More Than a Game | Mason Mount

Thirty Nine

There was no chance for me to properly see the team after the match. Stu practically dragged me off the pitch and into the medical room to look at my wrist. He decided that I needed proper x-rays, and I needed them now. Left with just enough time to do an interview and accept my Player of the Match award, I spent not even a minute in the changing room tugging a tracksuit over my sweaty body. With a smile on my face from the few congratulations I did receive, I departed the stadium with another one of our medics, Clara. 

One of the people I didn't manage to see was Mason. He'd been on the treatment table when I entered, face down as a physio worked the back of his legs, and he was still there when I left moments later. 

Back in Chelsea, sitting in the hospital waiting room, I watched replays of his first yellow card – the completely unjust penalty – and my heart sank for him once more. Slowed down, it was clear to anyone that saw the move that he won the ball fair and square. The Sky pundits defended VAR, saying he got the player before the ball, but my cheeks flushed with rage still. 

The couple of hours at the hospital passed in a blur. I had the x-rays and waited. The doctor came, we chatted, and I waited. A nurse re-did Stu's strapping, and I waited. A different doctor took me to get a cast moulded, and I waited. Finally, the first doctor returned, handed me my prescribed painkillers, and said I was free to go. 

Messages from my teammates and my parents and my friends had lit up my phone all night, but I hadn't had the energy to reply to them. I scrolled through them with one hand while I waited for Clara to sort out the bill, guilt growing as I saw the concern I was ignoring. Just before I could put it away, it began to ring. Mason's name flashed across the screen. For a split second I debated ignoring him, even. But I accepted the call: Mason was the one person I did feel like speaking to. 

"Hello?" I asked, pressing the phone to my ear. 

"Hart, hey," he said, his voice breathy. "Fuck, I've been messaging you for hours. What happened? Are you okay?" 

Warmth spread across my chest as I grinned at the ground. "Yeah, I'm okay. Sorry, I'm just about to finish at the hospital." 

"You're still there?" 

"Still here." 

"Flip, that's a long day." I made a noise of agreement. "Well, what's the verdict, then? Did they have to amputate?" 

With a giggle, I glanced down at my wrist. Clara had managed to talk them out of using a plaster cast, so a fancy black plastic one held my wrist secure. I'd be back in a week for a check up and possibly a new one cast if the swelling lessened. 

"Yup, had to chop it right off." 

Mason chuckled, too. "I back you to pull off the one-handed look." 

"Oh, yeah, I'm rocking it." 

"Beck?" 

Lowering the phone from my ear, I spun around at Clara' call. She stood across the foyer at the reception desk still, but held up a thumb and mouthed two minutes. I nodded and lifted the phone to my ear again. 

"—and plus, no one even really needs a non-dominant hand these days, right?" 

Laughing, I shook my head as I imagined the rant Mason had just finished. "Look, I'm about to leave. Can I call you back when I'm home?" 

"No, wait!" Surprised at his cry, I just blinked for a moment. Mase cleared his throat. "Uh, have you at least managed to eat something?" 

Picturing the meagre bag of pretzels Clara had found me, I pulled a face. "Not really."