Getting onto the bus later, it took a lot for me to keep it together. I could see Mason in my peripheral vision sitting with Olly, but I kept my eyes straight ahead as I walked down the aisle. I chose an empty row in the middle of the bus and was busy turning my headphones on as Kyle slid into the seat next to me.
"So, want to hear a really funny story?" he instantly said.
"Not really."
"Well, it involves your mate Emma so I'm pretty sure you do."
I sighed, but curiosity got the best of me. Unenthusiastically, I lowered my headphones and looked at Kyle. His eyes were bright and animated, but he frowned after a moment of looking at me.
"You okay, Beck?"
"Fine." I waved him off semi-rudely. "Just tell me the story."
"Well now I don't really feel like it," he murmured with a pout.
"Jeez, then don't tell me."
I could feel the pettiness seeping out of me, but I couldn't find a way to stop it. The simple truth was that Mason had put me in a foul mood: after I sat on my hotel room floor and tried to stop crying for ten minutes, I pulled it together and channelled whatever I was feeling into anger. I'd had enough of Mason and the games he was playing, so it wasn't exactly hard to be pissed off with him.
Turning away from Kyle, I covered my ears with my headphones. He hadn't done anything wrong except for chosen the seat next to me, so the guilt that hit me wasn't a surprise. Yet I still didn't have the energy to apologise and chat to him on the short ride to the stadium.
Frank had announced the starting line up earlier that morning, so I spent the next hour trying to put everything out of my head. I needed to focus and play well today for the team: we had a bad habit of returning from international breaks and losing form. The Liverpool game was one instance, but it happened several times the season I was out, too.
But it was tricky to focus on the game when the person on my mind was sitting two lockers away from me or warming up across from me. I was usually good at compartmentalising things in my head: prioritising what I needed to get done, then think about whatever I was feeling. I'd done it in the Wolves game by ignoring the fact that my best friend was my opposition. I'd done it in the Bulgaria game after the Czech disaster and everything with Mason. Why was I finding it so hard to do now?
I sat through Frank's final words, but mentally I wasn't there. Whatever he said was lost in translation, because as Emil's cheers filled the room I realised that I was clueless as to what he'd spent the last minutes explaining. Releasing a deep breath, I gave myself a mental slap on the wrist for not paying attention. I needed to make up for it in the game.
I trudged behind Annika into line, the pitch in front of me intimidating and unappealing. Already the crowd was going crazy. My legs were twitching, my fingers fiddling with my jacket sleeves. Behind me, I felt the presence of Mason and had to stop myself shrinking. Part of me anticipated his comforting hand on my shoulder, or a joke, or a good luck wish. But I felt nothing except for an intense strain between us.
The ref nodded to the captains and then I was walking out onto the pitch. I felt hollow, sick. It shouldn't have made me so upset that Mason hadn't acknowledged me in the tunnel. I had come to expect it before games, thinking of it as our little pre-match tradition, as stupid as it sounded. But given the place we were in â the tension between us â what did I think? He would forget everything and give me a friendly shoulder squeeze before our game?
His words echoed around my head. Maybe we've made this a bit too complicated. Had we? Was this really how things were just going to play out between us now? One weird moment when we almost kissed, one fight, and that was the end of relationship? Oh, God, I felt sick.
Focus, Beck.
The team was breaking formation to take a picture. Annika shepherded me into place between her and Rodri. Where was Mason? We always stood next to each other in team pictures. I stared down the lens of the camera, blinking back in surprise as the flash momentarily blinded me. Impulse drove me to remove my jacket and sprint to my position, but my mind was anywhere but on the pitch. I felt pathetic.
Mason was standing mere meters away from me. His face set, he stared at Emil as he did the toss. Was he going to look at me now? Should I wish him luck? We should be high-fiving now, calming each other down by bantering about the game. We shouldn't be ignoring each other like strangers.
Light headed, I hastily blinked back threatening tears. What was happening to me? Cameras were everywhere, what if one of them caught me having a cry to myself before a Prem game?
Get it together, Hart.
My mouth felt dry, my throat sore. Hart. It was what Mason would tell me now, right? Get it together; forget what's happening between us; just play your game. I channelled those figurative words as the whistle went to start the game.
Newcastle had the ball. Their centre mid passed it back to their centre back, who passed it sideways to their fullback. My legs were moving on autopilot, carrying me forwards, right, and then back to the line without me giving it a second thought. Half of my focus was on the ball, the other half on the big, white number nineteen on the back of Mason's shirt.
