Date: Sat, 10 Oct 2020 21:05:33 +0000 From: writer guy Subject: Premiership Lads Part 190: my captain/my manager Part 190: my captain/my manager He kept one eye on the slow antics in the hotel bar as he sidled across the long ornate room, pulling shut his England hoody against the night chill; the crowd of athletic men was thinning as they broke off in pairs or small groups to return to their rooms and suites, all under strict curfew instructions tonight with squad selection after tomorrow's breakfast. He knew he was unlikely to make that line-up himself, slowly returning from injury and probably being saved for a late appearance in one of next week's two `real' matches, not the home friendly to Wales that was coming tomorrow night. But still, Jordan Henderson moved quite surreptitiously as he exited the bar and the cool conversation of his comrades, slipping out onto the lamplit gravel of the hotel's luxurious grounds. He paused as two of the young debutants passed him by deep in conversation -- Calvert-Lewin and Barnes -- giving them a nod of acknowledgement that made the talented youngster grin, obviously still buzzing to be here amongst such prestigious company at Southgate's training camp. The Liverpool captain gave one las glance back indoors to check that the lingering fellas were busy with a couple of games of pool and sinking non-alcoholic drinks against the bar or slumped across leather sofas watching Inbetweeners re-runs on a huge wall-mounted TV. He needed a little bit of discretion for this phone call, really; it was hardly the done thing to be busy ringing up the opposition on the night before an international fixture, was it?! He grinned foolishly at himself, knowing how innocent and friendly this was, how daft it was to feel any need to hide what he was doing -- but some of the lads here were a bit old-fashioned about these things and Gareth Southgate himself could be weirdly traditionalist when he wanted, for all his experimental and progressive coaching methods. The 30-year-old Sunderland-born man waited until he was a good few yards from the building before slipping the phone from his snug pocket and dialling the name near the top of his frequent contact list, pulling it up against his ear and taking a few more slow strides into the shadows of the decorative gardens that stretched between the grand old buildings of Pennyhill Park. `Hullo?' came the youthful voice, tinged with the North Wales accent that sounded almost Scouse. `Hey,' he called warmly back, turning his back to the night and watching the French windows of the bar area just in case someone was following him out to ask him anything. `How's it going, kid?' he asked after a short pause, a little uneasy with the hesitant quiet from the younger lad. When he heard him speak again, it was obvious he was talking to someone else. `Just my girlfriend,' he heard Neco Williams say in a slightly strained voice, then a rustle and tapping footsteps. `Sorry, sorry,' came the teenager's voice then quickly, `I just couldn't... I didn't wanna say... well, y'know...' `You didn't wanna tell your Wales teammates you were being called up by a Lion?' Henderson asked with a grin on his face and in his voice, amused and pleased that some of his predicament was shared by his younger Liverpool teammate tonight, based in their separate team hotels saving their energy for tomorrow night's Wembley showdown. `Don't worry, I don't mind being your "girlfriend" for the night, haha... god, that sounded wrong didn't it...?' They both laughed. `I'm good,' Neco told him. `Nervous, but good.' `Why nervous?' the older footballer demanded. `You were their absolute star last month.' `Well yeh,' the 19-year-old mumbled. `THAT'S why I'm nervous, hah...' `Don't be,' Jordan told him in what he hoped was a reassuring and sagacious voice. `It's only a friendly, remember. It'll be a fun game, and I'm sure you'll make it onto the pitch for a runabout. Just get your sleep and stay focused, kid. I look forward to nutmegging you on the pitch though, obviously... hehe.' The 30-year-old married father couldn't help but grin to himself and kick idly at the edge of the flowerbeds, twirling a little on the spot as they spoke; his brotherly or even fatherly concern for the teenage player had only increased in recent weeks, particularly after young Neco had received some bouts of stupidly vicious online abuse after less-than-perfect appearances for the champion team. Henderson was obviously a tad worried by the squad's recent showigns without him among them at full fitness, but he knew a season was a long time and there was no reason for panic or throwing blame; he was disgusted that Liverpool fans would throw their hate at a promising and hardworking youngster like Williams and he'd made this clear to everyone. Not only had he been the one to sit with a jittery and embarrassed Neco on several evenings after his Twitter blew up with abuse, but he'd pressured the management and club executives into making new policies to look after younger players in these situations -- he thought there were probably few things worse in the world than online trolls and he tried not to think about just why he felt such a protective urge towards his brief lodger and teammate. `Well, I'm glad you're feeling fit,' he told the 19-year-old. `And it's been a good week's training. It's been good here too, I just keep getting those twinges -- not sure I'll get my boots on tomorrow night and get a chance to whip your arse, Neeks. But you never know. Be good to see a friendly face in Wembley, anyway.' A