Date: Sun, 6 Sep 2020 20:58:23 +0000
From: writer guy <premiershiplads@outlook.com>
Subject: Premiership Lads Part 177: The Captain's Armband

Part 177: The Captain's Armband


Eric Dier made his way through the corridors of the Reykjavik hotel, a
thin hoody thrown on over his vest and jogging shorts as the evening
outside cooled. Large windows down one side of the corridor showed a
stunning Icelandic sunset, ridiculously late up here in the Arctic
circle, and the England and Tottenham footballer hurried on with quiet
barefoot steps, not wanting to disturb any of the other teammates
probably occupying the rooms to his right. He rounded a corner and
scanned the door numbers, jangling a little bit at the keys in his left
pocket, two sets now, thanks to the little switch.

The 6ft2 sportsman bounced along with an anticipatory little spring in
his step, still glowing with the rich tan of a man who had spent several
weeks traveling the safer resorts of Europe in his summer break since the
delayed season closed. He had an eager little grin playing on his lips
and a little buzz of hope in his broad muscular chest, more than just the
buoyancy of tonight's England win over Iceland, a hard-fought 1-0 that
had closed with him wearing the Captain's armband.

That very neon band was clutched in his other hand, knotted and fiddled
between nervous fingers as he tramped down another hallway as quietly as
he could, worried about being caught wandering the passageways when they
were supposed to be settling down in their rooms. But then the room he
was looking for was supposed to be his own, wasn't it? It was where he
was checked in to, officially, before a bit of awkward rearranging, so...
well, it wasn't actually like he was sneaking around in the wrong places
quite so much. Plus, fuck it. He was a free man.

Dier thought back to the late moment in the game when he'd been handed
the Captain's band like that. Almost 80 minutes into the action and
still a goalless draw at that point, everything to be played for. And the
boss had benched their prime striker since he was starting to show signs
of tiring, a chance to be given to young United upstart Mason Greenwood;
Eric had passed the beaming teenager on his way to the side-lines, called
over by not just the manager but Harry Kane himself, the tall slick
forward reaching out to thrust the neon band into his hands and slapping
him on the bicep with a few curt words of encouragement in front of
Southgate. `Take this, the lads need you -- nobody else can close this
game. Make them fight, Eric.' He'd paused and stared over at the other
tall athlete, seeing the battle weariness in Harry's long face and small
blue eyes, the faith and confidence in this small last-minute gesture for
him to captain the final chunk of play.

Only twelve hours before that moment, he'd been staring desolately at
England's great goal-scorer and wondering if a kind word would ever pass
between them again. Their only real conversation of the day had been
brief and tense and uncomfortable; after all, Kane's post-holiday
quarantining had made him absent from the Spurs pre-season work and so it
felt forever since the pair of them had actually had to work together
again. If Dier had convinced himself that all of his relaxing summer days
had allowed him to put the year's heartbreak behind him, it had turned
out he was very wrong. But then, out of nowhere, that moment... Kane
looking sincerely at him as he pressed the important elasticated strip
into his sweaty hands and almost bowed respectfully to him on his way to
the bench, applauded by Southgate and the other coaches, leaving Dier to
dash back on and stir up the England lads for the final assault.

It had to mean something. It just had to.

Unable to hold in the excited little grin when he thought about that
moment they had shared, the Cheltenham-born footballer quickened his
step, scanning the numbers on the doors and tracking from 101 onwards
until he spotted the magic number, 107. He paused there, hunching his big
shoulders and biting his knuckles for a moment. He considered rapping his
fist against the door in a flurry of cautious knocks, but he had the key
to it jangling in the pocket of his shorts; no need for knocking, not
here, not with him, not after everything.

He pulled out the key and slid it quickly into the lock, twisted, let
himself in. He left the fiery light of the distant sunset behind and
stepped straight into another of the generously sized, identical suites
of the expensive Reykjavik hotel, holding a long breath in anticipation
of the reunion beyond it. And then his stupidly imagined moment of
perfection began to fall apart bit by bit: the low thrum of music from a
phone speaker somewhere in the suite, the tugged shut curtains over each
of the big floor-to-ceiling windows, the naked bronzed figure of Harry
himself now staggering towards him, a snatched white bathrobe held just
above the waist to drape over the space between his legs. His mouth was a
perfect `O' of dismay as he lunged off the bed and took slow wary steps
over the room, pausing when his bright eyes caught just who the sudden
intruder was.

Eric stood there, the hotel key still in his hand, and stared first at
Harry Kane, and then at the second naked man in the bed, every inch of
his body filling with sudden horror and realisation. Then back at Kane
himself, seeing the agonised frown spread over his tanned features, his
long athletic body all hunching up with a desire to be less ridiculously
exposed. `Right,' Dier said in a low growl of distress, and he tossed
the captain's armband straight into his broad bare chest, where Kane's
free hand caught and grasped it. `I see how it is,' Eric told him
painfully, `thanks, Captain...' He turned on his bare heel and rushed
out of the room as quick as he could, back out into the hallway and the
corridor before, racing past the sweeping Icelandic views and as far as
he could from the man who had broken his heart all over again.



