Date: Wed, 22 Jul 2020 22:04:00 +0000
From: writer guy <premiershiplads@outlook.com>
Subject: Premiership Lads part 151: Anfield Goodbye

Part 151: Anfield Goodbye


On a more normal night, the stadium below them would be filling up with
jubilant Liverpool fans, ready for the home finale of the title-winning
team. God, what celebrations that would be! But no, pandemic rules
persisted, the stadium was as eerily empty as ever, the late-season clash
below would kick off in front of abandoned stands and the medal ceremony
marking the Reds as 2019-20 champions would lack the spice of a watching
audience. It was irksome but given the scale of the accomplishment and
the loyalty of their following, it was a minor problem, one Jordan
Henderson knew he needed to put aside and just enjoy the moments.

Just like the fact that he, the lauded captain who'd done almost as much
as Klopp to get the team where they were, had to miss out on the final
fraction of the glorious season due to knee injury. Ridiculously unfair
fate, but unavoidable and endurable.

`The fans would be bonkers,' said his companion for the early evening
stroll of the grounds, seeming to read his mind after their years of
close friendship and teamwork.

Henderson turned and smiled in recognition both at Lallana's comment and
the deep and unusually unspoken connection that had made their brains
reach the same conclusions at the same time. Adam returned his smile
quietly then went on, joking about the pitch invasions and mad flare
releases that would marked the Merseyside excitement of today's
medal-giving if it wasn't all going on behind close doors, chuckling
affectionately about the passion and commitment of the footy fans he was
set to leave behind.

The pair were stood up in the terraces enjoying a blast of golden sun
over the upper reaches of Anfield, having agreed to this quiet tour of
the stadium as something of a goodbye; the season didn't quite end with
today's home match against Chelsea, but it may as well, and ostensibly
it had already ended for the pair of best friends. While Henderson's
knee put him out of action for now, Lallana was on a sort of pre-emptive
injury leave, contractual caution in case a knock in a game affected his
next big move. Jordan stared thoughtfully at him as he spoke, still
unsure exactly what that `move' was -- their sensitive refusal to
discuss Adam's transfer had become almost superstitiously taboo, and now
he felt embarrassed not to even know which two or three teams his mate's
agents were negotiating between to secure a worthwhile final chapter for
the attacking midfielder's career. Jordan knew his pal was doing the
right thing -- at 32 in this squad of young talent, Lallana would not get
the game time he deserved if he stayed, so of course he should spread his
fucking wings. It was just that for six of Jordan's nine years at
Liverpool, this great guy had been at his side supporting him, and it was
hard to imagine going on as the sturdy and ambitious captain he now was,
robbed of that friendship and unconditional loyalty.

`Is that the sun in your eyes or are you gonna squeeze out a tear for
me, Hendo?' the handsome St Albans-born footballer demanded, folding his
arms across the front of his white, Liverpool-crested polo shirt, flexing
his chest and arms a little as he did.

Jordan squinted in the golden light, tittered, and punched him lightly in
the chest. `Prick,' he jibed. `Honest though, mate, was just trying to
imagine turning up at this place and not having you here.' His voiced
rocked a little at the sincere emotion of what he was saying, but he
tried to steer away from making a comfortable joke of it, or actually
choking up with the real strength of feeling. `It ain't easy, marra,
I'll tell you that.'

`No,' Adam agreed, responding to his seriousness and reaching over to
pat his arm. `It won't be easy for either of us, big man, it really
won't.'

They walked on. Henderson was off his crutch but still limping a little,
and Lallana would check on his walk occasionally with touching concern,
sticking out a muscular arm as they descended some steps or glancing
worriedly at him as he grimaced a little in lingering pain. It was that
kind of intuitive thoughtfulness that marked Adam's friendship, he
thought, that and hilarious good times and shared memories. They wound
their way off the sunlit terraces and into the empty spacious fan areas,
full of closed bars and food concessions, all ghostly in their quietness.
Jordan stared nostalgically around them as they strolled, almost as if HE
was the one about to say goodbye to all of this -- perhaps it was more
endurable to think like that and to focus on the setting, rather than to
look at his older buddy and acknowledge that this would be one of the
last times Adam was inside this ground wearing a Liverpool badge, if not
the last time.

`Still,' Adam murmured after a long quiet between them, `you'll
replace me.'

Jordan screwed up his long face and stared hard at the other midfielder.
`Oh right, will I?' he asked, glad that they were teasing and jesting
now; he couldn't actually take the heartfelt conversation he'd wanted
to have with Lallana once they were up here alone in the quieter reaches
of Anfield, away from the team preparations below, kick-off looming
close.

`Yeah, sure,' Adam chirped. `Give it til October and you'll have a
new Anfield bestie.'

`Sure,' Jordan agreed jokily. `All our years of shared hotel rooms and
coach journeys and family barbecues and double date holidays... all of
that will just be, erm, water down the Mersey.' He punched Adam squarely
in the bicep and then threw his arm expansively about his broad low
shoulders, laughing at him. `You jealous prick.'

`Yeah, all those things,' Lallana was idly laughing. `And sloppy
hangover blowies.'