little pause. `Not exactly fighting talk,' Neco pointed out with a gruff chuckle to his voice. `Hope Southgate isn't listening in there or anything, heh.' A longer pause. `Thanks for callin' though, skipper. Good to hear from you. And, y'know, thanks for everything these past few weeks, I mean, really, all this year, erm...' `Don't worry,' Jordan told him earnestly, `it's not just my captain's duty, you know I care a lot for ya, Neco.' He heard the choked awkwardness of his serious voice through his Mackem accent and he blushed privately in the night gloom of the hotel grounds, still staring back into the warm lights of the bar and watching another few players exit on their way to their different accommodation sections. `I know that sounds naff, but-` `Nah it doesn't,' the lad's voice assured him down the line and he stopped to smile. `Well I should let you get to bed.' `Mm, yeh. I mean, soon-ish. I have an, erm, meeting with the boss first, so...' `A meeting, at this time?' `Well. Yeah, kinda. Erm, maybe not a "meeting", just...' `With old Giggsy?' `Er, yeah-` `That's weird.' `Is it?' The conversation died out a little. Neco sounded evasive and uncomfortable, but then Jordan was aware that his own voice sounded a little abrupt and accusing, overreacting to a simple bit of information really. But it was late and surely the Wales team would have a similar curfew to the England squad, right...? `Well,' the Liverpool captain said slowly, `I mean, it's -- it's just different ways of doing it, erm... yeah, I'll... Look I ought to go, need to speak to a couple of fellas before I hit my room, so... yeah...' `Right yeah, sure,' Williams said distantly. `Thank you for calling, it really is kind of ya...' `Just a little check-in,' he said, almost dismissively. `Cool. Erm, enjoy your... meeting.' `Yeah, right. Thanks. Night, captain.' Henderson ended call without echoing this sentiment then regretted it, then shook himself and laughed at his bizarre overreaction to the idea that Ryan Giggs held late meetings with key players to prep them for the next day. Hardly conventional but hardly controversial! Get a hold on yourself, Hendo, he told himself crossly, crunching back over the gravel, passing his phone thoughtfully from hand to hand -- too many weeks without serious match time, too much physio to ensure his smooth return...! All getting to his head and making him stir-crazy. He put the phone away and headed indoors to while away the last half hour of social time with the other `old timers' of the England squad, passing by Dier and Trippier engaged in an intense pool showdown then joining Maguire, Walker and Ward-Prowse at the bar. The young sportsman rested back on the broad comfortable sofa of the generous hotel suite and gulped nervously, turning over the impossible advice of `Just relax, kid' from the man now climbing onto the other half of the sofa and leaning over his lower half, gently stroking one of his thighs through the crackling thin nylon of his Wales tracksuit bottoms. `Come to my room,' Giggs had murmured to him in passing during the evening meal, and surely he'd known exactly what that meant; still, when he'd shown up and saw the secretive and desperate look in the older Welshman's eyes, he'd still panicked and considered darting back down the corridor towards the suite he was sharing with one of his teammates. He'd suspected it might happen again, but another part of him had been so sure it was a comedic one-off, a surreal tipsy moment where the pressure of the Wales job had gone to the married 46-year-old's head and pushed him to behave in such a strange and tactile way with him in his room in Finland. Really, even as he'd playfully boasted the encounter to a wild-eyed Harvey Elliott, he'd doubted how accurate his memory of it was, but here it was, playing out again... He was `relaxed' on the couch of the national manager's bigger suite, trainers off and socked feet now rubbing against the tummy of the older bloke's body as he crawled over him and ran his thumbs up the inner legs of his tracksuit trousers, swirling teasingly close to the boundaries of his most private area, purring about how he should `Chill' and `Just enjoy it'. Well, yeah, he could remember how much he'd enjoyed it that last time, dizzy with the prospect of his Wales debut, but how did he REALLY feel about being in here with his respected gaffer pawing at his pants and avoiding eye contact with him, smelling again of whiskey and aftershave...? His cock was responding, in the rapid and automatic way that a 19-year-old's cock would respond to literally any physical contact, but his gut and chest felt tight with worry and uncertainty, and when he really looked down at the grizzled form of the ex-United legend drooling over the bulge in his black trackies, he didn't know that he was quite up for this. He was sure he couldn't be as fluid and experimental as Harvey (had the little scally really been bummed up the backside by Milner, or was that exaggerated bullshit like some of his other stories? The Barkley one HAD to be a lie...) and he wasn't very sure what to think of Giggs' apparent flexibility. But the hand was stroking against the diagonal form of his semi now and he was gasping in a fluttery breath of physical thrill even as he wondered how many player-manager codes of conduct this might be tearing through... And then the intimate moment was broken by a jagged trilling that made him jerk and shudder and look around the spacious hotel suite again, his curly hair bouncing and his long limbs freezing up in