Date: Sat, 15 Aug 2020 16:05:10 +0000 From: writer guy Subject: Premiership Lads Part 166: Fanboys Part 166: Fanboys The siesta was a fairly major part of the working day now the lads were in Lisbon. The first half of their training day began early to make the most of the cooler half of the morning, up with the sun, hurried healthy buffet, quick bus ride from hotel to sports centre. And then as the Portuguese day approached its fiery zenith the squad would retire to their fancy hotel on the edge of the city, needing to cool off and relax and -- Pep Guardiola firmly instructed -- take at least one hour of nap to recharge before the late afternoon second shift at the training ground. The coach back to the hotel was full of heated yawns and a struggle for many players to really focus on the speech from their manager. Guardiola was reiterating his message about how crucial this tournament was for all of their careers, how this could be a defining moment for every man here; Tommy Doyle listened from near the front of the bus, loyally attentive to their bronzed head coach, but privately dismissive of his own chances of leaving the subs bench tomorrow night. The 18-year-old had no resentment of this fact, he understood the importance of these knockout games, knew he was not considered quite `there' yet. He was deeply excited to be here in this famous footballing city anyway, a final jolly to an exciting first season of his adult career, and he longed for his teammates to reach the Final at the end of the month just to extend the dazzling trip. Doyle had no wild plans after the footballing season fully ended for them, since his fairly cautious working-class parents had banned him from joining any of his mates on quarantine-risking lads' holidays and such. He anticipated a bland few weeks of video games and limited socialising between the Lisbon trip and pre-season work at the Etihad, so he was determined to enjoy being here in Lisbon! This determination did tend to make these middle chunks of the day a bit frustrating for Tommy, wandering off the bus and through the cool plant-filled lobbies of their hilltop hotel. A lot of the more senior players looked shattered and eager to follow Pep's instructions -- it wasn't that Tommy wasn't working hard or giving himself to the training, it was simply that much less was expected of him. At the moment, he felt like a bit of a spare part there, far from the coaches' main focus. As a result, he never felt like disappearing to his room after the first training session of the day, not like some of the more well-established City guys. Kyle Walker, for example -- just like yesterday, he could see the big muscular defender shuffling dozily across the foyer and huffing impatiently at his roommate, fellow defender John Stones, clearly wanting to get upstairs and into bed for his siesta. Tommy could understand it, could see that an experienced defensive player like Walker was the absolute core of the team with these top-level clubs as knockout opponents in each game. The amount of pressure that must be on Kyle and John, Tommy thought, no wonder both of them were disappearing from the main group of City players very quickly and vanishing into an elevator before some people were even off the coach. Poor guys. He hoped they got a good rest and were ready for Guardiola's second session of the day, always even more intense than the first. Tommy couldn't help but look at another of the club's star players, also sheepish and tired-looking, with a bit more than the professional comradeship he felt for Walker and Stones. The teenage footballer stood in the centre of the airy lobby and watched as Kevin de Bruyne engaged in some quiet conversation with the assistant manager. The red-haired Belgian still looked a little red-faced and blotchy from training in the early sun, a vaguely harassed expression on his blocky face. Tommy also looked at the way his pale blue polo shirt hugged his big shoulders and the thickness of his strong legs in the navy shorts they all wore. With a voyeur's guilt, Doyle pulled his eyes away from the sight of the older midfielder and dawdled away down a stretching side section of the foyers, looking instead out over the pool area and their impressive views of the coastal Portuguese city. He appreciated what De Bruyne had done for him, he really did. It had been so kind of him, the way he'd handled Doyle's little confession, stepping up and offering him those snatched experiences. He was so grateful to have briefly unburdened himself on the placid patience of the Belgium player, and to have gained those tiny snapshots of what he'd spent his teen years fantasising. The problem was... Well, had he really thought strong silent Kevin was a guy he'd be able to confide in further and talk to properly about this...? He'd been shocked when he got that late visit after the Madrid game, really astounded, but he hadn't expected it to maintain the awkward status quo where KDB barely paid him attention at training and avoided his quiet attempts to initiate conversation. Doyle rested with his hands in his pockets, pulling his shorts tight about his thighs and backside, looking out over the orange and white vista of Lisbon, convincing himself to be okay. Poor Kevin, he thought reasonably, it must be really weird for him to have done what he did, to give Tommy that access to his private parts. And Tommy knew he'd overstepped something when he asked the older bloke to touch him back; probably that stupid request was why De Bruyne couldn't even seem to look him in the eye now! Plus he was under such pressure, just like exhausted Walker and Stones, and Aguero and Sterling and everyone else... It was understandable, Tommy told himself, denying that it also hurt and made him feel little sickly twinges of longing. `Doyle mate,' came the familiar Manc accent of his own roomie and fellow youngster, padding down the marble flagstones of this passage and appearing beside him, freckled by the sun and as weary-looking as some of the other first team regulars. Foden was dangling their shared room key in one hand and stifling a yawn with the other. `Hey,' Tommy said lightly, leaving his reverie of polite longing aside. `You heading up