More Than a Game | Mason Mount

Thirty Five

The dressing room buzzed with activity when I entered. Heart pounding, I flickered my eyes across the room searching for Mason. A group of subs gathered near the doorway, obscuring my view. Craning my neck to see past them, I frowned; he wasn't sitting at any of the benches. 

"Mitch is next door." Spinning around, I met Spencer's grinning face. "If that's who you're looking for." 

I rolled my eyes as his smile grew. "Cheers, Spence." 

The echoing voices of my teammates followed me as I rounded the corner of the changing room, to where two extra physio beds were set up. Lying back on one of these was Mason, his eyes shut and the side of his face stained with blood. My pulse leapt as I took him in for a moment: the ice pack pressed against his left temple, his abandoned shin pads and boots on the floor, his rolled down socks. 

As soon as I stepped over his discarded boots, his eyes flew opened and focused on me. The ghost of a grin passed over his mouth. 

"You got a little something on your face, Mitchell." 

Coming to a stop beside the bed, I crossed my arms. He chuckled, but it didn't quite reach his eyes. "Noted, thanks." 

My stomach twisted at how feeble he sounded. Uncrossing my arms, I laid a hand on his shoulder. His jersey, wet under my fingers, shifted as he raised his free arm. Blood rushed to my cheeks as he wrapped a hand around my forearm, his tired eyes keeping hold of mine. 

"How is it?" I asked, my eyebrows lowering. "Are you okay?" 

"I mean it wasn't quite a weight." He grinned and focused his gaze above my eye. Letting out a laugh, I shook my head, "But it's a bit sore, yeah." 

"I imagine Savic has a pretty thick skull." 

"I can verify that," he chuckled. 

Smiling, I gave his shoulder a squeeze. In response, he ran his thumb along the top of my forearm, making the hairs stand on their ends. Taking a deep breath in to stop my racing heart, I lifted my free hand. Raising my eyebrows, I pointed to his ice pack. 

"Can I look?" 

Grimacing, Mason gingerly lowered the bag. "Yeah, but it's not pretty." 

He was right: a golf ball sized bump stared back at me from the side of his forehead. For the amount of blood on his face, I'd been expecting a bigger cut, but the skin was just split at the apex of the bump, the cut not even large enough for stiches. Blood still trickled out of it, but most of the bleeding was clearly done. 

"I don't know, I think you look better like this," I teased, my voice coming out quieter than anticipated. 

Wincing, I moved my hand closer. As gently as I could, I brushed my fingers over the edge of the egg. A particularly loud bout of laughter sounded from the changing room, but as Mason tightened his grip on my arm, the rest of the team felt miles away. 

"Well, as long as it has your approval." His voice didn't have the same joking tone mine had. 

I could feel his gaze on me as I ran my fingers down his cheek, following a dried trail of blood. I felt flushed. Whatever I'd felt that afternoon in the hotel was back. My chest was tight, my cheeks hot. Against my better judgment, I shifted my stare to meet Mason's. His eyelashes fluttered over his eyes; the small action made my stomach flip. 

"Mitch, holy shit!" 

Kyle's yell burst whatever bubble Mason and I were in. Before I could process it, I'd stepped away from the bed. My hand dropped back to my side, Mason's slipping off my arm as he raised it in a wave. I couldn't look at him, way too aware of how intense that moment was. Well, for me, at least.