Date: Fri, 26 Jun 2020 23:50:43 +0000
From: writer guy <premiershiplads@outlook.com>
Subject: Premiership Lads Part 131: A Night For Champions

Part 131: A Night For Champions


From the moment Willian's goal smacked into the visitors' net and
signalled Chelsea's victory over Manchester City, waves of joy and
excitement swept across the crowded patio; but when the final whistle
blew shortly later, and Liverpool's position as winners of the 2019-20
Premier League was concrete, the gathering of footballers absolutely
erupted in a roar of camaraderie and emotional triumph.

Thirteen weeks away from the seemingly ill-fated season for these
players, and thirty years of waiting for the club and those who loved it;
the atmosphere outside the golf resort where the Liverpool squad and
management had based themselves tonight was beyond anything they had
experienced before, even in the other victorious moments of recent years.
Formby Hall exploded with the heated passions of dozens of active
sportsmen and the coaches who had steered them to this glorious moment as
both the earliest and latest winners a season had ever known.

In the centre of this red-shirted throng, the team's much-celebrated
young defender Trent Alexander-Arnold felt the burst of triumph and proud
even more keenly then many of his beloved teammates; after all, like a
handful of the others, he was a proper local lad, born and raised on
Merseyside. For him, this was way more than a professional achievement or
a sporting peak, it was a boyhood dream rooted in everything he knew. He
grasped at everyone around him with desperate happiness, bouncing up and
down on his heels and hooting into the sky to join the chant of
`Champions! Champions!'

The petite right-back laughed and beamed and felt tears of joy sting at
his narrowed eyes as he swayed with the crowd, looking about the twilit
space of the golf club's drinking terrace, booked out for them tonight
in anticipation of this result. Obviously, he thought for a second, this
would taste even sweeter if the mathematical league victory had come at
the end of one of their own games, decided by their own efforts in the
moment; but fuck that, now it was here, it didn't matter that City's
loss was their gain. They'd won more than enough games already -- they
were now unbeatable, no matter what happened for every other team in the
League.

Trent smiled so hard his cheeks ached, one of the threatened tears
spilling out as he turned in a series of choked laughs to hug the players
to the left and right of him, staring around the tight gathering, unable
to really tune in on one voice amongst the celebratory rabble. Fuck yes,
he kept thinking, fuck yes, this is it! Liverpool on top! Oh my god, it
felt like he could do anything tonight, the world was his, wow...

To his left, his perky Scottish buddy was teetering from one foot the
other, his face almost as bright red as the shirt on his back, snatching
at the arms and collars of everyone around him and roaring with
Glaswegian gusto. Trent beamed at Andy Robertson affectionately, enjoying
the force of his reaction, gripping his sweaty palm for a fleeting moment
in appreciation and recognition of all their defensive teamwork this
season; but Robbo, he noted, was staring joyously past him, his giddy
grin fixed on another fella in the fray.

Fair enough, Trent figured, but he looked to the right, past whooping
Virgil and their tear-eyed captain himself, to see Alex
Oxlade-Chamberlain pausing in the middle of leaping up and down, arm in
arm with Firmino and Lallana, his stout body rocking with the movement of
the guys around them; he was staring over at Andy with the same look on
his face, a sort of starry-eyed elation that stood out even in this
insane moment. It made sense, it shouldn't have jolted Trent or caught
his attention quite as it did; the whole terrace was rocking to the leaps
and hugs and yells of the Liverpool FC squad, so delighted in their
long-awaited win. But somehow, in the thick of this, swaying side to side
and feeling more hands pulling on his red shirt for hugs, Trent stared
for a moment between the grinning faces of his two older teammates and
felt a tug of curiosity, the faint beginning of a suspicion, something
that had perhaps hovered on the edge of his consciousness for some time
now. And then, the slow-motion instant over and he was dragged backwards
by the hairy arms of the gaffer himself, Jurgen Klopp pulling his young
star into a tight embrace and kissing him on the tight curls of his afro
hair, yelling out, `Champions! Champions! Champions!'



The drink was flowing freely, all rules and protocol chucked out of the
window in honour of tonight's achievement, but there was one figure
amongst the riotous Liverpool crowd who remained `dry'. One rule was
still in fucking force, the young winger thought bitterly, skirting the
edge of the celebrations with a half-pint of Diet Coke clutched in one
hand and the other twitching at the waist of his denim shorts, wishing he
could pull out a cheeky fag and light up; 17 years old and probably the
youngest Premiership winner the country had ever known, and he couldn't
score a pint of lager to join properly with these messy red celebrations
all around him!

He pulled at the chest of the `Champions' branded Liverpool shirt
plastered to his sweaty torso and circled the edge of the fray; big
French windows had been slid open and the terrace party was spilling into
the main clubhouse where their free bar was set up. The free bar that
everyone except Elliott had access to.

Trying to suppress his sense of annoyance, so at odds with the glory of
it all, he muscled up to some of the other younger guys -- Dutch teen
However gripping a plastic pint glass in each fist, grinning cheerily
despite limited contribution to the league title; local lad Adam Lewis
excitedly narrating some boyhood memory of Anfield to the others,
swigging from a bottle of cider; lanky Curtis Jones laughing stupidly
along to his story and gesturing vaguely at Harvey to join them. He
looked past these three to the quietly smiling fourth member of this
young pack, all over 18 though, his ex-housemate Neco Williams.

