Date: Sun, 19 Jul 2020 12:35:33 +0000
From: writer guy <premiershiplads@outlook.com>
Subject: Premiership Lads part 149: Semis

Part 149: Semis


`But we have been looking forward to tonight,' he complained, trying
not to sound too petty or whining, but needing the other man to
understand his disappointment in their suddenly cancelled plans. `You
said, Saturday night, you said, after the semi-final... I have been
looking forward to it all week, and...' He pouted in what he thought was
a handsome and adorable fashion, leaning heavily into the windowsill of
the corridor in the Emirates stadium, directing his chocolate brown eyes
at his Arsenal teammate. Granit Xhaka hunched his shoulders and set his
stubbled square jaw, hoping for some concession or twist of feeling from
the other footballer.

Alexandre Lacazette simply let out a long breath, sounding quite
disapproving, hands firmly on his hips. `I have explained,' he told
Granit in the same rapid French, `I have told you... I cannot simply...'
He lifted and waved one strong brown hand at Xhaka, who flinched sadly at
the gesture. `I have arrangements with my partner and I must stick to
them...'

The younger Swiss footballer leaned closer in the risky publicness of the
football stadium hallway, reaching and plucking at the dark fabric of
Lacazette's tracksuit sleeve, fluttering the heavy lashes of his
attractive eyes. `But Alex, baby,' he cooed very quietly, picking up
the gentle pillow talk that sometimes followed their intense and sweaty
sessions together in snatched hotel rooms and temporarily empty marital
homes, `it has been so long since we were together, and...'

In the manner of someone swatting an insect, the short striker removed
his hand from his sleeve and squared his 5ft9 body up to him, shorter but
broad and mature. To Granit's dismay, there was none of the erotic
nostalgia and apologetic humour he'd hoped for in Alexandre's face,
none of the charm or playfulness. `Granit,' he snapped, keeping his
voice very low, `you are irritating me. I have told you we cannot meet
after the game, and now...'

`I know,' Xhaka sighed, `I know this, but you have to understand I...'

`I don't know what you think THIS is,' Lacazette cut him off bluntly,
frowning at him through his bearded features, his eyes worryingly stern.
`I don't know what you think WE have, my friend, but...' Immediately,
the Swiss midfielder began to rush into apology, suspecting he'd gone
too far in his wheedling and nagging, so crushed that their long-arranged
post-game hangout was now ruined by some indistinct plan between the
Frenchman and his long-term girlfriend. He knew that after the exposure
of Lacazette's other extended affair (with a woman), he needed to be
very careful to please his real partner, but still... Xhaka's attempts to
apologise or laugh off his own complaints were cut off with sharp
`Nons' by the French player, and a second attempt to stroke or grab his
arm was shoved quite roughly away. `There is no us,' Alexandre said to
him with a coldness that made him start back, hanging from the high
windowsill and frowning crossly, `this is just fun, I have told you that
from the beginning, Granit...' Again, he wanted to cut in and speak, but
the striker was rapid and icy in his speech: `You appear to be
misunderstanding what I thought was a great bit of fun. If that is the
case then perhaps we need to end it.'

Xhaka stared at him mournfully, alarmed by the rapid shift in this quiet
little conversation, less paranoid than Lacazette about their location in
the tunnels of Arsenal's home ground, but then suddenly aware of a
nearby door opening and other footsteps joining them in this quiet
passage. `Alex,' he whispered hotly, `I understand that, I do, there
is no need for us to end anything, and...'

Lacazette was ferocious now with his stuffy indignation. `You need to
remember that you are not my girlfriend,' the handsome 29-year-old
snarled at him, and Xhaka could not help but stare angrily back, shaken
by the force and pettiness of the comment.

`Whoa, fellas,' broke in a cheery and gravelly voice, and suddenly a
hand was landing on Granit's shoulder. It took him a moment to remember
that they had been speaking in French and that the big grinning face of
the Scotsman at his side had no idea what they had just discussed.
`Pre-match arguments are nae good, fellas!' chuckled Kieran Tierney
obliviously, grinning from one to the other, his tracksuit top zipped
right up to his pointy chin as he hovered by them, clearly on his way
down to the changing rooms for Arteta's team talk.

`You need to think about this,' Alexandre snapped at Granit, ignoring
their interruption, confident in the language barrier. `You are going to
ruin something very fun and simple with your neediness, Granit.' He
turned and glowered for a moment at Tierney, no kindness or greeting in
his face. `Maybe you can kick some manliness into this Swiss milkmaid,'
he remarked distantly and then shrugged away, stomping down the corridor
to the stairs with heavy steps and the assertive swagger of someone who
has never noticed they are the shortest guy in the room.

Kieran gawped dumbly after him then grinned at Granit, seeming to take
the little outburst as some banter or private joke. `Milkmaid?' he
chuckled in his thick Lanarkshire accent, squeezing Xhaka on the shoulder
and bursting into a little titter of enjoyment. `I like that. Our Swiss
milkmaid! What's rattled Laca?'

