Date: Tue, 11 Aug 2020 22:57:47 +0000
From: writer guy <premiershiplads@outlook.com>
Subject: Premiership Lads part 163: Finding Timo

Part 163: Finding Timo


On an aggregate score of 7-1, Chelsea's place in the belated Champions
League crashed away from them, leaving only Guardiola's City left to
represent the Premier League. Like all of his teammates, Ross Barkley
crashed to a halt, hands on his hips and blue kit plastered to his body.
A rare start and full 90 minutes for the Liverpudlian midfielder, but
he'd been no more able than any of his colleagues to battle Bayern's
dominance in the game -- only his good friend Tammy Abraham had made a
dent with his sad solitary goal at the end of the first half. Now it was
over, and the scraped achievements of the season seemed diminished by two
poor Saturdays in a row: the FA Cup lost to Arsenal and the European
title fully out of reach.

Ross clapped magnanimously for the German team's players, mourning the
lack of a travelling audience to bolster his mood, following the drift of
his teammates towards the edge of the pitch in the sad anti-climax of a
football season finished. Tonight, marked the beginning of his and
everyone else's summer break, but right now that prospect felt cold
comfort.

Barkley shared empathetic grimaces with more of the Chelsea players as
one by one they ambled over the lien and past the dugout and into the
tunnel mouth, patted and consoled by a dour Frank Lampard on his rounds,
frowning away to an inevitable interview of stinging criticism. In
trooped the men in blue, all sagging and drooping in their body language
after their inglorious finish to 19/20. Injured young Pulisic grinned
weakly at them from his crutches, everyone sharply aware that the
out-of-action American could have saved them a scrap of dignity if he'd
been in play -- and another unavailable figure stood by with an almost
patronising half-smile as he made weak claps of applause at the door to
the stadium's away changing rooms: Timo Werner.

Barkley found himself glaring irritably at their German signing,
pointlessly present on the European trip despite being unavailable until
the new season officially began. Why was he even here? What was the
point? Smug German bugger, he thought sourly, planting his frustrated
emotions on the angular foxy face of the new striker. Something in his
slow clap and quiet expression cast aspersions on the existing Chelsea
squad he was waiting to transform. For a solid member of the existing
attack, Ross felt the slight against his performances and his
contributions. He squared his muscular shoulders and bustled past
Werner's patronising applause without engaging the newcomer, too moody
to speak to anyone.

He stripped down and showered in a hurry, keen to blast water over
himself and stretch out his aching limbs. He was in fresh undies and
tracksuit before half of the Chelsea men had even stripped down from
their sweaty kits, meaning he could be pretty much first on the coach and
sulking alone in a rear seat when they drove across Munich towards their
mediocre hotel. He even skipped the supper they were served, never
usually a man to miss out on food -- instead he prowled up to his room
and scrolled mindlessly through social media and emails. He was glad of
the time alone, his roomie Antonio Rudiger still as busy as anyone else
down in the hotel restaurant -- Ross felt a pang of teammate guilt not to
be there with them all, lifting a German beer to the end of a tough
campaign, but they would all be together for tomorrow morning's flight
anyway. There would be goodbyes enough then.

Again, he thought irritably of the imposter in their midst. Timo Werner
would be down there now, chipping in to discussions of the season gone as
if he knew a thing, as if he'd been there, as if he'd earned his
stripes here at Chelsea! Somehow, the thought of that smug intrusion
riled him more and made him even more adamant he could just sulk up here
on his own rather than eating his pride and joining the lads for a quiet
bedtime beer. He sat in the single armchair by the window and threw his
mobile phone at the bed, sick of looking at it.

God, what a year, even outside of the football! Flashes of conflicted
interaction with his own manager, with certain teammates, with his
ex-girlfriend... all of it played frustratingly on his mind and made him
long for the freedom of tomorrow. A few weeks without any connection to
the leagues and tournaments. He couldn't wait. He had zero plans and
that was fucking amazing -- where would he be allowed to travel in the
current quarantines? He pictured himself sweating on a lonely beach and
lost in summer tranquillity.