Harvey sipped his flat coke and watched Neco as the story climaxed
unamusingly, only half-audible against the music now blasting from
indoors and the loud whoops and chants of older players all around them
on the terrace. Williams and he hadn't spoken a lot since the drug
discovery that got them kicked out of their shared place, and Harvey
didn't entirely blame the 19-year-old for keeping some distance -- he
knew he'd been a careless dick, had screwed up a good thing. He missed a
lot about that comfy big house, and a lot about sharing it with Neco, if
he was honest.

The others were guffawing at Lewis, but Neco was glancing back his way
with a distracted grin on his stubbled lips, clutching a pint close to
his chest, a ruddy glow in his cheeks. There was a nervousness in the
Welsh player's eyes that just thrilled sober Harvey, looking at him
across the busyness of this corner. He liked the way that red shirt hung
from Neco's tall lean physique, rolled up a little over his biceps to
show some of his tattoo. He grinned, and thought about a few late nights
and shared spliffs, the places his lips had crept...

In an instant, their little group was dissipating: Curtis Jones was
swaggering over the terrace, drink in hand, ready to join in the starting
up dancing; Adam Lewis was following him and their young Dutch friend was
turning away for conversation with a couple of other young players who
were heading to the bar. This left the two former housemates `alone'
together for a moment, on the fringe of the crowd. Neco tensed visibly, a
fight-or-flight uncertainty in his expression.

`How's life with the captain?' Harvey asked, swirling the fizzy sober
contents of his glass and taking a glass closer -- very close -- to the
tall 19-year-old, squaring his own broad shoulders and puffing out his
chest half-consciously.

`Huh? Oh, sweet, it's fine, it's only temp obvs, but-`

`Better than life at Boring Salah's, anyway!' Harvey sniggered in a
low, confidential voice, elbowing him in the arm. `I only lasted a week
or summat, innit, haha...'

Neco gave him a suspicious look, nodding vaguely. `I did hear that,
mate...'

`You wanna know why?' Elliott asked meaningfully, leaning in and giving
a flick of a wink at his slightly estranged pal. Neco's cheeks reddened
more and he looked away sharply as they spoke, heaving a big sigh before
replying at all.

`And now you're staying with some executive and his massive family,
right, in your own little granny-flat over the garage... cushy!' He
didn't look at Harvey, taking a cautious sip on his pint and seeming to
scan the room for an escape from the dialogue; it was the same tense body
language as whenever training routines left them more or less alone
together.

`Mo got a bit funny, didn't he?' muttered the younger lad, leaning in
even closer. `You know that story I told ya, yeh, way back, about what I
saw, and-`

`Still, must be a bit weird being with some old bod off the executive
board,' Neco carried on, as if Harvey hadn't said anything, suddenly
waving his hand a bit at a passing huddle of their older teammates, all
drifting indoors into the hot stuffy clubhouse, where the music was
pounding louder and laughter spilled out into the warm summer night. `I
mean, you probs gotta behave on his property, I bet, that must be shit,
haha...'

`Mate,' giggled Harvey quietly, `you know Salah insisted I got moved
out, cos he couldn't handle that he and I-`

Neco sidestepped away from him pointedly. `It'll be fine when you turn
18 and are just allowed a flat on your own,' he said blandly, pulling at
the neckline of his footy short and stepping a little further away again,
`it'll be much better for a fella like you, so...'

Harvey glared at him. `Mate,' he hissed, reaching a hand out vaguely
across the space between them, letting fingertips graze the other young
footballer's bare elbow, `what about you and old Hendo, has anyth-?'

`Oh, hey!' Williams was suddenly shouting, waving again, and then
breaking this little frisson of contact, striding ahead and indoors with
the passing fellas, leaving Harvey stood alone and sober and feeling
deeply annoyed. As happy as he was for the club and for all of them,
standing here with his Diet Coke made him feel like an unwanted child in
the corner of an adult party; and in all honesty, watching City get
fucked up by Chelsea had got him SO FUCKING HORNY. Watching Ross Barkley
bounce energetically about the pitch with the rest of Lampard's squad,
knowing what had gone on in that car park that night... fuck. He gripped
the pint glass so hard it almost shattered in his fist, and bit his lip
until he could almost taste his own blood, surveying the tipsy assembly
of his squad-mates. Fuck's sake!



Trent laughed as hard as everyone else at the sight of their cherished
manager pulling shapes in the centre of the party, lurid beneath the red
and violet disco lights. The 21-year-old was leaning at the bar, cupping
a double vodka and coke in one hand and slapping out a beat against his
thigh with the other, chuckling away as Klopp did his little robot
routine then swayed aside, drunk and emotional and grabbing at lad after
lad in affectionate managerial cuddles.

Not that he was the only one getting tactile, Alexander-Arnold thought to
himself, taking a heady slurp of his mixer drink and turning a little way
round to see the captain stumbling across the `dancefloor' and into a
ready embrace with his notorious bromance buddy; Henderson had his arms
thrown completely around Lallana's broad shoulders as the two older lads
circled and whooped and staggered back into the middle of the floor like
some hilariously laddish first dance from a footballers' gay wedding.
Again, Trent laughed and supped his drink and propped himself at the bar,
already feeling that tingly numbness in his arms and legs, too much drunk
in a short time; he'd felt pissed even as he interviewed live for Sky
Sports and the BBC!

Why was he noticing how tactile everyone was?

He supposed it was a lockdown hangover, more or less; this shindig was
the most `normal' the world had felt in months, with bars and such not
open yet, but the golf club hired just for them. It was like a proper
night out, it really was like a wedding disco or something; and seeing
everyone be so easy and physical around each other was alarming as well
as reassuring, he supposed. Plus, it was so fucking hot; his clothes were
sticking to his body and he lifted his alcoholic drink to rest against
his cheek and jawline, glad of its icy cool on his skin.

