Date: Sat, 18 Jul 2020 15:30:12 +0000
From: writer guy <premiershiplads@outlook.com>
Subject: Premiership Lads part 148: Going Up

Part 148: Going Up


Outside the stadium, you could see the fans going proper mad. From here,
the big glass-panelled walls of Elland Road's most swish hospitality
suite, there was a great view of the crowds and flares, the chants and
banners; social distancing temporarily forgotten as the loyal Leeds
hardcore celebrated the end of a 16-year exile from Premiership football.
The lads in white hadn't even played this evening, but West Bromwich
Albion's failure was their gain: they were now guaranteed second-place
in the Championship and automatic promotion to the top flight. They
didn't even have to sweat it out and give their fans' nervous
breakdowns in a play-off clash, they were through, they were going up.

Like every other player, coach or staff member swigging lager up here in
tonight's tentative celebration, Leif Davis was bouncing on his feet and
brimming with excitement for what lay ahead. The young Geordie was a
fringe member of the promoted squad, racking up only ten or so first-team
appearances this season, but he knew he was on an upward trajectory and
the prospect of a Premier League debut in the autumn was filling him with
an almost manic excitement. It was hard to predict who would come and go
amongst the club's more experienced players, but Davis could see himself
having a fighting chance of regular benches and starts unless some
serious defenders were bought in. At 20, the Newcastle lad was just
insanely grateful to be here at an upwardly mobile club at such a
historic moment for their city.

Next to him, other more senior Leeds players were going crazy at the
window, waving and hollering unheard for the public below; some had gone
down to meet them at the gates for brief conferences of excited
discussion. Nearby, the sophisticated forward Patrick Bamford was going
berserk, waving both hands in the air and screaming nonsensically into
the plexiglass; beside him, their stalwart captain Liam Cooper was
banging dangerously on the clear divide and lofting his pint in the air,
spilling much of its content down his tattooed arm and onto the shoulder
of his short-sleeve shirt. Leif grinned admiringly at the older men and
backed off, a little overwhelmed by the dizzying view outside of Elland
Road.

He returned to the unmanned bar, where two of his fellow younger players
were clumsily sloshing out fresh pints for themselves, and he plonked his
own glass down heavily beside them in anticipation of a refill. Local lad
Oliver Casey was doing his best impression of a Rovers Return barmaid as
he frothed out the first pint for their teammate Jordan Stevens, and Lief
grinned eagerly at the two young players, awaiting his turn. Luckily for
him, Olly had picked up some skill at the job and his pint managed to be
less than 50% head, unlike theirs. `Wheyyy, you didn't get as much head
as me,' quipped 20-year-old Stevens, clanking their glasses and
cackling, already pretty drunk. He was not alone in that.

`Yep, well done,' Davis returned cheerfully, `you got head from Olly
Casey, lucky you... Fucking nonces, haha...'

The gawkish giggling of the three young lads was interrupted as an older
member of the Leeds defence crashed down next to them at the unmanned bar
of the hospitality area, a pint glass in each hand and an almost wicked
grin on his face. Ezgjan Alioski was as chaotic and excitable as ever,
one of the more experienced and established Leeds men amongst the
gathering; his eyes were a little wired as if he'd been doing more than
drinking, and his bleached hair and dark roots were scraped back over his
head. `Do me next,' he demanded energetically, thrusting both glasses
towards Casey and smiling over at Stevens and at Davis. Alioski stared
blankly as the young yobs immediately burst into sniggers, given the
timing and wording of his request. `What is it?'

`Just a dumb joke,' Lief half-explained with lazy beer-warmed good
humour.

`Casey giving everyone terrible head,' chuckled Jordan more openly,
lifting his badly poured pint.

Alioski immediately burst into mad laughter, made all the more playful
and daring by his strong Macedonian accent and Slavic looks. `Oh I
see,' he groaned happily, then laughed some more. `Well, tonight may be
mad party, but we see if it goes THAT far, eh, haha...' He took back his
freshly poured pints from an uncertainly chuckling Olly, then clanked
them noisily to Lief and Jordan's, and abandoned them in a whirl of
bleached blond mischief.

`Haha, you got a taker there, Olly,' cackled Jordan messily through a
mouthful of the premium lager, elbowing his 19-year-old teammate and
winking at Lief, who couldn't help but blush a little at how quickly the
daft joke had escalated. He just grinned reassuringly at the embarrassed
Leeds lad between them at the beer pump, pulling back his pint and taking
a sulky glug on it. `Fuckin' tool,' jibed Jordan, ruffling the younger
lad's dark hair and rolling his eyes, `we're only messin' with
ya...!'



Things did get quickly messy though -- a few of the older fellas left
quite sharply, withdrawing a sense of caution or responsibility from the
event. It had been a tentative gathering, since a win from West Brom
tonight would have delayed the good mathematical news, but they had all
sensed it coming and gathered here, a bit desperate for a blowout. None
of the lads had been able to indulge themselves like this or hit up the
city's nightlife in what felt like forever, so the brilliant excuse of
automatic promotion to the Premiership was rattling through the gathering
and excusing obscene amounts of booze. For a team who had their next game
against Derby County in two days, there were piling the alcohol and
calories away, nobody more senior than their blind-drunk captain to
advise against it.

