Date: Mon, 13 Jul 2020 07:09:28 +0000
From: writer guy <premiershiplads@outlook.com>
Subject: Premiership Lads part 144: At the North London Derby

Part 144: At the North London Derby


He took his seat comfortably, a few rows back from where he might
feasibly be picked up by the cameras of the limited TV crew for this
early evening clash; no doubt the media would be keen to get shots of him
sulking and scowling in the background, ready to stir up scandal on one
or both sides of the argument. Whether the British tabloids went for an
angle of `Moody England Brat Sulks Over Ban and Fine' or `Ridiculous
Punishments for England Ace' seemed like something their editors would
simply toss a coin over, ready to celebrate or condemn overpaid athletes
with the weather.

In reality, however, Eric Dier was taking the consequences of his earlier
transgression well. The fine was huge but affordable and the four-game
ban was testing but understandable. That the club and his manager clearly
had his side and expressed tentative dismay at the outcome was enough, he
felt protected and supported. And, ultimately, he knew he'd overstepped
the line, confronting a few abusive fans, but they'd got into an
argument with his brother, and Eric was fiercely loyal to his loved ones.

So here he was, sitting it out, not even on the bench with the Tottenham
Hotspurs substitutes, though he'd still donned his Spurs jogging bottoms
and hoody to turn up at the stadium this afternoon, some symbolic gesture
that he was still ready to fight for the North London club as they faced
off against Arsenal. He had considered staying at home during this
temporary ban, especially with the likelihood of media attention on his
behaviour, but he had wanted to see the lads down in the changing rooms
before the game, and he'd pop down at half-time and afterwards; he
wanted to feel one of the gang, even if his aggressive behaviour had
barred him from playing.

Of course, he had to admit to himself, he was out here watching one guy
in particular.

Getting over Harry Kane was easier said than done. In a life largely
dominated by hard work, career ambition and family obligation, Dier had
spent a lot of time single and drifting casually between lovers. His
secret, almost two-year affair with his married England captain was, for
better or worse, the dominant romance of his adult life. And now it was
over.

As the Spurs v Arsenal game kicked off below him in the oddly deserted
stadium, he leaned back in his seat, one of the comfy VIP ones usually
offered to wealthy investors and special guests, more or less screened
from roving cameras and the abuse of the away stand. Eric pulled the
phone from his pocket, swerving idly through emails and social media,
while the opening gambits of the derby game played out on the pitch ahead
of him, and the two managers' shouted instructions drifted up over the
empty rows of seats. Dier swung idly through the football-dominated
chatter of his social media feed: more transfer speculation around Jack
Grealish, since Villa were almost certainly doomed to relegation;
worshipful commentary on Liverpool's supremacy and City's latest 5-0
circus; a slew of posts wishing happy birthday to Luke Shaw, 25 today.
Eric opened up WhatsApp to pen a message to his occasional England
teammate; he wasn't keen on the showy public displays people seemed to
need for birthday greetings these days, but he was very fond of the
much-criticised defender who he'd played with in a number of
international fixtures a few years back.

He was interrupted in his rapid finger tapping by a slight shadow in the
bright late afternoon glow, a tall figure approaching him down the row of
VIP seats overlooking the game. He hit send on his quick, simple
greeting, then looked up to register the fellow Spurs teammate dropping
carefully down into the neighbouring seat, joining him at his reclusive
vantage spot in the stand. Troy Parrott gave him a warm grin then punched
him lightly in the shoulder. `Thought you could do with some company up
here, outcast.'

Eric smiled at the gesture and the arrival of his young friend. Like him,
Troy was ruled out, albeit for very different reasons. The 18-year-old
Irishman had returned to training at the end of the week, but on a
carefully restricted regime, and with no chance of playing for a while
yet, fresh from an appendicitis and period of rest. The teenager was
taking the interruption to his burgeoning career well, clearly just glad
to be back in the company of his Premiership pals and looking ahead to
the new season for playing opportunities in Mourinho's squad, or fresh
Ireland call-ups when international football eventually resumed.

`You're a good un, you,' Eric chuckled at him, returning the playful
little fist bump to the arm.

`Oh to be out there,' Troy sighed.

`Yeah, I know. We will be, before long.'

`You before me,' Parrott predicted accurately, `but I can't moan.
Need to get healed.'

