Date: Sat, 25 Jul 2020 07:52:17 +0000
From: writer guy <premiershiplads@outlook.com>
Subject: Premiership Lads part 153: Discovery

Part 153: Discovery


It was interesting to watch the way they were with each on the training
ground, knowing what he knew: the easy to-and-fro of the pair's banter
and teasing, the light delicate touches to an elbow or hip or hair, in
quiet moments between drills and exercises and play. The taller of the
two footballers was coy and awkward at times when they spoke or
interacted, something guilty and hidden all over his long handsome
features beneath that bouncing overgrown mop, yet to be trimmed down
after the lockdown months; his older companion, the shorter of the two
defenders, was almost excessively casual in his manner, acting in much
the same way with everyone (their observer included) but becoming even
more noisy and bullish when it came to this one teammate in particular.
Officially, the training session was over anyway, the July afternoon
cooling into hushed grey and half the men already moved indoors -- but
still, those two joked and kicked on in their way, as they had done for
as long as De Bruyne had been at City with them.

Perhaps it had been going on for years, he supposed. He knew they had
history, had played together on the England national side or even at
another club too, he became hazy on the details of British careers.
Looking at them as he left the pitch, the 29-year-old Belgian almost felt
silly that nothing had ever occurred to him before. Even knowing their
tangled affairs with various women and joining in the gentle locker-room
teasing, how had he not noticed the way they were with each other, even
in front of everybody else...?

The weight of the secret knowledge at bothered Kevin, combined with his
existing frustrations and then the borderline humiliation of losing out
on the FA Cup Final to Arsenal -- but he had to remind himself it wasn't
a particularly moral or prejudiced reaction. Now that the secret had had
a bit of time to settle in his placid thoughts, Kevin De Bruyne found
himself watching the two men with some renewed fondness. It was not
remotely in his nature to let what he'd seen fester into scandal, to
threaten or endanger the two in any way -- it hadn't once occurred to
him to mention it to another bloke at Man City or to his other
footballing friends or to his cool, distant and sexless spouse. He had
simply decided that the best way to preserve his fairly strong
friendships with both Stones and Walker was to more or less delete the
gym cupboard image from his brain... something that would be easier if the
two loping defenders weren't, well, frolicking and giggling like
schoolgirls amongst the props and kit of the training session that they
were meant to be tidying up and sanitising.

De Bruyne moved slowly indoors, blinking away his thoughtful
observations, reminding himself of his clear intentions to forget it and
move on. It wasn't his business, was it? Sure, perhaps SOMEONE ought to
speak to the two horny buggers about risk and discretion, going at it
like that in these very grounds... I mean, who the fuck took risks like
that in the storeroom of the team fitness suite, for god's sake? But no,
other than that, it was THEIR business, and that's why he mostly felt a
sort of bemused fondness -- they were two guys he had a lot of respect
and time for and if they wanted to carry on like that away from the
world, fair play to them! He wasn't gonna be the big-mouthed dope who
ruined whatever they had, and he felt like even showing Kyle or John that
he knew would somehow dent it or complicate their light, jovial sporting
relationships. Silence was golden.

Inside, he kicked off his boots and peeled away the long-sleeved new
training top over his vest, dumping these dirties in the assigned shelves
before moving into the training ground changing rooms, warm and sweaty
from the day's work and quite glad at how quiet and private the rooms
felt for him now. All he wanted was a cool shower, maybe a massage if he
could find one of the physios free, and then to drive home for a relaxing
evening with his family; relaxing, that is, except for the sexual
frustration that he knew would simmer under his contentment while they
ate and drank and binge-watched box sets, then lay quietly side by side
without touching.

De Bruyne stomped his sweaty socked feet over the changing room flooring
and went to his locker to find his shower things, whistling a tune he
couldn't name and thinking about the articles he'd been reading in some
online men's magazines from Europe; `ten top tips to get your lady
interested again' and other such noxious headlines. A lot of the reads
had been depressing, since they were ideas he'd already tried (like
buying her sexy underwear, and arranging more specific couple time) or
couldn't imagine himself attempting (like buying himself sexy underwear,
and entering into roleplay scenarios). No, the steady Belgian football
star was coming to a slow decision that the sexless status quo was
probably just something he needed to accept, and maybe when the kids were
older, things would be different between them again.