Leif Davis shifted through the escalating party in an eager daze, riding
the professional high of tonight's good news but also just tingling with
the most beer he'd drank since his 18th birthday bash back on Tyneside.
Pint after pint of the good stuff, freely poured with no murmurings of
anyone having to pick up the tab tomorrow, flowed in his bloodstream and
made him light-headed and reckless, noisier and more excitable than he
ever managed on a usual day.

Unfortunately, the amount he was drinking also meant the endless beer was
flowing elsewhere, down through his system and dragging him repeatedly to
the loos at the other end of the bar. Still clutching the lukewarm dregs
of his latest drink, Davis made his way over, grabbing unconsciously at
the crotch of his skinny jeans and tottering on into the men's toilets,
where he placed his glass down clumsily at the sinks and headed to the
only free urinal, the middle of three.

Like a lot of men of his generation, Leif could suffer from the dreaded
pee-shyness now and then, but not when as inebriated as this. He yanked
at the thin belt of his skinny black jeans and down on the zip fly,
loosening his cock from his undies and holding it in one hand to aim. To
his right, another bloke made a melodramatic sigh as he relieved himself,
grabbing Leif's hazy attention and then smirking oddly at him when he
looked his way; the team's 29-year-old Northern Irish winger was leaning
back heavily and cupping his balls in both hands as he pissed noisily
into the right urinal, seeming to take bizarre enjoyment in the bladder
relief -- his noisy show was then disturbed or enhanced by similar noises
to the left and Leif looked that way as Scotsman Barry Douglas aimed his
soft cock upright a little and blasted the wall above the urinal with
piss, both older men just gushing with their own dirty humour and forcing
a silly giggle from the 20-year-old Geordie.

`Calm down fellas,' Leif blurted out drunkenly, self-conscious of his
own flaccid nob in his fingers, squeezing out a piss and hearing a fourth
voice join their laughter as the captain emerged from the single cubicle,
still stuffing at the front of his boxer short and wrenching closed his
thick pale jeans, wheezing with laughter at the other men's performance.
`Stop scaring the young un,' Liam Cooper laughed, slapping a hand on
Dallas and then Douglas' back before heading to the sink to wash. The
Scotsman joined him, smirking, but Northern Irish Stu remained at his
cubicle, stroking the fat snaking thing at his crotch and leaning
obnoxiously over to inspect Leif as he pissed.

He wilted under the jokey attention of the 6ft winger, scowling at him
and hurrying to finish relieving himself. Suddenly Stuart was slapping a
hand to his neck and shoulders, shaking him and making him spray past the
cubicle a bit as he caught his balance. `Pissing like a Premier League
player,' bellowed the experienced Leeds player happily, shaking him by
the neck then pulling away, exiting the bathroom with Barry without
bothering to wash his paws. Cooper, smirking at the other two, reached
over and punched him lightly in the arm.

`Don't mind them cunts,' the 28-year-old Hull bloke, captain and
centre-back, told him firmly, `they're just wasted. Piss in peace!' He
disappeared after them, and Leif shook his cock and stuffed it away
inside his grey boxer briefs, a little shaken by the coarse banter of the
night even when he was five pints deep and dreading tomorrow's 10am
training session. He'd heard others boast that their eccentric South
American manager would be forgiving of all puking on the training ground,
after tonight's big news, but the young Tynesider was a lot less sure.

He made his way back out into the fray, wiping damp hands on the front of
his black tshirt, abandoning what remained of his warm pint and thinking
perhaps it was time to swap for a softie. He was blearily surprised to
find so few of them left -- ten or so men now, half of what he'd
imagined to remain -- and wondered if he'd been seeing double or if a
lot of the players and support staff had begun to make hasty exits as the
drinking got out of hand.

Someone had sorted out the big plasma screen TV in the centre of the
communal space, showing some late repeated Sky coverage of the Leeds
celebrations outside -- snippets of interviews with players, ex-players,
their beloved manager, manic fans. Leif paused behind the scattering of
sofas and grinned at the footage, seen for the fourth time tonight, of
the fans going mad outside the stadium, dimly silhouetted figures of this
party going on through an elevated window in the distance. He huffed a
laugh and rested his hands on his hips.

In front of him, the celebrating was just getting more raucous. Douglas
and Dallas were seated in one of the leather couches racing to down fresh
pints, spilling as much on their own clothes and the expensive leather as
they got in their mouths; his own good pal Jordan Stevens was cheering
them on, kneeling at the table beside them and clapping effusively as
they competed. Closer by, the team's star City loan player, Jack
Harrison, was loudly proclaiming that he wished a nightclub was open for
the lads to hit up, and next to him, that Macedonian livewire Alioski was
even more loudly denouncing the repeating footage and demanding that they
should be using the big screen to get some porno off his phone instead
and all watch it together. Leif sniggered at this outrageous suggestion
and moved on past them towards the bar, glad it was abandoned and he
needn't be pressured into pouring out more premium lager, already way
too drunk for a Friday night with a weekend match ahead of them.

