Date: Thu, 27 Aug 2020 22:11:16 +0000
From: writer guy <premiershiplads@outlook.com>
Subject: Premiership Lads Part 173: Out On Loan

Part 173: Out on Loan


The doors swung and clattered and the men poured noisily indoors,
intoxicated by the ridiculous 5-0 win -- a pre-season friendly and
nothing more, but testosterone and relief made for an ecstatic response
as the players made their way inside and through the narrower entrance to
the small London stadium's home changing rooms. Their brash post-match
banter, clicking studded boots and peels of happy laughter echoed about
them and water flicked from kit and flesh and hair, soaked through by the
summer storm that had broken over the game's final minutes.

Their newest and youngest member swaggered through at the heart of this
upbeat mood, the arm of his captain slung matily about his broad
shoulders and another fella slapping him joyously on the arm as he was
bustled through into the changing room, so much smaller and more basic
than the facilities he had quickly become accustomed to at Tottenham's
grounds.

Alex Pearce, their 30-year-old skipper, squeezed him at the shoulders
and, for the third time, shouted victoriously in his ear. `Our new
secret weapon, fuckin' hell, sweet!' He shoved his young teammate away
with him with a gruff laugh and stomped off in the process of peeling his
wet Milwall FC shirt from his thick body, leaving the lean young striker
to sway briefly on the spot and grin with uncontrollable glee at all the
praise and approval he was winning from his new colleagues after this
informal first outing; one by one, the lads had been quick to celebrate
his early goal in the game and now that it was part of such a
comprehensive win over local pals Bromley, it was being heralded as even
more fantastic and auspicious.

The other goal-scoring blokes of the match were getting similar
attention, but without the novelty and aplomb of a youthful loan arrival
-- Jed Wallace was loudly celebrating himself now, shirt already off and
smooth body glistening wet as he hopped about in his socks and shorts,
predicting Championship triumph for the ascendant little club. Likewise,
the younger lad Connor Mahoney was booming in his Blackburn accent, full
of the rough down-to-earth personality that seemed to mark a lower-league
side like this, swearing his head off about how he couldn't wait to boot
one in past Boro or Watford or Norwich. Matt Smith too, a 31-year-old
Brummie who looked as likely to start a fight as kick a football, was
braying about his own goal as he sat at the far end of the immediately
scruffy changing rooms, patting his knees and scratching mud and loose
grass from his legs. Lastly, Ryan Leonard, a midfielder with a broad
Devon accent, seemed to be reenacting his performance by kicking a stray
ball about the room with such energy that it slapped hard into the back
of a shirtless teammate and left a stinging red mark on his skin.

And the fifth of these scoring minor heroes, Troy Parrott, grinning about
him and enjoying the belated sense of belonging that his early goal had
won him in what had felt for the past fortnight like an alien world. The
18-year-old Dubliner scratched at the thickening beard on his strong
jawline and took his place along the wall, pulling at the sodden nylon of
his new Milwall shirt and rolling his sore shoulders and hips, run ragged
by his enthusiastic performance against some low-level local
competition.



It had come as a shock to Troy at first, being called into a meeting with
Mourinho and an assistant manager as soon as he touched down in London
after a short Irish vacation -- he'd walked out of that office panting
behind his protective face mask and feeling almost as if he was being
told off or punished. Farmed out of Tottenham Hotspurs to a minor club,
and one with the dubious reputation of Milwall...! It had definitely taken
some wind out of his sails, having spent much of the year boldly
expecting the 20/21 season to involve him really making his mark on the
Spurs line-up and the Premiership as a whole. But instead of becoming an
exciting new striker in Mourinho's attempts to revive the waning North
London club, he was being carted down the city to a languishing
Championship side with the most violent and disliked supporters in the
whole of English footy. What's more, his holiday was being cut short by
different season dates and training schedules -- while many of the
Tottenham guys he'd slowly befriended were just fucking off to
Mediterranean islands or further afield, he was sitting on clacking
half-empty overground trains into the South East of the capital to begin
life as a `Lion' in Bermondsey.