They watched the goalless early portion of the match play out, and Eric
inevitably found himself concentrating on Kane, striding around in his
forward position, seeking an all-important goal against the Gooners. And
just as inevitable, he felt his friendly smile fade, the look of sad
nostalgia settling on his rugged features. He paused, noticing Troy watch
him.

`Things are still tough,' the sensitive 6ft1 teenager said quietly,
reaching to pat him on the shoulder.

`Getting easier,' Eric said, which was not entirely a lie. He smiled
weakly at pretty much the one person in his life he could confide any of
this in, a lad he'd missed greatly during his operation and recovery
time. He was never sure how much their friendship meant to the lanky
teen, but the fact he'd come seeking him out for company to watch the
boys in action was definitely touching. `I have to accept things,' he
said levelly.

Troy made a little grunt, something surly in his manner. `If you say so.
You've been good to him.' Again, touching; it was obvious that the
young Irish striker was angry on his behalf, had really meant the things
he'd said by text or over the phone. Eric, despite his philosophical
take on things, enjoyed the idea that his pal was as pissed off as he
sometimes felt.

`Got to understand his reasons, though,' Dier pointed out, crushing his
moment of enjoyment. `I mean... he has more to lose than me, mate.' He
leaned forward in his seat, resting his elbows on its head, his chin on
his folded arms. `It's been shit for me but... I just want him to be
safe and happy.' He knew this sounded cringe and naff so he laughed
awkwardly at himself. `Don't mean I can't admire his fat arse on the
pitch and think about better days, y'know...' He grinned to the side and
saw Troy's mildly prudish squirm as he giggled.

`Then there's Dele,' Parrott pointed out fairly. `You think you and
him would ever...'

Eric made a little face, feeling weird to be discussing this properly out
loud, but also glad to. `He supposedly had a thing for me for a long
time, but... Honestly, I just don't see him that way, I dunno? When Kane
caught me with him, I was just... fuck, I dunno, I was being a dick. I
guess I took things for granted, you know? I didn't... I didn't quite
know what I... had.' He bit back the choke of emotion, sitting back again
and shrugging his shoulders, forcing a laddish dismissal of the direction
he'd started to go in. `Besides, Dele Alli... love the lad but boy, he
can NOT give head...'

Another little blush for Troy but he persevered. `But he does still have
feelings for ya?'

Eric gave him a fond grin. `You're a sweet wee cupid, Troy P, but...
nah. I think he was confusing things, mixing up friendship for... I dunno.
We're better off as pals. And I'm spending more time with him again,
now me and you-kno-who aren't, well, you-know-what...'

`You can say it here!'

`Yeah, but you'll go beetroot, you little kid,' Eric chuckled, shoving
him in the shoulder then regretting it when the teen instinctively placed
a hand on his tummy over the tight white tshirt he wore. `Oh, sorry,
didn't mean to... You okay? Fuck, stop trying to matchmake me with
straight lads on this team! You'll be listing the whole squad next, and-
Fuck, fuck, No!' Down below, 16 minutes in, their North London rivals
had booted in a goal; Frenchman Alexandre Lacazette was sweeping
dramatically over the pitch to celebrate, grabbing at Granit Xhaka on the
way past. Eric and Troy scowled at the action and fell quiet. They had
just began to talk again, banal and quiet, when their teammates below
equalised. Both men stood to applaud Son Heung-Min and his goal.

`Ooh, nasty foul on Winks there,' remarked Troy in mimicry of a future
career in commentary.

`Yeah,' murmured Eric, craning forward to see if the young Harry was
alright. When he leaned back, relaxing into his seat, he saw his younger
friend giving him a funny, knowing look, and raised his eyebrows at him.
`What?'

`So Dele ain't your type, big man, but... HW...?'

`Oh fuck off,' Dier said immediately, shoving him again but more
lightly, in the elbow. `I was just trying to see how he was, it looked
like he went down hard for a second, but... He's up again, absolutely
fine, so... Stop smirking at me, Trojan, or I'll jab you in the scar. You
twerp.' At this, the teen just sniggered and sprawled aside into a
second seat, getting more comfortable as he stared down into the action
of the game; without crowds, the grunts and shouts and swearing of their
teammates echoed up around them, and the heavily accented barking of Jose
Mourinho in particular found their ears, making them both chuckle and
sigh. After a while, Eric turned and looked a little guiltily at his pal.
`Well,' he admitted slowly, `you weren't completely wrong, there...'

