Date: Mon, 12 Oct 2020 22:58:00 +0000
From: writer guy <premiershiplads@outlook.com>
Subject: Premiership Lads part 191: The Man of the Match

Part 191: The Man of the Match


The 6'1 defensive midfielder felt his chest swell with immediate pride
when he saw it go in: Kieran Trippier with the assist, and his boy Mason
Mount getting the goal. Instantly, Declan Rice punched the air and
screamed out his approval, sweeping forward with the general movement of
the other players, excited to see and congratulate the goofy-grinned
attacking player who had just put England 2-0 up over this Sunday
evening's hot competition. Rice's long powerful legs took him rapidly
over the Wembley grass and towards the Chelsea player who was returning
from the opposition goal with his arms stretched upwards, yelping
excitedly to the assembling mass of England players who were rushing to
clasp him in triumphant hugs and embraces.

Declan swung quickly at him, nearing the Porstmouth-born sportsman just
as he finished a quick approving half-embrace with the game's captain,
Liverpool ace Jordan Henderson -- a guy who seemed to have really let
loose and relaxed this weekend, in Declan's opinion, after seeming so
oddly withdrawn and irritable in the early days of the training camp out
in Surrey. Hendo had barely let go of Mount than Rice was throwing a long
arm about him and clutching him side-on, then the other arm, cuddling at
the tight-muscled attacking midfielder before Jordan had even really let
go of him. The grin on Declan's own face was one of immense pride in the
most special boy in his life, lofted on the shoulders of his national
pride in the team and what felt like a well-earned possible win.

But no sooner had he grabbed at Mason -- and given a fractional neurotic
thought to the fact that the other 21-year-old wasn't pulling away from
Hendo and returning the hug as much as he would instinctively like --
than he was releasing his sweaty clasp and pulling away himself,
remembering the cameras and the watching eyes of the squad and opposition
and coaches and everyone... even with the gaping towers of the empty
stands, this moment and location felt so exposed and visible to the eyes
of the world, and Declan knew he had to pull away from Mason before the
bromance looked like what it really was.

It reminded him, surreally, of moments back in the long slow weeks of
lockdown, when his mum or sister would come into a different room of the
family home, and he'd slip an arm away from the other lad's side or
lower back, releasing gentle hugs as they washed up in the kitchen or
dawdled in the hallway coming in or out of the home. Oh, for the freedom
of their Old Town apartment in Mykonos, he thought -- to be so free and
together and unwatched all the time.

And with these heavy thoughts weighing on his goal buzz, Rice pulled
away, clapping his large hands together and bouncing sideways over the
grass to extricate himself from the tangle of manly hugs and holds that
exploded around the goal-scoring youngster, his best friend and so much
more.

Panting, the tall young footballer lurched a few more paces away and
clapped his hands repeatedly, unable for a moment to take his eyes away
from the celebrated young Chelsea midfielder; he couldn't help but
notice the way that the other players grabbed at his lad, although he
knew this was ridiculous. The tactile world of men's team sports, all
banter and slaps and audacious hugging that stereotypical masculinity
could not tolerate beyond the sporting arena... but how was he supposed to
see a procession of big handsome buggers grab at the arms and torso and
even arse of his precious Mason and not feel a stir of that old
insecurity and resentment...? First Trippier, short and stocky and
aggressive-looking, then pretty boy Calvert-Lewin, grabbing him from
front and back and even planting earnest kisses against his head; then it
was big Harry Maguire, that thuggish tower of a man, sliding one strong
arm about him and cradling his grinning head against the sturdy
sweat-warm bedding of his chest muscles.

It took lot of self-will and professionalism for Rice to pull his eyes
away and jog from the scene, shaking his gangly body of pumped muscle and
readying himself for play to resume, the game being barely two-thirds
complete and the fight far from over. And even then he looked over his
shoulder and watched as that handsome brute Dier grabbed Mount in a brief
sideways hug, scrunching at his sweaty brown hair, then passing him into
the glad grasping biceps of Walker and a quicker more delicate hold from
Alexander-Arnold.

It wasn't that he mistrusted Mason, not at all, though he did sometimes
fear for his bubbly naivety and untouchable goodwill. It was others that
he found it hard to trust, knowing as he now did how many hot-blooded
football aces could be swayed by a taste of forbidden fruit. He'd once
woken in a cold sweat from a nightmare where he'd watched Jack Wilshere
and some of his other West Ham teammates perform a lurid and stagey
gang-bang of Mason Mount in his West London flat, and he'd been unable
to explain to his boyfriend for days that followed why he couldn't relax
or quite look him in the eye. It was unreasonable, he knew that, and
totally unfair, but... he just couldn't help it.

Eyes to the ground, Rice ran backwards into his own quadrant and
position, shaking off the presumptuous mood of celebration and fixing his
thoughts on holding a strong defensive line against further Belgian
attacks. Kevin De Bruyne was on the pitch after all, so nobody could
afford to let their attention lapse for even a moment. So he needed to
stop worrying about Mason and the innocuous attentions of all their
England teammates, and just get his mind back in the action...!



