Date: Sat, 3 Oct 2020 06:44:04 +0000
From: writer guy <premiershiplads@outlook.com>
Subject: Premiership Lads Part 186: A Scouser & a Gentleman

Part 186: A Scouser & a Gentleman


He sat in the back of a chauffeur driven vehicle into the outskirts of
Birmingham, the hired driver who had collected him from South London and
taken up into the Midlands for today's meetings. It had all happened
with surreal speed and he sat stiffly in the back of the car with his
hands flat on his suit-clad thighs and a single packed weekend bag
slumped on the leather beside his awkward posture. A glassy grin was
frozen on his big featured face, staring ahead of him at the dull
concrete scenery and at his own awkward expression in the rear-view
mirror.

The end-of-September day was grey and damp, some pathetic fallacy for the
heart-breaking suddenness of leaving London behind, albeit
`temporarily'.

The tall well-built footballer hunched to the side a little to peer out
of the passenger window of the backseat, seeing the flat built-up
environs sprawl away from the road, and then the more familiar
silhouettes of the football training ground rising up around the corner;
not Villa Park itself, where of course he had visited and played, but the
Birmingham club's training complex.

Aston Villa, he thought. From almost the top of the Premiership to the
very bottom, sorta -- the club had barely survived relegation to the
Championship this year, and thought it was a respectable club with a
fighting spirit, it was certainly a nosedive for the Chelsea midfielder.
He hid a grimace behind his frozen smile, supposing the elderly Asian
driver was most likely a Villa fan himself; he had certainly seemed
excited as he welcome Ross Barkley into the vehicle to complete the
transfer journey and get him here to his new home for a one-season loan.

So here he was. The 26-year-old athlete watched the front gates of the
Aston Villa campus approach, adjusting the lapels of his dark grey suit
jacket and feeling more than ever the strange dehumanising existence of
the top-flight footballer, a commodity to be traded with little or no say
in their own career trajectory. One minute gearing up for an exciting new
campaign at Chelsea, eyeing up the talented new singings who he thought
would be his allies in a battle for the top spot, and now turfed out and
moving halfway up the country to a strange new city. He'd literally just
bought a new London pad after his months of sofa-surfing with his fellow
rich West London players.

It had all happened so fast, too fast. He hadn't even been able to go
into the Cobham training ground today to say his goodbyes to any of the
lads, any of his many close pals on the Chelsea squad; no, his day had
begun with some online meetings and then moved to this long windswept car
journey, and now here he was, with more meetings ahead of him, then a
muted media unveiling in the late afternoon... The car passed beneath the
gates and into the parking areas of the sprawling football complex, as
unattractive and industrial looking as everything else on the fringes of
this big city.

Barkley stepped slowly out of the car and into the light drizzle of
Birmingham rain against his warm face and short cropped hair, settling on
the glossy shoulders of his new suit. He closed the door loudly behind
him and hoisted the weekend bag up over one shoulder, something
pilgrim-like and desperate in the few things he'd stuffed into it before
going to meet the driver; he'd not even had a chance to unpack at his
new London pad, barely moved into the fucking place, and now he was on
the move again. Where the hell was he gonna stay up here...?

But it's all your fault, ain't it? The nagging voice at the back of his
mind chided him with this question as he waved an awkward goodbye to his
driver, off to park the expensive club vehicle, leaving him alone in the
sea of concrete, a couple of suited figures emerging from the nearest
building and making their way over to him with oddly serious expressions
of welcome.

All my fault, Ross sighed internally, forcing his smile for these
businessmen.



The Chelsea squad had arrived nice and early at the Tottenham Hotspur
Stadium, of course, in order to settle in and warm up and prepare
themselves for the EFL Cup clash between two of the big London clubs;
Barkley felt a little high on the enthusiasm and ambition of the
reinvigorated team, centring around the talents of newbies Timo Werner
and Kai Havertz, but with many of the well-established regulars eager to
prove themselves too.

The West London men were relaxing in a comfortable space upstairs before
going down to the Away changing rooms of the luxurious new football
ground, bouncing around in their figure-hugging blue tracksuits and
making jokes about the stupidly expensive details of the still new Spurs
ground that they were returning to. There was that extra crackle in the
air of a London derby, the playful-yet-serious banter of facing up
against Tottenham or Arsenal or West Ham; this special capital city
atmosphere was being patiently explained to the new players, to Timo and
Kai and to Hakim Ziyech, though nobody had to fill in boisterous Ben
Chilwell on the high stakes.

Barkley, only mildly disappointed that he would be starting this evening
on Lampard's bench of substitutes, kept himself to himself and tried to
stay relaxed and confident. As the transfer window drew slowly to its
close, he felt more rather than less anxious about the security of his
place here on this expanding squad, where quick new feet were operating
in the midfield and attack, and his second-half role in Chelsea tactics
felt increasingly jeopardised. Still, none of the almost-deals that his
agent and the Chelsea bosses had vaguely referenced at the start of
summer had come to fruition; he knew that had one point he had almost
been a pawn to be traded in for the purchase of Declan Rice, and it had
taken all of his kindness and patience not to resent that he almost got
sold off to import his dear pal Mason Mount's boyfriend into town.

Okay, so he'd start on the bench, but he felt relatively confident that
Frank - who he had caught start to give him those same lusty looks during
training, bringing back memories of last winter -- would deploy him in
the second 45 and he would still be able to make a powerful contribution
and help them triumph over Mourinho and the North London club.

