The days seemed to blur into one as our game against the Czech Republic approached. Just as I'd expected, by the end of day two the team was connecting again, bringing our playing and spirits up. When the day finally arrived for us to depart for Prague, there was a confidence in the team that I remembered from when we were in Russia.
Prague was bitterly cold when we touched down the day before our match and it only got colder as the day progressed. Our run around on the pitch that afternoon wasn't great compared to the way we'd been playing at St George's, but still I felt like the team should come away with a win. The Czech team had a few good players, their best being a star at PSG, but overall we definitely had the more quality team.
Gareth had announced the starting team the morning before we left England. The humble side of me wanted to think Hannah would start over me, but I had a sneaky feeling my name would be up on the whiteboard at our meeting. Sure enough, there it was, just behind Mason's and just next to Noah Patterson's. I'd had a whole two days to come to terms with the selection, but even as I stood in the tunnel about to walk out it was hard to believe I was back here.
Mason, a reassuring presence behind me, squeezed my shoulders tightly as we stood in line. The nerves that had gripped me since the previous morning had lessened with the pre-match routine, and now I felt oddly calm considering the circumstances. Walking onto the pitch, the fear I'd had about being an imposter before the break seemed silly: of course I belonged here, in this team. And I was about to prove it.
Except the game was an absolute disaster. We should have won it easily, like we had our previous two Euro qualifying games, but for some reason everything fell apart tonight. I blamed it on myself, naturally. We weren't doing badly for most of the first half: possession was pretty even; both sides had a couple of shots on goal. And then I just turned into a complete idiot.
It started with a bad pass out of our box, which was intercepted easily by their right wing. A save from Ally meant nothing came from it, but for some reason I felt too rattled to get back into the game after that. My passing was terrible, my tackles lazy and my attitude nowhere. Half time came as a blessing, but things fell apart even more after that.
I gave the ball away again and, in my haste to win it back, made one of the most howling tackles I'd ever made. A yellow card and a penalty later and we were behind, but I can admit I was lucky not to get a straight red. I tried to get back into the game â desperately â but it felt like the harder I tried the poorer I played.
The next goal was also partly my fault. We were just getting back into it and getting some good phases of play together when we won a corner. Mason went to take it and I moved to the top of the box to wait for any rebounds. The ball flew in; Marcus mistimed a header, leaving his defender to deflect the ball away. It came for me. Too eager to redeem myself with a goal, I ignored the call from Mason to my left and instead had a shot. It flew straight into the keeper's hands and a quick long ball over to the halfway line left us wide open at the back and they scored.
Mason's words echoed through my head as I saw my shirt number flash on the sub's board. I hadn't seen Mase so angry in a game for a long time and I tried to tell myself it was just an adrenalin-fuelled response, but I still felt sick.
"What are you doing, Beck? Where the fuck is your head at?"
I left the pitch with my heart in my mouth, disheartened and humiliated. I'd shrugged off Gareth as he tried to encourage me, instead keeping my head down until the final whistle. Even the wonder goal scored by Marcus and assisted by Mason didn't lift my mood. I sat through Gareth's team talk feeling more and more dismayed and avoided the eyes of my teammates. To make matters worse, it was George's birthday: the team was meant to be going for a quick celebratory drink when we returned to the hotel.
When we did finally return, George insisted that not everyone had to join at the rooftop bar if they didn't want to. I took his offer of an escape and slipped up the stairs, leaving the rest of the team in the lobby. Once safe in my room, I collapsed onto my bed, not even bothering to remove my Nikes. I wanted to close my eyes and forget that this whole day had even happened. I'd had bad games in the past, like every player, but this was so much more than that. My first match back with the team after my injury and it had been the opposite of everything I'd wanted.
I let out a deep sigh and shut my eyes, trying not to think back on the previous couple of hours. No sooner had I slung an arm over my closed eyes than a knock sounded at my door. The dread in my stomach made me tempted to ignore whoever was on the other side, but then they spoke.
"Hart, it's me," Mason said, his voice muffled through the wood. I opened my eyes but remained on my bed, waiting to see if he would carry on knocking or just leave. "Rebecca, let me in."
Mason never called me Rebecca. Releasing a groan, I slipped off my bed and trekked to the door. I didn't want to see him; he'd played pretty well and his assist had been world-class. Thinking of seeing the same smile he'd had on after that while I felt so shit filled me with dread. More than that, replaying his harsh words during the game brought back all the hurt I'd felt then, too.