Granit shrugged away the friendly hand, embarrassed even though his
shaming had been largely shielded by language barriers. He was afraid a
strong flush of shame and rejection would be in his high cheeks and thin
face. `You know Alex,' he grunted, `quite the joker...! Hah...' Shaken
by the force of his secret lover's rejection, Granit led the way quietly
after him, pulling away from friendly pats and squeezes of the Scottish
player's hand, barely listening to his cheery monologue about how he
felt weirdly confident that tonight would go Arsenal's way.



Elsewhere, his confidence was matched and opposed by the easy
assertiveness of the Man City squad, shuffling about in the nearby Away
changing rooms. Phil Foden looked around him with giddy cheerfulness; the
mood of the older and more experienced City men was infectious. Guardiola
had instilled in his `Cityzens', this week especially, a sense of
entitlement and almost casual determination. The Cup was theirs, it
belonged to them, it had to be theirs. The idea of Arsenal putting up a
fight at this stage, after the season they'd had, was laughable.

Foden appreciated the psychological warfare of Pep's attitude, feeling
somewhat outside of his main influence now, privy as he was to a little
more of their gorgeous leader's thoughts. Not that the two men ever
really discussed football, team politics, competitions, his career. Not
really. Mostly, he supposed, they spoke in intimate whispers about just
themselves and the private universe of the occasional shared bed,
handcuffs dangling on a bedside table, cum drying somewhere in the rug of
Pep's chest.

Pfft, stop it, you'll have a semi when you need to get your kit on!

As planned, Phil ducked away from the jovial laughter and arm-slapping
cheerfulness of the squad, finding his way into one of the narrow nearby
toilet cubicles, gripping the little secret treat hidden in one palm. He
pushed shut the door, blotting out the noise. He could hear Kyle
Walker's voice, in particular, booming in camaraderie as he listed which
Arsenal players he couldn't wait to injure. Foden still found a guilty
excitement in the nasal drawl of the burly defender's voice, though he
tried his best not to look at him, paranoid that he would somehow betray
his loyal and caring master again if he did.

Alone in the toilet cubicle, he looked at the thing in his hand, the gift
Guardiola had slipped to him after whispered discussion getting off the
team coach half an hour ago. It had hung in the pockets of his grey
jogger bottoms like an active hand grenade. He stared at its rubber
plastic form, a dull cone that narrowed and spread into a little curved
ring, the detail that made him see it like some dangerous bomb; well,
that detail and the terror of explosive discovery. Its conical surface
was a little ridged and bumpy.

`Put it in Filipe,' the City manager had murmured at him, `and you
will be ready when I need you.'

Terrified but enthralled, the 20-year-old midfielder checked the lock on
the toilet door, then lowered his joggers an inch at a time. He held up
his City tshirt a little and then yanked down his tight Under Armour
shorts, and slid the tube of lubricant from the other pocket, staring
from one hand to the other. Then, trying his best to keep his explorative
grunts to himself, he lubed up and began inserting the gifted butt-plug,
pressing it painfully into his virgin ring, desperate to please his boss
when the moment came.



Aubemyang's early goal had put Arsenal 1-0 up at half-time; there was an
inevitable excitement in the air in the home changing rooms during the
break. Nobody wanted to get their hopes up too much, but Pep's seemingly
unbeatable men were looking shaky and Arsenal were holding strong with
their lead. Around him, the air buzzed with optimism and focus, but
Granit Xhaka found his mind still occupied by his surprising and
embarrassing pre-match conflict.

Things had begun between the two of them during his difficult spell last
autumn and winter. Xhaka's little patch of controversy had alienated him
from some team members, frowning over his angry `overreaction' to
booing fans and their toxic online messages; these so-called fans making
horrible attacks on him, his efforts, his family. When things culminated
in him being stripped of the captain's armband for not representing club
values well enough, it had seemed few around him were supportive or
interested. It had coincided with a rocky moment in his own marriage, and
for several weeks, the Swiss footballer had felt like an outsider in the
club he loved -- only Lacazette had seemed to ignore the noise and stand
by him closely.

He knew it wasn't meant to be... well, serious, but he also knew that the
attractive Frenchman, a couple of years his senior and in many ways much
wiser and more worldly, had become a rock for him in those long months
since. They had continued to meet, carefully and secretively, even in
lockdown, despite their busy lives and committed heterosexual
relationships. Was he stupid to have become quite attached to the lithe
French striker who often shared his bed? Was he naïve and idiotic to
think that their making plans once in a while might signal a commitment
and an affection that was about more than their physical needs?

Xhaka was no dreamy young fool -- he had not envisioned either of them
leaving their partners and running off to the Alps hand in hand. But
after a fairly dry patch other than the occasional away game hotel room,
they'd made careful plans for some privacy tonight, win or lose against
Manchester City. And now Lacazette was dismissing it, ignoring it,
rejecting it...! The frequency and intensity of their meetings had dulled
since the Premier League kicked into its delayed final chunk, and even
their last away session at a hotel had been... well, interrupted, so to
speak, by...

`Head up, milkmaid, did nobody tell ya we're winning?'