A surprise phone call on the way back from his first proper day's
training had been the turning point, really; the young Irishman had been
slumped in his chair on a tube back into the north of the city, thinking
about how totally different the vibe was there, how the coaching and
attitudes and the whole set-up of it all was a world away from Mourinho
or his predecessor at Tottenham. He'd been gripped by an uneasy sense
that he felt younger and less confident in his new surroundings, and also
slightly softened and spoiled by his formative years in Spurs youth
system since moving over the Irish Sea; he'd felt wet and lazy next to
the rugged Championship blokes he was thrown in with now. Surely his
plucky younger self on the streets of Dublin wouldn't have balked at the
different level of banter and footballing lifestyle...? Then his phone had
buzzed in his small rucksack and he'd nearly choked on his chewing gum
when he saw his senior teammate's name on the phone.

`Er, hiya?'

`Troy,' breathed the voice of the already legendary Spurs and England
striker. `How's things?'

Parrott took a while to answer. `Yeh, good, er -- aren't you still
in...?'

`Barbados, yeh -- but I just wanted to give you a bell, kid. I heard
about the loan. It'll be great, trust me -- they sent me there when I
was a tiny bit older than you, did a season down in Milwall myself, cut
my teeth and learned so much. It was the making of me, really. Honest.
Yeh. Just wanted to say that.' He paused, listening to the slightly
tinny and disrupted line from the other side of the world, marvelling at
the kind gesture from a guy he tended to think hated him; he'd never
found Kane very warm or friendly to him in the months of his intimacy
with Eric. Whereas Dier had embraced him as an ally and confidante (and
sometimes, he thought with a hot little blush, more), Kane had been
distant, suspicious, disapproving. And since the romantic pair properly
split...

Kane talked on, giving him a few more insights from his own lower-league
loan days, how it had built him up and really kick-started his wonder
years for Tottenham; Troy had perhaps heard this before at some point but
it really did the trick, hearing it from the horse's mouth. Apart from
anything else, the youngster found himself enjoying the parallel it
created between him, 18-year-old unproven hopeful, and a man considered
England's greatest active striker. By the time the phone call was over,
he was sitting up straight on the quiet tube carriage, grinning out of
the window at the flashes of London graffiti, holding his rucksack to his
chest and eagerly anticipating day 2 working at Milwall.

But before the call ended, Harry's strong masculine voice wavered a bit
and he asked a quiet question, seeming to lower his voice to avoid being
heard by whoever was with him in the Barbados night. `You heard much
from him, this summer?' the forward asked glumly. `How's he
doing...?'

There was no need for the England hero to elaborate on either question.
Troy sighed silently and thought before answering. `He's well,' he
said simply, `seems to be still enjoying his holidays with the Spanish
lads.' A long pause between them on the distant call, who even knew what
hour it was down there where Kane and family baked in the sun. `You
should call him,' Troy suggested, doing his best to avoid any passive
aggression in the soft burr of his accent. `I think he'd like that.'
There was the vaguest of evasive grunts down the line and then mumbled
goodbyes and good luck, and someone calling Kane's name in the
background. Then he was hanging up, and Troy put aside his empathy for
the luckless pair, and focused on a new attitude to the challenges ahead.
A season in the Championship to prove his mettle and take his rightful
place as a star striker on a Premiership squad!



And here he was, stripping out of a sopping Milwall kit, buzzing with the
thrill of a big informal win, feeling properly one of the lads here at
this very different club; not the Premier League primadonna he'd felt
after those first few days of vicious tackles and dirty jokes and yobbish
fans acknowledging him in the neighbourhood on his way out of the
Bermondsey training centre.

`So many quality goals,' Leonard was rabbiting a few yards away, down
to his grey and black sports briefs, which hung heavily at the front,
dabbed with seeped through rainwater around the outline of his privates,
`one for all the proper lads... oi, Bradders, shame you couldn't rise to
the occasion, hah...!'