It had been Pulisic who first jolted him with his tale of Werner. One
evening in the build-up to their London derby for the FA Cup, he'd been
relaxing on the sofa at the American's inner-London apartment, softly
moaning his encouragement as Christian began to fondle the front of his
black Adidas trackies, finding the shape of his cock and balls, stroking
them with one hand while still playing a game of FIFA with the other...
his sidelong glances of longing and unspoken intimacy were so distinct
and recognisable, always the turning point in an evening spent at his
place. Ross had been just getting into the moment, passively relaxing his
football-tired body, spreading his legs a little, when the 21-year-old
whispered his giggled account to him.

Christian had seemed to mean it as some enticement or turn-on, some
interesting confession that would add to Barkley's enjoyment as his nob
was gently woken and stroked. Stupid kid, if he thought that; why would
Barkley want to know that his dorky young admirer had been eyeing up
someone else that afternoon? And the story itself felt like something out
of a cheap sitcom, the new striker making his move on a middle-aged
female physio while his young teammate spied through a window...! For
fuck's sake. But the other part had excited him a little, he supposed:
the seedy revelation that horny confused Pulisic had pleasured himself
while he watched, right there in the corridor, hand in his shorts.

Barkley looked at him then through hooded lids, sleepy but horny, and
appreciated a new daring or boldness in `Captain America', a lad so shy
and awkward that the scene was hard to picture. Then he'd realised that
the nervous pursing of lips and roving eyes were cues for more
discussion; Pulisic wanted to talk more about his confusing desire for
the straight German and the voyeurism he'd engaged in. Clearly, he
wanted to address the elephant in the room, the fact his hand was
reaching inside the tight front of black skinny-fit trackies and pulling
at Ross's Scouse semi.

To curb discussion of Werner or anything else, Barkley had got up from
the sofa, nodded imperiously at the door to Christian's master bedroom,
and taken control of things again. In silence, he'd enjoyed another
nervous oral exploration from the warm-hearted host, and slept it off in
the guest room, only faintly troubled by the notion that Timo Werner
might be somehow more appealing to young Christian.



But then there had been Ruben's tale too, after the weekend's galling
loss to Arsenal. Barkley and Loftus-Cheek had been showering side by side
after the next training session, a moment which always irked Ross gently
with the physical competition of their bodies. Ruben was so tall and
powerful-looking, so relaxed and sure of himself; though Ross knew well
that he had mastered and possessed the tall attractive Londoner in full,
he still felt the vague challenge of his physicality and his persona,
this other man who had topped Mason Mount and played around with old
Frank.

And just as Ross stood there, cupping and washing his fat balls and
running the other hand up his six-pack with vague self-appreciation of
his defined body, wondering if he maybe he should initiate some light
play with the big 24-year-old, his thoughts were broken by a cheeky
whispered confession that killed his rising mood of curious arousal.

`You know that Werner?' Lofty murmured, rubbing soap suds from his eyes
and dragging his long fingertips over his strong bearded jawline.
`Funniest thing happened, pal...' It seemed Loftus-Cheek had experienced
his own little run-in with the ex-Leipzig goal wizard -- and he too
thought that it would be a funny and interesting nugget to Barkley, for
some reason!

As Ruben explained to him, he'd been working out in the gym yesterday on
their nominal day off of recovery, and ended up trailing the same
machines as Timo, who was putting in an extra shift since he'd not had
the exhausting Final to play in the day before. And inevitably, Ruben
admitted with a gruff chuckle, he'd found himself admiring the athletic
newbie, watching his bare arms and long legs in action, then accidentally
catching his deep dark eyes in the mirrored wall. By the end of their
workout, the two young men were sharing fleeting grins in the reflection,
Ruben dropping coy hints of his admiration without saying anything in
particular.

