There was no chance for me to properly see the team after the match. Stu practically dragged me off the pitch and into the medical room to look at my wrist. He decided that I needed proper x-rays, and I needed them now. Left with just enough time to do an interview and accept my Player of the Match award, I spent not even a minute in the changing room tugging a tracksuit over my sweaty body. With a smile on my face from the few congratulations I did receive, I departed the stadium with another one of our medics, Clara.
One of the people I didn't manage to see was Mason. He'd been on the treatment table when I entered, face down as a physio worked the back of his legs, and he was still there when I left moments later.
Back in Chelsea, sitting in the hospital waiting room, I watched replays of his first yellow card â the completely unjust penalty â and my heart sank for him once more. Slowed down, it was clear to anyone that saw the move that he won the ball fair and square. The Sky pundits defended VAR, saying he got the player before the ball, but my cheeks flushed with rage still.
The couple of hours at the hospital passed in a blur. I had the x-rays and waited. The doctor came, we chatted, and I waited. A nurse re-did Stu's strapping, and I waited. A different doctor took me to get a cast moulded, and I waited. Finally, the first doctor returned, handed me my prescribed painkillers, and said I was free to go.
Messages from my teammates and my parents and my friends had lit up my phone all night, but I hadn't had the energy to reply to them. I scrolled through them with one hand while I waited for Clara to sort out the bill, guilt growing as I saw the concern I was ignoring. Just before I could put it away, it began to ring. Mason's name flashed across the screen. For a split second I debated ignoring him, even. But I accepted the call: Mason was the one person I did feel like speaking to.
"Hello?" I asked, pressing the phone to my ear.
"Hart, hey," he said, his voice breathy. "Fuck, I've been messaging you for hours. What happened? Are you okay?"
Warmth spread across my chest as I grinned at the ground. "Yeah, I'm okay. Sorry, I'm just about to finish at the hospital."
"You're still there?"
"Still here."
"Flip, that's a long day." I made a noise of agreement. "Well, what's the verdict, then? Did they have to amputate?"
With a giggle, I glanced down at my wrist. Clara had managed to talk them out of using a plaster cast, so a fancy black plastic one held my wrist secure. I'd be back in a week for a check up and possibly a new one cast if the swelling lessened.
"Yup, had to chop it right off."
Mason chuckled, too. "I back you to pull off the one-handed look."
"Oh, yeah, I'm rocking it."
"Beck?"
Lowering the phone from my ear, I spun around at Clara' call. She stood across the foyer at the reception desk still, but held up a thumb and mouthed two minutes. I nodded and lifted the phone to my ear again.
"âand plus, no one even really needs a non-dominant hand these days, right?"
Laughing, I shook my head as I imagined the rant Mason had just finished. "Look, I'm about to leave. Can I call you back when I'm home?"
"No, wait!" Surprised at his cry, I just blinked for a moment. Mase cleared his throat. "Uh, have you at least managed to eat something?"
Picturing the meagre bag of pretzels Clara had found me, I pulled a face. "Not really."
He was silent for a moment. My heart sped up, sensing his next words before the said them.
"Look, I just made dinner." My stomach clenched. "Why don't you come here and eat?" Before I could reply, he kept rambling. "It'll just, like, take the pressure off you a bit, you know? And I know you left in a rush, so if you want to shower, that's fine, andâ"
"Okay, okay, you've convinced me," I said, a small smile on my face. "I'll be there soon."
"You will?" Surprise laced his tone. I could practically see the grin that I knew he'd been wearing. "Uh, okay, great. I'll pop the champagne."
Still smiling, I said goodbye and pocketed my phone. Clara had just finished, so she motioned for me to come over. We fell into step, heading towards the lift for the underground parking.
"Everything sorted?" I asked.
