Date: Sat, 12 Sep 2020 11:12:13 +0000
From: writer guy <premiershiplads@outlook.com>
Subject: Premiership Lads part 180: Premiership Eve

Part 180: Premiership Eve


The Leeds United players jangled with nerves all afternoon at their final
light training session ahead of tomorrow's Premier League return: the
men bounded up and down the club's training ground with a tension and
exuberance that had been building all week. Dark blue tracksuit tops and
shorts clung to hard-worked bodies and coaches barked instructions loudly
across the sections of the broken down pitch in the cool September
afternoon. After all, not only would tomorrow mark the Yorkshire club's
long awaited return to the top flight of English football, but it would
set them against the current champions on Merseyside.

The nervous dread of tomorrow's pressure was felt by everyone, but was
definitely stronger among the younger and less experienced members of the
squad; Leif Davis was sure it couldn't just be him who felt a bit sick
every time he actually pictured them walking out in Anfield, or sitting
anxiously on the subs' bench awaiting his turn. He could see it in
several of his closest Leeds pals, even ones who'd just been
boisterously confident in the first few pre-season sessions after their
celebratory summer break: 21-year-old striker Ty Roberts couldn't seem
to knock a ball into a net once this afternoon, and big local lad Olly
Casey had fumbled every pass Leif had knocked his way. His own best
friend and housemate here, Jordan Stevens, showed his tension through
shutting down and becoming oddly quiet in the evenings and over
breakfast, and utterly silent during the training.

The older guys hid their anxiety better, or tried their best to keep the
summer's high morale going. Everyone was a little in awe of Kalvin
Phillips on his return from England duty, only 24 but so much more calm
and focused about tomorrow's challenges; guys like Alioski and Hernandez
seemed almost totally unfazed until you looked closely and saw them
fidgeting with their bootlaces or tugging at their hair or biting nails
in quiet moments. Everyone was feeling the pressure.

And Leif, who had basked in the promise of this step-up for months now,
felt absolutely rotten with it. He did his best to follow the drills and
put his all into it, had done all week, but he now pictured himself
coming on the pitch in an important final 15 minutes and making some
fuck-up error that sealed an opening defeat for the promoted club. He
almost hoped he didn't even make the squad, which was a ridiculous
private feeling: what the fuck was he here for if he couldn't face up to
the demands of his first ever Premiership game?

And then, in that final afternoon of practise before their cautious coach
trip west, his nerves and mood got worse, and not just because of his own
questions about his ability and readiness; as he was standing by trying
to listen to the advice of the assistant manager to a gaggle of them, he
felt an elbow nudge him from the side and saw Jack Harrison leaning over
a little with a faint smirk on his face. `You sure you're ready for
this, baby-dick?' the 23-year-old winger asked in a deadpan voice,
making Leif's rounded cheeks colour instantly and his eyes flash with
annoyance.

`Shush,' he muttered, trying to totally dismiss the jokey reference
back to the summer.

Another nudge of elbow in his arm. `But seriously, little guy, you got
the balls for a match like tomorrow?' the City loan player asked him
with painful earnestness, and then let out a sotto voce snigger of
derision. `Takes massive testicles to stand up to the likes of
Liverpool, y'know...' Leif, mortified, sidestepped away from him and
fixed his blushing face on the still speaking coach instead, kidding
himself that Jack would take the hint and drop the line of banter.

It wasn't exactly the first time it had come up. He'd dreaded it a
little in his summer holiday, remembering what he'd done in the stadium
toilets on the night of their promotion; worse, what he'd began with in
front of eight teammates in the VIP bar, swirling with drunkenness and
peer pressure. He'd feared it might cause some oddness from the
cool-headed striker who he'd shared that embarrassment with, but Paddy
Bamford himself seemed perfectly normal with him, no reference to it at
all. The pair were hardly close -- the club's golden striker and its
inexperienced spare left-back -- but Bamford was as passingly friendly
and supportive of him as he'd ever been.

It was the others who would bring it up. His closer young pals less
often: Stevens had only dared make the slightest jokey mention of it when
knocking back a few cans in their shared house, more mocking of the other
guys' eagerness than of Davis losing the game or his forfeit. Casey and
Roberts had never explicitly said a thing but there had been knowing
sniggers or glances once or twice, such as when they were changing
together before training or when other guys' banter came anywhere near
dick size or sexuality. This week in particular, their brash captain Liam
Cooper had been mouthing off a lot about his adventures north of the
border in some backstreet Glasgow brothel, raving about his own prowess
and how the prostitute offered him a 50% discount after her orgasm for
being the best and most well-hung fuck she'd had all year.

