More Than a Game | Mason Mount

Fifty One

I dreaded facing my teammates all morning. No doubt they'd all seen the article by then, and probably everything on social media, too. And no doubt they'd all be dying to tease me and Mason about it. I expected jeers from Kyle, inappropriate comments from Abby, sneaky stares from the rest of the team... but I got none of it. 

Kyle walked into the changing room full of beans, his hattrick clearly still on his mind. Abby wandered in a while later with Fran and Olly, and talk of Spurs' loss to Championship opposition dominated the room. Every time a new teammate streamed in, part of me braced for a side comment, or a snigger, or something, but they just went about their business, pulling on their kit, complaining about the weather, congratulating each other about the victory last night. 

When it came to ten minutes before we were due out, I wondered if I'd dreamt up the whole thing. But my Twitter feed had been full of it; my parents had messaged me about it; Emma had even called me in hysterics about it. There was no chance my team had missed it. A line in the article came to the front of my mind, the one about people fearing the consequences this may have on the team. Was this their way of telling us that maybe there might not be any? 

The door opened and, glancing up from my socks, I caught the eyes of Mason. This stirred a reaction. A hush rippled through the room for a brief few seconds as I stared at Mason. His face gave nothing away; gone was the despondence and irritation and confusion from that morning. I wondered if my expression told him anything. Chatter begun again and, tearing his gaze away, Mason headed for his locker. 

Abby nudged me in the side and shuffled closer along the bench. Her eyes shone with sympathy. 

"Hey, are you okay?" 

Part of me must have been playing along with the rest of them, because the second Abby spoke my throat constricted and my eyes stung. I took a deep breath and bit down hard on my lip. Looking back down, I focused all my attention on tugging up my socks. Unable to reply, I just nodded. 

"Do you want to talk about it?" she mumbled under her breath. 

I paused for a second. If there was anyone who I could talk to about everything – honestly – it was Abby. But the thought of battling through another intense conversation seemed too exhausting. Besides, even with the lack of response, I knew everyone's ears would itch if I said anything in here. 

"Maybe later." 

Abby squeezed my knee, but didn't say anything more. The changing room air pressed down on me, too warm. Noise echoed off the tiled floors and walls, but within seconds the thundering of my heart in my ear drowned it out. I had to leave. 

"I'm going to head out," I said to Abby. 

"I'll come with." 

Standing up, I took a moment to gather myself – to shove the tears back down my throat – before I followed Abby out. Pairs of eyes burned the back of my head as we left. 

In the passage, Abs and I booted up in silence. I knew the rest of the team would be out soon: now was my chance. I could ask her what the team thought. I could ask her the reason for their silence. I could ask her for advice. I could ask her anything. 

But I said nothing. 

Outside, rainclouds lingered above the pitches, dark and thick, waiting for more victims before they broke open. Shivers appeared on my exposed legs. I thought about the abandoned leggings at my bench and regretted choosing shorts instead. Frank, Jody, and the rest of the coaches stood in a huddle in the middle of the pitch, beacons and bibs scattered around them. For the first time today I wondered if I'd even be able to take part in the training or if I'd be banished back to Stu. Somehow, spending the day locked inside the gym seemed the better option. Especially when Abby stopped walking.