Moving away from his locker, he caught sight of himself for a moment: his
exercise-red cheeks and the tufty dry tangle of his ginger hair, the
bulge of shoulder muscles exposed at the sides of his dark blue vest,
hugging his thick torso... for a second, it was like he was kinda seeing
double, two pale-complexioned gingery faces staring back at him from the
wall mirror. But if it was a sudden and bizarre doubling, it was a much
younger version of himself. Aha, no... He turned round and faced his young
teammate, not realising Tommy Doyle was in here too, padding down the
centre of the room to meet him. He grinned awkwardly at the 18-year-old,
vaguely aware he might have looked kinda vain or self-absorbed, caught in
the act of that reflection.

`Hey,' breathed the young City player, a graduate of their youth
academy like Foden.

De Bruyne gave him a bland smile, a little disturbed by the approach
given his private wonderings about his sex life, but always pleased to
speak to and encourage the team's younger fringe members, none more than
this cheery local lad who had put in a couple of good shifts over the
rapidly ending season. But when neither of them actually said anything,
the moment of shared smile felt quickly awkward -- there was something
expectant and braced about Doyle's manner, standing two metres from him
and clasping his freckled hands together in front of him.

`How was training?' De Bruyne asked him, hearing the strained interest
in his own question. He wished he was a little easier in speech and
banter with guys here, but it was hard. His English was as excellent as
anyone else in his home country, so he wasn't sure he could blame
language barriers, he was simply not a talkative or expressive guy, and
laughing along was usually the best he could offer. He tried to smile
more fully and look welcoming to the young lad, who was rubbing palms
against the thighs of his City tracksuit bottoms and making an oddly
fawning grin.

`Can we talk?' Tommy asked in a quick burst of interest.

Kevin lifted his reddish-brown brows at this. `Are we not?'

`Heh. Er, yeah, guess so.'

`Everything okay, Doyle...?'

`Grand, grand.'

`You look nervous...?'

`I am! Heh... I mean, I just wanted to...'

City's 29-year-old midfield star smiled patiently at the youth, moving
away from the mirror and rubbing idly at his thick pale arms, clueless as
to what had brought his teammate to him and why the lean, bearded kid of
a player was shuffling form sock to sock and fiddling with the
drawstrings of his kit. He kept his eyes on him, waiting there, and saw
Doyle shoot a nervous look about them, checking that this dressing room
was actually empty but for them, before suddenly bursting forward and
grabbing at one of Kevin's hands with his. His touch was clammy and
warm, fitting his nervous facial expression and shaky young voice, thick
with local accent. `I wanted to say I'm the same,' young Tommy burst
at him, biting his lip as soon as he said it, `I'm like you, mate, and
I...'

Kevin held his smile, bewildered and affectionate. `Like me how,
Thomas...? We both play midfield, yes...'

`No,' Tommy grunted, becoming frustrated, `I ain't talkin' bout
footy, mate, I mean...'

`Tommy...?'

`I'm gay too,' Doyle exclaimed at him in a hot whisper of terrified
excitement, squeezing his bigger hand and leaning in closer at this quiet
end by the mirrors and lockers, eyes widening in the thin freckled gasp
of his face. Kevin stared at him and blinked, blindsided by the
confession, vaguely outraged by the accusation, and slowly dawning with
understanding...



On the Watford away trip, Doyle hadn't even made the bench in the end,
he was really just there as a bit of a spare part -- but he wasn't
ungrateful for that, he liked that Guardiola and his team were so
invested in youth talent, and he liked the communal culture that treated
him like a regular senior player even though he'd only recently made his
Premiership debut. He could learn so much on away trips like this, and he
had no complaints.

Besides, it had turned out to be quite a trip of discovery for the rather
shy 18-year-old, whose excited career beginnings at City had long been
plagued by the bubbling undertone of his own secret lusts. He'd
suspected he might have such inclinations in his mid-teens but had spent
about three years burying them deep beneath homophobic humour and a
series of attractive young girlfriends, all social media `influencers'
he picked up via Instagram messages. But his shy and awkward nature had
meant the relationships only lasted as long as the first selfie with him
boosted their local following, and his disinterest in losing his
virginity to them had been a killjoy he knew.

In about the last year, he'd begun to accept the truth. He'd read
various online articles always speculating about the inevitable and
hidden `gay footballers of the Premier League', who logic and
statistics dictated must certainly exist. Despite the absence of a
current reference point, these hastily read articles (safely found on
sports sites rather than typing anything dodgy into his google) always
pointed to one optimistic conclusion: things were changing and younger
generations held bold new attitudes. In that optimism, Tommy had found
the confidence to accept a couple of things about himself, if not the
confidence to tell a single soul, or seek formative experience!

