Date: Tue, 3 Nov 2020 21:06:22 +0000
From: writer guy <premiershiplads@outlook.com>
Subject: Premiership Lads Part 200: The Climax

Part 200: The Climax


Ben Chilwell entered the prestigious Stamford Bridge office with a
certain moody nervousness, fiddling his scrubbed pink fingers together
and gently turning the signet ring on his pinky finger, bearing the
initials of a long-dead relative and passed down between the men in his
family. He raised his eyebrows inquisitively on the short walk across the
manager's study and nodded his greeting at the gaffer behind the desk, a
little puzzled to be called in here for a `quick chat' before getting
to exit the Chelsea grounds tonight.

`Take a seat, Chilwell,' came the manager's gruff, impatient voice,
not without some warmth. Ben was quite confident that the former Chelsea
legend himself was very keen on him as a player, he and his team had
courted his interest for long enough before making this transfer; the
23-year-old was naturally very confident in his abilities and his team
contributions, had no reason to suspect he was in trouble at all. Still,
it felt a little strange to be summoned like this, beyond the normal
demands of the management system here.

Fresh and warm from the hot showers several floors below, Chilwell curled
down into the visitor seat on this side of the big old mahogany desk,
pulling back some loose fronds of his dark damp hair and grinning
earnestly at the chief, adjusting the fit of his tight dark hoody and the
gilet over it. He'd just been finished drying and dressing and preparing
to head for his car when the manager's secretary had fetched him like a
naughty schoolboy to the head's office.

Ben thumbed at the signet ring and waited for some opening gambit from
the serious, lined face of the older man across the desk. When none came,
he needed to push it. `Everything good, chief?' he asked in a quiet
friendly voice. `I played well tonight against Sheffield, I thought, it
was a decent game, overall...'

A curt nod from Lampard. `Yeah, not bad,' he said, sounding almost
bizarrely disinterested in the Premier League game that had just
completed in the West London stadium beneath them, and twinkling out its
lights through the ceiling-height windows down one wall of the office.
`That's not what I wanted to speak to you about,' he said, and that
had become obvious enough. There was something distinctly preoccupied
about the retired midfielder and Ben wondered if it was even anything to
do with himself that had the 42-year-old icon so on edge -- it was almost
as if Frank had already left Stamford Bridge behind and was somewhere
else altogether at some much more important meeting.

`No?' Ben said awkwardly.

Suddenly Lampard seemed more fully in the room, hunching his blazer-clad
shoulder, and resting both of his fiddling hands on the paperwork in
front of him. He fixed Ben with a fairly intense stare, quite searching.
`I'm hearing,' he started, `that something isn't quite right,
mate...' His voice softened from the initial sternness and so did his
face. `I'm hearing that maybe you're having a bit of a tough time,
Chilwell.'

`Oh,' he said, genuinely taken aback by the caring lilt in Lampard's
tone, thrown by the sudden intimacy of the discussion. He squirmed in his
chair, forcing a broad grin, busying himself with the zip of his gilet.
`Well, I wouldn't quite say that -- haha -- I mean, it's a funny old
time with this new lockdown starting and everything, but...'

`Cut the training ground panto,' said Frank in a voice that was blunt
and corrective but again not unfriendly. He gave Ben a look of experience
and insight. `I know you can play the joker, entertain the troops.
You're a very good team player, Ben.' He was mumbling out his thanks
when Lamps spoke over him again. `But a couple of your teammates are
worried about your mental health. Worried you are... ahem, "going through
something", and...' He gestured vaguely. `It has been suggested I might
give you a little break, or...'

`A break?' Ben asked crossly. `No, not that, I don't think-`

`We have a grave responsibility here,' Frank told him firmly. `We have
to look after our players properly, and if there is anything going on
that I ought to know about, then...'

Chilwell felt the hot blush rise in his neck and cheeks and he pressed
back in this curved seat as if to make himself instantly more distant and
untouchable from the concerned older man. `I don't know what you mean,
boss,' he said in a small and exaggeratedly masculine voice, struggling
at the prospect of opening up to anybody about the relationship hell
he'd been through these past few weeks. `Actually, I'm totally fine,
and-`

`Ben,' Frank said more sternly, `I am hearing that you really struggle
with your moods at the moment, you zone out in training, you are late to
your personal training sessions, and... People are noticing. It is your
friends worrying about you, Chilwell, so-`

`I'm fine,' he said almost sulkily, unable to meet his manager's eyes
now. He found he was clutching the arms of his seat and straining with
his whole tightly muscled body to leap out of the seat and get out of the
office. Who the hell had been talking about him to the manager? How much
had people really been studying his moods and behaviour, eh?

`Look,' said Lampard now more softly, leaning forward slightly, `I
won't press you on this, but we are all worrying about you, Chilwell.
Take this as it's meant. You can joke around and throw yourself at the
games, but we want to know you are okay... and if I do become too worried
about your mental health, then you WILL be taking a rest break, is that
understood?' Becoming more laddish and detached, `I'm not trying to be
your friend or your dad or your fuckin' counsellor, but... I have to look
out for you, Chilly. Now go home and relax, okay?'

Despite the concerned words, Ben found himself getting up from the seat
and marching quietly out of the office as if he'd just been scolded and
chastised -- partly that was Lampard's own moody disposition and partly
it was his own shame and difficulty burning at his handsome cheeks. Who
was Frank to criticise his mental health and behaviour, anyway? Everybody
had noticed the old fella get more and more tense and erratic as the
weeks of the new season proceeded; it emerged in every interview he gave
to the footy media and in each of his rampant team talks!