But it was Mason, so I pulled the door open despite my feelings. He was leaning an arm against the doorframe, his other hand on his hip and his head facing the floor. He looked at me through his eyelashes, his eyebrows raised over them. I rose my own at him when he stayed silent.
"What are you doing?" he asked, straightening up. He gestured to me disbelievingly as I frowned.
"What?"
I had partly expected him to greet me with pity written all over his face, and honestly I almost would have preferred it to the expression he wore now.
"Why aren't you with the team?" he demanded, frowning. "Come on, Beck; it's your captain's birthday."
"Sorry, but I'm not exactly in a celebratory mood right now." I narrowed my eyes as Mason sighed.
"Okay, so what?"
"So what?" Incredulously, I spun around and re-entered my room. "You were there; you saw how I played. That's what."
Turning around, I met his eyes. They were narrowed, unconvinced. Crossing my arms over my chest, I waited a moment for him to reply.
"You're not going to come have a drink with your team because you gave away a pen?"
The disbelief in Mason's tone angered me further, and to stop myself from turning around and hitting him, I sat on my bed and fell backwards so I was facing the ceiling. His words from the game played in my head over and over again, and I wondered if he was going to apologise for them or not.
"Yes, Mason, just because of the pen." My words were dripping sarcasm and my tone was callous, but I didn't care.
"Okay, fine, you had a shit game." Another wave of pain washed over me, but I wasn't going to deny his words. "And? People have bad games all the time; half the team had one tonight. What's the big deal?"
"I don't want to talk about it, okay?" I practically yelled. I lifted my hands and pressed my palms against my eyes. "You clearly want to go have a drink, so just go."
"Yeah, but I want you to come with me!"
All the anger I'd just had dissolved as I felt everything catching up with me. I don't know what it was about Mason's words, but they set me off: my throat clenched and my stomach twisted, leaving me worried that I was going to start bawling my eyes out. Holding back tears, I let out a deep breath.
I felt the bed shifting next to me and knew Mason had sat down beside me. He was silent for a couple of moments, and I was glad to have the time to gather my composure first.
"Hey, what's going on?" His tone was gentle, any previous hardness gone. "Is this about what I said on the pitch?"
"I just said I don't want to talk about it," I mumbled. My heart clenched at his question, but I didn't want to bring it up just yet.
What are you doing, Beck?
"Well, tough," Mason replied simply. "You can't just sit here and sulk all night."
This got me to sit up, the frustration back. I frowned at Mason, ready to let rip at him, but the teasing expression in his eyes made me stop and roll my eyes instead.
"I can do what I want." Mason reached forwards and nudged me in the shoulder, forcing a grin to spread across my face, no matter how half-hearted it was.
"Not if I can help it," he said affectionately. We stared at each other in silence for a beat before he started pestering me again. "Tell me what's going on. And don't even try say it's nothing."
I groaned and, to distract myself from the sudden increase in my heart rate, started kicking my shoes off. I still wasn't really in the mood to talk about the game, but I knew that if I didn't open up about it now, Mason would pry it out of me some time. I might as well get it off my chest.
"I've literally never played that bad," I murmured. "I don't know what happened."
"Everyone has bad games, Beck." I swallowed again and looked up to see him giving me that pitying look, the one that I'd been expecting when he first arrived. "You know this."
"Yeah, but this is different," I said. I knew I must have sounded stupid, but I didn't know how to make Mason understand how I was feeling. "I just..." I trailed off and, still unable to find any words, let out a sigh.
"How is it any different to anyone in the team having a bad game, huh?" His tone was still tender, but firm.
I wanted to tell him that I didn't appreciate the tough love, and that all I wanted was for him to say he understood and that he'd leave me alone to dwell on how upset I was. I wasn't up for being crapped on because I didn't want to celebrate the worst professional game I'd ever played. But to do that would be unfair on Mason: he had come here to check up on me and now I wasn't even telling him where my head was at.
"This was my first game since Russia." I talked quietly, focusing on a loose thread on my sock instead of Mason. "I mean, domestic games are one thing but coming back into this squad was hard enough already. I didn't even expect to start, honestly, so I already felt like Gareth was putting too much faith in me. And then I played like that!"
Now, I did look up. Mason was frowning at me, the corner of his lip trapped in his teeth. He encouraged me to carry on speaking by opening his eyes slightly wider, so I did.
