Derbies were always big, but our game against Spurs on Saturday had a different feeling to it. With their recent run of bad form and our recent confidence boost against Ajax, we knew the match would be an interesting one. Spurs tended to step up their game against us, understandably, but we were in no position to lose to a sub-par Spurs team at the moment, even if derbies had been known to take points off us in the past.
It was obvious that even with our Champion's League result, we had something to prove after the Newcastle loss. Despite the excitement around Cobham about Frank's gala, there was an intense focus amongst the team, too. It hung around us like a persistent cloud, blocking out other distractions.
We warmed up practically in silence. The usual banter and jokes that bounced around the team had died down on the bus. The only one who didn't seem in their own bubble was Frank. In the warm up, he wandered around with a confident grin on his face. During our final moments in the changing room, while we pulled on our match tops and boots and shin pads, Frank stood by the door humming Blue Is The Colour to himself. As we headed for the tunnel, lead by the cheering Emil, he clapped us each on the back.
Instead of the clear-mindedness I'd felt midweek, nerves ate at my stomach standing in the tunnel. Restless, I retied my hair, refolded the tops of my socks, adjusted my shorts â anything to keep my hands busy. George Carroll and his team were taking ages to come out; it felt like hours that we'd standing in the damn tunnel. The longer we stayed here, the more time the butterflies in my stomach had to multiply. My legs itched to move, desperate to run out onto the pitch and start the game.
"Hart, you okay?"
Mason's hands came down on my shoulders. Their comforting touch released some the tension building in my neck, but did nothing to settle my anxieties. I nodded anyway, sneaking a glance back at him. He nodded, his eyes steady.
It came as no surprise when Frank added Mason back to the starting team. The intensity with which he'd trained leading up to our Ajax game continued the rest of the week. Even with all the extra effort the rest of the team had shown, Mason still stood out in our sessions.
Behind him, I spotted George emerge from the home dressing room. Mason's hands remained on me as our England captain passed, his gaze unwavering from the pitch in front of us. They did slip off when Zach Smith and Sophie North followed after George, though. The pair gave us high fives before shuffling into their own line.
I attempted to slow my breathing walking out onto the pitch. The crowd was deafening, louder even than what we'd faced in Amsterdam. While we lined up and posed for a picture, my nerves began to lessen. I sprinted to my place and bounced on my feet as Emil did the toss. Staring down the players in white opposite us, I knew there was no way they were better than us. We would win; we had to.
However, the unthinkable happened and we found ourselves one nil down after just four minutes. Rodri made a rare mistake and gave the ball away during an attack. With me up the pitch, Annika and Emil were left stranded, and even with Rodri and Fran sprinting back, Spurs had an overload and their striker beat David to score.
From then on, it was like a war zone on the pitch. I was used to being hustled by players, but today Spurs were pushing their limits. Foul after foul kept us from building up much momentum. Maybe I was imagining things, but it felt like I had a target on my back.
Twice in a couple of minutes, bad challenges came my way. George, despite being an excellent leader, was a dirty player at times, and the first one came from him blatantly hooking my ankles. Winded already, I passed my free kick to Mason. When the ball came back to me a few passes later, their Russian midfielder charged at my back and dug his studs into my calf.
Twenty minutes in and we were yet to level the score line. I butchered my best crossing opportunity, but since then neither team really had any chances. The game was quick, going from one box to the other in no time. Spurs had a solid defence, but our superior passing ability in the midfield gave us the advantage in the middle of the pitch. We would build up from the back and get into their third, only to lose the ball. When Spurs had it, they'd send long balls forward for their big, Dutch striker, who had wingers and fullbacks in hot pursuit. But holding our shape worked and when they made a mistake, the cycle would start again.
Thirty minutes came. We won a corner that I delivered into the box, only for Abby to foul the keeper. Forty minutes passed, seeing Spurs win three corners in a row. My nerves were on edge the whole time, but luckily no shots came off them.
The fans were antsy. Maybe it was because it was my first game in Spurs' new stadium, or because the away fans kept on being drowned out by another Come On You Spurs, or Glory, Glory Tottenham Hotspur, but I was on edge. The consistent buzzing throughout the stadium never distracted me, but tonight the crowd was getting under my skin, feeding into the frustration I was already feeling.
