𝐥𝐨𝐯𝐞 𝐥𝐢𝐤𝐞 𝐭𝐡𝐢𝐬 [mason mount]

chapter three

Loud music from the '90s blared through the headset as she scrolled through the files with her annotations one last time before calling it a day. With a sigh she ruffled through her own messy hair whilst she went through her work; hours upon hours of dissecting footage of a match she has attended a bare 20 hours earlier. Amidst the chorus of a song she has had on replay all day long her phone cut the melody short and instead played her ringtone.

"I never knew there—fuck," Neala snatched her phone from the coffee table as she hummed the rest of the lyrics under her breath. "Hakim, buenas."

"Neala?" He chuckled, shifting away from loud voices and laughter on the other side of the call. "You sound rather—exhilarated."

       "That is the five Espresso shots mixed with several energy drinks, I didn't dare count, talking." She nodded, switching her headphone off and changing the call to the speaker so she could clean the, now empty, cups and cans up.

       "You amaze me everyday, Neal," The Moroccan footballer answered with a chuckle. "Not the reason I rang you up, though."

       "Oh but you should," Neala pushed the cups on the counter in the kitchen of her apartment, hoping she will have the energy to place them in the dishwasher later that evening. "Compliments are always a great reason to call me," She nodded her head, even though he could not see her. "I know yours was both backhanded and not genuine but that doesn't really matter."

       "Boosting your ego is the last thing I want." Hakim shook his head with a grin at one of his best friends.

       "Now you're just plain rude," Neala pouted jokingly as she got her phone from the table and dropped down on her couch exhausted, eyeing London's most important landmarks with the view from her new flat. "Get to your point."

       "Takeout at yours tonight whilst we watch Ajax' run to the semis on YouTube?"

       "You're honestly too self absorbed," Neala snickered, a few dark curls falling from the hair-clip as she shook her head. "But since when is takeout part of your diet?"

       "Don't you worry your pretty head about my nutrition," Hakim tutted, holding his phone between his shoulder and cheek to continue gathering his football gear at his house in Kensington. "Let me have this, you owe me!"

       "I don't owe you shit, tío." Neala snorted, lazily turning on her television to flip through the channels.

       "Yes you do, you never told me you were transferring." He pointed out, a knowing tone in his voice and a proud smile she already could envision.

       "I'll see you at eight." She huffed, easily giving in to a night in with a longtime friend she has not seen in several months.

       "I'll be right on time." Hakim saluted.

       "That would be a first," Neala bit playfully back before continuing. "You're crashing here tonight, aren't you?"

       "I've already packed my training kit for tomorrow."

"I guess I'll see you in a bit, habibi." The young football analyst yawned, using the Arabic pet name Hakim usually used for her.

"Neala—you're a hypocrite," The Dutch born Moroccan stated in the early hours of the morning the next day. "That comment from yesterday; I'm not always late. Currently I've been waiting for over ten minutes for you to choose trainers."

"Are you, though?" Neala answered with just as much as attitude as the footballer, looking up from her wardrobe with her sage green eyes, a stark contrast to her dark features, narrowed down at him. "Where are your car keys?"

"Shit," He cursed as he quickly patted all the empty pockets of his joggers and quickly hurried to Neala's living room. "I don't like you right now, nor that you're right."

"Like I care, as long as you hurry because both of our jobs are on the line if you can't find those keys quickly." Neala yelled back whilst rolling her eyes; he could never not like her, she was like a younger sister to him.

The search for Hakim's keys was cut short as Neala immediately found them in a pocket from his Chelsea coat he wore yesterday when he came over to her apartment, much to his dismay as she would pester him the rest of the day about it.

The drive to the Cobham Training Centre in Surrey was filled with Neala's playlist, consisting of '90s music, blaring through the speakers of Ziyech's Audi to which both the footballer and analyst completely woke up before they arrived at the training grounds. To their own surprise they were one of the first to show up to the last practice the team would have before their match against Brighton. Ziyech disappeared to the changing rooms whereas Neala left for the green pitches outside the complex, enjoying the smell of freshly cut grass.

"Miss Neala Avella, lads," Mason Mount announced as he walked on the pitch whilst being followed by several Chelsea footballers in their training kits, pointing to the only woman on the field. "Our new Performance Analyst." He yelled with a proud smile as his teammates appeared to be confused by her presence.

"Thank you, Mason, always a pleasure to see you," Neala said with a feigned smile as the group started to gather with curious eyes. "But I can introduce myself perfectly fine."

"Of course, love." The number nineteen playfully raised his hands in defence, not exactly understanding Neala's point as what he did was well-meant; well-meant if you would cross out the fact he enjoyed her annoyance.

Several minutes later Neala got her official introduction to the complete team, and this time she was allowed to say it herself, taking matters in her own hands before Thomas Tuchel could say anything about her to the footballers in front of them; in this predominantly male career branch she would have to work much harder to get the same respect, meaning she wanted to set the bar to her satisfaction from day one.

"We're going to Christian's place for a bit, are you in?" Hakim, sweaty from the training, was quick to make his way to the analyst after practice had ended to invite her with the team.

"The American?"

"I'm going to pretend you said that a lot more enthusiastic." Christian Pulišić joined the two at Neala's side with a playfully feigned frown on his facial features.

"Well then of course." Neala smiled with a wink at the number ten as the three walked off the training grounds so the two footballers could shower and change out of their kits.

"That sounds a lot better."

"But in Taylor Swift's words: 'God, I love the English'." Tammy Abraham, Chelsea's centre-forward, merged into their conversation with his eyebrows raised at the only American in the group to which Pulišić raised his hands with a laugh.