Date: Thu, 30 Jul 2020 10:11:38 +0000
From: writer guy <premiershiplads@outlook.com>
Subject: Premiership Lads part 157: Ciao, Florence

Part 157: Ciao, Florence


The penultimate game of the season lay ahead of them, and the Fiorentina
players bristled with a determined excitement for it, their last home
fixture in the city and last chance to claw their way up the middle of
the Serie A table. They were on site at their training ground despite the
coming game, some development of set-pieces and warm-up drills before the
afternoon off, last-ditch efforts by their management team to guarantee a
couple of closing wins this season.

Patrick Cutrone was delighted when he saw the team-sheet announced early
in the afternoon, displayed on the notice board at the head of the
training complex's lunch canteen, where the men had recharged with their
lunch of fresh pasta and vegetables. The 22-year-old Italian grinned
fixedly ahead of him at the sheet, pleased to see himself making a rare
start, a break to his recurrent pattern of a midway substitute, even if
those half-appearances had often led to a bold goal. Looking at his name
as the attacking figurehead of tonight's side, Cutrone smile and punched
the air and felt that all those second-half goals were doing something
right. He was building a presence and a reputation here -- a loan
extension or a permanent move for next season looked promising!

Still smiling from ear to ear, the young striker made his way back with
the disparate gaggle of men to where he had been sitting to eat,
shrugging off the compliments of the other Italian men nearby and trying
to look modestly pleased rather than explosively happy. After his
short-lived entry to Premiership life in England, his loan deal here at
Fiorentina had felt challenging to begin with, but week after week he was
making it work for himself, and he wasn't sure what lay ahead, but he
could see that he would be a promising and potentially in-demand striker
over the next couple of years. If nothing else, his potential for the
Italy national team in next summer's delayed Euro tournament looked good
-- he was of the age and career point of player who might actually
benefit from an extra year's preparation and maturity on the
international stage, no matter how awful the circumstances of the delay.

He must have impressed the bosses this morning, or earlier in the week;
amazing. Well, he'd certainly been pushing himself, trying to lift out
of a brief distracted lull at the start of the month, and he knew his
accuracy and speed had been at the top of his game in the past couple of
days. This morning's run-through and light workout had gone as
excellently as it could -- while others slacked and resented having to do
any training on a match-day, Patrick had approached it with the same
bullish force he had everything in his young career, a workhorse of a lad
from the Lakes.

The only thing that had briefly diverted his razor focus from match
preparation was the odd absence of his flatmate; he'd travelled out to
the edge-of-city training and development ground with Bobby D as usual,
offering him a lift in his luxurious hire car, since the young English
lad couldn't actually drive yet. Or couldn't drive in a foreign
country, maybe, Patrick couldn't quite remember the deal. There was
something distinctly youthful and lost about Duncan, anyway, making the
two years in age between them feel quite the gulf at times. Anyway, the
point was that he'd driven him in himself this morning then seen nothing
at him in various stages of the day's meetings and prep work, which was
a bit odd. He slipped his phone from his tight sweatpants but found no
waiting messages or information, and he decided against bothering to ask
the nearby men about his location; to say the English forward was
peripheral to life here at Fiorentina was to give him too much status.
Despite a few early appearances for the Italian club, their little
English prodigy had fizzled into the background before Christmas --
Patrick felt his pain.

Back in the present, he took fresh coffee when it was offered to him and
mingled quietly with his teammates, sensing the edgy excitement in the
air, not just for tonight's game, but for the summer freedom that lay
beyond the weekend. All anyone wanted was to close on a couple of strong
wins and then fuck off into the summer break to recover, exiting the
overheated city for coastal retreats or flights abroad. It had been a
tense year for everyone.

Cutrone was just finishing his cup of coffee and milling towards the
windows to look out at the baking afternoon heat when he was joined to
the side by one of the other young Italian stallions of the Fiorentina
line-up, another bench-warming young hopeful who had yet to congratulate
him on making a proper start on the team-sheet. `My man,' chuckled
Riccardo Sottil warmly, slapping him heartily in the middle of his back
and clinking an empty coffee cup against his as he joined him there,
brimming with his usual self-confidence. `Well done -- how many goals
will you be scoring?'

Patrick grinned appreciatively of this, making a playful expression of
counting, then chuckling bashfully and piling their used cups up
together. `We shall see,' he replied in the same rapid Italian, `it is
Bologna, after all. But if we win, we could jump past them, heh! And
Richie, I am sure you will be off the bench before half-time, they need
you out there on the wing, eh...' He grinned supportively at his good
friend, knowing that his ego did not really need any encouragement.

They spoke briefly in bursts about today and tonight and who else had
looked good in training so far this week. Patrick felt both provoked and
buoyed by Sottil's mood and enthusiasm, and his pressing and lingering
hand on the back of his thin training shirt, close to the heat of his
smooth skin. He scratched idly at the thick dark trim of beard on his
chin, itching somewhat to get away from the stuffy canteen and drive back
into the city -- afternoon naps had been demanded as an absolute
necessity by the bosses.