Harry Maguire knew he'd held onto the goal-scoring twink for a moment
too long, but it had felt good to wrap one powerful arm about him and
just plant a soft kiss in the crown of his short ruffled hair, riled and
excited as he was by the tough defensive battles of the match on the back
line. Before making long strides back that way he took an appreciative
look at the handsome young Chelsea lad and wondered why Mount had never
really caught his eye before.

There was definitely a certain something about him, wasn't there?

Harry could have sworn that last time he looked at the 21-year-old he was
just a big-nosed goofy kid of a player, too high-pitched and excitable to
be taken seriously or looked at twice. Now he seemed to fill out his
England shirt surprisingly well, beginning to bulk out despite his petite
5ft10 form. And in particular there was an attractive curved bubble to
his rear every time he burst into one of his rapid sprints, which was
every other minute from a player so young and spunky.

The somewhat disgraced Manchester United grinned dismissively at his own
lusty thoughts, knowing he shouldn't even let it enter his head when
they were engaged in such a tight battle with a top European squad like
this. But the more tense the game, the more his big cock and balls swung
and bounced energetically in his briefs and shorts and made him really
feel like he would need a post-match fuck to find relief.

Plus, he was down here in the fuckin' south surrounded by softies and
miles from the bubble butt he most wanted to fuck, hadn't even seen Luke
properly in about two weeks now, between the busy season and their
respective home commitments. He was away from his wife and his male lover
and blood pumped through his towering 6ft4 physique as he re-focused on
the match and found his position in the squad once more, limbering up his
arms and shoulders and readying for the next attacking movement from the
Belgians.

For now, he thought, he needed to be Big Blockhead, a powerhouse in the
England defence like he'd been in the last big tournament, even if his
United performances of late hadn't quite met that standard; for now, he
needed to fight for his country and keep them in the Nations League. For
now...

But later, the big defender thought with a sensual sneer, maybe later he
would need to seek out that sexy innocent twunk of a midfielder and
investigate whether his arse was as plump and delicious as it looked in
his tight blue shorts, up close and personal. He licked his lips slowly
and allowed himself a discreet tug and rearrange of his drooping privates
in his own shorts, prowling slowly sideways across the defensive region
and keeping his eyes on the action at the far end of the pitch.



Another Harry couldn't help but give a thoughtful glance towards the
team's young goal-scorer too, loping onto the pitch in substitution for
a side-lined DCL. Kane jogged out into the attacking line of the national
team but spared an appreciative look at Mount for a moment, having been
unable to stop himself watching the bouncy youngster as he moved around
the pitch before and after his impressive lead-taking goal.

Obviously, that had been in between letting his eyes regretfully track
the powerful movement of Eric Dier in the midfield, noting that at least
his treasured ex seemed more cheerful and himself this week than he had
at any point earlier in the year. Kane did his best not to speculate on
the reasons for that, too consumed in guilt and regret to wonder what
might be going on in the tough defensive midfielder's private life to
make him such an extrovert joker and morale-booster in all of the
training sessions this past week, rather than sullen and reserved as he
had seemed back at Spurs or even on the Iceland trip before their
blow-up.

Kane felt so intensely guilty about that whole sordid affair that he
hadn't even allowed himself to once glance down the substitute bench to
Conor Coady, who still beamed proudly after his contribution to the Wales
game midweek. Harry was not worried by the cold shoulder the rugged
Wolves captain had given him since being reunited at Pennyhill Park, he
could totally understand that the Scouser saw what had passed between
them as entirely transactional! But he did dread giving him longing or
reminiscent looks and being caught at it by Eric, who part of him dared
to hope might mellow and forgive as time passed.

Perhaps that was why Kane had found himself checking out Mount so
regularly, since the 21-year-old was hardly his `type', shorter and
slighter than what he was beginning to realise attracted him to same-sex
fun, or at least as he knew it. But there was definitely something
prominent bouncing around in the front of those blue shorts and actually,
when you looked at him, the chest and upper arms of Chelsea's young star
were filling out with surprising muscle tone now that he was entering his
20s and stepping up as a senior contender.

So he couldn't help but give him a closer look on the way past as he
came on to replace Calvert-Lewin and take up his rightful place as key
striker in the final quarter of the match; grabbing Mount unnecessarily
by the shoulder for a moment and daring to wonder if, later on, he might
congratulate him with more than a mumbled sentiment, maybe over a quiet
drink at the hotel, and maybe he could thank him with his own lips in
another way, if he got really really lucky...



There came Kane, Dier thought briefly, suppressing the tremor of social
awkwardness as that tall handsome twat came into sight, joining the ranks
for the last twenty minutes or so. Professionalism over heartache, Eric
tried to be glad, focused on the hope that his legendary teammate could
smash in a 3rd goal and really consolidate the win -- better to think of
that than to look balefully at the bench and picture the scene he had
walked in on between Harry and Conor on the last international break,
crushing his hopes in that Icelandic harbour.

Things were moving on anyway, he told himself, quickly distracted from
the presence of the heartbreaker by a flurry of movement from some of the
Belgium players heading his way, and throwing his weighty presence in its
way to protect England's lead; he muscled the ball away from the Belgian
and booted it safely away towards the forwards of the English lineup,
panting and recovering and squaring up the pissed-off opposition player
before he could dare make up some insult or insinuation that Dier had
gone too far or tugged on his shirt.