More embarrassing dancing was going on in the centre of the long room
now: Firmino and Becker seemed to be having a sweaty dance-off, Wijnaldum
was twerking playfully and Neco Williams and a bunch of the other young
lads were doing ridiculous moves that he recognised from Fortnite.

And nearby, again, were his other good mates on the squad, all looking
rosy-cheeked and sweaty and overwhelmed. Andy Robertson was near him
again, just down the bar, waving his pint of Guiness so clumsily that it
frothed down his hand and wrist and onto his Liverpool shirt; the Ox was
clinging onto him, an arm round his shoulders, laughing uproariously at
something. For a moment Trent wanted to sidle down the bar and join them,
get in on the joke, but he didn't quite feel like he could: again, he
thought, there was a sense of intimacy between them that seemed to
exclude others, just like that subtle look at the moment of victory.

Get over yourself, mate, he laughed inside his head; stop being so weird!

He looked back at the dancefloor, pulled himself away from the bar,
rolling his neck and shoulders and limbering up for a crazy dance, but
then, out of some odd instinct, he looked briefly over to the right
again, and saw it: Alex's big flat hand pull down `Champions' and
`20' on the back of Robbo's short, and lower, past his waist, onto the
Scotsman's backside for a second. Trent blinked and stared through the
blurred disco lights of the clubhouse, checking what he was seeing:
Oxlade-Chamberlain's big paw of a hand resting for a good long moment on
the bum of Robbo, seeming to squeeze and release and pull slowly back up
his shape. Trent blinked furiously and shook himself, and then pulled his
gaze awkwardly away in case he was noticed staring, looking into the
melee of good vibes and bad dancing.



Like Neco Williams, Mo Salah was evasive when Harvey sidled up to him and
tried to make conversation; in fact, much worse. Well, he reasoned with a
wistful smirk, it was only fair after his misbehaviour in the married
Muslim man's house. But god that risky blowjob had been worth it. Harvey
still shook out some heady wanks on his own in the middle of the night
imagining how he'd crept into the Egyptian's bed and done that, a real
filthy little adventure of which he was immensely proud.

This left Elliott floating around the fringes of the party even more,
watching every member of the squad and coaching staff get progressively
more pissed and excited, the room just getting hotter and more
uncomfortable by the moment. Embarrassing himself on the dancefloor was
not something the 17-year-old would consider without three drinks inside
him, so he stayed clear of that and just lurked instead, increasingly
detached from the high spirits of the night.

Part of him wanted to leave: if he couldn't even blag a vodka shot or a
fag on the terrace, this do was boring him and he could have more fun
with Mrs Palm and her five daughters in his massive annex bedroom back at
the new home. But it was a hard celebration to pull away from: to be
involved in this momentous League victory at his age, at this stage in
his career, it was certainly intoxicating in his own way. No wonder he
felt so fucking horny, his cock throbbing in the tight front of his denim
shorts, irritating the hell out of him. He was just beginning to consider
sneaking off to the loos and tugging one off on his own anyway when his
eyes settled on another lone player, another interesting figure from
these recent months of... discovery.

Big Joe Gomez, clearly too cool to be seen dancing, was looming just away
from the main gathering of their teammates, a slim dark beer bottle in
one hand and the other cradling the Liverpool scarf tossed against his
thick sweaty neck. He averted his eyes from the fun of their teammates
and paused, seeming to notice Harvey's eyeing him up.

In truth, there was something intimidating about him to Harvey -- sure,
playfully confronting Salah about what he'd spied in the gym that
afternoon had been fun and irresistible, but Mo was a soft fella really,
a gentle family guy. And even Ox was approachable. But Gomez... the 6ft2
centre-back was excitedly big and imposing, and often so sullenly quiet
in his serious focus... and now, Harvey realised, he was heading this way.

`Fuck,' the 23-year-old Londoner drawled as he drew close, `I only
just twigged... you can't drink...'

Harvey scowled half-jokingly back up at him and folded his arms. `Yup,
good for me, huh...'

`Mate,' Gomez cackled, slapping him heavily on the shoulder, the scarf
slipping from his broad shoulders and onto the beer-sticky floor at their
trainers. `Oh god... that is SHIT... haha...' Harvey frowned at him, not
enjoying his enjoyment of this, but not wanting to be too sulky. `Can't
someone else just get you one in...? Here, let me...'

`Ugh,' grunted Elliott. `Boss made sure everyone knows I'm 17.' He
lifted his left wrist awkwardly, brandishing the `under 18' wristband
he'd been forced to slap on at the start of tonight's festivities; he
saw the amusement well up in the bigger guy's face and watched as Joe
clapped a hand to his mouth and tried to suppress his laughter at this
irony.

`Oh buddy,' the defender groaned, `that is TOO funny...' And then one
of his big arms was about Harvey's shoulders in a patronising cuddle;
his manly scent, the deep tones of his aftershave, enveloped him against
the sweaty beery odour of the room, cuddled close by the muscular bloke,
making Harvey chuckle with excited unease. He squirmed a little, though
enjoying it, feeling the body heat against him, and thinking about what
he'd seen the big fella engage in that time, sat next to smiling Salah,
with Alex on his knees...

`Yep, hilarious,' Harvey confirmed bitterly, elbowing his six-pack
gently. `I get to hang around being boring with my coke... what's YOUR
excuse...? Lurking back here, by the loos, hah...'