Troy sat up more sharply, so suddenly in fact that he had to put a hand
quickly to his scar, still laughing despite a flinch of pain. `I fecking
knew it, Dier,' he said, outraged. `Your face! What happened, you dirty
bugger...?'

Eric regretted his slow admission, shifting about in his seat and kicking
up his feet onto the headrest in front, losing interest in the game as
his mind wandered. `Ah, you know, this and that... What? You don't want
details, you go red when I mention my ex's big butt...'

`Harry fucking Winks,' Troy said now, almost disbelievingly.

Eric screwed up his face at the embarrassing truth. `I tried to make MY
Harry jealous, if you must know. Don't laugh. It's cringe enough. I
was... lonely, upset. I thought... Well, I thought I might still have a
fuckin' chance, you know? But... nah. Tossed Winky boy off in the
showers, didn't I, and then...' He stalled, hesitantly; the reality of
Maguire's involvement in that last episode was still settling into his
consciousness, a fact so large and mind-bending that he couldn't yet
hold onto it as real. Besides, he could hardly out the big United
captain's playful side, even to someone he trusted as well as Parrott --
he was, after all, just a kid. `Then there was another time, at his
bachelor pad, and...'

`Pfft, playyyyer,' trilled the youngster in half-joking admiration.

`Just... you know, bit of oral, and that.' He laughed at his own
prudishness, finding himself more guilty and embarrassed than he
expected, even with someone he'd been as close to as Troy. `Oh don't
worry,' he quipped, as the other footballer chuckled nervously into his
fists, `it wasn't half as fun as with you, mate.' And immediately, at
that switch in direction, Troy's cheeks were red behind his dark
stubble, and he was turning to look intensely down at the match rather
than eye to eye with Eric, who was simultaneously amused, regretful and
aroused. He shook his shoulder a little. `Ah come on, just a bit of nowt
between friends, wasn't it?' he told him. `You can't get all
Victorian nun any time I mention it -- not after the pics you sent me
while you were home in Dublin, wee man!' Dier, warming up to the
subject, gave a gruff laugh. `Wanked myself silly over those one night,
not gonna lie. You in that teeny bathroom, posing!'

He saw Troy look conflicted between embarrassment and pride.
`Whatever,' Parrott grumbled.

`I'm not kidding,' Eric informed him firmly. `I know you're, well, a
bit unsure of all that, but... Phwoar.' He leaned comfortably back and
reminisced. `That time in the sauna, kid... and when you were helping me
get back with my Harry, you were...' He couldn't hold in the giggle of
admiration, knowing how bashful and coy his playmate really was, even
now. He was still only 18, still pretty inexperienced in life, let alone
this shady corner of it. But god he was a handsome thing. Eric laid an
exploratory hand on his thigh, Troy's legs jutting up like his to rest
his ankles on the seat in front.

`Eric,' complained Troy jokily, elbowing him. He chuckled at that and
crept his hand more overtly across the thin tracksuit material of the
teen's black Adidas pants and onto his crotch, making him whisper more
firmly, `What are you doing, we're...'

`Nobody can see us,' Dier told him, dropping his voice. `Nobody would
be looking. No crowds, remember. We're out of view. Defo.' He gave a
careful, experimental squeeze, finding the familiarly well-proportioned
contents of the young striker's crotch, tracing the shape of his flaccid
penis there where it nestled. He knew a thousand reasons why he
shouldn't do so, but here they were, in a quiet row away from everyone
else, and there IT was, sitting there like some big mythical snake...

`Buddy,' Troy said in a chuckling whisper, `this is a bit risky...'

`But fuck it feels good, huh?' Dier told him, under his breath, giving
him a good feel. `You're massive, you know. I've told you before but I
dunno if you realise it.'

`Oh, shut up...'

`Like seriously, proper big lad. Not even just for your age. I've only
ever seen one dick as big as yours, and that was...' He paused, picturing
the size of Maguire's tool as he unloaded over Winks on his sofa,
coating the doll-like midfielder in his juices. `Well, on a much older
bloke.' He gave it another good tug through the material, feeling Troy
squirm a little and make an uncomfortable laugh; he looked at him
carefully, not really wanting to annoy or upset him. `Nobody can see,'
he told him again, reassuringly, `honest... Oh, you're getting hard
already...'

