That was thirteen months ago. The injury turned out to be much more serious than I'd initially thought: damage to my cruciate and medial ligaments left me in a worse state than I could have ever imagined.
I had surgery five days after the game, back home in London. After that, the darkest seven months of my life followed. I watched my teammates enjoy the rest of their summer holiday while I spent painful hours at Cobham each day trying to get back onto my feet. When pre-season started, I had to watch from the gym as the team began preparations for the season ahead, and as time went on and the league progressed, I had to wonder if I'd ever play Premier League football again.
However, with a team of the best physios, doctors, nutritionists and trainers, I slowly but surely improved. Come February, I had started training with the under twenty-three side. By March, I was coming off the bench for their games and, eventually, I was starting them. It wasn't quite the same as playing for the first team, but it was something. Meetings with Frank and my recovery team concluded that I'd finish the season with them, and come back for pre-season with the first team.
Come the end of the season, I felt back to my full strength again and so ready to move back to my rightful place in the first team. The summer came and went in a flash and as it did, my anticipation of starting proper training again grew exponentially. By the time our first day of pre-season came I had never been so excited in my life.
Pre-season was successful, as was our pre-season tour. I came off the bench in most games, and the training had me tired, but I was generally fine. But then came our last game of the tour, against Barcelona. Frank had told me he'd use it as a test to see if I was back to my full ability, seeing as it was a friendly we could afford to lose. I started, and twenty minutes later was carried off the pitch by our medics.
A hamstring injury put me out for a further three weeks. It was a slap in the face, and I considered throwing in the towel and quitting my career then and there. But, once again, I focused my efforts and energy into coming back as soon as possible, and the day had finally come.
Walking out to the pitches that morning, I thought that as long as I could play again at the end of it, I'd go through the whole process again.
I'd arrived at Cobham much earlier than I needed to that day. I had a final appointment with Stuart, our club's head medic, just to hear for sure if I'd return to normal training, but I was there thirty minutes before that, even. I'd taken the time to wander around the pitches outside; the crisp, late August air clearing my head. There had been a lot on my mind recently, things unrelated to my injury, and I'd hardly taken time out to process them. The walk had done me well, clearly, because as soon as I entered Stuart's office, football was my sole focus again.
Frank Straus, our manager and former Chelsea legend, had met me in the office. I had always suspected that the gaffer had a bit of a soft spot for me, and his presence in my appointment fortified that idea. He was particularly chatty that morning as I went through the motions with Stu at my side. I think he was almost more excited than I was upon seeing Stu's face light up in a smile when the test was complete.
As soon as I was cleared, I rushed back to the changing rooms to pull my boots on. The rest of the team must have just gone out, because right before I entered the room, Diego came rushing past me, throwing an apology over his shoulder. Catching a glance of myself in the mirror, I wondered if the smile on my face was going to remain there for the whole day.
Once changed and ready, I practically skipped towards the pitches. My teammates were out and clearly ready to start, but the coaching staff were still busy setting up beacons or chatting themselves. The mood in the team had been great thanks to two wins from our first two matches of the season. After a hard fought win against United on Sunday, it was clear that the coaches weren't concerned if we started training a bit later: I think they knew the team deserved a bit of slack, especially given that our opponents on the weekend were a dodgy-looking Southampton side.
Sporadic groups were spread out across the near side of the pitch. Some were passing balls between them, others just standing and chatting. I could feel the smile on my face growing as I headed towards one of the groups without a ball.
From where I was, I met the eyes of Fran Steiner, a Belgian midfielder who was one of my favourites in the team. She widened hers and quickly started hitting the person closest to her on the arm excitedly. That person happened to be Mason, and as he noticed me walking towards the group, confusion flashed across his face.
I hadn't told Mase how close I was to starting training again, so it didn't surprise me that he looked puzzled seeing me back. I had wanted to tell him, but developments in the last few months had resulted in us drifting apart, something that made my heart twist uncomfortably. Naturally, with me locked inside of the gym for the months following the World Cup, we had seen less and less of each other. In the first couple of months post-injury, we tried to keep up. We both made an effort to hang out, even if it was mostly just him coming to my apartment and sitting on my couch for an hour.
But as the months passed, his time became engrossed elsewhere and I became too focused on my recovery. When I started training with the youth team again, we found ourselves bumping into each other around Cobham, which helped us get partly back on track. He was away all summer, and he missed the majority of pre-season tour due to a calf injury he picked up in one of our training sessions, though.