The little passing comments would come from the others: Ezgjan Alioski
making loud knowing jokes about his height in the training ground
refectory, Barry Douglas chuckling about the messiness of the promotion
party and then giving him an almost pitying look; Stuart Dallas
sniggering at him about whether his girlfriend needed looking after by a
real man, and the captain himself making the odd joke in deliberate
proximity to Leif, repeatedly exaggerating his fear of how well-hung
Patrick actually was. And worst of all, Jack Harrison, whispering daft
things to him like this at the worst moments, and looking so pleased with
himself when he got a reaction.

And now swaggering Jack had got such an instant burn from his quiet
comments, he didn't stop. He seemed to follow Leif as the afternoon wore
on, even though their very different playing positions should have meant
they connected very little in those sessions. He would be there,
murmuring `I suppose size don't matter that much' and `There's pumps
you can get to make it bigger, right?' close by -- after that last
comment, Alioski and Dallas were nearby too and broke into rough guffaws
over it, leaving another nearby player really confused about what the
hell they meant.

The 20-year-old Tynesider rattled through the final drills of the day
feeling miserable. He wasn't some spoiled naïve diva, he knew that this
rough back-and-forth was the standard banter of the Championship they'd
left behind, probably footballers everywhere, but it all felt a bit
unfair and extreme after what he'd been through and with what lay ahead
of them. Still, he did his best not to react, to keep his head down and
work hard, to barely acknowledge Harrison himself, though he couldn't
hide a few resentful scowls at his fellow jokers.

On the way off the pitch and into the spacious terracotta world of the
changing block, he felt pretty relieved, wanting nothing more than to be
stuck in a quiet corner of a socially distanced team coach headed for
Merseyside, then nervously holed up in some hotel (posher than their
usual, no doubt) chatting shit with his best pal. But then he felt an arm
slide about his shoulders and the dark-haired figure of Harrison sidle in
with him, all showy grins and mischief eyes.

`Anyone feeling really fucking nervous?' the City man shouted out,
steering Leif through the forest of pegs and lockers and gesturing at
their dispersing teammates, half of them peeling out of their Leeds
training tops and wafting at sweaty chests. `This one can give a really
special massage technique if people need relaxing...'

Leif scowled and wriggled apart from the taller lad, irritated by this
final jibe -- but it wasn't the final one, because Alisoki picked up on
it too, in the middle of wrenching off his boots. `Oh yeah, I've seen
it too,' the foreign player cooed, `he has such GENTLE little hands,
Davis, hehe...'

`Lads,' chuckled Cooper, striding past with his shirt over one
shoulder. `Leave it...!'

`Leave what?' demanded Philips, the newly minted England star standing
close by, guzzling from a water bottle and making curious eyes at Leif
and at Jack. `What are they on about, Geordie boy?'

`Beats me,' the guy beside Kalvin said, tugging down his shorts in a
hurry to undress and shower. Adam Forshaw, ginger-bearded Scouser, just
frowned dismissively at them and seemed to be hinting at Philips to drop
it, but he looked intrigued.

`Oh, nothing much,' Alioski chuckled.

`Nothing much is the right phrase, huh!' clucked Harrison, as Davis
moved away from them to find his own spot along the wall, the hot fiery
blush crawling up his neck and into his cheeks. He suddenly felt
miserably reluctant to undress, saw Jordan nearby flash him a worried,
sympathetic look. Harrison was laughing and Alioski and even the captain
were joining in.

`Now now,' Cooper said, `that's a BIT harsh, not his fault we're all
built like real men, y'know...' The Scotland international smirked to
himself, pushing down on his shorts, down to his well-packed and
sweat-stained white briefs, well-timed to prove a point.

`I am lost,' declared their Spanish goalkeeper Casilla, still fully
kitted as he stomped by. There was a murmuring of agreement from a couple
of other international Leeds men and from Philips and Forshaw. Leif kept
his back to them, his face burning, lifting one leg then the other to
remove his boots and socks. To his left, he could see Jordan mouthing
`ignore it', and a little further away, he spotted Bamford looking
deeply self-conscious and distant from the banter, unwilling to have his
own private proportions brought into debate.

If Davis thought that might be it, he was wrong. He heard Harrison's
voice loud and clear as the club's star winger moved into the centre and
waved a hand dramatically his way. `Oh Little Leif here just lost a
contest at a party,' he narrated simply, `turns out he's not the
biggest bloke, if you know what I mean, 5 foot fucking 5 and
proportionate down below, eh...' The Stokey guy smirked his way and Leif
stared miserably at him, willing him not to finish the story; there was
already a mixture of laughter around them, both from the guys who'd been
there at the end of that drunken night, and from guys who this was
totally new to, enjoying Harrison's cheeky take.