On the trip to Watford, this had been far from his mind. The Tuesday
night visit to the Hertfordshire town (clinched in a 4-0 victory that
warm evening) had been a trip that occupied him with totally professional
thoughts, roomed with his near contemporary Foden and observing all of
the players in their matchday rituals. The game had been fantastic and
the win a real tonic to the squad's dipping mood after Arsenal; Doyle
had gone to the sleep in the Watford hotel that night grinning to
himself, albeit a bit confused since his organised roomie had vanished
after some minor health issue to see a team medic and, apparently, been
assigned a room on his own after all. The same thing had happened twice
before, and it made Doyle wonder if the 20-year-old bloke was a bit of a
weird hypochondriac or summat. But each to their own, he loved Phil as
much as everyone else in the team -- he was exactly what Tommy hoped to
make of himself in two years, perhaps minus fathering a child already...

It was the following morning when the, erm, discovery had taken place --
after breakfast, to be specific. He'd ended up sat on a table with a lot
of the major players, still something of a thrill for the youth graduate,
listening in to their mixed discussion of the 4-0 thrashing and their
plans with their families once they got home to Manchester that day.
He'd been sat next to quiet, serious-faced KDB, his most highly rated
teammate and something of a hero for him, of course. He'd noticed De
Bruyne failing to take much part in the conversation, but then he was
quiet and withdrawn himself, grinning along with the older guys' talk
and pretending to always know what they meant -- and the Belgian was
pretty reserved all the time.

At some point, they had become the only two left at the table, Kevin
toying with his mobile phone in both hands, staring oddly at it. Then Pep
Guardiola, seeming energetic even though he looked a little bit like
he'd suffered a sleepless night (Tommy had struggled to guess what might
have kept the Spaniard awake all night since the win had been so fucking
comprehensive and their season was all but wrapped up!) and enquiring
after Kevin's wellbeing. The two men had sloped off to speak and left
Tommy out of the discussion, which seemed fair enough; it took him a few
moments of biting into his apple and sipping his sweet tea to recognise
that his teammate had left his phone on the table by him, dropping from
his fidgeting thumbs as soon as Guardiola arrived.

Doyle had been a bit pleased at this -- he was no creepy sycophant, but
he did crave stronger links with the first-team blokes, a bit more common
ground and that, so the idea of finding and rescuing De Bruyne's
property to him seemed like a tiny but pleasing opportunity, an excuse to
speak to him on the coach soon and build more of a connection there. He
grabbed it off the tablecloth and was just about to stuff it in the front
of his Man City hoody when his thumb must have brushed over the right bit
of screen and flashed up its lock message and a note about `facial
recognition' -- and before he knew what he was doing, his clumsy thumb
and gawping young face had done the trick. How shit was Samsung facial
recognition software if a similar hair colour and earnest expression was
all it took to unlock in the morning?!

But then Tommy wasn't questioning the crappy tech in his hand, he was
staring at the web browser revealed on the large bright rectangle, paused
on incognito mode with a square of footage frozen in his hand. The
triangular `play' button hung tantalisingly over the alarming sight:
two naked men hunched over a bed, both orange-tanned and bleached-blond,
stilled in the act. Tommy gawped at this and then weblink in the top,
Pornhub or something, and then instantly smacked his finger at the lock
button. When, after a moment's recovery, he pressed that button again
and stared cautiously at the device, the facial unlock failed -- or more
accurately, succeeded. Whatever trick of the light or passing expression
had made him Kevin-ish enough to unlock it the first time was gone, and
the weighty Samsung phone sat heavily in his palm, loaded with secrecy
and revelation. Tommy, bright pink and dazed, gripped it to his chest and
panted out his private awe.

When he gave it back to Kevin in the coach queue, he couldn't muster the
boldness or wit to broach what he'd seen, even in some kinda secret
code. He just smiled awkwardly into the older bloke's heavy gratitude
and the jokey jibes of the men around him, asking if he'd managed to
sneak any nudes of Mrs De B off the camera roll before handing it over.
Kevin had laughed heartily at this and pushed the phone in his joggers
pocket, grinning appreciatively at his young teammate and then leading
the way onto the vehicle that was taking them north and home.



Kevin stared at him, blinking his blond lashes slowly, watching the
strained excitement and youthful hope around the eyes of his young
contemporary. Oh, fuck.

`No,' he said in a low voice, bringing his other hand down on the thin
forearm that held his, patting and squeezing at it then prising Tommy's
hand off his, but holding onto him with a nervous tension. How the fuck
to explain this? How could he tell this youth about the confused
uncertainty that had led him to that Google search and brief, almost
upsetting glimpse of what he had tried to see?

Tommy stared at him, his expression wilting immediately. The tense
excitement in his mouth loosened into a miserable upside down smile and
his eyes seemed to bulge. He yanked back from Kevin's big hands, lean
and wiry and suddenly poised as if to run. `No?' he questioned
hesitantly.