In the relaxation lounge, the Cup visitors eased themselves into the
pre-match atmosphere, and Ross watched on idly, detaching a little from
the general mood of ambitious banter. Giroud and Azpilicueta seemed to
have been charged by the gaffer to get the newbies primed on the London
team politics and why Spurs were to be loathed not quite as loathed as
Arsenal; Chilwell and Mount seemed to be bonding closely, which made
Barkley feel vaguely left out but also rather self-conscious about their
shared history (a certain experience on the beaches of Dubai coming to
mind every time he saw the two handsome younger lads laughing and shoving
each other on the training ground). Tomori and Jorginho were playing
doubles on the table football with Hudson-Odoi and Mendy, and a bunch of
the others were laughing and chirping at some of the old club memorabilia
on the walls, trying to verbally trash the Tottenham prestige.

Ross didn't want to weaken his mindset or his patience by getting too
involved in this trash talk and he hung back, climbing out of his seat
and walking across to the other side of the room and, with a thoughtful
hum to himself, out into the broad corridor beyond whose windows looked
down into the grand new stadium itself, where they would shortly be
stepping out to warm up for an early cup tie with their London rivals.
Looking out on the expansive emptiness of the ground they were visiting
the Scouse footballer was again struck by how `normal' the lack of
their fans had become to them all.

`Weird, seeing it so empty, huh?'

He looked sharply to the left and he felt totally unsurprised by the
speaker; a combination of where he was this evening and recent de ja vu.
It did kinda seem like Eric Dier was an unavoidable satellite to his
London life. Still, he raised his eyebrows and stared at the sudden
appearance of the Tottenham player sidling down the hallway towards him,
trailing his hand along the ledge of the high windows overlooking the
terraces. There was an edgy smile on the strong square features of the
tall defensive player's face, shuffling closer with a baggy Spurs hoody
hanging open about his shoulders and a tight Under Armour vest clinging
to his chunky torso beneath it. He seemed on his way to get properly
kitted out for tonight and Ross wondered if he'd redirected his route
this way to speak to him deliberately, but it seemed less than likely.

`Yeah,' he grunted back, pressing the heels of his hands to the window
ledge and staring back at the other player, trying his best to show none
of the awkwardness or regret he felt at seeing him again so soon after
his night of failed first date with that airhead. He didn't know what to
say back to the other 26-year-old burly lad, torn between wanting to
convey his disinterest in addressing their last meeting and wanting to
maintain polite friendly relations with the likeable England star.

`Hey,' Dier said now in a slightly lower voice, moving closer, making
Barkley instantly uneasy, `was hoping to run into ya, actually...'

`Oh?' Ross returned as evasively as he could, unconsciously shifting
his whole body away to the right and lifting his hands off the sill,
wiping his palms down the front of his dark blue Chelsea tracksuit top,
giving Eric a glowering look of bewilderment as if he couldn't possibly
imagine what he wanted to talk about.

`Yeah, yeah -- er, haha, it was just so cool seeing you out in London
the other night, and...'

Ross stole his eyes away, fixating instead on the stadium view, only
half-listening to the polished posh boy voice of the Cheltenham lad,
resisting the direction of the dialogue. `Always thought you were good
banter when we were away with the Lions, y'know,' he heard Eric say
now, and he didn't like the odd tone to his voice as he said `banter'
or even `we', didn't like the suggestive lean of his tone or the way
he was gently sidling closer. Ross found himself thinking not so much
about the illicit blowjob, the latest brutish conquest in this discovered
side of himself, but of the petulant kiss and the pushiness of the other
man in that cubicle, taking things too far and now... `I mean, I dunno if
you saw my message the other day, I just wondered if...' At Eric's voice
now, he turned his head sharply that way and glared unhappily at him.

`Drop it mate, eh?' he barked roughly, trying to stamp down on the
unfolding conversation.

`Come on,' muttered the other England player quietly but with a knowing
grin on his lips, `I think we both know it was fun when we-`

`Drop it, let's not have this chat...'

`Why, you think it'll get you hot and bothered before the game...?'

He frowned into Dier's soft laughter, even more annoyed by this comment
than the others; so was that it, he thought, was this all tactical? Was
this meathead idiot here to gloat at what they'd shared and what he knew
about Ross and his flexible appetite? He frowned more deeply, irritated
by the self conscious blush burning up his rugged features, moving
further back as again Eric shifted this way, stepping closer and laughing
some more, moving to speak again, `Ross, fella, you know full well you
ain't got nothing to blush about, I've seen it all...!'

`Jesus,' Barkley snapped aggressively at him at that, stopping his slow
retreat and stepping right up to him, sharply coming face-to-face,
chin-to-chin, squaring up to the man who would be his opponent on the
pitch very shortly. `You finished fuckin' gloating, posh boy? Dunno who
you think you are, throwing yourself about here when we're meant to be
prepping for the match, go hang with your own fuckin' best mates like
Boring Old Kane...' He grabbed the lapels of the other bloke's hoody,
couldn't stop himself, even though Eric was immediately holding both
hands up defensively -- but he was still laughing, that smug and
privileged sound that came so easily from him...

`Hey, buddy, no need to go grabbing at me, we're not in a toilet
cubicle now, haha...'

`Fuck right off! Stupid twat...' He shoved at him and then instantly
felt another figure next to him and a severe hand grasping at his
shoulder, jerking him back from Dier just as he made to lash out with his
strong arms again and push more roughly at the opposition player. The
hand tightened at his shoulder and he knew who it was even before the
gaffer's severe East London accent was in his ear.

`Gents!' barked Frank Lampard, moving quickly between them and almost
elbowing Ross back away from his confrontation with the Spurs man; the
Chelsea boss turned his attention briefly but dismissively to Dier then
back at Barkley, a furious expression lined across his handsome ageing
features. `Ross!' he barked even more loudly and angrily. `What are
you DOING?'

Barkley stood there stammering silently in angry self-defense, feeling
winded by the force of his boss's arm against his chest as he took some
stumbling steps back away; he couldn't help but picture how aggressive
and out of order her must have looked for a moment there, grabbing
physically at the enemy player here in the quiet corridors of the host
stadium. It was the exactly the kind of behaviour that had made a
negative first impression on the ex-midfielder when he became the Chelsea
manager and taken his initial dislike of Barkley's work... you know,
before he'd had to, er, convince him otherwise in his own special
ways...