Harry Kane hadn't really considered the rooming issue until he was
stepping off the mid-morning flight arrival in Iceland's single airport;
the assistant manager took him aside at the luggage collection point with
a few pointers about the schedule for the day, dismissively mentioning
hotel arrangements and that `Of course, gaffer roomed you with Eric just
like always, mate, that was much easier than pairing up all these other
guys -- so many team rivalries to worry about, haha...!'

That had been about half 10 in the morning of what would sure be a long
day, and it was an hour or so later when he managed to pull the roommate
in question aside to address the issue. All of the travelling England
squad were standing about in the huge open foyer of the fairly luxurious
hotel their management had secured for them over the city's dock area.
Strutting about with a tense expression that could be misread for simple
pre-match nerves, Kane waited until he saw Dier shift quietly away from
the main group and then closed in on him, giving him a serious look and
nudging him towards the long side windows that overlooked the sea. `A
minute?' he requested softly, frowning at his Spurs ally and former
secret lover.

`Wow, you actually want to speak to me?' Eric returned with a bitchy
little edge to his grunting voice.

Harry nodded to the windows, pulling further away from the shuffling
gathering of their teammates old and new, wanting to be out of any other
lad's earshot. He hugged his arms across the chest of his England
tracksuit top, Eric following him over towards the glass in spite of the
hostility in his comment. `It's about rooms,' the England captain told
him, seeing the instant recognition flare in Dier's eyes and mouth.
`I'd... well, I'd forgotten about asking to... erm...' Extremely
uncomfortable with this latest little severance of their bond, he lifted
a hand and scratched at his combed over golden brown hair. `I've had us
swapped around, cleared it with the boss. Erm, I thought it was for the
best, just cos...'

`Sure,' Dier retorted. `I get it. In case I... oh, you know, ruin your
marriage and your life?'

`Eric...'

`Sorry, did I misquote you there?' he asked. Harry stared at the
aggressive frown now covered the handsome bearded face and the change in
his muscular body language. They held themselves a metre apart and locked
eyes for a moment. `Thanks,' Eric added quite bitterly. `It's not
like I was hoping we'd be sharing or anything, obviously -- the message
was received loud and clear MONTHS ago, captain...'

`Eric,' he said again, a pointless pleading in his tone. `You know why
I had to...'

`It's just weird hearing your voice again,' the other man said to him,
this man who had opened his eyes to a completely novel side of himself,
who'd dragged him into a shadowy secret love in Russia all that time
ago, and over and over in the couple of years since, until the beginning
of this spring. `Forgive me if I don't have much to say back. I
wouldn't want you to get caught... speaking to me, or anything terrible
like that, so...'

Harry surged with annoyance at the petty comments, the ones he'd endured
in so many barbed little exchanges at the training ground and in the
lead-up to matches in June and July. Why couldn't Dier just understand
it?! Didn't he get how difficult these past six months had been for Kane
too, what he'd had to give up to protect himself, what he'd sacrificed?
He glared frostily back at Dier, who ignored him and stared out at the
rugged coastline instead; Kane glanced back at the fringes of their
crowded colleagues, heard the player names being gradually called out as
room pairings were assigned.

`Eric,' he sighed, but there was no articulate love letter he could
follow that simple sigh up with; he just didn't have the words to
express everything he had felt and suffered in giving up their
relationship for his marriage and the safety of his footballing career.
He had only recently convinced Mrs Kane that his staying at Tottenham
Hotspur shouldn't be the end of their family and stop her ditching him
-- he'd let her down in her demands that he get a transfer to the north
or abroad, unable when it came down to it to quit Eric Dier quite so
finally after all. He stood gawping quietly, unable to spit out any of
that strong feeling or conflicted indecision. What did Eric know or care
about the protracted transfer negotiations that had led to nothing, and
his own awkward rejection of some massive offers because he just
couldn't imagine turning up to training and not seeing his favourite man
in the world there waiting to work on the same pitch as him, even in icy
silence?

`Well I swung us rooms of our own,' he told him tartly. `I wasn't
sure who you'd want to share with, y'know, so I just told the bosses
you needed your own space and should have a separate room on your own --
they didn't ask any questions, just trusted me.'

Eric rolled his eyes as if he was a sulky teenager rather than a
26-year-old man of the world. `Cheers captain,' he said with mocking
deference, and brushed past him with a rub of their shoulders, stomping
back towards the shrinking mass of lads being paired off and handed room
keys at the reception desk. Harry stood his ground and stared bitterly
after him, annoyed that this small gesture had been so casually
dismissed. He knew Eric hated room-sharing and loved a bit of peace on
the night after a big match, he'd thought this touch might help somehow
to... ugh. Who knows. He punched the air, fidgeted with his hair and the
collar of his tracksuit, then made his way over to the others, seeing
that Dier had already managed to get his new room key and fuck off on his
own.