`Course I am,' Troy muttered back, `I spent a week in hospital and the
rest on my bed or sofa in a locked down household... no action in forever,
old man! But... mmm...' Whatever verbal protest he'd been about to make,
Eric cut it firmly off by running his thumb against the tip of his large
nob, which he thought he'd pulled to the leg of his boxer shorts. He
grinned proudly to himself, glad of his skilled fingers and his dim
knowledge of what made this sexy youth gasp. `Seriously man,' grunted
the Irish player, `are you mad? You wanna be in MORE trouble...'

`Oh yeah, Eric Dier fined for tossing off sexiest Irish prick in
London,' he giggled.

`You're such a flirt.'

`And you're a fucking stallion,' Dier informed him, both sincere and
flattering. He held the form of the growing piece in Troy's trackies,
not removing his hand once from the warmth of his crotch. He knew how mad
this was, but it felt comfortable and natural, both of them leaned back
in seats, feet up, his hand draped casually in between the other
athlete's legs, finding his growing hard-on and teasing it awake. Even
if a camera shot this way, he figured, the most it would see would be the
soles of their trainers, and their faces. Troy's blush, maybe, not his
pervy wandering hand, hehe.

`You're just horny cos Harry Kane is on the pitch,' Troy remarked
sarcastically, then seemed to regret the low blow, shooting him
apologetic eyes in his handsome young face. `Eric, I...'

`I'm horny cos I'm sat next to you,' Dier told him, cutting this
discussion off, no interest in thinking about Kane or that sorry story
right now. `And,' he added cheekily, `a little bit cos of the view of
Winks' backside I got when he was tackled before... haha...' He stroked
the flat of his hand back and forth over the lad's crown jewels, then
played his fingers close to the waist of his tracky bottoms, making him
shift a little in the seat. `And why are you horny, eh Parrott...?
Thinking about some sweet Irish lass back home, or cos your big pal Eric
Dier is...'

`You fucker,' the teen sniggered at him. `Did you really wank off at
my photos...?'

`Twice.' Dier was lying, but only to save his ego. He'd done it four
or five times.

`Jesus. I'll have to start an Onlyfans.'

`A what?'

`Never mind. Mate, seriously, you're making so hard, just stop... this
is dangerous...! Hehe... You dirty bugger. You're only playing with me cos
you're bored. I bet if Harry Winks gets substituted in five mins time
you'll be right down there, suggesting a sauna or whatever, ha...'

`Nah,' Eric growled, his lust showing in the purr of his voice, leaning
slightly closer and sliding his fingers inside those trackies, hoping to
heaven and hell that the cameras couldn't pick up what he was doing now,
sliding his hand in, cupping a massive erection through loose cotton
boxers, making the striker gasp and shift and cup his operation scar a
little bit. `I'm just randy for my little leprechaun pal, that's all...
God I've missed you bein' around, Troy. Mmm.' He was getting hard
himself but he didn't attend to it, fixated on the clear risqué
excitement of Troy now. The two of them met eyes and sniggered like
naughty schoolboys.

Eric, 26 and confidently fluid in his sexuality, figured this might be
one of the horniest moments in his life. For a long time, that formative
moment with his captain, Wayne Rooney, had ranked pretty highly, and then
each sporadic encounter in his 20s had seemed more wild and reckless than
the last; but none of it had seemed to matter once he successfully
seduced Kane in Russia on the World Cup tour. From then on, he'd played
away, never quite sure where he stood with his `boyfriend', but still...
only the times with Harry had meant anything to him, had been worth
remembering. But now... he looked fondly at the teenager, this young
heartthrob he'd been looking out for ever since that first agreement; he
could still remember catching Troy's eye, spotting that he was watching
them fuck, when he'd only promised to be lookout in exchange for a bit
of Kane's captainly influence towards his Premiership debut...

`Seriously,' giggled Parrott now, `I'll fuckin' shoot if ya not
careful...'

`What, and get those Adidas pants all sticky?'

`Shut up you dirty bugger...'

`Be a waste of your cum, down there,' Eric said with a reminiscent
tone, `I mean, I've tasted it before, and it was...'

`You, mate, are FILTH,' Troy told him, making it sound compliment and
insult all at once. Their eyes met again, a bit more intensely and
seriously. Troy looked indecisive, conflicted. Eric grinned reassuringly
at him, still groping him between the layers of his boxers and tracky
pants. `Not here,' the Irishman said then, hoarse and quiet. `Not
here, mate.'