`Shame on you,' the Chelsea legend and now head coach yelped furiously
at Dier for a moment, `coming around here, distractin' my players...'
He didn't stand long enough or give Eric enough attention to register
his hurried denials of this, whirling back on Ross instead and grabbing
the collar of his glossy tracksuit jacket. `You nobhead,' he lectured
him sharply in the face, still in the Spurs player's earshot, `why are
you letting this twat rile you like that, or any Tottenham scum? Eh?' He
shook at the shoulder of Ross's body and clothes like an angry parent or
teacher, speaking down to him as if he was just some idiot youngster.
`You are too hot tempered, Ross!' he yelled in his face, seeming
oblivious to the irony.

`Gaffer,' he breathed awkwardly, his blood still thumping in annoyance
at Dier and the brief confrontation, but now also in panic at his
chief's reaction; and the lingering presence of Eric seemed to make it
all worse, the Spurs bloke hovering nearby looking ready to throw more
gloating insults or teasing references to the recent night in Shoreditch
and Liverpool Street Station. The fella was saying something now but Ross
couldn't catch it because Frank was in his face, tugging at his collar
again and leaning in to shout one last thing in his face.

`I've still a week to offload you if I need to, meathead,' Lampard was
barking at him, none of the gentle understanding between them right now,
none of the empathy or intimacy that had flickered when Barkley offered
himself up to comfort his disheartened leader in some of his darker
moments last season. There was something really hateful and resentful in
Lampard's manner as he shook him and stared him down, assertive in his
status and Barkley's inability to shout back without getting in worse
trouble. Ross glared at him, stabbed with a sense of injustice, but
utterly silenced by the vague threat of what Frank was saying: yep,
almost a week more before that transfer deadline and a moratorium on
career moves for surplus talent like himself.

`Get in there,' commanded the older man, shoving him in the arm and
nodding to the double doors back into the players' lounge, not even
sparing a glance for Eric, just ushering Ross in through the doors and
away from further conflict, tense with disapproval and disappointment.



In the second half of the game, the North London side were a goal down to
their visitors and facing knockout from the Carabao Cup. Eric Dier was
exhausted in his left-back position, fighting hard alongside Alderweireld
and Hojlberg to keep Lampard's men from a second and securing their
victory; exhausted and doubly distracted.

For one thing, his ex was back on the pitch, Kane loping onto the field
in the 70th minute to join the attack, brimming with confidence and
assertiveness and doing everything to try and claim an equaliser. Dier
was good at holding back his feelings when he shared the grass with the
other tall England player, but inside it was an extra strain on his focus
and his work ethic. Especially at the moment: for all his contrite
mutterings in the harbour in Reykjavik, big Harry actually seem
reinvigorated and joyful since their England trip, as if whatever he had
got up to bending over for Conor fucking Coady had snapped him from a
dull repressive slump.

It used to be me who put that spring in his step, Eric kept thinking,
distracted from his strong defensive routine by the long striding runs of
the Spurs striker up ahead in the opposition's half, his shirt and
shorts stretched over a long muscular body and an eager grin on his
almost boyish features as he ran. The 27-year-old seemed to be attacking
the new season for Tottenham with fresh energy and commitment, as if the
protracted will-he-won't-he transfer speculation had finally been pushed
aside and he was sure his future lay here at Tottenham. Still a few days
to go, the defender would think to himself, making a bounding run over to
stop Timo Werner in his tracks, crashing into the speedy German and
deflecting the ball powerfully away from the vulnerable edge of play.

It wasn't that Dier suspected anything at all was going on between Kane
and Coady; he'd only half-listened to the England captain's slurred and
desperate explanations of the sleazy bargaining that had gone on between
pro and newbie, had been unsurprised when that Scouse yob Conor showed up
in the starting line-up for the next game, two days later...! Nah, he
didn't think his `ex' had leapt into something new, not really, but
how could he really accept that their romance had been curtailed to
preserve his precious marriage and family life, if he was going to take
such rash moves with footballers he barely knew...? Didn't he trust Eric,
like he'd always claimed...?

He snapped out of this painful reverie -- especially painful because he
just couldn't face talking about it to anyone, not even to Alli or Winks
who might half-understood, or to young Parrott who was so busy proving
himself on his Milwall loan -- just in time to catch another attack,
throwing his weighty physique into Werner's path and ruining his run.
Again he booted the ball heavily away, a strong clearance, and he turned
for a moment to catch the odd thoughtful look the handsome German lad was
giving him, almost a curious sneer. Mental note: bit of alright, that
one. But he was distracted enough, he couldn't take a moment to enjoy
the swinging bulge in Timo's shorts, he needed to get back into position
and keep his eye on the action to fend off further attempts...

But over there was the OTHER distraction of his evening shift in the
Tottenham Hotspur Stadium: the little bouts of argument he kept catching
on the edge of play, at the Chelsea visiting dugout down the left-hand
side of the field, so close to his position. You could hear quite a lot
in these empty stadiums, he'd learned; conversations that normally
remained discreet on the edge of the action, drowned out by the crowds,
now echoed awkwardly into the field of play. And right now, that meant
that Eric was hearing snatches of dispute between the opposition manager,
a very frustrated and aggressive-looking Frank Lampard, and one of his
substitutes: Ross Barkley.

He definitely hadn't meant to cause any trouble, chancing a passing
convo with the midfielder before the warm-ups began, he'd just wanted
to... say hi, he supposed. The two of them had texted a little bit lately
but nothing major, just passing comments or shared memes. He really
couldn't quite fathom what had randomly occurred between them night in
the station loos, even when he was as seasoned at fairly random
man-on-man enjoyment snatched over the years -- it wasn't as if Harry
Kane was his first or last...! But Barkley, Ross Barkley... really?