`And he took his forfeit well,' Harrison was about to continue, but the
captain's voice cut across quite sternly, `Leave it, mate' -- but the
question chimed immediately from both curious Kalvin and impatient
Casilla, and the world went into painful slow-mo for a minute. Out of the
corner of his eye, he could see Bamford blushing, but then disappearing,
towel in his hands and boxers still on, around the corner to the showers,
abandoning the scene before... `He just lent a pal a hand, that's all,'
laughed Harrison, ignoring Cooper. `Nothing much, like I said...! Where
is Big Bamf, actually, maybe he can show us-`

`Enough,' silenced Liam Cooper, landing a slap on Harrison's shoulder
that was both friendly and authoritative, and then striding past him for
the showers, hairy arse on show and a folded towel thrown over his
shoulder; behind him, Jack sniggered and seemed to consider going on,
then felt a mood shift as the captain's orders silenced the laughter.
But, for Leif, too late. He turned his back on the room and closed his
eyes, ashamed and exposed.



When he found out he was going to be room-sharing with his bully, he
wasn't actually surprised -- it seemed like an inevitable conclusion to
this shitty Friday. `We have such a young squad,' the manager explained
calmly on the coach, `and we need to spread out that experience at this
important time, make sure everybody is in the right frame of mind,
and...' So here he was, leaving a nervous quiet dinner of pasta and
vegetables, and following Jack Harrison to their shared bedroom on the
fourth floor of the out-of-town hotel.

Tomorrow's game wasn't until early evening anyway -- they could have
made the short northern journey in the morning, really -- but the
management team knew that there was a lot of pressure on this champions
versus champions debut. The theory was a stress-free early night and slow
morning routine: Leif stared furiously at Jack on their way into the room
and questioned how stress-free any of that could be when he had to share
with this arrogant shit-face and his stupid wind-up commentary!

It started almost immediately as they got into the room. `That beds
looks smaller,' Harrison said in a low voice, `maybe it should be
yours?' And when he'd finished brushing his teeth in the bathroom,
remarking `Posh place but tiny en suite, huh, you couldn't swing a
Bamford in there, not even with your skilled paws, Davey...'

So it didn't take long for Leif to lash out, sick and tired. He stopped
in the middle of unpacking a couple of minor personal items on the
bedside table, stared across the room at the slightly older and more
experienced footballer, stood arrogantly relaxed in white tshirt and
clingy striped boxer shorts, toothpaste still dabbing his chin. Jack
grinned over his toothbrush and then turned back into the bathroom to
spit out in the sink, and Leif launched himself across the room.

`Fuck's sake man,' the young Geordie railed, confronting him in the
doorway, squaring up his stocky 5ft5 frame against the taller dark-haired
man, seeing red. `Just fuckin' leave it out will like, will ya? Y'u're
gonna get a proper smack in the face if you don't-`

`Ah, chill out!' Jack shouted dismissively at him, pushing back at his
bunched up arms, striding into the room, shaking off a grab at his
shoulder. `Let go of it, you tiny-pricked loser, it's just a friendly
joke-`

`In front of all the lads?' Leif snapped. `In front of everyone like
that? What the fuck man?'

`Calm it!' Harrison said, looking irked by his volume. `Can't you
take some banter?'

`It's getting' more than that,' Davis shouted angrily, letting loose
days of frustrations, weeks of anxious repression, `it was a fuckin'
daft contest and it weren't my idea man, and I dunno how you think you
can just gan on and make me feel like...'

`Jesus, didn't know you were so obsessed with it,' the 23-year-old
Stokey told him. `Bamford's big dong mean that much to ya, Geordie boy,
you can't just move on and chill the fuck out and-`

`How can I move on when pricks like you keep getting at me?' He squared
up to him again, blocking his path, fists bunched. Jack was taller than
him, but he thought they were probably well-matched in strength, he was
chunky and muscular for his height, had to be in left-back, he could
probably take him in a fight if he... but before he could move, Jack was
pushing him squarely in the chest, sending him staggering slightly back
before he could recover himself.

`Pipe down, pipsqueak,' Jack snarled. `Who do you think you are?
Tiny-dicked loser who tossed off a bloke in front of half the fuckin'
squad, lad -- you think anyone in this hotel has any respect for you
after I told them about that, mate? Jesus, chill your beans and get out
of my face, loser... We've got a big game tomorrow. You gonna smack me in
the chops and see how the gaffer feels about your place at Leeds, mate?
Remember the transfer deadline is still a couple of weeks off, kid,
and...'