discomfort. It took a few seconds for him to grasp that it was a phone call and not coming from his own mobile, which was in the pocket of his hoody discarded by his trainers somewhere on the patterned rug. It was Ryan's phone and the older guy was pulling back, leaning heavily on his thigh with one hand, then staring in alarm at the screen of his phone and hopping off the couch to his feet before answering it -- `Honey,' he was panting down the line in his nervous hurry, suddenly all delicate and uncertain compared to the smooth and authoritative movements that had guided Neco across the room to the sofa and told him to lie back and just close his eyes. When he'd heard the phone tone, his first thought was that Hendo was calling him back again, to give him a piece of his mind; he'd sounded so disapproving and unimpressed by the idea that Neco needed to check in with his head coach tonight at this time, almost as if he knew...! The odd end to an otherwise heart-warming phone call from the skipper had left him more embarrassed than uncertain about the reasons that had brought him across the quiet hotel and into this suite; perhaps without the Liverpool leader casting doubts on it, he might have swaggered up here with memories of his triumphant goal for Wales last time, and the sense that his manager was so appreciative of his skills that he wanted to `reward' him in this, erm, special way. Now Giggs was pacing the room, his attention entirely on the phone call, clearly to his wife; Williams slid off the couch and adjusted the flop of his wilting semi in the front of his pants, unfolding his 6ft frame from the seating and reaching for his dropped hoody and neatly paired trainers, keen to escape the aftershave and alcohol scents of the managerial room and get away from this non-event. The chief saw that he was slipping into his trainers again and just stared at him without breaking the flow of his husbandly chat. Neco didn't return his look, blushing scarlet and fiddling with his hair and the collar of his hoody; he zipped up his hoody and exited the room at speed, tumbling out into the corridor and only slowing down when he was on the floor above and approaching his own quiet room, where Leeds man Tyler Roberts was already snoring loudly and a safely empty bed waited for the Welsh right-back to climb under his sheets and pretend he hadn't been so willing to get his dick out for a man again. As predicted, Henderson was not even a substitute for the Wales game, just an onlooker; he hoped his fitness would seem secure enough tomorrow and Saturday so that he could realistically face selection for Sunday evening or the Wednesday match. But he was old and experienced enough not to worry overly, and he knew that the real peak of his England career lay next summer in the Euros -- hopefully after a second consecutive League win for Liverpool, of course! He was enjoying his own nation's performance, even as an emasculated bystander to the action; though his Liverpool allegiance made it difficult to warm to the lad, he'd been thoroughly pleased by Dominic Calvert-Lewin's opening goal within the first half hour, had cheered as loudly as anyone else for the Merseyside rival making such a strong debut. But then he'd felt a tiny twinge of conflict when the Wales substitution came about ten minutes later -- Neco Williams on for Kieffer Moore -- and his strong club ethos made him feel as connected to the red-clad teen as he did to his own fellow Englishman and the prized badge of their kit. It wasn't that little dash of conflicted interest that made him spend the remainder of the game itching with nosiness and suspicion, though. It was the way the substitution took place, a few yards from where he and a handful of other resting England players sat, including the sanctioned Sancho and Chilwell who were missing out tonight due to breaking some party rules last weekend; while the other guys back here were fixated on the game and discussing England's tactics, Henderson found himself staring across to the opposition dugout and watching the very tactile way suited Ryan Giggs handled the broad shoulders of the Liverpool defender, leaning in to whisper in his ear and stroking and tugging at his little dark mop of curls before patting him firmly on the lower back and sending him out there to replace Moore in the re-jigged line-up. Was it just a normal manager-player interaction? Perhaps it was. Plenty of managers were hands-on like that, especially on matchday. But Hendo found that he didn't quite like it. Didn't like the muscular and blokey way he'd seen Giggs handle and address his bench-warmer and thrust him out into the game -- that inappropriate tap of the lower back, way too close to a slap on the arse! Was this the 1960s or something? And what was the old United player doing holding meetings with players late on the night before a game anyway? Bit weird! Young sportsmen needed their sleep, needed to conserve their energy, curfews existed for good reasons, and... It was only when the second goal went in (Conor Coady triumphant and roaring down below) and then ten minutes a later a third (his good friend and former teammate Danny Ings saluting an imaginary crowd and proving himself to the international stage) that he realised how preoccupied he was with a strange protective annoyance on Williams' behalf. Protectiveness. That's what it was, of course; he had a duty to that 19-year-old, and he'd kinda adopted him as a little brother now, someone to look out for and guide where he could. Neco was smart and talented but