Jordan tensed a little at the joke, leaving his arm more limply about the
strong breadth of the shorter lad's back, the smile on his face freezing
a little mid-chuckle. `Aye, that,' the Mackem football captain added a
little gruffly, then, `but dunno why you said it in plural, fucker, it
was only the one time haha, not like we always...'

Adam elbowed him in the ribs softly and shrugged off his arm. `Haha, I
know, I know, messin' with you, skipper...' He grinned cheekily,
dimpling his lean cheeks and narrowing his dark eyes. `But still, bit of
a standout memory as far as, well, Liverpool's greatest bromance...!
Haha... Ah don't be so shy about it. Shit happened. We were both still
pissed off our faces. No harm done.'

`None,' Jordan agreed loosely.

`And,' his 32-year-old friend continued, `it's like I said, you'll
replace me soon enough. After all...' A sleazy wink. `Neco was pretty
much throwing himself at you, from what you told me, so...'

Jordan frowned and pushed jokily at him, stumbling on their way around
the curving concrete spaces and then, because they couldn't resist it,
back into the sloping tunnel and short staircase towards the terraces;
the sunny evening was an awkward rectangle of view above and in front of
them, cut into the dark concrete walls. `I wish I'd never told you
that,' Jordan snapped halfway up the short flight of stairs, pausing
with his hand on the rail and his sore knee bent. `It wasn't like that,
Ads. He was confused, he'd heard weird shit and he thought he was meant
to, or summat...' He huffed loudly. `He only touched my leg. I don't
think he really wanted to-`

`Again,' grunted Lallana, pausing next to him and patting his back,
`just messing! You're getting really sensitive in your old age, turning
30 is making a boy of the man...' His sidelong grin was rueful and,
always, forgivable. `He's a nice lad though. You'll miss him when he
moves out?'

`Hmm? Oh. I guess. He's a good lodger, sure. But we're a young family,
Ads, we need our space back.' He stroked his stubbled chin a little
uncertainly. `He's going to be moving out this weekend, I think,
getting settled in the new place with a couple of mates. It'll be good
for him.' He made an exaggerated frown. `And no, he has never touched
me again, stop giving me that look...! For fuck's sake, why do I ever
tell you anything, Lala?'

`Cos you can't keep your gob shut?'

`Says you, noshy noshy man...' Jordan chuckled but regretted the vaguely
insulting joke, seeing a slight twitch of embarrassment in the older
player's eyes; true, both men had touched each other bravely and
exploratively that sweaty alcoholic morning, but it had been Adam who
crept under the covers and took it a step further. A step too far? Jordan
had made a promise to himself that he wouldn't gloat over this or make
any jokes at his teammate's expense, just wanting to enjoy and
appreciate the fleeting pleasure of what they'd let happen, not milk his
captain's prerogative or anything... Henderson was determined to believe
that their morning escapade had done nothing to dent their professional
and personal connection, but here he was, stumbling awkwardly through
banter that would once have felt totally natural between them; the daft
speculation that their Liverpool closeness was in any way more than
platonic had amused them for years, and jokes about sharing a bed had
been one of their favourite routines at team meals for a good couple of
years a while back.

`God, what a nickname to leave on!' Adam said, joking and almost
wistful.

`I shouldn't have said that,' Jordan grunted quietly. He walked on, up
the steps and back out onto the rows of plastic seating, surveying his
football kingdom, sad again that he wouldn't get to run out there
shortly and smash Chelsea, crippling the London team's obvious smugness
at making the FA Cup final. The 30-year-old Liverpool captain folded his
arms and stood there, dark grey jogging tracksuit clinging to his lean
strong body and slightly padded knee injury. He felt Adam's hand creep
onto his long shoulder and squeeze it, leaning gently into him. `I'm
gonna really fucking miss you, pal,' he sighed, not making eye contact.

`Same, Hendo. Big same.'

`I think I'm gonna cry like a fuckin' baby when we get our medals,'
Jordan admitted.

`Oh, for sure, I'll be blubbering like a cunt. Part of the fun,
right?'

`Yeah. Part of the fun.' At last he risked looking at him, the hint of
a tear in his own eye now, though not in Adam's. Adam looked more
cheerful than he ought to, but not as if he was glad to be leaving or
anything, just... he had a really satisfied expression on his tanned
freckled face, framed by the re-growing tufts of his dark hair. He was a
good-looking prick, wasn't he? Jordan was not hung up on a load of
insecurities but he'd always been conscious of the darkly handsome man
and his ridiculous physique -- odd now to think that the vaguely
intimidating teammate he'd befriended six years ago had been down on him
in that way, quite an achievement in a weird way, right...?

`You're thinking about it again,' psychic Lallana chided him.

`About what?' Henderson denied.

`Getting Williams to give you some... what'd you call it? Noshy
noshy...' Lallana burst into playful giggles, leaving his hand on his
shoulder. Jordan scowled at him in annoyed amusement.

`Leave that lad alone, he's barely a kid,' Henderson muttered. `He
was just confused, confiding in me. For fucks' sake, you think I let any
old bugger next to me in bed like you...' Failing at frosty and
light-hearted, he heard his own wistful voice: `I ain't rolling over
mid-hangover to toss anyone else off, jesus as my witness... bloody hell,
why are we talkin' about this...?'