`Say,' Riccardo murmured, seeming to pluck his earlier thought out of
nowhere, `no sign of young Bobby today...? Is he sick?'

`Er -- well, I drove him in this morning,' Pat answered lamely, sensing
his own confusion reflected in the deeply tanned smiling face of his
marginally older teammate, but without the concern. Riccardo's grin was
relaxed and suggestive, a little spark of mischief in his distinct hazel
eyes. Suddenly, Sottil was making a throaty laugh of trouble and leaning
in close to him at the window.

`Oh, his face, that business the other weekend!' More brash laughter,
that hand sliding higher up Patrick's broad back muscles to the neck of
his shirt, his warm friend's closeness and intimate snigger suddenly a
little oppressive in the warmth of the canteen. Patrick jerked
instinctively, shrugging his hand away and glancing over one broad
shoulder to check nobody was quite in earshot. `Oh Pat,' chided Richie
quietly but smoothly, `so nervy, so jumpy... you are not still bothered
by that little show up, are you...?' He tilted his head, grinning catlike
beneath the flopping curtains of his silky dark hair, eyes still bright
with naughtiness.

`Riccardo-`

`We were so drunk,' Sottil giggled easily. The 21-year-old Italian had
a faraway look in his expression for a moment, clasping his hands
together in front of his chest, making a speculative noise. `So so
drunk...! But you needn't look so WORRIED, Cutrone, really my man, what
are you worrying about...?'

Patrick flared his nostrils moodily and dropped his voice to a lower
mutter. `I told you, Richie. I've never done anything like that. It was
fucked up. I told you it was. We shouldn't have been...'

`Pat, Pat, these things HAPPEN,' the worldly winger informed him, as he
had before in the tense few days afterwards when Cutrone hadn't quite
been able to meet his eye on the training ground -- and worse, hadn't
quite been able to meet Bobby's eye at the breakfast table in the flat
either. `Is it freaking you that much, you Catholic saint?' Sottil
demanded. `Honestly, you are 22, have you not even lived...' He made a
dismissive scoff, all metropolitan and judgmental now in his angular
smile.

`We all touched each other,' Cutrone reminded him with a sense of
scandal around each syllable, the coffee cups and saucers rattling a
little in his thick strong fingers and chunky knuckles. The 6ft striker
backed away from his friend a little, sweeping his eyes around them just
in case. `You might be okay with that sorta thing, Sottil, but-`

`You sound like the Pope,' Richie mocked. `Pat, let it go. It
happened. It was funny, a bit mad. We were oh so drunk.' He squeezed one
of his bulging shoulder muscles then rolled his eyes. `Don't let me
hear you fretting about it again. Oh, end of the world, my hand was on
your dick, at least I wasn't putting my cock in your stupid whiny mouth
or anything, haha, or worse...!' And then, with his usual coarse cocky
humour, flavoured now with the worry and risk of their shared history, he
reached down and thwacked one hand briefly against the taller player's
bottom, spanking Cutrone once through the tight thin cotton of his
sweatpants, making him clench his chunky bottom and frown deeply.

`Richie,' he hissed.

`Alright, alright, leave it behind,' Sottil advised him dismissively.
`Anyway, friend -- you didn't tell me where little English boy was this
morning, eh?'

Patrick eyed him in sudden agitation, feeling weary from the heat and
exercise, needing that nap more than ever. He just shrugged, exaggerating
his ignorance and disinterest, desperate to disentangle himself from
Bobby Duncan in his teammate's perception, conscious of the vivid memory
of all three of them in one bed, arms crossing in drunken lust and
experiment. Experiment for two of them, anyway, it was clear enough that
what happened was less new and alarming to this one! Really!

`Don't know,' he told him vaguely. `I need to go, Richie. I will see
you here for the team coach to the stadium. Ciao for now.' He glared
crossly at one of his firmest Fiorentina friends, and felt guilty and
daft about it as soon as he was out on the sizzling tarmac of the car
park, snatches of craved breeze playing at his short dark hair and the
cool sweat of his neck. He was overreacting and taking his own insecurity
out on Riccardo there, wasn't he? His pal was so right; all he needed to
do was let go of it and move on. It had happened, fuelled by too much
alcohol and post-match excitement in the intensity of the apartment,
heated FIFA leading to heated touching that he had not really initiated
or approved, merely... enjoyed.

Cutrone let himself into the sports car that his loan contract paid for
as a perk and whizzed neatly from the sprawling car park, growling
through suburban Tuscan roads and into the familiar ancient tumble of the
city. He picked hopefully at his earlier excited mood, shrugging away the
brief tension of Sottil's humour and assertions. Probably Riccardo
wasn't even half as comfortable as he pretended with that sorta
fluidity, he was often all show and talk, all bravado. Probably his jokes
hid that he was as troubled by it as Patrick felt -- and he knew Bobby
felt the same! For days, the two flatmates had tiptoed about each other,
never quite addressing it, but finding a peace and reconnection one
afternoon when Patrick dared to make a joke about what a `cocky'
bastard Sottil actually was, and the pair of them just fell about
laughing at the layered meanings. A tension had been eased if not
relieved, and things had become a little better. Where had the English
youth disappeared to today?