Just then, recovering from another weighty blow with Werner, he heard the
raised voices again and looked over; Lamps was turned away from the
action, one hand on the hip of his dark chinos and the other held in a
wagging finger at the standing figure of the tall athletic Liverpudlian,
staring sulkily and intensely at his boss. Dier didn't catch what was
said, but picked up on the tone of anger, accusation, retribution -- and
looking sharply that way, adjusting his shorts and shirt with his
muscular chest heaving with exertion, he saw the hurt and vulnerable look
cross across the rugged young features of Barkley's face before the
Chelsea man burst away from his gaffer and shot into the tunnel at speed,
stared after by the huddle of other substitutes and recovering recalled
players...

A snap decision clicked in the defensive midfielder's head, and he moved
fast.

`Need to go, won't be long,' he shouted heavily in the direction of
Jose Mourinho and the second coach, bursting by them in a rapid sweaty
jog through the dugout and into the tunnel mouth, abandoning a match in
play for the first time in his life. `Toilet!' he called into the face
of a bemused official, exploding into the large square entrance and down
the grey-blue tunnel, catching a glimpse of dark tracksuit as Barkley
disappeared around a corner away from view; Dier hared after him, his
brain rapidly replaying the insane choice he'd just made. Had he really
just skipped out of a cup game without permission because he felt like
he'd got an innocent bloke in trouble...?!

It all happened too quickly for the 26-year-old to question his own
madness. He bolted around the corner and shoved open the door to the
mens' toilets beyond the main changing rooms area, clattering noisily in
with the studs of his boots jabbing on the hard tiled floors. The noise
grabbed the attention of the man he'd followed and Ross was whirling
around, arms held stiffly at his side and hands bunched into fists, his
whole body squared up and puffed out in an aggressive stance but his face
pulled into an `O' of confused shock -- well of course he was shocked,
Eric was shocked enough at himself, what the hell was he actually doing
in here...?

`Ross,' the 6ft2 defender huffed, advancing on him with a clack of
boots, `are you okay?'

`Dier?' demanded the Chelsea sub, squaring up to him and glaring at him
with the same resentful expression he'd adopted before when Eric even
hinted at discussing their last meeting; he seemed to recover from his
moment of disbelief and return to a visceral fury, lunging forward and
snatching at the front of Eric's white Spurs shirt in the same hostile
manner he'd grabbed his hoody. The player was tired and surprised by
this and almost bowled backwards by the unexpected force of Barkley's
lunge, so he grabbed at his arms to steady himself, pulling down on the
sleeves of that tracksuit, thumbs pressing into the swollen biceps of
those arms.

`Are you in trouble?' Eric asked rapidly and he heard the weakness of
his voice, the puzzlement at what he was even asking or trying to do; why
was he here?! Yards away, the second half of the game rattled on, he'd
abandoned it, Mourinho would be fuming, men just didn't exit for toilet
breaks, it wasn't the done thing, what the fuck...

`What's it to you?' Ross almost spat at him, nostrils flaring and eyes
wide.

`It's my fault,' Eric breathed.

`Yeah,' the northern lad agreed loudly, `yeah it is, you fuckin'...!'
He wrenched more tightly on the chest of the footy shirt and pulled him
in close, gritting his white teeth and squaring his powerful jaw, looking
on the verge of throwing a punch; Eric moved artlessly and instinctively,
following the drag of his body and gripping at Barkley's body, only
half-conscious of raised voices echoing in the corridor beyond the
toilets door. In he pulled and pressed his face to his, pushing his dry
lips in against the plump pout of Ross's. For a moment their teeth
clashed as their lips wrestled, and then the other man's mouth was
opening in surprise and in he pushed his tongue against his, throwing one
strong arm about his side and feeling his gripping fists weaken in
surprise. For a long moment they kissed, Eric mouthing at the stunned
pout of the other fella, pushing their tongues together, tasting the
sweet chewing-gum flavour of his gob.

If he'd heard the shouting behind him, the raised voices of their
managers, both of them, then he would not have clung to the Chelsea
player quite so much, feeling the tensile strength of his overworked arms
or the heat of the flanks beneath them, dragging his lips over his and
letting the short rough fluff of his beard stroke across his jutting
chin...

`ERIC, ERIC DIER, YOU IDIOT, YOU MUST...!' That was Mourinho's voice.

`No, allow me, this is fuckin' ridiculous...' That was Lampard.

In he burst, and Eric immediately felt Ross's hand push at his chest and
his arms break away from his own stray fingers, felt his hot angry breath
on his moustache and beard, their tall athletic bodies thrust apart in a
dizzy moment... Frank was breaking into the loos, the door clattering,
swaggering towards them, his faced line with anger and his eyes narrowed
-- Eric saw the flash of intense panic on Ross's face and he tried to
calculated what if anything the Chelsea gaffer could have seen on his way
in, what could he really have noticed between them, they'd only kissed
for a moment, so... But over the intrusion of Lamps came the other voice,
the almost shrill furious Portuguese of his own boss, Jose screeching for
him -- `Eric! Eric, get the fuck out here, on that pitch, now...!'

Dier felt the full idiocy of his behaviour and looked for a fraction of a
moment at Barkley. All he saw there was anger and distress and he knew
he'd made a mistake, he'd been a fool. All he was doing was pissing off
this burly Scouse lad, he'd totally misread the risqué moment they'd
shared, and now... He launched himself past Frank and out into the
corridor at a pace, shielding himself from a clip around the ears from
Mourinho. `Call of nature, boss, you gotta go!' he yelled breathily at
his head coach as he tore down the tunnel back towards the game, seeing
the array of puzzled faces as he exploded out onto the grass and tore
back into the game, speeding towards a successful collision and closing
down another Chelsea offence, keeping a draw or win within sights...