Lallana shrugged, pawing at his firm chest in his top, sighing a bit.
`Cos we ain't gonna get to repeat it?' he asked challengingly. They
looked at each other, unsure whether to laugh at this idea or not. It was
a dirty joke at the expense of their private fumble but it was also a
very real eulogy for all those away trips they'd shared, their faithful
comradeship over years of Liverpool campaigning. Lallana broke the look
first, just giggling a bit to himself, and Henderson couldn't help but
stare at the 5ft8 southerner and think about how it had felt to hold him
in place, hot and nauseous with over-drinking and the euphoria of
Liverpool's win.

Unthinkingly, he reached for him, stroking a couple of fingertips over
his strong upper back, feeling the ridges of his shoulder-blades and the
warm firmness of the muscles about his neck. He played at the floppy
cotton collar of his polo shirt then, without pause, stroked his fingers
onto the fluff of his neck. At that, Lallana shuddered and smirked a
little, but didn't move or say anything. Jordan stood there, running his
fingers up into the short growth and tracing it up top, where it became
longer and thicker, then back down.

`Oh Captain,' Adam sighed. It sounded like a jest, but also... sensual.

`You can't call me that any more,' Jordan pointed out, `you're
hardly a teammate now. We've played our last, mate.' He tried not to
sound too heartbroken as he put the thought out loud.

Lallana made a vague scoffing noise and curved his neck a little, rubbing
it thickly back into Henderson's stroking touch, relaxing his big
shoulders. `Huh, you'll always be my Captain, Hendo, even when we're
retired fucking pensioners. You got that, big man?' A contented sigh
from the other player, guiding Jordan's uncertain hand into a tender
massage of his neck muscles. He stared hard at him side-on, watching the
lazy flutter of his thick dark lashes as he let his eyes droop, the bulge
of shoulder muscle in his tshirt, the way the slowly stooping sunshine
played against his facial features. Henderson controlled his own tight
breaths and held fast on his feet, troubled.

`You mean that?'

`Oh yeah. My Mackem king, haha, my Liverpool commander, my... tasty
bugger.' He opened one eye and smirked a little, twisting his neck.
Jordan's hand went limp on his collar, unsure if the last silly label
meant what he thought it meant. He hovered silently over a question mark
but Adam spoke on, more quietly. `It didn't taste anything like I
expected, y'know.'

`It's me. Of course it tasted good.' Jordan hid his quivering
uncertainty behind the boast.

`I'm not sure I'd say good. Distinctive. Hah.' Adam's hand was on
his lower back now, the two of them gently connected by touch, standing
here overlooking the stadium they'd shared more times than either of
them could count. Then, so subtly he barely knew it was happening,
Adam's hand was pushing at him, guiding him back ever so slightly, a
firm touch; his back was quietly meeting the brick wall of the stairway
mouth and Adam was pulling in closer to him and his other hand, out of
nowhere, was stroking ever so gently at the firm mound in his tight grey
sweatpants. Their faces held a few inches apart and at level height,
since the shorter lad had remained on the step above. Jordan held his
breath and felt Adam's knuckles rub over the outline of his dormant but
waking cock.

`Cheeky fucker,' he breathed after a minute.

`I know, right?' Lallana sighed back.

`Don't be starting summat you can't finish, man.'

`You know I can finish it.'

`Aye, but...'

`One more time, for goodbye?'

`Adam...'

`Jordan.'

He sighed anxiously into his teammate's face and then took tentative
steps down, sinking away from the view of the stadium, the faintly
echoing voices of a warm-up beginning somewhere below. He watched Adam
follow him step for step, and then they were on the hard concrete of the
concourse, echoing and empty but still oddly public. He glanced about and
realised what he was doing, looking for the right spot. Adam simply
nodded past him for the little stick figure gender sign by the mens'
toilets, and he gulped his agreement. They crossed the suddenly enormous
and momentous space and pushed through the red door into a space that was
rarely this clean and empty.

Instantly, Jordan felt more sure of himself, in this privacy, and with
Adam's hand scooping inside both his sweatpants and his tight underwear,
finding his semi and fondling it. He grabbed the other man's package,
but Adam was wearing tight dark blue jeans, and the denim made his bulge
less precise and accessible. Still, he rubbed inexpertly at it and held
their bodies close as they staggered further into the washrooms and,
clattering at a door, edged into a cubicle together. They left the door
swinging open, knowing they had the run of the place.

To his mild alarm, Lallana was stripping, rolling his top up over his
pronounced and tattooed six-pack like something form a Diet Coke ad;
Jordan grabbed it below his armpits and held him to expose his firm body,
then grabbed at the zip of his hooded top and peeled it down, glad of
Adam's pushy hands to help him remove it and the tshirt below, the items
chucked over the cubicle divisions, dangling either side of them, and
hands finding their firm tones torsos in a strange hold. `Don't
worry,' gasped Lallana, smiling into his panic, `I'm not gonna kiss
you, Captain...!'