He watched him disappear into an elevator at the other end of the foyer,
bag hoisted over his shoulder, chatting loudly to a couple of other squad
members; he sighed a bit to himself, fidgeting on the spot, conscious of
his drooping posture and sad frown. Next to him, another experienced
member of the squad gave him an unsettlingly knowing little grin, toying
with the strap of his travel bag. `Trouble in paradise, big man?'
demanded the team's most experienced defender, Kyle Walker smirking at
him a little as he paused there beside him, one of the few real
`veterans' left on the relatively young team alongside himself and
Dier.

`Sorry?' Kane snapped back irritably, then corrected himself, forcing a
smile at his former club teammate as the burly right-back drew a little
closer.

`Just noticed you and the gentlemanly Eric ain't sharing,' the
Yorkshire-born City player muttered to him with a curious little edge to
his voice. `Something up?' A slightly less leading tone to his voice as
he added, `Just messin', bud, I know it ain't my business...'

`What? Oh -- erm -- he just has some stuff going on, needs space,'
Harry said in a quick murmur, dredging up the ambiguous lies he'd fed
the assistant manager to rearrange the rooming and keep him and his ex
apart. `Don't worry, he'll be fine.' He forced a laugh. `Paradise!
You make me and him sound like an old married couple or summat...'

Walker chuckled too and shrugged his big strong shoulders, moving ahead
and towards the desk as his name was called out. `Well, my baby girl
John Stones was left at home, so I'm hardly one to talk,' joked the
laddish northerner with a wink as he left Kane behind and joined his
assigned roomie, goalkeeper Pickford, at the desk to collect their keys
and head on, leaving Kane blushing and annoyed that his friend's banter
could cut so close to the bone.



So began a day of odd close runs and welling paranoia and frustration
that began with resenting Kyle's typical humour whilst also noting the
strong breadth of his shoulders and backside in his tight-fitting
tracksuit on his way out of the foyer. All day, Harry regretted the tone
of his short chat with Eric, his failure to handle the room situation
more smoothly and make it clear to the lad that he still felt strongly
for him and was just doing the right thing for both of them -- someone
had to be strong and good, make the difficult calls needed to keep them
safe!

At the Scandinavian brunch served shortly after check-in, he found
himself watching Dier with a strain of annoyance, seeing the easy and
boorish way he sat and laughed along with a few young teammates at
another table, chortling along with Declan Rice and Mason Mount, Raheem
Sterling and young Phil Foden. The sight of it somehow put him off the
delicious spread of local seafood and baked goods and he sat quietly
disinterested in his plate of food until his neighbour at the table
nudged him with an elbow and demanded what was wrong.

`Hey cap, you not hungry?' quipped the Brummie lad at his side
cheerfully.

Startled from his bitter daze, Harry glanced at Jack Grealish and then in
answer to his question stabbed his fork into a sliver of smoked salmon.
`Struggle to eat on matchdays,' he lied, a 6ft2 mass of muscle that
needed to be fed regularly. `Just not in the mood right now.' He stared
at the boyish excitement in the other lad's grin and bright eyes as he
returned to his own loaded meal from the buffet, shovelling it into his
mouth. `Great to have you here,' he told the Villa captain warmly,
partly to change the subject. `Criminal that it's taken so long for the
gaffer to bring you in, really.'

Jack just scoffed lightly at this. `So people keep telling me, but here
I am, ready to prove myself,' the potential debutant told him, tucking
some of his long strands behind his cute ears and looking up with a
mouthful of grub. `I don't care how long it took or takes, y'know, I
trust in Southgate and the team, I just wanna do my bit.'

Kane nodded slowly, thinking he might previously have underestimated the
flashy 24-year-old, wondering if all the league-wide rumours about him
being the nicest bloke in football were actually true all. The
newcomer's enthusiastic expression and simple humility made his own
selfish concerns feel naff and disrespectful and he poked even more
wearily at his unappetising food, picking up his milky coffee for a sip
instead.

`You not wanna be sat over there with your teammate?' Jack demanded
conversationally. `I'm just trying not to spend my whole England duty
hanging out with Ty, y'know, no point is there, see him all the time
haha, just trying to make new pals while I'm here, get all the
connections...' He shrugged at his own ideas and chewed on a hunk of
bread. `Just really wanna make the most of the experience in case I
never get picked again!'

Kane flinched at another pointless comment linking him to Dier but gave
the other footballer a strained smile and shrugged his own shoulders.
`Same, I suppose,' he said evasively, not wanting to be drawn into much
discussion of the various friendships networking the many clubs assembled
in this national squad. `Yeah, no point just sticking with your own
teammates, is there, you're right... erm...'

`Nice lad though,' Grealish said thoughtfully, something almost
nostalgic in his voice. `Eric, I mean. Quality lad. Great to hang out
with. Popular guy with everyone, ain't he?'