Not only did Spurs get their equaliser, about five minutes later, but
they went on to best Chelsea over a round of penalties: a sulking and
shameful Barkley watched this drama unfold between the teams' best
players, seeing that interfering prick Dier claim the first of five for
his team, and the scoresheet hold steady between them for three more
rounds. Kane himself, a true marksman, delivered the final penalty for
Tottenham, and young Mason Mount stepped up for the Blues.

Barkley seemed to see the miss before it actually happened, and once it
had, he could hardly look. It was not just that he felt the sting of the
club's defeat, but he knew Lampard's wrath would be stoked. In all
honesty, Lamps had been awful since the season resumed, gripped with so
much frustration and tension that he lashed out regularly at anyone who
questioned him. Ross had temporarily believed himself to be exempt from
this treatment, sure that the `understanding' between coach and player
was secure... hadn't he been the one to comfort Frank in those gloomy
moments after the FA Cup defeat and Champions League exit? Hadn't he and
his frustrated obsessive gaffer reached some kinda mutual respect by the
time football closed for the summer...? No, it seemed not. What Barkley
had mistaken for lusty glances had turned out to be near contempt for
him, as if he was being personally blamed for whatever midlife crisis the
married man was going through now.

The look Lamps had given him after catching him in that weird fucking
snog with Dier...

Ross felt sick about it. And now they'd lost. He couldn't watch the
misery of it after Mount's miss, turning immediately away and scrabbling
out of his seat to stalk off down the tunnel again, not to sulk and punch
walls in a bathroom now, but to find a quiet corner of the visiting
changing rooms where he could avoid becoming the centre-point of the
chief's fury.

What the fuck was eating Old Frank so much right now that he was turning
on people who knew his dirtiest secrets...?

The unused substitute sat himself down out of view on a bench in the
plush Away locker-room of the North London ground, cracking his knuckles
impatiently and nodding respectfully at his red-cheeked and sweaty
colleagues filing in from their penalty shootout shaming on the pitch.
Nervously, the Scouser eyed Lampard as he entered, mouthing off at a
couple of players who had missed out on important chances, including his
supposed golden boy Timo Werner, the German stud looking shamefaced and
regretful as he was barked rudely at by Frank; even the other coaches
looked like they were tiptoeing on eggshells around the fiery midfield
legend. The gaffer seemed incensed by the defeat. He must be feeling the
pressure of Chelsea's expensive transfer window, so many men purchased
and nobody of significance sold to offset the investment; big money
brought big expectations, Ross knew that.

He started as he realised that his young pal Mason was beside him,
thumping a disappointed fist into where his coat hung from a hook on the
wall, his high cheekbones red and his eyes almost watery with
self-deprecating tears. Of course, he must be feeling the heat, awaiting
his own lecture off Lamps, the only Chelsea lad to miss his penalty...!

`Hey,' cooed Chilwell, squeezing Mount's shoulder on the way past and
flashing Barkley a slightly awkward half-smile, `don't beat yourself
up, Mase, you did your best...' And on the ex-Leicester defender went,
marching sweatily past them with his ripped six-pack glistening under the
electric spotlights as he continued on across the busy changing room,
leaving Mason nodding slowly and staring glumly down into his kit bag, in
no rush to undress from his soiled kit.

`He's right,' Ross muttered, remembering to put aside his own frantic
self-pity at the sight of this sweet younger player so crushed by his
error of judgement. He reached over and gently touched his hand to
Mason's wrist, eyeing him intensely. `Ben's right, mate, you can't
put this on you, lots of lads have to answer to that draw and penalty
shootout, lad.'

There was a muttering of agreement from those around them, half-listening
in, a morbid buzz of post-match chat filling the oblong room as one by
one men writhed out of their blue kits and disappeared through into the
glaring metallic mouth of the shower block. Next to them, Tomori and
Mendy were loudly congratulating Mount on some of his attacking
manoeuvres early on in the match, while Emerson grabbed his arms about
him in passing, stripped to his tight white briefs on his way to the
showers, making some aggressive assertions about what the team would do
to the Spurs fuckers next time they met in the League -- Ross glared
balefully at Palmieri on his way past, still unable to forgive the
Brazilian for fucking his ex and ending that relationship, the sleazy
Latino gimp.

Left alone with Mason, he tugged on his arm and gave him another earnest
look. `Forget it, we win as a team and we lose as a team, buddy,' he
told him in a controlled voice, suppressing his own fears for the
manager's mood and the twisted anger he felt towards that pushy prick
Eric Dier -- why had the bell-end stormed off the pitch to follow him
like that? Just to gloat more over his lack of minutes, just to make him
even more uncomfortable about what had passed between them in the
basement of a train station...? Jesus, what a tool, what an arrogant posh
boy wanker, what a...

`Yeah, yeah, that's what Eric said,' the 21-year-old beside him
mumbled.

Ross paused and blinked dozily at him, pulling back his hand. `Wha'?'

Mason sighed. `Eric, mate. Dier. Real classy fella, y'know.'

`What?'

Mason wrenched his shirt up, revealing his slim toned body and narrow
chest, then reappearing from the folds of his discarded kit. `Dier, he
came right up to me when I fucked up, was so kind about it -- I mean, I
know he's the opposition but...'

`Yeah,' butted in another lad's voice beyond Mason, `I was well
shocked by that, what a sound bloke he is...'

`Said I shouldn't feel bad, I'd be whipping goals in for England next
week when we reunite for the next game,' said Mason with a light chuckle
to his soulful voice, obviously quite taken with the compliments and
comfort from the Spurs man with his unusual gesture of sportsmanship.
Barkley stared at him for a moment, realising how quickly he had turned
his eyes away from the field when he saw Mount miss, had totally missed
this interaction and... Why did it make him feel so suddenly odd and
queasy? It didn't mean much, it was just a superficial gesture, that's
all, it wasn't like... I mean, he's a right stuck-up posh wanker, innit,
and... but... erm...