Henderson laughed uncontrollably at the proposition and the promise, and
pulled heavily at the belt and flies of Lallana's jeans, breaking them
open and then shoving thumbs and fingers into the slack waist of his
white boxers, pushing down until his hands brushed the exposed bulk of
his cock. Just like last time, he got things going, taking Adam in hand,
sliding up his slowly firming length -- the key difference was that this
time he was fully conscious and could SEE what he was doing. Still, there
was something comfortingly familiar in touching it again, and being able
to see what his hands were up to, stroking it into life and tickling at
his hairy balls. Lallana giggled and panted and pushed his hand back in
to get at his captain's cock in response.

Quickly, the 32-year-old attacking midfielder was going down, pushing
back on Jordan so he fell into sitting position on the closed toilet, his
dark grey pants being dragged down his strong legs, over his bandaged
knee and hairy shins, his tight briefs coming with them, and his cock
exposed between the furry mass of his thighs. Lallana crouched there
self-consciously, rubbing his long slender prick, seeming hesitant to do
the very thing he'd got on his knees for, deprived of the intimate
disguise of a duvet and a hangover. Henderson stroked his hair and stared
affectionately down at him, whispering, `It felt so good, Ads, it really
did...' This was clearly what he needed to hear.

His best friend's lips on his cock, he leaned back, brushing against
cool porcelain and spreading his thighs more. Oh wow, how many times had
he fantasised about being sucked off somewhere here at Anfield?! He'd
never been able to convince his wife it was worth the risk, but Adam
Lallana, well, he was clearly up for anything... mmm... He'd wondered if
the hungover blowie was really so good as he mythologised in his head,
but the answer was a resounding yes. His satisfied groans echoed in the
cubicle and the empty loos, seeming to emphasise the apocalyptic world of
the empty stadium that now felt purely theirs. He ground his buttocks
against the toilet lid, shocked at the waves of electric pleasure and the
readiness with which Lallana serviced his boner.

`Oh mate... oh Ads...'

`Hendo,' gasped the man on his knees, slurping, `my Captain...'

Desperate to recreate the intimate enjoyment of their last time together,
he leaned forward, careful of his knees. Adam's head tucked neatly
between his legs, he crouched over him, holding one hand on his strong
shoulders, encouraging him to keep sucking; then he slid his other arm
down between them, down the hard rungs of that washboard stomach, finding
Lallana's thick throbbing dick and wanking it slowly, their bodies
hunched together at the toilet. He found himself trying to match the
rhythm, moving his hand at an awkward angle over the length of Adam's
excitement in the same pacey way that lips and tongue were slipping up
and down his own.

When Lallana came up for air, gulping it down and squeezing his hands on
top of Jordan's mighty thighs, he did kiss him, but only on the very top
of his forehead, something like a king's blessing. He still blushed at
his own gesture, then panicked as Lallana pulled back a little and spoke.
`Now do me,' he breathed, `I want it...'

Jordan felt oddly sickened in spite of his enjoyment, holding the man
around the shoulders and blinking back a rising headache. `Ads,' he
moaned, `I dunno...' He tried to picture himself going down like the
other bloke, taking something in his lips like that, but he couldn't. He
saw the selfish contradiction of it and wilted in shame.

`I wanna feel you in me. Properly. Go on, I bet I can take it.'

He stared at him, puzzled for seconds, then realising his mistake at what
`do me' and `wanting it' meant. Still, he felt nervous and unsure.
Adam's face was a picture of bold curiosity and loving trust, but anal
sex, with a bloke...! He gripped his biceps and stared questioningly at
him, even as his dick throbbed at the prospect. `You want me to...?'

`That would be a proper goodbye,' panted Lallana, `that would be
something to remember...!'

`Oh mate...'

Lallana was getting up, and pulling him up with his hands, then grabbing
and stroking his hard-on, teasing his own saliva over its shaft then
spitting more onto it. He was laughing, feigning a charming confidence.
Henderson stared lovingly at him, this strong true mate who'd stood by
him for so long and now wanted to... wow... where had this come from?

`I've always wondered,' his best friend hissed, reading his mind yet
again. `Haven't you? Missus has all these toys, y'know, and
sometimes... well... I think I can take it, y'know? Have you never thought
about it? Hendo, Captain, come on...' He grabbed his hand pulled it
around onto his backside. Henderson held onto its fleshy curve, not quite
squeezing it. `You'll just have to go slow,' Lallana was mumbling,
`you can't rush it, I guess, and... Come on, mate, it'll be...'

`I'm gonna fuck you,' Henderson realised aloud, tightening his hold on
one of Lallana's muscular cheeks. `Mate...'

`Come on,' Lallana urged him; he was swapping their positions,
wriggling about him, their cocks and thighs brushing, hands grabbing
loosely at hips and stomach muscles, then him turning around, lifting one
knee up onto the toilet lid and bending forward over the cistern, jeans
lumped about the other ankle. His big manly backside lifted and exposed.
`Finger it,' he grunted, `spit on your fingers and...' Before he was
even registering what his best mate was saying, the 6ft football stud was
automatically doing it, spitting into his right hand and then slipping
his fingers quite forcefully between those meaty glutes, vaguely freaked
by how hairy it was in there. But as he pushed spit-wet fingers into a
man's arse crack, he also gripped and pulled on his dick with his left
hand, uncontrollably aroused by the blowjob and by his friend's willing
offering. How much had he wanted to fuck his wife in here one day, claim
her body on his footballer's home turf? Now here was someone he loved
just as much, presenting himself and more or less begging for it... `Come
on, Captain, haha, just give it to me, try it, if it hurts too much I'll
tell you to fuck off, and... come on! Ohh...'