By this Caledonian lout. Xhaka was stood at a quiet side of the home
locker-room, chugging rehydration fluids and steeling himself for a
tougher second half, but also staring longingly across the busy room at
where Lacazette was loudly and excitedly congratulating his goal-scoring
ally, making a loud fuss of the current Arsenal captain, Xhaka's
much-loved replacement. Aubemyang hooted with laughter, the two French
players always so close and attuned. Granit could not help staring at
them with a little burn of curious envy: was it purely platonic, the two
French footballers' strong working relationship and bubbling shared
humour...?

`Oi,' barked Tierney again, nudging him with an elbow and kicking up
one hefty leg onto the bench to check his bootlaces, `what's that face
for, matey?'

Granit turned and glanced irritably at the 23-year-old, who brimmed with
mid-game confidence and energy, brightly awake and ready for more despite
the soft sheen of sweat on his face and in his dull brown hair. But
still, if even this dumb jock of a lad was picking up on his mood, Xhaka
knew he needed to sort his sour face out and get his head back in the
game. He tore his eyes off Lacazette, who was howling with laughter and
grabbing Aubemyang by the arm, and smiled weakly at the left-back beside
him, re-tying laces and kicking mud of his boots, then hopping about on
the spot and twisting his hips in some showy stretch.

`Just trying to stay focused,' Granit said with fair honesty, watching
the big nod and trusting eyes of the younger Arsenal player beside him.

`Aye,' barked Tierney, `it's a tough game, right? But we got this. I
told ye, didn't I? I bloody told ye.'

`We're only halfway,' Xhaka told him conservatively, turning his back
on the view of the black Frenchmen and their camaraderie, and the
cheerful preparations of the rest of the squad, already starting to file
out into the tunnel at Arteta's stern Spanish command.

`Ach, come on, positive mindset,' Kieran told him, the two of them
joining the flood of their teammates, bouncing and shuffling out down the
corridor and back towards the floodlights of the empty Emirates stadium,
ready for round 2 of the FA Cup Semi Final. `Ye know what,' the
Scottish lad confided in his ear, nudging him with a brash elbow, `my
focus has been so much better since... heh, well, you know...' The
23-year-old defender gave a lumpen giggle, his eyes all schoolboy
naughtiness. `Since you and Laca erm, helped me out, you know...!'

Granit, irritated by the reminder of how his last intense session with
his lover had been abruptly ended, scowled at Kieran. `Shush,' he
muttered, not happy about the lean Scottish lad's casual euphemism and
badly timed reference back to something so private and risky. But
scowling at Kieran Tierney was somehow a lot like kicking a puppy; his
big dumb face just grinned foolishly at him as they trotted along behind
the others, out through the tunnel mouth and onto the edge of the turf.
He couldn't help but smile, catching the embarrassed naughtiness of
Tierney's expression, the strained gratitude of it.

`I just mean, I'm way more relaxed?' the left-back said more quietly
and cautiously, another matey elbow nudge to the side as the team ahead
spread out and began jogging into position. Mikel Arteta, fierce in his
ambition for the night's outcome, was barking orders from nearby and the
two of them needed to do the same. But Granit looked thoughtfully at the
Arsenal defender next to him, his sheepish gratitude and remembrance.
`So I need to thank you two for how I've played lately, I guess!'
Kieran added lamely, a big throaty laugh, pulling away and jogging back
towards their goal to take up his left-back position, big arse bouncing
in the brash white of their baggy home kit shorts. Xhaka watched him go,
flashed an empty smile at the stressed-out manager, and hefted himself
into a run onto the middle-ground, eyeing up Lacazette near the halfway
line, adjusting his shorts and rocking on his heels, bristling with
determination to get his own cup-clinching goal.

Huh, Granit thought sourly, good luck to him on that -- perhaps he
didn't need Alexandre Lacazette to be his sturdy rock after all, he
thought, if there were grateful and eager younger oafs around just
begging for his... `help'? He smirked bitterly and stretched his legs,
listening out for the decisive whistle and the fresh play of the second
45 minutes.



Stepping onto the pitch in the 66th minute for Mahrez, Foden glanced
wildly at Pep Guardiola as he crossed by him and onto the turf. He tried
to communicate in a tight smile and nervous eyes the excited discomfort
with which he had sat through the 1-0 game so far, his young cheeks tight
around the odd, invasive presence of the small toy. His hole burned
expectantly and he longed for the comfort of Pep's tongue, the only
thing that had ever been in there before. All of this was quite difficult
to communicate in a glance, though, and in the end he had to jog
awkwardly onto the field without any real sense of communion with the
older man.

After all, Guardiola was intensely focused. Their losing position seemed
irrelevant to Philip. There was still over 20 minutes for the equaliser
and then the winner. But after his earlier sulks against Guardiola's
negligence, he was more empathetic now to the enormous pressure under
which his coach worked, and he felt more determined than ever to be
involved in a couple of goals.