`Fuck off!' Leif railed angrily, feeling impotent and stupid.

`Are you not getting the point?' Jack snapped sharply. `I'm worth ten
of you here mate and I'm not even on a permanent contract. Sort yourself
the fuck out and get over it, Leif, or-`

The hot-headed 20-year-old couldn't take any more. He was halfway out of
the hotel room before the idle threat could finish, not even grabbing his
discarded trainers, just marching out into the hallway, without his key,
in close-fitting grey sweatpants and the open Adidas hoodie he'd worn to
dinner, reeling out into the electric lighting and endless identical
doors, leaving behind Jack's slick dark hair and pale sneering face. As
soon as he was halfway down the hallway, the youngster felt ridiculous
and he swore loudly at himself, hating his overreaction and his inability
to just absorb such stupid laddish jokes or snap back with witty
one-liners of his own. He hurried on to the landing at the top of the
stares and leant on the windowsill, staring out at the darkened view of
Liverpool further up the river, the pinky band on the horizon as a late
summer night fully fell.



He wanted to walk outside, cool off, prowl about the modern retail estate
where their pre-match hotel was based, but he was just in tatty pink Jack
Wills socks and the flimsy vest beneath his hoody wouldn't do much to
keep him warm. So instead he prowled the hotel, pretending to be
interested in things like the huddle of out-of-use vending machines on
the landings of each floor, staring through frosted rooms at a disused
pool and spa area, people-watching in the quiet reception while flicking
through an out of date men's magazine and pretending to check his phone
for an important message. It was a good hour after storming out that the
young Newcastle sportsman started creeping back up the stairs towards the
top floor, daring to hope that Harrison would be quietly asleep in bed
and he could just slip back into the room unchallenged.

That's when he heard the familiar scratchy accents of two senior squad
men mounting the stairs just below him, clearly returning through
reception. Davis paused halfway up to the first floor and looked back as
the two blokes rounded a corner and stared guiltily at him for a moment,
arms loaded with white plastic bags that clinked ominously; tight little
grins of surprise turned to big easy smiles and each of them let out a
hoarse laugh.

`Look who it is,' Stuart Dallas exclaimed, the Northern Irish
midfielder coming up a couple of steps towards him, cradling the bag of
bottles in his arms and flashing him a sly wink.

`Davey boy,' agreed Barry Douglas gruffly, almost letting the bag in
his own arms slide away with a glassy clatter, but readjusting it against
his biceps and then following his roommate up the stairs until they were
both stood right next to him, two tall broad defensive players who were
much more regular and important fixtures on the Leeds line-up than him,
clearly caught breaking the coach's number one rules.

`More discreet than the mini bar,' Dallas said quietly.

`Just takes a tiny bit of flirting with the bird on reception,' Douglas
added.

`Right,' Leif said slowly, distracted from his woe.

`Got a bottle of finest scotch here that says you won't squeak a word,
kid,' Douglas muttered.

`And we defo won't be mentioning that we saw Little Leif floating
around after curfew,' put in Douglas. The Northern Irish and Scottish
players leered confidentially at him and then chuckled at each other,
hugging their transgressive shopping to their chests and nodding upwards
towards the suites of rooms booked out by the football team. Leif stared
awkwardly back at them, weighing up his options: crawling back into the
tension of a room shared with that arsehole bully, and downing a couple
of soothing measures of whiskey with these two older troublemakers.



Jack Harrison was still sulking and wondering where his young roommate
had fucked off to. Truth be told, he was mildly worried: he wasn't
guilty at his couple of weeks' worth of taunting and mocking, that
seemed fair and square to him, just the normal patter of the
working-class sporting world they occupied. Nah, fuck it, Davis needed to
see the funny side of that whole activity in the club bar that night, it
was just proper laddish bonding and banter, nowt else, nobody's fault
that he happened to lose and take the jokey punishment so badly...! Jack
would have risen to that challenge and owned it, he supposed, having
briefly worried that his own average prick might let him down too; he
would have just taken it on the chin, so to speak, knocked Bamf off for a
minute and laughed about it after, not ran away in a sulk and made out
like he was some victim!

No, what worried him now was just Leif's whereabouts or who he was
whinging too. After all, Harrison knew he was pretty important here, a
key figure in their Championship win and automatic promotion to
Premiership. But he was a loan player and nothing more, no formal
purchase going through between ascendant Leeds and the financial behemoth
of his actual owners at Manchester City -- a team that clearly had no
place for him in its bloated squad of world-class talent, and almost
unlimited budget. Jack was a big fish in a little pond, but it was a pond
he needed. He could do without any black marks by his name or aggro from
the captain or manager this early in the season.