He let loose, wasting no more time with his fingers, inexperienced enough
to underestimate the need for preparation -- his clumsy manly fingertips
had yet to even find the hole. He was grabbing the thick strong waist of
the stocky midfielder and pushing the wet tip of his cock between those
cheeks, prodding it into the crack with jerky movements that made Adam
giggle and whisper his name, his title; Hendo had no idea what he was
doing but he felt utterly desperate to be inside him. It frustrated him,
grinding the sensitive end of his captain's hard-on into the blunt hairy
canyon of a man's arse and finding no entry, making him just push harder
and drive forward and then, oh yes, then something seemed to part and
give way, and... `JESUS,' Lallana wailed, but he couldn't stop himself,
he'd found the way inside his bestie, and he was pushing for all it was
worth, `OH FUCK HENDO, OH GOD...' and he was not going to stop until his
whole dick was in there.

He grabbed at Lallana's body in much the way that he'd held him as he
tossed him off, exhausted and contented in his guest bedroom; he wrapped
one arm about the firm muscles of his chest and curved the other down
over his six pack to find his dick, wrenching on that while he buried his
nob inside his bottom, then eventually registered the pained and
struggling sounds he made. `Is it okay?' he asked fiercely. `How does
it feel? Are you okay marra?'

Adam couldn't seem to find words, just groans. Henderson brought his
hand up off his chest and held his face, squeezing and stroking at his
strong chin and jaw, then edging his fingers to his plump lips, sliding
two tips into his mouth for him to suck on. He pressed close to his ear
to whisper to him. `I love you mate, you're the best, this feels so
good,' he drawled, unable to quite believe how tight and amazing an
arsehole felt about his dick, carried away and thrusting boldly in until
he saw Adam's face twisted in pain and realised how earnest his groans
were. `Sorry, sorry!' he muttered into his ear, stumbling to a halt,
holding the smaller muscular build against him and panting desperately,
cock still deep in his broken-in hole.

`No... it's... okay,' Lallana groaned through gritted teeth, then a
pained laugh, `just... fuck... I thought it would be... easier...' Jordan
squeezed him more carefully, embarrassed at the mad rush with which he'd
launched into something he'd never dared to think of trying. He eased
his cock back more carefully, hearing the low burst of noise from the man
in his arms, unsure whether to pull out and away or carry on, just poised
over Adam's bent form against the toilet cistern, a little spaced out.
`That's it,' Adam told him in a taut whisper, `slow, like that...
ahhh!' Oh, right... as instructed, Jordan pulled back very slow and then
pushed back forward, controlling his strong tall body. How mad, he
thought of himself angrily, to plough straight in like he was fucking his
wife of many years, used to his length and energy...!

More gently now, Henderson held onto Lallana and rolled his sturdy hips,
teasing his rod into his friend but not going quite so far, then pulling
back -- it still felt amazing for him, the squeeze of the other player's
tight arse muscles, the mad fresh novelty of it, the crass Liverpool
mural on the wall above them, the thought that not far away their
teammates were out on the field getting themselves ready to play as
League champions. This, Jordan thought, was a strangely beautiful
compensation for his own injury (his knee throbbed with perfect timing to
remind him of its inconvenience), to get such a hot quick shag with
someone so special to him. A man, a more sceptical voice pointed out,
you're fucking A MAN.

Before that seed of repressive doubt could take hold, he released his
handiwork was having its effect; unable to see what his right hand was up
to, he'd built up confidence and grip, just like wanking him under the
duvet, and even pulled on at his cock even as he hesitated over his
forceful thrusts. Now, almost whimpering with satisfaction, Adam was
spilling his cum, Jordan could feel some of its hot wetness on his
fingers and knuckles, beginning to lube his hand as he carried on pulling
at the trembling nob. Why was it so fun wanking another dick? It was like
doing something you were already really good at and being rewarded for
it. He carried on fucking the sportsman with the aching slowness that the
act demanded, but Adam was muttering something. He leaned in closer to
hear him. `I wanna taste it again,' he said, sounding ashamed. `Can I
taste it again? Jord...?'

Gripped by ego and pleasure, Hendo obliged but muttered, `Call me
Captain.'

He pulled back, tugging his cock from the tight wet hole and almost
staggering back as the pain in his knee grew stronger. He shoved out his
arms into the thin dividing wall to hold him steady and watched Adam's
rippling form spin round to face him, crouching against the toilet lid on
one buttock and pressing his head into his body just below the chest,
then grabbing and wanking his cock and angling it up... That might have
gone on for seconds or minutes or hours, for all Hendo knew, he just felt
utterly consumed by physical delight. When next he looked down, he saw
Lallana's handsome ageing face, mouth wide open, white smears on his
lips and messing up his strap of dark beard. He was panting and gasping
and rolling his tongue just a little bit out of his mouth, eyes squeezed
shut. Jordan stared at him with a mix of disgust (what the hell did it
taste like?!) and gratitude (why did HIS hand feel so magical? Was he
that good when he wanked his friend?).