Cutrone drove through the eerily quiet roads of the city and found the
little renovated district of the centre where their apartment block lay,
performing the dull rituals of greeting the parking attendant and
slipping him a note of tip, then checking their post in the lobby before
heading up to the large loft conversion they shared. In the elevator, the
Italian striker yawned lazily and swung on his legs a little, relishing
the prospect of disappearing into cool bedsheets beneath a slab of an
air-con unit and enjoying a few hours alone before he was required back
on team duty, ready to walk out and fight for Fiorentina tonight. He was
full of food and satisfyingly half-tired, enjoying the knowledge that his
ball skills and powerful kick had impressed someone at the top just
enough.

Inside the single long passage that connected the parts of the apartment,
he immediately sensed something wrong or at least different. He stood
there, letting the heavy old door fall noisily shut behind him, then
stared left and right and ahead, trying to decide what was different. His
eyes played against the urban chic décor of the club-owned flat and then
over its rising walls, taller here than in the sloping eaves of their
bedrooms. Aha, an absence: the wall just ahead of him looked naked above
the set of shelves cluttered with arty pieces. What was normally there?
Oh, yes, one of Bobby's many posters...!

Dropping his kit-bag from his shoulder and leaving it by the doorstep,
Pat angled down the hallway towards the long open space of their living
space, entering it and staring down immediately at the neat stack of
cases in front of him, two chunky hard suitcases and one long duffel bag
draped over them, and... to his left, between he and the spacious kitchen
area, the sight of his roomie in the middle of rifling through some
shelves, pushing things into a stretched backpack slouched at his side.
Bobby Duncan froze in his fastidious activity, and looked back at him,
meeting his wide surprised eyes, and then half-opening his mouth to
speak, but shutting it again. Patrick eyed him questioningly, though he
knew all the answers, then let his eyes fall on the glass table between
the couches, just to his right, the long printed white of the airline
ticket slid against the creased maroon of a British passport.
`Roberto,' he mouthed immediately, `you're... leaving?'



The 19-year-old ex-Liverpool player forced an apologetic smile onto his
lips, sliding the few books he owned off the shelf and into the tatty
Adidas rucksack, watching Patrick's slow tired understanding of the
scene before him. `Mate,' he coughed, considering trying it in his
patchy Italian then settling for hopeful English, tinged with the light
Merseyside accent of his upbringing. `I'm flying out this evening.
Sorry. It's all a bit of a rush, I wish I'd caught you to explain
earlier on, just-`

`Not when we were sitting here eating breakfast,' Patrick interrupted,
waving one of his large hands at the round dining table between them. He
said it simply and stared over here with a fairly neutral expression on
his dark features, but Bobby could feel the touch of resentment or
accusation in the point he raised.

He hadn't really intended to share everything from today with his
flatmate, but it quickly spilled out in response. `Well, when I say
rushed, I mean the last few hours,' he returned tartly. `When we were
eating breakfast I didn't know I would turn up at training and be told I
wasn't needed.' He heard the sulky edge to his monologue, and tugged
aggressively on the zip of his rucksack, snapping it just as it was about
fastened. He scowled at the item and backed off, rubbing his hands
together in a businesslike way. As he turned, he could see the curl of a
sympathetic frown on Cutrone's face, but he was in no mood to be
patronised. `I've been released for break early, it seems, so I thought
-- fuck it -- let's fly home to John Lennon, eh, and get it out the
way.' He avoided the wide rich brown of Pat's eyes as he continued.
`Got it sorted pretty quick and cheap in the end, okayed it with the
chiefs and my agent, so home for summer I go! And since nobody knows
where my contract sits here, I booked one-way, seemed presumptuous to nab
a return at this rate...' Sulky again, a pout on his lips and a hard look
in his eyes.

He paused, brushing past his fellow Fiorentina player and snatching his
ticket and passport up from the glass table then pausing close by
Cutrone, hating and craving some expression of the sympathy in his eyes.
He hovered there, twitching with a slow-burning annoyance at the way he
had been so carelessly dismissed almost immediately after reaching the
training ground. The taxi ride back into the city had been uncomfortably
silent.

`Oh, Bob,' sighed Pat.

`Don't,' he snapped back, even though he needed to hear it, needed
someone to give a shit.

`So you're just... going?'

`Yeh, and?' he snapped and more harshly this time, frowning at the
other man rudely. `I was going to be flying home next week anyway, it's
a few days different is all. Wasn't too hard to change the ticket, not
much of a fee.' He wafted said ticket in his hand and shrugged
expansively. `I think everybody knows how vital I am about these parts,
eh...' To his irritated surprise, Cutrone was snatching the ticket from
his fingers in some odd childish protest of his announcement.