He'd been on his last exercise of the session, he told Ross, when Timo
approached him at the leg machine he was using and stood beside him
making quiet conversation -- something innocuous and generic -- while
letting his knees and shins rub against the side of Ruben's straining
legs below the cut of his gym shorts. Slowly, he'd inched closer, one
arm leaning to the machine, his position so close that every time Ruben
crunched his legs and repeated his sets, he had to brush his knees and
thighs more and more up Timo's thighs, disturbing the ruffle of his
shorts and, eventually, brushing his leg against his bulge a little. All
whilst the German forward just stood there beside him chatting about his
hunt for a perfect London pad.

`I thought I must be imagining it,' Lofty sniggered at him in the steam
of the showers, glancing over his big shoulders to check they were alone
in here for a minute before going on. `But no...'

When Ruben had entered the showers, he'd found Timo just stood with his
back to the wall waiting for him, and... at that point, Barkley cut him
off, overheated and losing interest. He'd removed himself rapidly from
the sleazy gossip, frowning at Lofty and hurrying through to dry off and
dress. Fuck's sake, what did he want to know of Ruben's sex life beyond
their own sporadic encounters and the tall Lewisham fella's occasional
massaging of his fragile ego...?



Later in the week, Barkley had visited Lampard in his office to politely
ask about his likelihood of a start in the upcoming Bayern match. Okay,
it was hard just a polite enquiry; he'd known as he marched his way
through the management suites of the training ground, still in his bright
blue training gear, bounce bulging freely in the front of his tracksuit
bottoms, that appearing in the office doorway like this at the right
end-of-day moment might be, er, helpful to his match prospects. Ross had
no intention of falling back into the awkward to-and-fro of earlier this
season, but he'd enjoyed reconnecting with the boss after the Arsenal
defeat, and he had been pretty desperate to get a slice of the club's
last-ditch attack on the Champions League.

At first, when he pushed the door open without knocking and caught Frank
in the act, he'd been pretty delighted: the middle-aged Chelsea hero was
stood by the desk with his back mostly to him, something clutched in his
hand and brought up to his face. His other hand unseen but dipping down
his front. It was pretty obvious that, alone and content, Lamps was
indulging in a cheeky sniff of his pants from the weekend that he had
left with him after their consolation fun. Pausing in the doorway,
marvelling at his boss's recklessness, Barkley had felt a thrill of
superiority and power, realising how appreciated his gift had been, how
much impact he still made on this old married bloke who seemed so fixated
on his... assets.

Even when Lampard looked over his shoulder in shifty panic, Barkley had
just gritted his teeth and gave a bashful grin at the gaffer, pushing the
door shut after him and trying to convey his amused delight at what he
had accidentally interrupted. The Chelsea manager twisted a little where
he stood, blinking awkwardly and looking past Ross to make sure the door
had closed properly; as he turned, it was obvious that he had at least a
semi in the front of his tight navy blue trackies, pressing visibly
across the front where he had been touching himself up as he sniffed the
pants in his hands... oh. They weren't the pair he'd gifted him after
Arsenal, a grey pair of Puma sports briefs that had been drenched in his
sweat and bunched up into Frank's pale hand as a dirty token of his
loyalty... nah, these were Calvin Klein by the look of it and a pale baby
blue, a little scuffed and stained seeming as they draped among his shaky
fingers in his lifted hand at chest-height. Oh.

Barkley must have visibly wilted, hovering there all hot and bothered
from an afternoon of tough drills, his full Chelsea tracksuit quite taut
over the strong muscles of his legs and chest. He paused awkwardly, some
vague half-formed tease dying on his dry lips, some knowing remark he
hadn't yet settled on at how much Lampard enjoyed a splash of eau
d'Barkley. Instead, he just huffed awkwardly at the older man and stood
there in the centre of his office, eyes fixed on the unknown garment in
the embarrassment of his arrogant assumption; Frank was eyeing him with a
deep shame that seemed to cover both the discovery of his pervy moment
and the obvious surprise or disappointment in Barkley's own eyes.