Clara nodded and shot me a smile. As Stu's right hand, she'd played a big role in my recovery the previous season, too. I had a suspicion she had a soft spot for me: whenever I saw her, she talked about her daughter back in France who she claimed I reminded her of. Now, as she put a hand on my shoulder, the feeling returned.
"All sorted; nothing to worry about," she replied. "How is it feeling?"
Stepping in the lift, I lifted my left wrist and rotated it slowly. Clara gave me two pills in the car on the way to the hospital, but already they were wearing off and the pain was returning.
I shrugged. "Not great."
Clara gave me a sympathetic look as we rode down to the basement. As frustrating as my time at the hospital had been, it must have been much worse for her. I was sure the medic had better ways to spend a Saturday night than waiting around for x-rays and casts. But still, Clara smiled at me as she started up the car.
"Heading to Sloane Square, right?" she asked, throwing the car into reverse.
"Um, actually, head towards Kensington High Street, if you know where that is."
With a frown, she shook her head. I typed Mason's postal code into my phone, telling her that I'd direct as she drove. We sat in silence, the radio presenter spewing French that I didn't understand. It took her a couple of minutes before she asked.
"So, who's in Kensington High Street?" My cheeks warmed at her suggestive tone. "A boyfriend? Girlfriend?"
"No one special," I mumbled, pointing her at the next right turn up ahead. "Just Mason."
Clara gasped. "Our Mason?" I nodded, the blush spreading down to my chest. "I didn't know you two wereâ"
"Just friends," I interrupted quickly with a shake of my head. "He's just giving me supper."
Clara stayed quiet, but when she pulled up outside Mason's house, she turned to me with a knowing smile.
"Enjoy your night, Beck." I unstrapped and resisted the temptation to roll my eyes. "I hope the wrist feels better."
"Thanks for everything, Clara." Opening the door, I smiled at her once more. "I really appreciate it."
Standing on the street staring up at Mason's house, nerves appeared in my stomach for the first time since he'd called. Light poured out of his large front window, lighting up the black finishes that bordered it. The street was empty, quiet, as it normally was, so as I reached the gate I knew the sound of the car driving off was Clara. Taking a deep breath, I started up the stairs.
Before I rang the bell, I glanced down at myself. I hadn't seen my reflection in hours, something that crossed my mind as I raised my hand to the doorbell. My hair must have been a greasy mess; my tracksuit must have looked incredibly sloppy. It might have been wiser of me to just go home. I pictured the full fridge of food back in my apartment and regret brimmed in my chest. Was it too late to turn around and leave?
Mason wouldn't have offered if he didn't want you here, I reminded myself.
Heart in my mouth, I rang the doorbell. No longer than a few seconds later Mason pulled open the door, his face lit up in a beam. It struck me that he was dressed in jeans and snazzy jumper. It shouldn't have, but his normal wardrobe usually consisted of tracksuit pants and hoodies. I dismissed the thought in my head that he had dressed up for occasion and instead just stepped inside and then straight into his arms. My nerves dissolved as I nuzzled my head into his chest, his arms holding me tightly.
"How's the patient?" he asked.
"Sore," I sighed. "And pretty tired."
Cold air from outside bit at my exposed ankles, but I didn't want to pull away from Mason to close it. He must have felt the same, because his head came down on top of mine.
"You didn't actually tell me what they said." I shut my eyes against his chest, not wanting to relive the news I'd received. "Is it bad?"
"Oh, right." I chuckled. "Well, it's fractured, so pretty bad, yeah."
His arms tightened around me. "Flip, Hart. I'm sorry." I made an mm of agreement. "How long are you out for?"
"Three weeks for now." At the same time, both of us stepped away, our arms falling back to our sides. We stood staring at each other, Mason's face twisted in sympathy and mine, I'm sure, bearing a sting of displeasure. "Maybe more. I'm not that sure."