`On my phone?' De Bruyne prompted carefully. Through the quick outrage
of his own confusion, he was seeing this confrontation from two
perspectives: his own bewildered shock at what Doyle had just thrown at
him, and then the tender fear with which the 18-year-old must surely have
approached it. He could see a quivering terror in the player's
expression and body language, and he thought about it: in all likelihood,
here was a panicked young guy sharing something personal and difficult
for the first time and expecting his audience to understand. Sensing
Doyle about to burst away, his cheeks going bright red, he grabbed his
arms and held him there, leaning in. `You've misunderstood,' he told
him simply, `I am not... but... do not worry, Tom, it is okay...'

`Fuck fuck fuck,' Doyle hissed, dragging back; Kevin held him by the
wrists and refused to let go.

`Let us talk about this?' he pushed, thinking both of his own need to
explain and the obvious distress of the teenager. He lifted his hands and
grabbed his broad but lean shoulders instead, holding the marginally
shorter fellow midfielder close and looming at him. `Please, let me
explain, let us talk. Thank you for telling me this, Thomas, I know it
cannot be easy, so...'

`Fuck, just let me go,' Tommy hissed, his bright blue eyes a bit shiny
with misery. `Was just messin', pal, erm, no need to...'

`Hey,' Kevin grunted, silencing him and using his greater strength to
drag him close and hold him still. `Let's talk. Are you okay? Not here,
Tommy. Not here.' He looked about, the room still empty but voices
echoing in from the showers and the corridors to the other side, any
number of their fellow City players milling about nearby. `Upstairs,'
he said, forcefully, `in the gym. Please.'



Tommy sat against the weights bench, his hands gripping it at his sides,
avoiding any eye contact with the earnest older man as he listened. He
lifted one hand and rubbed it irritably against his dry lips and the
short ginger fuzz of his teenage beard, hoping his cheeks were less
scarlet than they felt, and that the fitness suite was as entirely empty
as it seemed. Eventually, he looked up at the other footballer,
struggling to keep the annoyance out of his voice. `So you were just
checking what men do,' he echoed in a tone that was inevitably sarcastic
and accusing. He scowled at the man he had confided in, resenting him for
the pain of his own secrets, and folded his arms across his lap.

De Bruyne was stood over him, an open hoody pulled over his tight-fitting
City vest and loose blue-and-grey shorts, still rolled up a little on
this thick white thighs as he loomed there, 5ft11 of solid continental
muscle. Doyle was entirely used to being around men in and out of kit,
but given the intimacy of what he had hissed at him, the man's bare
white legs and flash of sturdy chest seemed ostentatious and provoking.

`Yes,' Kevin told him again. `I know it sounds mad to you. I am
worried for two friends of mine, that is all. I wish I could explain more
but it is their secret, not mine. I did not... I am not... I was looking it
up for... yes, research, as I said, and I did not WATCH the thing you saw
on my...'

`The thing,' Tommy echoed miserably, sensing the hints of judgment or
repulsion in the first person he had ever whispered his truth to. He
groaned and lifted his hands to his face, struggling to hold onto his
resentment or scepticism towards the big married midfielder when the
stress of his own revelation was so much more pressing. He hadn't been
ready to share this, not yet, not really; now a stupid misunderstanding
had forced him into exposure, and how much did he really know or trust
KDB, for all his footballing brilliance...?

`The... sex,' Kevin corrected in a faintly prudish manner, but then
suddenly he was folding down and joining him on the bench, grabbing at
his shoulder and leaning over him again in that earnest and almost
protective fashion. `Please, do not be angry with me, I am not going to
tell a soul, Thomas,' he said in his fragmented and formal manner, but
his every assurance just made Doyle wilt more at the risks he'd thrown
himself open to here. He tried to pull away, uncomfortable with any
further discussion, but he felt the big hand squeeze at his shoulder and
he turned his head reluctantly to meet the older man's wide concerned
eyes and encouraging half-smile. `There is nothing wrong with you,' De
Bruyne said with all the sensitivity and personality of a textbook,
making Tommy raise his own twisted smile and spit out a bitter but
welcome laugh; where had big Kev and his bland approval been when he was
REALLY struggling with self-acceptance? He didn't need to be told now
that there was `nothing wrong', he just needed to be told that the big
Belgian bastard would keep his mouth shut!

`I just assumed, when I saw that,' Tommy told him glumly. `And I never
went snoopin', if you're thinkin' that, pal, it just unlocked and I
saw it, like, right there on the screen an' that, gave me quite the
shock, ya know...'