Parrott flicked his eyes over to the guy to his right, a more experienced
striker entering his third season with the team. Tom Bradshaw was an
average height bloke with what Troy took to be pretty handsome model
looks and hairgel advert brown locks framing his look of mild annoyance.
`Well, I didn't want to show anyone up or deny you plonkers your
moment,' the 28-year-old forward quipped back, in the middle of wringing
out his footy shirt and then pushing down his dark blue shorts.

`There was no denying us!' Smith hollered from the far side of the
room. `Five legends, five goals...!'

Legend, thought Parrott vainly, a smirk creeping onto his long chiselled
face. He suddenly noted that Bradshaw was looking his way, paused in the
act of stripping off his shorts; the young lad paused as he stood, the
little arrogant grin hovering on his parched lips, sensing the vague
hostility of the older man's expression. `Think that's funny, do ya?'
the Devon bloke snapped, his Plymouth accent strengthening. `Eh?'

Troy stared awkwardly at him, swallowing his grin, unsure what to
actually say to this unprovoked rudeness, but quickly rescued by Ryan
Leonard, who shoved a bare elbow in Bradshaw's back and burst out
laughing. `Leave the Leprechaun alone, mate!' he boomed. `We all love
our new Troy boy, don't we? Ah, come on Tommo, get over it, you can't
score every game, even if you were up front and in prime position,
haha...' Troy felt quite glad when the Welshman's intense stare left
him, the less fortunate striker swallowed up then in the jibes and
chuckles of their teammates; Mahoney and Smith joined in and big broad
Wallace grabbed and shook at Bradshaw in a friendly near-naked hug on the
way to the showers.

Shaking off the vague embarrassment of seeing an older teammate so
obviously resentful, Troy finished undressing, feeling the clammy heat of
his tall lean body burn under the damp kit, holding a folded towel with
vague prim modesty as he crossed the shuffling gathering to the communal
showers -- not exactly shy, after all of the formative experiences of the
past year, but modest and somewhat conscious of the attention he had
inadvertently drawn from certain men at times. Attention that it was
harder and harder to categorise as `unwanted'.

He slipped into the roiling steam of the showers, which like other
aspects of the low-budget stadium, felt so different to the slick clean
facilities of the new Tottenham Hotspur Stadium or luxurious training
complex in the suburbs; vaguely rusty and dingy, unnameable clanging
noises breaking through the hiss of water, slapping of wet feet, muttered
banter. Eric would fucking love it, Troy told himself with a saucy smile,
interweaving through slippery bodies and finding a space between Smith
and Mahoney where he punched the shower into life and squeezed green
soapy gel into his palms then against his firm chest muscles and the
sporadic dark hair sprouting between them.

On his right, Connor Mahoney was laughing heartily and to his left Smith
and Wallace were both chatting loudly at Bradshaw in the corner,
continuing the wind-up at the one attacking player not to get inside
Bromley's net. Troy politely smiled and listened but held back,
remembering the Welsh international's bitter glance and sulky question.
He loved the jokey way he was being included, but not necessarily at
another fella's expense, or in a way that could make him any enemies or
rivalries at his home for the year -- but then, quite suddenly, the
attention was on him.

`See, look at it,' Wallace was barking crassly, `he's fucking HUGE,
ain't he, he's got you beat in that department too, Tommo...!'

Spluttering hot water from his mouth and rubbing soap out of his eyes,
Parrott became suddenly and awkwardly aware of what the conversation had
swung to: the thing swinging between his legs as he turned about and
soaped up his upper thighs; Smith was gesturing quite bluntly at his
crotch, the lads were laughing, and Bradshaw was moodily rolling his
eyes. They were all bollock naked in the hot clammy air of the shower
block, but Troy felt bizarrely exposed as he registered the way the guys
looked him up and down and cracked up laughing at the size comparison
being pointed out. Inevitably, the Irish teen found himself looking at
the other striker and then down his lean lightly tanned torso, clearly
shaven, to the mildly shrunken and withdrawn droop of his privates. Tom
seemed to catch him looking and just scowl, but again his resentment was
a drop in the ocean of camaraderie:

`Fucking hell, is this'n really just 18?' Wallace was cracking up.