`What about tonight's game? Bologna?' Patrick was demanding, almost
crumpling the expensive one-way ticket in his thick fingers, something
sneering and angry in his expression now.

`What about it?' Bobby returned. He didn't mean that -- he didn't
mean to reject all interest in the club of his first professional
contract, even if it was a squib of a trip. He glowered at the other
athlete though, resentful of his tone and changing expression. He looked
away from him ignorantly, sizing up the stack of his luggage, then making
for the door.

`Oh I see, Fiorentina is nothing to you. Italy is nothing to you.'

`Hardly, mate,' he grumbled, stomping down the passage and into his
bedroom. It looked alarmingly bare after an hour and a half of packing,
its temporariness glaring at him from every quiet dusty corner. He
grabbed aimlessly at a few spare items on the desk and bedside table and
beside the wide open doors of the wardrobe. He turned a little and saw
Patrick hovering unhappily in the doorway after him, seeming all of his
6ft of height, imposing and thunderous for no real reason. `I think I am
nothing to Italy,' Bobby told him, annoyed by his heavy-handed
accusations.

`We have a big game tonight, you could be there to support.'

`I ain't a cheerleader. I didn't travel to fuckin' Italy to CHEER.'

`Bobby, you are being like a... child...' In his anger, the latter part
of this outburst was back to Italian and it was too quick and fierce for
Duncan to follow. Holding a few pointless items in one arm, he pushed a
little roughly past him, using an elbow to take out some of his moody on
the brick expanse of his chest, then marching back down the corridor and
heading to stuff these final things into his big duffel bag. He could
hear the heavy tread of Patrick's trainers after him on the wooden
slats, stood right behind him as he rose up and turned.

`You're the one being stupid, I'm just going home for summer, it was
always the plan!' Despite his tone and claim, there was something
repentant and weak in the remark, troubled by the intensity and
disproportion of Cutrone's reaction. Where was the friendly sympathy
now, so patronising and stinging for a moment, why was it replaced with
this indignant judgement?

`Yes, and you had a flight booked a week from today.'

`Well, things changed. Like I said, I...'

`You're sulking!'

`You're being a cunt,' Bobby snapped viciously back, annoyed and
shaky. He couldn't really see why his flatmate was taking this so badly
or turning it back on him so meanly. It really wasn't his fault he
couldn't seem to scrabble any hold on the Fiorentina squad or catch a
break from their coaches. It really wasn't his fault he was miles from
home and had been trapped here for the duration of a fucking pandemic. He
pouted angrily at the other footballer, faintly scared by his towering
mood and burning dark features, but full of teenage protest and homesick
fury.

`You haven't got a clue,' Patrick snarled at him. `Little English
idiot, running back to mama.'

`What the hell does any of THAT mean?' Bobby yelped at him, holding up
both hands, shaking his head, twitching with provoked annoyance at all of
this. But then both of his wrists were grabbed by the stronger grip of
Cutrone's hands, holding him still, and he tried to yank back with his
shoulders and his torso, bewildered; the tall striker was moving forward
and leaning into him, eyes locked on his. His pout was brushingly
attacked by alien lips and he felt the sharp bristle of short dark beard
hair on his smoothly shaven chin and cheeks. The kiss nearly knocked him
back off his feet and to the bare wooden floor of the apartment, slapping
all of his teenage angst away from him and enveloping him in the outburst
of Italian passion and heat.



Patrick found himself clinging quite desperately to the soft old material
of his mate's tshirt, fingers digging into the front of his shoulders,
tasting the uncertainty of his plump lips and grazing his own harsh mouth
across it. When he opened his eyes, he was staring into Bobby's small
brown eyes, shadowy beneath his prominent caveman brow, his whole face
contorted into a puzzled question, and his body trembling against
Patrick's knuckles and chest. The Italian man heaved deep panicked
breaths and then pushed in for a second kiss, needing to confirm how soft
and delicious the first one was, but feeling Bobby draw uncertainly back;
he didn't stop though, he chased his face forward like he was dealing
with a coy and flirty girl, twisting his neck a little and slapping his
lips to Bobby's, holding him tight and snaking his hands about onto his
back.

`Pat,' breathed the English youth after this kiss, his voice shaky with
terror.

Patrick squeezed at him and held him there against him, against the
warmth of his arms and chest, hot from the sun on the car and the
morning's exertions. He closed his eyes again and breathed deeply,
inhaling the boy's smell, fiercely clean. He could feel the rising needy
excitement down below and, confused about why it was happening, he just
wanted Bobby to know about it, to appreciate it. He snatched at one of
his confused hands and dragged it down, pushing it over the front of his
close-fitting Fiorentina sweatpants, forcing Bobby's palm over the hot
bulge of his meat, his other and shifting to the side of his thick neck.
The short stocky Liverpool lad twisted awkwardly against him and
whispered his name again, a simple monosyllabic question.