Mason moved past me to close the door. I stepped further into the house, peeking over my shoulder into the open plan living space next door. With my focus not solely on Mason anymore, smells and sounds jumped out at me. Soft music drifted through from the kitchen, carrying with it a spicy, comforting smell. My gaze fell to the entranceway table, where the distinctive lack of a vase of flowers made me frown. Could it be a sign of Liv losing her touch on his house?
"That really sucks, Beck." Mason's voice drew my attention away from the table. "Fuck Carroll, honestly."
I exhaled sharply though my nose and crossed my arms over my chest. Standing in full view of him again, thoughts of my appearance returned.
"Right?" I shook my head. "Guy is so much dirtier than we give him credit for."
"He's the worst."
We lapsed into silence. From the kitchen, one song ended, intensifying the quietness between us. I bit down on the inside of my cheek, wanting to say something but not knowing what. Mason shifted his weight from one foot to the other, timidity clear in the tilt of his eyebrows.
"So, the showerâ"
"Hey, thanks forâ"
Both of us chuckled politely, but my body stiffened with discomfort. God, where did this awkwardness come from? Just the day before I felt as at ease around Mason as I ever had. I had no idea where the gulf that was between us now came from, nor did I know how to cross back over it to where we were on Friday.
Mason lifted a hand to scratch his neck. "Uh, if you do want to shower, I can show you upstairs."
"Right." I nodded, rolled back on my heels. "Yeah, thanks, I'd love to."
Mason nodded too and paced past me towards the stairs. I wanted to ask him about the card, how he felt about it, what Frank had said, what the vibe in the team was like after the game, but I just followed behind him in silence, my chest tight.
For all the times I'd been in Mason's house, I'd never actually been into his bedroom. I'd walked past the room on the odd night Kyle and I were too lazy to drive home post-match, but never stepped inside before. Now, though, Mason lead me across the landing on the first floor towards his ajar door, his pace unwavering.
Whatever expectations I'd built up in my head of what Mason's most personal space could look like, knowingly or not, shock still froze me in place as I entered.
Immaculately clean, tastefully decorated, simple.
Above his bed, set in a gold frame, hung the stark white England jersey I recognised from his debut. Unconsciously, my eyes picked out my signed name from the words of our teammates, my message blatant across the front of the chest. Next to it, in an identical frame, sat a similarly signed Chelsea jersey, this one from their winning Europa League Final the previous season.
"Beck?"
"Mm?"
Mason's outstretched arm caught me off guard, and I flinched back as his hand came down on my shoulder. Another awkward chuckle sounded hollow around us as he motioned towards his en-suite.
"Uh, I put a towel and some other stuff you might need inside," he said, hands fumbling around with the hem of his jumper. "The hot water might take a while to come on, just a warning."
I smiled. It shouldn't have been a comfort that Mason felt the same gracelessness as I did, but somehow the idea calmed my knotted stomach.
"Thanks, Mitchell." He nodded and flashed me a quick grin.
"I'll see you in a bit."
Walking past, he reached out and gave my forearm a brief squeeze. I watched him leave and waited a few seconds after he'd shut the door before I entered the next room. Just as his bedroom, the tidiness of the bathroom mystified me. Every bottle and product and towel seemed to have its place. And sure enough, folded neatly on the long counter, a fresh white towel topped with some clothes sat in a pile waiting for me.
If the missing flower vase in the entrance way held any meaning, it was undone by the collection of shampoos and conditioners and body washes in the shower. The tinge of hope from their loss vanished just as fast as it had arrived. Girly products for the girl in his life, I reminded myself.
I forced away the sudden bitterness clouding my thoughts. Kyle's words sprung back to my mind, accompanied by the same guilt I'd felt after them. For the second time since Clara dropped me off I wondered if I should have just gone home. All this â the nice outfit, the cooking, the extra concern he'd shown by leaving me clothes â was this all us getting carried away by something we both knew wasn't on the cards?
Cold water slapped me in the face as I turned the shower on. Still, as I had the previous day, I couldn't come up with an answer.