`Stand still or it'll hit one of us,' cackled Mahoney, shoving him.

`Disgusting,' bemoaned Smith playfully, `how's a guy meant to go home
to his missus knowing that prick exists? Dirty Irish beggar...'

`Ah, leave the poor mite alone,' wheezed and chuckled Leonard, rinsing
out his shaggy dark hair and pushing at his mates softly with a
sympathetic glance at Parrott, who was blushing madly and trying his best
to cover up his long loose cock with one hand while also rinsing down his
soapy shoulders.

Luckily, the conversation was quickly diverted: long-running in-jokes and
petty rivalries bubbling away in the hot tension of the showers as Troy
rubbed at his face and gave up disguising his endowment, listening to the
men about him bicker and accuse and drift away on tangents before
starting to finish up and pitter-patter away again. More mortified than
he wanted to show at being singled out so publicly for his equipment, the
teenager lingered longer, scrubbing pointlessly at his limbs one by one
and sometimes staring down his body at the hang of his privates, debating
if they were really anything so special after all. (Eric thought so,
didn't he? And Kane hadn't shied away from it, when it came down to it.
And Shane, obviously, and kinda Charlie Austin once, so...)

When he slipped from the showers, knotting the towel at his hip, he was
quite relieved to be greeted by a tracksuited coach with a clipboard in
his hand. `Can I just grab you for a minute?' he asked in a pushy
voice, beginning to go on about some missing paperwork that Troy didn't
understand; he almost laughed as he tightened the towel and followed the
middle-aged bloke out of the changing rooms and into the tunnel. Again, a
different world: Premiership players handled with such kid gloves when
they were in the middle of changing and showering and so on. Team life
here had something of the senior school PE lesson about it, just
overgrown lads being bossed about by jobsworth ex-players who didn't
value their egos or privacy one bit.

The upshot was Troy spending the next ten minutes in the chillier outer
space, dripping into his towel, signing a couple of documents and being
berated as if the club's sloppy admin team were his own personal
responsibility, an 18-year-old Dublin rapscallion who had singlehandedly
ruined all admin staff since arriving less than two weeks ago. Dazed and
indignant, he was allowed to head back into the changing rooms as the
bulk of his teammates emerged, pink-cheeked and buoyant and ready for the
healthy late lunch that would await them upstairs.

`Be quick,' Leonard told him warmly, punching him in the shoulder then
ruffling his shaggy wet hair on his way past in the same Milwall
tracksuit as everyone else; Troy mumbled his assurances to the guys and
dripped his way back into the emptying changing rooms, tiptoeing over the
scruffy lino floor to where he'd left his dirty kit in a tumbled heap
and his tracksuit folded neatly waiting for him.

He was glad of the potential privacy as the noises dimmed and he felt
increasingly alone, loosing the towel from his waist and pulling it
roughly against his crotch and six-pack and up to his neck, shivering a
little after the cool exposure of the corridor outside. He buried his
face in the scratchy fabric of the towel (nothing like the expensive
softness he was used to! Okay, calm down now, Troy) and dragged it up to
dry his hair, then started when he slid it away and found he'd turned
round and come face to face with his self-appointed rival.

The Wales player stood there half-dressed, the bottom half of his team
tracksuit pulled on but not all the way up, showing the Hugo Boss
waistband of his red boxer shorts; his smooth skin pinky-white from the
heat and vigorous drying, his hair in a damp slick and his beard framing
a moody pout. The 28-year-old Shrewsbury lad glared irritably at him from
handsome dark eyes, hands on hips and lean muscles faintly flexed. It
was, Troy thought, supposed to be an intimidating pose; but Bradshaw's
slick looks and average height rather undermined the moody stance, and
the tall Irish lad just stood awkwardly in front of him, holding his
towel in both hands, waiting for Tom to speak.