As a result, the two men just stood there not quite looking at one
another. Caught in the misunderstanding, Ross quite forgot that he'd
been innocently poking head in here just to flex a bit and make
suggestive questions about Saturday's away trip. Now he was watching as
Frank guiltily lowered his hand to his side and then thrust the briefs in
amongst the mess of paperwork on the edge of the desk, doing a terrible
job of hiding them in his files. He left his hand over this overhanging
mess and looked away from Ross for a moment before glancing back.

`Er, caught in the act,' huffed Lampard quietly with the same shy
acceptance of their loose dynamic as when had Ross had visited him up
here the previous Saturday night. `I really need to learn about locks on
doors, I guess...' He spoke with distracted discomfort and with his other
hand he shuffled and rearranged at the tenting front of his pants.
`Still, good job it was you, Ross, eh...' His grin was apologetic and a
little pleading. Barkley just stared uncomfortably back, wanting to
immediately disentangle himself from this strange encounter.

Coughing and rubbing the back of a hand against his mouth, Lamps narrowed
his eyes a bit at him. `Can I help you with something?' he asked,
colouring a little in his cheeks. The more serious and managerial look
was returning to him as he calmed and recovered from another slip in his
discretion; Ross just shook his head dumbly and took a step back over the
office, then looked at the spare seat on this side of the desk. A brand
new Chelsea shirt was strewn over the back of it, neatly folded with the
name just visible at the top. Big white letters spelled out Werner's
name on the new 20/21 Chelsea home kit, resting where it had been draped.
Ross paused, looking at it, and then back at Lampard's surreptitious
posture by the desk, one hand still resting on the crumpled piles of
work, a sneak of blue fabric showing between files.

`Werner is fitting in well, don't you think?' the manager said in a
gravelly murmur.

Ross just scoffed, shrugged his shoulders, and took his sweaty
post-training body to the door, wrenching it open to let himself out into
the cool foyer, embarrassed by the blush rising in his rugged cheeks as
he speculated on how those stained skimpy pants got into the gaffer's
hand.



And then last night, flying into Germany for the game, chilling in
Heathrow on the way out of the UK: Mason Mount taking him aside, tugging
a little on the sleeve of his baggy white hoody in the waiting lounge
where the men were spaced out. Ross, slugging back water from a bottle,
turned in his hard plastic chair to eye the other footballer a little
impatiently. Settling into the chair beside him, the slim handsome
21-year-old leaned in his way a little and murmured his request. `Can we
have a chat, Ross? You got a minute?' There was something needling and
irritating in Mount's voice that evening but the needy wideness of his
eyes and the gentle bite of his lips made Ross start. He nodded silently
and followed him away from the stiff rows of chairs and the darkening
view of the runways.

`What?' the 6ft2 Scouser demanded quietly when they were over by the
disused vending machines. He shoved an elbow against the glass front of
one to lean, frowning a little impatiently at his younger pal and trying
not to think about how adorably cute he looked there in an old England
hoody over his retro Chelsea tshirt, slim and youthful and clean.

Mount flicked a nervous gaze back towards the scattered forms of their
teammates, spread out over the rows of seating in the quiet waiting
lounge for their private flight. He turned back Ross's way and the clear
worry that filled him struck Barkley with a moody sympathy. But he held
back, trying to control his feelings. He needed to stop letting himself
get so... sentimental about the loveable dweeb.

`What?' he repeated. `What's wrong?'

`Aw Ross,' muttered Mase quietly. `Fucked up, mate. I did a bad
thing.'

`Huh? What's up? Oi, what you talkin' about, lad...?'

Mason groaned and seemed to regret starting the conversation -- but he
soon explained. Barkley listened impatiently to the fragmented story; he
soon found himself looking back across the sparse gathering of their
colleagues, his eyes finding Werner at the centre of one cluster, seeming
to entertain a few of their fellow Chelsea players with whatever story he
was telling, more animated and jovial than Barkley had yet seen him.
Mason was a poor storyteller, his nervous regret and clear embarrassment
creating a jagged tumble of events, but Ross pieced it slowly together.