Eric nodded his head slowly, feeling the tender throb of the lad's
horse-hung appendage. `Okay, not here,' he agreed, excited at what
he'd initiated, and where. The risk of the moment was beginning to truly
hit him, the public nature of this; these seats that would normally be
rammed with spectators, and the huge open space of the stadium in front
of them, Sky and BBC tv cameras roving for footage. This, he suddenly
knew, was INSANE. He pulled back his hand and began wriggling out of his
Spurs-branded hoody.

`What are you doing?' Troy whispered nervously at him, seeming to
misread this undressing as something more immediately sexual.

Dier laughed and shoved the hoody over at him. `This,' he pointed out,
`is for you to hold over that ridiculous thing in your trackies while we
find somewhere a tad more private, alright? Now come on, you sexy fucker,
lead the way...'



Their chosen private spot was actually the disused VIP bar two minutes'
hurried walk from where they sat, Troy holding a folded hoody in front of
him for discretion and Eric steering him along with a protective,
excitable hand on his broad young shoulder.

Inside, screened from the risks of the wider stadium, Dier pulled the
younger man to him, eager to feel a bloke's body against him again,
properly. He curled a hand about the back of Troy's neck, feeling its
warm and strength, and slid another up under his close-fitting tshirt,
stroking his knuckles against the washboard of soft abs, strong but not
ripped. He carefully avoided the bandaging around one side and then
grabbed at his erection, feeling its shape and size where he'd left it,
hearing the teen's murmured breaths of excitement as he teased it.

`Ohhh mate,' the Dublin-born youngster groaned.

Eric felt himself get carried away. He squeezed at the big prick and
stroked at the back of that neck, tickling his fingers against the soft
fade of his short-cropped dark hair there, then pulled his face in close,
eyes half-open, lips questing for a kiss. Instantly, Troy was wriggling
against him, pulling his face aside, making apologetic eyes.

`Eric,' he huffed quietly, embarrassed.

`Sorry, sorry,' Dier murmured, disappointed but chiding himself for his
overstepping; he knew how unsteadily he'd moved the footballer into
these things, the hesitation with which Troy had let him do anything; he
half-wondered if their private play was as much a mark of the lad's
loyal friendship has any bisexual inclination, it was hard to tell. But
still, his delicious red lips, the handsome dark bearding around his
sharp jawline and nervous eyes. He had to bite back the desire to steal a
snog there, deprived of Kane's kisses for this long.

`Not that,' Parrott said, with adorable apology in his voice, `I
don't wanna kiss you bud, we're just mates... but, erm...' The amusing
contradiction in his claim, his big throbbing hard-on against Eric's
other hand. Dier nodded, smiled, intoxicated even by a snub from this
handsome young bugger.

He went down to his knees gladly. He'd been very nervous the first few
times he sucked dick, even after letting a big brute like Rooney nosh on
his piece; it had only been with Kane, after pushing him to his kitchen
floor and aggressively sucking him to completion soon after their affair
begun, that he'd found any enjoyment in it. For Dier, it was a debasing
act, not his fave at all, but one he could find himself suddenly up for
when the guy in question was one he had feelings for...

Fuck.

He stopped, kneeling there on the floor of this dark little anteroom,
holding his hands at the waist of Troy's tightened dark trackies, the
white Adidas stripes down each side; his young face flushed and eager
above, grinning down, still kinda apologetic from his refusal to kiss.
Eric stared up at him for a moment, a concerned epiphany coming over him.
Parrott seemed to register his quick moment of panicked realisation, and
frown back at him. I can't have feelings for him, Dier told himself,
I'm still getting over Kane...

`Is it okay?' the young striker asked tentatively. `You don't have to
if you...'

Eric couldn't answer him because in that odd moment of thought, he felt
like his voice could betray something. He yanked roughly down, pulling
the black trackies and green cotton boxers down in one go, freeing the
mighty swing of the lad's rod, which he pushed his lips against and let
its shaft tickle against the rough short beard of one strong cheek,
sliding his face back and forth, running his tongue delicately against
the tip and making Troy squeal.