The sturdy England stalwart moved quickly away to get into a clearer
position, able to keep his sharp eyes on the action whilst still letting
his brain wander a little to the distractions that made it so much easier
to cope with being so close to Harry Kane day after day after long
fucking day.

It's not as if Ross was particularly communicative, the opposite really,
but his sporadic and sparse text messages popped into the day with an
unexpected charm -- usually barbed jokes about the squad that showed the
Scouse man's resentment at being left out and training alone in
Birmingham. Eric sparred with this more standard banter, jokily praising
minor young squad members who had replaced Barkley in Southgate's plans
this year, teasing him with claims about who he expected to feature large
in next summer's Euros. That stuff was... basic, naff, standard. But then
there would be slips of detail or closeness in the Villa lad's messaging
that Eric couldn't help but find it oddly affecting and endearing --
little bursts of annoyance at how tough it was to find a good rental
property in the right patch of Birmingham, or scathing criticisms of
Birmingham itself, little revelations that Ross perhaps missed Liverpool
a lot more than he did London; tiny cheeky hints of interest when Eric
would joke about visiting to help him with this search as soon as he was
finished being the cornerstone of the national football team. It was
enough to give Dier the giggles now and then, and he often thought about
that drunken phone call last weekend, and when he did, his balls
tingled.

Not that there weren't male distractions here at Wembley, the Spurs and
England midfielder reminded himself, preparing to launch in the direction
of a fresh movement from the opposition then pulling heavily back as one
of said cute fuckers swept in and dealt with it instead -- it was
impressive how a daintier player like Mason (dainty compared to 6ft2 Eric
anyway) could tackle so well for his build and steal the ball deftly from
under the feet of celebrated Belgium stars. Yeah Eric, he laughed at
himself, you're admiring his talent here, and not that cute little
arse...

The 26-year-old grinned foolishly to himself, high-fiving the Chelsea lad
and complimenting his tackle, enjoying the unnoticed innuendo of his
chosen comment before running on to follow the action as it darted back
and forth in the midfield. Ah, what a cute bastard Mason was, he thought
idly, running parallel with him and mingling his physical attraction with
the quality goal he'd witnessed from him earlier on in the game.

For all his distraction with a certain rugged Liverpudlian, Eric
couldn't help eyeing up his young teammate for a moment and fantasising
about how he might congratulate him later on tonight if the universe gave
him a chance... god, how long had it been since he'd gotten to plough a
hot lad properly, after his saintly summer of reflection and recovery...?



Jadon Sancho held in his twinging resentment to be subbed on at this
pointlessly late minute in proceedings, nodding respectfully at the
gaffer and tugging down his sweatpants to reveal his readied England
shorts as he jogged on the spots and prepared for the handover. The
20-year-old Londoner swung his arms in windmills and cricked his neck,
tugging off a training top from over his fresh England shirt, now fully
ready to spring on into action when Southgate's chosen tired player left
the fray to be replaced.

Sancho was enjoying being here, though his homecoming for the
international break had been soured by one daft birthday party last
weekend, that had exceeded the pandemic restrictions by one or two
guests, and landed him in hot bother with his people here AND back in
Germany; it had left him skulking on the edges of the footy action here
like a scolded child, and being subbed on at the 89th minute of this
winning match was hardly going to do anything about that!

Still, it had been a great match to watch and he was intensely proud of
his countrymen. Ah, especially this one: he saw who he was to replace in
the stoppage time of the match as England tightly defended their 2-1
lead. He grinned at the advancing but weary stride of speedy Mason Mount,
Southgate and the other coaches applauding as the scorer of tonight's
second goal game hurrying off to rest his short legs, chest visibly
heaving in his tight white shirt behind the logos of the country.

Jadon braced himself and reached up to grab at Mason's hand in a laddish
handshake that briefly bumped their firm chests and made him appreciate
how ripped the lithe young lad really was, less slight and flimsy than he
looked when he was haring about the pitch. Jadon paused and glanced at
him thoughtfully as he grinned at him and bustled by over the line,
freeing Sancho to swarm in and take up his place for what little remained
of the clash.

Heh, pretty cute for a little white boy, Sancho thought cheekily, his
thick young legs bursting into movement and carrying him away onto the
pitch, sparing just a brief glance back at Mount as he was hugged and
congratulated by their serious-faced manager. Cute, he laughed, thinking
of his own little mental slip there -- was he meant to find other lads
CUTE? Maybe not, but his mind had been opened a little bit lately, and he
wasn't sure if he should be as uptight and panicked about that close
encounter with a teammate back at Dortmund in early summer; after all, he
kept thinking, Kyle Walker was such a bruiser alpha male, and the stuff
he'd shown him that night back in Denmark, goading him into sitting
forward on the bed and letting the older bloke... the 20-year-old player
shuddered with reminiscent thrill and jogged into place, looking once
more at sweaty Mason on the sidelines, still all grins and heat flushes
and grabbing hands with the gaffer. Heh, wonder if that cute little geek
has ever done anything that naughty, Jadon wondered idly, and the dirty
little question came back to him again: if a proper man's man like
Walker could confidently lick a lad's arse like he had that night, then
what was stopping him...?