He'd considered looking for Davis, but felt silly and apologetic doing
so -- settled instead for flicking through TV channels and sulking on his
bed in tshirt and boxers, waiting for the Geordie prick to crawl back in
and apologise profusely for getting antsy. Maybe he'd cool it with the
little-dick jokes, and the allusions to Leif tugging on Paddy, maybe. If
the kid was gonna be so... touchy!

Jesus. Get over it. No big deal. Just banter. Nowt more. He found his
thoughts wander idly to that night and the weird testosterone fog that
had enveloped them all, led particularly by that livewire Alioski.
Fuck's sake. No big deal. Just banter.

The knock on the door brought a light grin to his sharp features and the
5'10 winger climbed off his bed, running fingers through the overgrown
black-brown of his straight hair. Right. Little One had forgot his key,
then, and needed to knock submissively on the hotel door just to get back
in -- hah! So already he had the upper hand, could demand rather than
cede an apology. He strutted over, adjusting the flop of his privates in
the front of his striped undies, and undid the lock quietly.

When he pulled open the door and paused, he had to adjust the victorious
little smirk on his red lips to one of vague surprise and greeting.
`Oh,' he said, `what's up, Paddy mate...?'

The 6'1 posh boy stood there in the corridor, hands dug firmly into the
front pouch of a blue hoody, head tilted a little to one side, simple
black Adidas shorts draped about the top of his long fluffy legs. There
was an oddly serious frown to the blond bloke's expression as he waited
expectantly on the doorstep and Jack moved back a little to welcome him
in, suddenly conscious of Leif's absence and the questions it could
raise already.

`Jack, pal,' Bamford said quietly, stepping on in, not taking his hands
out of the pouch, `I reckon we need a quick chat. You got a minute,
eh...?'

`Sure,' Jack said, pushing the door shut, bewildered by the intrusion
but keen to keep a good relationship with one of last season's other
standout attacking names, and one of the few Leeds men with real
Premiership experience in his career. He wiped his suddenly sweaty palms
on his tshirt and looked his visitor up and down. `What is it,
buddy...?'



Leif was three short measures of the overpriced mid-range Scotch into
this little room party now, sat on the side of one bed in his sweatpants
and zipped up hoody, looking between the warmly laughing men who'd
welcomed in and been surprisingly empathetic when he complained about
Jack and his excessive bullying. `Guy needs to chill,' Barry had
muttered, and `Smug City prick,' Stuart had evaluated simply, before
plying him with the booze.

For the past ten minutes, the two men had been enjoying a dissection of
the captain's Glasgow narrative. `No way did it happen,' Barry
asserted again, sat cross-legged beside him in just small grey shorts and
a heavy long-sleeved Scotland jersey, clearly pissed off not to have been
selected for the same international duty as Cooper. `No way! I mean, who
does he think he is, Casa-fucking-nova? Whatever... more of the good
stuff, Leify?' He tilted the bottle over but Leif pulled away slightly,
already feeling the burn of it in his throat and his temples.

`He's defo exaggerating,' the 29-year-old Northern Irish lad said, sat
facing them in very baggy tracksuit bottoms and a tight black vest,
exposing a little of his hairy chest and the lean muscle of his arms.
`But why would he feel like he needs to do that, y'know? Makes me think
he really couldn't get it up or he couldn't score for love nor money,
hah... the lot of the whores were probably too busy buzzing around
Robertson and Tierney like flies to shit...!'

`Sexy image,' Douglas chided him. `Leif, seriously, have a drop
more.'

`Probably captain Cooper just got tossed off by some Scotland lad,'
chuckled Dallas. `Eh, Leif? I mean, we all know it happens... haha,
relax, I'm not getting at ya... just saying...' He leaned over to punch
him lightly on the arm, cradling his own paper cup of the brown nectar.
`I mean, Barry and I were just fucking chuffed not to be the losers, you
know?'

`Aye,' the 31-year-old Scotsman agreed. `We couldn't have done what
you did.'

`Guys,' Davis mumbled, `just leave it, I don't wanna...'

`Nah, you know what, you were so cool,' Barry went on, pushing
playfully at him and knocking back a mouthful of the whiskey. `You
shouldn't be getting stick for it. Another lad -- your mate Jordan, say
-- woulda cried off and fucked out of that room, not gone along with it
like you did -- respect, kid, you're a good lad really...'

`Aye, sure are,' Stu was agreeing, leaning over again but slapping his
knee in a friendly manner. `And besides, in just a minute you seemed to
make that flash private schoolboy a bit excited, so you did summat right,
hey hey...' Leif blushed at this, and the deep manly laughter of the
players beside him, but he was tipsy now so less fragile about it, and it
was a lot better than the sneers and digs of that wanker on the next
corridor, stupid Jack Harrison.