`Fetch me on, will you?' asked the crisply polite voice of their
skilled forward, as Leif ducked down behind the bar to wrench open a
fridge and retrieve a j2o for himself; he turned and gave a bashful grin
at Bamford, caught in the act of his boyish need for soft drink, but
grabbed a second bottle and hoisted them up onto the bar. Patrick, a
charming 6ft1 figure of quiet confidence in the squad of brash
personalities, lifted a bottle-opener and cracked off both lids in a
couple of smooth gestures, giving him a confidential grin. `Pour them
into glasses and we'll pretend they're brimming with vodka,' the
Grantham-born private schoolboy laughed confidently but secretively.

Leif did so, glad of the conspiracy, and clinked their teetotal drinks
together; the clumsy slur of the gesture revealed just how drunk both
footballers were, for all their sudden 10pm caution, and the drunken
mischief spiralling beyond them around the one working television set.

`To the Premiership,' toasted Patrick.

`To the big League,' Leif agreed, grinning at the 26-year-old striker,
one of his most respected allies at Leeds United; Bamford's career was
patchy and zigzagging but he had snatches of real Premiership experience
and had once spent his younger years on the fringes of the Chelsea first
team. By current Leeds standard, he was an experienced top-flight icon
for the younger players, even if he'd spent half his career on tenuous
loan deals before ending up in a series of Championship promotion
battles. Leif supposed that Paddy was probably more delighted than most
to win through today, perhaps feeling like he was getting back where he
belonged; Leif knew that despite the raucous excitement around the suite,
many Leeds players were anxious about the step up to the big money
Premiership environment, few of them having kicked a ball in those
massive stadiums.

`I hope we're ready,' the young Geordie admitted quietly, taking a sip
of refreshing orange and mango juice, glad of the chilled sweetness after
guzzling too much beer.

`Oh, we are,' Bamford promised him, `it'll be amazing for young guns
like you, pal.' The tall blond fella looked over his shoulder with a
playful grimace. `Don't know about some of these yobs, mind...'

The pair of them rejoined the others, Leif feeling vaguely dwarfed by the
tall athletic forward, settling himself down beside him on the free sofa,
Olly and Tyler Roberts to his left. The sofas were long, but four grown
men still squeezed to fit in together. On the other long sofa, Alioski
seemed to have won his campaign; sat between Cooper and Harrison, he was
fiddling with his phone and staring impatiently up at the wall mounted
screen, shouting in his own language while the players around him just
cackled. Jordan Stevens completed their sofa and only Barry and Stu sat
apart on the third couch, looking worse for wear after their pint racing.

`Here we are,' Jack Harrison announced loudly, a confident young winger
at 23-year-old who clearly saw himself as the secret ingredient that had
helped the club to ascend this season. He had a big grin over his smooth
features, waving a hand up at the screen as it flickered back into life,
not with the neat graphics and recycled footage of Sky Sports News, but
with a blurred, buffering replica of what was playing on Alioski's
screen: porn.

`Seriously boys!' tutted Bamford cheerfully.

`Fuck yes,' crowed Barry Douglas in his rough Glaswegian accent, `get
it on...'

`We ought to be doin' something more profound than this,' their
captain was arguing without much energy, dismissive of the porno scene
now unfolding on the television above them. `Somethin' special to mark
the moment, y'know, something together as mates...'

`We SHOULD be curled up in bed like good boys,' Tyler Roberts suggested
with a tinkle of guilty laugh, as if the 21-year-old striker was thinking
that his joke sounded a good idea; there was a murmur of slurred
disagreement with the sensible option, all of them dimly aware of
tomorrow's regrets, but nobody quite ready to quit celebrating just yet.
All eyes flickered idly to and from the porno that Ezgjan had chosen, a
garish orgy of Eastern European woman outside in the woods, half of them
already naked.

`Well you're captain,' Harrison was grunting at Cooper now, `what do
you suggest...?'

`Matching tattoos,' chimed Jordan.

`Circle jerk,' guffawed Alioski, not taking his eyes off the screen.

`Oh yeah,' Jordan giggled, `then you can finally get head off of Olly,
you mean...?'

The banter rambled on. Leif sat where he was, squashed in against the
edge of the sofa, cradling his thinly hidden soft drink, feeling a bit
spaced out and left behind by the rolling conversation, all loose
connections and punctuating bursts of rough laughter. He looked at the
screen, vaguely uncomfortable with the sleazy screening of their
teammate's Pornhub faves, but dully excited by the action all the same.
He rubbed a hand across his throbbing forehead and grinned around at the
other nine blokes gathered here, the beer-addled remains of what had
started out as a much bigger party, dwindling to this perverted
atmosphere and jagged banter. They'd started drinking fairly early in
the evening, he supposed, a couple of optimistic beers while they watched
West Brom play Huddersfield, quickly accelerating once their rivals were
losing. The hours seemed to have blurred together and slumped into this:
ten men squashed across three sofas, only half of them still actively
drinking, most of them ready to face disgusting hangovers tomorrow
morning, a gaggle of porn actresses squealing lavishly on a big TV
screen, cast by WiFi from their Macedonian left-back.