`Oi, you,' the fairly well-spoken Welshman began, lifting one hand with
a jabbing, accusing finger.

`Me?' Troy replied with throaty innocence.

`Yeah, you,' Tom snapped. `Dunno who you think you are, carrying on
like that.'

`Carrying on?' Parrott demanded a little irritably. `I wasn't
even-`

`I saw you,' complained the striker, poking him in the centre of his
chest. `Saw you flouncing about loving the attention, oh my god, five
minutes and one lucky goal, what a HERO, for fuck's sake...'

`Erm, pal, I...' Troy interrupted softly, rubbing at his damp chin with
the towel, then jolting as Tom suddenly wrenched it from his grips and
flung it aside, leaving him exposed in his naked skin and thus feeling
suddenly disadvantaged as the older bloke squared angrily up to him.

`Don't fucking interrupt me,' snapped Bradshaw. `What a prick!
You've been here a minute and you think you're billy big bollocks --
one goal! One fucking goal! I supplied you with it anyway, I had the
front line under control, y'know, and actually...' He was getting quite
red in the face as he stormed on vindictively. `Turning up out of the
Prem like you're summat special, couldn't even make the pitch under
Mourinho up there, fuck's sake, so...! Spurs reject from Leprechaun land,
nowt more...' Another rough jab of that fingertip into Troy's chest,
making him shuffled awkwardly back, naked and still a little damp and
very aware that there were now just the two of them left in here, the
teenage newcomer and the experienced Championship pro.

`You're nowt, mate,' Bradshaw yelped at him, something unconvincing or
inauthentic in his brash anger in his subtle Welsh borders accent,
`you're just a pretender trying to show off, so you best get your ideas
in order and know your place, or-`

`You sure I'm nothing?' Parrott demanded suddenly, cutting through not
with volume or force but just the sudden confident purr of his voice,
standing his ground. Bradshaw had paused, his fingertip digging into his
sternum and that flared scowl on his boyband face, looking alarmed that
this 18-year-old wannabe dare say anything back to his little lecture.
Troy smiled with settling calm at him, taking hold of the trembling hand
poking him in the chest and easing it backwards, then nodding down
between them. `It just seems like you think a bit more of me than that,
pal, y'know?'

The front of the royal blue tracky bottoms was jutting out a little below
the sagging waist, a diagonal ridge bulging through its glossy fabric
where the Milwall footballer's hard-on showed with painful clarity. Tom
Bradshaw stood now like a man who had been punched in the face, his 5ft10
body poised and tensed and his bare chest heaving with a series of slow,
panicked breaths. He let out a strangle gurgle noise that sounded like
the failed start of an insulting comeback. It was his face flushing red
now as Troy stood calmly in front of him, relaxing his tall frame,
pulling fingers back through his soft damp hair in a thoughtful stroke,
feeling the situation twist.

`Everything alright, pal?' he chirped at the 28-year-old.

`Ugh,' grunted Tom vaguely.

`Getting a bit carried away there, "Tommo"?' he asked very quietly.

`Fuck off,' mumbled the other striker.

`How unfortunate,' teased Parrott in a gentle chuckle, folding his arms
over his chest.

`Fuck off,' Bradshaw mumbled once again.

`Let me guess. Is it this lad giving you some problems?' He nodded
downwards, directing Tom's eyes back down to where his fat long cock
dangled from the neat hedge of his pubes. He watched the man's eyes
flicker nervously down then up then back down, then finally locking
uncomfortably with his. He was bright red in the face now and his anger
was replaced with mortification. Troy let the moment of tough silence
stretch out between them, not out of cruelty but justice; it was obvious
enough that this fella's frustrations were far from professional
rivalry, but that didn't justify his bully-boy attempts to intimidate
and deter a promising new teammate, did it? Troy enjoyed the moment of
twisting discomfort, knowing the fear and shame that gripped this
confused bloke in front of him, hard as a rock in his trackies, staring
at every inch of his naked young form.