For a second, the plump little bubble of Mount's arse caught his
attention in its frame of navy blue, then someone shouted his surname and
he was called into the fray, joining his teammates in protecting the 2-1
lead.



It was in the changing rooms after the game that Trent Alexander-Arnold
most keenly felt the absence of his two close Liverpool buddies; there
was always something particularly exciting about getting changed in
between Ox and Robbo, knowing how many times he'd been more literally in
between them in playful contrived sharing scenarios. Of course, he knew
that he was the gooseberry, the third wheel to the cute thing that had
developed between Alex and Andy, but he did feel so incredibly safe and
unjudged in his private escapades with the two older champions.

At 22, Trent was still far too new to the England squad for the novelty
of representing his country to have faded, he'd been buzzing with it
from the moment he and Jordan shared the road trip down from Liverpool a
week ago. But he was a little surprised and embarrassed to find how much
less at home he was here with England's best than in the midst of his
boyhood club. Country before club, he always heard other players say, but
he wasn't actually sure. Liverpool was everything to him.

Still, the young Scouse defender thought, wriggling out of his
shoulder-hugging white England shirt in the busy Home dressing rooms of
Wembley Stadium, it's not as if there weren't other men to idly ogle
here, without Oxlade's burly physique in their midst, and with scruffy
sexy Robertson playing for his own nation north of the wall.

Right now he was positioned between the man-mountain of Harry Maguire --
long muscular torso rippling and gleaming as he fumbled in his toilet bag
for soap, bent forward so his tangled shorts pulled down and exposed some
of the sweaty white briefs over his broad backside -- and on the other
side of him, Eric Dier, whistling cheerfully to himself as he stood there
in just tight bulging blue lycra under-shorts that twanged against the
thickness of his waist and thighs. For all his experimenting with those
few distinct members of the Liverpool line-up, Trent was still figuring
out what his interest or attraction was to the male form, having been so
surprisingly awoken to it on the night of his club's Premiership title
claim.

Was he actually into guys, or just getting carried away by the excitement
of others around him...?

The two bigger lads on his left and right swept away in a flash of nudity
(wow, what the fuck were those two carrying down there?) and flaps of
white towelling, leaving him stood alone in a space with his shirt off
and his shorts needing to come down next, but staring across the changing
room to the lad opposite him, another bright young graduate of England's
Under 21s squad.

Mason Mount was down to skimpy black briefs there, his back incredibly
toned and his legs thicker and stronger than expected, turned with that
dorky grin to laugh along at the storytelling of a big tall Harry Kane
and, beyond him, cackling Jordan Pickford. Trent found that he had no
interest in the two older members of the England football elite, but saw
something quite enticing in the bared physique of the 21-year-old right
in front of him, reminding him of how good a man's arse could feel in
front of him -- god, where was Alex's big muscular arse when you wanted
to grab summat tasty?! -- and questioning for the hundredth time why
he'd never noticed or addressed these urges earlier in his youth,
despite being surrounded by athletic men day in day out!

Well, what did any of it matter? The labels, the shame, the uncertainty...
or the wasted years of clinging to the narrow market of just shagging
Liver birds, when he was surrounded by lithe sports lads and their toned
muscle. He was trying stuff out and making up for lost time, and... huh,
wouldn't it be great fucking fun to try stuff out on THAT lad in
particular...?



In the showers, Kyle took his time, rolling his thick neck and splashing
his close-shaven head beneath the blast of the water, letting it cascade
onto his muscular shoulders and send thin rivers of soapy bubbles down
the dense tattooed muscles of his chest and arms. It was at least partly
a long-held exhibitionism that made the Sheffield-born defender go so
slowly in the footy showers, always opting for a prominent spot in the
centre of a row so that the maximum number of lads could compare
themselves physically to his dense body and generous equipment.

Long before he'd dabbled naughtily in the male body -- in John Stones'
body, let's be specific -- he'd enjoyed the notion of being watched and
envied, had paraded his fit body through the changing rooms of every team
he played for, swaggering along and daring anyone to glance too long at
his swinging meat and low-hanging cum-filled balls.

But now, having really discovered this new side to his overactive
sexuality, the City right-back enjoyed it even more, finding something
dangerous and provocative in breaking the shy norms of the British
reserve and really happily flopping his bare body about in the huddled
steam of the showers and out there in the complicated etiquette of the
lockerroom. Perhaps he was always on the lookout for new adventures,
having strayed from his bestie in his dabbling with Foden and Sterling
and even one of the lads here -- the playful bully in him smirked every
time he and Jack Grealish came close to each other in training, and he
knew he ought to apologise to the handsome Villa coach for the way he'd
dominated him back then, but he was so sure the sluttish Brummie stud had
enjoyed it. He'd thought about dipping his toe in that pool again, but
perhaps it had been very of its moment, him riding high on a City win,
and Grealish melting like a pussy; Jack seemed a different kinda lad now,
in Kyle's eyes, more assertive and sure of himself now he'd finally
been called to the England line-up.