Still holding him about the shoulders, Joe just leered drunkenly down at
him and laughed, his breath hot and beery in Harvey's face. `Lurking!
What you on about kid? God... love you, you fuckin' little troublemaker...
You gonna tell me about why you didn't last a week at Mo's family home,
are ya...?' A curious grin on his bearded features, leaning in and
squeezing a bit more tightly.

`Oh, if only you knew,' Harvey sniggered back uncertainly, unsure what
was holding him back; god, there was something so impressive and exciting
about Gomez, his chest bulging against the glossy red of his shirt, his
shoulders big and impressive, his eyes dazed and clearly pissed...

`Oh go on,' the centre-back insisted. `Go on kid, tell me... what the
fuck...?'

`Well,' Harvey murmured boldly, lifting on his toes and leaning closer,
`YOU know what a bored bloke like Salah can get up to when he needs...'

`Huh?' Gomez stared at him in genuine confusion, enhanced by the
alcoholic in his blood.

`Oh, you know...'

`What are you on about?'

Harvey smirked dangerously and pulled even closer, lips right up to the
fella's ear, so he could hear him properly over the thumping 80s cheese
of the nearby speakers... `YOU know, Joe pal, you know about the... extra
curricular stuff, haha... Mo needed a bit of help one night, and...' He
saw the flash of recognition and understanding in his older teammate's
eyes, felt the awkward stiffness of the arm about his shoulders, the
hesitant twitch of pouting lips. `You know how it is,' Elliott mouthed
at him, `when the need takes ya...?'

Gomez stopped, big and stiff next to him, staring thoughtfully his way;
it was hard not to notice the rise and fall and swing of the outlines in
the front of his grey jogger shorts beneath his footy shirt, cut short
over the thick brown muscle of his thighs. His grip tightened again about
Harvey's shoulders and the heat between them seemed all the more
intense. `Mate,' murmured Gomez uncertainly, looking ready to say more,
but Harvey lurched in and upwards and whispered in his ear again, `Is
the need taking ya, big man...?'



`Come here,' the other player murmured at him, `let me kiss a fucking
champion...'

Andy couldn't wipe the drunken grin from his freckled features, allowing
himself to be pulled on into the conference room by both hands, the door
swinging shut behind him. He giggled and stepped clumsily after Alex,
their trainers bashing awkwardly like untrained dancers, dragging along
together until they were fully inside the room and the midfielder was
finally letting of his hands and wrapping those chunky arms about him
instead, face pulling close; Andy sighed and parted his lips and accepted
the soft, enveloping kiss that he had come to crave in the past couple of
weeks, his whole body tingling, lost in the heat of it all.

His sense of risk and carefulness, or sexually confused hesitation, was
erased by alcohol, a lot of it. The Glaswegian 26-year-old just relaxed
into the other man's grip, pushing his tongue in against his, their
teeth knocking a little and provoking breathy giggles from the both of
them, hidden away in this dark quiet room of the clubhouse. He felt
Alex's mouth slide over to kiss the side of his neck instead and he
couldn't help but let out a gasp of desperate relief. `Oh man,' he
growled in his thick Scottish accent, pushing both hands into the firm
wall of Oxlade's pecs, `ohhhh man...!'

`Come here,' Alex grunted, tugging suddenly up on his shirt, `get this
off, ya sexy Scotch bastard...'

`Mmm, fuck off,' Robbo sniggered, but complied, lifting his arms to let
his teammate drag the champions' shirt up and off his slim sunburned
body; he scrabbled at the glossy fabric of the matching shirt on Alex's
body to do the same, so that both men were stripped to their waist, a
clammy sheen of night sweat on their contrasting torsos. It glistened on
the smooth architecture of Chamberlain's muscles and beaded on the
leaner paler flesh of the Scotsman, patchy and red from reckless sunny
evenings in the garden. Both lads' hands roved over these physiques and
their lips found each other again in the dark, long rasping kisses that
only broke because one or the other of them just needed to gasp out some
affirmation of how exciting and amazing this was, tonight of all nights!

`Fucking champions,' Andy murmured at one point, `can you even...?'

`You're my champion,' Alex would snigger playfully back, tweaking a
nipple and biting at his bottom lip, `you always are, you sexy cunt...'

`Oh fuck,' Robbo trembled back at him, still partly horrified by the
intensity of feeling between them, his drunk mind feeling like a wall of
cotton-wool separated this beautiful moment from the harsh reality of his
marriage and kids, everything that should be making him retreat from this
madness with his best mate.

He pushed one hand down the sticky sweaty ladder of Ox's abs and into
the tight waist of his baggy black shorts, finding the outline of his hot
privates in his undies, giving them a good solid feel, his upper body
shivering despite the heat; Alex's hands dragged powerfully over his
back and up to the base of his neck, making him whine and snigger more,
then-

There was a sort of wooden shoving noise and a sharp intake of breath.
Andy was still absorbing that unexpected sound when he saw the
demonstrative alarm on his partner's broad freckled face, his
gap-toothed grin turning to an `O' of shock and horror, eyes wide;
Robertson twisted a little, still clinging to Alex's big body for
support, and looked toward the door, where... oh, fuck...

Alexander-Arnold was staring at them in understandable shock and
confusion, leaning with one hand against the half-open door, blinking
slowly and opening and closing his lips as if deciding whether to demand
`What the fuck?' or shout for other guys... Andy found himself silent in
his utter shock, pulling limply away from Alex and staring at Trent, his
voice gone fuck knows where...