It had happened the day before at the training ground, it seemed, in the
showers to be specific. Realisation dawned uncomfortably on Barkley when
he felt the direction of the tale, Mason's awkward justifications for
how frantic the training had been, how riled and frustrated he'd been
that day, how rushed he'd been all week since the cup final etc. etc.
etc. Mason squinted at him and leaned in really close beside the vending
machine. `I can't believe I did it,' he said in a hot whisper. `I
feel so shit, Ross, I can't believe I betrayed Declan like that...'

Barkley felt a little envious or provoked lurch in his tummy. He did his
best to stare placidly and non-judgementally at his friend but
straightened up a little, patting his hand against the Perspex screen and
rubbing the other fist over his chin and lips. Mason was going into
detail: how exhausted and sweaty he'd been as he finished a last few
shooting drills and the little joke he'd been having with Timo about who
would score the most next season, and- `I don't need to know,' Ross
grunted a little frostily, but then warmed as he carried on. `Mate, you
don't have to tell me all this, okay, it isn't my... it ain't my...
Look, just... what you gonna do, tell Dec...?'

Mason groaned. `That's what I don't know.'

Ross hated the trie-hard sensitivity of his purring voice. `You know how
tight you two are, lad. He'll be ok with whatever. But like, you don't
have to say nothin' if you don't...' He trailed off, hearing the
indecisive uselessness of his advice. `I mean...' He scratched the rough
stubble of his cheek and then pulled his palm back over his short-cropped
hair, staring at Mason's dismayed drooping expression. Ross just looked
dimly at him, lost for what to say -- he was actually a bit shocked by
Mason's stulted confession, the rather romantic image in his head of the
21-year-old lovebirds suddenly tainted, and his own loyal resistance
seeming rubbished. He'd fought so hard to pull back from every touching
or teasing Mase since he'd realised how close he and Declan were...

He was rescued or exiled from this sudden intimacy with Mason's turmoil:
Giroud and James were joining them, full of burly laughter and chat about
some transfer rumour about a former Chelsea teammate. Ross and Mason
pulled instinctively away from each other and the Scouser looked away
again, his eyes finding Timo's profile, bursting into smug laughter and
shaking one hand at the players to his left and right, enjoying himself
as an inactive guest on this Champs League outing.



Why was he here, for fuck's sake? No need.

Ross kicked off his trainers in the hotel room and brought both hands to
his clammy face, reliving the gloomy moment the whistle had blown and
their 7-1 defeat over two legs had limped to its inevitable close. The
big northern midfielder got up from the stiff little armchair and kicked
about the room, which felt far too hot and uncomfortable to be wearing
this team tracksuit in. He went and pushed open a window, unimpressed by
the air-con, and poured himself a glass of water from the bathroom sink.

He had a good mind to go and find Timo now, he thought. That prick needed
a talking to. He thought about the ostentatious way the German striker
had strolled into their end-of-season training sessions as if he owned
the place, quiet and thoughtful in his observations of how everyone
played, standing on the side-lines and chirping along with Lampard like
they were best buddies. Fuck that. He thought about Timo's pants ending
up in Frank's hand, that stupid childish blue of the briefs, what the
hell...? He pictured him and Ruben in the gym, too, the confident
flirtiness of big Lofty; he pictured him and the physio, he was pretty
sure he knew exactly which woman Pulisic meant now, and he pictured him
cornering Mason Mount in the showers, and...

He punched the wall in front of him stupidly, fist smacking the pale
green paintwork on the short space beside the bathroom door. He regretted
it instantly, cradling his hand and blinking back the pain, swearing
under his breath at his own foul mood and inability to control his
feelings tonight. His temper was only making the stuffy hotel room feel
worse. Perhaps it was cooler down in the bar, holding an icy beer bottle
in one hand and taking solace in the grumblings of his colleagues...