Nah, it wasn't Jack the Lad catching the rough 30-year-old's eye right
now in the swirling steam of the shower, it was another young stud who
was showering in a much more shy and private fashion in the corner,
rubbing shampoo out of his eyes in a childish routine and angling his
body away from the communal eyes of the shower block.

Walker played idly with his cock and balls under the pretence of washing
them, happy to let his dick grow and stretch a little as long as it
didn't become too exposing hard -- he was self-appointed club joker even
here on the England team, but he wasn't sure he could tolerate the
banter of blokes like Dier or Maguire, Trippier or Henderson, if he
sprung an `accidental' hard-on in front of everyone and ended up on
some young cunt like Rice's Snapchat. But soon the intended target of
his sloppy self-indulgent strokes came to be, and Mason turned this way
in the middle of rinsing off his slim pale physique, and it was obvious
that for a second his wandering eyes caught sight of what Walker was
advertising between his inked thighs.

Mason's dark eyes locked onto a point somewhere low down his physique,
and Kyle leered, running both palms down the soapy cliff face of his
pectorals, watching the lad's eyes bulge and his face tighten up in an
attentive expression for a precious moment of interest, then flash
upwards, their gazes meeting for a moment. Kyle grinned, trying to be
intimidating but inviting all at once; the 21-year-old might already have
been red-cheeked from the heat of the shower, or maybe he was blushing in
mortification, but he was instantly hurrying from his corner and grabbing
for a towel, seemingly quite alarmed by what Walker was carrying down
below.

Even once Mount had disappeared from the steam, Kyle grinned arrogantly
to himself and elbowed the shower into a fresh blast of hot water down
his aching back, excited by the way Mason had visibly reacted to his
endowment and its casual flopping. Yep, he told himself, you can have any
pussy lad here you want, mmm...



`Let me get you this,' he said, resting both elbows on the surface of
the hotel bar, blinking a little sleepily across at his young teammate,
and gesturing a little boldly at the barman to indicate he would cover
whatever the other England player was ordering. Jack Grealish was already
feeling quite drunk, but doing his best to suppress it and focus on
looking respectable, in no mood to have his second England outing
tarnished by an image of being a boozy Brummie who took it too far on the
night of any big win.

`Ah, you sure?' Mason Mount said to him, a metre away down the wooden
bartop.

`Sure -- a free drink for our goal king and Man of the Match!' Grealish
slurred, sliding a bit further down the bar towards him and gently
tapping his arm with his elbow, then slurping from the remains of the
pint glass in front of him and awaiting his own top-up alongside whatever
this cute bell-end had ordered for himself. `Have I congratulated you
yet on a stellar fuckin' performance, Mase...?'

`Er, only five times,' the other young bloke told him with a polite
chuckle.

Jack had been throwing back the beers ever since their belated return to
the hotel by coach, happy that Southgate had taken an early night in an
informal consent to the lads getting a little bit tipsy for the first
time since assembling here a week ago. In all honesty, he'd been
sneaking a few cans into his room too, trusting Conor Coady to say nowt,
explaining to him that he just needed a few measures of vodka to help him
sleep sometimes. God, he must think I'm a right freak...! But the booze
took the edge of the bitter thoughts nagging at the edge of Jack's
consciousness, centred around a figure he knew was standing somewhere at
the far side of the hotel bar right now, looking cool as hell with his
hair slicked back and his handsome features glued to whatever boring
conversation he was forcing with anyone rather than even ACKNOWLEDGE
Grealish being in the room...

`You okay there, Jacko?' Mount enquired quietly.

`Hmm? Yeah, sweet as, just lovin' life! Fuckin' great being here for
England, innit...'

`Yeah, yeah. Sure is. But you're okay, yeh...?'

`What? Why wouldn't I be? Ah, here's the drinks...'

Grealish, concentrating heavily on his poor performance of sobriety,
dragged the pint glass his way and pushed Mason's two bottles towards
him, almost spilling them forward against his tightly buttoned pale blue
oxford shirt, but catching them just in time. He gurned apologetically at
him and laughed heartily. `Two beers, you trying to invite me back to
your room?' he slurred at Mount, and it occurred to him properly how
nice a prospect that might be; he of course was one of few guys privy to
the knowledge of how queer the Chelsea lad actually was, having
encountered his fun first-hand way back in Dubai, and become more clearly
aware of his relationship via Mykonos and a certain new Chelsea transfer
man.

And he was a cute bastard, wasn't he? Jack couldn't stop thinking
guiltily about how incapacitated he'd been at Villa Park last weekend,
how unable to act on his lust, stopping short of the act once he felt
Barkley's hard wet tip press between his bulbous cheeks -- but maybe if
he was the top, if he was the one taking ownership, maybe it would be
easier to throw his cock around then and actually get some relief...? He
leaned a little closer and squinted at the sharp handsome features of
Mason's long cute face, the fluffy texture of his dried hair and arched,
puzzled brows.

`You sure you're okay?' he heard him demand a little more worriedly.