for a siesta?' Foden shrugged a little, clutching the keys and stepping up at his side to see the view he was admiring. `Not sure I'd be able to sleep. Feel a bit sick with the pressure, y'know. Tomorrow is gonna be big.' Doyle nodded thoughtfully. `I guess nobody wants to let Pep down,' he said innocently. `No,' the 20-year-old beside him said quietly, and Tommy glanced at his tight, haunted expression. Doyle looked about them, then back out of the big windows, but focusing on the near-distance view instead: the sprawling lush green and azure rectangles of the hotel pools. `Bit of a swim then?' he suggested, nudging his fellow youth academy graduate in the arm. `Chill out for a bit before lunch. We can always tell the boss we took our naps like the oldies.' He grinned confidentially and saw a smile of agreement in his co-conspirator. The two were good pals, but a rift of sorts had opened between them this season. The two-year difference in their age seemed more pronounced now that Foden was beginning to really claim his place in the City squad, increasingly present in the gaffer's starting line-ups. Doyle admired rather than envied Foden's progress, but he knew their boyish friendship from the academy and youth team were fading away as they become competitive men in the midst of the `real' City team. Like everyone else, he knew that Foden was a rare talent and he could see that their careers might take very different directions over the next few years. As the lean young pair discreetly enjoyed the smaller and quieter pool out to the side of the big hotel, Tommy felt keenly aware of the difference. Phil had none of his holiday relaxation here, his naïve excitement to be anywhere near an international tournament. The 20-year-old seemed heavy with responsibility and quiet with tension. To be fair, Tommy reminded himself, his local comrade was already a father at his young age and the amount of hype and pressure on him as Pep's `golden boy' must be so tough. It was good for them both to be away from the others for a bit, alternately diving into the cool water or lingering on the pool edge dipping their toes, laughing over memories of the stern coaches in the Manchester City youth academy, or gossiping about where other lads from their age group had got to now. Tommy was glad he could maybe a relaxing influence on the rising star, chilling there in their soaked shorts; after a while, he left Phil to his lengths and tiptoed across the hot lawn to the pool bar to order a couple of non-alcoholic cocktails for them, keeping an eye out for Pep or any of his team who might turn up and demand that they go lie down. It was here at the bar that he heard it and got his idea. The hotel didn't have a lot of guests at the moment, was at least half booked out by the City encampment, but there were a British couple in their 40s or 50s, hunched together in middle-aged romance and sucking on the straws of gaudy resort cocktails; Tommy still enjoyed the anonymity of never being recognised outside of the City bubble, and could casually eavesdrop on them as he waited for the two `virgin' drinks to be prepared for him and Phil, as if they were still just a pair of kids aiming for the Premier League. `No way,' the man was saying to his partner, `is that even true?' `I swear it,' she was telling him, `it's true! I mean, what are the odds? Here we are in the same hotel as Manchester United, and it's Barcelona in the next one along! Still, haven't seen any famous players here at all, maybe it's some other nothing team. Doesn't Beckham still play for them...?' `For fuck's sake, Karen,' grunted the man. `Manchester CITY, I said... But... Barcelona, really...?' `Honest, the woman on reception told me. I think they're keeping a low profile. Apparently they're playing a game tonight, some cup? Who plays for Barcelona, then? Is that where Beckham is now?' Icy glass in each hand, Tommy drifted away from the pool bar and stared past the walls and palm trees of the hotel grounds to the rising silhouette of the next big establishment on this ridge of developments overlooking Lisbon. No way, he thought, could Barcelona really be based next door?! Ankles swaying in the rippling pool water, he frantically shared this overheard gossip with Phil, the short wiry midfielder looking a lot more himself than he had so far on the trip, an intrigued grin playing on his sharp features. `We grew up on the legends in that team,' Doyle said to him. `I mean, obviously I hope they lose tonight so we don't have to face off against them, but... wow. After City, they were always the other team I would follow, y'know, remember when I had their full kit when I was like 14... haha. What a twat. Full kit wanker.' `They're not what they were,' Phil pointed out with surprising assertiveness. Tommy laughed at this, knowing it to be true but still starstruck by their apparent proximity. He didn't really focus on the distant thoughtfulness of his older teammate, just cradling the sugary drink between his hot knees and swaying his legs back and forth to kick at the pool water. For Doyle, Barcelona still represented a glittering international dream from the early days of his football apprenticeship. `They'll still pull it out of the bag tonight,' he told his friend. `I mean, they have Messi, for fuck's sake.' `Yeah. They do. Hmm.' `And Pique,' he gasped admiringly. `What a player, right? Oh man. I honestly might just sneak over there and see if I can't get a selfie with some of the players or something, hah. Proper little fanboy.' `Really...?' `I dunno. It would be so lame, wouldn't it? But... I dunno. It's so cool just being here, mate. So far from rainy Manchester, haha. I defo can't be fucked with an afternoon siesta...' He looked over for encouragement or disapproval from his roomie, knowing it was a silly and impetuous idea, but sorely tempted to dry off and pull his shirt on and sneak between the two hotels. `What are you thinking? I mean, you never get to say how much you admire a guy when you have to PLAY each other, right? So it would be cool to just see a couple of the guys there, tell them how they inspire us... do I sound really fucking uncool right now?' `Yep,' Phil said in a strained laugh, `but... why