He dashed out and joined the fray, trying his best not to resent the fact
Pep had barely looked at him as he crossed the line, just gesticulating
wildly and consulting his assistants in muttered conference. On the
pitch, Foden found himself distracted instead by the stinging pain in his
bum, which actually felt more pressing and real now he was on his feet
and moving. Sitting on the bench in relative comfort, its hidden enormity
had felt like the dirtiest and most enjoyable of secrets; out in the
field, darting about and trying to get involved, it felt like a painful
handicap.

Not so much the physical feel of it, which his hole and cheeks were
starting to accommodate, but the weighty knowledge of what it meant, what
tonight's win would trigger. Pep had been vague but excited in their
phone call this morning and in whispering hotly in his ear in the car
park, passing the butt-plug and lube into his pockets then squeezing his
buttocks very gently. Foden was gripped with nervous terror and an almost
mind-numbing determination to please. The problem now that he was on the
pitch was that the presence of the plug, the awareness of Pep's moody
intense presence on the side-line, and the awareness of what 2 City goals
would mean for him in bed tonight, combined to produce a weighty and
inconvenient semi in his under-shorts, and he had to keep ragging at his
kit to hide or adjust it. All in all, he struggled to fit into formation
and get a touch of the ball. When Arsenal's second goal crashed in at 71
minutes, he felt the jab of worry; at no point had he asked himself what
would happen between he and Pep if City did NOT make it to the Final...



This was when you missed the home crowd, Granit reflected as the match
drew to a decisive conclusion and the final whistle blew. Even he,
someone who'd enjoyed that rocky relationship with Arsenal's strangely
toxic and self-loathing army of followers, could feel the difference; the
2-0 win over smug City felt brilliant, but what difference it would make
to hear the North London fans going crazy in the stands right now! For
once, there would be no risk of boos, Xhaka thought with a weary laugh to
himself, joining his teammates in gently commiserating City players with
light elbow knocks and fist bumps and then spilling towards the tunnel
mouth, needing the privacy of the home changing rooms to properly revel
in making it through to the club's latest FA Cup Final.

He saw the two clubs' managers engage in a brief hug of congratulations,
remembering the close connection between the two fiercely ambitious
Spanish coaches; his own young boss, Mikel Arteta, had cut his teeth
assisting Guardiola up at the Etihad. It was nice to see a man of Pep's
stature so gracious and warm, but it was also pleasing to see the way he
disappeared away into the tunnel straight after this master-protegee
handshake, unable to face the delight and revelry of the Arsenal players
crashing off the pitch and into the dugouts.

On his way past him, Arteta grabbed at and congratulated Xhaka in
Spanish, greeting him with a tight smile that contained all of their
difficult history this season; it had been tough for Granit to feel
valued and trusted by a manager who had stripped him of his captaincy and
seemed to side with the seething fans over his own hard work and loyalty,
but they were slowly rebuilding that trust. There was something
reassuring and inspiring in the tight quiet happiness of Arteta's face
now, a sort of unspoken apology or affirmation. Too happy with the match
result to wallow in other resentments, Xhaka smiled back and slapped his
manager on the upper arm, then strolled on indoors, pleased at the
wordless acknowledgement of his solid 90 minute shift.

In the changing rooms, the contained optimism of half-time was replaced
with an exuberant madness. It had been such a rocky season for Arsenal (a
rocky few years, let's be honest), and never had a cup final felt so
necessary and crucial. Winning the FA Cup, stealing it from their
traditional rivals in the Manchesters and Chelsea, it would be
immeasurable triumph to the wearied squad. Fittingly, the men were
bouncing around the room in various states of undress, posing for
celebratory group photos, singing loudly at one another. Aubemyang, of
course, was being toasted as their hero for his brace of goals, and even
Xhaka couldn't find it in himself to look on the French striker with
anything other than admiration; it had been pure tense paranoia that made
him stare suspiciously over at his teammate 45 minutes ago, nothing more!

Xhaka peeled away his Arsenal shirt, his long tanned torso glistening
with sweat, and he put on his biggest white-tooth grin for a few photos
with passing huddles of the other men, even subs who hadn't made it on
the pitch and back-up squad members going as crazy as if they'd scored
the winning goals themselves. Arteta himself was in amongst them now,
grinning for the camera and seeming to seek out each player individually
for congratulations. It was an atmosphere of sheer joy and innocent
excitement for the Cup final around the corner: nobody even knew yet
whether it would be Man Utd or Chelsea they would face down, but
confidence levels were high regardless!

Fuelled by this mania of positivity, Xhaka zoomed in on the man who
occupied his thoughts more and more these days, pulling Lacazette away
from the back row of an excitable group photo; he slid his hand over a
bare brown shoulder, feeling the hot strength of muscle in the short wiry
forward's body. He felt casual in this touch, the room being so full of
athletic horseplay and idly stripping sportsmen, tactile and frenzied as
they delayed their sensible showers to post gloating social media content
instead -- but as soon as his hand was touching the clammy heat of
Alex's skin, the Frenchman was wriggling self-consciously away from him.

`Don't do that,' he hissed, `not in here...!'