Patrick kissed him for a third time, holding Bobby's hand to his crotch,
and he felt the lips part more easily this time, the nervous tongue
meeting his. He felt white hot with suppressed lust, still mingled with
the resentful anger of their short and silly argument. He thought about
lying next to him before and having his gentle hand on his cock, he
wanted it now. As he kissed the lad, he ground his crotch forward against
his limp hand and felt the uncertain squeeze of it. Then, driven by this
hazy memory, he dragged at the fabric of Bobby's tshirt and moved
backwards, pulling him with him into the corridor. `Come,' he murmured
forcefully, `come with me...' He realised he'd said it in Italian and
repeated himself in English, just in case, though speech wasn't
necessarily, he was dragging the lad by his sleeves and his shoulders,
panting in his face; he could feel Bobby's curious uncertain fingers
play against the front of his pants.

He staggered backwards through the door of his bedroom, using his back
muscles and arse cheeks to knock it open, tugging Bobby in with him and
then wrapping his thick arms about him, kissing him on one of his soft
downy cheeks and then his stubby chin. Bobby, making a faint whimpering
noise, was really squeezing and pulling at the obvious shape in his
pants, but that wasn't enough; Pat dropped one hand to tug open the
tight drawstring and loosen the waist of them then pushed Bobby's hand
directingly into the gap, letting him get closer. `Ah, yes,' he moaned
loudly, feeling Bobby's fist in there, between the layers, squeezing his
semi through his briefs. He let go of the short trembling muscle of the
other young footballer and pulled up his Fiorentina shirt with both
hands, peeling it away from his thick torso and tossing it away so that
Bobby could lean in against his raw body heat. Bobby was kissing him
delicately on the shoulder and he held the back of his head.

`That's it, touch my cock,' he whispered heavily.

`It's so big, Pat,' he heard his younger flatmate gasp reminiscently.

`It's all yours,' he promised in a still-angry growl, `all yours to
play with, friend...' He pushed back towards the bed, disrupting Bobby's
groping, and pushed down at the hips of his bottoms, tugging the pants
and the briefs downward, letting his sizeable cock spring loose beneath
the dark tumble of his pubes and tummy trail. He flopped backwards, arse
and back to the bed, and Bobby instinctively followed, kneeling beside
him, reaching his hand for it, squeezing and pulling on it just like
before, though no third player getting in the way this time.

`Oh god, oh my,' the Italian moaned, stretching out on his back, legs
dangling off the edge, sweatpants and undies bunched about his chunky
calves, trainers still on. Bobby's hand moved jerkily up and down,
wrapped around the long thick salami of his manhood. He stared at this,
seeing his own size enhanced by the smaller hand of his English pal, the
tension in Bobby's arm, then the mask of fascinated horror on his rugged
face. `Hey,' he breathed at him, stroking one hand up his back
comfortingly, `you okay?' Bobby turned to look at him blankly, unable
to answer, so he lifted himself up with core strength and slapped mouth
to mouth again in a fourth kiss, gently relaxing and pulling Bobby
forwards with him. His hand lingered around his dick but stopped pulling
on it, just comfortingly and pleasingly present.

Patrick enjoyed the taste of his mouth, but this furious lust made him
greedy, as he always was with the beautiful Florentine women he seduced
here. He rolled them, pushing at the passive bulk of Bobby's muscular
little frame, rolling on top of him and snatching at his tshirt again,
tugging it up, scratching over the flat toned skin of his tummy. Up
further, brushing nipples, up and dragging it uncomfortably over arms and
head, leaving him shirtless. He kissed him almost violently on the jaw
and neck, making him moan, then pushed down. He kissed in circles around
those thick dark nipples then lapped his tongue at each, making the lad
shiver and whisper to him. `Oh Paddy, oh fuck, Paddy...'

Down further. He wrenched at the buttoned front of the lad's cargo
shorts, maybe tearing one in his greed to open them, the other hand
pinning Bobby down by a shoulder. He looked him in the face again and saw
the same mystified fear and thrill there, unable to linger on it long. He
dragged at the lad's shorts, realising how tight they were about the
young striker's thick glutes and thighs. Now Patrick could lean in and
kiss him in more private spots, just below the naval, tasting the curling
red-brown hairs that grew there, then parting his legs, kissing his
thighs, tickling at the taut muscle of those powerful English legs.

Kneeling on the bed, he wrenched Bobby's shorts away more fully, leaving
him in white socks and baggy black boxer shorts, then reached back to
push at his own trainers and clothing, stripping himself naked but for
little black trainer socks. Bobby's hand reached hypnotically for his
swinging stiff dick and he made to grab the bulging front of the lad's
boxers, when suddenly he felt a stirring vibration and noise somewhere by
his knee. He paused, shuddering in pleasure as Bobby's hand first
tightened then released at the tip of his nob. The noise was very clearly
a phone call, chiming incongruously between them and breaking the spell
of his Italian lust.