the hell not, eh?' He had a little troublemaking glint in his eyes, Tommy thought, some spirit of rebellion that was unlike the most dedicated aspiring footballer he'd ever worked with in his teens. But it was better than the haunted and pressurised look of the youngster most days lately! `Let's do it, then,' he said adventurously. `Let's go hang out with Barca.' Phil Foden took the lead, since the younger City lad seemed to have been reduced to a giddy kid by the prospect of meeting one or more of his idols. He used to see Doyle as a contemporary but now the inexperienced 18-year-old seemed miles away from his life and the pressures he faced. He'd never felt more tested than here in Lisbon, really seeing so little of the boss but knowing how much Guardiola would need him tomorrow night to secure the win against Lyon. They exited the City hotel by a quiet staff exit at the side rather than the main gates, and did the same to get access to the neighbouring and very similar establishment that sat just up the sloping road from them. It was a little busier than the one the English club had booked out, its grounds ringing with loud Iberian voices and the laughter of holiday-makers. Phil grabbed two hotel-branded towels from the back of wooden seating in the gardens, tossing one over his own shoulder and passing the other to a grinning and blushing Tommy. `It'll make us look like guests,' he said quietly, his whole posture gripped with steely determination now. Confident in this simple prop of entitlement, Foden led his accomplice through the hotel's sweeping green gardens and around its big main pool, quite busy with guests in and out of the water, nothing like the discreet oasis they had just enjoyed -- should still be enjoying, really, cooling off as instructed and resting until the late team lunch. The working day still held much challenge for Phil and the other senior players, but this detour felt vital to him now. `Do you think it's even true?' Tommy asked him with a tremor of doubt. `Well, it was your gossip, not mine,' Phil snapped at him distractedly. `I know, just... I don't see no footballers. Do you?' `Come on. This way. I reckon...' Trying his best to look casual and touristy, Phil moved on, up a short flight of steps onto a long terrace outside some kind of bar or restaurant; a few archways took them deeper into the hotel, making him more aware of the petty trespassing of their quest. He shouldn't be doing this. He was a serious footballer now, not a kid. If he got caught out sneaking around like this it could be really embarrassing -- Guardiola for one would be unimpressed. But it was for his sake he was here. `Wait, why's that bit cordoned off?' he heard Tommy murmur behind him. He looked over to where the other player was gesturing, seeing some signage and red rope marking a slight barrier across the lobby area they were passing through -- beyond it, a series of similar aches seemed to lead out into a separate garden area. Aha, it made sense -- of course the football squad had to be kept quite separate from the busy hotel occupants for quarantining reasons. Phil moved over to the flimsy barrier, stroking the rope curiously, peering across and out into the blinding sunlight of the hotel's rear gardens. There was a pool in sight and some dim masculine forms silhouetted in the brightness. Flashy shorts, six-packs, a few ugly tattoos. Yep, footballers. Doyle slipped under the cordon, letting out a nervous giggle at their secret antics. He looked across the broad tiled space and out into the more private rear grounds of the establishment, unable to quite recognise any individuals yet but quite sure the rumour was true after all. Clearly this place was the base for a rival team in the same way as their own, but was it actually Barcelona? Suddenly anxious at the daftness of this jaunt, Tommy turned with a bashful laugh to Phil, but found that he was actually standing on his own. Next to him were the couple of makeshift signs and loosely tied cordon rope, but no sign of the Stockport wunderkind. He paused, mystified by his friend's disappearance, and suddenly twice as uncomfortable with their decision to sneak into this neighbouring hotel for... what, a selfie? That they'd be too embarrassed to post on Instagram in case it got them in trouble with their management? Doyle wilted, full of regret, wondering if he should just slip back under the rope he'd ducked beneath and make his way back out of the hotel. Presumably bloody sensible Phil had done just that, the sneaky gimp! He'd obviously fucked off back the way they'd come in a moment of panic. Well, fair play, he probably had more to lose than Tommy, in reputation anyway. Plus, he really was such a goody-goody -- the more first-team experience he got, the more Tommy was realising that Phil was exceptionally obedient and loyal to authority, he didn't know any other players more desperate to keep in the gaffer's good books and to always be in favour! Fuck it -- you're here, aren't you? He may as well sneak forward a bit and get a glimpse of what lay down this side of the hotel. He could always claim to be lost. He still had the folded towel over his left shoulder with the hotel's logo and name marked all over it, his dubious claim to residency. He supposed that if he was asked his room number he was bound to fuck up, but all he wanted now was a little peek, a sight of the Barcelona players, and a couple of old heroes in particular. He didn't have to actually speak to any of them and make a twat of himself. With a deep breath, the teen midfielder advanced across the empty lobby space and turned a corner onto the back of the building, lingering beneath a veranda that lined it. Yep, it was them. He could distinctly recognise their German goalkeeper, ter Stergen, stood in just shorts and vest by the big swimming pool, deep in conversation with a figure that from this angle might or might not be the famous but terrifying Luis Suarez. And clambering out of the water there, was that Antoine Greizmann, his long brown hair scraped back and wet as he hoisted himself onto dry land? Jeez. Barca blokes. He really had idolised this team at its dominant peak. A couple in particular. His sparky blue