Discussion of matching tattoos, booking a lads' holiday, and most
excitedly, swinging by their manager's Wetherby home tonight via taxi
and waking him up with a garden party, had all fizzled out in a series of
gurgling laughs, meaty slaps, and tenuous digressions. Leif seemed to
tune back in to the conversation just as it reached an alarming new
corner.

`I want to see who is the most hung, that is all,' cackled Alioski,
shrugging his shoulders defensively and shoving at the men on either side
of him, Jack and Liam. `Is it so mad an idea?'

`Told you he was a perv,' Jordan Stevens was sniggering at the end of
their sofa, lurching over to wink and gesture meaninglessly at Leif.
`He's always ogling us young lads, this one, watch out for him, hah...'
He sprawled out his limbs, sniggering and supping from an empty beer
bottle as if it still had plenty to offer.

Leif stirred himself, a bit perplexed by the shift in banter here. `Eh?
What's he on about, man?'

`Ignore it,' muttered Bamford to his right, just laughing it off.

`There wouldn't be no contest,' Dallas was boasting, with similar
rival proclamations from Douglas and from their captain, which just had
Alioski in fits of giggles. `This is my point!' he screeched madly,
getting up from the sofa, `Every one of you pricks thinks they're the
big dog, but... Well, I wanna see who really has a Premier League prick,
you know, and who has a tiny relegation dick, hehe...!'

`Don't be a nob, Alioski,' Bamford grumbled, but not loudly, his
challenge to the rough banter seeming to go ignored by everyone but Leif,
sat a little nervously and dizzily beside him.

`Anyone disagreeing with the idea must be hung like an acorn,'
sniggered Jack arrogantly, getting up to his feet next to Alioski and
shoving playfully at the other player, the two of them almost collapsing
back onto the other lads on the sofa, so drunken and unsteady on their
feet. It was unclear to Leif if Jack's jibe was in response to Patrick
trying to cut off the idea, or just a general provocative challenge to
the room, but it seemed to rile a certain brash enthusiasm among the
others.

`Well I know who's tallest in the room,' young Olly was boasting,
getting up, while Tyler pushed at him and cracked up laughing, pointing
out that proportions were rarely reliable on these matters. A ripple of
seedy laughter crossed the room and, on the TV screen, the porno was
really going for it.

`And what's the prize for the winner?' Barry was demanding in his
surly Scottish drawl, still sprawled out occupying half of the third
sofa, cradling the dregs of a pint in both hands, looking barely able to
actually keep his eyes open. `And by winner,' he slurred, `I obviously
mean me...'

`Punishment for the loser, more like!' Harrison butted in.

`Bit of both,' mused Cooper from the centre of the crowd, stretching
out on the sofa and flexing his thick arms at his sides before hopping up
onto his feet. `Littlest cock has to wank off biggest cock for a minute,
that's what I say, haha... ah come on, just team fuckin' bonding, ain't
it...' Like Douglas, Cooper seemed to be having trouble keeping his eyes
fully open, swaying a little as he stood there, grabbing loosely at the
front of his cargo shorts and letting out  a hoot of laughter, an
imposing 6ft1 figure at the centre of the mischief. `All in?' There was
a muttering of amusement but a series of coarse `aye' votes, and Leif
sat where he was, a bit perplexed to find himself getting up to his feet,
willed along by nothing more than peer pressure.

He turned and looked questioningly at the nearest guys: Bamford was
getting up to, a thoughtful frown settling on his sharp-cut features,
thick dark brows contrasting with the blond spikes of his hair; it was
odd not to see him with a beaming optimistic smile. On the other side of
Leif, Olly looked delirious with confidence, the tallest yet youngest lad
in the room, and Tyler was sniggering uncontrollably at the whole
prospect.

`Are we really doing this?' Patrick complained loudly, greeted with
vague boos by two or three others.

`Right, count of five,' Cooper suggested, `then we all drop our keks,
right?'

`Then we find out who's blessed,' blathered Alioski.

Leif Davis stood in a bit of a drunken daze, vaguely unsurprised by this
daft dare as the natural conclusion of the night. There had been such a
surly aggression and competitiveness in the air even as they sat around
enjoying the Albions' big loss to Huddersfield. Out of
self-consciousness more than cocky determination, he grabbed at the front
of his black skinny jeans, feeling kinda short and stumpy next to the
other lads at this side of the room, both Olly and Paddy over 6ft and Ty
not far behind. He himself was a sturdy 5t9, quite diminutive for a
left-back, not the most solidly built of defenders, something he was
constantly making up for by throwing all of his aggression into the game.
He slowly realised that everybody else seemed more or less up for the
jokey contest; belts were being undone, top buttons loosened, drawstrings
untied.