`Wow,' the Liverpool skipper gasped. `Just... wow.'

Clammy with his sweat, he thrust his elbow at the wall and leaned into
the crook of his arm, pressing his sticky temples into his own hairy
limb, needing to calm himself and look away from the gooey mess he'd
created on Adam's face. Adam remained hunched on the toilet, holding him
quite gently about the waist, leaning into his tummy and making deep
ragged noises of recovering breath. Jordan opened his own eyes and stared
at his outstretched hand, a little damp and smeared around the knuckles
with what he guessed was still Adam's spunk. Wow. He said so, again:
`Wow...'

Adam laughed and made a gurgling swallow noise, finally collapsing
backwards his spine against the cistern, his strong bulging chest rising
and falling with a series of deep breaths. There were still flecks of
white in his beard! Jordan stared at him and made to gesture the age-old
man-to-man `you've got a little bit of shaving foam there' pantomime,
then stopped and they both burst into low, throaty laughter. `Don't say
wow again,' Lallana warned lightly, `and seriously, help me up, my arse
feels like a steamroller drove over it...'

Henderson muttered friendly apologies, getting over his revulsion at the
spunk stains and dragging the shorter guy onto his feet and then out of
the cubicle. At the sinks, both men washed their hands and faces and
smirked awkwardly at each other in the mirrors. Jordan found himself
staring at the pink hand-prints on Adam's still bare buttocks, seeing
the awkward limp of his body, the flinches of pain. He wanted to
apologise for his over-enthusiasm but already the act felt dirty and
distant and even an apology would seem to make it too real. `You're
okay?' he settled for, asking it a second and third time when Lallana
just chuckled dismissively.

`I am,' he finally confirmed, when his pants were dragged up and he was
leaning, still shirtless, on the wall, his breathing heavy, `but I think
it's for the best I'm going, y'know, if that's what you can do to
me...'

Henderson felt gripped by guilt and embarrassment. `You asked me to,'
he reminded him a little tartly, finding his tshirt and hoody where
they'd flopped over another cubicle door, dragging them down and
stretching them over his upper body. Adam was beside him suddenly,
patting his back and laughing softly.

`I know I did. I literally asked for it. Just... well, didn't think
you'd...' He shook himself. `Well, there's something ticked off my
bucket list, I guess...'

`Haha, yeah, erm, I guess...!' Hendo felt immediately too hot, his dark
grey tracksuit covering his firm 6ft body again, heat exuding through
every item. He washed his face with cold water again and wondered if he
would be conspicuously red or sweaty when he made his way downstairs to
watch the game and take part in the trophy ceremony and all. Another
twinge in his knee, owch. `That was really fun,' he told Adam gruffly,
too scared to emphasise that truth any more, but too fond and proud to
say nothing.

`It was,' Lallana agreed, `and that's that. A proper goodbye, huh.'
His expression was oddly serious as he pulled up some paper towels to dab
at his damp face and beard with, the cum finally gone. `I mean, we're
both married, fella.'

Jordan nodded at this, a bit confused by the hint of warning in his tone.
`Sure,' he agreed, `it was just a one-off thing, man, we both know
that. Just a bit of... Well, like before, at my house, we were just...'

`I was just checking you felt the same!' Lallana cut in cheerily,
slapping his back and joining him by the sink. `Sorry, didn't mean to
be weird. It was fucking fun, pal, but it was... you know. Just an
experiment! A send-off, so to speak, hah...' Another flinch of pain on
his face, an awkwardness in his walk. Jordan smiled back at him but was
now doubly worried: would Adam be too conspicuous in his sore-arsed limp
when they went down to the rest of the Liverpool team and management...?!

The pair of them were just emerging from the Mens when footsteps echoed
towards them through the spacious concrete avenue surrounding the stands;
Jordan immediately stiffened up, smoothing down the front of his grey
hoody, fidgeting with its zip and shoving a little at the front of his
bottoms, conscious that his slightly sore and aching cock (stinging from
the force of his entry into his bestie's bum) might still be visible
down there. Behind him, Adam was more casually pulling at his tshirt and
his collar and making breathy knowing chuckles, almost waddling from the
doorway with the signs of pain and discomfort that Henderson had noted.

`Hey,' panted the footballer messenger, slowing down in front of them.
It was the subject of their earlier chat himself, Henderson's quiet
lodger. Neco Williams was not selected for today's big game, dressed
fairly smartly in a crisp white shirt beneath his clashing red tracksuit
top, the jarring outfit making him look even younger and more awkward. He
looked between them with a weary smile. `Fuck's sake, been looking for
you for ages,' he coughed at them. Jordan gave him a strained smile
whilst his friend and bottom patted his back gently and advanced on their
messenger with an easy grin.

`Just saying goodbye to every nook and cranny, you know?' Lallana was
telling the 19-year-old, his almost breathless sigh seeming to Henderson
a hideously obvious tell-tale of what they'd just been doing. He stared
painfully at Adam's clothes and face for the slightest hint of his
antics. To the skipper, his flushed cheeks and disturbed beard hair, the
crease in the arm of his white polo shirt, it all screamed out guilt and
sin; to smiling, innocent-eyed Williams, it probably meant fuck all.

