Chapter 41: Forty

Walking back downstairs, wet hair dripping onto Mason's grey hoodie, that nagging feeling remained in the pit of my stomach. Questions bounced around my head. Where was Liv tonight? Would she be okay with me coming for dinner like this? Why had Mason even invited me? Was there some kind of hidden motive? Would this be a Bulgaria situation all over again?

Back down in the hallway, the spicy smell from earlier swirled around me, enticing me though to the next room before I could overthink the situation more. As I entered, I swept my eyes over the space. Shock sped up my heart as they skimmed from the fireplace, lit for the first time I'd seen, to the long dining room table, where two places were set, to Mason standing behind the stove, his attention focused on two large pots beneath him. Was this all for me?

"Jeez, Mitchell," I said, walking across the room to the kitchen island. Mason's head snapped up. "What's all of this for?"

He shrugged a shoulder, his cheeks reddening. "I don't know what you're talking about, Hart."

Shaking my head, I managed to hold back a smile. Rounding the island, I peered into the pots. Reddish sauce bubbled inside one, thick and presumably delicious, while linguine sat in the other. The season I arrived at Chelsea, Mason spent out on loan in Germany. Apart from tearing it up in the Bundesliga, he'd claimed the year taught him something more important than just football: how to cook. Unlike most of the other football players I knew, Mason now cooked most of his meals by himself instead of hiring a chef or hustling leftovers from Cobham. On the few occasions I'd eaten his food, the quality of it had taken me by surprise.

I leant against the counter beside the stove, my eyes on Mason's profile. "I'm still waiting for the champagne, though."

Grinning, Mason turned to look at me. "Okay, I lied about the champagne." He flicked his head towards the fridge as I dropped my jaw in faux disappointment. "There's a lot of wine in the fridge, though."

"Mason Mitchell drinking wine?" I gasped teasingly but moved across the kitchen. "Surely not."

Mason chuckled behind me as I pulled the fridge open. Eyeing out a couple of bottles of wine on the bottom draw, I pulled out one at random.

"Yeah, I'm all out of beer I'm afraid."

The sound of a cupboard shutting sounded behind me, and when I turned around, wine in hand, Mason set two wine glasses on the counter. Meeting his eyes, my stomach turned. Opening the bottle, I looked back down.

"This feels wrong," I said, pouring Mason's glass.

"What do you mean?" I could feel Mason beside me, his arm so close to mine, but not close enough for me to make contact innocently.

"I don't know." I breathed out a laugh and slide his glass across the counter. "Just feels like we shouldn't be drinking, you know?"

As soon as I said it, my stomach dropped at the implication of my words. Wide eyed, I looked up at Mason and was about to apologise for underhandedly taking a dig at his escapades of last weekend. But, thankfully, he just grinned down at me.

"Well, neither of us are playing a Premier League game for at least a week."

Lifting my glass, I raised my eyebrows. "To bad tackles."

Mason's eyes crinkled at the corners. "Fuck off," he laughed, but clinked his glass against mine anyway.

We held our eye contact while each of us took a sip. When he turned away to check on his pot again, I lowered my glass back to the counter. He dumped the pasta into the sauce, lip caught in his teeth as he concentrated. Taking his laugh as a positive sign, I cleared my throat before I spoke.

"So," I said, drawing it out. "Want to talk about your bad tackle?"

With a sigh, Mason stopped stirring the completed dish. Before replying, he turned the gas stove off.

"Not really," he mumbled. On the other side of Mason lay two pasta bowls, which he straightened now, not looking at me. "It's just... The first yellow was such bullshit. Like, it's hard to be upset about the second, but that first one should never have happened."

I nodded, sensing his frustration. "Yeah, I know. Everyone is saying the same, though." He grunted. "Maybe it'll be overturned?"

"Doubt it." He flashed me a forced smile and motioned to the food. "Want me to dish up for you?"

"Please." My cheeks heated up as he held my gaze for a second. He started spooning pasta into a bowl. "There's not much you can do about a shit call though, except try not to feel too bad about it."

His jaw clenched as he nodded. Worried that I'd taken it too far, I stepped closer to him and wrapped my fingers around his forearm. He stiffened under my touch, so just as quickly as I'd made the movement I pulled my hand back.

"And no one will be upset with you," I said, feeling my cheeks flush. "Especially once they see the replay."

"I'm upset with me."

His words were quiet. With a sigh, he scooped a final dishing into his bowl and picked up his wine glass. After a long swig, he met my eyes again.

