More Than a Game | Mason Mount

Thirty Eight

A lucky block from Zach Smith and another unbelievable save from their keeper kept us out, but the team buzzed for another one. There was something about our relentless attacks not ending in goals that felt disappointingly familiar, but it didn't stop us throwing everything we could at their defence. 

The clock ticked down in front of me. The noise in the stadium grew. Rodri passed me the ball on the halfway line, and I spotted it: a huge space down the line. Gathering the ball under my feet, I went for it, confidence driving me forwards. 

Zach Smith stepped up to make the tackle. In my periphery vision, I spotted George tracking back on my inside. Mason called for the ball, but Zach was off balance, leaving space on my right. I was faster than George: get it past Zach and I'd have a direct line to the top of the box. I turned inside. 

A split second too late, their right wing materialized, emerging from my blind spot. Lifting up my arms, I anticipated the meeting. We crashed into each other, both at full speed. Before I could steady myself, George smashed into my back, knocking the air from my lungs. I shut my eyes, rushing for the ground. The cry that sounded as I landed didn't even sound like it came from me.  

Stabbing agony reared up from my left wrist. Surprise and pain and windedness left me gasping for air. The trill of the ref's whistle and shocked cries from the crowd and angry protests from my teammates were all background noise to my own gulps. 

I was in more pain than I had been in Russia, and I thought I'd never feel pain like that again. My wrist was broken; it had to be. Nothing else would be this sore. 

Rolling over onto my back, the stadium lights blinded me. I squeezed my eyes shut, feeling tears wet my cheeks. Opening then again, I blinked hastily. A tremor of pain forced another gasp out of my mouth. Stu knelt beside me, forcing my gaze away from the dark sky. 

"Beck, hey, you alright?" 

Tears leaked from my eyes, blurring the medic. I shook my head and sat up, helped by his hand on my back. Glancing down into my lap, I cradled my left hand with my right. My fingers shook; my wrist throbbed. Tearing my eyes away, I looked around to the rest of the pitch. 

Abby, Mason and Annika stood in a huddle, concerned eyes on me. Beside them, the ref spoke to the protesting pair of captains, both of whom waved their hands around. 

"That looks pretty sore," Stu commented. "I'm going to take a look, okay? Can you let me do that?" 

I hesitantly nodded and Stu reached forwards. Cold, gloved hands took my wrist. I winced, but withdrew my right hand. A second later I cried out in agony, jerking my arm away as a reflex when Stu tried to bend it backwards. Stu, talking soothingly, took it again and attempted to move it around a second time. I swore under my breath, trying my hardest not to pull away again, but eventually I couldn't help it. 

"Excuse me." Blinking back tears, I saw the ref standing over us. He raised his eyebrows. "You're going to have to step off the pitch to continue treatment. We need to carry on with the game." 

I suppressed the rage creeping up my chest and instead let Stu help me up. At once, Mason appeared at my side.

"Hart, Jesus, what happened? Are you okay?" 

"No, Mason." Despite my harsh reply, he gently rested a hand on my shoulder and squeezed it. Some of the bitterness I felt eased at his touch. 

"Carroll got booked, finally," he carried on, walking beside Stu and me as we headed off the pitch. "And we pleaded your case to the ref, who told them to stop targeting you, which is—" I winced, and Mason trailed off. "Fuck, Beck, I hope you're okay."