eyes were searching out one particularly recognisable Barcelona legend in the tanned physiques of the men around the pool, but he wasn't seeing him. He walked slowly along this half-covered path, a little screened from the garden area by the density of tropical vegetation planted to add privacy and tranquillity to what was obviously some sort of VIP outdoor space. He found he was holding his breath, letting his hand stroke idly over the hard green foliage that helped to hide him, creeping like a spy as he made his way the length of the pool area, recognising player after player but seeing neither of the Spanish team's two most celebrated long-term fixtures. `Puedo ayudarte?' broke a gravelly Spanish voice somewhere behind him and to the right. `Deberías estar aquií?' Tommy turned slowly and gawped at the figure looming over him. Gerard Pique was an intimidating 6ft4, enough to dwarf even an average height young lad like Doyle. He also had a very testing expression to his darkly tanned features, glaring at him beneath thick brows and his short-cropped beard framing the tight lock of his jaw. Tommy didn't have enough language skills to understand the demanding questions, but he was now very conscious of his intruder status and the towering challenge of the Spanish centre-back standing over him. `Pique,' he breathed reverently. `Er -- I'm such a big fan, y'know...' A vague grunt. `Huh. English? Who are you? Why are you here?' Stood before the glowering Barcelona icon, Doyle felt young and silly. `I just wanted to meet you,' he said in a small voice. `Such a fan, mate. Such a big Barca fan when I was younger, I mean, still now, I guess, and er...' He lifted a hand and scratched his neck and his blushing freckled cheeks, unsure if the stern-faced Spanish giant was even quite catching what he said. He fell quiet again, caught out, embarrassed, annoyed at Phil for abandoning him. Pique reached forward and in one simple move snatched the towel from his shoulder, looking at it strangely, then tossing it over his own. He was dressed in a loose white Nike vest and undersized camouflage swim shorts that showed much of his long thick and hairy legs. Tommy glanced past him, which was not easy given his height and breadth, and realised where he'd emerged from, one of the slatted wooden doors in the wall that he'd dismissed as cupboards but were clearly a series of quite private changing rooms for the pool. The celebrated footballer grunted again and said something more in Spanish, stroking his bearded chin; Tommy felt like he was about to shout on security or his teammates or literally grab him by one skinny arm and hoy him off the hotel grounds. But then he spoke in heavily accented English again, narrowing his eyes. `A big fan, you say? Well. Always nice to meet fan. Tell me... how much of a fan are you, English boy?' Foden stared in through the smoked glass of the spa area, utterly confident that it was him, even through this distorted screen for privacy. He was down another corridor a little further on in the cordoned off half of the hotel, standing by the entrance to this more private indoor pool. There only seemed to be one occupant inside there, and he was just building up the guts and temper to burst on in there and confront him. Clenching his knuckles at his side, he was aware of his own short feebleness here and the fact he was risking a great humiliation in what he was about to do. But he was tight with the same devotion and need that made him throw every ounce of his strength into training at the moment, committed to City's success with every fibre of his being. He'd worked harder this last two weeks than he'd even known was possible, every bit of his wiry young body ached. He absolutely had to get that win for Papi, it just had to happen, he had seen the fire in his eyes. His manager's ambition was his ambition, his manager's victory was his victory. And so for the same overwrought reasons, here he was, carried along in Tommy Doyle's boyish admiration but for very different reasons. Yeah, he'd been a huge Barca fan back in the day, who hadn't? He'd idolised many of their players when he was making his first stabs into the senior game. He'd listened in awe to the brief rumours that the Spanish club was interested in him at one point, though he'd never even half-considered leaving the Manchester club that meant everything to him. He moved further along the wall and found the long steel bar on the doorway, braced himself and pushed it inwards, entering the warm moist air. The circular pool was a bubbling hot tub of some sort and the lone man was hunched over a panel of controls on his own, so he didn't immediately detect Phil's arrival. Taking shaky steps across the room, Phil cleared his throat loudly to change this, and then froze on the spot when the older gent lifted up on his feet and turned his way. Leo Messi peered curiously at him, dressed in a baggy pale yellow tshirt and even baggier dark shorts, once again sporting that short reddish beard that made his looks fit his nickname. The 33-year-old Argentinian stood still and quiet for a minute, looking closely at him, then his lips cracked into an awkward smile and he clapped his chunky hands together once. `Foden, is it?' he said in a slow, confused voice. `Er -- what are you...? Hello, er...' He was, understandably, baffled to be interrupted on his way into the jacuzzi, looking Phil up and down as his mind worked. `Hello Messi,' the 20-year-old Englishman said with a tight frown, taking a step closer to him. `What... Are you a big fan?' the Barcelona man said in the same slow puzzled tone, still forcing a smile, rubbing his hands together and edging forward to meet him beside the small pool. Phil stared fiercely at him. `I was,' he answered coldly. `I see,' said Pique in his slow, luxurious voice, rubbing a hand idly down the front of his vest, using the other to scratch at his beard. `Yes, thank you, that is very kind...' `Yeah, that poster always had pride of place on my wall when I was younger, haha,' Tommy added, grinning bashfully at one of his biggest idols, still hovering beside the screen of large foreign plants, tugging at the neck of his polo shirt and shifting from sandaled foot