"It's just embarrassing, really. The challenge was so dumb. Don't know why I made it."

The regret on his face made my stomach clench with compassion. Sure, it had been an unwarranted tackle, but players made mistakes all the time. He wasn't the first player to get a red, and he wouldn't be the last. I told him that in similar words as he carried our bowls to the dining room table, his glass of wine balanced in one hand. His disappointment was still clear when we sat down, evident by how he slumped in his chair.

"Did Frank say anything?" I asked.

"He did." Sitting up straighter, Mason grinned. "He told me his first red card was against Spurs, too. And that he wasn't mad at me, just bleak I'd have to miss the Burnley game."

"See!" I waved my splinted-hand through the air. "Even Frank was chilled! Stop stressing over it!"

Mason shook his head, lips still raised, and flicked his eyes down to my bowl. "Hope you don't mind a bit of a kick."

"After tonight?" Mason laughed. "As long as it's not coming from George Carroll I'll be fine."

I took my first bite of Mason's dinner. As he'd mentioned, the taste of chilli stung my tongue, but it was subtle and flavourful as opposed to overwhelming.

"Fuck, Mase, this is delicious," I commented, already piling up another forkful.

Mason chuckled humbly, but kept his eyes on his bowl. Worried that I'd overstepped by bringing up his card at all, I nudged his foot with mine under the table.

"Hey," I said quietly. "You okay?"

He nodded and flashed me a quick smile. "Yeah, I'm fine. Just need some time to accept it." He knocked his socked toes against mine. "At least I have tomorrow to help me get my mind off things."

At the thought of the gala, my heart leapt. I'd barely thought about it since my conversation with Kyle outside Cobham. Looking down at my wrist – the ugly, obvious brace – I wanted to shrink back. It wasn't exactly going to photograph well.

"Yeah, the gala, right." I reached for my wine.

"Don't sound too excited," Mason teased.

"Just not really in a celebratory mood yet." I shrugged. "But maybe I will be tomorrow."

I looked away and a moment later felt Mason's touch on my wrist. It might have been impulse that drove our actions, but no sooner had his fingers had brushed my wrist then our fingers were intertwining. The pit that had been in my stomach unfolded, replaced with butterflies. Too scared to make any movements, I just glanced up to gauge Mason's reaction. He was already looking at me, his expression hard to read.

"Sorry," he mumbled. He must have been referring to the injury, because his hand stayed in mine.

A beat passed where we continued staring at each other. My mouth dried. I swallowed, Kyle's words springing up in my head again. Stop getting carried away, I scolded myself. He's still with Liv.

Clearing my throat, I edged my hand out of Mason's. Something similar must have gone through his mind, because he looked away, too, turning his attention back to his plate. Disconcertment hung in the air. For a long minute, neither of us said anything. Mason released a long breath. I wracked my head for something to say – anything to burst this awkwardness.

"Beck—"

"Hey, isn't Pippa coming on Monday?" I asked, speaking over Mason shamelessly. He blinked at me for a second, his frown giving way to an easy smile.

"Oh, yeah," he replied. Just like that, the strain vanished. "Flip, I almost forgot about that."

"What do you guys have planned?"

As Mason relaxed into the conversation about his sister, so did I. But I still felt split in two: as half of me grew more comfortable, the other half of me toyed with the same idea over and over again. Whatever this was, this unspeakable thing between me and Mason, it was more than the innocent friendship I'd forced myself to believe it was. And the more I thought that, the more I recalled George's ominous warning from Bulgaria. And the more I thought it couldn't be avoided anymore.

***

There was a pit in my stomach as I helped Mason stack his dishwasher. I cursed the self-awareness that clutched at my brain all of a sudden. Now, every moment of eye contact, every offhanded comment, every fleeting touch from Mason sent warning signs flashing before my eyes. I'd been able to brush my qualms away before with a simple this is just Mason being friendly reminder, or a stubborn I'd act like this with anyone thought. Now, though, those denials seemed futile.

I tried to match my ease from the previous day as we finished the meal and eventually began to pack up. But I felt how forced my actions were. I felt the way my eyes shifted away from his, the way I kept my hands out of his reach, the way I steered the conversation towards lighter topics. Mason must have sensed something was off, because since we'd stood up from the table, he'd kept quiet.

Tension rife in my shoulders, I straightened after being hunched over the dishwasher. Mason, preoccupied by wiping down the counter, didn't glance my way. I bit the inside of my cheek, panic grabbing my chest as I thought about how to bring this up to him. Countless opening lines sprung to my head, each of them worse than the prior.