Kyle was beaten as he rushed forwards and Newcastle passed inside to their midfield. Shaking my head, I watched them play around, pass the ball back, deflect it off Abby for a throw in. Their fullback took it, threw it to their right wing who flicked it around Abby easily. Mason's lunging challenge saw the ball go out again, and a quick throw in left me one on one with their right wing.
It felt like I blinked and then the challenge was over. Miraculously, I had the ball and the ref's whistle was silent. Absently, I dribbled down the line, pulling inside when a Newcastle player came to challenge me.
What am I doing? It felt like I was on the training pitch, not in the middle of a Premier League match.
I pulled right and laid the ball off for Fran. Running backwards, I realised my legs were shaking and my breaths were heavy already. I was rattled. I shouldn't be playing a football match now. My head was in the wrong place; I would mess it up; everyone would know that we lost because of me.
I needed to sit down, get out of the stadium, take myself off, something. It was near impossible to concentrate on the game. We were twenty minutes in, fuck, how? It felt like we'd been playing for seconds. I glanced to the big screen, breathed a sigh of relief when I saw it was still nil all.
Players ran past me. I missed passes. I let balls go out. The one good thing I did all game was feed a ball through to Mason that could have scored from had his touch not let him down.
Mason. What was wrong with me?
Something was off in the team, not just with me. We were falling apart, playing out of position, giving the ball away. I felt lost: stranded every time I won the ball, disorientated when I didn't have it. Kyle missed a sitter; Mason was having a howler. If we were against any other opponent, we'd be three nil down already.
The half time whistle sounded just when I thought I'd pass out. I stopped running, put my hands on my knees and shut my eyes. No one had said anything to me; I couldn't have been doing as badly as I thought. Did no one see what was going on with me? There was no way that all the panic I felt was just in my head.
My chest felt tight, my head still spun. A distant voice sounded next to me, as if they were talking to me though honey. Suddenly, though, their voice became clear as day.
"Hart, hey, stand up." My breath caught in my throat. "Talk to me. What's going on?"
Slowly, I stood up straight. Mason was in front of me, eyes scrunched up in concern, cheeks pink, hairline sweaty. I swallowed and shook my head. Talking to Mason now would make my head explode even more.
"Nothing, I'm fine."
"No, you're not." His voice wasn't accusatory; it was concerned. I couldn't let him see what was happening to me â not only would it be embarrassing, it could result in me getting taken off. But wasn't that what I wanted? "Why are you so freaked out?"
"Leave me alone, Mason."
My voice was ice cold, surprising not only Mason but me, too. I caught sight of his frown briefly before I was pacing away from him towards the tunnel, where the rest of the team were disappearing.
"What theâ" My heart was in my throat. "Hold up, Beck!"
Mason grabbed onto my arm. I tugged it away, glaring up at him. He looked indisputably stunned, brown eyes wide and upset.
"Is this about what happened earlier?" He stared down at me as I internally screamed, scared to blink my eyes in case the tears I'd felt since that morning came rushing out. "Look Iâ. Jeez, I'm sorry, Beck."
My chest rose and fell too quickly. Shaking my head, I turned away.
"Wait!" He walked beside me, easily keeping pace despite my efforts to shake him off. "Beck, you can't let this affect you like this right now. I'm sorry, but we have to sort it out after the game."
"You think I don't know that?" I snapped back, my eyes trained on the fast approaching tunnel. "I'm trying. What's your excuse, huh?" When he didn't reply, I kept pushing. "You're not exactly looking so unaffected either, you know."
"Beck." We had reached the start of the tunnel, but something in his tone made me stop. Desperation? Sadness? Confliction?
"What?" I asked silently.
"We're going to be fine, yeah?" I frowned in surprise at his words, driving him to nod. "We'll sort this out after the game, I swear."
I looked away, unable to stop the panic that gripped at my chest. I inhaled sharply as hands came down on my shoulders. He was wrong. We weren't going to be okay, nothing was going to be okay. The match was a disaster; we were a disaster.
"How? You think things aren't going to be complicated after the game, Mason?"
I knew throwing his words back at him would hurt, and I got my confirmation as his hands fell from my shoulders. I didn't want to look at him, couldn't bare to see my pain reflected back at me.
"What the fuck are you guys doing?"
Tearing my eyes from the floor, I looked to see a seething Emil standing at the door of the away changing room. My stomach sank.
"Get inside!"
I entered the changing room, tension hitting me in the gut as twenty off pairs of frustrated, erratic eyes glared at me. In silence, I took my seat and tore my sweaty shirt off. Mason was inside a moment later, but I didn't even glance his way. Frank cleared his throat. Dazed, upset, unnerved; his words went straight over my head once again.