Chapter 2: One

Niggling.

That was what had been going through my mind for the days leading up to the event. I'd told the coaches, I'd told the physios – heck, I'd even sat down and had a rant to some of my teammates about it. I had done what they told me to do – stretching and rolling and rubbing and icing – but it was still there. Just niggling.

The warm-up was okay. Nerves held me back, not only due to the nuisance coming from my left leg, but also because of the mammoth task we had ahead of us. Playing in the semi-finals of a Football World Cup wasn't exactly a small feat, after all.

Gareth didn't have much to say to us before the game. We knew what we had to do, and he knew that. A few words of further encouragement were all it took for us to become as fired up as we'd been the whole tournament. After leaving just the players in the changing room, he departed with a final lingering gaze.

Then George Carroll was staring us down, reminding us what we had to play for and, most importantly, whom we had to play for. I'd never felt exhilaration like that before, sitting and listening to my captain talk to us. He used that calm yet commanding voice of his, drawing us in with a simple clear of his throat. Of all the players I'd played with in my life, I don't think anyone had my respect in the way George did, and that moment reminded me why.

My knees, injury or not, were shaking as I stood in the tunnel. I felt like fiddling, just doing something with my hands, but I held them steady in front of my body, focusing my energy on the pitch in front of me instead.

My mind raced, a million scenarios of how the next two hours could play out spinning around in my thoughts. A deep sigh escaped my nostrils as I pictured that final; saw the faces of my French teammates taking their silver medals. We just needed to beat Croatia today, and I was sure we could crush the French.

A heavy hand on my shoulder ripped my attention away from that devious place. I spun around quickly, the end of my ponytail whipping my cheek as I did. Mason stood behind me, an equally nervous expression on his face as I imagined was on mine.

"You all right?" he asked, his fingers squeezing my shoulder.

Swallowing, I nodded. Mason's eyes flickered down to my leg as he slipped his hand off my shoulder. Raising an eyebrow, he repeated the question.

"I'm fine, Mase," I assured him.

Staring into his warm eyes, I momentarily felt all my apprehensions disappear. If Mason and I just played how we always did, if we performed like we had in the last couple of games, nothing could stop us. I wondered if he was thinking the same thing as his expression softened. My knees had started shaking again, but I knew it had nothing to do with the game this time.

The blaring World Cup anthem alerted me again, shifting my focus back to the pitch and the game ahead. Taking a deep breath in, I took my first steps towards the field, following behind Simon Hall. The thunder of the crowd fully hit me as I stepped onto the grass, the atmosphere immediately making my heart jump. I could feel my pulse everywhere: my hands, my feet, my bothersome knee. I refused to lift my head from the greenness beneath me just yet. I wanted to savour the moment when I finally looked around the Luzhniki Stadium.

That moment came as I stopped in line, almost bumping straight into Simon. Mason bumped my shoulder but I ignored him. I planted my feet at shoulder width apart and, ever so slowly, raised my head.

My breath hitched in my throat as I took everything in. You would have thought that after five games at the World Cup I'd have been used to it, but the semis were something special. They were on a completely different level to the games we'd played up until now.

Emotion washed over me fleetingly and my throat tightened. Everything I'd worked for, everything I'd overcome, had been so worth it for this single moment. I was at my prime now, and I wanted nothing more than to bottle up what I was feeling and have it on hand any time I wanted.

Croatia's anthem started playing, echoing around me. I let out a shuddering breath that must have been louder than I thought. The next thing I knew, Mason's fingers brushed against mine, the resulting shivers running up my arm. I moved mine against his, holding back a smile as the pressure coming from his immediately increased. I put the feeling in my chest down to adrenalin.

Our anthem was next. Mason's touch disappeared from my fingers but reappeared as he laid his arm over my shoulder. Simon did the same, and soon I was being pulled closer to Simon and tugging Mason along with me. Both of the boys stood taller than me, unsurprisingly; I slipped my arms around their torsos, gripping onto Mason's shirt in a way that I didn't Simon's. The extra weight coming from his arm didn't slip my notice.

The emotion returned as I belted out God Save Our Queen passionately. Any resentment I'd formally felt towards my country was forgotten and the patriotism I felt overwhelmed me to the point where I imagined I might start tearing up.

But then it was over. Too quick our picture had been taken, our jackets removed. Whatever I'd been feeling in the build up to the game didn't matter. I needed to get my head back into the right space. Pressure and nerves and giddiness and everything else needed be disregarded, I knew.

One last huddle, one last boost from George, one last shared look with Mason. The whistle went, and then we were off.

Five minutes in and we took the lead. I wondered if any feeling ever was going to top that – I doubted it.

Twenty minutes in and the niggling turned into an ache. I took a moment to gather myself, pushing through the discomfort. I would be fine.

Thirty minutes in and I stopped to stretch, calling upon Mason to help me. We'd been playing under par, we both knew, and I blamed the sting in my knee. A physio arrived, demanding I tell her the truth: was I okay to continue? I was; I was fine.

But then I wasn't.

The tackle came from nowhere. I'd received the ball from our goalkeeper, Ally, and quickly passed it onto Mason when I heard a warning call about the player on my back. My eyes were following my pass when I felt the challenge. First, studs dug into the back of my calf. I let out an astounded cry. Then the earth rushed up to greet me and my forehead hit the ground, hard. But that wasn't my concern.

My knee burned. Whatever niggling had been there an hour ago was gone: pain rippled through my left leg, hot and raw and heart breaking. I rolled over, gasping back threatening tears. Throwing an arm over my eyes, I felt them brimming, and I squeezed them shut. I could feel people around me, hear them asking if I was okay, but all I felt was my chest heaving up and down and the agony in my leg.

"Hart!" I picked out Mason's voice from those around me, emotion clear in his tone. "Hart! Get back, you little shit!" Cries sounded out and I heard the stomping of football boots around me."Back off, Savic, you twat! You know – no, George, back off. Leave me alo – he fucking did that on purpose! You know he did!"

Louder cries started up, along with the shrill of the ref's whistle. An uproar from the crowd sounded, followed by protests from the Croatian players. All of that dissipated, though, as the soothing voice of Tam, our physio, sounded close to my ear.

"Hey, Beck," she soothed. "Can you hear me?" I nodded, letting out a yelp as cold hands touched my injury. "I know, love, I know. I'm sorry. Can you sit up, look at me?"

I didn't want to. I couldn't face what was happening right now. I didn't want to see Tam or the son of a bitch who tackled me or anyone. I wanted the earth to swallow me up. Or to open my eyes and find that this was just a stupid nightmare – pre-match nerves affecting my subconscious.

However, I removed my arm and sat myself up. I let the tears blur my vision as I met the eyes of Tam, hers wide with worry as she stared at my leg. I choked back full on hysterics as she waved for the rest of the medical team to come on.

I was distraught, inconsolable. I knew that whatever had happened was bad, I wasn't naïve nor optimistic enough to deny that. And as soon I saw the golf cart coming onto the pitch, I knew it was over.

So I let them hoist me onto the orange stretcher. I fleetingly met the eyes of Mason as they started driving off, my pain mirrored in his eyes. This was it; I was done. My World Cup was finished, without a doubt. I wondered with sickening fear if the rest of my career was over.

All I could think of as I exited back down the tunnel on the golf cart was: what if there hadn't been that niggling? That damn niggling.