a little naïve and trusting, he thought, no wonder he'd been led astray by Elliott and got into that trouble earlier this year during lockdown. He needed looking out for, he needed a guiding hand...! Protectiveness, Jordan Henderson told himself furiously. Definitely that. Definitely not jealousy. The Wales players lingered gloomily on the pitch and their spare players and coaches drifted onto the Wembley grass to join them in the licking of wounds and the dismissive `Just a friendly, doesn't matter' rhetoric needed to recoup the loss and prepare for their next game. Neco Williams stood near the centre of this gathering, tired out from struggling to prop up an otherwise weak defence and lacklustre team showing; he held his hands to his hips and hung his head, puffing out condensing clouds of breath into the night air and feeling long uncurled hairs stick to his brow and ears with sweat. The gaffer snaked between the players, serious-faced and consoling, and he noticed him approach before he was then in front of him, laying a firm hand on one of his shoulders and looking into his eyes, almost matching his height but not quite. Neco gave him a weak smile as if to shrug `I did my best' without really launching any criticism at his less talented allies, expecting some platitude of encouragement from the gaffer, barely even thinking about last night or what had almost happened for a second time between them; it seemed especially unreal here at the heart of English football, seemed like a parallel existence if it existed at all. So he was taken aback when Giggs spoke in a low growling voice, leaning closer, and said, `We should get you a room next to mine at the next hotel, heh.' He smirked, his face creasing with some secretive pleasure and his dark eyes twinkling against the silver edges of his short hair and beard. `And I was thinking, lad, that you should pop down to Cardiff sometime, come stay at our farm for a few nights sometime, it would be good to...' He was so thrown off by this tangential discussion and the meaning between the lines that he didn't feel the other hand on his shoulder at first, didn't realise that another tall bloke was at his side and interrupting the strangely private moment between player and manager. Not until he heard Jordan's harsh Wearside accent: `Don't squeeze his shoulder quite so hard, Giggsy, you'll have your best player injured before you play Ireland on Sunday, huh?' The 46-year-old turned his coal-black eyes to the side and laughed. `Henderson,' he grunted, `a shame not to see you play today, but perhaps for the best given the score...' He grimaced with the special bitterness only a Manchester United diehard could muster in the face of 2020 Liverpool. `Congratulations on everything this year, pal.' He turned his eyes back to Neco for a moment then backed off, loosening his tight gnarled grip from near his neck, and separating from the two of them to speak to the other sagging players as they drifted off the pitch; but Jordan's hand remained where it rested on the teen's other shoulder, gripping him oddly tight through his sweaty shirt as the tracksuited spare player pulled him face to face. `What was he saying?' his Liverpool captain demanded suddenly. `What?' Neco panted, a little bewildered. `What was he saying to you there, and before when you came on?' The 6ft midfield legend was staring hard at him, frowning his thick brows and looking a little pained in his lean face. He was squeezing tightly at his shoulder still in odd contradiction of his weird comment to Giggs. `Why is he being so odd with you, kid? What's going on?' Neco blinked in a daze at his teammate, who it felt so strange to be standing next to in opposite colours in this national stadium, with all his Wales teammates drifting by and the England squad mostly already disappeared indoors, cheering and hollering for their three goal-scorers and their excited debutants. Neco's mouth hung half-open and he had no idea what he was meant to say to Jordan here and now and in response to those pushy inconvenient questions. `He's my manager,' he replied dumbly. `What's he up to?' Hendo barked. `What?! Nothing -- mate, I...' `He needs a talking to,' his captain grunted; what? How the fuck could he know anything? And who did he think he was, interfering in an opposition team like this, tonight? Neco felt his defensive mood rise and take over and he pushed the hand forcibly off his shoulder. `You're not my captain here,' he remarked quite coldly before he could stop himself. `I dunno what you've got into your head, but I need to go sulk with my teammates cos in case you didn't notice, this game didn't quite go our way, mate...' `Don't walk away form me,' Jordan hissed as he began to back off, and the strange authoritative tone of it shook the teenager a little bit; he'd heard this severe side of Hendo before, of course, knew what a powerhouse and disciplinarian he was at the heart of the Liverpool team during a serious campaign. But here and now it felt absurd and angering. Jordan's nostrils flared and he looked aggressive, reaching again for his shoulder, but Neco pulled away and just pouted confusedly at him. `Hendo,' he grumbled sourly, and saw a slight twitch in the hostility of the England player, but nothing more was said; he backed off, turning to join the stream of Welshmen, only looking angrily over his shoulder once more as the rested England midfielder remained on his own in the floodlights, away from his tired but celebrating teammates, eyes still fixed on him as he left for the Away changing