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Subject: Premiership Lads, Part 283 Part 283: Friendly Fire On the horizon, a fierce pink sunset had burnt away over the Surrey hills, and night was falling over St George’s Park, marking the end of day 1 for another Three Lions camp on English turf; the Switzerland and Ivory Coast matches ahead were mere friendlies to give the national squad a run out together, and yet the mood all afternoon and evening had been as energetic and determined as if the collection of Premiership lads were gathering for another serious tournament already, especially with several new young faces in their midst. Or the mood was MOSTLY like that – in one of the comfortable hotel suites of the England side’s long-standing home base, high on the top floor and overlooking said hills, the mood was a little less buoyant and had been since the two occupants had dumped their bags here around midday before the welcome lunch and opening team talk from Southgate. In here, there had been very little said in the gaps between activities, and the atmosphere was nothing like it had been the last couple of times this particular pair of England defenders had roomed together here at the Park. `Come on,’ purred the younger of the two men, lounged on one of two double beds, `just relax…’ The soft Kingston accent of the handsome 26-year-old accompanied the even softer gesture of his hand, slipping beneath the baggy front of an old England t-shirt to stroke against the hard ridges of his companion’s six-pack, and then explore down a little, thumbing at the elastic waistband of some loose old footy shorts. Luke Shaw smirked optimistically, stretching that elastic and guiding his hand inside those shorts, into that warmth, and creeping against the layer of soft cotton beneath until he was holding and weighing up the rather sizeable package in his boyfriend’s trunks. In response, Harry Maguire made a vague `mmm’ of acknowledgement, one of his hefty arms draped loosely about Luke’s own broad shoulders, but his crooked face angled quite intensely on a wall-mounted television and the golf coverage there. His eyes barely flickered from this dull coverage, but he made another (slightly louder) half-moan as Luke’s fingers traced and toyed with the lumpy outline of his privates, elbow rubbing at his tummy as he did so. `Come on,’ Shaw repeated quietly, pulling finger and thumb down the length of the clothed shaft, feeling the flaccid size of Maguire’s big manhood. `Not yet,’ Harry murmured without looking at him. Luke took a deep breath and tried to exhale it without it sounding too much of a sulky sigh, his own large physique nestled in beside the 29-year-old giant. He pulled his eyes to the television but found himself deeply uninterested in international golf, and he just quietly continued to rub and stroke his hand against the meaty contents of the package at his side, chafing his bare calf provocatively against Harry’s – and yet then, the bigger man making a slight grunt of discomfort, Maguire shifted his long muscular legs away at an angle, and reached one big paw to still and control Luke’s exploring right hand. Luke froze, stared down between them at their lazily clothed bodies, and then set his jaw in dismay. In a few lumpy movements, the Man Utd defender pulled away from his captain and lover, shuffling his big buttocks across the bedding and hopping sulkily off the shared bed. He rolled his eyes and huffed out his breath with no pretence of casualness – `Luke,’ grunted the Sheffield man’s voice behind him, but he ignored it, stalking moodily across the bedroom to the windows and looking at what had previously been a decent view before darkness fell. He stood facing it, and fiddled irritably with the protective covers over his new hand and arm tattoos, picking at the tape and `skin’. Harry’s footsteps were heavy on the bedroom floor as his club and country partner, who he’d travelled down here with today in moody quiet, left the bed to join him. `Luke,’ grumbled Maguire’s assertive voice again, and then he was there behind him, one hand each resting down on his hips. Luke didn’t shake him away, though he felt like doing so – he was too eager for that affectionate touch and some reminder of the intimacy they had developed in the past two and a bit years. `Yeah?’ Shaw said archly, folding his arms across his broad bulky chest. Maguire’s hands stroked his sides and he felt breath on his neck before a couple of hesitant kisses brushed at the edges of his close-cropped hair. `Come on,’ Harry muttered into his ear, `come lie down and we’ll knock the golf off…’ Luke just sighed. `If you’re not in the mood, you’re not in the…’ But he was NEVER in the mood, was he? That was the problem. Not lately, anyway. There’d been a time when they could barely let a hotel room door shut after them but his captain was throwing bodily to the bed and leaping on him. And yet lately… `Mm,’ Luke sighed gently, feeling one of Harry’s hand stroke his tummy and the other give his bum cheek a squeeze… he allowed himself to turn, to be turned, slowly but surely, until his arse and back rested against the windowsill and Harry was kissing him on the lips with a little more passion. Luke melted into his hold, forgetting his own stature and strength to hand himself over to this dominant man… Eager as always, he reached back for the weighty front of the older man’s shorts, stroking and holding Harry’s big cock, fondling it whilst they kissed. His own dick went almost instantly hard in his own long basketball shorts, a stiff prominent outline; he was desperate for what he tasted less and less this season, as the pressure and disappointment of Man Utd results weighed on them both, but more-so on the much-criticised captain. The 29-year-old snogged him roughly, locking their lips and grazing their stubbled chins. Harry’s hands were on his shoulders now, gripping quite tightly, maybe too tightly; but the force of it excited Luke and made him think of more frantic times between them, months ago before things at Old Trafford had seemed so brutal. He liked the force of those thumbs and fingers in his muscles, the press of the 6ft4 body against his, bearing down on him… and so he grabbed and stroked and pulled at his bulge, trying to wake up the beast, trying to make it react, trying to get it hard, but… With a sense of disappointment, Luke stilled, and went tense and unyielding against Harry’s hold and his kisses to the mouth. He squeezed one last time at the big flaccid thing in the captain’s shorts, and broke the dry kiss of their scratching