`Fuckin' ace,' he claimed. `Just wait here a minute while I go take a
piss. And then maybe you and me go back to my room and drink those beers
away from all these dick-heads? Eh? Eh? What you say mate? Eh? Wait here,
wait here...'



`What was he saying? How is he? He looks a mess.'

Mason Mount passed one of the Peroni bottles to his newest close friend,
offering him a sadly sympathetic smile and glancing across the room to
the spot at the bar where he'd had his order interrupted by the
inebriated lurching advances of the Villa captain; when Jack had drifted
off to the loos, too drunk to remember to tap his card on the payment
machine, he'd had to buy his pint as well as the round for he and Ben,
and now he could see the pained expression on his Chelsea teammate's
face as the pair of them settled back against the wood-panelled wall in
this quiet corner of the busy bar, thronged with their celebrating squad
tonight.

`He's just a bit worse for wear,' the 21-year-old told his confidant
quietly, eyeing his twitching expression, all tight-grinning enjoyment
but for the flickering anxiety of his bright eyes. `You should go find
him, check on him?' he added in a suggestive tone. He saw more tension
and flickering in Chilwell's face, still looking out across the room as
if waiting for Grealish to return. Then Ben shook his head gently.

`When he's like that?' the 23-year-old murmured. `Hardly worth it.
I'll get a right earful.'

Mason sighed concernedly, looking from his friend's sharp-jawed handsome
features to the busy celebrations of the room, wondering if Jack was
vomiting or passed out in the toilets by now, or just accosting another
member of the England team to tell them how amazing and incredible their
match performance had been this evening, even if they never actually left
the subs bench.

`You have to talk to him at some point,' Mount told Chilwell, party to
the up-and-down dramas of the parallel footy relationship, having
witnessed a downturn in Bulging Ben's mood ever since last weekend and
the unspecified spat that had taken place over the phone. Even though
he'd known of that, he'd still been shocked by the way Jack and Ben
seemed to avoid one another in the hotel and the training ground, yet to
be united by Southgate's squad formations; though he didn't exactly
know what the pair of football aces had fallen out over, he struggled to
believe it was worth all this pettiness and sniping.

`Maybe,' Chilly murmured beside him, a real sadness falling over his
very English features.

`Ben,' he urged gently, and just got an irritable grunt by way of
response. He looked about the room himself, not to check on heavy-boozing
Grealish, but in search for another slightly `off' member of the
England clique -- where had Rice actually got to, he'd barely caught
sight of them since they piled off the coaches and into here...? Sure,
they'd agreed not to overdo the public bromance these days, but everyone
knew they were best mates, they could risk a beer together at a victory
party like this...!

`You seen Dec at all?' he asked, thinking aloud, sipping his Peroni.

`I mean, it's not as if HE'S made the effort,' Chilwell was
muttering, `and he's had ALL WEEK, so...'

Mason glanced at him with a mixture of sympathy and impatience, realising
that his own voice was tangential to the other lad's internal conflict.
He nodded once, bumped his bottle and fist against Ben's, and left him
to his thoughts, needing to find Declan to reassure himself that nothing
was wrong with the other guy. He knew that he wasn't really abandoning
Chilwell, it being so busy here and the handsome Leicester-Chelsea
transfer having so many good connections amongst the gathered men. This
left Mason to search quietly and discreetly through the assembly,
everyone finally too tipsy and self-involved to throw praise at him for
his goal or his efforts or his Man of the Match trophy.

When there was no sign of Declan anywhere in the bar, he made his way out
into the light pattering rain of the hotel grounds, checking for any sign
of the tall West Ham stud, then back indoors and across the foyer to some
stairs that led up to the wing where their shared room lay. It was odd to
imagine Declan skulking back to their room early without saying anything,
but it was possible.

Mount meandered up stairs and along a corridor and unlocked his way into
their small well-furnished suite, finding Rice sitting alone with a
single dull lamp on, legs crossed and body rested against a pile of
cushion, staring dourly into the pale blue glow of his phone screen and
barely reacting at the noise of the door or footsteps on the carpet.
After a moment he glanced up, an odd expression on his face, and Mason
took a long quiet glug of beer from his bottle. `Hey,' he called.

`Hey,' came Declan's slightly distant voice.

`Bar get too much for ya...?'

`Er, yeah. Something like that. You stay up though if it's a good vibe,
I just need an early one.'

`You got a headache or something?'

`Yeh, yeh.'

`Right. You wanna be alone?'

`Mmm.'

`Right.' Mason stood there, watching as Declan remained in his loose
lounging position, eyes fixed on his smartphone in a dazed, unseeing kind
of way, thumbs barely moving. The 21-year-old Portsmouth lad let out
another gentle sigh and he put his beer down on the dresser beside him
with a soft glassy clink, then he turned back to quietly put the extra
lock on the door, guaranteeing their comfortable privacy before advancing
slowly on the double bed they'd shared every night.

`What?' mumbled Declan in that same moody, far-off voice, as Mason
clambered onto the bed and pushed at one of his shins a little through
the denims. Mason simply chuckeld his response, squeezed at some muscular
thigh through those close-fit jeans, and crawled up fully onto the bed,
resting on his knees; he leaned in, closed his hand about the telephone,
and prised it from Dec's mitts. There came a little frustrated sigh from
the West Ham defender and his eyes flitted stormily beneath his craggy
brows. Mason took it firmly in his hand and tossed it across the room to
the other bed, completely unused by him.