`Boss sent me,' the Welsh kid told them rapidly. `Last-min change to
the teamsheet, y'see -- Ads, mate, you're on the bench, think he wants
to bring you on one last time...!'

Lallana grinned warmly at the news. `Soft old bugger. Great.' He looked
meaningfully across at Jordan, stretching his chest and arms and crossing
past Neco to begin their walk to the stairs, flashing a brief wink as
soon as Williams had turned away. `Just hope I'm not in too much pain
to play...' Jordan failed to return his smirk, hating his risk-taking,
but forcing out a hollow laugh and following the other two men through
the big doorway and onto the downward stairs, ready to go and show his
face as a leader and hero, not whatever he'd let himself be in the
toilets just now.



Even when his face was bursting with delight, lifting the trophy with his
manager and closest teammates, Henderson was thinking about it: stealing
glances over at Lallana, unplayed in the end after complaining of some
mild leg twinges to the gaffer (what a euphemism!!!) and now clutching a
medal to the chest of his Liverpool shirt and grinning at the cameras
trained on their makeshift stage. Watching his close mate pump his fist
to the absent crowds and crack with as much of a smile as anyone else on
their shared podium, his anxieties about what he'd done with him seemed
to subside and were replaced instead with surges of pride and affection.
He was really fucking chuffed with the boss's decision to name him in
the squad and have him up here in full kit at this crucial last moment,
under the lights and fireworks.

Jordan did his best to put these thoughts -- both worried and loving --
out of his mind to just be present in the moments, enjoying the words of
congratulations and thanks from all involved, enjoying the surreal
crowd-less spectacle of the event, enjoy the gushing affection of all his
teammates. Still, even as hugs and handshakes were exchanged and tears
sparkled in more than a few eyes, Hendo's mind wandered now and then
from the sporting achievement that had them up here tonight, 5-3
victorious over Chelsea; after all, seeing grinning young Neco Williams
with the other up-and-coming youngsters, he couldn't help but question
what his young lodger would think of the madness he'd been up to barely
2 hours ago. He thought about how he'd reacted when Williams touched his
leg and broached the rumours he'd heard, which seemed a bit awkward and
guilty to him in retrospect, having experimented so freely since. And
then among those who had actually played in tonight's ecstatic win over
the London team, looking exhausted beneath their glowing joy, he
couldn't help but eye a few of them up in slightly new light -- late
goal-scoring Oxlade-Chamberlain draped from the shoulders of two
teammates, his face split by an enormous beaming smile, could what Neco
had heard about him REALLY be true? Jordan watched him dangle from Trent
and Robbo, hugging both men to him and hooting with happy laughter,
medals swinging from all three men's necks, so rugged and manly in
sporting victory. And Salah, bouncing up and down on his feet, and
Gomez... Well, Jordan supposed privately, who knew what anyone got up to,
really?

It hardly mattered, did it? After all, what had happened between him and
Lallana, it was just... well, their friendship was a bit different,
wasn't it? A proper `bromance' as everyone called it, a friendship
closer than most in the sport, a real connection of lifelong pals! So
what if they'd slipped over a supposed line once or twice, it would
never happen again, and it would be their little secret, nobody else's
business. He stole his eyes away from the throng of his teammates, fixing
his smile and turning to pass the trophy to others to hold and shake and
hug, just wanting to share the joy.

No, he thought, stop worrying about the nonsense gossip Neco had to
share, what did it matter? It didn't matter what others got up to, what
he and Adam had shared was theirs, and it didn't matter a fuck to anyone
else, not really. He put it aside, got a blast of fizzy champagne in the
face from Firmino, and threw himself back into the hugs and pats and
frenzy of the lads in red.



The late party in the hospitality lounges of Anfield was high-spirited
and glowing, but it was calm and sophisticated in comparison to the
squads' own party on the night of confirmation, the boozy knees-up at
the golf club that had been wild even before it had `ended' with a
hungover fumble in the Hendersons' guest bedroom. Tonight, the players
were on their best behaviour, smiling men in suits, proud and
respectable; this was really the party of the management, the executive,
the supportive layers of staff.

Henderson stood by and smiled, proud of the medal-wearing players he'd
captained so successfully these past few years, proud even more-so of the
journey he'd been on in his near-decade at the club. Just a weed of a
lad from Wearside, back then, no huge predictions on his future. He
stopped himself from becoming too sentimental and emotional, putting down
the fizzy water he was drinking (others were tentatively on the booze,
but controlling themselves for the conservative older bosses who they
were trying to impress even now) and breaking away from the vague crowd.
He needed a moment of fresh air, the busy bar area full of mingling and
toasting was hot and encroaching.

An open security door led him out onto a thin outdoor terrace, currently
empty. Its view of the empty stadium where Liverpool had played and (???)
tonight against Chelsea was unrivalled. Oh fuck, Henderson laughed
inwardly, let's get even more nostalgic and emotional, then! He made his
way along the high railing, enjoying the beautiful cathedral of a ground,
glad of the cooler night air on his neck and wrists and shivering through
his dark expensive suit.