`Trent,' he heard Oxlade-Chamberlain breathe carefully, but then-

`Fuck, sorry! Sorry! Um...!' In a gabble of Scouse-accented politeness,
Trent was backing off, disappearing through the doorway, which fell
loudly shut behind him, and all they could hear were his footsteps,
disappearing away down the upstairs corridor, and into the general
background thump of the party below. Andy stared in horror at the door,
reeling, until he felt Alex's hand close tightly about his, squeezing
his knuckles into his sweaty palm, pulling him back down to earth and
away from the spiralling visions of exposure and shame that now flashed
into his beer-addled mind.



`Come on,' Harvey muttered with filthy excitement, `let me feel
what's in them shorts, man...' He sniggered and pulled provocatively
with both hands at the other lad as they entered the stairwell, the
loudness of the party instantly dulling as a glass door fell shut behind
them and put a few sound barriers between here and the revelry of the
Liverpool men. Gomez laughed too, but gruffly and dismissively, batting
his questing hand away from the front of his grey shorts, nodding down
past the stairwell to the fire door in the corner, taking hold of Harvey
by one arm and leering possessively at him.

`Not here,' the tall defender said curtly, `come on...'

`It looks massive,' Elliott couldn't help but gibber, pushing back
with his other arm and catching a proper feel of the swinging bulge in
that soft grey fabric, the heavy dickprint of Joe's loose privates.
`You seriously going commando tonight, chief...?!'

`Hot, innit,' the Londoner chuckled back, seeming to relent somewhat in
his caution and hesitation, gripping one of Harvey's arms but allowing
the other hand to explore the outline of his loose semi, groaning very
softly in appreciation of the stolen grab. But again, he nodded down past
the looming staircase, to the emergency exit out into some discreet
darkness, yanking Harvey's wrist commandingly. He was so fucking up for
this right now, but the vague epiphany that his last escapade had been
spied by someone -- even this fortuitous little troublemaker -- was
battling his drunken lust for caution and discretion right now.

He pushed Harvey on past the staircase, but felt the needy grip of the
teen's hand remain at his crotch, and did nothing to push it away,
enjoying the scally's attention and sluttish eagerness -- Harvey fucking
Elliott, who'd have thought? Mind... was it any more surprising than
being woken up by Oxlade-Chamberlain's lips on his privates all those
months back in a hotel room...?

The randy footballer paused at the rattling steps beside him, but too
late to fully push Elliott away from him; the younger athlete was too
excited, even sober, to have really noticed the noise, and was still
fumbling at his bulge right there, rubbing one short leg of the jogger
shorts up his thigh until his foreskin crept into view and reach there,
liable to a good rubbing from one thumb...

And next to this, spinning into Joe's view, came Trent Alexander-Arnold,
two steps at a time down the flight, then stumbling to a halt just above
its foot, clinging to the bannister and staring down over the side of
them, his face already seeming stricken and bewildered before he spied
what was happening. Gomez stood very still, reaching over to grasp the
same wooden bannister as Trent, their brown fingertips inches apart -- in
front of him, Harvey was blinking upwards with a hand still curling up
one shorts leg, bottom lip drooping a little.

`Lads,' gasped the Scouser uncertainly, `er...' He blinked and
stammered adorably, flustered at and awkward in the moment. `Er, lads,
you won't believe what I... fuck... I mean, er... Harvs, what are you...?
Joe, bud...?'

Gomez was pretty drunk, but it wasn't just the booze that pushed the
rapid decision-making for him in this heated moment. His long fat cock,
swinging loosely in those grey shorts, was already pretty stimulated
before Elliott had made any gentle initiating move; now, it was throbbing
for action. He was getting his rocks off here no matter what, being
interrupted by the angel-faced little defensive pal Trent was NOT putting
a stop to that. He lifted both hands: one he slapped heavily down on
Harvey's shoulder with a reassuring the squeeze; the other he slid
further up the bannister and let his thick fingers rest on top of
Trent's tight, whitened knuckles.

`Mate,' he breathed urgently, `come out back with us... this upstart's
gonna give me a free blowie.' He watched the bluntness register on the
21-year-old's smooth innocent face. Joe jerked his head in a heavy nod
to the door. `Come on, it'll be a laugh.' He patted his hand gently,
then pushed Harvey with affectionate roughness towards the fire door,
noting the dazzled shock and wild eyes of the lairy teen. Gomez followed
him, deciding not to properly look at Trent's reaction or to wait for
his comment; this was happening, witness or no. He pushed down heavily on
the bar in front of the door and nudged it open onto the dark, sheltered
stoop behind the clubhouse, lifting his arm to let the diminutive
firecracker Harvey slide past and out onto the concrete alcove; then,
finally, Joe looked uncertainly back into the stairwell, as Trent
descended the last step and paused indecisively at the tip of the
bannister, his hand clinging to it as if it was the only thing left
certain in his night.

`Come on,' Gomez gasped vaguely at him, `we're champs, mate... we
deserve a... treat...'

Trent stared at him, and past him to Harvey, who was probably smirking
right now; then the young right-back seemed to look upstairs, distracted
by thought of something else, but not back towards the party, where all
three of them ought to be. His jaw dropped a little further, as if he
couldn't believe what his own feet were doing, then came staggering to
join them, the couple of metres past the stairs and into the doorway, and
then out into the heavy night air, the fire door swinging shut behind and
closing them out here in this discreet corner. Joe's cock twitched in
his shorts, and he felt Harvey's hand seize about it in a delightfully
assertive grip. Oh yes.



Andy was trying to pull his shirt back on; Alex grabbed at it, wrenching
it out of his fingers and pulling those shaky hands about his waist
instead. `Stop it,' he grunted, `it don't matter...' The nervous
Scottish lad began to pull away from him but he found his mouth and
kissed it deeply, lifting both strong hands to his cheeks and rubbing his
thumbs gently across his curling sideburns and onto his ears. `Sshh,
shh, it's all good, mate, it's all good...'