`I'd never done it before,' he felt the need to say hotly, defending
himself against their jokey praise.

`Oh, we believe that, you looked shit-scared,' Barry was saying,
grinning with a hint of nostalgia in his eyes, patting him on the back
and shoulders through his hoody, `but you did it, good lad, you gotta
follow through with these games otherwise who trusts ya, really...'

Stu leaned closer across the space between the beds, leering at them
both. `And we both said, didn't we Baz, how we were almost a bit
jealous of Paddy, truth be told!' The bearded Northern Irelander cackled
at his own admission and tossed aside his empty paper cup, flexing his
chest and shoulders for a moment, scratching at the exposed dark hair
below his throat.

`Huh?'

`Oh just a bit,' Barry agreed, hugging around his shoulders a little.
`I mean, we saw the way you made that posh wanker get stiff as a
doorknob, haha, so... what is it, you got magic hands or summat, Geordie
boy?' He grinned and took hold of Leif's left hand, lifting it to
examine; he blushed again, though less with the shame and anger of his
early mockery, even from these two. It was hard to tell right now how
jokey they were being, how much he was the butt of their humour. But when
he looked back to the other athlete, Stuart had lifted the bottom of his
vest and reached his hand inside the front of those baggy blue trackies
to give himself a feel.

`Well, everyone was horny,' Dallas said simply. `Promotion was a big
deal.'

`Aye,' Douglas murmured, closer to him, `we were all ragin', you
know. Same tonight, to be fair -- all the nerves for beating Liverpool,
y'know. Maybe we play the game again?'

`Except we already know the loser, like,' Leif returned quickly and
irritably, but unable to stop watching as Stu, opposite, pushed forward
at his pants and gently unfurled his chunky floppy meat into the open
air, giving it a good feel and grinning as he did. And Leif's left hand,
still grabbed by Barry, was being pulled down and in against one leg of
those skimpy shorts, and...

`Aye, we know the outcome, so we could just skip to the forfeit?' the
gruff Scotsman muttered in his ear, then laughing gently. He twisted his
head to look at him, the light gingery beard about his pursed lips, the
flicker of trouble in his hazel eyes. Leif could feel through the shorts
that his dick was getting hard, and he looked down and saw its glistening
pink tip emerge from the bottom of the fabric, pressed in against his
hairy thigh.

`You did so well last time,' murmured Stuart, getting up to his feet,
closing the space, standing up in front of them both with his dick and
balls hanging free over his trackies, weighty and soft beneath the wiry
curls of his black pubes. Before he knew what he was doing, Leif was
lifting his right hand to stroke it, even as his left was rubbed gently
in against Barry's crotch by the man's guiding hand. He sat there with
the guys to his left and in front of him, and touched their sweaty
members, his head throbbing with the rush of the whiskey that he'd drank
so quickly and nervously.

`Guys,' he murmured, `I don't know if I should...'

`It's okay,' Stuart whispered, `we're cool with it, kid, we've seen
what you can do...'



`He's just a youngster,' Patrick Bamford said calmly and firmly,
standing face to face with a teammate he had previously gotten on with
very well. He kept his measured and authoritative gaze on the younger and
more obnoxious sportsman, not moving a muscle, trying to project an air
of cool assertiveness. `You can't wind him up like this, it'll fuck
him up. And it just isn't that funny any more, Harrison, not really.'

`God,' the 23-year-old muttered sulkily at him. `I thought YOU could
take a joke better than this.'

`I can take any joke,' Bamford said, trying not to snap, `but I don't
like what you're doing to Davis. He's practically a teenager and he's
been away from home since he was a schoolboy. He needs looking after,
not... you know. Bullying. It's not on, Jack.'

A heavy begrudging sigh from the loan player. `And you thought you'd
come and tell me off, yeah?' he said a little defiantly.

`Yeah, I did,' Patrick told him and this time he let his voice be
harder and fuller with his own self-confidence. `Cos our fucking captain
doesn't seem up to it. I'm telling you nicely, mate, but if I hear
another word, I'll be speaking to the board.'

`The board?'

`Yeah,' Paddy told him firmly. `Not the manager, not the assistants.
The execs. I'll tell them there's sexual harassment and homophobic
bullying going on and I refuse to play until it is properly investigated
and exposed.' He paused for dramatic effect. `I know most footballers
can't pick up a pen, buddy, but I can write a cracking complaint letter,
and I can make sure you are back on the bench of Man City reserves before
Christmas.' He cooled off, not wanting to become too angry or
threatening here, standing firmly over the dark-haired lad, hands still
firmly in his hoody pouch.

