Saturday night, 8:00 PM.
The Crestwood clubhouse was buzzing.
It wasn't just the bass from the jukebox; it was the shared relief. The first win of the season. A clean sheet. A goal at the last moment.
In the corner of the players' lounge, Steve "Sully" Sullivan was holding court. He had a bandage on his knee and a pint of lager in his hand.
"And then," Sully shouted, reenacting the goal for the fifth time, "The kid rises like a salmon! Like a bloody salmon! Bang! Bottom corner!"
He grabbed Mason around the neck and playfully messed up his hair.
Mason sat there, looking rough. The butterfly stitch above his eye was pulsing, his left knee was iced, and he was sipping a Diet Coke. Still, he was smiling. It was hard not to smile when the club captain called you the heir to the throne.
"Right!" Sully slammed his empty glass on the table. "We're moving. The King's Head is calling. Then maybe Liquid if Deano can convince the bouncers we aren't hooligans. Rookies, you're coming."
Callum, on the edge of the booth, lit up. This was it. The initiation. Going out with the First Team on a Saturday night after a win.
"I'm in," Callum said, jumping up. He had already showered and styled his hair. He looked ready for a GQ shoot, or at least a fun night in a Midlands club.
Sully pointed a sausage-like finger at Mason. "And you, hero. You're leading the charge. You won't buy a drink all night."
Mason shifted in his seat. He glanced at Callum, then at Sully.
"I think I'm going to skip it, Skip," Mason said quietly.
The table went silent. Deano, the striker, looked up from his phone. "You what?"
"I'm done," Mason said, gesturing toward his battered body. "My head is pounding. I think I might have a concussion from that elbow earlier. I just want to go home and sleep."
"Sleep?" Callum hissed, grabbing Mason's arm. "Mase, are you crazy? You scored the winner. You're the King of Crestwood tonight. If you walk into that club, you're a legend."
"I'm tired, Cal," Mason said, gently pulling his arm away. "Seriously. I can barely keep my eyes open."
Sully stared at Mason for a long moment. He looked at the untouched Diet Coke. He looked at the bruising on Mason's cheek.
"Fair play," Sully nodded, surprisingly serious. "You took a beating today, son. Rest up. We need you for Tuesday against Halifax."
"Tuesday?" Callum squealed. "That's so far away!"
"Go home, Mason," Sully ordered, turning back to the group. "Callum, you're drinking for two. Let's move!"
The group of men stood up, a chaotic mix of denim and leather jackets. Callum lingered for a second.
"Come on, Mase," Callum whispered. "Just for an hour. Mia is meeting us with her friends. It'll be fun."
"I can't," Mason said, standing up stiffly. "You go. Enjoy it."
"You're boring, you know that?" Callum shook his head, but he was grinning. "I'll tell everyone you were too busy signing autographs."
"Do that," Mason smiled.
Callum turned and jogged to catch up with Sully and the others as they piled into a line of waiting taxis. He looked back once, waving, before diving into the backseat of a Toyota Prius.
Mason stood alone in the parking lot. The bass from the clubhouse faded. It was cold.
He walked over to his dad's car, which was waiting with the engine running.
"Not going out?" his dad asked as Mason climbed in, wincing as he bent his knee.
"No," Mason said, buckling his seatbelt. "I have to recover. Big game Tuesday."
His dad looked at him with a mix of pride and concern. "You sound like a pro, Mason."
"I am a pro," Mason murmured, leaning his head against the window. "Sort of."
He pulled out his phone. He saw a Snapchat story from Callum. It was a blurry video from the back of the taxi. Sully was singing Sweet Caroline at the top of his lungs. Callum was laughing, looking thrilled, and shouting "National League!" at the camera.
Mason closed the app. He opened his texts.
Ethan: Congrats again Mase. Big time.
Mason typed back. Thanks. Just heading home. The body is wrecked.
He stared at the screen. Ethan was at home. He was at home. Callum was out with older guys, chasing the high.
Mason knew, deep down, that Callum needed tonight. Callum needed to feel included, like he was one of the "lads." For Callum, the reward for the struggle was the party.
For Mason, the reward was the goal. And that was enough.
"Can we stop at the garage?" Mason asked his dad. "I need more ice."
"Sure thing, son."
The car pulled away, leaving the noise of victory behind. Mason closed his eyes, already thinking about how to stop the Halifax striker on Tuesday night.