Leif huffed sulkily and gripped the button fly of his jeans, popping them
one at a time; he found himself watching how quickly and eagerly Douglas
and Dallas did the same to their pants, their exhibitionism and physical
looseness made obvious in the toilets. In moments, Barry Douglas had his
stretch-fit chinos down around his thighs, his black trunks following
suit, and the sizeable weapon let loose at his crotch, swinging idly just
as it had over the urinal; Stu Dallas was joining him, swinging his prick
performatively and hooting with showy laughter. Around the horse-shoe of
seating, the newly promoted Leeds men were following suit: trousers or
shorts and undies drooping down, crotches exposed, the blaring porno and
drunken competition belying the fact that most of them had shared
communal showers over and over. Leif blocked out the surreal sight and
yanked down, peeling at the tight grip of his skinnies, taking his black
boxer briefs with them, exposing himself as per the rules of the game,
standing there awkwardly and feeling his soft cock and balls seem to
shrink up with nervousness as if retreating inside him. The horrible
thought struck him for the first time that he might not fare well in this
contest.

As he opened his eyes, the thought took more solid and realistic form,
accidentally fixating on the size of Alioski's own appendage, loose and
long beneath his trimmed pubes and tight bollocks, swaying with his loose
steps as he looked wildly about and cackled at the dirty humour he'd
kickstarted. But next to him, Leif quickly noticed, their captain Liam
Cooper was hardly dwarfed; the thickness of the fat thing dangling from
his curling reddish pubes was a bit alarming to Davis, who had spent his
formative years of professional footballing looking anywhere but below
waist height. At least everybody was doing the same here, he realised,
and he didn't have to feel quite so paranoid or frightened by the way
he'd sometimes been unable to resist peeking in the past, even now he
was leaving his teens behind. For once, he supposed, still floating on
too many pints, it was actually OKAY to be taking a little look and
curiously comparing the sizes and shapes of...

He noticed then that a lot of the guys were looking this way. `Need to
pick a winner,' Alioski was announcing, at that point, and for a very
confused moment Leif felt the eyes of the room on him, even Ty Roberts at
the end of this side, twisting forward and looking down his way in
wide-eyed wonder; no way, Leif thought in confusion, was he actually the
biggest of them? But then he realised he was drunkenly misjudging the
looks, the shifting focus of the room. He stared down just to his right,
below the hang of Paddy Bamford's dark grey tshirt, at the thing
drooping below its hem, a faintly curved snake of flesh, fat and heavy
and long. Sharply, Leif looked back at what he'd seen of the other dicks
in the room, then back at Bamford. God, he thought, with that monster,
why was he even remotely hesitant about this stupid prank...?!

`Well, well, well,' cooed Jack Harrison with jokey admiration. Probably
jokey, anyway.

`Fuckin' hell, Bamf,' crowed their skipper.

`We have a winner!' cackled Alioski.

`Jesus fellas,' Patrick complained gently, shifting about; it seemed
unlikely he was trying to show off, given his manner, but he pulled more
upright, letting his tshirt ride up and offer a fuller view of the beast
between his firm blond-furred thighs, an impossibly long dangle of
manhood, fully on view to the other nine Leeds blokes. Bamford let out a
bashful laugh and pulled self-consciously on himself and his hairy balls,
then shrugged. `Okay, you can all stop staring now... fine, I win,
whatever...!'

`Well, he needs his prize,' laughed Roberts.

`I don't that's necc-`

`Who's smallest?' demanded Dallas, his bolshy voice laced with the
seed of worry that it could be him.

Leif found himself scanning the U formation of men and their exposed
crotches more closely, catching onto the desperate competition of it all,
curious to know how each of them ranked, though nobody was exactly
reaching out for a ruler or measuring tape! He was amazed, really, at the
sheer variation in what the men carried, and he was more amazed when he
began to suspect that they weren't all entirely floppy; Harrison, who
was sniggering filthily and playing with himself a little, looked to be
semi-hard, his nob rising away from his trimmed pubes and toned legs in a
gentle rise as he thumbed idly at it. The same seemed to be true of Olly
Casey, right next to him, though his nob was clearly pretty hefty, even
if it wasn't getting a little bit hard. Well, Leif thought, they had all
been watching porn, maybe some guys could get more excited than he could
in a crowded room. He strained his eyes, confirming that none of them
were exactly UNlucky in that special department, there were no overtly
tiny cocks to be seen, so it would be difficult to- De ja vu. Everyone
looking his way. This time, including Paddy, who cast a concerned, kindly
eye this way, and lifted one of those distinctive dark brows.

`Poor Geordie boy,' groaned Barry across the room, fondling his heavy
bollocks and sighing with playful empathy, `he's only young and it IS
cold in here...'

`Yeah but look at it,' grunted Jack Harrison sourly, `it's defo the
smallest of us all...'

Leif felt a jolt of horror and he looked down the printed front of his
black tshirt. He was reminded for a moment of those weird moments when
you get into a hot shower after a long run in the chill, and your
privates look and feel of a third of their normal size. The young Geordie
had no illusions of himself as a horse-hung porno superstar, but... He
stared dismally at his shrivelled privates and realised that they were
right. He was the loser. Fuck! `But,' he mouthed awkwardly, `but it
don't always look like that, and some of you are...'

`We all knew the rules when we dropped our pants,' Alioski boomed,
others agreeing.