Andy broke the kiss and looked him fiercely in the eyes. `Trent just saw
us...!'

`He's pissed as a fart, like us,' grunted Alex, `just leave it... come
on...' He reached down and found Andy's semi in the front of his
grey-green cargo shorts, still trembling and twitching from their sweaty
foreplay a couple of minutes ago. He fondled it through two layers and
kissed powerfully at Andy's neck and bare chest, ignoring his mumbled
panic. `Shush,' he insisted, `we're all pissed and sweaty and it's
late, who cares who sees what, just...'

`It's Trent,' Robbo gurgled awkwardly at him, `and he proper saw us,
so...'

`So there's nowt we can do,' Ox insisted forcefully. It was odd,
really, how calm he felt, how unconcerned by the younger lad stepping in
on them. What, really, had Trent even seen? What did it matter? Okay, so
he was pissed, but right now... all he wanted was this cheeky bastard on
the floor, in his arms. He squeezed his dick some more and kissed him on
the cheek; ruffled his cute curly auburn hair with one hand squeezed his
chin a little with the other. `Kiss me, you scruffy bugger, kiss me
back...' Their lips locked and Robbo's complaints and fears were, for
now, silenced. Alex felt his own dick getting as rock solid in his baggy
shorts, and he pushed the bulging outline into Andy's hand, just as it
had been before they were disturbed.

`But what if...?'

`Fuck what ifs,' Oxlade insisted. `Fuck it all... this is a night for
champions... for you and I...' And to illustrate his passion and his
confidence, he gripped Andy's body and swung round, pretty much throwing
him with a noisy wooden clatter onto the meeting table that dominated the
centre of the room. Instantly, he scrambled up onto it with him, pulling
their shirtless bodies over the shiny dark wood, bearing weightily down
on the Scottish lad and kissing him some more, letting their crotches rub
and rub. `Fuck it all,' he continued in breathy gasps, `just... let
me... mmm... let me have you... tonight, mate...'

His hand was inside Andy's shorts now, holding his rigid little prick,
squeezing it gently. Andy stared up at him, that fearful determined
expression fading to the impish grin of a club joker, fears melting
beneath Alex's reassuring muscular weight. `Yeah,' Robbo gasped into
his mouth, `and let ME have YOU, you big bastard...'



Trent stared down at it, the beery world of winning the Premier League
seeming to spin and dance around him; had any of it really happened? Had
they really secured the title tonight? Was any of this for real? Surely
not. Surely it was a feverish drunken dream, and he was gonna wake up in
some bird's bed, having broken lockdown and got fucked on god-knows-what
in some underground party, or...

In front of him, Joe had his Liverpool shirt pulled up to nipple height,
baring the dark brown ridges of his six-pack; his grey shorts were down
to just above the knees, and his cock was hard and to attention, a girthy
rod of brown muscle rising from a dark thatch of pubes. A pink tongue was
sliding about this manly treat, up to kiss the tip, Harvey's angular
little face pouting and sucking his cheeks, then twisting a little to let
his wolfish young eyes smirk upwards and catch Trent staring.

`Oh yes,' the 6ft2 bloke was groaning as this blowjob went on, his back
pressed into the brickwork of this sheltered corner, one arm pulled up
behind his head, bulging a bicep and exposing some of his hairy armpit.
The other was reached down to grip lightly at Harvey's ragged top-knot,
guiding his head a little in its dirty ministrations. `Ohhh fuck,'
Gomez drawled, `you wayyyy better than Oxlade, that's for sure bruv,
mmmm...' Confused alarm bells echoed and screamed in Trent's drunken
head, but were distracted by the fact that one of Harvey's hands was
kneading its way up his thigh and finding the sweaty swelling in the
front of his shorts, gripping his package through the thick dense denim,
making him shudder and tense up.

Trent's back was against the metal of the fire door, cool against his
damp shirt and the lean muscle of his back. He gulped dizzily and leaned
one hand against Joe's firm flank, the other hovering halfway down his
torso, undecided whether to shove Harvey's cheeky grabs away, or to
clamp his hand more firmly in place over his reacting privates.

`Fuck, Trent mate,' the big Londoner grumbled happily, `you NEED to
feel this...' Below, Harvey made slurping noises and sniggered
arrogantly. `He got mad skills, bruv... best slut I've had in months....
Fuckkk...' The noise his teammate was making excited and terrified Trent,
making his cock and balls tingle, or was that because Harvey was really
squeezing and pulling at them now, seeming to search for the zip fly of
these denim shorts...?

`Lads, I dunno,' murmured Trent aimlessly.

`Go on, Harvs,' Joe grunted, `show him... show Trent... his turn,
haha...'

Oh fuck, this was happening. Gently, Elliott was swapping his attention:
bringing his left hand up to gently stroke the thick veiny monster
between Gomez's thick dark thighs, and swinging his head instead into
Trent's lap. Down went the zip, click went the single top button, the
shorts opened and tugged down just a little. His cock was being fumbled
and grasped through the dark blue of his boxer shorts now. He lifted his
head and looked questioningly at the older defender, seeking reassurance.
Gomez grinned blearily at him and let out a long chuckle that turned into
a groan, dragging Trent's eyes down to the slow, controlled movement of
the teen's fist around the big man's boner.