`Er, is he? Yeah, erm, true... guess he is, like you say...'

`Yeah,' Jack said thoughtfully, seeming to be somewhere else for a
moment -- Harry had no idea that Grealish or his flashy mates had spent
any time with the more private and reserved Dier, wouldn't have
connected them at all in the celebrity circles they occupied. He stared
curiously at Grealish and then over at Dier with a little thread of
suspicion that it might be linked to whatever his ex had got up to over
the summer. He knew what Eric was like -- it was impossible to imagine
him keeping his dick to himself for all these months, even since the
Winks incident. He glanced back at Jack -- I mean, not with HIM, he
thought, almost laughing, Jack Grealish is surely as straight as they
come, `jack the lad'!

`He definitely knows how to have fun,' Grealish interrupted him in a
playful tone, then adding, `well, from what I hear anyway, some mutual
friends, haha... erm...'

Kane blushed guiltily and laughed heartily to cover his momentary
embarrassment, turning away from the Brummie to suddenly take a
distracted interest in his brunch, wondering what the hell his new
teammate referred to and sizzling with a silent jealousy at whatever fun
Dier had been getting up without him.



Talking briefly to Grealish over the meal left him thinking about what
Dier had once told him about England captains and new recruits to the
national team: the other lad had claimed there was a vague history and
informal tradition of initiation rites and acts of intimacy between
seasoned leaders and new recruits, had told him a racy tale about a
one-off with Rooney. Wayne fucking Rooney! He'd laughed about it,
tangled in a hotel bed with Eric's hands on his body, and taken days to
see that Eric was being serious and something had honestly once happened
between a younger Dier and the legendary Scouser.

He'd still struggled with the idea of the tradition, pictured the line
of recent England captains and refused to believe that any of them would
get up to any queer stuff like he had. He still chuckled to imagine the
likes of his own immediate predecessor, Jordan Henderson, or legends like
Steven Gerrard and John Terry, ever getting up close and personal with a
guy -- not to mention the likes of Beckham and Shearer! Nonsense. But on
England trips after Russia it had added a playful spice to stolen nights
with Dier, playing up to the idea of the England Captain as some sex icon
who should be anointing inexperienced newbies, while he spread his legs
and opened himself to his hunky defensive midfielder over and over and
over.

Still, he was thinking about it as he stood by at the early afternoon
media session set up in the hotel's conference space, watching as first
Grealish and then Foden and Greenwood were interviewed about their likely
first senior caps for the country. He eyed up young Philip and Mason in
their tight tracksuits, so differently attractive in their youthful ways
-- the former wiry and Stockport scally, all hard angles and street-smart
shiftiness, the kind of lad he might accidentally check out on his way to
collect fish and chips for the family in North London; the latter tall
and increasingly well-built, brimming with clean-cut energy and Yorkshire
charm.

It was just idle fantasy, sat by waiting for his captain's interview
side-by-side with the manager himself, watching as the young guns boasted
their ambitions into the microphones and talked about the amazing
opportunities coming their way as graduates of the Young Lions ranks. But
he could imagine any of the three of them being exciting in the bedroom,
more supple and adventurous than his rugged former lover -- and certainly
more novel and physical than the gentle lovemaking his angry wife had
finally begun to reintroduce after an icy few months following her
discovery of his `mistress'.

And his desirous ogling continued in the early evening warm-ups at the
local stadium. Greenwood in particular stood out to him, his slim-fit
tracksuit bottoms clinging to long strong legs and showing regular peaks
at the bouncing of his bulge as he moved about the pitch, a worthy
addition to the strike force that Kane himself largely dominated for the
country. But it was not just the newbies he found his eyes wander to as
he went through the motions of match preparation. He saw Kyle again at
times, forgiving his ill-judged banter of the morning, and thought just
how hunky and manly the City man looked these days, given in to his
balding crop and filling out his kit admirably from every angle.

In other moments, he would look again at Jack the lad, seeing the tight
way his blue bottoms covered his rounded arse, thinking how many times
he'd observed the ridiculous tightness of his Villa shorts when facing
them in the League in recent years; and often with him in the warm-up
exercises, his huge teammate Tyrone Mings, who would regularly lift his
red warm-up shirt to expose the rock hard brown of his abs in a way that
made Kane shudder longingly for a man's touch. So long since his last
contact with Eric in the Spurs showers, both of them grieving their
relationship as he finished him off and finished them off at the same
time.

Then there were other young bucks like Declan Rice and Mason Mount, who
seemed as inseparable as everyone joked, loping about the field as if
everything was nothing but a big lark -- and Jadon Sancho, brimming with
London confidence and enjoying the intrigue of his foreign status
visiting from his German club. Kelvin Phillips stood out too, recovered
from injury now and keen to talk to anyone who would listen about Leeds'
stellar season of league promotion. Even his long-time England teammate
Kieran Trippier suddenly stood out to him in a way he never had, he and
Danny Ings representing a pair of burly tattooed thugs as they skipped
about the grass, bulges bouncing and arm muscles rippling beneath tight
nylon. At one point, Harry found himself so distracted by the swinging
shape of Joe Gomez's extravagant tackle in his training shorts that he
sloppily gave up control of the ball to his inefficient tackle and earned
many tuts and worried looks from the coaching team.