`Mate, ignore them,' Bamford said quietly, `you don't have to...'

`He's too chicken,' someone was saying, and another voice cracked out,
`He ain't Prem material, can't even play along with a joke' -- `Just
a fuckin' minute!' someone else was laughing loudly -- `Ah go on,
it's just a laugh,' he heard his younger mate Olly say next to him,
shoving an elbow in his side and guffawing messily. The more the whole
drunken pack of them stared at him and his package, the more his private
parts seemed to want to disappear inside him, and he felt a deep loathing
for the traitorous cock and balls tucked between his meaty defender's
thighs, a scarlet blush covering his rounded young face. The 20-year-old
felt the sting of their taunts and the challenge of the dare. `I ain't
chicken!' he rallied aggressively, staring them down with darting looks.
`I ain't scared. I'll do it. Just a minute, you said.'

`Alright, do it then,' Jack grunted. The 23-year-old winger sounded too
eager, too sure.

`Guys,' groaned Paddy.

`Oh go on, let him, he wants to. Just a fuckin' dare. Relax. Haha.'
And then Bamford was giving in, flopping down onto the edge of the black
sofa, his tracksuit bottoms around his knees, his firm thighs parted and
that ridiculous snake flopping lazily onto one of them. Leif stayed
standing, staring down to his right at it, catching odd glimpses in the
corner of his eye; more and more of the guys seemed to be playing with
themselves quite adventurously, horned up by their own `victory' over
the least-hung lad in the room: him. He felt his cheeks burn with the
awkward blush, then dipped his bare butt cheeks back onto the cool clammy
leather next to his taller teammate, and braced himself. For a second,
his eyes met Paddy's.

`Buddy, this is daft,' the striker told him in a gentle voice, cutting
through the braying laughs and encouragement of the room for a moment,
`don't feel like you got to...'

The young Geordie snapped back at him more roughly and assertively than
he felt. `It's just a joke,' he scowled exaggeratedly, and did what
had been demanded of him by the group humour. He reached over and took it
in his hand, grabbing hold of Bamford's blessed piece. To his shock, it
felt even bigger than it looked, thick and ridiculous against his hand,
unfeasibly warm and solid. Around him, he was aware of various jokey
bursts of approval and encouragement. Someone was clapping, others were
laughing. Olly had clasped a sweaty hand to his shoulder, laughing
hoarsely in his ear and saying `Go on, lad, give it a go, haha!' A
couple of the others seemed to have moved closer to see for sure, making
the spacious bar area feel suddenly stuffy and claustrophobic around him.

The two of them sat there at the centre of the oddness, connected by
touch. Patrick was sat back stiffly in the corner of the sofa, pressed to
its back, his lean arms lifted clear, hands planted on the back of his
head. Leif twisted over a little as his side to reach properly with his
right hand, his hand gripping somewhere just above the base and pulling
gently up. He could feel it responding, maybe, seeming to tighten and
swell; he could feel the trace of bulbous veins coursing against his
thumb and finger as he pulled it up, let it flop, then pulled it again,
and saw the difference in its rising rigidity. He stared intently at it,
refusing to lift his eyes and meet Paddy's concerned, reluctant
expression, or the harsh challenging faces of the other players who had
consigned him to this task. Instinctively, Leif pulled his hand back,
spat heavily in the palm, then wrapped it again around the taller,
mightier form of Patricks' growing boner.

`Fuck, look at him go,' someone muttered.

`I'd rather not, there's still girls on the screen, remember,' teased
another voice.

`Little Leif, haha, bless him...'

`Jesus, Bamf, you enjoying that a bit much...?'

`Fuck's sake, are they really doing it? Weren't we just havin' a
laugh?'

`Leif mate, you're never gonna live this down...'

`Aw shut up, poor lad, he's just being a good sport, ain't he?'

`Hey,' barked Alioski, cutting through the muddle of voices, `that's
defo been a minute, friends!'

Leif felt the implication of this comment, pausing with his hand wrapped
firmly around the hot hard feel of Paddy's erection, his whole body and
being seeming to burn with embarrassment and exposure and the defeat of
his own less showy nether regions. The drunken wave was crashing inside
him and he felt a sickly rush in his stomach and his head. He loosened
his hand and pulled it back, surrounded by booming laughter. Nauseous, he
looked away from Paddy, and caught sight of their skipper, Liam, stood
close by watching them, dragging his knotted fist back and forth over his
own hard-on, his lips curled in a tight grin of entertainment; behind
him, Dallas and Douglas were sprawled over their sofa, faces fixed on the
screen as they pleasured themselves noisily. Leif let out a little gasp
of disgust at the louche scene, and looked to his left at where Olly
lurked over him, playing with his cock through his tugged-up undies, and
behind him, Roberts wanking more openly, glancing from him back to the
lurid TV screen and Alioski's porno.