faces. Harry loomed over him still, breathing deeply against his face and closing his eyes awkwardly. His hands loosened on Luke’s shoulders, but Luke grabbed his arms tightly. `It’s okay,’ he murmured sensitively but hesitantly. `I don’t mind. You’ve got a lot on your m-‘ A grunt of dismissal as Maguire pushed away from him. He didn’t quite look at him, just turned away, big arms swinging. Luke sagged, resting his hands back against the sill, and sighing out his frustrations, his own hard-on wilting against his loose shorts. Harry disappeared into the bathroom, which echoed with the sound of his pissing, and Luke just stared at the creased bed-sheets where they would lounge and watch the sports TV coverage, sexless now after so many passionate fucks. It ain’t you, Luke told himself inwardly, it’s just the pressure and all the negativity – things will get better. Tough times don’t last, tough people do. He grunted irritably at his own cliches. Week after week, the sex-starved stud was finding these explanations harder to believe – was captain Maguire really just struggling with the wide condemnation of his performances and leadership, or was the big Yorkshire stud just finally growing bored of his left-back fuck buddy…? `Fuck, buddy,’ came the slurring voice of his roommate, cutting across the sound of the American sit-com he’d loaded up on their telly, making Jordan Henderson look lazily up from where he lounged on the room’s small sofa. He blinked sleepily, watching as the other experienced England pro fussed about the room on the other side of the beds, going through a weekend bag and backpack in a slightly melodramatic fashion that was unlike him. `What is it?’ the 31-year-old Liverpool skipper asked disinterestedly. `Uh, I just… hmm… well, just lost my… er…’ The other player mumbled incoherently on, and Henderson just raised an eyebrow and then turned back to the TV. He made a vague noise of fake interest and stretched out his limbs in the close-fitting Three Lions tracksuit of bright blue. He really couldn’t tell what the big guy was mumbling on to himself, and he wasn’t in a particularly chatty mood, social energy worn down by all the camaraderie and banter of being reunited with his national teammates over the course of the afternoon. `Fuck,’ swore Harry Kane again, and Henderson did give him a brief look: the tall Tottenham striker was still fussing around, looking under his bed, fussing through the same luggage, then pacing about in between the furniture, playing about with his smartphone. Jordan tried to remember what the tall Londoner had professed to actually be looking for, couldn’t, and lost interest again. He looked back at the TV and turned the volume up a couple of notches. `I’m gonna have to go look for it,’ the striker told him, and Jordan didn’t bother to look up as he called out `Sure, no worries mate’ at the southern plonker. Loud footsteps, more self-absorbed muttering from the Hotspur, and then Kane was gone, and Hendo was alone, staring at the show he was bingeing but with his attention wavering. The Mackem bloke shifted position a couple of times on the sofa, trying to get comfortable, scratching at his facial hair and tugging at the collar of his polo shirt. He pulled one muscled arm over his chest at a time, stretching out the limbs and flexing his biceps against the tracksuit sleeves. Expecting Kane to tumble noisily back in within a minute, then five minutes, then ten, he fidgeted about and paused the show, and tried again to pinpoint what his roommate and friend had actually been looking for in his stuff… nope, he clearly hadn’t been paying enough attention. But once twenty minutes had gone by, the Liverpool captain began to feel bored and restless, and started to put the other guy out of his mind. He got up to his feet, pacing to the window and then back across the suit, and then staring thoughtfully at where his phone lay among a few discarded possessions on the bed. He moved across and picked it up, and checked his messages. It had been some months now since he and the young lad had been separated, and contact between them was blowing hot and cold. Jordan stared at the unread messages he’d sent to the young Welsh prince, and grimaced a little at the flirty emojis in them, seemingly ignored by Neco Williams – the young Liverpool export was probably having a great time now with his Wales squad buddies, just as he seemed to be out enjoying his new London environment with his Fulham buddies… and just as when he came back to visit the North West every other month, he seemed to be busy enjoying himself with his Wrexham buddies, or his family, or… Hendo cut himself off moodily, unhappy with the direction of his resentful thoughts. Neco was spreading his wings, he reminded himself, and making a big impact during his TEMPORARY loan to Fulham FC, far away from life at Anfield. When it had all been decided, young Williams had been the emotional one, distraught even, turning up crying in Jordan’s porch three times in the run-up to his exit – and Hendo had taken it upon himself to be calm and encouraging, knowing how crucial the loan would be for kick-starting the Welshman’s career. `Go and enjoy it,’ he’d told his young secret lover, over and over, and meant it. But now… Jordan bit his lip and felt the fresh wave of longing and frustration. He glanced at the hotel suite door for a moment, half-wondering where the hell Kane had actually got to, and then he looked back at his phone, flipping swiftly from the messaging app to a different social media, and thumbing into its search engine until he was on Neco’s instagram, looking at the recent pics posted by the Wales team – somehow Neco looked even more delicately handsome now as he grew and developed, and he looked really fucking beautiful in the latest posts. Jordan held the phone in one hand, ogling one high-quality portrait of the Wales player, and he reached the other down the front of his England tracksuit bottoms. After a moment of rubbing his sweaty privates and staring at the pic, he glanced once more at the door, then shuffled away – into the en suite bathroom, elbowing the door into place behind him. A bit cringing and self-critical, calling himself a dirty bugger and a terrible husband, Hendo propped the smartphone by the bathroom mirror and stared fixedly at an older photo on the social media feed, a shirtless shot of Neco’s lean and chiselled upper body as he clapped his hands in front of a Liverpool crowd. And then he was wanking – pushing his trackies down about his thighs, stretched against those muscles and the trophy tattoo