Mase, I need to ask you something. Too formal.

How are things with Liv? Not something I would ever ask.

Remember when you tried to kiss me? No.

Mason, I think I have – no, definitely not.

Crossing my arms, I rolled my lips into my mouth. It didn't feel right to leave the elephant in the room unmentioned. But letting it out ran the risk of things turning bad real quick.

Mason, finished with his task, now did look at me. The line between his eyebrows disappeared as he grinned. He started moving closer, making my heart leap.

"You know, you can stay here if you want." I widened my eyes at his casual tone. "I just mean it's late. You can use a spare room if you don't want to mission home."

He came to a stop in front of me, eyes staring down at me – the exact thing I'd managed to avoid for a while. But now they sucked me in, forced me to stand straighter, brought a blush to my cheeks.

"Uh." Words abandoned me for a second. Tearing my gaze away, I focused on a painting over his shoulder. "Uh, no I shouldn't. I have, like, a million things to do tomorrow."

"Gala prep?" God, how was he acting so blasé right now when I was freaking out?

"Yeah." I forced out a chuckle. "You know the drill: nails, hair, makeup, choosing a dress." My eyes flickered to his, and back to the painting. "And Joan scheduled some media duties, which is just, like, shitty timing, but nothing I can do about it, I guess."

I breathed out deeply. He remained silent, his eyes still boring down on mine. My heart battered against my chest. When did he get so close? I lowered my gaze to his lips. Fuck, rookie mistake. My stomach flipped. Now, fingers brushed against mine. Fire sprung up in my chest as I entwined mine with Mason's, all the while suppressing the voice that screamed in my head stop stop, oh, my God, Beck, stop.

"Decided on a dress yet?"

He twisted his hand, pulling me closer. I raised my chin, tightened my grip on his.

"Not yet." The corner of his lip pulled up. "Decided on a suit yet?"

He grinned properly. "Had it ready for weeks."

His gaze dropped to my lips now. This was Bulgaria all over again. The same weakness hit my knees; the same temptation clouded my judgement. Maybe releasing the elephant wasn't as bad an idea as I imagined, but just not in the way I expected.

Get it together, Beck. Logic cried at me to say something – Mason practically laid out the opportunity on a plate for me. Dragging myself back down to reality, I swallowed. I let go of the yearning and the affection and the warmth in my chest, letting it dissolve into a tangy sense of rationality. Kyle would be proud, not allowing myself to get carried away.

"Has Liv picked a dress yet?"

In a heartbeat, Mason's face fell. The hand that held mine withdrew. Eyes that just oozed with intensity blanked. I felt sick. The bubble we'd been in crumbled around me, as if my words flicked a switch. Now Mason was the one lost for words.

"Mason." Emotion cracked my voice. "We have to—"

"I broke up with Liv, Beck."

Every nerve in my body jammed with shock. This turn wasn't meant to happen. Mason wasn't – he broke up with her?

While my brain rebooted, Mase stepped back. I shut my eyes, just for a second. Opening them, they focused on a timid Mason, his cheeks flushed, his body hunched over itself.

"You... what?" I spluttered. My right hand scratched the side of my head. "I—"

"I ended it," he repeated. Hearing it again just stopped my heart for the second time. "It's... we're done."

Third time was the charm: I came to my senses at last. He broke up with her. Right beside the astonishment, hopefulness rose in my throat. Followed by anger. Followed by a deep-set panic. Followed by the most intense, spiteful curiosity I'd ever felt.

"Okay." I nodded. "When?"

"On Monday morning." Mason shifted his weight, his expression sheepish. "After I left your place. Look, I know I should have done it the second we got back from St George's, but she was away, and then—"

"On Monday?" I repeated, his words processing a beat later. Mason nodded. Anger was low down on the ladder of emotions I felt, but I chose to latch onto it. Grabbing onto the hope straightaway seemed naïve. "You did it on Monday? Why didn't you say something sooner?"

"I wanted to." Mason ran a hand through his head. "I mean, I tried to, Beck. I just... I don't know, I didn't know how to. And then we kept getting interrupted, and..." he trailed off, his mouth falling open. "Yeah, I should have told you sooner, I know."

The moment while we made tea in Amsterdam, the moment in the bus as we left the Johan Cruyff Arena, heck, even the moment when I'd interrupted him this evening. Pieces fell into place as the past week played out on fast-forward in my head. All the flirting, all the affection, all of it started to make sense.