to foot. `You were like my... number one hero, haha, I mean for a while, er... It's so cool to meet you.' Gerard gave him that stare again, all dark and intense, his grey-blue eyes highlighted by the dark brown hair and tanned skin. The way the 33-year-old centre-back stared him down was both intimidating and exciting. He really did feel like a boyish fan rather than a fellow sportsman, loitering there and fiddling with his shirt, glancing past Pique into the open changing room he had obviously been using. His Barcelona tracksuit and a small backpack could be seen on the shelf seating at the side, neatly folded. The tall man was still lightly holding one of the slatted doors, as if he might duck back into his changing space because his day had been ruined by this unwanted intruder. Tommy grinned apologetically at him, unsure how to expand on his mumbled comments of admiration. `You love me then,' Pique said simply. It sounded odd, but then he maybe wasn't fluent. `Er, yeah,' Doyle said. Well, it wasn't too much of an exaggeration! Had his boyhood fascination with striking athletes like Pique been entirely sports-focused? How formative had those sticker books and magazine posters of star players been in his developing attraction to the male form...? `Cool,' replied Gerard, but not casually or acceptingly. There was something very measured and thoughtful in his whole stance still, not quite wary, but poised. Tommy grinned foolishly at him and wondered if he was supposed to take this as his cue to go, or if he should be saying more. He wanted to recount some key matches that had really inspired him. Gerard just wouldn't stop staring his way. `Come in here,' Pique said then, nodding behind him. Then, pausing, `How old are you?' `Eighteen?' `That is good. Good. Come on.' And Pique was backing away from him into the small square room in the wall, hand on the wooden door, other hand pulling loosely at the vest. Tommy stepped after him, a fantastical suspicion rising in him that he didn't know how to cope with. He was probably blushing deeply as he followed the Spanish icon into the changing room and the door clicked shut after them, closing them together in the musty wood-scented space, lit only by thin bars of sunlight that sneaked through the gaps in the door. It painted stripes of darkness and gold down the 6ft4 tower of Pique's presence. `You know what I want?' the big defender asked very quietly. Could he know? Could he have sensed Tommy's strong attraction? What, did he give it off in waves of smell? He stood awkwardly there, not knowing what to do. Was this happening? What the hell? `I... I'm not sure,' was his soft reply. `I think you do,' sighed the Catalan hunk. `Onto your knees, English boy.' `Yes,' Tommy replied instantly, instinctively. `Yes, Pique.' He began to get down, lowering one knee and then the other, feeling the roughness of the floor on his bare shins, his shorts squeezing about his thighs and behind as he did so. He was instantly hot and felt the sweat under his arms and about his neck. He was glad it was quite dark in here, the intensity of his blush would be hidden. In front of him, Pique was lifting the baggy white vest off in one move and tossing it behind him onto the shelf; his predatory eyes had not left Tommy once. `I haven't done this before,' Doyle murmured with fearful longing. `That okay,' murmured the Spaniard. `You love me, si?' `I do,' Tommy mumbled. `I just dunno if I can...' Pique shushed him, was undoing the tight drawstrings of those camo shorts, and in the slats of light Tommy enjoyed the bare ripples of his long smooth torso, presumably shaven. This felt unreal, this speedy escalation of being caught. It must be so obvious that he shouldn't be here. Hot and scared and horny, Tommy pulled up on his own top, shedding it, pushing it down on the floor, glad of the cool shadow as he stripped to the waist too and then... oh god... fuck! Down were coming the shorts, and there it was, Gerard Pique's long thick tool, hanging from a full dark bush. He stared at it and discreetly pinched himself on the side in case he'd fallen asleep in the sun and this was a mad dream. `You know what I want now,' the 33-year-old growled to him above, `so what do you say...?' Messi's smile was more strained and his eyes gave away his nervous bewilderment. `I do not understand,' he admitted slowly and quietly, handsome and tense. `Why are you...? What is it you want from me if you are not... a...' He frowned more openly. `Are City staying in same hotel as us, is that it...? I didn't think...' `We need to talk,' Phil snapped. Hearing his reedy voice and standing face to face with the great footballer made him feel more stupid and pathetic here, but it's not like Messi was any bigger than him, he was so much smaller up close, just 5ft7 like him. Broader, though, quite heavy with muscle by the look of it, and so much noticeably older and tougher. Still, he went on. `How could you do it to him? Eh? How could you hurt him like that?' Leo's eyes widened a little but his confusion seemed fairly genuine. `Who are we talking about?' Phil scoffed. `So he means that little to you?' he demanded. `Is that it?' `Foden,' Messi said, partly as if just experimenting with whether he'd got his name correct. `Er, Filipe, is it...? Er... I am so confused, young man. Why are you here, eh? Let me show you to...' `Pep,' he almost yelled, holding his ground as Leo edged forward. `You broke him.' This froze Messi to the spot. His frown intensified and he stepped an inch or two back instead of advancing on him. He didn't say anything, didn't deny anything, he just stared bleakly back. Phil scowled. `I don't care who you are,' he said shakily. `I don't care if everyone thinks you're the greatest. I know what you are. A liar, a cheat. Good for nothing cunt.' His own choice of words shocked him. `You broke his heart, you know that? You really fuckin' hurt him, all those years back.' `Pep,' mouthed Messi quietly. `Pep Guardiola.' He looked as if he'd been slapped. `Yeah, that Pep,' Foden told him sarcastically. `How could you do that to him? Yeah, I know everything. I know what kinda scum you are, Lionel Messi, even if I'm meant to worship you like some stupid king