At last, he cooled the tension in a warm whisper. `It's okay,' he
said. `You're not the first.'

Tom blinked a few times, rapidly. `What?'

Troy shrugged, relaxed his arms, idly scratched at just above his cock.
`People are always fascinated by it, I guess. You wanna touch it?'

`Fuck no,' Tom hissed at him, all prim heterosexual horror. `Fuck off,
kid.'

Parrott sighed and held his gaze and idly brushed his own fingers at the
base of his shaft a bit, then tugged at the end, toying with the stretch
of his foreskin then letting it all dangle. A sharp intake of breath from
his nemesis-turned-admirer. `Well what do you want? To take a picture of
it? To paint my portrait? Come on, Tommo,' he jibed, settling into the
new dynamic, `let me know. We got a lunch to go to.'

`I'm straight-`

`I never asked, did I?' demanded Troy in a voice so full of young
authority that he surprised himself.

Bradshaw reached out and stroked it, more as if his right arm was
compelled by unseen forces than his own desire, since he screwed up his
reddened face and made an uncomfortable little grunt, pushing his fingers
clumsily against the fleshy piece. Troy just stood impassively, arms
hanging limp at his sides, letting his dick be explored and pulled and
then held with a firmness that belied Tom's conflicted expression. Very
very slowly, he tugged on it and rolled back the foreskin then cupped his
fingers under to fumble at the loose ball-sack. Troy grinned a bit.
`Now, don't that feel better, Welsh boy?' he asked in a mocking but
soft voice, then he reached up and in a patronising manner, stroked his
fingers through the long sweep of hair on top of the shorter bloke's
head.

`Jesus,' Tom mumbled to himself, his voice shaky and pitchy now.

`Nah,' Troy chuckled, `not quite.' He glanced at the doors, shook
himself, and then moved quickly back towards the shower entrance; he
stopped, dick swinging with the motion of his steps, and looked
meaningfully at where Tom lingered on his own. `Come on, now or never,
bud.' And he confidently strode on into the still-steamy block, knowing
full well that this man would follow, suddenly so utterly sure of his own
irresistible attractiveness.

Inside the gentle steam, Troy turned around and watched Tom follow him
in, his fresh trainers squeaking a little against the wet floor, the
outline of his erection stronger than ever in his tracksuit. His lean
muscular body tightened with fear and he approached with three long
steps, one hand reaching out. Troy caught it, stroked the back of it,
shook his head. `Nah,' he whispered, `I need you to suck it now, mate,
only fair after you disrespected me like that...' He put his hand back on
his head, stroking and roughing his hair, and pushed gently downwards;
instinctively, the nervous 28-year-old complied, sliding his covered
knees to the wet ground in front of Troy's bare feet. Troy kept his
fingers in the coil of wet hair but let the simmering footballer's
unfurling repression do the rest; lips were brushing his swelling prick
in seconds and then a furtive tongue lapped at the sides of his shaft. It
felt very much like the man's mouth had wanted to try this for a long
time.

With warm steam brushing his tall bare physique, the Irish striker stood
there and held the older athlete's head gently in place as the blowjob
got going. Clumsy, wet, hungry. None of Dier's pizzazz and confidence,
he thought with mild disappointment, but the situation was so hot to him.
He'd never felt so assertive or strong amongst other sportsmen, not even
on his 18th birthday when somehow, against all odds, his absolute hero
had taken him to his room and went down on him -- a moment that haunted
Parrott now and barely felt real, even after the phone-sex featuring
Long's wife. With Long, with Austin, with Dier, with Kane... he'd just
felt like a curious boy hovering on the edge of a hidden world. In here,
guiding his hardening rod into Bradshaw's quivering mouth, he felt like
he'd really arrived somewhere -- he thought of the playful praise of the
other men, not just for his goal today, but for his ample cock when
they'd been joking in the showers. Fuck yeah, he thought, hung like a
horse, and everyone seems to want a bit...!