Bobby fumbled at the creased heap of his shorts, shaking on the smooth
sheets of his flatmate's bed, finding his phone and staring knowingly at
the flaring number of the city taxi firm that was supposed to be taking
him (cautiously early) to the airport. It was like a wrecking ball
through the dizzy confused delusion of the past few minutes, and he
rolled aside, actually falling off the bed in just socks and undies and
phone in hand. Flinching at bumps to his knees and arms, he propped
himself up by the bed and stared at the incoming call.

`Bobby,' he heard Patrick whisper from the bed in a fearful whisper.

Bobby stared from the vibrating and chiming handset to his Fiorentina
teammate, crouched over him on the side of the bed, glaringly naked with
his big cock exposed and stiff, an elephant in the room and a little
glossy at the red tip with the precum his own ministrations had summoned.
He shook to think of the way he'd touched it, not now, but before, lying
in that very bed, feeling trapped between Cutrone and Sottil. And yet, he
was hard in his own loose saggy boxers, stiffening at the brutish forces
that had dragged him and stripped him and lay on him. He could still feel
Cutrone's lips and beard tickling at so many spots on his smooth young
body.

`I gotta go,' he mouthed awkwardly. `I'm sorry, Pat, I gotta go, I
can't... I can't do this...'

Suddenly Patrick was lunging off the bed, snatching the phone out of his
hands. Bobby tousled forward awkwardly but the other man was stronger,
quicker. They rolled back onto the bed in a breathy struggle while
Patrick hit answer and huffed into the mouthpiece. He spoke in rapid
Italian and Bobby recognised the words `cancelled' and various forms of
apology. He grunted weakly and reached aimlessly for his phone, too late,
the call over and the device tumbling away over the folds of duvet. The
struggle to grab it had left him clinging on top of the other man,
straddling his body, that hard hot cock pressed into one of his thighs
longways. He stared down into the rich eyes of this Northern Italian hunk
and shivered again, panicking. The scheduled flight to the UK felt now
like an escape from more than the disappointment and rejection of his
loan season at Fiorentina, and yet... he planted his hands on the flat
muscle of Pat's chest, startlingly smooth against the thick fur of his
face and his briefly exposed pits.

And then Pat's hands were on his arms, stroking rather than gripping,
and his face looked more tender and pleading. `Bobby,' he gasped, `I
drive you to airport, I make you get there, I help you... but... first...
stay with me...' He was tighter then, pulling on his arms so that Bobby
fell forward into him, lying on top, theoretically dominant but trapped
over him, feeling his heat and strength and... there they were again, the
purple-red of those hungry lips, finding his own. He melted weakly into
the kiss, clinging to the man's thick biceps and letting the hands
wander from his arms to his shoulders to his back then slide down a
little.

He let his mouth be invaded and his tongue wrestled. He sucked in hungry
breaths between the kisses and let one of Pat's hands find and slip into
his baggy undies to stroke at his short fat hard-on. He shivered and
gasped into the side of Pat's neck. `Oh mate,' he said helplessly,
`oh maaaate...' But then he was being rolled aside again, manhandled
into position, cuddled and kissed and stroked. It was affection of a kind
he hadn't realised was so missing from his life for months. After the
awkward three-way wanking with Cutrone and Sottil, he'd understood it in
those terms: not just a sexless pandemic lockdown, but all this time away
from friends and family, just eager for some affection and intimacy and
comfort. Now he felt like he had an eternity of it, Cutrone so strong and
forceful and greedy in the half-light of the room, its thick curtains
shutting out the late afternoon burn of sunshine.

Somehow, now, he was on his side, and Patrick was kissing him on the neck
and just under his small ears. The covers were pulled over them, making a
nest of their togetherness, and one of Pat's hand was wanking him, as
Riccardo had done, that beautiful alien sensation of a strong manly fist
around his neglected tool. He pressed his own face into the pillows and
moaned gently. Gradually, he became aware of what the other player's
other hand was doing. His cheeks were being stroked and prodded, he felt
two fingertips a little wet and cool tickle at the hollow above his arse.
He was confused and frightened but it was balanced against the intimacy
of the kisses and the reassuring strength of the firm short tugs on his
member. `Pat,' he whispered, unsure what he wanted to say, `oh
Paddy...' Making his name Anglo-Irish as he always did, he was gratified
by the breathy returning, `Roberto, oh...'



Cutrone acted under inexorable impulse and greed. He cuddled and kissed
at the stocky frame in his arms, but he needed more. He licked and kissed
his own fingers again, making them nice and slick, and then pushed one
between the doughy mounds of the lad's cheeks, finding his sensitive
crack. The Lake Como lothario had taken several of his more, erm,
easy-going female conquests from behind, he knew the drill. He pushed his
wet fingers in there and tightened his hold on the English boy's nob as
he did, pressing his smooth pecs into his back and reaching to kiss his
cheek, doing everything to calm and reassure him as he found his virginal
hole and poked inside it. He shushed him and kissed his jaw and then
snogged lingeringly on his throat, edging the fingertip into him and
circling it, playing experimentally with his untouched entrance.