`He's a good guy, isn't he?' Ross murmured thoughtfully, staring down
at his feet, a little strand of confused regret gnawing at the edge of
his mind.

`He is,' Mason agreed quietly. `But still. I need to shower away the
stink of my failure...!' And he reached over, patting Ross on the back of
his thick neck before dropping his shorts and throwing a towel about his
slim waist, disappearing between the throng of bodies, leaving his
teammate to bite his lip and realise that maybe Eric had genuinely been
looking out for him today, just being a decent bloke, a gentleman...



Dier grinned goofily at the reporter as the interview concluded, hugging
his thick strong arms to his bare chest and flicking blades of grass from
the mud-stains on one elbow. `When you gotta go, you gotta go,' he
repeated jokily at the guy with the mic, nodding out from the brief press
talk and stomping his dirty socked feet back down the tunnel in the
direction of the Home changing rooms, the last of the Spurs men to be let
go by the media since they seemed so inordinately fascinated by his
stupid bloody `toilet break' -- surely the game had more interesting
points to discuss than his lie that he needed a shit midway through the
second half?!

Alone in the broad bright corridor, the tired defender rolled his
shoulders and flexed his arms and cricked his neck, eager to get into the
winning changing rooms and share in the excitement of his teammates --
even bloody Kane, he thought, since his heartbroken annoyance with the
striker could quite easily be eclipsed by pride and satisfaction in his
closing penalty that had sealed the win over Chelsea. Football before
romance, he supposed -- maybe I'm actually getting over him...?!

He was halfway down the corridor, catching the echo of a victory chant
emerging from the doorways into the Home quarters a dozen metres ahead,
when a figure emerged from the doors to his right, the way into the Away
rooms. He stopped in his tracks, chest rising and falling, a single bead
of sweat travelling down the right of his bearded face. Ross Barkley
stood in the doorway, an odd frown and blush on his features, staring
this way.

Eric tensed. He hadn't enjoyed the aggressive tension between them
before, the sensation that a moment more could have escalated into a
fight. As a footballer who had already suffered one ban for violence this
calendar year, the Spurs defensive hunk had no interest in scrapping with
an opponent tonight, especially not one he'd been so, erm, intimate
with... He stood there silently, holding back a sarcy retort at the
sour-faced Scouser, fully regretting risking his place in the match to
check on the spoilt brat who'd clashed with his own manager, and-

`Eric,' huffed Ross, and he melted a little at the crackle of that
Mersey accent.

`What?' he demanded moodily.

`I -- er -- you -- it's --` A long silence. `Thanks for being so kind
to Mase. He needed that.'

Eric shrugged his bare shoulders. `I'm not a prick, y'know. Some of us
were brought up, not dragged up.' He hated how sneering and snobbish his
comment sounded, but he was picturing the horrible way Ross had brawled
at him twice this evening, caught at it by Lampard both times; but this
thought gave way to worry and sympathy, since he suspected what the
Chelsea boss had walked in on earlier could hardly have improved the
apparent row between them... He frowned concernedly at the other man,
waiting for him to say more. `Is he okay?' he asked, not particularly
interested in resilient young Mount, but eyes roving all over Barkley's
ruggedly handsome face, the tight cling of his tracksuit top.

Ross didn't say anything, just stared at him, looking all fresh and
clean for his failure to take part in the game, a contrast to the active
heat pouring from Eric's own worn-out frame, his dark blue Spurs shorts
sticking to his upper thighs and riding down a little to expose a white
waistband of his undies. He felt the new tension between them now, not
the resentful violence of earlier, but the spark of magic in Liverpool
Street Station, two men on failed date nights needing something new and
important in their lives.

He jerked his head down the tunnel, in the direction of the toilets he'd
chased Barkley into earlier, heart racing with friendly concern. `Come
on,' he breathed, knowing he didn't have long before somebody from his
victorious team came looking for him. He didn't reach to touch or pull
on the other man, but backed off, turned, walked swiftly the way he'd
come -- shoving his strong arms into the door to push it open, hearing
the hot breaths and quick squeaking trainer footsteps after him as they
both spilled into the mens' room.

Eric grabbed him instantly, taking hold of those biceps again; he shoved
his friend back into the door, holding it closed with the weight of their
bodies, pressing mouth to mouth once more with the same urgency but less
of the fraught violence. Ross gulped and tensed in response, clearly
unused to male kissing, but more receptive than before; their lips
brushed and pulled and their tongues clashed and Eric brought one hand up
against the back of his neck to hold him in the lingering snog, tasting
that cherry sweetness on his breath and saliva. When their mouths parted,
they both sighed heavily and lustily into one another, and Eric pushed
his hand down over the hard front of his body and to his crotch, finding
the weighty bulge in his skinny-fit trackies, prodding and rubbing it
with his knuckles.

`Shit,' rasped the Scouser, some conflict in his voice.

Dier kissed it away, pushing their faces together and squashing their
strong noses as they did so, cupping his hand around Barkley's package
and then slipping the same hand up his top, feeling his six-pack beneath
two layers of nylon. With his other hand, he grabbed at the other lad's
dangling paw and rubbed it in against the bulge in his own shorts -- Ross
seemed to resist or hesitate, dragging away, but Eric insisted, needing
to feel contact there, needing this strong masculine bloke to touch him;
he closed his hand over his, pressing it over his piece so that they were
both rubbing each other into hardness as their lips dragged away again.
The sharp rough stubble of Barkley's face itched his lips and made him
shudder excitedly.

`Suck me again?' Ross said, a sort of sad pleading edge to his voice.

Eric shook his head, squeezing his hand more to his bulge. `Your turn,'
he threatened.