or whatever...!' Tommy leaned forward and pressed his palms into the dipping paler skin between the man's thighs and hips, curling his fingers there for support as he brought his face curiously forward and let out his worried breaths against the thick hanging thing. He thought about just grabbing it, rubbing at it like he had for Kevin, that had seemed to work, but... no, he knew this big Catalan beast wanted more, and HE wanted to GIVE more, he just... well, he hadn't been this close to one really, and he had all these worries about how it must taste, and... `Was I wrong?' asked Gerard quite softly. `Did I guess wrong, boy?' Tommy looked up at him, their blue eyes meeting. `No,' he admitted. `No, you were right.' `Go on then. Suck me.' So blunt, quite cold. But so beautiful! Ugh... he had to swallow his fears, he had to do this. He pushed more on the strong support of the man's waistline, hands to his white patches, and he pushed closer, letting his lips brush it, the tip of his nose too, and then the curve of his chin. He let his lips open, stroking more wetly on the warm flesh, then slid out his tongue. To his great surprise and comfort, there was a low gravelly moan. He opened his mouth more and kinda kissed it, then licked it, then dropped a bit lower and scooped his lower lip around the fat dangling head of it. Another of those very sexy moans from the big centre-back. `That is it, go on,' muttered Pique. Yes sir, Tommy wanted to gasp, but he had his mouth full. `I suppose I know a few things about you,' Messi said in a choked little voice, `in that case. You and he must be...' He screwed up his little face, seemed to shrug with one shoulder, but didn't say it. `Papi has a new Golden Boy, then.' He let out a long rattling sigh. `His new protegee. How did I not guess when I heard so much about you...?' `That's none of yer business,' the Stockport scally muttered. He collected himself, remembered his goal here, his mission. `You lot ain't got a chance of this trophy, admit it. Barcelona ain't shit any more. But if we come up against you in the Semi or the Final then we're gonna smash you. You won't get a single goal, Messi. I won't let you. I won't let you beat him, you can't hurt him like that again.' He was breathing heavily and spitting out each word, his anger getting the better of him. The story of Messi's distant betrayal was still fresh in his mind, the look in Guardiola's face as he'd recounted it to him in their bed. `That's all I came for,' he concluded with a little tremble of fury. `I know you might think I'm just some kid, but I'm gonna be the greatest in the world. And I won't let some old has-been get in the way.' He wasn't even sure what he was threatening, now he'd said it, now he was here. But the Argentine hero did look rattled. `You do not understand these matters,' Leo grunted at him. `What are you? A child?' `I'm old enough to know a thing or two,' Phil countered lamely. Another strange sigh from the iconic player opposite him. `He... he talks of me?' Phil hated the insinuation of this. `He told me enough. I know what you did, you scumbag.' `I hurt him,' murmured Messi, not quite a question or a statement. `I broke him.' `You did,' Foden agreed. `He did everything for you, he made you. And you repaid him like that with another arrogant son-of-a-bitch just like you...' He spat venomously on the floor between them, still the lad from the streets of Lancashire. `If you make it through your Quarter Final tonight, and THAT'S a big if, you might face us, and you better watch your back -- City will destroy you. I'll make sure you leave that pitch in... in... in a stretcher...' The angrier and more dramatic he became, the more high-pitched and lame he sounded, but he couldn't stop himself. He was shaking. Leo was staring almost through him, not even seeming to register this last wild attempt to threaten him. `I broke his heart,' he said again, almost under his breath, and then, `he is still heartbroken?' `What?' `He still hurts for me?' `What? No -- I mean -- you... you ruined things, and...' `He thinks of me even now?' The Barcelona player was still staring through him with this distant glow on his handsome mid-30s features. He pulled back and brought both hands up to his tanned face, seeming to forget Phil was even hear. That look in his eyes! Phil was not liking the way this conversation was going. He backed off, needing out of the confrontation he'd sought. `You stay away from him, from us,' Foden almost shouted. `You stick with your losers here. Go out there tonight and see if you can perform, I'll bet not. You've lost it, you and all your lot.' He backed to the door, grabbing it. `It's over for you and your shitty team, okay?! Now... fuck this...' He took one desperate last look at his perceived enemy, then wrenched open the glassy door and spilled out into the cooler corridor, gasping for air and desperate to be anywhere but here. Tommy closed his eyes to concentrate better and held on to the taut muscle of the big older man's thighs, working his lips back and forward along the solid length of it, doing what he'd seen hungry twinks do in the little porno vids he'd looked up. Was it working? Was this right? Pique was making those moans again so it must be! He kept going, losing any sense of time, just focusing on the task in an anxious workmanlike fashion. When he felt the fat tip of it push too far back he gagged a little and had to pull back, but these little interruptions just seemed to make big Gerard gasp and moan more and let out pleased chuckles. Tommy felt one of the great man's hands come down to stroke or hold the side of his head a little, and he didn't know if this was a sing of approval because he was getting better at it, or an attempt to steer him because he was getting it wrong. He knew sometimes his top teeth grazed it and made Pique flinch but make no noise, and he tried to avoid it, but the thing was so thick and his mouth felt so inadequate to it. Whether it was approval or guidance, the hand on his head excited him. He liked the thick rough feel of the defender's fingertips against his little ear or in his gingery hair or rubbing down his hot blushing cheek, tracing his jawline or reaching for the