Then Trent's own cock was released into the air, pulled hard and
trembling from his boxers, and instantly licked at the tip -- fuck, he
thought, the sensation of Harvey's tongue crashing against his aching,
untouched erection, so riled and energetic from all of tonight's emotion
and drinking. He pressed hard back into the door with his back and
buttocks, and parted his legs a little, allowing Harvey's face to press
more fully into his crotch, until the lad's nose brushed his
short-trimmed pubes, and looking down all he could see was that
straw-coloured hair, bunched up into a bun, resting against the front of
his Liverpool shirt... his cock disappearing into that greedy mouth.



They were off the table and on the floor now. Who knows what crashing
noise they made spilling off the dark wood and onto the floorboards, but
the floor vibrated with the force of the sound-system below, so nobody
could have heard. Their athletic bodies ground sensually together,
smearing their shared sweat between their muscles. Alex was on his back
with Andy on top now; Robertson could still feel his panic and fear, but
pushed far back, eclipsed really by the beautiful muscular mound beneath
him... the taste of him, the feeling of his hands, the heat of his crotch.

Between their bodies, Alex's hands were working on the unhelpful layers
of clothing still there: pushing Andy's shorts back and off, his
underpants with them, and then the same for his own. Their cocks thwacked
together, Andy vaguely but disinterestedly aware that his own slim red
member was eclipsed by the thick brown tool of Oxlade-Chamberlain. Alex
was wanking him now, wanking them both in fact, their cocks together
between his fingers, mmm it felt good. And now he was pushing his big
thighs apart and his other arm was hugging across Andy's shoulders,
pulling their faces close enough to kiss some more, but whispering
instead...

`I want to feel you inside me,' Ox gasped into his ear.

Robbo was too drunk or naïve to understand this. `Like last time?' he
murmured, remembering his clumsy attempt to rim the hunk, inspired by
receiving that delicate treatment for the first time on the floor of his
own garage. `Er, yeh...'

`No, not like last time,' hissed the southern English man, writhing
beneath him, his legs parting more, pulling Andy's body down against
him. `No...'

Andy begun to understand, and felt nervous -- not for himself, but for
Oxlade-Chamberlian. He didn't bother asking if he meant it; he stared
him in the eyes and could see the seriousness of his face, his wide
toothy grin vanished, softened. He kissed him on the lips and, though he
had never actually thought about going this far with his friend, felt the
burning desire for it. It felt right. It felt just like being with his
wife, lying atop this brutish stud, his own cock rock-hard and good to
go. But would Alex be able to take it...? Had he ever done this before...?

`Just go for it, man. Fuck me like a champ...'

Andy gave up on passivity and nervousness. He clutched Alex's bulging
upper arms, pressed forward and pushed his crotch in, his cock finding
the opening of those meaty cheeks, spread by Alex's lifted and parted
legs, towering either side of him. Andy gritted his teeth and pushed
forward, feeling the impassible tightness, but not giving up. Alex, so
strong and unafraid, was pulling on his lower back, doing half the work
with him; Andy looked into his face and could see his pain, the tightness
of his expression, but also the steely determination. And so in went his
cock, almost painfully so, into the tightness of his mate's hole. Nope,
Alex had never done this before. And oh god how good it felt.



`Told you,' purred Joe Gomez. `Told you he was good mate... just relax,
enjoy it...'

Trent rocked gently into the wall, driven wild by the tight suck-job
going on at crotch height. He pushed one hand down into the mousy tangle
of Harvey's hair and gripped tightly at Joe's bicep with the other. His
cock ached and seemed to receive wave after wave of ecstasy into his
numbed body. The world was still spinning, but at its centre was the best
oral sex he'd ever received.

`Fuck,' groaned Joe, watching him intently, pulling in close so the
three of them were piled into each other in this dark corner, `fuck man,
you are really enjoying that, innit, maaaate.... Mmm...'

Trent nodded, closing his eyes tightly. `Oh yeh,' he admitted, because
he could hardly deny it, `oh yeh... Imma cum soon... mate, I'm gonna....
Mmm... Harvs, stop, cos I'm gonna...'

`He don't care,' Gomez muttered near to his ear, just look at him...
total cum slut, I bet...'

`No,' grumbled Trent awkwardly, `I can't spunk in his...'

`Do it,' Gomez said, `it's what he wants, come on bud, do it... and
while you're at it...' Trent kept his eyes shut, so it took him a minute
to work out what was happening; his hand was being prised form the dense
block of Joe's bicep, guided downwards by one big paw of the meaty
defender. As he felt his arm stretched across their two upright bodies,
he began to understand, and tugged back a little, but Gomez held his
wrist and a fresh wave of utter joy from Harvey's tongue rampaged
through his lower body, making every cell of his body tingle and lose
control.

His hand was gently pulled about the fat shape of his fellow defender's
prick, and left there.

`Wank me, come on,' Joe said, close by. `Only fair, if you're getting
this slut's mouth.'

Below, Harvey made an adoring groaning slurp.



Alex tried to ignore the burning pain and fixate instead on just how
overjoyed Robertson looked, staring down into his eyes with sweat
cascading from his dark reddish curls and pursed lips, veins apparent in
his forehead and neck. He looked mesmerised by it, pushing forward in
slow grinding thrusts, his weight feeling heavier and heavier as he slid
in and out and in and out...

The 26-year-old midfielder tried to stretch his aching thighs further
apart and take his big meaty buttocks with them, as if it would help and
make it easier... but that wasn't, it was his tiny untested hole,
struggling at even the slim pressure of Andy's cute average-sized cock,
thrusting eagerly inside him with a feverish passion similar to the
Scotsman's playing style.