The size and glory of Parrott's prick was enough to silence the confused
voice in his head, shutting away that self-doubting commentary and just
enjoying the mouthful. He opened wide and took it deep, trying not to
gag. He spat on the thick shaft to lube it against his lips, massaging
fingers and thumbs against the dense dark hair of Troy's upper thighs.
Eric gasped and licked and moaned himself, blending his sounds of
pleasure with the tall attractive youth's.

He went on like this for some time, quite skilled now in knowing how to
treat a dick (though Troy's easily outranked Harry's) but especially in
how to tease and edge without pushing to a finish. He loved the almost
pleading whine of Troy's gasps and whispers (`Ohhhh, Dier mate... oh
just there, just there... fuck, fuck, fuuuuck') and the sense of control
it gave him. But after a good fifteen minutes of gobbling him, he pulled
back on his knees, panting, and thinking about something that had been on
his mind ever since Winks' living room and that exciting night. Wow, the
consoling it had taken to calm the younger Harry down over the following
few days...!

Parrott was looking questioningly at him, his back leaned against the bar
wall, his face and neck flushed with protracted enjoyment. Dier patted
his strong hands at his hips, held onto him, and began to turn his body
on the spot. Troy's face flashed with unease. `Mate,' he whispered,
`you know I wasn't sure about that, when you... well, it hurt me a bit,
and I just...'

`Not that,' Dier told him rashly, knowing full well how challenging it
had been for the experimental teen to take a little fingering that time
in his own bed; it had been deeply exciting for Eric and he thought of it
often, but it had been the ensuing blowjob that did it for Troy that
time, not the optimistic questing of his own finger. Sadly. `I won't
put anything in,' he promised, filled with a slow building curiosity
that had ran through his mind since seeing this deed in action. Troy,
ever trusting and loyal, turned in his hands, pressing forward into the
wall of dark wood, propped against his elbows and pushing his face into
his folded arms. This presented Eric instead with his bottom, big firm
cheeks; like his thighs, they were surprisingly hairy, one of the many
things that meant the Ireland teen could almost pass for the same age as
Dier, eight and a bit years his senior.

When he'd seen Maguire do this, it had shocked him. He'd never thought
to try it in all his episodes with Kane. On reflection, Dier figured, it
was to do with his patchy experience with women. He'd never really got
into going down on them, so using his tongue in this way was less obvious
to him. He'd been a bit creeped out at the thought of it, but watching
two Harrys at it that night...

`Mate?' Parrott asked, a nervous tremor in his cute accent.

`Trust me.'

He placed a hand on each firm cheek, enjoying their tensile strength
against his fingers, and parted them, exposing the dark fur of his
butt-crack. He leaned in close, the soapy but manly scent of the boy's
body filling his nostrils, and pushed his tongue in. He heard Troy's
immediate gasp of surprise, but went on, licking slowly between the
curves, then parting them more, stretching his tongue, and letting it
roll gently against the hairy flesh between. Troy's second gasp was
louder. The noises were encouraging to Eric who, for the first time since
Russia, felt nervous in his sexual dealings.

He picked up some confidence and pushed his face right forward, into the
pillowy feel of the lad's cheeks, which tickled at his beard and
smoother upper cheeks. He laughed into his crack, amused by his own
experimenting and by the veritable whimpering sounding from the lad. If
Troy had been edging a minute ago, he was on the verge of exploding now.
Eric kept it up for another minute, two minutes, just licking cautiously
and uncertainly at his behind, unsure what the art to it was, but
delighted with how easily it made the 6ft1 forward shiver and whine.
Then, when he felt ready, he reached around the front and found the base
of his cock. For a matter of seconds, he pulled on the massive boner and
lapped his tongue in between his hairy cheeks, then Troy's voice told
him what he needed to hear: `ohhh... jesus mary and joseph...'

Keeping his hand on the boy's cock, Dier lifted off his knees. He
controlled his slow ascent, kissing the hollow just above that strong
arse, then the base of his spine, lifting his tshirt a little to kiss
gently higher; then lifting up fully and planting a gentle last kiss on
the back of his neck, just above the line of his tshirt, all the while
stroking his cum-slicked cock and patting gently at his chest muscles.
Troy was gulping in air like he was having a panic attack.

`What was that?' he demanded.

`Something new,' Eric whispered behind him. `You like?'

`Bloody hell,' was all the Irishman could say. Then, dutiful as always,
he reached around, a shaky hand resting against the hip of Eric's
joggers. `Do you, erm, need me to...'