edge of his neck. He tried to pull his mouth and back forth more quickly, but something told him he wasn't doing it right, or enough, or too much, or something! Vague physical confirmation of his inadequacy seemed to come in the form of Pique's other hand. He was gripping the base of his own prick now, pulling and squeezing at it, while much of the length stayed in Tommy's anxious mouth. Pique was moaning more, hot wet pants high above him in the cool dark of the changing cubby. The cum hit him by surprise. He didn't realise Gerard was close, that his attention was doing the trick. It was just suddenly there, a hot wet sensation and a salty taste that shocked and excited him. It tasted better than it could smell, he thought blandly, afraid to really relish it but feeling the gifting or approval that he'd managed to satisfy his hero like this. Above, Gerard gasped for a long time, and he held his mouth in place, letting the spunk ooze through his mouth, unsure if he should swallow or not. When the cock pulled away, he was too scared to, and he spat it out on the floor between them, a swirled mix of spunk and saliva. He felt ashamed to do that but it was all so overwhelming. He could still taste it in his mouth. Was it disgusting or delicious or neither? He wanted to remember this moment forever but already it felt dark and fuzzy. Before he knew it, Barcelona's powerhouse defender was tugging him up by his hare shoulders, steadying him, still staring at him, but pushing him away a little, moving apart to wrench up his shorts and retrieve his vest. Tommy stood there still shaking. He watched the vest fall back over the thick dark muscle of the Spaniard's body, saw Pique stare back his way, his eyes perhaps catching the outline of his young hard-on in his shorts. He stared, but then his lips formed words, and Tommy slowly appreciated that he wasn't staring at his visible arousal. `Manchester City,' he muttered distastefully. Tommy giggled out a vague `Yes', stooping for his polo shirt, pulling it up, finding his way into it, wrestling it over his hot head and his shaky shoulders. Pique was still staring oddly at him as if he was just noticing something for the first time. The ginger teenager hesitated, unable to quite spit out the question `Was I any good?' or `How did that feel?' or `Can we do this again???' He was taken aback by Pique's low murmured outburst. `You're with the club?' he asked. `You are... a footballer...?' Doyle blinked at him. There was no reason Gerard Pique should know a fucking thing about him but still it came as a slight shock. `Er, yeah,' he said weakly, `I mean, I just sit on the bench mainly, but... erm, name's Doyle, Tommy Doyle, erm... I play midfield...?' His voice sounded desperate and pathetic. He felt like maybe he was ruining a magic moment in his own future memories. Pique spat something in Spanish that was probably a swear word. `Your phone,' he demanded suddenly, `need to put number in it.' `Er, oh, erm -- fuck -- I actually forgot it, don't have it with me, so...' He could hardly contain his excitement. `You want my number,' he mumbled. `I suppose we're both in Lisbon for a while, so-` `Here,' Pique grunted, finding and pushing a large slick smartphone into his hands. `Number not for me, puta. It for my lawyer.' Tommy stared blankly at him but began punching his mobile number into the `new contact' form, still overwhelmed. `He will contact you about, er, how you say, Non Disclosure Agreement? Yes? And fee. Thirty thousand Euro, I think? To...' He mimed the zipping of his lips, looked angry but determined, irritated but satisfied. Tommy stared at him, trying to piece it all together. His confused stare seemed to rile the older man more. `I thought you just fan,' he grunted, `safe risk. Now you...' He waved angrily at his shirt. `Now you are dangerous. My lawyer will call.' With that, he was shoving a hairy muscular arm at the wooden doors and pushing them open, flooding their briefly intimate space with light and sound. Tommy staggered out into the sunshine after him, the salty taste in his mouth, his head ringing, Pique's phone still clutched in his hands. The footballer snatched it back and gave him a withering look. `Thank you for that,' the teen told him. `I mean, er... it was cool to meet you... um.' `Go,' barked Mr Shakira firmly. `We are done. I have game to prepare for. Go.' Much later on, Pique's game spiralled out of control on the screen on the wall, blaring out in the hotel bar that was fully occupied by the members of Man City's travelling squad. In a nearby stadium, goal after goal was conceded and the once-great Spanish club slipped not just into defeat but into destruction. Not even half-time yet, and it was 4-0 to Bayern Munich. The City men watched with mixed emotions. There were some taking great pleasure in seeing the mighty fall: Kyle Walker was clearly of this opinion, toasting to each defensive disaster and openly mocking the former champions of Europe. Others muttered tensely in wariness of Bayern's performance, astounded to see such quality from the German side. Many swung from view to view, enjoying the drama from a largely neutral stance but with the heavy knowledge that the obvious victor here was likely to become their opposition in the next stage of the tournament. The squad's nervous excitement for their own Quarter Final ramped up with each twist of the on-screen game, with each round of sugary soft drinks, with each jokey chant that rippled through their number. By the time that the game was almost over, 8-2 to the winners, some members of the team were almost hysterical with the mingled awe and horror of what they'd witnessed. Phil Foden watched the entire Quarter-Final battle with one eye on the TV screen and one on Guardiola, seated with his assistants at a separate table in the centre of the room. Phil was on the edge of a sofa, tucked in beside a laughing, high-spirited John Stones, discreetly studying the City manager's unfolding reaction to seeing his once-beloved club brought so low. He frowned inscrutably at the football massacre and rubbed his silvery chin, not engaging with the murmured conversation of the men around him. Phil studied his frown, his sad eyes, his