"And everyone knows how well Hannah has been playing lately and I just... I feel like this was my chance to prove myself and I ruined it." I finished with a strangled sigh, throwing my hands into the air in despair.
"What, are you worried you'll be dropped?"
Even the thought of that happening sent a wave of panic through me. This must have shown, because Mason's previously tough expression softened. He reached forwards, resting a hand on my left knee. I let out a quivering sigh and found myself swallowing again, hard.
"Beck, there's no way that's going to happen," Mason assured me. I met his eyes, knowing mine were wide and unnerved. The surety in Mason's eyes settled me slightly, but I still felt overwhelmed. "Come on, you're still one of the best left backs in the world at the moment." I scoffed loudly. "Gareth knows this, or else he wouldn't have picked you to start. And one bad game isn't going to change his mind on that. Gareth â and the rest of the team â still have faith in you, trust me."
My stomach warmed at Mason's words, especially considering his comments earlier. I could feel my cheeks heating up as he squeezed my knee firmly.
"And look, about what I said earlier," he started guiltily. I tried to interrupt, but his strong glare restrained me. "It was a heat of the moment comment, just the adrenalin getting the best of me." I held his gaze, surprised at the intensity in it. "And I'm really sorry."
Nodding, I realised how much I had needed to hear those words. "Thanks, Mase," I whispered.
Mason nodded as we were launched into silence. I felt weirdly flustered all of a sudden, most probably due to Mason's hand that was still clutching onto my knee. Feeling the need to respond to the gesture, I gently placed mine on his forearm, feeling his muscles move as his hand shifted.
I watched his eyes flicker to my hand and worried if I'd overstepped a boundary. The fear intensified momentarily as he released my knee, so I removed my hand, too. But, before I was able to pull it away completely, Mason took hold of it with his own, slipping his fingers through mine.
My heart leapt at his action and my breath hitched in my throat. Glancing from our connected hands back to Mason's eyes, I noticed how shocked they looked, as if the movement had been a reflex and nothing else. He recovered, though, and his expression settled to an affectionate one as he regarded our link.
Something in the air changed as he ran his thumb along the outside of mine, sending shivers down my arm and to my toes. Silence that should have been unsettling resonated around us, but it only calmed me down. A part of my mind, right at the very back, considered taking a stupidly daring step by leaning forward, but I quickly shut it up. However, Mason's unexpected deep breath in made the thought come back, which in itself set my heart racing.
I was as tempted as I was ever going to be, and something told me Mason was too. But the startling sound of Mason's obnoxious ringtone jolted me out of that mind-set, thankfully.
Blinking hastily, Mason released my hand and reached into the pocket of his jacket to remove his phone. Looking away, I rolled my lips into my mouth, not wanting Mason to see the blush that had appeared in my cheeks.
"Yeah?" Mason asked, pressing the phone to his ear. "Oh, it's you, Walt." He paused for a moment while I heard Walter's voice on the other end. Looking up at him again, I grinned as Mason rolled his eyes playfully. "Nah, bro, I'm just with Beck." Another pause. "I think we're okay for now. Maybe we'll come up later?"
Shooting me a look, I felt my stomach warm at the meaning of his words. I once again felt my heart prickle as he kept his eyes on me, his expression somewhat vulnerable. He said his farewell to his roommate, insisting that he was fine not going for a drink a final time. When he put the phone down, I raised an eyebrow at him.
"If you want to go, you must," I told him. "I'll be fine."
"Nah, I'm not going to leave you here alone," he said, shaking his head.
In a swift move, he swung his body around so that he was sitting beside me instead of in front of me, his back leaning against the headboard of my bed. He shot me a grin as he crossed one leg over the other.
"Feel like watching highlights of the Belgium game from yesterday?" he asked cheekily, his phone spinning between his hands. Chuckling, I nodded. He motioned to his side and so I leant back against the headboard, too.
Looking to my left, I studied Mason while he opened his YouTube app. An overwhelming feeling of gratitude for him came over me at the same time as he looked to his right, meeting my gaze.
"What's up?" he asked, his eyes flickering around my face.
My stomach flipped. "Nothing." His words from our first day at St George's came back to me. "I'm just... glad you're here, Mase."
I should have felt embarrassed, but the slight nod of Mason's head gave me the feeling he understood what I was saying. Holding my gaze, something crossed over his eyes, but a second later music sounded from his phone: the start of an advert.
Whatever moment had happened was over in an instant, but the feeling I had in that second remained with me for a long time.