on mersin escort one, and holding his cock in his right hand while the left reached under to stroke and tease his hairy balls. Jordan caught sight of his reddening face in the mirror and felt more shame at… at… what, his horny urges? His adultery? Or just his desperate need for that beautiful young man who seemed to be drifting away from him…? Hendo bit his lip again, straining his ears a bit just in case he could hear the rattle of doors as big Harry returned to their shared room – nope, no background noise, just his own heavy breathing and the wet fap of his foreskin as pre-cum bubbled at the head of his lengthy cock. He spat in his palms as lube and wanked himself harder, fixating on the image of shirtless Williams, thinking about the last night they had spent together, back at New Year – and even as Jordan pictured their love-making in a hotel room outside Chester, he found himself also picturing the slim young man buttoning up a shirt as he insisted he couldn’t hang on and cuddle because he had to go join friends on a night out. Drifting away. Jordan rubbed at his balls more, adjusting the angle of his fist as he pumped his cock and brought himself closer and closer to climax. He grunted fiercely, muscles straining and throbbing beneath the hug of nylon clothing, his skin becoming hot and sweaty against it in the narrow bathroom as he jerked off to the image of his gorgeous lad. Grunt after grunt escaped his pursed lips and he could see his face go redder. And then a notification was obscuring the screen of his phone, ruining the image of buff young Neco striding across a football pitch; Jordan lurched forward, still gripping with his cock whilst his left hand brushed clumsily at the screen to dismiss the message notification… but accidentally opening it, and swapping his view from an out-of-date Instagram post to a loaded picture message instead, taking up the large smartphone screen and becoming the new focus of his intense eyes as he continue to jerk roughly on his Mackem cock. `Hi skip!’ read the caption across the bottom of the screen, and `All good down in Dubai, hope today gone ok at St G’s, do Liverpool proud lad aye aye! X’ And above it was a large grinning selfie of Trent Alexander-Arnold by the pool, fingers up making a peace sign and golden-brown chest and arm muscles on show in the middle eastern sunlight. And so now Jordan was staring at that, too frantic and clumsy to fiddle with the touchscreen and get back to his feed of Neco porn… instead, he pushed his left hand down against the bathroom counter to steady himself, dragging his right hand as a fist up and down his shaft, wanking himself silly and finding himself staring intently at the image of familiar-looking Trent, so handsome and wholesome, massive grin and bare physique. And then, oops, the Liverpool leader was spilling fat blobs of his cum against the linoleum floor of a hotel bathroom, panting and shiny-cheeked, with his eyes centred on the smiling Scouser in Dubai – imagining, just for a second, that the droplets of his seed were falling against that chest or face instead. And then Jordan burst out in self-mocking laughter, still panting, and he pushed loosely at the phone to close the app, shaking his head, and trying to let his body cool down. `Was that Luke Shaw?’ the other lad demanded, walking a few paces ahead of them on their late-night stroll of the grounds. Ollie Watkins looked up at him, his hands still pushed into the pockets of his hooded top, and then he glanced over his shoulder to catch a proper look at the thick-bodied figure that had jogged by them, swathed in a waterproof and beanie hat. `Bit of a funny time for a run,’ remarked his roommate and walking partner with what seemed an overly suspicious tone of voice, watching the nocturnal runner disappear into the shadows of the hotel gardens, and then glare back at Ollie himself with that same odd alertness to his thin features. `Well, WE’RE out,’ Ollie pointed out fairly, then laughed a little bit. `Was it Luke? Might have been. Dunno. Lad could stand to skip a few desserts, to be fair, don’t blame him getting out for a run.’ Watkins smirked nastily and the other lad rolled his eyes. `Harsh,’ young Jude Bellingham told him simply, and Ollie just shrugged. `You can tell you’re in some foreign team,’ the 26-year-old Villa forward remarked bluntly to his young companion, `can’t keep up the English Premier League banter, y’know. No wonder they roomed you with me to loosen you up, you prig.’ He winked and punched Jude in the arm a bit as they walked on, not particularly interested in the jogging habits of some Manchester United primadonna beefcake. `What’s up with you, anyway?’ he demanded bluntly, steering Jude by the shoulder and guiding them back onto a gravel path towards the rising block of the hotel venue. `Nowt,’ the Brummie teen told him with stereotypical defensiveness. `Alright,’ Watkins murmured at him, a swagger creeping into his walk. He glanced over his shoulder again, wondering if there were other squad members still up and exercising for some reason – he’d insisted on the walk because he knew it would help him to wind down before trying to sleep, and he’d been a little bit surprised when Bellingham actually agreed to join him for it after all. But there was definitely something a little odd and on edge with the Dortmund youth, who wasn’t brand new to the international stage after all – an alertness or suspicion about his manner, clearly not yet comfortable in the brotherhood. Inevitably, Jude’s moody teenage silence opened up at Ollie’s failure to press further – `Just some funny stuff goes on around here, I reckon,’ the 18-year-old muttered evasively. There was a tiny scowl to his thin features, had been all evening really, and he kept looking about him as they approached the hotel, then staring up at the varying shades of light in the large windows above, most of which must peep into the rooms of their teammates. `Funny stuff?’ Ollie asked idly. `Huh,’ grunted the youngster. Ollie slowed his walk, turning that ambiguous phrase over in his head, pushing his hands back into his pockets. For a moment, he almost laughed rudely at Jude’s melodrama and phrasing, wanting to jibe and shove the teenager for his comments, but then the wording settled with him, and he thought that `funny stuff’ could be a pretty good description for a couple of incidents he’d got up to in his recent years at Villa. But he stopped that line of mildly curious reminiscing, because surely that wasn’t what this weird young fucker was talking about, was it? `Just… lads here don’t always turn out to be what they seem, I think,’ Jude said sagaciously, and now Ollie did laugh, rolling his eyes at his teenage wisdom and presumption. `What is this, some fucking fortune cookie?’ The 26-year-old Englishman pulled out a hand and clipped Jude lightly over the back of the head. `Chill out, bruv. What “funny stuff” are you even on about?’ Bellingham gave him an ambiguous look. `I saw some weird shit after we touched down from the last trip,’ he commented, and there was a distant look to his wide young eyes, and a clear reluctance to expand. `Ended up partying a bit, didn’t we, and…’ He waved a dismissive hand. `Ah shit, you wouldn’t get it.’ Watkins paused, arms swinging at his sides, and the two footballing men found themselves staring each other down. `You might be surprised,’ the Villa player muttered, eyeing Jude up and waiting for some elaboration on that, but getting nothing. Ollie himself opened his mouth to speak, primed to question the younger lad, to really push him on what he meant – but he realised there was no way he could scratch that surface without giving a little away, and he stopped himself. They’d just been stupid little experiments, he reminded himself with a bravado of casualness – he pictured himself in his car that night with Matty Cash, and laughed at himself a bit, or the scrap he’d had with Leicester’s Harvey Barnes. Just… experiments. `Ah, just forget it,’ Jude mumbled abruptly. `Forget what, you ain’t told me nothing,’ Ollie cajoled him. `What’s the goss, eh?’ `Just some of these boring old fuckers,’ Jude snapped, and Ollie resisted taking issue with `old’ since he was eight years senior to the Bundelisga star, `just ain’t the wholesome family men they make themselves out to be, that’s what I learned. Me and Emile, y’see, we just-‘ And then he was stopping as abruptly, and shaking his head before looking away. `Forget it, mate, forget it. Funny fuckers. And Sancho…’ `Oh, is that it?’ Ollie demanded, seizing on this. `Are you just sour cos you’re missing your buddy Jadon, is it…? Haha…!’ He grabbed one of Jude’s shoulders and steered back onto the path towards the hotel doors, shaking off his interest in the phrase `funny business’ and just wanting to snap this moody youth out of his suspicious mannerisms – otherwise he was going to be dour company for the next five or six nights. `Jude and Jadon,’ he trilled whimsically, `the Bundesliga bum buddies, I heard…’ Emile Smith-Rowe lounged back in the desk chair, his socked feet swung up onto the lacquered wooden surface of it, and he stared over the top of his handheld phone screen to give a critical gaze at the antics of his Arsenal colleague and current roommate. The tanned young blond tilted his head, watched for a few moments more, then grunted out his sarky assessment: `Fuckin’ poser, bro.’ He laughed once, smirked, and then looked back down at his phone instead. Across the far side of the room, the other England recruit stopped, free weights held up close to his tattooed chest, and looked over this way. The 24-year-old centre-back raised one neatly plucked eyebrow, paused shirtless in the middle of his strangely enthusiastic late-night weights session, and failed spectacularly to produce a witty comeback. Emile glanced up again to meet his mildly offended expression, flashing him a wily smirk to confirm he was just taking the piss, and then blew him a jokey kiss across the room. `You just work on the gun show, Whitey,’ Smith-Rowe mocked him quietly, and got back to his phone, only glancing out of the corner of his eye as the toned south coaster continued to work his arm and shoulder muscles in a few last reps, intently studying his own inked reflection in the wall mirror as he did so. Really, the jokes between them were nothing new – Emile was just bringing the Arsenal banter to the national team, picking up where many of their seasoned fellow Gunners had left off in their constant ridiculing of the well-preened pretty boy and his fastidious appearance. `You should try lifting something sometime,’ White returned dully, never the sharpest tool in the box, continuing to just focus on himself and his little nighttime ritual of weights. Emile smirked privately at the latest couple of messages on his glowing phone screen, his attention divided between a rapidly escalating online conversation, and the general banter with his new roommate. Pausing as he waited for a further reply on his phone, he looked up again and shifted his weight, re-crossing his bare fluffy legs and letting the loose England shorts run up his tilted thigh muscles a bit. `Seriously, can’t you stop staring at yerself in that mirror, though?’ the Croydon lad muttered teasingly across at the other Arsenal player. `I bet you fucking toss one off looking at your own shitty tattoos some nights, Benjamina, I seriously bet you do.’ `I don’t need to toss anything off,’ scoffed Ben quickly, `cos I don’t have any nights without a bird to put it in and get my dick wet, do I? With these looks,’ he added stupidly, meeting Emile’s eyes in the reflection on the mirror. `Not like a little South London cave-troll like you, fella.’ `Where’s your bird tonight then, or for the next five fucking nights?’ Emile asked him calmly without looking at him, too busy tapping a quick new message into the chat interface. White seemed a bit stumped by that proposition, making a few awkward scoffing laughs as he put down his free weights and stretched out his arms and chest muscles, still ostentatiously topless and just in baggy sweatpants that sagged low below the waist of his Armani boxers. `I don’t shag birds on away trips,’ he said after a few beats, `them’s the rules, you know that. No action before any big games!’ `Big games?’ Emile murmured. `We’re talking about a couple of friendlies.’ White was just sighing and tutting. `We’re hardly over here out of the city to pick up girls, Smithy, I dunno what you’re on about mate.’ He talked on, mumbling to himself in that way he had, confidence laced with insecurity, and Emile ignored him, sealing the deal on his separate little conversation and punching in the last necessary message: `cu in 5 mins?’ With a gentle flex of his muscles, the 21-year-old pushed himself back from the desk and leapt up from the wheeled chair, sliding the phone into the front pouch of his black hoody the second the `yes, can’t wait’ message had hit his notifications bar. He grinned excitedly to himself, glancing about the room he was sharing with escort mersin the older Arsenal pro, and then walking over to the foot of his bed and pushing his feet into some New Balance trainers whilst thinking up his excuses. `Where are you going?’ White asked predictably, breaking off from whatever boring lecture he was giving on how he was definitely the most attractive man at Arsenal. Emile just winked at him. `Nowhere for you, pretty boy,’ he said, but then delivered his lie: `I said I’d ring my nan, didn’t I? Gotta be the good grandkid, that’s all. Don’t be jealous, she’s not your type.’ Ben just stared at him for a moment. `At this time?’ was all he asked, and Emile just rolled his eyes, called him an `Old man’, and grabbed a light jacket off the top of his luggage before heading for the hotel door to exit the room. `You enjoy jerking off to your own reflection okay, tattoo boy?’ he called cheekily to the 24-year-old, pausing with his fingers on the door handle. He grinned and awaited Ben’s attempted comeback, then jerked the door open just as the handsome fella was about to make a dig at him, slamming it shut behind him and abandoning the footballer to his lean muscular vanity. It was all funny banter, but Emile genuinely wouldn’t be surprised if the poser was more turned on by his own reflection than by any of the alleged supermodels he’d slept with this season. `Oh hi,’ Conor Coady called cheerfully, pausing in his quick and bouncy gait as he mounted the stairs onto the broad landing that joined most of the squad accommodation; he leaned on the bannister and pulled aside a little bit as the younger England call-up made to bound past him, something self-conscious in his expression as he pulled the hood up over his head now. Emile Smith-Rowe made only the slightest grunt of `Hey’ to him on the way past, all elbows and pace as he descended the stairs. The Wolves captain paused, his hand still on the rail, and he gave a bemused smile to the empty landing as he watched the Arsenal youngster vanish away downstairs without any passing chit-chat – bit odd, but Coady wasn’t entirely sure what he thought of Smith-Rowe – something a bit arrogant and confrontational about him, he thought, but that was typical of players from London teams in his opinion. Not that it would change the friendly way he treated him, of course, because Conor was a big believer in a positive smile and comment for any of the lads he played with, usually followed by his trademark laugh. The 29-year-old Scouser shrugged it off, scratching his stubble and setting off down the same passageway that Emile had emerged from, on his way back to his own shared suite after sitting in the empty bar area to take a phone call with his wife. A bit of privacy, really, away from the hyperactive enthusiasm of the other young Lion he’d been assigned as roommate for the duration of the friendlies. It’s not that the young lad wasn’t a lovely fella, Conor had to keep reminding himself, he was just chatty enough to make even gregarious Coady feel a bit drained, full of nervous tension and odd moments of intensity. You’d think that his ample experience on the under-21s side might have prepared him more for joining the top table, but the Chelsea loanee and Palace sensation was clearly over-excited to be here. When the 29-year-old flashed his keycard and let himself into the room at the end of the corridor, he was greeted with a quick and visual explanation for the traits that he’d found odd in the other Conor all evening: his view across the neat hotel room, their things barely unpacked, went straight on into the adjoining bathroom, where his eyes met those of Gallagher’s boyish face. Conor Gallagher was wide-eyed and twitching powdery nostrils, hunched over the sink there with his back to the room, looking alarmed. Conor Coady didn’t have to take many steps across the room, the door shutting hard behind him, to know exactly what Gallagher was up to. But as he reached the bathroom door, he could see the little plastic packet in the lad’s fingers, and the line readied across the dark surface of the counter beside his credit card. `Right,’ the Premier League captain snapped in his harsh accent, `I knew you were a little cokehead, jesus.’ `Coady,’ murmured the Crystal Palace player with a quick and anxious tone. `On the lemo,’ Coady snapped back at him, filling the doorway and crossing his arms across his lean chest. He shook his head judgmentally. `Really, Gallagher? Fucking hell!’ The consonants crackled on his tongue as he exclaimed it. He felt a mix of surprise, anger, and disappointment. The young player just stared worriedly at him, but then looked again at the lined up cocaine as if debating whether to finish his bag off after all. Annoyed at any young player showing such disrespect for the national team, Coady barged into the small bathroom with him, elbowing him to the side a bit. He turned on a tap, swilling its lukewarm water against the grey-blue surround, quickly washing the street drug away and then fixing his angry eyes on his roommate. So usually the high-spirited and demonstratively cheerful chappy, the 29-year-old could switch to a real fierceness that better suited his short-cropped dark hair and masculine physique – he was an experienced team leader after all. Gallagher looked about to speak and complain, but Coady shook his head. `You got any more?’ he demanded brutally. `No,’ the 22-year-old Epsom bloke told him weakly but, he thought, honestly. `If I catch you with any more, it’s going down the sink too. Understood? We have a game in two nights’ time, you fucking idiot kid. Okay?’ Gallagher nodded. He looked horrified, but also wired, and his edgy behaviour all through the opening day of the training camp made so much more sense to Coady. Jesus, he thought, how badly-ran is team life at Crystal fucking Palace? His anger subsided, but his stern captain’s disappointment remained, his almost brotherly concern for impressionable younger players like this dunce. `What if I told Southgate, eh?’ he rattled. `You won’t, will ya?’ the 22-year-old mumbled. `Why shouldn’t I?’ he threatened, although he certainly had no intention – why would he try to ruin anyone’s career like that? `Don’t,’ the younger Conor mumbled. `I’ll do anything,’ he said, his voice fast and shaky with the rush of what he’d already snorted. A little of it lingered about his nostrils and the thin teenage-looking growth of his upper lip, as if he was still trying and failing to grow his first moustache in his early 20s. Coady didn’t give this stupid little gambit much thought, just glowering authoritatively at his roommate and wondering exactly how bad a coke habit the young midfielder had already developed – the drug was rife in young players, he knew, and he’d had to take a similarly harsh stance with a number of young teammates over the years. He was about to speak more, a bit more softly, to opt for a more friendly and understanding approach to the problem, when he felt the sudden and unexpected touch. `I’ll do anything,’ breathed Gallagher again, very close beside him in the confines of their en suite bathroom. The lad’s eyes were bright but red-rimmed, and he looked on edge… but Coady looked down to where his hand had rested against the front of his own England tracksuit, knuckles pushing tentatively against the centre of his crotch. He stared fiercely at this grazed contact and then back at the young lad’s dumb face. `What are you doing?’ the Wolves skipper asked in a low growl. His first thoughts were: what does he know? What has he heard? What have people been saying? But then he remembered himself and he pushed him sharply in the chest, separating them. He shook his head. `Don’t,’ he said warningly, and now Gallagher suddenly looked even more worried and defensive. Whatever the coke-wired young idiot had thought he was about to achieve, Coady wanted to make it crystal-clear that it wasn’t fucking happening. Even if his mind’s eye was suddenly elsewhere, and he was picturing the cheeky grin and roving tongue of Pablo Neto back in Wolverhampton. Ugh. `Um…’ `We’ll forgot about that,’ Conor grunted, leaving him alone in the en suite and stomping his trainer-clad feet back into the main room, feeling hot and irritated and fiddling with the zip of his tracksuit top. He looked at the gormless-faced Chelsea export following him through, and shook his head disappointedly again. `Both things,’ he added meaningfully, frowning at his roomie and then making for the door again. `Where are you going?’ the Palace player demanded in a small voice. `For a walk,’ Coady snapped, heading straight back out, too annoyed and unnerved to stay here and waste any more words on the naive fool. The slam of a hotel room door, another of them, was dimly heard in the room beside theirs, but it was largely ignored. Partly because the two occupants of this next squad suite were just too busy, but mainly because such peripheral noises were drowned out by the clapping of cheeks as one man, Declan Rice, drilled the arsehole of the other, Mason Mount. The latter was on his back on the bed, his strong legs straight upwards and held about the ankles by each of Dec’s strong hands. His angular face peeked between these ankles, sweaty and determined, maintaining intimate eye contact with the grinning face below while he powered his body forward in fast and repetitive strokes, making fleshy slaps between their toned young bodies. The West Ham hero pounded the bottom of his Chelsea lover boy with little thought for the various drifting noises of the corridor and rooms beyond theirs, lost as he often was in the perfect private world of he and his Mase. `Fuck me,’ begged grinning Mason, doing his best to keep his excited voice low and discreet in this setting, not like the screams and cries they risked in their own apartment as they made love at least once a night. `Fuck me, fuck me,’ he kept repeating, as if Rice wasn’t already ruining his hole with more power and vigour than ever. Dec turned his face to the side and kissed the side of his ankle, then the other, standing tall and just bucking his hips and crotch to push his strong cock deeper and deeper with every entry, his closeness and ecstasy etched on every line of his shiny face. Mase nodded, keeping their eyes locked. `Yes,’ he whined. `Yes, fill me up!’ `Yes,’ his boyfriend gasped in return, needing no drugs like those of Gallagher next door, just totally addicted to the beautiful lad on the bed – last year’s indiscretions long forgotten and forgiven now – and seconds away from emptying his seed deep inside him. `YES,’ he exclaimed, but then stopped himself in an agony of pleasure, realising he’d broken their little noise rules there and risked being overheard from anybody nearby. He swallowed the groans and exclamations that wanted to burst out of his mouth as he shot his cum deep inside Mason’s perfect muscular arse, and Mount too did his best to stifle his noises of pleasure, clamping one of his own hands over his mouth. `Aaaah,’ was all Dec could allow himself to moan, pushing his lips against on of Mason’s shapely feet to contain it all, his whole body rocked with climactic pleasure but scared he’d already made too much noise with that `YES’. The noise had been a bit odd, but it had definitely sounded a bit over-excited. It made the giant centre-back pause on his way down the corridor, heading out of his room to get a break from his sleepy roommate’s premature snoring, and now Tyrone Mings was standing outside of the neighbouring door trying to work out if it really had been a `Yes’ or something else that he heard a lad’s voice exclaim behind there. He didn’t actually know whose room it was, they’d not been here long enough for him to get much bearing on who was roomed where, but it had definitely sounded a bit… The 29-year-old smirked to himself, lingering there and straining his ears for any more noise, but then walking on instead. Interesting, he told himself idly, trying to work out whose room that was, but also cursing his own bad luck on that front. He’d ended up with James Ward-Prowse. He had nothing AGAINST Prowsey, who was well-liked and well-respected across the England fraternity, but he was a pretty straitlaced and serious lad, and it now turned out, also a big fucking snorer. Thus Mings was heading out for a bit of space and air before bedding down himself, and the snatch of ambiguous noise caught through a passed door was giving him flashes of the fun he MIGHT be having if the rooming arrangements were a little different. The big Aston Villa defender was still a bit hesitant and sporadic in letting anything happen with other lads, but he’d had his eyes opened a lot in the years since his first fumble with his former captain. Mings found and descended the stairs, moving through the quiet night of the hotel, a baggy hoodie on over his vest and long shorts. Very idly, he tugged at the crotch of the shorts, suddenly wondering how horny he was, thought that had hardly been his foremost thought when he was getting used to sharing a room with likeable-but-dull James. Downstairs, he poked his head into the dimly-lit mersin escort bayan quiet of the bar area and dining room, and then the other communal lobby spaces, and finally letting himself out of the door for a short walk in the cool night air of the grounds. Just a few