It was a new problem for Kane, who had never looked twice at a single lad
before Dier's quiet attention had drawn him out on those hot Russian
nights of intrigue. In all of the time they had spent `together', his
attention had rarely wandered to another bloke, he'd always considered
himself 100% straight, he just happened to have fallen somewhat in love
with one man in particular. But now, full of frustration and regret,
every man on the pitch seemed to make his cock and balls stir in his
briefs, and he arrived at the evening kick-off of their match with
Iceland tingling with sexual tension and longing for something beyond his
mundane suburban marriage. Every missed opportunity for a goal against
the Icelanders heightened this painful longing, but as the match
unfolded, his attentions became more concentrated once again. He wasn't
looking at big rugged Rice or quick exciting Foden, not admiring hardy
aggressive Walker or calm, confident Trippier, he was staring across the
field at the energetic strength of Dier alone.

When his inevitable substitution came -- he knew it had to happen, he
felt so tired and thwarted, he made his suggestion loudly clear to
Southgate on the touchline. `Make him captain,' he insisted, `he's
the most switched-on bloke out there tonight. Come on, chief.' It was a
pathetic gesture, really, and he felt sure that Eric would either
overlook or misunderstood it, this desperate sign of what he still felt.
But he looked longingly at him as he panted on the edge of the pitch and
handed over the captain's armband, trying to signal all his belief and
confidence with his bright eyes.



He sat alone in his room watching the slow sunset. It was late, but the
magical summer of the far north made it still jarringly light outside of
their hotel. The match was won and a dinner of muted celebration had been
rushed through by the tired squad, but Harry Kane sat there completely
tense and on edge. Had there really been a moment of communion with Eric
there towards the edge of the game, or had it only happened in his head?

When he heard the knock at the door, his heart almost stopped.

The tall England striker stiffened up where he sat, a long white bathrobe
draped over the thin vest and loose black boxer shorts he'd changed into
when he got up to the room, refusing the invite of Southgate to a
nightcap with some coaches and players in the hotel bar. He got up from
the bed and stared across the large hotel room at the door, as if he
would be able to see through it and know what to do. It would be Eric on
the other side of that, he just knew it. He'd handed over that symbol of
his status and career and even in his hateful mood, Dier would understand
it!

So why was he so hesitant to go and let him in? He felt overwhelmed and
tense. So much water had passed under that bridge, hadn't it? He'd
fought so hard to end things and shut it off, ignored so many messages
and calls, snubbed the poor lad so many times to try and protect them
both, but now... he'd been so horny and lonely all day, craving
intimacy.

In three long strides, Harry crossed the room and grabbed at the door
lock, twisting it and then pulling it inwards, staring out onto the
doorstep about to burst into frantic heated speech. `I've missed you so
much', he might have said, but he stumbled over the first couple of
syllables and choked on the gushing affection that he was about to spill.
The man in the doorway tilted his head a bit and locked and unlocked the
fingers of both hands in front of him, supplicant body language and a
slightly embarrassed stance to him there in the corridor. When Harry had
recovered enough from his initial disappointment, he stepped back a few
inches and opened his mouth questioningly. `Connor,' he said slowly,
blinking at him, `er... what can I do for you, mate...?'

And in he came: Conor Coady. The 27-year-old captain of Wolverhampton
Wanderers, the fourth in-field newbie on Southgate's new England squad.
6ft1 and shaven headed, a tall muscular defender dressed down to a simple
white tshirt and leg-hugging black Adidas trackies now as he took a few
steps into the hotel room, clapping his hands together. Harry stood in a
daze of surprise and pushed the door slowly shut after him, thrown from
his anticipatory build-up.

`Nice view, lad,' the Scouser barked admiringly. `I thought all the
rooms were the same but this is much nicer than the one I've ended up
with on the other side. All mine looks out on is factories and car parks,
hah.' He turned and flashed Harry a quite charming wide grin, seeming to
flex his broad body beneath his tshirt. `You got a few mins, chief? I'm
not interrupting or owt?'

Kane stared at him, still mystified. `What? No, no, course not, just
winding down... erm... good to see you mate, but... erm, what can I...' He
lifted a hand and scratched his chin. `Any chance it can wait til
breakfast, pal, I'm just a bit tired out, and...'

`It shouldn't take long,' the Wolves captain told him in a slightly
odd, wistful tone. Harry didn't know Conor, not really, had met him a
mere handful of times and only had a few sparse conversations with him at
their English training camp; he knew that Coady was highly respected and
that his late inclusion in the squad had been much celebrated by pundits,
a timely replacement for the troubled Harry Maguire after his Mykonos
scandal. Coady was considered an underrated Premiership great of recent
years, an excellent defender and even better club captain for what he had
achieved at Wolverhampton. His long-awaited senior debut for England at
27 seemed to have stoked almost as much interest in the football press as
the youngsters like Foden and Greenwood.