The two 21-year-old stared at each other, one sat awkwardly back against
the stacked pillows and the other remaining on his knees, stroking him by
the thigh. Mason smiled encouragingly. `What's up, Ricecakes?' he
asked insistently, pawing a little at the buttoned up front of his oxford
shirt with his free hand, and trying to force a smile from Declan's
twisted frown. `Eh? What's eating ya...?'

`Just surprised you came up here,' Rice murmured with a gruff
touchiness.

`Oh, why's that?' Mount asked him.

A soft grunt. `Well, you could have ended up anywhere,' he said
resentfully.

`Is that so?' the young England star asked quietly, edging forward on
his knees until he was close beside his roommate, hovering by him with
their limbs shifting closer and their faces drawing near.

`Tell me you ain't noticed half the blokes here eyeing you up today,'
he was told sourly.

`Are you really suggesting half the England men's football team are
bi-curious?' he retorted playfully, not denying his own apparent
attractiveness in the excitement of the day; he felt a little silly
thrill at Declan's outlandish and unlikely claim, an icing on the Man of
the Match cake.

`Everyone looking you up an down,' Declan muttered, not moving away but
holding himself still and reserved against the bedding, not reacting to
the slow drag and shuffle of Mason's body over his. `I can't believe
you didn't end up in some other drunk prick's bedroom for a bit before
slinking back here, or-` Mason cut him off, pressing one finger over his
lips, hovering over him, shaking his head gently.

`How many times do we have to go through this?' he asked softly,
without annoyance. `How many times do I have to tell you I'm all yours,
Declan Rice?' And then without waiting for any sulky answer to these
rhetorical questions, he placed one hand firmly on the bulge in the
bigger guy's tight blue jeans, and leaned in to kiss him first on the
forehead, then the bridge of his nose, then thirdly his full lips. There
was a brief sullen resistance and then their mouths inevitably
interlocked in a slow, quiet snog.

`Not my fault ever seedy fucker in the Prem wants you,' Dec muttered in
a voice so petty that the hints of an embarrassed smile showed on his
lips and about his eyes, and Mason immediately giggled and kissed him
again, and pulled urgently at his dark grey tshirt, tugging him into an
upright seated position then dragging the garment up and off his torso
and around his head, exposing the muscles of his chest.

`Not my fault none of them is half as fucking gorgeous as you?' Mason
returned playfully, sinking his head to kiss his boyfriend's left nipple
with the same slow assertiveness. `Not my fault none of them make my
tight hole twitch like the sight of you here right now?' He dragged his
body forward until the arse of his soft chinos rode over the crotch of
Declan's jeans, straddling him so his buttocks could rose and stroke him
through the material, while holding both arms about his shoulders and
pressing mouth to mouth once more, snogging more fully and for longer.

Quickly, all pretence of sulk and distance was being dropped as the 6ft2
Kingston lad responded to the unsubtle advances: gripping eagerly to the
lad in his lap, kissing roughly at the front and side of his neck, hands
pawing roughly down the back of his shirt and then coming to the front
for some hasty unbuttoning. The two of them shirtless, crotches rubbing
and hands exploring, mouths panting wordlessly, the conversation of
jealousy and teasing boxed away.

Mason held onto his rare control of the dynamic, rising up higher on his
knees and undoing the buttoned front of his loose chinos, pulling out his
rising hard-on and guiding it into Dec's appreciative mouth, pushing it
in there with the trembling pleasure that was still partly surprise at
this tall rugged lad daring to tenderly mouth his cock at all. He
remained on his knees while his boyfriend stooped into his crotch and
sucked very gently on him, reaching round to rub his arse through his
trousers. Mason stroked his spiked hair and the sides of his long head
and down his neck and shoulders, pleased with the strength and comfort of
his presence.

He let this continue for a while before crawling backwards and wriggling
away so he could begin to push the trousers down and away. Dec's strong
hands followed to help, dragging the legs over his knees with a pleasing
rush of exploration; Mason in turn reached for the belt of the other
lad's jeans and their undressing become a hurried fumbled collaboration
until he was on his back with Rice on top of them, stripped to socks and
undies, kissing and grinding and moaning softly against each other's
lips.

`I'm sorry,' Declan mumbled close to his hear in a pause between
kisses. `I know I'm a pain, it's... I don't mean to be so... I'm not
possessive, really I'm not, just...'

`No,' Mason murmured sincerely, kissing him on the strong blocky corner
of his jawline. `You just don't have any clue how fucking sexy and
amazing you are, Declan, that's all.' He ran a thumb along the lad's
bottom lip and kissed him higher on the cheekbone. `But that's fine,
because I could spend every night and day happily convincing you,
okay...?'

`Let me fuck you,' came the other young stud's breathy demand.

`I thought you'd never ask.'