My rage peaked just before the end of the half. I was barged off the ball and, after managing to stay up and win the ball their winger flew in for a reckless tackle. Instead of getting the ball, she stamped on the top of my foot. If the challenge hadn't been so painful, I might have been tempted to have a go at her.
I limped off at halftime, anxious to get away from the jeers and chants haunting me. A red-cheeked Mason met me at the mouth of the tunnel. Before he finished high-fiving me, he was complaining.
"I've never seen anything like it!" he raged as we entered the changing room. "Swear they've made more fouls than passes out there."
"Trust me, I know."
"And fuck, what did you do to them? They all look like they want you dead."
Despite the situation, I chuckled. "Maybe they're getting back at me for nutmegging George in the first minute."
Mason laughed and offered me the bottle he was drinking from. "Probably. How's your foot?"
As soon as I was seated, I inched my boot off. There was definitely nothing besides bruising to be worried about, but I expected it to be bad.
"It'll be fine," I replied, shooting him a smile to ease the concern on his face.
Catching the eyes of Stu from across the room, I pointed to the big cooler box filled with ice. He chucked me a packet and, wincing at the temperature, I held it against my foot.
Frank soon started his team talk, his demeanour the same as before the game. Compared to the rest of the riled up team, his calmness came as a relief. Adrenalin and annoyance still ran through my brain, but I focused on the gaffer as best I could. We were the better team out here today, he reminded us, and if we could just get one or two chances, we could show it.
By the time the bell went, my foot was numb. After tugging my boot back on, I gulped down a final sip of the drink Mason and I had been passing between us. Frank gave us some last minute firing up, but by the looks on the team's faces, we didn't need much of it.
I walked back onto the pitch with Annika and Emil, more energised than before the game. The atmosphere and the way we were being treated on the pitch combined with Frank's team talk left me trembling with anticipation as I stared at the crowd.
The whistle went and Kyle passed the ball back to Rodri. From his ball off to the right, I knew we'd get something out of the game. Our passing became slick, our mind-set purely attacking. Minutes in and it felt like just a matter of time before we scored.
Our chance came a few moments later. Mason was fouled just into our half, so I stepped up to take the free kick. Scanning the pitch as I laid the ball down, I spotted a huge space behind their left back. I caught the eyes of Fran from across the field and nodded, hoping she'd get my message. As soon as the whistle went, I lobbed the ball over their defensive line, straight into the path of Fran's run. She did well to say onside and took the ball with ease. After beating her defender on the inside, she delivered a perfect ball across the face of goals. Kyle merely needed to touch it to score, and he connected with it from a dramatic slide that bulged the back of the net.
I sprinted forwards to celebrate with the team, overjoyed at the play. Sweaty bodies embraced me in a chaotic huddle. Congratulations came from every direction: for me, for Fran, and for Kyle. A hand ruffled my hair; someone clapped me on the back; someone kissed my forehead. Emil ended us off with some shouted words of encouragement.
The moment ended too soon as we broke and took our positions for the restart. Almost dizzy with adrenalin now, I felt my lips lift into a grin.
I didn't have much to do for the next while; they passed it around their backline, into their midfield, around their midfield and then back out. Our press was doing its job of holding them off and preventing them from breaking through our lines again. However, a clearly bored Fran broke structure and sprinted forward to meet the Spurs left back, who easily moved around her. Suddenly there was space, and Spurs were quality enough to take advantage of it. Too soon they were playing around our box, trying to draw us out again. My breaths came out faster as I tracked my player, who made lead after lead after lead.
We seemed to be holding them off again until Fran made the same stupid mistake. Their left mid made a neat pass that cut out Annika. The winger that had stomped my foot picked it up and was making a beeline for the box. Emil was preoccupied on the far post marking their striker. A split second decision told me to go for her; tackling had always been one of my strengths. I left my player. Lunging forwards, I was about to make the challenge.
The moment happened right in front of me, seemingly in slow motion. My right leg was raised, just about to move in. The player was focused on me, the ball at her feet. I had read her movement and saw she was going to pull to her right. Before I could adjust, Mason appeared from behind.