Without really meaning to, he began to rock his hips a little, pushing
his dick in a bit more than Bradshaw was ready for, making him gurgle and
splutter and cling to Troy's waist with roughly forceful hands. He
tightened his grip on his hair to make it easier, finding some rhythm,
fucking his dick gently between those lips and against that tongue. He
grunted quietly as he settled into the groove, loving the dominance and
private victory of it. What a gimp, trying to bully him like that! When
clearly he liked what he saw! Well, he was getting it now, wasn't he?

Parrott pulled his cock back, held Bradshaw's face inches away from it.
`You like that?' he muttered downwards. `You like the taste, matey?'

`Fucking hell,' whined Tom, even as he stretched his tongue and tried
to bring his face in closer to the fat red tip of the Irish meat.

`You want my spunk?' the Dubliner demanded in a sexy hiss.

A pause, a groan, then a nod. `Yes,' whispered Bradshaw, `yes mate,
yes...'

Troy kept his face back torturously, holding one cheek and separating his
open mouth from the way he now tugged and wanked his prick in his other
hand, slipping his grip up and down the long shaft and aiming its tip
right at the flabbergasted face of the Welsh player. And with a
suppressed moan of triumph, Parrott shot his load, creaming over the open
lips and the long handsome nose of the attractive 28-year-old's face.
`Ah,' Troy grunted, `ahhh yeh...' He relaxed his hold but Tom's face
held still, mouth half-open with thick white goo dripping from lip to
lip, his eyes wide and fixed up on Troy; they stood there locked in this
intense gaze, both seeming to weigh up the danger and madness of the
encounter and what it meant for their places in the team hierarchy.

`Fuck,' Troy sighed, backing off, hard-on bouncing and trailing a
little string of spunk.

`Jesus,' murmured Tom. `Jesus, jesus...' He rubbed furiously at his
mouth and spat on the floor, seeming unsure if his young challenger's
seed had even got in his mouth. With deep breaths and a very gentle
laugh, Troy left him there and strutted out into the empty changing room.
He snatched up his towel where it had fell and pulled it over his hard-on
to clean it off, then began selecting and pulling on his clean clothes.
Soft new boxer shorts up his legs, tracksuit bottoms following, then
starchy tshirt over his shoulders and tracksuit top slowly zipped up from
waist to neckline.

He was already fully dressed and lacing up his trainers when Bradshaw
stepped slowly out of the showers like a sexy zombie. He moved over to
his spot and wrestled his way into a tshirt then picked up his tracksuit
top and held it loosely to his chest with an overwhelmed expression on
his face. He looked traumatised by what he had provoked and participated
in. His hard-on was still more or less visible, but Troy thought he could
also see the little oily slick of a wet patch at one side, as if at some
point the excited man had relieved himself; or was it just leaking precum
at the excitement of what Troy had done to him?

Silently, the two strikers left the changing rooms and entered the chilly
draught of the tunnel, following it into the stadium passages and
stairwell that would take them up to the hospitality suites and the
little afternoon party for their inaugural win of the pre-season. At the
foot of the steps, Troy put a hand on Tom's upper arm.

`It's alright mate,' he said knowledgeably, enjoying the aged
experience in his own young voice. `These things happen, y'know? It's
cool. I won't say nowt.'

Bradshaw just looked at him like he was a horrific spectre, and nodded,
then rubbed his mouth guiltily, though his lips and beard were clean and
fresh now. Parrott patted him on the back, and keeping the same friendly
singsong voice, added, `And don't try and bully me, eh? I may be young
and Irish, but I know what I'm about, okay? I'm here to do a job, and
ain't nobody gonna get in the way of that, pal.' He rubbed his upper
back a little and overtook him on the steps. `Just gimme a shout if you
ever want me to fuck you in the face again, okay...? Cool.'