rooms and the sullen post-match analysis of his countrymen. In Pennyhill Park, Southgate was allowing the players a single pint of victory after a rushed dinner, and the atmosphere in the hotel bar was quite jubilant. Despite the meagre ration of booze, there was a real party vibe in the room and the younger players in particular were acting as if they were actually drunk, recording daft Tiktok dances and really starting to bond as new teammates from disparate corners of the Premiership table. Henderson remained in a bubble of his own bad mood. Realistically, it was hard for him to feel quite part of the party anyway when he'd not come close to pulling on an England shirt tonight, but the other `spares' were getting involved regardless of this fact -- Sancho turning into a real loudmouthed entertainer despite being one of the youngest and most professionally isolated figures there. No, it wasn't the lack of match time that left the Mackem bloke sitting on a barstool on his own, watching without seeing, nursing a warming pint of lager and feeling totally disconnected from the celebrations of the other Englishmen. His brain was moving in quick cycles: it started with anger at the impudence of Neco Williams, a teenage star he had done everything to support and encourage, daring to speak to his face like that and denounce him as his captain; it then shifted to a clumsy embarrassment at the way he'd spoken to the teen himself, especially in such an inappropriate situation; and then the anger flared again, but at Giggs rather than Williams, his imagination running wild with a notion that the sleazy old bugger was somehow a bad influence on his good-hearted young friend. Everyone knew what a dodgy git Ryan was, hadn't he spent years fucking his brother's missus or something? He was an untrustworthy Welshman and Man United SCUM, nowt else. Even now! Put a suit and a tie on him and he was still the same shifty fecker he'd been all through his Premier League career, surely? And his thoughts went like this. Outrage, guilt, embarrassment, indignation, suspicion, resentment. Until he planted his full pint down against the polished wooden surface of the bartop and slid from his stool, ignoring a call for his attention from nearby Jordan Pickford and Dean Henderson, showing no interest in apologising as he burst awkwardly between a close conversation at the end of the bar between Grealish and Chilwell, paying zero attention to the annoyed expressions on Mount or Rice's face as he interrupted their private conversation out in the anteroom beyond the bar doors leading through to reception. He stormed on, a decision made, and went straight to the reception desk, and the elderly gentleman on duty tonight. `Taxi please,' the Liverpool captain grunted at the old fella. `Quickest firm you got, please. I'll pay double. Just get it sorted.' He stared at the message on the folded sheet of hotel paper that had been passed to him by the bellboy, held in his shaky fingers as he walked back into his own shared room. His roomie was on the phone, sitting in the chair by the window, mouthing off loudly in his Gloucester accent -- another of those English-born players welcomed into the patchy Wales team to supplement the valleys boys, like Dan James and other Premiership names. Ty Roberts was chatting to some mate of his back in Leeds, complaining about how all the factors were stacked up in England's favour and the 3-0 loss was hardly a fair assessment of where the Wales team were at under Ryan Giggs. Ryan Giggs. Neco looked down at the older man's handwriting on the hotel headed paper in his hands, and the simple ambiguous message scrawled there: `Tonight I'll put my phone on silent'. Nothing more, nothing less, that was all the footy manager had scribed down on this message delivered to his door by a minor hotel employee now, minutes after the curfew was in place and they were all meant to be staying put in their allocated suites before tomorrow morning's early journey back to the Welsh training camp. The tall lean teenager stared back and forth over the untidy inky hand of his gaffer, torn between slipping it into the pocket of his slim-fit black sweatpants and crumpling it into the wicker bin to his right, his clouded thoughts made all the more fluffy and unclear by the meandering chatter of young Roberts at the other end of the room, cackling now at some private joke with whichever Leeds teammate he was catching up with. Neco ran a hand through his soft curly hair, pressing at the tension in his forehead and willing away the annoying contradictory thoughts of what he should and shouldn't do. He pictured the illustrated cliché of a Red Devil with Ryan Giggs' face on one shoulder, pointing out that he'd put in a strong shift in defence of his home nation and really, didn't he deserve a little blowie from an attentive mouth to relax him after all that hard work for Wales...? And then on the other, pouting and pious, Jordan Henderson with angel's wings, wagging a captain's finger at him and telling him he was more honourable and straightforward and that, should remember his duties and his ambitions, his moral backbone... The Gloucester Welshman in the seat by the window burst into fresh laughter. `Nah, Leif bud, you'll make it to the England squad one day, don't you worry -- when Leeds make it to the top four this season, I can see you and your best mate Paddy B debuting on the national side, haha...! Ah fuck off, yeah, you two are proper bumboys, may as well get married the way he dotes on you, haha...' Neco wasn't