To Granit, this overreaction seemed more risky and attention-grabbing
than his own simple touch, but he smiled apologetically and followed
Alexandre over towards their lockers, keeping his excited hands to
himself. `I am sorry,' he murmured, `but you were just so magnificent
tonight, you were excellent right up until you came off the pitch, and I
just wanted to...' Lacazette turned and shot him a filthy look, clearly
still in the tense throes of their earlier confrontation; though the room
behind them buzzed with post-match celebration, the shorter older player
squared up to Xhaka and pouted moodily up into his face. `Back off,
Granit,' he warned in stony English rather than romantic French, `back
off and forget it. You're getting carried away. It's over.' And then,
instantly, his snarling frown was gone, back to the madcap grin of a
potential FA cup winner, bouncing away from Granit, stripped to his
shorts and socks and lunging in towards another group photo. The Swiss
midfielder was left alone by the wall, a little detached from the frenzy
of his teammates.

He turned to look with fresh and sudden resentment at the posing posse of
his club mates, gathered around for another group photo, desperate to
project their snatched victory and excitement for all the footy fans in
the world; at the centre of the huddle, still head to toe in his Arsenal
kit and sticking up a defiant middle finger to the world, the aggressive
boyish bulk of Kieran Tierney, bulging massively in his shorts and
grinning his youthful confidence to the camera. Granit clenched his
strong jaw, flexed his muscular torso, and settled on his target. Fuck
Alexandre, he thought, there were other players who would appreciate his
help much much more...



Phil slipped through the disappointed crowd of his teammates, his arse
aching and a guilty sense of his own failure pushing ahead of his general
sadness for the team and club. His pale blue City kit clung to his lean
young body as he weaved through the undressing assembly of his teammates,
his eyes searching the changing rooms for the boss himself. Eventually,
he had to ask.

`Have you seen the gaffer?' he muttered at Kevin De Bruyne, who was
peeling his way out of his shirt and dabbing at his sweaty chest with it.
There was a sullen look on his face, a distance that had been there even
before the game, as if for the first time in Phil's knowledge, the
pressure had actually got to the steady Belgian.

`Hmm?'

`The boss,' Foden squeaked. `Pep? Where is he?'

Kevin gave him an odd, almost unseeing look, then turned away. `Beats
me,' he grumbled vaguely, seeming uninterested; he didn't even seem to
want to join the fray of others who were angrily analysing their own
mistakes and criticising every move of Arsenal's, as if mystified how
and why the London team had bested them in this Semi-Final. Foden
abandoned KDB, who was clearly in no mood to talk, and headed towards the
huddle of assistant coaches, sour-faced and mutinous. When he asked them
where the boss had got to, the most senior of them, Arteta's replacement
as assistant manager, gave him an unhappy frown and lowered his voice.

`He's gone,' he confided, seeming to relish in sharing the irritating
secret. `No debrief. Gone. Stormed off! Huh.' In the cult of City life,
nobody ever spoke ill of Pep Guardiola or his methods. This middle-aged
man looked bewildered and horrified to be doing so. `He has left the
stadium already.'

Phil stared at him and the other coaches, open-mouthed.



`What do ye even need to talk about, pal?' laughed Kieran warmly,
dripping along after him down the passage, away from the noise and
exuberance of the main home changing rooms. This cut of tiled space led
back into recovery pools and treatment spaces and an out-of-order sauna,
all the expensive luxuries of handling professional footballers; most
importantly, it led to some excitingly tenuous privacy and aloneness, and
it was that which Granit Xhaka was quietly dragging his young friend
into, shuffling on ahead on his aching match-weary feet, eyeing up
possible spaces, and settling on the distant corner, the row of separate
changing cubicles beside the disused sauna, narrow but usable.

`Just a wee chat,' Xhaka laughed, teasing the other player's dialect.

`But the lads are still partyin',' Kieran complained, `an' you said
this was important, pal, so...'

`It is important!' the Swiss footballer laughed, turning his back
towards the flimsy plastic curtain covering the changing space, backing
into it and snatching at it to open, watching the cynical uncertainty on
Tierney's face as he did so. But there was, as always, something openly
trusting and unthinking in the Scottish youngster's manner, trailing
towards him despite the oddness of the request, still bristling with
left-back aggression and the excitement of a clean sheet. `It's
important that a player like you gets the right support,' Granit added
playfully, picking up on the line of bullshit he'd heard his lover
(ex-lover?) use on nervous, straitlaced Tierney.

Kieran stepped close to him at the mouth of the changing cubicle, lifting
one sharp eyebrow. `Support?' he asked dubiously.

Granit, now sure they were out of sight and sound of the main changing
rooms, though excited voices still boomed and echoed towards them, took
his moment's chance; he reached down and grabbed at Kieran through the
front of his white shorts, finding the anticipated bulge of semi. `I
knew it,' he murmured, `you get horny just winning a match...'

`Oi! Fecker... hehe... pal...!'

He squeezed and pulled at it and backed further into the cubicle, letting
go of the bulge but pulling on the material of the white shorts. Kieran
followed, clumsily, a look of sheepish disbelief on his handsome young
face, squaring his broad shoulders and pulling back with his body even as
he was led in by the crotch. Granit's hand was quickly back on the
fleshy mound there, the semi-arousal he'd noted on aggressive young
defenders like Tierney before; they spent whole matches in states of near
erection, so primed for action!