And now he was standing in an oddly at-home manner in the centre of
Kane's hotel room, hands pulling gently at the bottom of his tight white
t-shirt and taking another step towards the windows and their view of the
burnished sky. Kane followed him uncertainly, pulling his robe more fully
shut, aware of his state of undress. And then Coady was turning on the
spot and facing him, framed against the Icelandic sky. `It just depends
if the rumour is true,' he said in his Scouse rasp, smiling faintly.

`The rumour?' Harry asked blandly, joining him at the window.

Conor let out a long breath, still with that odd smile. `I've come a
long way to sit on the bench,' he said, seemingly as much to himself as
to Harry; when Kane couldn't think what to say to this, he went on, even
more quietly, `I've been waiting a LONG time for the call from the big
chief, y'know. Well excited. That phone call was one of the high points
of my fuckin' life, you get me?' Harry just nodded slowly at this,
still not understanding. `So it was a shame to miss out,' Conor then
added, dropping his voice further. `To sit on the bench with the
kids.'

`Oh.' Kane blinked a few times and took in the rugged sight of him, the
close crop of his air and the rugged angles of his smiling face. The pale
brown glow of his tanned face and arms against the bright laundry white
of his tshirt. The slight pull of his body as he took a step closer to
him against the sunset view and his light grin turned to more of a
smirk.

`They say there's one sure way to make your mark on the England team,'
Coady whispered now.

`They do?' Kane said back, the reality of the encounter finally dawning
on him in a giddy flashback to lying in another hotel room nestled
against Dier, laughing through his recount of an amorous and clumsy Wayne
Rooney initiating captain-newbie dynamics and getting more than he
bargained for. And now once again an England captain was standing in his
bedroom faced with an ambitious newer player, though this was one was a
rugged Scouse bloke the same age and experience as him.

`Sure,' the Wolves man said in the low purring whisper, and he tugged
open the front of Harry's robe, `keep the captain happy, I've heard,
and you'll defo make it off the bench, eh...?' His whisper loudened and
became raspy as he reached inside the robe and took hold of the package
at the front of the captain's undies and squeezed. `What you saying,
skipper? The rumour bullshit, or is this how I get guaranteed minutes and
my first senior cap in the next game on Tuesday against the Danes...?'

Kane felt his nob respond immediately -- it had been on the verge of a
boner all day -- and his whole tall body tensed up, faced with the rugged
strength of the defender. He allowed the robe to fall loosely open,
Coady's hand remaining still and firm on what it held. He stared
wide-eyed at the edgy face of the Liverpudlian and slowly mouthed a
silent `yes'. The intruder nodded at his answer and rubbed the outline
of his cock a bit. `I laughed when people told me that,' Conor
murmured. `Always thought it must be bullshit, but... fuck, you were
practically stiff the minute I walked into the room, weren't you? Who
would have known, Harry Kane, eh?'

Caught in this surreal moment, Harry leaned in, bringing their faces
close, parting his suddenly dry awkward lips and angling his head in for
a kiss; but Conor brought his other hand up and blocked their mouths with
a single finger. Shook his head. `Nah,' he said, a little harshly.
`Married, mate. Like you! Fuck. No fuckin' kissing. That ain't on
offer. Okay? You get me?' Harry nodded sharply. `What do I do then, eh?
Am I wankin' you off? I don't think I could suck you, I'd probably
puke.' Harry flushed guiltily and uncomfortably. `Well, give us the
deal, skipper,' the Scouser muttered roughly.

`I can't guarantee anything,' Kane whispered. `You know captains
don't make squad choices.'

`You have his ear,' Conor snapped. `He flew me out here and didn't
use me. He knows my worth. He just needs a nudge for Tuesday, yeh? You
can be the nudge, aye?'

Harry nodded again, feeling Conor's hand still there against his stiff,
twitching member in the tightening underpants. `Fuck me,' he said
instinctively. `Fuck me and I'll say anything you want to him. He
definitely trusts me, he likes me a lot and he wants to keep my happy,
he'll trust my opinion if I tell him I think you are r-`

Coady stared back at him, a flicker of tense indecision on his tanned
face. He looked mildly horrified by the bluntness of Kane's request, but
also as if it was not what he'd expected or was somehow less repellent
than the suck-job he'd so quickly ruled out. Then he nodded too, little
jerks of the head, almost business-like. `Sound,' he said. `Get on the
bed.' Instantly, he was backing away, pulling at his tshirt and rolling
it up over his body, exposing surprisingly ripped muscles lining his
stomach and chest. And picking up on the rough commanding mood of the
moment, Kane was throwing off his robe and tugging on his slender vest,
backing to the bed in just the tented black boxer briefs, followed
quickly by Coady too.