And he let Declan take over then, the delightful status quo of their
sexual dynamic; his own body supple and responsive as his boxer shorts
were pulled fully clear and his cock stroked in one hand while Dec pushed
fingers below his balls and into his crack to tickle his hole... strong
biting kisses on his neck and cheeks, Dec's hands pinning his arms back
to the bedding, mmm.... Of all the positions and playfulness they roved
through in their nights together, he thought he might like missionary
best, just being pressed down on his back and totally consumed by his
long-time best friend. Lifting and parting his strong legs, feeling two
of Dec's finger pushing hungrily into his hole, scrabbling somewhere in
a drawer for the lube -- and then eventually entering him, pushing his
decent-sized prick in there with the same initial tenderness and
slow-building dominant power that he had discovered as their relationship
blossomed.

So far on this international break, they had been careful of noise, but
with the majority of the players drunk downstairs, Mason treated himself
to the freedom of yelps and sighs, feeling Dec begin to fuck him as he
pinned him to the bed, body heavy and strong over his. He groaned his
name over and over, full and formal, then abbreviated and cute, then old
half-remembered nicknames of their teens; Declan was like a machine when
he got going, gathering pace and strength with every thrust of his tall
strong body and rigid hard-on. `Cum in me,' Mason begged, as he often
did, wanting to feel that unloading inside him, breeding him deep. And,
as he often did, Declan obliged, with half-contained squeals and growls
of his own peaking pleasure, muffled by kisses and burying his face in
against Mason's shoulder-blade.

He swiftly pulled out and kissed his way down Mason's chest and six-pack
and began to suck him off again -- not as slowly or tenderly as before,
now with the desperation of a finish line, a need to reciprocate his own
messy orgasm, which was currently sticky and wet at his tight arsehole.
Mason just lay there on his back, stretching out and groaning happily,
letting his cock pull and slap at the lips and tongue of the only partner
he'd fallen in love with.

`Oh god,' he purred, `that's... it... baby...'

He filled Dec's mouth in the same way that his arse had been solidly
stuffed, loving the way that Rice still lapped and kissed at his prick as
it gushed watery spunk. He loved the wet drooling noise of it, the
animalistic way his hunky West Ham lover carried out this sexual chore
even after his own climax. And then the pull of his body sliding up to
spoon him over the covers, cuddling into his back and his neck and
pressing his fading hard-on in against one buttock. Every detail of it
was simultaneously novel and so very very familiar, a beautiful cocktail
for Mason's romance and lust.

`I'm sick of this,' Declan muttered in his ear, jarring words against
his own mood.

`What...?'

`I'm so sick of this!' Rice panted again, more seriously, making him
twist to see him properly. To his relief, the big guy added in a low
voice, `I'm sick of hiding this, and sneaking around. I'm sick of not
being able to congratulate you properly when you score! I'm sick of...
being scared.'

Mason, seeing the distress there, twisted around out of the little spoon
position to face him, holding onto him tightly and pulling their faces
close, Dec's lips still shiny with cum. `I get that,' he said softly,
`but... what do you wanna do, go down there and announce us to the hotel
bar and see what happens...?' There was something mocking but also
hopefully in his own voice that made him emotional to hear in himself.

`Of course not,' Dec muttered gruffly back.

`We have to be careful,' Mason reminded him, hating to be the mature
one here when he wanted nothing more than to scream his true love from
the top of the Wembley stands. `We have to go slowly and look after our
careers. You and me matter more than some big statement. Right?'

`I know, but... it's all too much, or not enough, or something, I need
to... it's gone on too long, and-`

Mason felt a tiny bit of fear here, hearing the intensity of emotion and
conflict in Dec's voice and in his blazing eyes, combined with the
difficult moods that he so skilfully negotiated. The gorgeous tender sex
he had just experienced utterly nullified any annoyance at Declan's
jealous streak and personal insecurities; but the way his speech was
leaning now sounded dangerously final and decisive, and it made his heart
skip...

`What are you saying?' he asked with the hesitation of terror.

`It has to stop,' Declan said, then, `the sneaking around.' He
breathed deeply, tightened his hug on Mason's body, cutting off his fear
and tension with the physical comfort and the following outburst. `As
soon as we get the chance, Mase, we tell our families. I want to
introduce you to my mum and dad.'

`But they know me...'

`Introduce you to them as my BOY,' Declan growled in his face. `I
don't want to hide you from them, okay? And then we go to Portsmouth and
do the same for your family. Okay? I can't go on like this, keeping
everything hidden and behind closed doors, it isn't right... I know we
have to be careful baby, but... I need us to do this. Need us to make it...
real.'

Mason stared at him in the half-light of the room, bodies interlocked and
the faint smell of sex in the air. `Are you serious?' he asked, a
tremble in his voice.

`Totally. Dead serious. What do you think...?'

`I think...' He stared into his lover's eyes. `I think I've never
wanted you inside me more.'




*LET ME KNOW WHAT YOU'RE THINKING TO THE CURRENT RUN OF 'ENGLAND'
STORIES... ONE MORE INTERNATIONAL MATCH TO GO THIS MONTH, SHOULD THERE BE
ONE MORE ENGLAND SEXY STORY TOO...? AND THE COUNTDOWN TO THE BIG 200TH
EPISODE STARTS NOW...*