A little huff of friendly laughter from Kevin too. `Tell me about it.
Imagine how I felt. I am so stupid, sorry Tom, I don't mean to... I was
just... It is a long story. You know I have a wife, children. I am not... I
am not like you, I am sorry...' Tommy felt his clumsy, hopeful stroke at
his shoulder and back, almost paternal in its attempted comfort. And it
was, in its way, comforting, but also mortifying. He twisted where he sat
and stared at Kevin's open, trusting face. `You do not need to worry,
please,' Kevin assured him. `I am good at secrets, I am. You have told
the right person. Please, trust me.'

`I do,' Tommy admitted, knowing it only as he said it. In fact, there
were few lads at City he trusted more, when he thought about it. Even the
ones he knew better like his old academy classmate Phil Foden, well, who
knew how that Stockport scally would react to something like this?! He
saw the faint smile of gladness and friendship on De Bruyne's face at
his admission of trust, and he returned it hesitantly. `I'm just not
ready,' he told him quietly. `Not really, mate. I got confused and
excited when I thought you might be... for fuck's sake...' He felt a
deeper fresh blush returning to his cheeks, thinking about the implied
confession that went with that: I was as excited as fuck at the prospect
you might be open to a shag, he may as well have said. He couldn't tell
if the 29-year-old had picked up on that, smiling calmly over at him and
patting at his warm shoulder.

`It is okay, it is okay. Do not panic. Just a misunderstanding, man.'

Tommy wiped at the vague moistness of his eyes, determined not to cry
over this daft mess. `You're being very kind,' he said distantly, the
compliment quickly brushed off with a mutter by the other man. `God,
I've been so freaked out. I mean, I've never even looked at stupid gay
porn myself, y'know...! Too scared, on like my family wifi and at the
club here, and...' He felt pathetic as he explained it, felt like there
was a gulf of knowledge and experience between them even without the
thing that perhaps made him so different as a man. `You can see why I...
y'know, jumped to conclusions, mate, and... ugh.'

Kevin stroked his shoulder a bit more firmly, something final and
encouraging in the gesture, as if psyching him up for a game. `Yes, I
understand, and I am so so sorry for even confusing you or adding to your
stress...' He looked at him again, genuinely marvelling at the slow
patience and unflappable openness of the European. He imagined having
this same conversation with an English teammate: he imagined the cruel
jokes that would follow him all year if he was in this muddle with
someone like Kyle Walker, a fella who he couldn't imagine accepting him
like this, no matter how many Stonewall rainbow laces he knotted in his
boots, surely.

`Nah, don't be sorry,' Doyle grumbled at him, rubbing at his knees
through his blue tracksuit bottoms and looking distractedly about the
gym, the silent mass of its machines and kit, all reflected in a mirrored
wall. `You're being... real sweet, mate. Thank you. I feel such a
dick.' He groaned to himself, as embarrassed for his near-tears and
bursts of anger as by the heavy secret that he'd shared. Now that it had
occurred to him that he could maybe trust De Bruyne, he found he had no
doubts of it. It was impossible to imagine this kind, thoughtful fella
betraying his trust and ratting him out as queer to the other guys, not
with him sat here like this, stroking his shoulder and giving him a look
of brotherly protectiveness. He returned his smile a bit more
convincingly. `I've just had a bit of a shock, that's all. I'll be
fine. Fuck.'

`Huh, yes,' Kevin agreed quietly, `seeing THAT for the first time...! I
can understand.' It was clear from his expression that his emphasis came
from disbelief or some kinda vague physical empathy, not the prudish
moral outrage Tommy had guessed. `I mean, how men do that, I do not
know...' He gave him a puzzled frown and then apologised again, `Sorry,
I do not mean to be negative, just-`

`No, no, it's okay. I mean, it's just, I would hardly know, I've
never even...' Doyle laughed at himself, not able to be any more graphic,
just shrugging his shoulders into De Bruyne's comforting touch and then
hugging his arms about his front again. `I'm as clueless as anyone
is!' he complained ironically. `So don't expect me to help you with
your research, haha, I'm not the guy to ask...!'

Kevin seemed to flinch a little bit at the word research, as if there was
still more to his story than met the eye, but he was so honest and blunt
with it; did Tommy really suspect there was anything more suspicious or
deceptive in him having gay porn briefly loaded on his phone browser? Not
really, not now. He just gave him a sad wistful smile and turned over the
fact he was sharing: was it embarrassing, to be so unworldly at 18? It
could hardly be blamed on him -- how was he supposed to go out there and
try things, get experience, with the pressure of exposure hanging over
him like a dark cloud? He could read all the sex-positive articles about
the mythical `gay footballer' he wanted, it sometimes felt like 2020
might as well be 1978, or 1643.