`Dunno about this, fella,' muttered Tierney gruffly.

`What? You were just saying how much I'd helped,' Xhaka whispered at
him. He reached his other arm behind his 5ft10 teammate and yanked the
plastic curtain into place, cutting them away suddenly in this intimate
square of space, filled with the sweaty scent of their bodies. He was
semi too in his own shorts and sports briefs, just sharing this cubicle
with a lad like Tierney, who it was hard to look the same at once you'd
watched him writhe about on a hotel bed in private pleasure. He kept his
hand rubbing at the front of his shorts. `You know a bit of post-match
help is just as good for you,' he suggested.

`In here? Now? I dunno, fella -- it were one thing in the hotel and
that, but...'

`Aren't you full of energy that needs using?' Granit demanded, pulling
at the shorts, forcing his hand inside the front of them, finding the
outline of Kieran's gifted tool in his black sports briefs, a little
damp with his sweat, lumpy and generous to the touch.

`What? Energy? Mate, I'm shattered, we just played 90 minutes, and-`

`Yeah but,' purred Grannit, forcing his fingers inside the briefs,
finally getting them around Kieran's big Scottish meat again, `you
didn't get to tackle anyone properly... didn't get to really use your
power, so...' He rubbed his free hand against the chest of the lad's
Arsenal shirt, bringing his fingertips up to the neckline and then
tickling at the bottom of his throat. `Don't think you realise how
much, er, help, a man like you might NEED...'

Kieran was blushing, or was maybe just still flushed from the game.
Blades of grass and streaks of mud lined his long arms and his rounded
cheeks as he stood there, quite gormless in his arousal and submission.
He was exactly what Granit Xhaka wanted right now: strong, powerful,
present. He cupped one hand about his hot neck and pushed the other
further into those briefs, stretching down at them and the shorts to
really fondle the heavy full balls and snaking semi-hard prick. Tierney
moaned a little and looked vaguely cross with him, but didn't push or
pull. `This is mad,' the ex-Celtic lad groaned vaguely, `I dunno why
I'm letting you...'

`It felt good in the hotel, didn't it?' Xhaka murmured.

`Aye, pal, but that was...'

`Come on,' Granit barked at him, `stop holding back. I saw you on the
pitch. You're an animal.'

`Huh? Wha'? Me?'

`A beast,' the horny Swiss footballer insisted, pushing down properly
so the briefs and shorts peeled over Kieran's thick waist and around the
meat of his hips and buttocks, letting loose his growing hard-on into the
warm air between them, draped over Granit's hand. `A wild thing. So
full of anger and strength. Don't hold back, Tierney.' He grinned into
his nervous brown eyes. `You were so strong in defence today, you need
rewarding...! You need helping, supporting...!'

Kieran grunted evasively but still didn't move away, just seeming to
stare him down and glance abstractly at his own hard veiny prick as if it
belonged to someone else. But Granit could see his words working, could
see the vein bulge in the side of the Scotsman's neck, the strong set of
his shoulders and the gentle bend of his arms; hands curling into fists,
a certain rugged determination settling in his frowning, confused
features. Shirtless and sweaty, Xhaka backed a step away into the cool
tiled wall, inviting his new friend to follow, and began to lower
himself, bending his knees. He saw Kieran's uncertainty. `My hands felt
good, right?' he asked. `Our hands?' He didn't want to invoke
Lacazette in this conversation, but he had to; his smug lover had first
initiated Tierney into anything experimental, and they had shared him
that second time, had touched him privately in such a way that he
probably didn't know whose hand had gone where.

`What you gonna do?' the Scottish defender asked gruffly. Was he really
so naïve, or stupid?

Granit answered with his mouth, but not with words. Just as he had begun
to all those months ago in tentative first encounters with Lacazette, he
parted his pouting lips and pressed his long tanned face into the space
of the rugged Scot's crotch. He took the long thick presence of
Kieran's big cock into his mouth, ran his tongue under the head and
shaft, and kissed pleasure into him. Kieran's gasp was loud, honest,
surprised. It was almost as if the well-hung brute of a lad had never
even had oral!

`Oh Xhak,' he whispered awkwardly.

Granit pulled his lips away, stretched back on his knees, pulled on the
bottom of the jock's Arsenal shirt with both hands. `Don't be
nervous,' he whispered hotly. `Just let loose. You're a beast on the
pitch, Tierney, be a beast in here. It's okay. I know how to take it.'
Tierney was squinting weirdly at him as if he didn't understand what he
was getting at, but Xhaka felt confident he did, deep down. He tugged on
the footy shirt again and immediately Tierney was rolling it up and
sliding it off, baring his toned pale upper body, so slim and delicate
when compared to the thunderous meat of his hairy thighs, and the
absolute weapon emerging from his dark brown pubes.