He held him in place with a loving hold and reached past him for the top
drawer in his beside cabinet, finding Vaseline and condom. He imagined
the look of recognition on Duncan's face at these tools of fun, dragging
them over him and into the nest of bedsheets. `It will feel good,' he
promised in his ear. He did his work with the skill of a practised lover,
no thought for the fact that he had never done anything like this with a
signor. He rustled open the condom packet and without needing to look,
rolled it over his majestic prick, then sludged the lubricant on his
fingers and pressed it definitely between Bobby's cheeks. The young
footballer groaned and mumbled but his nervous hands reached back and
found Pat's body to hold onto. `Yes,' he moaned at him, no longer sure
which language he was speaking, `yes baby, hold me...'

But with the condom on and his finger, two fingers now, slick inside the
insane tightness of it, he moved impatiently, greedily, oblivious to the
untouched innocence of his target. He pressed his thick tool forward and
rubbed it into the greasy lubed cave. He held both arms about Bobby's
torso, both trapping and comforting him, licking his earlobe and
breathing heavily across his face, neither of them saying anything just
making faint and sensual noises. In his cock went, very very slowly,
despite his impatient rush for pleasure. The vicelike grip of the arse
closed about his meat and he heard the rise in Bobby's panicked whine.
He grabbed at his cock now, needing to soothe and persuade him, really
pulling on that fat short piece, but perhaps too much, too tightly or
enthusiastically, because it throbbed and twitched and suddenly he could
feel another lad's spunk on his fingers, oozing against his hand and
onto the bedsheets. He paused uncertainly, half of his cock inside Bobby,
stretching his innocent ring and impaling him, while the lad's body
rocked with the force of his premature climax and his red face pushed
deep into the pillows away from Patrick's kisses.

Fuck, he couldn't go on trying this now the lad had cum, surely? Tender
compassion replacing his greedy machismo and lust, he pulled back, easing
out of his arse, feeling more than hearing Bobby's conflicted pain.
Patrick held onto his boy with one arm and with the other hand he rolled
the greasy condom from his cock and wanked himself in a frenzy. He
pressed his face into the soft hair on the back of Bobby's head and
willed himself towards orgasm with surprising speed. When he came, his
load spilled explosively over Bobby's chubby cheeks, hidden from view by
duvet. He pumped out his heavy seed, gasping wildly. Then, gripped in
possessive mania, he grabbed the lad's arse and smeared some of his own
goo into the slick twitching gap between the cheeks, finding his tender
hole and pushing his cum aimlessly into him for a moment, almost
massaging his broken entrance and then cuddling tightly against him.

`Airport,' Bobby gasped in a weak, pained voice.

`Not yet,' Patrick replied, unsure if it was a pleading question or a
master's command. `Ten minutes. Lie here. Need rest. Mmm.' He held
onto him and curled into the bedding, cuddling the firm muscular weight
of the English lad, holding him to him while waves of pleasure receded
and mixed with his warm stupor. He was soon asleep and snoring into the
back of Bobby's neck.



Kick-off still felt unnatural without the baying audience of home fans,
but Patrick Cutrone stood proudly in place as the Bologna match got
going. Full of his own strength and virility, the striker burst into
action, moving rapidly and communicating in tight bursts with the other
infield players as the game progressed.

When Cutrone was eventually substituted about three-quarters into the
match, they were already leading with a dominant 2-0. Patrick had not got
him name on the score-sheet but he had contributed heavily to his
teammates' success. Coated in sweat, he left the field happily, slapped
enthusiastically by the coaches, shown to the substitute seating and
handed fresh water and orange slices. He collapsed into the end seat,
glancing faintly at his neighbour there, unused substitute Riccardo
Sottil, aware that they had quietly avoided each other in the pre-match
warm-up and discussions, both knowing that their banter at lunch had
become a little strained.

Patrick rubbed one hairy arm over his sweaty bearded face and glugged
water. `Hey.'

`Pat, well played,' Richie congratulated him quietly, looking rather
tense in his ready kit, still on edge as he awaited his chance to join
the fray. His handsome face looked quietly apologetic, though it was
difficult to imagine the smug winger actually ever saying `sorry'.
Patrick just nodded gratefully at him, willing to read the `sorry'
between the lines and leave it there, somewhat embarrassed by his gruff
rudeness when they spoke earlier in the day. He turned his eyes back to
the pitch and let his breathing and heart rate cool, always struggling to
turn off the in-game tension and focus that made him such a lethal
striker.

`Patrick,' murmured Riccardo though, not dropping their quiet
interaction. `Earlier, I was too much... I didn't mean to... you know,
make you uncomfortable...' He was patting Cutrone's arm a little,
leaning over to make their words a little confidential in the dugout.
`About what happened, you know...'

Cutrone, beginning to relax, shot him a thoughtful smile. `Do not worry,
friend. I understand...'

