More Than a Game | Mason Mount

Fourteen

The next ten days passed in what felt like the blink of an eye.  Things were going well, almost as well as they could be.  Spirits were high in the team: everyone seemed to be in a good place after the Wolves game and, more importantly, in good form, and our hard work in training was showing on the pitch.  A two-one away win to Everton followed by a win away in France in the Champions League put us in good positions for both competitions.  On top of that, a thrashing against Grimsby Town in the League Cup was a good confidence boost, too.

Things off the pitch were going just as well. I felt like Mason and I were making real progress and, honestly, things felt almost back to how they were before Russia.  Trips to Mason's house with Kyle post-matches was once again becoming a tradition and after the League Cup game, we even managed to drag Fran and Olly with us, too.

Liv was still an unmentionable topic, but thankfully there hadn't been any more chance run-ins with her.  However, she was an undeniable presence among us: every time Mason's phone pinged or he stepped away to make a call, it was clear who was on the other end.  But, for the most part, it seemed like his heart was back with us again.

Before I knew it, it was time for the next international break.  Whispered rumours had been spreading around the country and, naturally, around the club. The claim was that a few changes were going to be made from the last squad that was named, including a return for me at left back.  I was trying not to get my hopes up, but part of me had a suspicion that I'd get the call up any day.  Mason had been insistent that I deserved a spot, like he had been since before the Wolves game, but Hannah Kingsley was back in action for the Cityzens' last game and hadn't done half bad, either.

I arrived at Cobham on Tuesday feeling oddly anxious.  The official team announcement was going to be released the following day and I still hadn't heard anything from the gaffer or the FA.  Kyle had told us last night that the United and Spurs players already knew if they'd been selected, which only made me think that no Chelsea players were chosen.  But that couldn't be the case: Kyle was scoring goals, Mason was playing like a champ, Abby was making an impact; they couldn't all miss out, could they?  Me, maybe, but not all of them too.

From past experience, I knew the way that Frank went about our selection.  When I got my first call up, he called me into his office and built it up for a while, eventually spitting it out with a beam on his face.  From then on, he usually just called us in to congratulate us more than informing us.  Once before I'd gotten a message from the FA admin lady, Mandy, before chatting to Frank. Now, I hadn't had either.

Changed and in the canteen, I saw no sign of Kyle.  I'd been hoping to quiz him on it, but I'd have to distract myself while I waited for him or Abby or Mason to arrive.  Taking a place at an empty table with a cup of tea, I sat refreshing my emails and messages for a good few minutes.

I was so focused on my phone that the call of my name coming from the entrance gave me a fright.  Glancing up, I saw Frank standing there, his eyebrows raised. He motioned for me to come over, so I stood up hastily.  On shaky legs, I met him at the door.

"Morning, Beck," he greeted me.  "You alright?"

"Yeah, good thanks."  He nodded and the corner of his mouth twitched into a half-smile.

"Knee all good? Hammy still fine?"  I nodded enthusiastically, my stomach fluttering with butterflies.

"Yeah, feeling really strong."

"You're looking strong, too," he commented, crossing his arms over his chest.  "Hope you're feeling ready for a tough few days, though.  I hear Gareth isn't going to be taking it easy on you lot."

My breath stopped in my chest; my stomach flipped.  I imagined my face must have given away how shocked I was, because Frank chuckled when he looked down at me.