`So you have never slept with a man?' the experienced Belgian
midfielder asked in a polite and still faintly prudish way, his hand
resting in the flat of Tommy's narrow back, seemingly desperate to be
the perfect older mentor here, when clearly he could detach himself from
this difficult chat and retreat into the safe ignorance of his married
life.

`God no,' Tommy muttered at him, and before he could stop himself,
`never even touched another lad's cock, for fuck's sake.' He coloured
quickly at the frankness of this and turned dismally away from his
confidante, queasy with the novelty of discussing what had only ever
existed in his head.

`Well,' the other guy chuckled quite awkwardly, `that would be a
start...!'

`Yeah, something like that,' Doyle laughed back, shaking himself and
grinning uncomfortably at the straight married athlete, something surreal
settling on the conversation now his secret was open between them and his
utter virginal inexperience was there with it. He wondered if one was
more embarrassing than the other, or one brought more curious judgment
from that big concerned smile on De Bruyne's face. He smiled vaguely at
him, waiting for the hand to retreat awkwardly from his back, the close
half-hold of his concern to disappear. It didn't.

`I was going to ask how you know, if you have never,' Kevin murmured,
`but that is probably... offensive. How does anyone know anything, yes?'
A simple, reassuring smile on his curved pink lips. A heat still rising
from his sturdy worked out body, the mixed scent of laundry and masculine
odour. Tommy corrected himself, it was their shared scent, as likely to
be from his lean young body as that of the master midfielder. He nodded
vaguely at the man's loose philosophising and just shrugged.

`When you know you know, I guess.'

`So you know you want to,' Kevin pushed gently.

`Want to... what, touch a man's cock, or... that crap in the video,
haha?' He squirmed at the openness again and broke eye contact with the
calm solid presence at his side. He laughed a bit more but Kevin didn't
seem to be; there was something thoughtful and kinda worried again in his
face. Was he rethinking his supportive tact here now Tommy was being a
bit more open and crass?

`Any of it, I guess, but the first bit,' De Bruyne elaborated slowly,
pausing to almost sigh. His hand was still up there on Tommy's back,
just below the loose collar of his training top, resting on the sensitive
vertical of his spine. The touch swayed between comforting and
discomfiting and seemed to be approaching something new now: intimate?
What he said next sounded like a false blur and Tommy had to squint at
him and replay it in the sound-system of his brain to get around it: `I
don't mind, if you want to try that, I won't freak out.'

Tommy stared dumbly at him, still unsure if he'd really registered this;
was he misunderstanding the man's crisp and careful English? Had he
misheard him a bit there? Was he just reading too much into a simple
statement of acceptance? The firmness of Kevin's hand somewhere just
below his neck said otherwise; the hand shifted up and he felt the firm
press of his thumb tip on his nape.

`I am being silly,' Kevin said, and Tommy felt his posture collapse a
little with a kind of relieved clarity, this WAS a joke, an attempt to
lighten the moment, a- `I don't suppose a young man like you would want
the first cock you touch to be old and-`

`You're not old,' Doyle mumbled at him in a quick, breathy voice, his
world spinning. He stared at the passive, contemplative look on his
senior colleague's face, felt the warmth of those fingers at the base of
his slim neck. `Hah, you're like, barely 10 years older than me,
you're just...' He felt the hot quick tumble of his words and pulled a
hand over his mouth and cheek, feeling the scarlet burn there. He waited
for a cheeky grin to crack De Bruyne's serious expression. `Are
you...?'

`I mean, if you want to touch one,' the Belgian said reasonably, `I
have one, so...? Haha...' When Tommy just stared at him in intense
silence, he leaned a little closer and added, `I have upset you today...
perhaps it is the least I can offer you...?'



Who the fuck takes risk like this in the fitness suite cupboard? The
question played repeatedly in his head as he held the door open for the
young lad, glancing anxiously behind them across the mirrored sprawl of
abandoned equipment then pulling it to behind him. He yanked twice on the
handle, remembering the way it had hung dangerously and invitingly open
for him as he slowly approached the rhythmic grunts of the two City
defenders in their private moment. He stared dimly at the handle in his
fingers, lost in that confusing and alarming memory, then looked over his
shoulder at Tommy Doyle, who was stood awkwardly beneath the single
exposed bulb that lit the well-stocked cupboard, his slim tall body
hunched uncomfortably.

`You are sure you want to do something?' De Bruyne asked in what he
hoped was a light and confident voice, trailing his fingertips from the
handle and taking one step closer to the 18-year-old Mancunian. `If it
is a daft idea, if I am being stupid, then...'