`Mate,' murmured Bamford under his breath, a term of affection that
felt ambiguous and weird right now. Leif just wanted the ground to open
up and swallow him. He felt too drunk and out of his depth. He pushed
back and half-slid off the sofa and onto his feet, wrenching up at the
tight fabric of his skinny jeans, never an easy task even when not
hurrying. He pushed his flopping, relaxing cock into his trunks and
dragged the tight denim up over his chubby young buttocks, clothing
himself and shielding him from their competitive judgement, then
launching himself past Patrick's bare knees in a swift jog of escape. He
stormed past the middle sofa, where Alioski and Harrison were sitting
back with their legs open, toying with their erections and booming with
laughter; next to them, seated on the arm of that sofa, his mate Jordan
Stevens had pulled up his undies and trackies, but was cracking up with
laughter and reaching for his arm. He called something at him but Leif
ignored it and raced on, out of the semi circle of sofas and away from
the casual wanking and the suddenly over-loud feminine shrieks of the
porn scene.

The 20-year-old burst out through double doors and into the corridor
beyond, glad immediately at the cooler air that hit him. He didn't stop
though, rushing on down the hallway, his drunk brain trying to process
the banter that had spiralled out of controlled and ended with him doing
that in front of a room full of his peers, most of them older and more
integral to the club. More than anything, he was picturing himself
walking into that training session tomorrow, green with hangover and
stared at by everyone who knew -- and everyone WOULD know, he supposed,
even if there were only ten of them here tonight...

Leif was drunk and confused and so he wasn't even sure which way he was
going to get to the exits below, but ahead of him was another WC, a
cooler quieter space than the pissy-smelling den back there where he'd
been pre-emptively ogled by Dallas and Douglas. He ducked into it and
rushed to a sink, twisting cold water onto his palms and throwing it at
his red cheeks. He stared awkwardly at his reflection, skin crawling,
then shuddered in alarm as the door he'd come through rattled quickly
and someone else came quickly in to join him. He'd expected Jordan or
maybe Olly, one of the other young lads, rushing in here to bemoan the
weird banter of the older blokes with him, or express some horror at
pervs like Alioski and Cooper for initiating such a stunt, or...

But no. It was Paddy Bamford himself, staggering after him and grabbing
him quickly by the shoulder. `Leif,' he gasped, `are you okay...?'

He stared wordlessly at him, taken aback by the arrival of the tall
honest-faced forward rushing to him, squeezing his shoulder and arm and
standing over him, blue eyes full of innocent concern. Leif just gawped
at him, more mortified in his presence than anyone else's, knowing what
he'd done. And worse, he thought, Patrick had tried to stop him, tried
to tell him he didn't have to, told him to ignore their shithousery...
`I'm fine,' he gurgled stupidly at him, cool water beading on his
flushed cheeks and in his messy fringe of blond-brown hair.

`That was fuckin' daft,' Bamford breathed. `I'm gonna be having
words with the skipper tomorrow. They were out of order. Are you okay?
Are you sure?' He twisted and turned at Leif's shorter figure, standing
over him. `I shouldn't have let you... I shouldn't have gone along with
their stupid GAME, Leif mate, I'm so sorry...' Caught up in the rush of
the older player's friendly concern, it took Davis a moment to realise
that he was being touched elsewhere. But then they both looked down. The
downside of being as generously endowed as Paddy Bamford was that it
didn't recede quickly, clearly; no, his huge rod was poking forward in
the material of his long cargo shorts, and in turn, brushing at the top
of Leif's own black-clad thigh.

`Oh fuck,' the bigger, posher lad breathed awkwardly.

`What do you feed that thing?' Leif muttered at him, seeking shelter in
comedy.

`I'm so sorry,' Bamford told him dumbly, `I just...'

`I shouldn't have done it,' the Geordie lad grunted at him, `I
shouldn't have...'

`No, I guess not,' Paddy mumbled back, both of them dropping their
voices in mingled shame and apology, cut off now from the braying of
their teammates, the pressurised occasion of the bar area and the leading
influences of guys like Cooper and Alioski or any of the others. `But
you know, you didn't do bad,' huffed Paddy then, as if the jokey
compliment would diffuse something, or take the edge of the supreme
awkwardness of them standing here so close by the sinks and mirrors. Leif
stared oddly up at him, hearing his words over.

`I didn't?' he asked, feeling his voice thick with his dizzy
drunkenness.

`No,' Bamford confirmed, then just tittered, seeming to regret the
comment.

`Oh.' Leif pulled back, remembering that the hard presence against his
thigh was not the hard edge of the sinks and such, but the evidence of
his colleague's arousal, the state of intense rigid excitement which he
supposed he had achieved. Well, along with booze and porn and a whole lot
of stupid bravado, yeah, but definitely partly his touch, his spit, his
nervous grip... He realised he was staring down at it, so he looked
guiltily back up at Paddy's worried face, hanging close by his. A moment
of loaded quiet settled between the two drunk players.

`Yeah, you've got soft hands,' Bamford chuckled. His voice was
strained. `I mean, utter nonsense from them lot, can't believe we
didn't tell them to fuck off, but -- I mean, you just... you didn't feel
bad, considering, so...'

Leif acted on instinct ahead of thought, and his hand was on the front of
those loose khaki shorts now, tracing the outline of what he'd held more
intimately minutes ago. He kept his eyes on Paddy's, registering the
flicker of surprise and little else, the measured stare between them, the
gentle crease of their pursed lips, not quite smiling, but something in
that direction. He squeezed.