Xhaka licked delicately at the bulging tip of the lad's prick, kissing
it softly, exaggerating the slow tenderness of his own movements to
frustrate and irritate the brutish left-back, knowing what he could
incite in him. Teasing his soft stubble down the side of hit, he kissed
him somewhere on the thigh, and tickled at his balls, reminding him of
the tender edging he'd received in that hotel bed, shared by Xhaka and
Lacazette. `Don't be afraid to just go for it,' he encouraged quietly,
rock hard in his own shorts and pants, pushing one hand in to drag them
out, hoping his own enjoyment wouldn't alarm or derail the big thuggish
lad standing over him. But no, nothing like that, his encouragement was
working. He'd read him right. He could see all the tense energy of an
aggressive footballer burning beneath the surface. The match had been too
cool and calm for the Scot, none of the wild fierceness of the Scottish
leagues.

Kieran was grabbing at his short dark hair, twisting his head and neck a
little in uncomfortable positions, almost snarling down at him, so
intense the confused frown on his boyish features. He was pushing more
needily with his thick tool, smacking it into Granit's lips and cheeks
and chin, and then inside his mouth. Granit opened wide, nodded his head
as best he could, looked with wide chocolate eyes at the sexy 23-year-old
lad, giving him permission to lose control. And then, like an animal
uncaged, he was: he was scrunching his rough fingertips into Granit's
dark locks and forcing his cock deeply into his mouth. In moments, he was
fucking him in the face, slapping his loaded balls of his chin and
pushing down his throat with his meat, making Granit gag and choke
excitedly. He stared up into the growling, snarling mask of a powerful
young man, and opened wide for his meat.



`And where are you going?' someone demanded, as Phil pulled the hoody
down over his football shirt and muscled along the narrow passage leading
out of the changing rooms and back into the tunnel. The same moody-faced
assistant manager who had let slip to him the head coach's exit dropped
a hand on his shoulder, half-blocking his exit from the Away changing
rooms of Arsenal's ground. Phil stared at him, wide-eyed and awkward.

`I'm gonna be sick,' he hissed at him, `I feel awful...'

`Well, you've been running round like you've shit yourself,' snapped
one of the other coaches testily. `Let him go, he doesn't look right,'
he groaned at his boss, and the hand lifted off Foden's shoulder. He
shot past them into the tunnel, lugging his kit bag in one hand and pair
of long joggers in the other, which he attempted to wriggle his legs into
as he ran up the passage, away from the noise of both teams and their
locker-rooms, the celebrations and commiserations of the game.



Eventually, the bestial rage of Kieran's face-fucking seemed to cool and
weaken; his face twitched with guilty confusion, as if just realising
that he was pushing his big Scottish sausage down a man's throat and
powering into his lips, pulling at his air and ear. Sweat dripped from
his blunt fringe and chiselled young features, and collected between his
soft smooth pecs, running through his lightly defined six pack and into
his thick bush of pubes.

Granit gawped hungrily at him, enjoying every tense moment of it, the
discomfort and liberation of giving himself up to this mad energy. He
wanked at his own cock as it happened, in snatches, his body swaying and
tossed back and forth by the force of the defender. Occasionally, his
shoulders and even his head bashed against the hard wall behind, but it
just added to his eager submission. There was something so beautiful in
letting go and just being a hungry hole for this brutish jock. It had
been how he felt when he first submitted to Alexandre's unexpected
attentions during his weeks of isolated misery -- Granit supposed that to
feel needed was the most basic of human instincts, and where was it more
pure and true than when you were the receptacle for another man's animal
desire?

But Kieran was tiring and he looked confused, agitated. Xhaka needed to
help him even more. He thought about the beautiful sight of the Scottish
oaf on the other bed in their hotel room; the `spare bed', he'd
started to call it, once it was established that he and Alexandre could
share one all night long, between bouts of fucking. He pictured Kieran on
his back with his legs in the air, he and Alexandre's lips and hands
doing all the work. Oh how they'd begun to play with his big cheeks and
tickle at his crack!

He went there now, knowing it was risky on a man of Tierney's uncertain
temperament and early exploration, but needing to push him to finish.
Still lapping at his cock, no longer fucked in the face with its
strength, he crawled one hand up into the tight space between those meaty
thighs, pushing a single finger up between the meat of his cheeks,
finding the hot wet crack and looking for his hole. Kieran growled a bit
and slapped his cock at his cheek then pushed it more forcefully again
into his mouth. Granit pulled his lips tight around it and sucked
repeatedly just as his finger broke through, bursting up through a
forested crevice and squeezing inside a virgin's hole. Tierney whimpered
and thrust back and forth with his hips and in no time, he was groaning
out a carefully suppressed climax, one that Granit could taste filling
his mouth. Creamy, Scottish, satisfying.

`Holy fuck,' the Scottish lad was grunting, `holy fuck, pal, fuck
this, aaah...'

Xhaka pulled away, cum oozing over both of his lips, staring for a moment
at the throbbing tip of his young man's monster, then grabbing onto the
thick support of his legs and hips and pulling up off his knees, rising
slowly. He grabbed and pulled at his own dick; he didn't need this
brutish youngster to touch it, he was so enthralled by his big meaty
presence, his rich sweaty smell, the taste of him in his mouth. He stared
at Kieran's mask of wild innocence and jerked himself to completion,
spilling cum all down one of those massive thighs. His balls ached as he
emptied drop after drop, unsure if Kieran knew where he was landing his
juices. Tierney had shut his eyes and was just gasping almost violently,
holding onto Xhaka's shoulders for support.