Eric took a deep breath and studied himself, his nose and lips still
brushing the back of his head and neck. `No,' he said, and it took some
force of will. `You got get yourself tidied up. It'll be half time in a
minute and we should be downstairs to see the gang.' He slid his hand
from Parrott's cock and wiped it on his own tummy beneath his tshirt. He
patted his marginally clean hands against the lad's sides, careful again
of the scar, and then dared one last kiss to the scruff of his neck.

Troy turned and parted from him, nodding, very flushed now. `Good
idea,' he murmured, then giggled softly, and looked at Eric properly.
`That was batshit crazy, buddy, fuckin' hell.' He made a few
exaggerated blinks and breaths out then stuffed his gargantuan thing in
his trackies, where it bulged offensively. He picked up the hoody from
the countertop beside them, and held it with that same cute apologetic
pause. `Keep it,' Dier told him firmly, `you'll need it to cover you
up while you find a bathroom, for fuck's sake. Don't want you poking
nobody's eye out. Go on, mate.'

Off he scuttled. Alone, Dier turned to the bar and pressed both hands
against it, allowing himself a moment to recover from the sordid thrill
of trying something new, savouring the mustiness of what he'd licked.
Replaying in his mind the gasps he'd provoked. Then, resting one elbow
and forearm on the shiny bar top, he reached down with his other, and
removed his throbbing boner from his joggers. He could certainly have
stood here and let the excitable younger footballer handle him instead;
Troy had done it before, in mad confusion after that somewhat failed
experiment of slipping him a finger, so he knew he had it in him. But he
also suspected it wasn't quite what he wanted, just a kindly and
confused gesture. But more than that: he worried now about quite how much
he might have enjoyed it. How much more it might have made him want.

Eric hunched there, resting on the bar counter, and tossed himself off,
driving away worried thoughts about wandering emotions and transferred
romantic feelings. He was just beginning to feel some trace of liberation
from an ill-fated and all-consuming affair with one of the nation's most
beloved married men. Ugh. Think of all the other lads, he told himself,
the meaningless blowies and handjobs, the dirty little deeds in stadium
toilets and alleys behind nightclubs, all triggered by that strange
one-off with Wayne Rooney when he was a young England hopeful making his
debut.

When he shot his load, streaking lines of cum down the wooden frontage of
the bar, knowing it would need careful wiping up in a moment, he actually
broke his own rules and let himself think of Harry Kane. He thought about
the first time they fucked, in the steamy garden of a Russian hotel,
yards away from the England squad's defeat party as they mourned
crashing out of the World Cup; he'd bent Kane over against a wall in the
tropical greenery near the pool, and taken him. There had been a magic in
the air that night that he wasn't sure he'd ever find again, the
naivety and discovery of them both. Wordless in their shared desire.

When he'd finished shooting his load, he just leant down on both arms on
the bar and hung his head, panting and fighting back a couple of mournful
tears.



Downstairs, Dier hung at the back of the gathering, keeping to the
fringes of the extended squad as Mourinho delivered his fierce team talk.
It was still 1-1 and Spurs desperately needed someone (all eyes were on
Kane) to deliver a clear winner and triumph in this North London derby.
Eric felt worn out by his adventures up in the stands, so he just stood
back, arms folded gently over his thick chest, trying not to look at the
intensity of Kane's face as he listened to the manager, a steely
determination in his long face.

Avoiding looking at him, though, led to looking at Parrott instead, stood
with a couple of other youth players who were in attendance, at the other
edge of the gathering. He could see the flush of satisfaction still on
the tall dark and handsome lad's features, the laddish confidence that
came with strutting around knowing you'd had head today and nobody else
around you had.

Dier was distracted from all this by a gentle buzzing in his pocket. He
retrieved his phone, expecting it might be a response to one of the
casual messages he sent out earlier on at the beginning of the game. As
often happened, the word `Harry' pricked his interest, but of course it
couldn't be from Mr Kane, who was in his Tottenham kit a few metres in
front of him, listening intently to Mourinho's `special' wisdom. Dier
thumbed open the message and read it. It was, of course, from Harry
Maguire:

`hey dier man -- sweet hanging out the other week lol -- wot u up to
this week??? Need to ask big favour of u 1 night lol -- can I call u
2nyt?'



'Writer guy' - Premiership Lads on
Nifty https://www.nifty.org/nifty/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