`You needn't worry,' Bamford told him quietly. `Nobody would dare say
a word of this to anyone who wasn't there. And they know I won't put up
with dirty banter about it in the changing room. I mean, I'm not saying
I'm no VIP at this club or anything, but I think I have my... you know,
influence, and...' He finally stopped talking, Leif's hand stroking
gently across and around the front of his long cargo shorts, then pulling
nervously away. Paddy did the next bit for him, pushing down at the hips
and letting the hard-on spill free again, rigidly long between them, so
that Leif could grip and squeeze it in his hand, holding his own breath
tightly. `You shouldn't worry, is all,' concluded Paddy lamely, tall
and gentle beside him, a sturdy figure to rest against while Leif closed
his hand and began to stroke on it once more. It had just felt so massive
and surprising. It still did, but less... terrifying. Less pressurised.
Nobody watching and laughing. He pressed his face into the firm rest of
one of Bamford's shoulders and eased his arm back and forth, politely
wanking on the striker's big tool, letting his own breath escape in a
nervous hiss that mingled with the ex-Chelsea player's quick hot pants.

Leif thought about touching his own cock, but it felt numb and dead, way
too much booze in him. No wonder it had shrivelled away from view while
competing with the others! He felt the vague and confusing throb of
desire and excitement, but none of the physical symptoms, so he just
focused instead on Paddy's cock, well, what felt like THEIR cock, shared
property, so big and connecting them so tightly by touch, as it had on
the sofa. He held position there, resting into Bamford' strong frame,
picking up pace and sliding his hand up and down that thick shaft,
teasing the tight foreskin at the red curve of its head, feeling the
bigger older player's pants get hotter and quicker and more ragged. Then
suddenly Paddy was sliding one thin strong arm about his shoulders and
back and grasping him tightly in a half-hug, releasing tension into him
through this tight hold, and releasing something else with a long,
strangled sigh.

Slowly, Leif looked down and to the right, still held firm against
Patrick's gently heaving chest. He stared at the still thick and hard
thing in his hand, and at its sticky gooey tip, and the glistening smears
on the wall beside them. Dribbles of Bamford's seed. He felt queasy but
amazed at what he'd produced from the other bloke. His head span. Kind
and gentle, Patrick was prising his hand of it, stroking his forearm and
patting his shoulder a little. `Thanks,' he said, the word sounding
pathetic and momentous at the same time.

Leif felt the surreal calm of the climactic moment leave them, and a
return of the sweaty panic he'd felt on the sofa. He'd just wanked off
another fella. What the actual fuck?

`You should go back through,' Paddy murmured, his voice sounding
distant. `I think Olly and Jordan were organising taxis for everyone?
Don't you live with Jordan? Eh?'

Leif nodded slowly and pulled away, wiping his hand on his jeans, though
it was clean of the white goo, just damp with his own sweat. He turned
away as Patrick began, awkwardly, to stuff his tool away, and he pulled
his messy fringe out of his eyes and dragged at the fabric of his tshirt,
trying to cool his clammy thickset body beneath. He moved to the door,
still nodding dumbly.

`Leif, buddy,' whispered Bamford, and he looked his way. `Er, thanks
again. Erm.'

`It's... okay, man,' Davis told him shakily. `Erm...'

Their eyes met briefly then they parted in a hurry. Bamford remaining in
the quiet WC, ready to cool himself off and recover; Leif rushing out
into the corridor and stumbling back in the direction of the hospitality
bar, dreading the knowing looks and jibing comments of the others, but
some horrifying pressure lifted off him by Paddy's gentle approval and
kind comfort.

He found Jordan outside of the bar doors, tapping at his phone, grinning
sheepishly as the two 20-year-old friends approached and bumped fists.
`You alright, pal?' Stevens asked quietly. `Fuck that, we all know
you're no babydick. Stupid prank. Shouldn't have encouraged them, hah.
You okay? Come on, let's get an uber, my head is KILLING me.' He
didn't look up from his phone screen, seeming vaguely troubled by what
he was party to.

`It's okay,' Leif said vaguely, glancing at the frosted glass of the
doors. `Erm, in there, are they still...?'

`Couple of blokes spunked on themselves and passed out,' Jordan groaned
distastefully. `Fuckin' hell. We gonna be that weird when we near 30?
Shit, mate. This lot. Hah! But still... quality, ain't it? I mean, Leeds!
We're going up! Haha.' He reached out and slapped Leif on the arm, then
returned his attention to his phone, and turned away to finish ordering
their cab. Leif took one last glance at the frosted glass doors back into
the bar, which would stink of spilled beer and sweaty overexcited men,
and then back down the corridor towards the other toilets, where he could
see Bamford silently emerge on his own, drying his hands on a paper
towel.

`Aye,' Leif groaned uncertainly, following his friend and flatmate onto
the stairs down out of the stadium, feeling his tummy churn and his head
throb with beery ache, `that's right, man... we're going up, haha...
sweet...!'