minutes, he told himself, realising that he was actually pretty tired himself, despite internally laughing at Ward-Prowse for wanting to hit the hay so early once they’d gone up to the room. Very idly, the big footballer thought about the kind of mad antics he’d got up to a couple of times before on England camps, though he still felt a bit at sea with the complicated politics of man-on-man action – here, anyway, compared to the easy dynamics he had with a couple of Villa blokes, especially the eager-to-please Scottish lips of his pal McGinn. With such muddled and sordid thoughts, the centre-back went around the corner and into a sort of courtyard garden that in daylight might be overlooked by many of the rooms above, but was now all shadows and discretion. He strolled down its ornate paths towards the pergola structures at its far end, and rounded another corner – and moments before passing around to the back of these structures, he heard the action before he saw it. Another muffled moan of `Yes’, just like what he’d accidentally overheard upstairs, and his heart raced curiously so that he took the corner in a lunging step, so eager to discover if he’d imagined the sound… For a moment, Tyrone was unseen, pressing one hand against a wooden pillar to steady himself, and squinting into the moonlit space where this courtyard garden met the edges of a training field. He stared ahead of him, making out the blond-haired figure leaning back against the trellis and ivy, and also the tall hunched man bent down in front of him, both of them quickly recognisable to him in even this thin light. Suddenly, the standing one of the two male figures was staring this way, and meeting his eyes with an expression that seemed shocked but unworried. And then the face of the crouching bloke was looking this way too, a slick wetness about his lips and chins. `Oh,’ murmured a cock-drunk Harry Kane, slurping at his bottom lip, moisture shining on his short goatee hair. `Wotcha,’ grunted the fair young lad against the side of the pergola, giving him a wary stare and reaching down to pat the top of the England captain’s head, stroking his freshly trimmed sandy-brown hair. Emile’s cock was stiff and slick wet between his crotch and Harry’s open mouth. Mings stared at them both and grinned, then moved to join them. Standing in one of the rooms that could overlook that end of the courtyard, John Stones had not been close enough to the window to see any shadowy figures cross the ornate garden and disappear beyond the pergolas and climbing plants that made its far border; if he HAD been looking that way, twitching curtains, he might have seen that big tall Tyrone wasn’t the only later stroller who had happened upon that end of the grounds and heard a suspicious noise beyond the wooden pillars, though. However, this strapping stud of a Manchester City player had been busy, very busy, and was now standing up in the space between the two double beds. He had his t-shirt on still, a tight-fitting white one that clung to his long lean torso and the gentle curving bulge of his chest and upper arm muscles; his sweatpants and briefs, though, were about his ankles, his long decorated legs fully on show and his big wilting cock dangling between them beneath a trimmed bush of pubes. John’s cock was a little shiny from the attention it had received and the orgasm it had experienced. The big cheery defender had a lazy smirk on his handsome features as he held his smartphone in both hands, angling it at the bed on his right and zooming in a little to get the picture. He grinned even more widely as he took the perfect shot, then quickly attached it to a Whatsapp message to his fellow City defensive player: `LOL, look at this one. Don’t worry though K – nothing on you.’ Stones couldn’t hold in a smug little titter as he hit send and let the message shoot through the Wi-Fi and across the country to his homebound lover, Kyle Walker, who had somehow missed out on an England call-up this month for a change. On the bed, the still image that his camera had captured snored on: John’s roommate, flat out on his back, a few large damp patches showing on his pale blue t-shirt, but the majority of Stones’ seedy deposit still glistening gently around his mouth and chin where they’d been shot. Jordan Pickford’s chest rose and fell with his sleepy breathing, seeming to have passed quite quickly out after the frantic excitement of being face-fucked by a massive stud; one of his hands still tucked down the front of his tracksuit to hold his own piece, which he may or may not have satisfied before sleep claimed him. John just sniggered fondly, a little surprised that the Mackem goalkeeper had turned out to be such a greedy and attentive cock-sucker once Stones dropped the slightest hint of being bored and horny before bed; in all honesty, the affable 27-year-old wasn’t even sure how it had gone form an idle chat upon returning the room to a sweaty scene with him pushing his whole rod into that sloppy little mouth, but then he’d been spunking all over Pickford’s scally features and painting his face with his cream, then sneakily photographing it to titillate Walker, who he suspected would be a bit low and left-out back in Manchester. `Fuck,’ came the other defender’s quick reply on the messaging app, `what a slut!!!’ A lewd string of emojis followed, making John grin more. He broke the crass tone of their messaging and sent a quick and heartfelt `Miss you x’, before deciding that this seemed a bit too sentimental, and following it up instead with a quick photograph of his own dangling cock instead. That picture got captioned with nothing more than a winking emoji, and then he reached down to start pulling up his pants. Neither Smith-Rowe or Mings had seen the jogging figure on the path that ran alongside the field, their eyes both closed in pleasure as their exposed cocks were handled and licked by the kneeling slut; and the momentary alarm they felt at the presence of a fourth man had been ended when Luke Shaw, stomping across a flowerbed towards them, had lifted the front of his hoodie and pushed down the front of his tight little running shorts, and added a third big Premiership cock to the buffet being enjoyed by Harry Kane. But now a fifth man was here, and again the other guys were too self-indulgent to sense his presence until he was right upon them. Coady looked back once, conscious of how stupidly risky this all was, how thinly hidden this spot at the end of the hotel gardens really was. He thought of how cautiously he had pushed away Gallagher’s hand just before, fearing