He slid in and hooked his foot around the front of her legs to graze the ball away from her. Momentum carried her over Mason's outstretched leg. She fell to the ground, milking the challenge completely. There she lay, clutching her ankle and crying out as if Mason had broken her leg.
My head flew up to the ref as time sped up again. My chest swelled with anticipation as he blew his whistle, and then exploded with white-hot rage when he pointed to the spot. The stadium roared with cheers as me and several other players flocked to the incompetent ref.
"It was clean! He got ball!" I shouted, pointing to the ball a few meters to my right.
"I won it!" Mason was shouting.
"There is no way you can give that!"
"Fucking VAR better fix this."
Interferences came from every direction, from us and now from the Spurs players that had joined in. The ref blew his whistle again, and dread crept up my spine as he pulled out a yellow card from his pocket. He flashed it at Mason for the challenge and at Emil for putting up such a fight.
Mason stormed away as the protests continued. Aggressively, he kicked the ground as he stalked towards the sideline. I ran after him.
"Hey!" I called. His head turned and I saw the anguish clear as day on his face.
"That was clean," he said quietly. His eyes were wide â angry â and the clenched fists at his side told me how worked up he was getting.
"I know."
"It's bullshit. Bullshit. Why aren't VAR doing anything?"
I reached up to rest my hand on his shoulder, trying to lead him back to the box. The ref had ended the riot and stepped to the side, obviously listening for VAR's ruling.
"Don't let this get to you, Mase," I said, speaking into his ear. "This is bullshit, yeah, but this isn't your fault. We can score two more, easy. It's okay."
Mason's anger seemed to be dissolving into pain, because his face twisted as I turned to look at him. He shrugged me off as he threw his hands into the air.
"Why did I even make that tackle? Should have just left it to you."
"Stop that. This isn't on you."
He looked me in the eye, some of the disappointment leaving them. However, the blaring of the whistle forced us both to look at the ref, who still pointed at the spot. Mason swore again, his previous rage back. Mine was, too, and I vowed to myself to play the rest of the game as best I could to try and level for Mason's foul-that-wasn't-a-foul.
At two-one down, we played our socks off, probably producing one of the best performances of the season. We must have had three shots on goal in the next ten minutes, but their keeper was having an absolute blinder and saving everything we threw at him.
The aggression continued from Spurs, and I wasn't the only one feeling it. Elena limped off after a bad tackle and play had to stop for a couple of minutes while Kyle got a nosebleed treated. An aerial challenge left the side of my head tender from an elbow.
It felt worth it, though, when one of these challenges happened to be in the ideal spot for a free-kick attempt at goal. We'd had a corner that I'd gone up to take. Once delivered, I moved to the left of the box to wait for any rebounds. Sure enough, the ball came to me and a howling tackle from Zach Smith won the free kick.
Daniel, our normal free kick taker, wasn't on the pitch. This left either me, Abby or Mason to take the kick. We stood in a huddle over the ball.
"You're having a cracker, Beck, you take it," Abby insisted. We stood close together, hands over our mouths to avoid the other players reading our move.
"I'm left-footed," I reminded her, looking between a wide-eyed Abby and a frowning Mason.
"This is more suited for a righty. Unless we aim for Kyle and hope he gets something."
"No," Mason said decisively. He turned to Abby. "Abs, this one is yours. You've been practising them like a machine all week and they've all been crackers."
I nodded in agreement, recalling the past week of training. "I agree. And look at their wall; it's not that tall. You got this, Ab."
For a moment she looked scared, but then a determination came over twenty-four year-old. She nodded, and Mason and I locked eyes for a second. Content with our decision, we stepped away and let Abby place the ball.
True to Mason's foresight, Abby fired it over the wall and into the back of the net. Celebrations ensued, more vigorous than the first goal. Seventy-five minutes gone, two-all.
Victor was on for Elena and not long after our goal Olly was swapped for Daniel Gregory. Fran, after her mistakes earlier, had been withdrawn for Spencer Ingle. With all of our subs done at eighty minutes, I knew I needed to pull out all the stops for the last bit of the game.