tragic honour. Was he upset for the fall of his old kingdom, Phil wondered, or for its handsome prince? He looked at the screen, where a close-up showed Messi trudge from the pitch with his red-and-blue-clad allies, slow and tired and angry-eyed. Foden watched him, feeling a sickly lurch in his tummy. He looked at the great Argentine footballer without the malice and bitterness that had driven him to confront him, and just saw a displaced legend enduring a galling defeat. He thought about all of his pathetic viperish words to him today, and he choked back a growing sense of guilt. A Champions League Quarter-Final, and Leo Messi seemed to have barely contributed to the team's performance; could that really be a coincidence? When the post-match analysis was over, both on-screen and in the midst of the Manchester City camp, the men headed to bed. There would be minimal training in the morning, simply rest and preparation for the evening and their own Quarter-Final clash with Olympic Lyonnaise. As the men made their way upstairs and down branching corridors to their shared suites, there was a tense atmosphere in the air, a heavy acceptance of what they'd seen and what tomorrow night might hold. Tommy Doyle got the impression some men might sleep fitfully, shaken by the high stakes of the competition and the severe manner of their gaffer as he parted with them downstairs. Doyle still imagined he would be unlikely to step on the pitch tomorrow night, but he felt the pressure all the same; this really was the peak of European football here, this would take everything they had. The unspoken need to best absent Liverpool in some way by claiming their Champions League crown was thick in every conversation tonight. Before turning left towards he and Foden's room, he paused and looked the other way, where a scattering of other footballing pairs were talking quietly on their way to bed. Among them he sighted De Bruyne, pottering along at a slight distance behind his roommate Aguero. The Belgian redhead stopped, as if sensing the eyes prickling him from behind, and looked over his shoulder. Tommy quailed a little at the earnestness of the older bloke's thoughtful stare, the worried pout on his lips: was he thinking just about tomorrow night's challenge, or about what hung unsaid between them all the time now, Tommy's sexuality and Kevin's secret kindnesses? Aguero barked something at De Bruyne, and on they went. Tommy lowered his eyes, let his shoulders droop, fished in his tracksuit bottoms for the key. Foden slumped by him, arms hugged about his chest and a serious look on his face, leading the way again. Tommy passed him the key wordlessly. He wasn't seriously angry with the other young player, but he did resent being abandoned in the Barcelona hotel. Of course, he wasn't going to tell Phil a word of what he'd experienced there -- would he ever tell anyone? -- but he had certainly tried to intimate that it had been weird and uncomfortable and he was unhappy with that Pep's Golden Boy had pulled a diva move and fled the scene without him. He would keep up this silent treatment for tonight, he supposed vaguely, and soften towards him tomorrow. He could hardly bring himself to sulk with a teammate on a gameday, could he? He licked his lips as he followed Foden into the room. Could he really still taste Pique's strong seed? Surely not. He'd brushed his teeth twice and eaten two meals since then. But... Wow. It had been so... powerful. Had it even happened? He'd asked himself that all through lunch, all through round 2 of training, all through the long bath he took afterwards. The `yes' answer got cloudier each time. He watched sulky Foden stomp about their room finding his iPad and headphones and organising his call home to his family. Doyle couldn't face speaking to anyone, feared that he might get confessional about his true self. He went to the window and played with his phone, inspecting the slew of good luck messages Manchester-based friends had sent him this evening ahead of tomorrow. And then he saw the odd one out, a message from an unsaved number, written in very formal and perhaps translated English. It was the half-expected but not-quite-believed message from the `lawyer'. It bore the name of some firm and a solicitor with a contact number and email and euphemistic references like `my client', `agreed silence', `undesirable subject matter'. Wow. He stared at the screen in his hand, and asked him one more time: Had it really happened? Yep, it certainly had. Outside on the hot dark pavement, he stared up at the rows of glowing windows on the side of the hotel, his feet aching his in his trainers and his shoulders hunched miserably in place. He lifted one hand to pull through his straight dark hair, dragging loose damp strands out of his eyes. He sucked in a deep breath of the stuffy night air, longing for a storm. Slowly, the solitary figured walked through the gates of the hotel grounds and up the long path to its glassy doors and spacious foyer. Inside, he approached the single young woman left at the reception desk at this late hour, who lifted her head and smiled uncertainly at him. `Are you...?' she began to ask and he smiled tightly and confirmed, `Yes. Leo Messi. Thank you.' `Mr Messi... what can we do for you here at the-?' `I'm here to see someone. I hoped you could tell me which room I need.' `Oh, sir, it is so exciting to see you here, but I could not possibly-` `Guardiola and I go back a long way. A really long way, that is. Please.' He winked. `It is not just anyone asking, is it?' He laughed performatively at the arrogance of the question, trying to measure her reaction, glad by the blush and smirk of the starstruck hotel worker. He saw her indecision and then her yielding. He grinned determinedly at her. `It has been a very long night. I hope you are able to help me.' The young woman, smiling widely, turned from him to her computer. Pushed a few buttons. Sighed a little at her own data breach. Grinned back at him. Told him the room number. He nodded, patted the desktop with both hands. Thanked her. Moved on, tense but ready. Headed upstairs to the room she had given him. Headed upstairs to see his Papi. **TO BE CONTINUED VERY SOON...**