interested in the laddish dynamics of other teams right now, there was enough conflict and politic going on in his own head. Without muttering anything to the other young player, he crushed the papery note in his right hand and left their room, hurrying quietly onto the corridor and keeping his footsteps soft to avoid attracting any attention. He paused at the stairwell where he might head on in the direction of Giggs' suite, and carried on downwards instead: through the empty restaurant, bar, foyer, entrance hall... out into biting fresh air and a thin veil of drizzle that he needed to refresh him and clear his head. He descended the stone steps of the Hertfordshire hotel, nestled in the countryside just outside of northwest London, and stopped on the bottom rung of steps, pausing in his trainers and sweatpants and thin long-sleeved Adidas top, staring at the figure a few metres ahead of him on the driveway, still in that same full Three Lions tracksuit, the same steely expression on his older face. Neco froze and gawped silently at his captain's presence, his heart skipping a beat. The Wales manager sat alone in a seat facing the door of his hotel room, a healthy measure of expensive Scotch rested in one hand, and his silenced mobile phone in the other. The screen was flashing with an unanswered call from his wife, ringing to try and cheer him up in the post-defeat doldrums of tonight's events. Still, he ignored her, letting the call flash silently on and then die out, rejected. His eyes remained impatiently on the door, expecting to hear footsteps at any moment, his latest chosen target responding to his subtle summons. The 46-year-old ex-midfielder held himself firmly in the chair, keeping up the manly posture and imperious stance of a leader waiting to be treated with respect and patience, even if it would be HE delivering the `service' here. Of course he wanted the lithe young stud to return the favour, but he wasn't sure how much pressure and persuasion it would take to nudge Williams into THAT... For now, he thought, sucking on his firm young cock would be enough, tasting him and feeling him tingle with taboo pleasure! Fellating other straight guys had always been a particular favourite for Ryan, though occasionally he had dabbled further or differently -- but also respecting his simple code of rules. Don't go too far, and never revisit the same guy more than twice, once if possible. Well, tonight didn't count, did it? Last night hadn't even happened, he'd been interrupted just as he was about to get his supper. So the Wales manager sat there and waited, dark eyes fixed on the locked door, listening to the silence of his own disappointment. Henderson followed him into the silent warmth of the entrance hall and then beyond it to the empty bar, closed almost an hour ago in accordance with the latest rules and restrictions; it felt pleasingly private, its windows heavily curtained with red velvet and the chairs upended on the tables, a heavy metal shutter down over the front of the bar. It was really just the two of them in here, a much better place for honest conversation than the middle of Wembley Stadium after an England game. Little flecks of rainwater glistening on his hair and skin, on his pouting red lips, Williams turned and stared at him, pausing uncertainly just inside the room, hugging his sleeved arms over his chest and staring sulkily back at his own fierce expression. `I dunno why you came here,' the 19-year-old right-back murmured at him, sounding much more puzzled and worried than he did annoyed. `I needed to,' the captain told him firmly. `I couldn't leave things like that.' `There ain't anything going on,' the youngster told him, and he couldn't resist his urge to hold and reassure him then, grabbing at his upper arms and pulling him closer to him. `I know,' he snapped into his face, his voice deep but quiet. `I know that, I was being fuckin' daft. You're a good kid. But be careful of him, he's a dangerous type. You get that? You trust me, don't you?' He didn't quite know how tightly he was squeezing Neco's arms or how closely he was pulling him in, the 6ft men face to face and body to body. He wasn't quite aware of how deep and shaky his breaths were, his body still shivering at the chilly damp night where he'd been turfed out of his expensive cross-county cab in the country road outside the hotel. `Jordan?' the teenager whispered confusedly at him, but he silenced that cute Wrexham accent; he silenced it with his own lips, bringing his head forward and planting his mouth to his in a fierce kiss, just like he'd once kissed his best friend Adam Lallana in a moment of intense curiosity and investigation. But this wasn't about trying things out or checking anything off a bucket list, this wasn't even a desire. It was a need. They kissed in silence but for the wet pull of their lips and the scratchy tickle of their manly stubble. He realised how harshly he was digging his fingers and thumbs into the boy's arms and he softened that grip but held him close as he pushed his tongue in against Neco's and snogged him more fully, twisting their mouths together and apart and bumping their chins and noses. Then parting their mouths but keeping his brow pushed in against Neco's so that their hot breaths mingled in the inches of intimate space, and he could no longer tell if it was him trembling or the lad or both of them. `Captain...' breathed the young Welshman. Jordan shushed him with a little noise. He pulled one hand up over a broad shoulder and to the side of his neck, warm but