A rapping knock on the door cut through his moment's indecision. Barkley
looked that way with a huff, bracing himself -- who would have been sent
up to fetch him, to corral him into a nightcap? Perhaps the captain, that
sex-mad lunatic whose spare room he essentially `lived in' for the
price of hearing him plough his wife twice a night? Perhaps Pulisic, all
needy and American, or Giroud or Kepa or... maybe it was Mason again, here
to spill more gossip in his lap and give him puppy dog eyes of boyish
guilt. Ross stormed to the door and undid the inner lock before yanking
it inwards and staring harshly at the visitor in the threshold.

Timo Werner met his stare with a bemused and sugary smile, hands tucked
neatly into the pockets of his dark blue tracksuit bottoms, the jersey
and tracksuit jacket of the outfit eschewed for a close-fitting white
vest over his sturdy pale torso. `Barkley,' he coughed in his oddly
formal accent, softer than Ross was used to in German tones, `may I...?'
The other player lingered stiffly in the doorway while Barkley backed off
awkwardly, momentarily convinced that his own ire had summoned Werner out
of the night by some dodgy magic.

`Come in,' he grunted crossly, trying to convey all his rattling
annoyances in the phrase. Who was this smug foreign prick muscling in on
the team and thinking he was billy big bollocks? The vague jealousy that
had been building resentfully in Barkley's chest seemed to take clearer
form as Werner entered the room and shut the door quietly behind him.
This prick was too much, too full of himself, he was not what Chelsea
needed. He was not what ROSS needed in his life.

Surly and caught off-guard, he retreated over the room, allowing Timo to
drift into it, then folded his arms and gave him a stony look. `Was
hoping to talk to you, actually,' he grunted. He puffed out his chest
and squared his shoulders. He didn't have the heaviest or most built of
upper bodies but it was hard and strong and he knew the thick weight of
his thighs would be obvious in these close-fitting tracksuit bottoms
now.

`Oh?' enquired Timo conversationally, stepping slowly his way. `That
is good, because...'

`Aye, a quick chat,' Ross barked, cutting him off. `I wanna know what
your problem is, mate.'

Timo raised his dark blond brows. `My problem, Barkley...?'

`Aye, your problem. Fuckin' about Stamford Bridge like you've been
here years.' Poorly controlled temper and the heat of the disappointing
night broke down inhibitions and brought his feelings out in the open.
`Timo fuckin' Werner, the future of Chelsea Football Club, please...'
He hugged his arms tighter to his chest and rolled his wide eyes.
`We'll see about that.'

Werner paused at this onslaught, shifting a bit from foot to foot,
lifting his fingers from his pockets and holding his hands a little
awkwardly in front of himself. The 24-year-old seemed surprised but not
upset by the sudden violence of the comments, a bland smile on his lips
as he swayed foot to foot. `Oh Ross,' he began, `let me...'

`You keep away from Mase,' Ross snapped instantly, reliving that brutal
alleyway confrontation in which he had made things clear to Jack
Wilshere. `You keep your hands off that lad, he's a good kid and he's
got a bright future, he don't need no one interfering and worrying him.
That understood?' He glowered at his chosen enemy, the target of all his
frustration, waiting for an answer. `Do you fuckin' understand me,
Timmy?'

`I do,' Werner said, though his tone hinted otherwise. `Mason Mount?
Well, he is a lovely gent, and...'

`You keep off him,' Ross snapped. `You hear me? He's in pieces over
what happened.'

`What happened?' Timo said with a laugh -- the gentle music of it sent
shudders of annoyance through Barkley as he heard it.

`And Ruben,' he added stupidly. `Lofty is a good mate of mine, I dunno
what you think you're doing with him.'

Timo frowned now. `Ruben Loftus-Cheek, my friend...? Well... he and I
just... aha, when you have to relieve yourself, you have to...! You must
know this, Ross, it was just...' He gestured with courtroom innocence.
`Ruben and I wanked off in a shower after a tough gym session, it was
good to see someone look after their muscles like I do, and...' An odd
grin. `We did not touch each other, if that is what you mean?'