`No,' the closeted young footballer whispered quickly, quite urgently.
`No, it's... it's cool.'

De Bruyne smiled anxiously at him and nodded once, then took another step
closer.

This is about him, he told himself. This is about a frightened and
confused young man, who YOU have accidentally misled and confused even
more -- you owe this to him! Look at him. He's scared but he's excited,
this is good for him. This is about him, not you. This has nothing to do
with... your wife, or how long it's been since you were touched, or even
what you saw, what you witnessed, what you were so bewildered and angsty
that you had to fucking Google, this is about...

`I'll just touch it a bit and nothing else,' Tommy said in the same
rushed whisper, lifting one hand to his mouth and chewing a bit on his
thumbnail, all teenage awkwardness beneath the dim orange glow. `Like,
if it's weird, just tell me to fuck off, we'll leave it, it hardly
matters, y'know, like I really appreciate this mate, it's so fuckin'
sweet of you, but like...' His rambling trailed to a stop as Kevin
reached him, laying a hand gently on each of his shoulders. He chuckled,
and the nervous youth joined him, both of them breathing out their edgy
amusement at the position they were in. `Thank you,' Tommy mouthed
almost silently.

Kevin wasn't quite sure how to proceed, but indecision made him quick
and forward. He held the front of his vest and pulled it up but not off,
rolling it halfway up his torso, exposing his thick toned midriff and the
gingery trail of hair that dipped down past his naval. Then he hooked his
thumbs into the waist of his City shorts, and forced them down to just
above his knees. He felt Tommy's gaze shift to the bulging front of his
grey underpants. `Well then,' he said stiffly, formally. `You can have
a feel.'

Doyle touched him like he might explode, or bite. He seemed to shiver a
bit as he leaned in and put his hand to it, and De Bruyne had to force
himself to stay relaxed and smiling; it really had been a while since
anyone but his own clumsy resentful hand had been down there, after all.
He felt careful fingers brush the outline of his prick through the tight
package of fabric, pull away, come back, trace it gently. `That's
okay,' he said in a kindly voice, when the younger man looked
apprehensively up to his face, his hanging mouth seeming to mouth
apologies. `Go on, if you want...' Tommy did. He pulled a little on it,
and cupped the full sag of the grey bulge, shivering uncertain breaths
and a fractional step closer so that their bodies were close. His other
hand came in and stroked his knuckles against his tummy a little, sending
more jolts of stimulation through Kevin's heavy presence.

`Just tell me to stop,' Tommy whispered.

`It's okay,' Kevin answered cautiously. `Go on.'

Doyle fumbled at his package for a little longer but then seemed to
become too nervous -- one of his hands remained stroking the side of his
torso but the braver hand fell away from his bulge. De Bruyne sighed
quietly, pulled at the black waistband of the briefs, then pushed them
down until his cock and balls fell free. Big, pendulous, topped with a
neat curl of pale wiry hair. He saw Tommy's eyes bulge and his jaw drop
a little more, and the attention was gratifying to say the least. Kevin
knew he was not as well-hung as some (he'd shared too many showers with
John Stones to kid himself), but he also knew was above average, and what
was jokily termed a `shower'. He watched in a sort of private slow-mo
as Tommy's hand came back to his crotch and grabbed hold of his loose
fat penis.

`That's okay,' he encouraged. `How's it feel?'

`Weird. I mean, good weird. But. Weird. Huh.'

`Hmm, yeah. And for me. Haha.'

`Erm, good weird for you too?'

`Yes,' he answered, and the one word seemed to contain a lot of meaning
and consent. He felt the boy pull a bit more firmly on his tool, grazing
at his thick low balls with his knuckles. He brought his hand back to
Tommy's shoulder and squeezed it a little, feeling his moan rise
somewhere below his chest and slowly creep out into the gloomy space
between them, a little `oh' of unexpected pleasure as his foreskin was
gently pulled back and his heavy dick lifted up a bit more in Tommy's
hold. He forced a grin, despite the galling surprise of that pleasure,
and kept his eyes locked on the young lad's, those crystal blue irises
seeming to glow in the bulb's light.

`Should I stop?'

`Do you want to stop?'

`I don't wanna stop.'

`Then don't stop.'