moist with rain. He held it there against his strong muscle and bone, and took three deep breaths before he pushed his other hand down and ran his knuckles across the lad's tummy, feeling the gentle bumps of his six-pack through the thin white cotton. And then he was tugging inexpertly at the little knot of black drawstrings, loosening the waist of those sweatpants, and pressing his right hand inside them, in against the briefs that held the youthful manhood in place, allowing him to close his hand around it and squeeze very softly. `Oh...' came the puzzled gasp from Neco. Again, `Captain...?' Again Henderson shushed him, and he thumbed down the front of those tight laddish underpants, so that he could close his hand not about the bulge but about the real thing. Just like he had done in a dehydrated dreamland of hangover in a bed with Adam, their friendship too close for anything to seem fully out of bounds. He held onto the soft warm piece and stroked it very gently inside the confines of briefs and sweatpants, easing it into life -- feeling it lengthen and grow hard against his palm, both of their breathing and heartbeats sounding deafeningly loud here in the corner of this deserted hotel bar. `Is this okay?' the 30-year-old asked forcefully, needy, desperate. Neco's answer was slow and non-verbal, a little twitchy nod of his fine-featured head. Jordan pushed their faces again and kissed him again, briefly and with more assertion now, pulling their lips across one another until the youngster let out a tingling groan into his mouth, and he was really taking hold of his hard-on, long and firm and hot. He stroked back and forth on it, tensing the muscles in his right arm; his left hand still clutched in the crook of his neck, holding him in place unnecessarily. The men now stared into each other eye's as he wanked him off towards his rapid teenage orgasm. A couple of floors above, an older man stretched out on his bed and wanked his own dick with a much more furious and frustrated pace than Henderson's attentive handjob. On a table beside the kingsize bed, Giggs' phone was flaring and flashing again with another silenced call from home, probably worried or suspicious now; his wife was always expecting him to return to his adulterous ways, never quite trusted his stories or his excuses. And in fairness, his phase as a good loyal hubby had been rather ruined by this taste of Neco Williams that the Finland trip had put in his path, hadn't it? He'd been so good for so long, so loyal and honest, but now... The manager lay flat out, his shirt half-open so that his chin tickled at his own chest air, his pants pulled open but not pushed down, his cock and balls just emerging from the bush of his pubes so that he could yank almost painfully on his neglected rod, wishing he'd been able to have this wank with the salty aftertaste of a young footballer's seed still dribbling over his bearded chin. Sometimes, in these tender moments, Ryan thought back with regret. Thought about some of the lads his long successful career had led him to share rooms and then beds with, the surprising Premiership gentlemen he'd had the pleasure of... well, pleasuring. Sometimes one-way, sometimes a little more mutual, but always delicious and secretive and very transient. And sometimes his thoughts would shrink back to one of the first, to that young curtained goofball at Manchester United who had confided in him what went on with the England captain in Eastern Europe -- Ryan would think dreamily of that distant memory, reassuring and comforting the awkward young dweeb and then showing him what was possible when a lad helped another lad. Sometimes, every now and then, Ryan Giggs couldn't help but picture the masterpiece that young David Beckham had later become, and wonder how influential his own hands and lips had been back in the 1990s at the outset of his career. When he thought about that, he felt a tingly thrill and a mild resentment, and a dollop of wistful longing. Tonight, memories and imagination were all the gruff manly Welsh manager had, writhing against his bed and accepting with gritted teeth that nervous Neco had made his choice, had kept their moment a one-off and something never to be revisited -- wise decision! Right? Neco wanted to pant out a warning or an apology before he came, but he was too overwhelmed and breathless. He just stared with wide-eyed submission into his captain's face and exploded his sticky seed against the front of that England hoody, staining its colours with his Welsh cream. His cock throbbed and trembled in Jordan's hand and he leaned his upper body forward into the strong hand of his captain's other hand's grip. His breaths were long and whining in the afterglow of orgasm, long dark lashes fluttering and pink lips twitching in a pout of impossible satisfaction. `I'm sorry,' he gasped eventually, seeing the mess his juices had made. `It's fine,' Hendo told him, still stroking his tender prick and holding the side of his neck. Such strength and patience in this 30-year-old man, this leader; all Williams could feel now was the safety and homeliness he had always felt in Henderson's company and companionship, especially in his home or when sought out by him. And within that, a new sensation: or a sensation that had crept up on him, inarticulate and unspecified. A desire to please him that was more than just professional. A need to repay what had just been gifted to him by that strong hand, but not like-for-like: more. And he could think of only one thing that took it further. He hesitated