There was a long silence as Jack stared at him. `Well,' he said
eventually, `I was a bit bored of the joke anyway, if I'm honest. It's
been one of those kinda years, y'know? Everyone is on edge, Paddy,
tomorrow is a big deal, everyone is nervous about the step up and-`

`That does not make it okay,' Bamford told him sternly. `You don't
mention what happened. What he lost, what he did.'

`What he did to you,' Harrison pointed out oddly.

`Yes,' he conceded irritably, `what he did to ME, but...'

That's when he felt it, and twitched in surprise. They were standing
close, face to face, he a good few inches taller and broader than the
winger. He looked down his chest and past the droop of his arms and the
bulge of the pocket. Just below the hem of his hoody, there was the other
footballer's hand, reaching in to caress, very softly, the slight
outline of his manhood in the glossy black fabric of the shorts. He
gritted his teeth in annoyed shock at this and slowly tilted his head
back up, looking at the strained and almost vulnerable expression that
had replaced Harrison's arrogant frown.

`What -- the -- fuck?' Bamford asked slowly and sternly.

The hand pulled back, something drooped in the 23-year-old's posture.
`Nothing, I-`

`Don't you touch me again,' Patrick told him unambiguously, and took
one step back. `Not another fucking word from you, Jack Harrison, or I
swear to god.' And because the sudden room-filling embarrassment was far
worse than his own righteous anger and his fraternal concern for young
Davis, he left the room in a hurry, utterly bewildered by the brief
transient feel of Jack's fingers play over the front of his shorts.



Leif sat there in a stupor, only able to focus on the simultaneous motion
of his left and right hand, both gripped tightly around the swollen veiny
cocks of Douglas and Dallas, one man on either side of him, one hand each
pressing gently into his upper back as he sat there and jerked them. To
his left, Barry's cock felt hot and thick and he was a little shocked by
the generous ooze of frothy pale pre-cum that kept slipping off the
foreskin and onto his fingers; to the right, Stuart's was thinner but
longer and seemed to need a tighter grip to make him sigh and rasp.

`That's it,' Dallas panted when he really gripped and shook it,
`that's the ticket, lad...'

`Ohhh, yeah, keep going,' Douglas encouraged, leaning hard against him,
the fabric of their tops rubbing as their arms did, his breaths long and
raspy.

Leif's head was a blur of Scotch and intimidation and -- hidden beneath
a dozen layers of scared suppression -- some unnamed desire that had been
stirred for the first time this summer. He wanted to close his eyes and
detach a little but he also wanted to stare repeatedly from side to side
to examine the individuality of these hard throbbing cocks which he'd
seen properly exposed at the promotion party, and glimpsed repeatedly in
steamy showers and locker-room moments.

`That's it,' Dallas repeated, `just like that, you bugger, ohh...'

`He's good,' Douglas sighed, `can see why Bamf got so hard, hah...'

Leif himself didn't say anything -- what could he say? Er, thanks, guys?
He was drunk and confused and partly driven by his anger at all the
taunting he'd had to receive. It sorta felt like these two big brutes
could hardly jibe and mock him now, not when he had their nobs in his
hands, not when he was making them pant and moan like this so easily, not
when they were praising his soft young hands or stroking at his warm back
through his hoody, occasionally reaching to tousle the fluffy brown-blond
of his short hair. Onwards he raced, knowing the conclusion that was
needed, remembering how it had felt in that small quiet WC in the Leeds
grounds.

Dallas got up to his feet again though, as he had to begin with, standing
over him with his trackies around his knees, grabbing now at his own dick
while Davis continued to jerk on Douglas on autopilot. `Sit still,'
Stuart hissed, `just let me... oh... fuck... yes...' And then it was
spurting at him, globs of the Northern Irish spunk splashing at the
collar and chest of his hoody in thin stains, while the 6ft midfielder
let out a long accented gasp of satisfaction... then grunted at the other
horny brute. `Get up, shoot on him, haha... come on...'

And up got Barry now too, Leif's hand feeling numb and silly as he
pulled it back to himself, sitting perfectly still and staring up at
them, their upper bodies heaving in vest and jersey, and the shorter
thicker meat of the Scottish man slipping back and forth and then -- oh!
-- blasting a thicker, creamier string of manly liquid across his
shoulder and, just a single fleck, on his jawline, making him yelp and
twist away a little. A few more drops of cum from one or both man shook
out and hit the zip of his hoody and he twisted away on the bed, hands
shaking.