Barkley barrelled on. `And trying your luck with the gaffer,' he
growled. `Lettin' the old fucker sniff yer pants, you desperate prick...
is that how you're gonna guarantee all your match-starts in September,
is it? God, how pathetic, whoring your dirty keks out to try and-`

`My pants? The boss?' murmured Werner. `Is that where they are?! I
lost a favourite pair of mine in the changing rooms this week, you know,
and-`

Barkley went on ferociously. `Don't be teasin' young Christian,
either,' he almost shouted, loosening his arms and pointing an accusing
finger at Werner. `You know he saw what you were up to, you
troublemaker, takin' risks like that and dippin' your wick at the
training ground, for fuck's sake...'

Werner laughed brightly. `She was crazy for it, and it had been a long
time for me in lockdown,' he said, almost yawning out his dismissal.
`Of course I saw the American watch me, I didn't mind, I certainly
didn't encourage it or... oh Ross, let me tell you, this is all very-`

`Keep off the lot of them,' Ross yelled at him, stepping forward and
shoving the finger of accusation into the centre of his chest. `Keep
your mitts off my pals, keep your stupid nose out of our business. You
need to earn your place at this club. I dunno who the fuck you think you
are or how they do things in Leipzig, but you wouldn't last a second on
the streets of Liverpool...' He heard the shaky stupid anger in his voice
and a moment of self-awareness took some wind out of his sails. He
returned angrily to his first point. `Mason is a vulnerable lad,' he
railed. `He's trusting, he's sweet. He's easily put in trouble by
dickheads like you, so if you fucked him, then-`

`God,' gasped Timo. `Is that what you think happened?'

Ross paused, blindsided. `...Isn't it?'

That laugh again, that chiming playful sound. `Gosh no, my friend.
Mase...! It is so silly... you know, the poor boy, he simply drops his soap
in the shower, nothing more... and then he is bending down, and... well, I
was there, you see, and... for a moment, yes, he was touching my cock, my
balls, yes he gave them a feel in confusion, he looked so lost, but...
nothing more, Ross, nothing more than that...' The benevolent apologetic
smile was the most frustrating thing Barkley had seen in his life. But he
realised just how cloudy his sense of these events was, how little he had
really listened or taken in. He glared furiously at the younger and
slightly shorter man, affronted by his casual little smile and the loose
frame of his strong body, arms and shoulders bare.

`Just back off,' Barkley demanded staunchly. `I don't care what
happened. These are my pals, my people. I worked fuckin' hard to be
here, to stay here. I don't need a fella like you up in my business,
messin' around with my mates, and...'

Now Timo was really laughing, a hearty belly-laugh. Ross held his finger
lamely at his chest and felt it brushed aside as the other man closed the
little gap between their bodies, their mutual heat rising off their
athletic figures as they came face to face. `Oh Barkley,' sighed the
German. `You are quite slow here, you know? You are not quite... how you
say this... joining the dots?' Frustrating flash of perfect white teeth
and arching of those thick brows over his deep brown eyes. `Yes, they
are your friends, your people. Of course I take interest in each of
them.' Then his hands were down low and resting just above Barkley's
hips. `How else do I get close to you?'

Ross froze. His perceptions spun and his head throbbed and the gentle
warm touch seemed to lance excited discomfort up and down his tall frame.
His knuckles the grazed the warm chest of the white vest where his
pointing hand had been brushed back, the other hanging in a fist at his
side. He looked down into Timo's eyes, standing a couple of inches over
him now. `You think I not notice you?' Werner said more quietly,
something different in his gentle German voice now. `You think I not see
you even before I hear Chelsea offer big money? Ross Barkley, England's
bulldog...' He sucked in his breath with a whistle. `When I arrive in
London, one thing I know first... I must have a taste of this.'

Barkley stared blankly at him, lost now. And then, with no further
ceremony, Werner was going down to his knees. Ross looked down on the
spiky dark blond of his hair, the broad pale bulge of his shoulders. He
felt his fingers hook inside not just his trackies but the black boxer
briefs beneath, and pull down. A moment of cooler air hit his heavy
semi-hard prick as it and his fat balls were swung into view, but then
the hot hungry breath of an approaching mouth caressed them instead. Ross
gawped down in silence as his nob was taken into a mouth in one deft
movement, played against bottom then top lip and over the rolling moist
strength of a tongue. It took Ross a long few moments to let out the
building moan of surprised pleasure.