before he did anything but the longer Jordan stared silently and affectionately into his face, the more sure he was. Slowly but resolutely, the Welsh teenager moved downwards, folding his legs and dipping his knees down onto the carpet, then pushing his hands under the hem of the cum-stained hoody, to find and pull on the front of those dark blue tracksuit bottoms. Down they came, down over the thick fluffy thighs of Jordan Henderson's legs, leaving the tight charcoal grey boxer shorts there to be removed next. Neco glanced once up at him, seeing the fiery intensity of his expression, the implicit approval in his eyes. He peeled down the boxer shorts and his captain's hard-on, which must have been raging for minutes now, sprang immediately to within a whisker of his fresh young face. He opened his mouth and did his best to recreate what he'd experienced from a couple of girlfriends and from Harvey and from Ryan; pushed his mouth in against the strange fleshy hardness of another cock and then ran his tongue over the damp tip, feeling its heat and its firmness entering his mouth. He reminded himself of how good it had felt being wanked now by Hendo and how much he needed to thank him, which helped to supplant the nervousness of doing something so new and queer; he opened wide and took the cock in his mouth. Almost simultaneously, he felt both of the captain's hands stroke over his curly hair, fond but firm, and that pelvis come pushing forward a little, so that Hendo was doing as much as to get his gob around the hard curved prick. He couldn't take it all in, not straight away. He was relieved that as soon as he gagged a little, Jordan pulled sensitively back, didn't push or force him at all, just responded to his nervous mouthing and stroked his hair a little more gently and comfortingly. He kept his mouth open and controlled his breathing and did what he could, sliding his lips back and forth over about half the shaft. Then, taking inspiration from some half-formed memory of another lover, he brought three fingers in against the bulge of the man's loaded balls and tickled them gently, feeling the fuzzy pubic hair there on his fingertips. He heard a loud bestial groan from Henderson and tried to get his mouth further down the shaft now too, gagging again and trying to recover quickly. Henderson began to help him out, still stroking his hair with one hand but using the other to grip and tug at the base of his cock, basically wanking it with the top couple of inches still in Neco's inexperienced mouth. Maybe Hendo came quickly, or maybe the time passed very fast, because the groans above became deeper and more fierce, and then he was tasting it, the rush of hot liquid on the roof his mouth, the intense halloumi saltiness on his tongue. Instinct told him to pull away, to spit and gurn, but his loyalty and devotion told him otherwise -- he opened his mouth more, held his tongue firm, let the juices wash through his mouth and into his throat. Henderson's slow gasp of completion was delicious to his nervous ears. Jordan took hold of the shoulders of the youth's shirt and guided him back upwards slowly and carefully. He wrapped his arms about him and pulled him into a cuddle, holding his strong slim body in place and resting their heads side by side for several long moments while his own breathing and heartbeat settled and his cock stopped aching and leaking cum against bother of their trouser legs. `That was beautiful,' he whispered in the teen's ear. `Thank you, Neco.' `Oh, captain,' was all his youthful Liverpool teammate could murmur in return. Henderson grinned and patted his back, very slowly and reluctantly breaking the cuddle so that he could first pull up and tighten the lad's sweatpants to hide his sticky piece, then do the same with his own quivering semi. He laughed at the oily white slicks on their clothing, such obvious evidence of the lines they'd crossed, smelling strongly now as it cooled and dried and crusted. He took deep breaths and held Neco's chin with one hand, then ran his thumb just below his thick red lower lip, cleaning away a little greasy smear there that must be his own jizz. They didn't talk much in the minutes that followed, where he reached down and wrapped his strong hand around Neco's to give it a reassuring squeeze. He tried to tell the 19-year-old to sneak upstairs now and get into bed, but Williams insisted on hanging on while he ordered his taxi through an app and waiting discreetly out in the chill of the front steps. Two more times Jordan tried to convince him that he could get in trouble for being down here and should be in bed before a teammate or his sleazy boss came looking for him; two more times Neco said he wanted to wait with him and see him safely off. They talked about mundane things: how much the cab would cost and how long or awkward the drive down into Surrey was to the England camp; who England and Wales were facing at the weekend and the different challenges their sides were facing in those games. Anything but how incredibly tender and special tonight had become. Eventually the taxi arrived, and goodbye was just another strong brief grip of hands, discreet and unseen between them on the hotel doorstep. Jordan looked seriously at the younger footballer and said firmly, `See you back in Liverpool, kid. I look forward to it.' And he left them there in the thin drizzle, hurrying into the back seat of his hired ride, knowing questions would be asked when he made it back to his own hotel and Southgate's training camp -- knowing but not really caring.