Ross's eyes bulged. `Nah lad, nah...'

Eric bit his own lip and pushed his hand inside the lad's trackies,
dragging his sizeable semi and bollocks out, making him whimper and gasp,
then grinding his own crotch into that hesitant hand. `No?' he purred.
`Another time, then, matey... but for now...' He pulled both hands back
and edged down his shorts until his hard-on sprung free, brushing the
rough fingers of Barkley's hand... he controlled the moment, grabbing
hold of the Scouser's big nob and forcing one of his hands about his own
shaft so that, bodies close, they were beginning a quick and nervous
mutual handjob against the door. With this encouragement and command,
Ross grabbed and pulled quite confidently at his own big thick meat,
while he teased and stroked at his in return, both of them gasping, faces
so close. `I want to kiss you again,' Eric said throatily.

`I don't kiss guys,' Ross told him in spite of what had already
happened.

`But you taste so great,' Dier said, and snogged him anyway. He pushed
him back into the door with his free hand, stroking his neck and shoulder
while he jerked his mighty Scouse prick, enjoying the awkward strength of
the returned favour, a synced rhythm developing in their tight strong
fists, cocks rubbing at each other's bodies and clothing as they did so,
hot and fast and equal.

`Ah shit,' grumbled Barkley, still awkward and reluctant somehow,
though something in his manner told Dier that the other night hadn't
actually been his first rodeo -- he couldn't guess who but he suspected
that this Scouse stud had experienced a man's lips on his cock before,
the way he'd initiated things had been too forthright and demanding to
be a total newbie. Yet still he was clumsy and almost fearful, so
adorably vulnerable as Dier stole another kiss, now against his cheeks
and chin and the bridge of his nose before returning to his lips.

`You're a good kisser,' Eric teased him, rubbing the side of his neck,
pushing his face aside a little and sucking greedily on his neck, hoping
to leave a teenage lovebite there, speeding up his tugs and strokes of
the man's glorious prick.

`Suck me,' begged Ross, `you're so good...'

`Nah,' Eric chided him, nibbling his little earlobe and pulling really
firmly on his throbbing member, `not tonight bud...' He wanted to,
wanted it in his mouth so bad, but he felt like resisting, like denying;
there was a power in it that thrilled him and seemed to push this brutish
stud, he knew he'd miss out on these glorious kisses if he submitted and
sank to his bruised knees. Instead he rested their brows together,
equally matched in height and strength, and pulled rapidly on him to
summon his orgasm, conscious of time and risk.

Ross came first, making a sound that was both deep and bestial and very
vulnerable, spurting his cum against the roll of Eric's shorts and down
his fluffy thigh, great globs of his seed dribbling to his kneecap and
his whole physique shaking between him and the door; Eric sighed and
whined and kissed him again, reaching down to close both hands over
Ross's and force him to speed up, fucking into his two hands until he
too was spunking his load, jetting cum against the lad's cock and balls
and the short fuzz of his pubes, spilling some at the blue shiny fabric
of his trackies. Both of them panted and sighed and shook, there against
the toilet door, holding it shut and maintaining their secrecy.

`Jesus,' whispered the Scouser.

`Not quite, but I'm pretty great, huh?' giggled Dier, kissing him on
the other side of the neck, dragging his lips and his facial hair over
that sensitive tan skin, then retreating from him a little, sucking in
his breaths, pushing both hands into the door to prop himself up and
recover.

`You smug prick,' chuckled the sexy bastard in front of him, too shy to
make eye contact now.

`God you're sexy, Barkley,' Dier muttered, and their eyes met again
for a second, the Chelsea player blushing fiercely and his bottom lip
shaking a little, pouting back with uncertainty as if he didn't know
whether to take this compliment sincerely or force a blokey laugh in
return. Eric just grinned at him, feeling that spark in his broad chest,
that glimmer of hope for something new.



The tall muscular footballer walked the short distance to the Away
changing rooms in a daze, and found that most of the lads were freshly
showered and changing into comfy sweatpants and hoodies for the trip back
across the capital city. A few guys made vague comments about his
absence, little jokes about him trying to shag an attractive female
sports journalist who had been spotted in the media suite; Barkley just
murmured his jokey confirmation of this rumour, wondering if his swollen
satisfied prick was bulging a bit too much in his tracky bottoms as he
trailed along behind them through the grounds and into the car park.

Thinking madly about the passionate snogs with the gentlemanly Spurs lad,
he was jolted out of his daze by a hand on his shoulder and the severe
expression on Lampard's face, stalling him in the exit while the rest of
the squad moved ahead towards the waiting coaches. He stared back at the
gaffer, looking for a trace of softness in the boss's face.

`Frank?' he asked quietly.

`Don't be so familiar,' he was told warningly. `We need to talk
before you get on that bus, kid.'

Ross didn't like the tone of his voice. `What is it?'

Lampard looked strangely at him. Still he seemed angry, but more wearied
and defeated now, something sunken and regretful in his manner. He stared
hard at Barkley and seemed to be doing his best to be detached and cold
with him as he held his shoulder and lingered there beside him, a little
of the old sexual tension back between them like it had been almost a
year ago. Maybe the middle-aged fucker can smell the cum in my pants, he
thought deliriously.

`Boss?' the Scouser asked respectfully, wondering what threat or
punishment or fine was going to come his way for speaking out of turn
earlier and complaining that he was not being subbed on to help save the
game in its second half. He had pushed the boss too far with his remarks,
he knew it, had taken risks in the hope that Frank's lust would give him
a bit of leeway...

`Ross, lad,' said Frank in the unmistakable voice of seniors about to
give bad news, `I've just come off the phone with your people, and I
think you're going to be a bit shocked, but...'