Kevin's cock was growing quickly hard, too long untouched, too long
neglected. Oddly, he felt more relaxed as it did, rather than more
self-conscious or shy. He looked abstractedly down at the strong thick
length of his meat in against his young friend's fingers, and let out a
more accepting `oh' of enjoyment as the lad's fist slid up to the
base. Again Tommy seemed to pause and look to him for approval or
permission to continue, but this time he just nodded -- he didn't have
the words, in English or Flemish, for what he felt or wanted now. His
body tingled with inappropriate excitement and he tried to ignore the
dimly visible outline of the lad's own erection in his blue trackies.

`I'll go on?' Doyle asked, with no real need for an answer, as he
picked up his pace. KDB tightened his soft grip on his shoulder and
leaned gently forward until his brow met Tommy's and they were leaning
head to head. He closed his eyes now, rather than staring down at the
alarming view of his wanked cock, just relaxing into the boy's frantic
teenage touch. He locked his thick legs and sturdy back and arse muscles
to stop him swaying, just focusing on the heated pleasure in his middle.
He felt the slick wet of a dab of the lad's spit land on his meat and
then the hand movements were slicker, faster, even better. He moaned
because he couldn't not. `Oh, oh, oh...' He daren't open his eyes, but
he could picture the wild-eyed freckled excitement of the ginger teen's
face all too well.

Their sweat-sheened brows slid apart and Tommy pulled in closer to him as
he wanked. He was leaning his head into the crook of his neck and
shoulder instead, his eyes pressed into the folds of his vest, his nose
and mouth hanging against his pec; even through the vest, he could feel
the warm moist breath tingling an inch above his thick nipple. He pulled
his arm fully about the slim young lad and held him there while he was
tossed rapidly to a conclusion. He opened his eyes and stared past Tommy
Doyle at the far wall, between the rickety shelves and cabinets, and
could not stop himself picturing two kitted bodies, grinding and pounding
against it, all grunts and swearing and Yorkshire accents. Fucking hell,
those two...

`Oh,' he moaned, `oh god, ohhhh...'



The Man City teen stared down into his hand, staring at the slick white
smeared from his palm over his wrist and caught up in the reddish arm
hairs on the other side. So much of it! It smelled SO strong, too. He
blinked and gulped and stared at it, keeping his head pressed into the
warm support of the man's chest and shoulder, enjoying the security of
the arm that wrapped about him, knowing in moments it would be removed.
In his own undies beneath the tracky bottoms, his dick throbbed.

`Thank you,' he said again, feeling stupid and immature. `Thank you
for that...'

A low gruff chuckle from the 29-year-old as they parted under the bulb.
`I think it is my thank you,' De Bruyne pointed out fairly, still
huffing with orgasmic breath as he let his vest droop and stretched its
material to wipe against the red tip of his thick pale boner. Tommy
couldn't stop staring at it, even as it was awkwardly angled back into
his shorts, balls still flopping over the waist of his briefs. He sucked
in his breaths and was about to rub his bearded young face in weary awe
when he remembered his hand was slimy with spunk and stopped himself. The
smell still filled his breath.

`So thank you,' KDB added lamely. `I should go.'

`Of course,' Tommy answered quickly, almost apologetically.

`Wife. Kids.'

`Of course,' he repeated, no need for Kevin to expand on the obvious
reasons. He found he could no longer look the incredible footballer in
the eyes, though it seemed even ruder to still be staring at crotch
height. He just looked a little to the side and began wiping the cooling
cum against the side of his City shirt, knowing it would stain and be
obvious, but needing it off his tingling skin. `Yeah, if you gotta go
mate, then like, go, yeah, it's cool, erm...'

`I really should, I'm sorry.' What did he have to be sorry for? Tommy
just nodded silently and said nothing more, sure he would embarrass
himself if any of his thoughts took voice: your cock is amazing! That
felt so good! I think I want to try licking your cum! Hug me again,
please? Nope, they stayed internal, and City's prolific midfielder
backed off and left him alone, closing the door gently behind him,
heading off to his beautiful wife and children, mature and responsible
and... satisfied.

The confused gay teen turned to the side and stuck his left hand out
against a shelve of kit, then used the right one to yank his stiff cock,
short and chunky, from his pants, and wank on it, his palm still a little
sticky with the contents of KDB's ball-sack. The smell of the other
man's cum, the sight of his bared tummy and fluffy ginger pubes, even
the warmth of his breath near his face, all of those sensuous elements
combined in his moments of fantasy, and it didn't take him long to leak
streak after streak of silvery white cum over his fingers and onto the
shins of his trackies and the dark unseen floor of the closet.



**FINALLY GETTING KDB INVOLVED AFTER A FEW SLOW HINTS... LET ME KNOW WHAT
YOU THOUGHT! AND WHAT ACTION DO YOU WANT TO SEE FROM THE FINAL DAY OF THE
PREMIERSHIP?**