My next round of rehab had caused another loss of contact, although there wasn't much there to lose. It hurt me to see how little he seemed to care about maintaining our friendship, and so I stopped putting in effort, too. It was only a couple of days ago that we'd spent an afternoon at Cobham together in the gym and began talking again. Since then, I had been set on investing more into getting us back to where we were during the World Cup. I had yet to see the same determination from his part.
Standing with Mason and Fran were Annika Nilsson, Olivier Fourie and my fellow countryman Kyle Wallace. Although I had good relationships with just about everyone on my team, the group standing in front of me were probably my favourites. We were all similar ages, which was probably what prompted us to start spending time together in the first place. Since then, though, we'd become a pretty tight-knit group, not just on the pitch but off it, too.
As I got closer, the group started throwing greetings at me. Fran was the first to break formation and rush forwards. She leapt at me, forcing me to catch her relatively large body in my arms as I laughed.
"You're back!" she was cheering. "This is so great, Beck!"
As she planted herself back on the ground, I beamed around at the rest of the group, all of whom had come forward to welcome me back, too. Olly was the next person to step forward, and he lifted me up and spun me around. I couldn't help the squeal that sounded from my mouth.
"Hey, careful," Mason said as Olly returned me to the ground. Glancing over, I saw a genuinely concerned expression on his face that he quickly tried to cover by grinning at me.
"I've been cleared," I reminded Mason, rolling my eyes teasingly. "You don't need to worry anymore."
"Does that mean we can beat you up again without feeling guilty?" Kyle teased, throwing up fists in a mock fight.
"Bring it on." Instantly, I lifted my arms, too.
"Or I can just do this!" he cried, lunging forwards.
Before I could process what was happening, Kyle had thrown me backwards over his shoulder and was spinning around. Hysteric shrieks left my lips as I pounded on his back, begging him in between gasping laughs to put me down.
It didn't seem like he was planning to until he abruptly stopped. The sounds of the others laughing had been clear in my ears, but now I was the only one still giggling.
"Alright, that's enough, Kyle." Frank's stern voice made me realise the reason for Kyle ending our fun.  Placing me carefully back on solid ground, Kyle looked at me sheepishly as our coach continued speaking. "We don't want to injure her on her first day back. Again."
Frank Straus was generally a pretty chilled, friendly guy. He made an effort to get to know the team and spend time with us, going so far as to invite us to the odd dinner at his house. But Frank also knew when it was time to be serious and time to work. The line was fine, and I think often managers didn't define it well enough, but nine times out of ten Frank got it right.
"Sorry, boss," Kyle said embarrassedly. "It's just nice to have her back."
"It really is," the gaffer agreed, a smile taking over his previously grim face. "So let's keep it like that, yeah?"
With a definitive nod, he moved on from our group and took off in a sprint to intercept an aerial ball headed towards Abby Russell. Olly, Fran and Annika started teasing Kyle while he shooed them away, clearly embarrassed. I heard them behind me as I watched Frank tapping the ball on his knees, showboating for Abby and Diego while they watched in amusement.
Meanwhile, Mason came up beside me and bumped my shoulder with his own. Looking up at him, I widened my eyes at the bleak appearance in his.
"Why didn't you tell me you were coming back?" he asked quietly, I imagined so that our teammates behind us didn't overhear.
Guilt manifested in my stomach as I crossed my arms and faced my friend. I swallowed it back defiantly, though. The rift between us wasn't really either of our faults, but I felt as if every time I spoke to Mason recently he tried to make it seem like it was because of a lack of effort from my part, which wasn't at all fair.
"When was I meant to have told you?" I asked coolly. "It's not like I've seen you a lot recently."
"Come on, Beck, that's not fair." With a sigh he mirrored my stance. Meeting his eyes, I regretted my cold reply. "You could have messaged me or something."
"Sorry," I mumbled earnestly. "I wasn't sure if it was going to happen or not. Stu only cleared me this morning."
I could tell Mason wanted to press the matter more, but relief washed through me as he just shrugged.
"It's nice to have to you back." A grin spread across his face, his brown eyes softening. "I missed you. Thomas' crosses aren't nearly as good as yours."
I smiled back and shoved him in the arm playfully. "No one's crosses are as good as mine," I added.
"Can't argue that."
We were grinning at each other when Frank's whistle blew. I held Mase's eye contact for a moment longer before facing the coach. The rest of the team started gathering around him and, as Frank started speaking, the reality of being back on the field made my toes curl in eagerness. I'd been waiting for this day for what felt like the longest time: I was so ready to make my comeback.