`I'm only doing it for like five minutes, okay?' the Wolves leader was
snapping behind him.

`That's fine,' the Spurs striker found himself mumbling, sheepish with
lust.

`Up on the bed, doggy-style, aye?'

`Sure, that's good, erm...'

`You got any protection or lube or anything?'

`Not here, erm-`

`Fuck's sake. Okay. Really only a few minutes then. I won't be able to
cum, yeh?'

`Conor, I don't want you thinking this is summat I do a lot, with lots
of the players, or anything, er-`

`Come on, let's get on with it,' he said, brusque and aggressive with
his urgency and reluctance; Harry could hear it in his voice, the trace
of nervous indecision, the newness of what he was prepared to do to
guarantee his position here on the international stage after years of
waiting. He bristled with working-class ambition as he shoved down his
trackies, giving Harry a brief glimpse of the loaded black briefs
beneath, before climbing away onto the bed on his knees and leaning one
arm forward into a doggy position, reaching back with the other and
peeling back his undies.

`Well come on,' he heard Conor grunt impatiently, `finger yourself a
bit or summat, I'm sure I can't just shove it in, and I ain't doin'
it...'

Harry suddenly felt really exploited and embarrassed -- it took him back
to a toilet cubicle in a London pub, faced with drunk and arrogant Jamie
Redknapp -- but also incredibly aroused. Pushing his weight into one long
arm and reaching around to his behind again, he felt at one of his large
smooth cheeks and pulled into the crack a bit, rubbing at the fluffy hair
of his crack. `Spit in it?' he said weakly, unable to keep the note of
begging from his captain's voice. `Spit in it for lube and...' A loud
phlegmatic noise and then he was rubbing Coady's saliva into his hairy
crack, pushing at his recently untouched hole, missing the tender
preparation that would usually precede a fucking from Eric Dier. And
then, with no romance or build-up, he felt Conor spitting in between his
cheeks again, and on his own dick, which he must be playing with now,
working up -- would he even get it hard? Oh! The answer came quickly and
physically, something very rigid pressing against one of his cheeks.

`Don't make too much noise,' Conor instructed bossily.

`I won't, I promise,' Harry said with the same queasy acquiescence. He
fingered a bit more at himself but it was difficult to do in this
position -- he was glad when, despite his claims a minute ago, Conor now
pushed a digit of his own into the damp hairy space and found his
twitching rung, shoving roughly at it with one then two fingertips,
making Harry let out a groan that he then silenced and swallowed,
conscious of his promise.

`I thought you'd just want a handjob or summat,' muttered Conor,
`didn't realise you'd be THIS kinky, mate, fuck...'

Harry didn't say anything to that, just pressed the heels of his hands
into the bedding and locked his legs and torso, bracing himself. He could
feel already how rushed and urgent his `lover' would be, how
transactional the act was to him. He could feel the head of it already,
being pressed between the big muscular glutes, not lubed or loose enough
for this rush, but needing it badly. Conor shifted his weight from knee
to knee and pressed his hands roughly just above Harry's hips as he
jabbed his cock inexpertly at his target, at first aiming a little high,
then a little low, then finding it, pressing in on it. Another
uncontrolled groan escaped the England captain's lips, now unused to
that anal pressure, but so immediately excited by it. To relieve his
excitement and to relax his backside, he reached under his long body and
stroked his hard prick as he felt Coady push against him until his hole
loosened and accepted the invasion.

Then the bed was juddering with each movement, the weight of two tall
athletic men rocking it as Conor put some strength into it, squeezing a
thick unseen cock into Harry's passage; his knuckles whitened as he
gripped tightly at the sheets below him and his knees poked sharply into
the mattress below, spreading his legs a little and trying to relax his
body more. He couldn't help but moan in the mingled pleasure/pain of it
and that made Conor grunt irritably -- `Mate, keep it down, you
promised!' -- but push even more forcibly at him, entering him almost
fully, gripping and squeezing his lower back muscles.

And then he was going for it, fucking his captain in rough athletic
strokes that made Harry lean painfully forward, folding his arms against
the bed and pressing his suddenly sweaty face into the back of them,
bracing himself against the rough shoves and tugs of the Scouser's body
crashing into his. Two, three minutes passed, then four, no sign of it
being quite so rushed and formal as Conor had tried to make it sound; he
slammed one, dragging backwards the humping heavily into him, pushing
deep and making him squeal into his own flesh, loving the intensity with
which he was pounded. Again he reached back to pull his dick and he felt
on the verge of cumming for a number of minutes, an elongated cliff-edge
of pleasure, as frustrating as it was delightful, as if he'd never be
able to quite finish and unload his seed on the bedsheets, but then...
then... Conor too was groaning, breaking his own imposed rule, making hot
rapid breaths and swearing between them, and then... the feeling was so
distinctive, the sticky wetness deep inside him, the feeling of release
and the sound of manly relief... knowing the Wolverhampton captain had
emptied his balls inside his hole, Kane released his own giddy orgasm,
spilling cum all over the bedding and his tight fist and panting weakly
into the crook of his arm, overcome with pain as the pleasure subsided.