The invitation here tonight. The eagerness to miss training on Monday. Was it all because of his break up?

I wanted to be upset with him, but clarity made that impossible. He had tried. Sure, maybe he could have done so a bit harder, but I realised his intentions now. Meeting his eyes, I wondered how much my expression was giving me away.

I needed to know more. But I had no idea where to even start.

"Why did you do it?"

I followed his gaze to where his socked toe traced the outline of the tile below him. Looking back at his face, my stomach clenched at the reluctant smile that materialised on his face.

"I think you know the answer to that one, Hart," he whispered.

His eyes lifted and trapped mine. Oh, my God. I did know the answer – suspected it, at least. I gulped in air. This confrontation was not meant to play out this way. Flustered, I felt stuck in place. My fingers itched to fiddle. My legs screamed to carry me across the room to Mason. But I found myself unable to do anything except blink at him.

"I know this doesn't change what George said." With a humourless chuckle, he ran a hand through his hair. "Actually, it kind of just makes things more complicated, honestly." The irony of the situation brought a grin to my face. Mason, clearly urged on by my sign of emotion, carried on. "But I haven't been fair to Liv. Or to you, Beck."

My grin faded as my throat tightened. Mason's eyes turned serious, too. "What do you mean?"

"I mean I was stringing both of you along." Mason made a move forwards, but he bounced back into place after a second. "I just– I know I've been a bit of a dick for a while. So I'm not telling you this with, like, an expectation, or to, you know, pressure you into something you don't want; I just needed to tell you."

Speechless, I looked away. If Mason kept on staring at me with that vulnerability, I'd be immune to the reason in my head telling me to take a step back. Don't get carried away.

"I don't know what to say, Mase," I mumbled, finally lifting a hand to twirl the ends of my now-dry hair.

"You don't need to say anything," he replied quickly. He held his hands in front of his body, eyes wide. "You really don't."

"Okay."

We stared at each other in silence. My heart ached to continue what started in Bulgaria all that time ago, but I remained motionless. Mason cleared his throat. I shifted my weight to my other foot. Mason bit down on his lip. I took a deep breath in.

"I'm sorry if—"

"I should go."

Mason's eyes clouded with hurt, though as he straightened up it vanished. My heart constricted, but I stuck with my gut. An impulsive move right now that we couldn't take back seemed a worse option than just taking a beat to process this. He'd broken up with Liv and practically confessed to what I'd been feeling for weeks, sure. But, at the end of the day, things weren't as simple as just that.

With his lips rolled into his mouth and his arms crossed over his chest, the vulnerability he'd just been shown slipped away more by the second. "Yeah, I get it."

Neither of us moved for a minute. The magnitude of this situation weighed down on my shoulders and, with the events of the day on top of that, my body ached with sudden exhaustion.

"I just need to think about this all, Mase," I said quietly.

"I know, I know. It's okay." He gave me an artificial smile. "I didn't mean to freak you out. I'm sorry if I did."

I nodded and took an extra beat to take Mason in. The stylish jersey pushed up to his elbows, the line between his eyebrows, the ruffle in his hair. Would this be another moment that I regretted? Wold I look back on this in a day, a week, a month, and wonder if I should have ignored reason and just made a move?

With a twist of my stomach, I reached into his hoodie pocket and pulled out my phone. No, trust your gut, Beck.

In silence, I ordered an Uber. Mason led the way back to the entrance hall, where my belongings were in a messy pile at the bottom of the stairs. We stood beside each other tensely, both watching the black car creep closer on my phone screen. When it arrived outside, I lifted my eyes to his once more. Before I could gather my things into my arms, I wrapped them around Mason's neck.

"Thank you for tonight, Mase." He held me securely. The sentiments of the past ten minutes caught up with me and constricted my throat. I needed to say something more. I couldn't just leave things like this. "I'm really glad I came."

Mason said nothing, but understanding shone from his eyes as we released each other. I reached down to collect my things and, by the time I stood up, Mason was holding the door open for me. Cold air stung my cheeks. I thought about reaching out to grasp his hand, or squeezing his shoulder, or something, but I just walked past him, legs stiff with tension. Just hoping that he understood the hidden meaning behind my words, I started down the stairs.

"Hart!" I spun around on the bottom step, hopefulness swelling in my chest. His face was concealed in shadows, but I imagined the grin he wore. "Good luck with the gala prep."

"See you tomorrow, Mitchell."

With a smile, I turned back around. He definitely got them.