`How is it?' Ox demanded of the man on top of him. `How do I feel, you
beaut? Fuck me buddy, fuck me yeh...' He blurted each dirty loving
comment through his own tight pain, determined not to show it or give in
to it, just so desperate to please this gorgeous lad who had brought so
much joy and laughter into his days... he held one hand firmly in the
hollow his lower back, just above the sweaty opening of his crack, and
the other on the side of his freckled face, holding it in place above his
own, watching as Robertson's bewildered cum-face lit his handsome
features, and he felt that wet spurt inside his agonised ring...



Trent's hand tightened around Joe's cock as he reached his own climax,
eyes still closed in these insane moments. He couldn't really
distinguish between their groans and breaths: his, Joe's, Harvey's. He
felt his fingers brushed aside so Gomez could take control of his own big
cock, and finally opened his lids, taking in the sight of their decadent
pleasure. What he saw, below and between them, was Harvey's narrow face,
staring up wide-eyed, streaks of white cum mingling in his downy
moustache and goatee hair, and a bit up his cheeks into his straggly
sideburns. Worse, or more excitingly, were his lips, greasy and sticky
with his or Joe's juice, a brief glimpse of it settling on his red
tongue before the younger lad swallowed and sighed and pulled back to
gulp down fresh air.

Trent closed his eyes again and rested his body back against the fire
door, desperate for its firm coolness against his lithe body, racked with
pleasure and regret.



As Alex saw Andy into the taxi, his hole still stung badly. Wow, they
really should have used some kinda lube, or gone more slowly... but he
stared down into the happy, drunken features of his secret lover in the
backseat of the Uber, and just smiled at him. It was worth giving up his
big muscular arse just to see this Scottish bugger look so fucking smug
with himself. Oxlade patted his arm, swung the passenger door shut on
him, and reaffirmed the directions home for his pal to the ageing driver
in muttered tones.

Then the Liverpool stud straightened up, trying to ignore his sore
backside, and let the damp sweat cool on his limbs and chest and in every
crevice of his big strong body. His freshly climaxed cock ached dully in
the front of his pants, glad of the loose-fitting shorts he wore, though
everything felt tight and uncomfortable in this heat.

Alex backed away from the roadside and onto the deserted terrace of the
golf club, the lingering joy of the party sounding noisily from within.
The crowd of Liverpool men had about halved now, though it had still been
raging and busy when the two 26-year-old footballers sneaked away
upstairs to find a room; Oxlade-Chamber couldn't help but smirk
privately at the question of just how long he and Robbo had spent
upstairs enjoying each other's body. It had only been as they peeled
away from each other, Scottish spunk dribbling over one of his glutes,
that he realised quite how dizzy and over-drunk Robbo actually was. He
hoped he hadn't taken advantage of this, but he knew he'd been the one
to give something special away here. Anyway, Andy was safely in a cab to
his wife's care now -- the hangover would be vile, but the VIP treatment
would be fine.

In all honesty, the interruption of Trent Alexander-Arnold was forgotten
for them both -- a mixture of drunkenness and electrifying pleasure had
seen to that. But as the Ox staggered painfully between the loosely
scattered chairs and tables of the patio, heading for the dark heat of
the party room, a slim figure burst out into the night with him, and
reminded him once again of how risky their behaviour upstairs had really
been.

Fumbling awkwardly at the front of his denim shorts as if just emerging
from a piss at a urinal, Trent swayed awkwardly over the terrace towards
him now, seemingly blind to him, just moving rapidly down the social area
and towards the same gates that Alex was just returning from. He lifted a
single hand and halted his younger mate's rapid exit. `Hey, hey,' he
said with forced calm, catching Trent's tight tummy in his palm, and
reaching for one of the slim defender's shoulders. `Where's the fire,
bud....?'

`Ox,' murmured Alexander-Arnold distantly, turning his head and giving
him a puzzled look.

`You okay?' Alex asked hesitantly.

Trent nodded his head firmly. `All good. All good. All normal.
Champions!'

`Right... yeah...'

The different ways of asking or saying this paraded through Oxlade's
drunken mind as he held his friend gently in place and looked past him to
the dying revelry of the Liverpool Premiership celebrations, catching
vague sight of Hendo and Lallana dancing hand in hand in front of Klopp
himself, cheered on by a few other more experienced Liverpool lads... Alex
forced himself to look back at Trent's smooth, sweat-sheened face, his
glassy eyes, his awkward frowning lips.

`Mate,' he began.

`I saw nowt,' Trent blurted in his face. `Saw nowt, mate, not a
fuckin' jot.' He blinked rapidly and shook loose of Alex's gentle
grip. `Shouldn't have been wanderin' about. Heh. Champions! Woo...
hehe...' And he suddenly and quite violently threw a hug about Alex's
broad shoulders, then pulled away and dashed on, down the terrace and out
of the gate onto the roadside, pulling a phone from his pocket in the
recognisable drama of a much-needed taxi. Alex stared after him a for a
moment, the wind rather taken from his sails by that firm announcement of
discretion, but deeply and comfortingly relieved. Then he turned back to
the clubhouse and wandered in, resolving to pool the last of his physical
energy and end the night on a high, partying with his manager and captain
and whoever else was left here. It was, after all, a night for champions.




** WHETHER YOU WANNA CALL THEM THE UNBEATABLES OR UNBEARABLES... MASSIVE
CONGRATS TO LIVERPOOL FOR THE BIG WIN. HOPE THIS STORY IS A FITTING
CELEBRATION! BUT AFTER A NIGHT LIKE THIS, WHAT WILL THE HANGOVER BE
LIKE...? LOOK OUT FOR PART 132 TO FIND OUT ;) **