any such transgressions on England duty, but how reckless and excitable the men in front of him clearly were. And something in their animalistic passion made him overcome all of these sensible barriers. After all, he told himself bitterly, he and Kane had previous. Soon, the Scouser was pulling his semi-hard dick from his trackies and massaging it into full life, stepping up next to the others and completing the tight circle of bodies that towered over kneeling Kane, a tall well-built man down on his knees, and rushing his hands and lips from dick to dick. Coady made brief belligerent eye contact with first Mings and then Shaw and lastly surprising Smith-Rowe, but none of the guys actually said anything – not one of them acknowledged the madness or surprise of their united effort here. Nope, they all just focused on one thing: wanking their powerful manly cocks and feeding it to Harry’s straining lips whenever the sluttish football captain lunged their way. The standing men acted as one, and Kane just acted in a fever of desire. Down on his knees, rubbing against the dirty earth and staining his England sweatpants, he circled, grabbing at one and then another cock. He planted his mouth hungrily about one piece of meat and then moved greedily to another, tasting each of them: the curved pale weapon that had lured him out here to pleasure Emile, whom he had sucked off a dozen times since first fellating him on the last England outing; the long heavy brown tool that would have looked much bigger on anyone not so tall and broad as Tyrone Mings, which had once been inside his arse on another wild night of international duty; the chunky beast of meaty Shaw, that he’d coveted for years; and the long thin prick of Coady, another that had penetrated his backside in one of the most heartbreaking nights of his life, in Iceland. The England skipper moved like a thing possessed, and then shifted lower to the ground as he knew they were all getting closer. He lay down, submissive and greedy, and stared up at the tightening circle of them, four men connected by uncontrollable lust, but refusing to engage with each other in any other way – if Harry Kane had been thinking straight, he might have wondered what circumstances and frustrations had guided Shaw, Mings or Coady out here in the dropping temperatures of the March night, or why his own Arsenal bad boy was so easily persuaded to take the risk, but in the moment all he cared about was what he knew was soon coming, pardon the pun. And so Kane just lay back and took the inevitable, unsure which of the sexy men above him even unloaded first. Drop after drop of Premiership seed landed on him, some of it on his arms and neck and chest, but much of it splattering across his face, friendly fire. Anyone lying awake might have heard the sporadic awkward footsteps of dirty dogs returning from the outdoors bukkake gathering – the red-faced football studs making solitary walks of shame back through the silent hotel in varying degrees of satisfaction or regret, trying and failing to let themselves back into shared rooms without much noise – and perhaps some players did hear and wonder at these midnight movements, but in one such shared suite, the squeak of bedding and the slapping of muscular bodies was making too much of its own noise to pick up on any such signs. This wasn’t smitten Declan and Mason, who were now falling into loved-up kip four rooms away, the former’s big body flopped down on top of his Chelsea prince, arms wrapped safely about him; nope, this was another pair, in the room nearest the landing, who were fucking rabidly with little thought for anything else. Jack Grealish moved in bed with all of the ferocity and aggression that he moved on a football pitch, his legendary leg muscles just as engaged. The other lad was pinned beneath him, held in place by his hands and mouth as well as the force of his piledriver cock between perky cheeks. Jack didn’t grunt or groan or talk dirty, just rapid short breaths and a look of intense concentration as he got closer and closer to a conclusion, fucking the other England star into the perfect white bedding beneath them, and then withdrawing at the last possible minute so that he could rise up on his knees and fire his white-hot cum across that pink-cheeked backside, sweat gushing down his face, neck, and chest. Jack’s hair bounced and flicked with the jerking motions of his head and body, and he pumped the last speck of his jizz across the bottom of his bottom, before shuffling back, gasping and laughing quietly. He reached out and spanked one game hand across the cum-stained arse, making it all the pinker, then slid off the bed away from his roommate and new fuck buddy. The famously expensive City purchase took some steps away from the bed, fully naked and his whole body shiny and rippling in a sliver of moonlight from between the curtains; he found a scrap of clothing to wipe his cock clean on and then tossed it messily to the floor, hands on hips and breath still ragged. On the bed, the recipient of his powerful night-long fucking rolled slowly over, tender and quiet, and grinned this way without saying a word. Jack looked over at him with another wheezy laugh, then just gave his physical partner a cheeky wink before disappearing into the bathroom to wash himself down before bed. His exit was watched through hazy eyes by the exhausted twink on the bed, Grealish cum cooling on his skin. What a man, he thought to himself, echoing the admiration of the nation. And then Phil Foden reached weakly for the duvet to pull over his trembling naked body, fucked senseless by yet another clinch with his new teammate and best mate, unable to quite believe that he was the regular recipient of that love god in the bathroom’s powerful cock. He sighed weakly into the dark air of the hotel room and closed his eyes, listening rather than watching as Jack returned, humming to himself (how is it possible for humming to have a Brummie accent…?) and getting into the bed beside him. Lying limply and quietly, Foden allowed himself to be grabbed and spooned yet again by gorgeous Grealish, enclosed within the bigger and stronger body of the other wiry midfielder. How had it come to this, he asked himself for the millionth time, settling in against the other City star. Well, that was a story for another day. ‘Writer guy’ – Premiership Lads on Nifty fty//gay/celebrity/premiership-lads/ Amazon Wishlist here if you wanna say thanks LOL https://www.amazon.co.uk/hz/wishlist/ls/26BW3WSABBHNM?ref_=wl_share
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