`You're fantastic,' Granit told him quietly, letting all the
worshipful admiration show in his voice. He laughed softly, trying to
break the growing tension, pushing his cum-stained cock back inside his
white briefs, adjusting his shorts, patting one hand soothingly on the
glossy expanse of Kieran's lean muscular flank. `You okay? You needed
that, I could tell. Kieran?'

The 23-year-old looked drained and confused, couldn't quite meet
Xhaka's eyes. He laughed again, soft and comforting, and stroked his
side then his arm a little, and manoeuvred around him. `Take your
time,' he told him silkily, `catch your breath, shower here if you need
to...' He leaned in close and curled his hand around his cock, still
quite thick and stiff even now its job was done. `You're a monster,
Monsieur Tierney, a monster.' He wanted to kiss him, found his puckered
face irresistible, but he dropped his lips and pecked him on the pale
smooth curve of his shoulder instead, affectionate but detached. Then he
slipped away, pulling through the curtain carefully, leaving the solid
young left-back to his bullish pants and confused recovery.

Savouring the aftertaste in his mouth, Xhaka strolled down the corridor
of side rooms and dipping pools and physio equipment, drawn back to the
echoey laughter of the main changing rooms. Granit was not a man for whom
these new adventures were troubling or uneasy; he'd experimented
nervously in his youth, playing for his local team Basel, encouraged by
older married men. Discovering something more substantial in the intimate
company of another man, Alexandre, during a difficult Arsenal season, had
been more of a comfortable surprise than a shock to his ego or his hetero
identity. Still, this was the first time he had broken away from that
torrid affair and played with another man. Perhaps it was that which made
Kieran feel so fantastic to toy with, or perhaps he really was just that
exciting?

The 27-year-old midfielder was just nearing the corner where he would
turn into the edge of the main changing area, where by now surely most of
the men were showering (the echoing singsong had a watery ring to it)
when he heard more groans -- he thought for a second it was still the
noisy breath of Kieran post-ejaculation, but it was different and, oddly,
more familiar. A smooth, almost syrupy noise, controlled but still
passionate. He paused where he was, rocking on his socked heels, tugging
awkwardly at his disturbed shorts, his cock aching from the rapid furious
wank he'd enjoyed while squatting at Kieran's feet. Granit looked to
his right, where a cubicle door led to one of the toilets here at the
junction, solid but thin. Behind it, he could hear fleshy noises, vague
thumps, a sudden loudening of the groans, sighs, huffs.

Xhaka stood still with a horrible sense of inevitability. The door
opened, and there they were: Lacazette stepping out first, brazenly
shirtless but doing up the drawstring on the front of his white Arsenal
shorts, which bulged and rippled around the weight satisfied package in
the front. And after him, slinking out into the harsh electric light,
rubbing a dark-sleeved arm over his stubbled mouth, the Arsenal manager,
Mikel Arteta, shifty-eyed behind one of his star strikers. Both men
froze, and Granit just stared at them, jaw hanging open. It had been
painful enough thinking he was being snubbed and rejected in favour of
his friend's more conventional and public relationship; but it was a
real kick in the teeth to realise that his tender affection was being
spurned because Lacazette just had so many options of where to release
his load.



In the hotel reception, Phil felt conspicuous. He knew he looked hot and
bothered, unshowered after the match in his hurry to break away and catch
up with the City manager. Here he was, tracksuit pulled over his kit,
cheeks burning red, hair scraped against his pinched head with sweat,
knuckles white. He had jogged the short distance form the Emirates
stadium to the hotel, and he knew the young receptionist lady behind the
desk was giving him an odd, curious look, more than the casual admiring
recognition he had come to accept as a relatively well-known footballer.

`Mr Guardiola?' she murmured.

`Aye,' the young Stockport lad repeated, resting his twitching hands on
the surface of the counter and looking worriedly at her. `He left summat
important at the stadium, y'see, and I knew he'd want it. Er, I heard
he'd booked in separate to the rest of the team, cos of his wife, or
summat...?' He chewed at his cheek and lip and gave her nervous dark
eyes, unsure what the hell she was thinking of him and his flustered,
solitary arrival.

`Yes, yes,' she said slowly, `that is right, he has... but...'

`Is he here?' Phil asked, annoyed by how reedy and desperate he
sounded. `He left the game in a hurry, y'see, and erm, well...'

`Well,' she said in the same slow, bland voice, `he HAS been here...'
She frowned, pursing her rouged lips and watching his twitching anxiety.
`I'm afraid your boss has, erm, well, Pep Guardiola has already been
back and... checked out.' She cleared her throat, glanced at a screen,
smiled weakly at him. `He checked out five minutes ago. Perhaps you can
catch him in the car park...?' But she was speaking to nobody; Phil had
already gone.



**TO BE CONTINUED... OBVIOUSLY.**