`You're not avoiding me, are you?' He looked sharply to his left,
surprised to find Adam Lallana emerging through the same half-open door
as him, pottering out onto this thin strip of a balcony, cradling a soft
drink or vodka-mixer in his hands, a coy smile on his face. Jordan
laughed gruffly at the hopefully jokey question. It was true, they'd not
spoken or mingled much in the event, but they'd all been primed by Klopp
on how to be charming and welcoming to all the other staff and financial
bigwigs, sponsorship representatives and so on. This was not a party for
the players.

`Yeah,' he joked back, `so fuck off indoors and leave me to mope about
your transfer, Noshy.'

Lallana smirked at the private joke and joined him close by on the
balcony. `I'm sorry if I was weird earlier,' he said gently, `after
we... after what happened.'

`You're almost walking normally.'

`Turns out I'm kinda resilient, mate.'

`Heh.' Both men grinned at each other, full of shy and tender enjoyment
of their secret. `But never again?' Henderson added in a final and
sympathetic kinda way. `Bucket list, and all that. It was mad, but
there's no one I'd try anything so mad with, but you.'

Adam stood by him, elbows on the railing. He seemed to look over his
shoulder and check the windows back into the bar; they were between them,
in a `blind' spot of sorts. Jordan followed his eyes, a little glad
that their private conversation wasn't immediately visible to anyone,
but not 100% sure why. Adam's hand was on his elbow suddenly, and when
he looked back into his eyes, their faces felt even closer. `One last
thing,' Lallana muttered. `One last mad goodbye, okay?'

Jordan frowned gently. `Uh... what?'

And then Adam's mouth was on his, lips to lips, beard tickling his
stubbled chin, hand tightening about his elbow; then tongue to tongue,
invasive and surprising but... soft and sensitive and pleasuring. It was a
brief kiss, neither of them were mad. A few wet hot seconds and then
faces pulling away, bodies still close, both glancing sharply back at the
windows and the half-open door. Jordan's sigh of recovery was shivering
and vulnerable. They were staring at each other for several long moments,
the noises of the civilised celebration spilling past them and echoing
out over the Liverpool terraces.

`Just had to try that,' Lallana said. He laughed. `Call me mad. Just
need to see how it felt.'

Jordan nodded very slowly. `How did it feel?' He was asking Adam but he
was also asking himself.

Lallana shrugged, evasive or detached. `A bit daft,' he evaluated. `I
was worried it might feel good, hah. After... Well, everything. But yeah,
turns out you are just my best mate after all, hehe -- my wife is safe,
who knew...' Playful sheepish grin, pat on the arm, then, `Why, mate,
how did it feel for you...?'

Jordan chuckled at him and pushed his hand away from his arm. `Same,
lad, same. Aye. Fuck's sake, you're a shit kisser. Your poor lass.' He
jerked his head at the door. `Get back in there and go schmooze, make it
your goodbye gift to the board.'

But Adam didn't move, staying with him at the edge of the balcony, that
dizzy smile on his bearded lips, a twinkle in his dark eyes. Jordan
looked again behind them, sensing the vulnerability of their position but
the odd quiet privacy of this spot away from the windows and doors, away
from anyone looking. Before he knew what he was doing, he was grabbing
Adam back to him by the lapels of his blazer and forcing his lips on his,
stealing back the unfinished business of the kiss. Tongue in, teeth
clicking awkwardly in clumsy haste. The soft tickle of a man's beard on
his face again. He ended the kiss with a ragged sigh, still holding his
mate's jacket and eyeing the door back into the bar anxiously, knowing
the idiocy of the risk.

`So,' the almost ex-teammate murmured at him, stood close by in their
overheated club suits, the noise of the Liverpool party feeling louder
and closer suddenly, dangerously so. `Felt daft and crap to you too,
then?' As the sarcastic question was asked, Adam's hand was scooping
inside his jacket a little to hold his muscular side through the starched
white shirt, lingering intimately there for a moment, as close as their
bodies could get here and now. `Like I said,' sighed the outgoing
Liverpool star, `probably for the best I'm going...'

`With our wives and all,' Jordan gulped sheepishly at him, enjoying the
light touch hidden beneath his jacket, loosening his fingers about those
lapels. `Aye.' He pursed and opened his lips a couple of times,
considering round three, knowing it would be insane. `Just best mates,'
he said softly.

`Less of that just,' Adam scolded him quietly, releasing his hand from
his side and taking one step back. `Best mates is a lot. Come on. Get in
there with me, Cap'n. This is our last big night. I want to show off our
medals and be smug bastards for one more hour before the dream has to
end.' A long pause in which the two grown men stared fondly at each
other under the glow of the distant floodlights. `I know we've kissed
goodbye, but I'm not ready to let go of ya just yet, Hendo.'

Jordan nodded, felt the twinge of tears at the corner of his eyes, and
adjusted his tie before stepping after his man, back towards the
publicity and schmoozing of the event, champion medals sitting over their
suits, Premier League winners and so much more.



**A VERY NECESSARY TRIBUTE TO LIVERPOOL FOR THEIR HISTORIC WIN, JUST IN
CASE THE LAST DOUBLE BILL OF ANFIELD MISCHEIF WASN'T ENOUGH! AND ALSO, A
BIT OF A TRIBUTE TO MATT, A MOST LOYAL AND ENCOURAGING READER - THANKS!**