Ross pushed his sweaty hands down and clasped them to Timo's strong
shoulders. His cock twitched and stretched, filling the wet space of a
man's mouth. He felt lips drag back over the veiny shaft then push under
it to kiss down to its base and then against the wrinkled moist skin of
his bollocks. He threw his head back on his thick neck and let out
another moan, and another. That strong tongue travelled back up his shaft
and onto the foreskin and then the sensitive head below. Ross growled out
his enjoyment into the still hot air of the hotel room, no hint of a
breeze creeping in through the open window.

Werner's blowjob was as strong and precise as his football. He knelt
there, holding each hand gently but precisely against the curve of
Ross's hip, just above the drooped waistband of his layers, and he let
his lips and tongue do the work. His head bobbed a little, but not much.
The rest of his strong 5ft11 body, kneeling there, barely seemed to move
or flex. He knew what he was doing. Ross quivered and purred and rolled
his thick neck as he let his eyes flutter open and closed. He thought
about the strange misunderstandings or overreactions that had made him so
angry, but they were out of his grasp, as if they'd never been very real
at all; instead, he thought of the cups they had lost, the tournaments
that had crawled away from them. The season was over and they had a lot
less to show for it than he felt he deserved. But summer was here, and
freedom... freedom to... let go...

Sweat pooling in every crevice, Ross let go, spilling his thick sour load
on Timo's bizarrely talented red tongue. He felt and heard the German
slurp at his long thick rod, still calmly hunched on his knees, and he
kept his hands to the warm slope of his shoulders, until the younger
athlete began to pull gently back and slobber his lips away from the
sticky tip of the Barkley boner. Ross closed his eyes, unable to really
watch as Timo climbed upright and stood calmly in front of him, patting
his lean muscular flanks through his training jersey, feeling the hot
sweat that dampened the nylon.

`Delicious,' reviewed the hot new signing quietly. Ross, eyes still
closed, seemed to hear him lick his lips and make a little appreciative
gurgle. He felt another pat, to his upper arms, and then the release of
distance as the visitor backed away from him. When he opened his eyes
properly, Werner was halfway out of the door, looking as cool and
collected as if nothing had happened at all. `Sleep well, my friend,'
Timo told him, `our flight is rather early. See you at breakfast, eh?'
A strange polite wave of one hand and he was disappearing through the
door, which rustled slowly shut behind him.

Ross stood very still, his own sweat cascading down his abs and down his
thighs, his cock slowly deflating where it projected between them. He
blinked as sweat trickled past his brow and towards his red-rimmed eyes.
Very slowly, he pulled up his undies and then his trackies, then took a
moment to adjust the ungainly contents at the front. Then, in a blind
daze, he went into the bathroom and stripped, and stepped under a cold
shower, the water seeming to sizzle on his worshipped body, from
shoulders and pecs down to the round prominence of his much-admired rear.
Barkley threw his head back and let the cold water gush over his face,
cooling his temper, his lust, his ego. He was, after all, apparently
`delicious'.



*FULL APOLOGIES FOR THE PUN IN THE TITLE! HOPE YOU ARE LOVING THE LATEST
CHAPTERS... I AM HOPING TO DO SOME SUMMER HOLIDAY SPECIALS NOW ALL OUR
FAVE FOOTY STUDS ARE STIRPPING OFF ON THE BEACH ETC BUT THE EUROPEAN
TOURNAMENTS SURELY DESERVE MY ATTENTION FIRST? SEE HOW FAR MAN UTD AND
MAN CITY CAN GET RESPECTIVELY... LET ME KNOW WHIC CHARACTERS YOU NEED TO
CATCH UP WITH IN THEIR SUMMER HOLIDAYS ONCE THAT'S OUT OF THE WAY*