He'd done it again. Twice. Or double. Maybe it was just one time, not
two. Fuck. He scrabbled over the bed and almost fell over in the other
side in his rush to be up and unzipping his hoody, shrugging it and its
stains away from him, letting it fall on the hotel floor so that he was
instantly a little chilly in just his thin white vest, arms and parts of
his chest exposed. He'd done it, he'd given in, but -- well, they
couldn't laugh at him now, could they?

They could. `Bloody hell you'd be popular in prison,' cackled
Douglas.

`What moisturisers you use on those bad boys?' boomed Dallas.

The two Leeds players stood on the far side of the bed, leaning on each
other a bit with their hard dicks still out, bursting into throaty
laddish laughter, not even looking at him. And standing there, Leif just
felt transported back to the hot awkward claustrophobia of the club bar,
realising he'd lost the game and everyone staring at him. For the second
time tonight, he rushed out of a hotel room, unable to stomach the warm
mockery of the men's smiles and laughs, the knowledge they had of him
and his tipsy willingness to service. He felt sick, sick with nerves like
had all week, and he ran out of their room without even bothering to pick
up his defiled hoody or listen to their stammering half-apologies: `Ah,
that was funny as fuck, can't believe you...' `Wait up, kid, you can
chill here if you don't want to go...'

Out he went, into another identical horror movie corridor, no longer even
sure which way led to his old room and to sneering bell-end Harrison! He
dashed for a landing and hesitated at the top of the stairs, confused at
where he thought he was going in his nightclothes and socks. He turned
back, stared furiously down the corridor, swear he could still hear
muffled Scottish and Northern Irish laughter behind one of the doors. He
rushed on past them and around a corner, down an identical hallway,
conscious of the late hour and his need to sleep and-

`Hey, hey, hey...!'

It felt for a minute like he'd ran into a brick wall, but it was just
another guy. He steadied himself and blushed and mumbled out a `Sorry',
then realised that it was Paddy Bamford standing over him, a shoulder
reaching for each of his shoulders, skin to skin around the thin vest
straps. There was a concerned and puzzled frown on the 27-year-old
striker's face.

`Leif,' he said gently, `what are you doing?'

As he tried to speak, he realised how drunk he was and how obvious it
must be. He heard himself try to blurt out accusations about Jack and his
stupid banter, but none of it came out well, or maybe the voice was only
in his head anyway. He groaned and rubbed a hand at his face and watched
the concerned frown turn to a bemused grin on Patrick's face.

`You need to crash at our room?' he asked. `Koch is already snoring
big German snores, so -- he won't mind. There's so much spare bedding,
I'll be comfy on the floor, you have my bed, yeah?'

Leif just stared glumly at him, absorbing this rescue offer and his need
for it, unable to say the thank you he needed to. `I'm sorry,' was all
he could grumble out in his thick Newcastle accent. `Dunno what I'm
doin', just need to...'

`Mate, let's get you to bed,' Patrick sighed, patting his shoulder.
`Who the fuck you been drinking with? You know what, don't tell me.
Less I know the better. Come on. And hey --` pausing, frowning again,
steering him around in the other direction with calm gentle hands.
`What's that?'

Davis stared at him, blinking sleepily, head throbbing now. `Hmm?'

Bamford pushed his hand deeper into the sleeve of his hoody, shrugging a
bit as he lifted it up and rubbed the heel of his hand through its blue
fabric onto Leif's cheek, jawline, smearing something away and shrugging
again. `Toothpaste?' he asked with a vague uncertainty, and Leif felt
his entire cleaned face burn scarlet with shame.

`Yeah,' he mumbled thickly, `just a bit of erm, toothpaste.'

`Come on, drunkard. You'll be alright in the morning. Follow me.'

`Just so nervous,' Leif mumbled, stumbling along by his side, trying
not to think about what he'd just done or the moment he and this tall
kind bloke had once privately shared, never acknowledged. The bright
electric light of the hallways swayed and span. `Just nervous, y'know,
Premiership tomorrow and everythin', like... so...'

`Oh, sure,' Paddy sighed, hand on the back of his neck as he fished for
a key in his shorts pocket and stilled them at the right hotel door,
ready to guide him in and give up his own bed to look after him. `But
everyone is, they're all feeling it. Even that prick Jack, I bet.'
Bamford stopped and smiled reassuringly at him in the middle of unlocking
the door. `Even the Liverpool players are bricking it, I bet. So much
for them to defend or lose. Come on, stop worrying, buddy -- let's get
you some water and then you can sleep it off. Tomorrow is another day,
right?'





**PART 181... FIND OUT HOW NERVOUS THOSE LIVERPOOL PLAYERS ARE ?? **