When Conor pulled away, he remained in doggy for a few moments, still
gasping and throbbing, then collapsed sideways, his whole body sheened
with sweat. He watched as Coady too collapsed onto the bed, stretching
his naked body out, naked but for white socks, his limbs shaking and
twitching a bit, his face a strange mix of flushed pleasure and anguished
self-doubt. Kane watched him in silence then rolled the other way to
stare guiltily into the walls, then rubbing weakly at his face with his
clean hand, sucking in breaths of stuffy air, longing to be outside or
home with his wife.

And then, a clicky scraping noise, cutting into the post-coital heat and
recovery: the sound of a key in the lock of the hotel room door.



Eric Dier stood on the harbour edge, holding the thick iron bar that
separated him from the roiling sea. Night was filling the sky above and a
cool wind made his thick bared legs shiver a little. He pulled the hood
of his top over his ears and head and rubbed knuckles at the sockets of
his eyes to dry a couple of tears that might or might not have been
caused by the wind. He heard his name called softly behind him the noise
almost swallowed by the wind.

`All that bollocks,' he said, not quite turning.

Harry Kane joined him at the barrier, holding it in the same way, staring
at him. His cheeks were still flushed and his breathing a bit heavy from
the rush of dressing and haring through the hotel to follow him out here.
Eric turned his head that way and stared at him with cold fury.

`All that shit about your fucking marriage,' he added after a pause.

`Eric,' his national captain said in a quiet and desperate voice, `let
me explain...'

`Explain?' Dier said coolly. `Explain how you fucked me over when you
were sick of me and made up a load of shit to cover your tracks, then
bent over for the first new stud who approached you? Or is he even the
first? Who knows.' His voice dropped quieter, more intimate. `I've
barely touched a soul all summer, you know, it's never felt right. I'm
not saying I've been living like a monk, but...' He choked out the
truth. `You fucking broke me, Harry Kane, you really fucked me up, you
idiot.'

`Eric,' pleaded Harry again. `It wasn't like that. I meant
everything. I ended us for you, and-`

`For me?! For me! No, Harry, don't fucking kid yourself that.' He
turned on him and waved a furious finger his way. `I know I'm not a
saint, I've never pretended to be -- but you knew what I felt for you,
what we could have had. And you've given me nothing but the greatest
cold shoulder in the known fucking universe for months. HOW DARE YOU?'
He looked at the selfish misery on the other tall footballer's anguished
face, something out of a Munch painting, and pulled further away from
him, letting go of the railings. `Whatever we had, Harry, it is so
over.'

`I tried to show you,' Kane said in a broken whine. `I gave you the
armband, I wanted to-`

`What? Tease me? Make me know what a joke I am to you?' Dier demanded,
taking long backward steps back onto the harbour away from him, leaving
him at the water's edge with the darkening sky beyond him. `Well thanks
for that. I can see now why you had to make sure we had separate rooms,
huh. Did your wife ever even get suspicious, or was it all crap?' He
paused but then couldn't bear the sight or sound of the clumsy
explanation about to come from Kane. `I don't want to hear it any more.
Look, man, you never left Tottenham, fuck knows why -- so we're stuck
together. Here, at Wembley, at Tottenham, all the time... We have to get
on. I will be good to you as a player, I will behave for the others, for
the cameras, always... I never wanted you to get hurt, to be exposed, to
be in trouble. You think I would ever have let that happen?' He was
shaking now with the force of his emotions. `Never, Harry, never!'

`Please, just...'

`Listen to me! This is the best it can be, okay?' Eric shouted over the
sea winds. `I will be everything I can be, professionally -- I've
signed my new contract for Spurs, I'm sticking it out there, even if you
are there every season with me. And I'm not letting my England days end
just cos of you. So I will play my best and treat you well and keep it
all up. But don't ever think I'll waste a minute hurting for you again,
okay? You've killed it, Kane, it's over.' He backed off, afraid of the
fresh tears approaching, unwilling to show any more of his pain to this
heartless bastard. `Don't you dare follow me in or to my room, okay?
It's over, Harry, it's over. Go back to your Scouser, or to your wife,
or whatever. I'm done with you. I deserve better. Get that?'

This time, at last, Kane didn't even argue with him or shout back, he
just stood there, dead-eyed and drooping. And Dier turned away from him,
allowing his eyes to sting with tears once they were screened by his hood
and away from the man he thought he loved, marching back through the
cooling night air towards the rising edifice of their hotel. And behind
him, alone against the sea, Harry Kane cried tears of his own, and knew
that he'd finally succeeded in what he thought he wanted: he'd brought
it all to an end. Saved his marriage. But at what price?



*MORE INTERNATIONAL ACTION FROM THE HOME NATIONS COMING SOON... WHAT DO
YOU THINK?*