He looked at himself in the dressing room mirror, the pale blue sleeves
and shirt tight around his shoulders and torso, the jarring Kappa logo
bold in its place, the splashes of claret marked out against this
backdrop. It was odd not to see himself in strong blues, whether
Everton's or Chelsea's. He gulped loudly and chewed his lip, stretching
and moving his thick legs in the loose grey shorts that had been picked
out for him, dressed up and ready for the `reveal' photography that the
Villa management had organised out on the training grounds.

Ross breathed deeply and reminded himself that it was a one-year loan,
not a full transfer; that it was still the Premier League, not the
Championship or worse; that Villa were a really resilient team who had
clung to their top-flight spot against all odds last season; that he was
guaranteed far more match-time here than staying at Stamford Bridge with
all the new competition the powers-that-be had bought in over the summer,
one exciting name after another.

He was a free young bloke and a move to Birmingham was easy for him --
what was he really leaving behind in London? Unwanted and distracting,
the thought of those lips on his drifted back to him, the furry tickle of
that man's beard against his own stubble, the kindness in those blue
eyes.

`Whenever you're ready, fella.' The brash Brummie accent of an
executive outside the door of the dressing room, waiting for him with the
others.

He nodded at his reflection and adjusted the fresh kit on his body,
leaving the privacy to join them and be ogled as their new rental, just a
commodity to be traded by competitive teams without any consultation of
his own thoughts and feelings. Fuck.

Photos were taken, hands shook. The contracts were already signed, and
the pay deals were surprisingly good. He was too bewildered and dazed to
feel overly appreciative; twelve hours ago he had been watching his team
lose in Tottenham, now they weren't really his team at all. He drifted
through the afternoon of posed photographs with the manager, and then the
introductions to some of his new teammates. At the door of a players'
lounge beside the refectory where an early evening meal was stirring up
some spicy smells, he caught sight of a familiar figure limping his way,
laughing off a comment from someone else nearby about a minor ankle
injury.

Ross gripped hands with his new captain and entered the brief half-hug of
manly affection. `Jack,' he rasped, glad to see the young Brummie, but
still getting used to the idea of being teammates with Grealish. The
goateed young player grinned at him, patted him on the arm, turned to
pose as someone with a camera filmed their first encounter as teammates.

`All good?' Jack the lad asked him. `Mate, when I heard...! Fuck,
welcome to Villa, you legend... is this exciting or WHAT?' Another grab
of hug from the excitable young midfielder, pulling him in the direction
of a huddle of the others. `You okay?' Jack demanded, throwing his arm
about his shoulders and steering him along, his long hair flopping about
his sparky features. `You look a bit knackered, pal, long journey
up...?'

`Hmm, uh, yeh, early start, and all a bit of a blur, heh...'

`Ah, don't you worry,' Grealish promised him with a squeeze, `you're
gonna love it here, what a team and what a gang of lads. Best fans in the
world, too. Love it. Mate! You're gonna be alright, Barks, Ross the
fuckin' Boss... Captain Jack will look after ya...!'



Behind them, standing with his hands in the pockets of his dark grey
tracksuit bottoms, the club's assistant manager watched them, a strange
half-smile on his face as he observed the two young athletes catch up and
rejoin the scattering of relaxing Villa lads, tired out from their day's
work and ready to be fed by the team kitchens. Another good bit of
business for the team, he thought with a stirring of optimism, quietly
confident in his colleagues' negotiation skills here and the odd speed
with which this loan player had suddenly been secured.

John Terry nodded silently to himself, appreciating both the importance a
man like Barkley could take on at their club as they fought to secure a
proper permanent place in the world of the Premiership, and the way those
fairly loose grey shorts curved around the young man's impressive
behind, teetering along beside the peachy round rump of the Captain.

Yes, he thought confidently, it will be nice to have this new meat around
the place.

In his pocket, his phone buzzed against his resting hand, and he slid out
his phone. It was, to his surprise, a message from Lampard; almost the
first contact from his closest footballing pal in a couple of months now.
The first real contact, he thought, since their quite violent parting on
the streets of London in summer, when he'd been so freaked out by the
advances of that poor confused bloke; a pang of guilt troubled the old
Chelsea warrior as he saw his mate's name flash up on the screen, but he
opened the message anyway and read it.

It was a short and cryptic message, and the emoji at the end signified
more than the ambiguous words his best mate had typed, so much so that
for a few moments he thought it had been sent to the wrong person after
all. He'd ignored a number of oddly timed calls from the young Chelsea
boss, his old amigo, the greatest wingman he'd ever had; but here was a
message from him at long last, the first sign of peace between them since
that tense night of confrontation and denial.

`hey JT -- have fun with the gift I sent you lol'  So ambiguous and
confusing. But after it, an eggplant and peach emoji, and a sly winking
yellow face. Terry looked up from the message and at the Chelsea loan
man, laughing heartily at some joke of young Jack's, sliding into a
spare seat along the other kitted Villa players, slowly relaxing into his
temporary new footballing home. Terry reread the message and its
suggestive emojis, and a slow smirk spread over his lips. Oh Lamps,
mate... you dirty bugger...



*AGAIN, JUST CAN'T RESIST THE EVENTS AND TWISTS OF THE WEEK'S REAL
FOOTBALL... HOPE YOU ENJOY MY TAKE ON THEM. THANK YOU FOR YOUR CONTINUED
SUPPORT, FEEDBACK, ENCOURAGEMENT! LOTS OF IDEAS BOUNCING AROUND AT THE
MINUTE BUT STILL OPEN TO REQUESTS AND SUGGESTIONS - I KNOW THERE'S SOME
FAVOURITES WHO NEED TO BE REVISITED AS WELL AS ALL THESE NEW CHARACTERS
AND PLOTS! COMING CLOSE TO THE 200TH CHAPTER SO NEED TO START PLANNING
THAT - HOW SHOULD I CELEBRATE THAT LANDMARK?*