`No, no, I was too much,' Sottil continued quite firmly. `It WAS a
very drunken stupid thing, I know that, and... yes, yes, like I said,
these things happen, but... they shouldn't, we know that...' He patted
him on the arm again and almost bit his knuckle. `I mean, I don't want
you thinking I am into that stuff.' He gave Patrick a quiet piercing
look. `I have never... done more than what we did, you know? I have
never...' He shrugged in a wild, imaginative gesture. `I never kiss a
guy, you see, or anything mad like that, just -- this was my worry! I do
not want you thinking I would...'

Patrick stared at him in a slow dawning epiphany of how much he'd lost
control in the afternoon head before his long and luxurious nap. He held
his half-smile firmly in place and blinked thoughtfully at the odd,
unexpected apology and explanation from his teammate. He heard how it was
meant to sound and feel, this backtracking, this muted apology, this
explanation of the drunken stupidity they'd engaged in together one
night... but against the white hot memory of trying to fuck Bobby Duncan
in his bed, it hit Patrick hard in the tummy and made him reel with dizzy
regret.

`I would never go further than what happened,' Riccardo insisted
quietly, `you know that. I am not queer. Kissing a guy, fucking a guy,
ugh... I am not prejudiced, I mean, but I know I like the ladies, hey,
like you, so... Don't be thinking those things about me, haha. Promise?'
Sottil grinned charmingly at him, clearly worried about his reputation of
stringent heterosexuality.

Patrick smiled awkwardly back at him, remembering how tight and delicious
Bobby's bottom had felt around the thick tip of his cock, and
shuddered.



Traipsing down the gangway and into the almost dystopian pandemic
security of airport arrivals, the 19-year-old turned his phone back on
and waited for its gradual acclimatisation to UK networks and so on. As
soon as he could, he checked the Fiorentina score. 4-0! They had utterly
thrashed Bologna and leapfrogged them in the table, moving to 10th with
one more match to go. Briliant. He registered a faint, possessive
disappointment as he looked at who had scored the goals. A hat-trick from
Chiesa and one for Milenkovic; nothing from Cutrone, sadly. He thought
about texting his flatmate to register a mix of congratulation and
commiseration there, but held uncomfortably back.

When they had woken from their naps, he'd panicked that it was too late
to make his flight. He'd wondered for a moment if that mattered, if he
could re-reschedule it. But then both he and the older lad in the bed had
become strange and panicky. They fixated on Bobby's flight because as
pressing issues went, it was easier to discuss than the intense pain in
his backside, or the dried cum on his cheeks and tummy, or the bruising
lovebites slowly forming on his neck and shoulders. Remembering that
arrival time advice for airports was always insane, they had piled
Bobby's things into the limited space of Pat's sports car, and he had
been deposited at the airport as planned. The lack of time or convenient
parking meant that their goodbye had been minimal, a taxi-like drop-off
at departures, Cutrone in a rush to reach the training ground and
assemble with the squad. Before he knew what was happening, the car was
growled away and Bobby was standing with his luggage on his own, sore and
confused and lonely.

When he tried to think about what happened, in the airport rush or on the
flight or now, drifting zombie-like through arrivals security, he felt
himself slipping towards a mad anxiety. So he stopped himself. Held back
from considering the terrifying force of Cutrone's passion, his own need
for comfort, the touching and tasting it had led to. In vivid bursts, he
could let himself picture the scene in that loft bedroom, all bare tanned
skin, flashes of Patrick's arm tattoo, visions of his bearded mouth. And
then jabs of reminding pain between his plump cheeks that made him blush
and squirm and want to run and hide.

So he pushed the thoughts away. Sniffed the inexplicably specific
Merseyside air. Looked out for any sign of his parents, excitedly
agreeing to meet him here and drive him back to the family home. But
before any of that could happen, he felt the slow chug of the phone in
his pocket -- reconnected, it throbbed now with a little queue of
messages. He paused, resting his luggage trolley, and scrolled through
them, not quite aware that he was looking hard for `Paddy C (italian
mobile)' in the names of contacts bursting across the screen. He choked
his little sigh of semi-conscious disappointment and read the last of the
messages anyway, `Harvs (UK mobile)':

`m8! U really back in Lpool 2nyt? Sweeeeeeeeeeet. So bored now season
over. hang out soon? yesss m8, wb!'

The laddish normality of it buzzed Bobby Duncan and, despite the pain in
his bottom, the sweaty heat of Florence felt a million miles away, with
all its career uncertainty and frustrating peripheral action, and the two
visits to the other bedroom of that chic loft conversion. Here he was, a
19-year-old lad back on the Mersey, about to be reunited with family and
friends. Normality awaited, and he felt infinitely glad. He pushed his
phone away, grabbed the handles of his luggage trolley, and pushed on,
making his way into the security crew and spying, beyond these barriers,
a big white sign with `BOBBY!' written on it in bright Liverpool red.