us over to where he'd set up beacons and poles for running drills, I had to suppress a moan. With numb fingers already from the cold, spending the next couple of hours sopping wet with Mason still ignoring me wasn't appealing at all.
Dragging myself into a line behind Fran, I tried to psyche myself up by bouncing up and down. Spinning to my left as I jumped, I spotted a sullen looking Mason lined up behind the South American trio of Diego Foyth, Valentina Vargos and Juan Medina. He stood silently, hands on his hips and lips rolled into his mouth.
With a stroke of luck, I heard my name behind called by Sam.
"Uh, can you join that group?" he asked, pointing to the next group over. "You've got too many here."
Nodding, I ignored the skip in my heart and spun on my heels. Mason looked up as I came closer, adjusting his posture to stand taller. I met his eyes anxiously, already feeling a strain between us. He stared at me for a second, face emotionless, before turning his head away.
"Hi," I said purposely.
Coming to stop behind him, I crossed my arms. A small nod was the only acknowledgment I got, apart from rapid Spanish further down the line. Trying to ignore the hurt in my chest, I poked his calf with the toe of my boot.
"You good?" Despite trying to sound neutral, the words came out as accusatory.
Now, Mason's head rolled my way. "Yeah, why wouldn't I be?"
Even his voice sounded down. I wanted to pry, ask him what was going on, but I held my tongue. This temperamental side of Mason was new to me; I didn't know how I should be responding to it. It seemed like leaving him to his devices would be a good idea, but at the same time I wondered if acting normal would fix things faster.
Sam soon started shouting instructions at us and my concentration fell on the drills ahead, away from Mason. As we started, though, my body moved on autopilot while my mind drifted.
We finished the first set, sweat and rain water running down my cheeks as I walked back to our starting point. Keeping my eyes locked on Mason, I made the split second decision to just pretend whatever was going on with him wasn't. It would be harder to ignore me if I was actively speaking to him.
"Guess what series I started watching yesterday?" I asked, coming to a stop beside him.
"What?" He raised his eyebrows.
"Money Heist," I replied, sure it would get some kind of reaction from him. For weeks he'd been telling me to watch it: when I'd come too close to calling him the previous day, I decided it was a good time to finally check it out.
"Yeah?" His level of enthusiasm was miles away from mine, but at least he was acknowledging me now.
"You were right, it's awesome." He just nodded. I cleared my throat. "You should have raved about it more, then I would have started it sooner."
This got a small grin out of him. "I raved plenty."
I felt desperate, but I couldn't stop. "It's so much better than Vikings. Can't believe you made me watch that first."
Insulting his favourite series would have normally set Mason off, but now he just shrugged and crossed his arms, his gaze focused on Sam over his right shoulder.
"Vikings is cool."
My throat ached as his disinterest in me became apparent. I pressed my lips together, breathing heavily through my nose for reasons other than the fitness. Staring hard at the side of Mason's face, the hurt stinging my chest was rapidly replaced with anger. Sam's whistle went in the background, but my focus remained on Mason.
"Is this really how you're going to play this?" I asked, a slight crack in my voice. "Huh?"
For the first time that day, I got some kind of reaction from Mason. He looked over his shoulder, his eyes wide and remorseful. But before he could say anything, he took off at a sprint after Diego.
Clenching my fits, I didn't have an option other than to follow after him, weaving through the poles set up before me. Sprinting back to our starting point, I came to a panting stop beside Mason.
"What are you talking about, Beck?" he asked. His cheeks were flushed and his eyes darted from me to Diego in front of him. "Play what?"
"Play... this; us," I huffed. "After what happened."
He looked at me, his expression softening. I thought for a moment he would apologise, but timing was against me. Looking over his shoulder, he sighed and took off again. Following him, my throat hurt again. Combined with the sprints, it was not ideal.
As I ran back, I wondered if this confrontation was worth it. I clearly wasn't going to get much out of Mase today, while I was only getting more worked up by the second. Maybe I should take this back and just let him be. Seeing his shut off appearance again, I felt the fight leave me.
He didn't say anything as I drew beside him.
"You're just not going to talk me?" I wanted to blame the running for my shaky voice, but that wasn't the reason.
"I was just talking to you, Beck."
My chest swelled with pain once more. I swallowed, hard, and crossed my arms.
"Really? You call that talking?"
He threw a desperate glance over my shoulder, but dashed off before he could say anything. Two more rounds of this and we'd be onto the next drill, I kept reminding myself. I could avoid him once we finished training. If I had the will, I'd try again tomorrow.
My breathing was laboured as I stood behind Mason. He dragged both hands over his face and raised his head to the rain for a second. Trying to avoid looking at him, I took to studying the droplets on the laces of my boots.
"I don't know what you want from me here."
I drew a sharp breath in as my fists clenched by my sides. Anger threatened to spill over me, but when I saw Mason's genuinely baffled expression, it gave way to more hurt.
"Nothing, Mason," I mumbled, my voice almost being carried away in the rain. "I don't want anything from you."
Without a reply, he turned his heels and started after Diego. Dragging my feet, I forced myself forward, too, unaware that those would be the last words I spoke to Mason until Saturday.