As soon as he'd pulled the door shut behind him with a gentle slam and
stomped across the office suite to the elevators, the young left-back
regretted not taking Lampard's intervention in a calmer and more affable
manner... but the boss had really touched a nerve, and the reality was
that Ben WAS struggling. Badly. He thought his likeable laddish grin and
his constant banter with the other Chelsea lads had hidden it well, but
clearly not, clearly his heartbreak was showing through...



`What's the matter, good-looking, some bird taken yer achey breaky
heart...?'

He jerked to the side with an impatient dislike of the pushy banter,
cooling his instinctive temper as soon as he realised it was the
second-in-command muscling in next to him at the buffet supper being
served to the travelling Villa squad tonight in North London. Jack
Grealish forced a matey smile instead of the sulky retort, turning back
to finish serving colourful salad onto his plate, while John Terry drew
closer to him, pushing obnoxiously against his side and reaching over to
start helping himself to the late meal as well.

`Just tired,' the young captain said in a low mumble, carrying on down
the buffet.

`Well everyone's a bit tired,' grunted John Terry in a quite abrasive
voice, `no need to go around with a face like a bag of shite.' And then
one of his big hands was slapping at Jack's upper back in an annoyingly
pally fashion -- clearly the alpha male coach was in one of his more
extrovert and frustrating moods tonight, like many of the hyped-up lads
on this trip down to the capital to play Arsenal tomorrow night. `Just
messin',' the local London lad barked in Jack's ear after a pause,
shaking him by the back of the neck and then laughing a few decibels too
loudly.

Grealish grimaced at him, ladling some dressing on his salad and then
grabbing a roll of bread, then hoisting up the tray and making a swift
move away from the buffet tables -- failure, Terry was following him,
trailing after him towards the table of players he was set to join,
pulling up the chair next to him and beginning to banter loudly with the
other men. It wasn't that Jack didn't like or respect their famous
assistant manager, they largely had a good working relationship, but he
wasn't in the mood for his coarse jokes and dominant nature.

Whatever joke the 39-year-old Chelsea and England ace had just hollered
at the table had found its audience, as everyone was cackling stupidly
around him now, while Jack stared sullenly into his plate without
appetite. His heartbroken gloom was at odds with the camaraderie and
excitement in the Villa away camp, freshly arrived quite late in the
evening at their Islington hotel, carefully quarantined here until
tomorrow's afternoon warm-up sessions and then the Sunday night clash
with Arsenal.

As the Villa coach made its way down the motorway from Birmingham to
London, the club's charismatic 25-year-old captain had felt his mood and
feelings worsen, stupidly conscious of his growing proximity to the boy
in question. It felt so horrible and wrong to be here overnight in the
capital, for two nights in fact, and not to have made any contact with
his Benjamin -- how had it come to this? One minute it was just a spat
down the phone, the next it was icy silences and feverish back-room
arguments on England duty, tainting only his second camp under Southgate
-- how had it got to a point where he didn't feel comfortable messaging
his best mate (yep, keep using that phrase Jack, that'll help, you
emotionally handicapped dickweed) about maybe saying hi... it was hardly
easy to meet under the renewed lockdown rules that had kicked in a couple
of days ago, but he hadn't even sent Ben a snoozy selfie from the dark
motorway trip.

You've fucked it up, he told himself for the hundredth time, pushing
items of food back and forth across the plate and rubbing his knuckles
repeatedly over the edge of the table to distract himself from the
nagging sickness in his tummy and chest. You've really bollocksed it up,
Jack, you tit -- why did you have to be such a jealous hypocrite? Such a
spoilt brat! Fuck's sake.

The truth was becoming clearer to the 25-year-old winger by the day: the
intimacy that had grown between him and Ben and seemed to peak in a
Mykonos seafront villa was over now, perhaps had never been more than a
giddy mirage. Whichever of them was to blame, it was done with. Both his
and Ben's behaviour had exposed them as restless playboys who couldn't
control themselves, and he'd been cruel and possessive with his
friend-with-benefits. Again, he thought about them lying side by side in
that abandoned barn by the river, and the whispered intimacies they'd
shared, so much more than `friends' or `benefits'.

The mealtime chatter spilled on around him and the evening drew towards
its curfew. Last to sit, he and John Terry were also last to finish and
leave the table. He watched the older man warily, expecting more jibes at
his quietness or his dour expression, hardly brimming with his usual
captain's charm or morale-boosting efforts. But Terry too had become
quiet, something tense beneath his excitable gestures and energetic eyes.
He was a strange bloke, Jack reflected, not the most conventionally
handsome, but full of a quite ferocious masculine energy that definitely
brought something to the surface. Jack remembered the alarming discovery
that this footballing legend might swing a different way, that
overexcited afternoon in the conference room; he didn't know how new or
otherwise that experience had been for JT, but the 39-year-old Cockney
had been far from shy about it at the time!

Terry was on his phone now, a look of deep concentration on his face as
he engaged with whoever was messaging him. The retired centre-back, tall
and broad-shouldered, hunched forward over the table, chewing his lip as
he typed; Jack liked the way his tracksuit top caught the still prominent
muscles of his shoulders and upper arms as he sat like that, could
remember the belligerent strength with which he'd tupped John McGinn,
that most willing slag of the squad. And if excitable McGinn was to be
believed, it had not exactly been a one-off incident in the hot strange
summer of 2020.

Maybe this is it, then, he thought. Dirty shenanigans with dodgy blokes
like Terry. A kinda overspill of testosterone, nothing more than that.
Seedy antics to be laughed off or regretted depending on how much you'd
drunk or snorted. Ugh. He didn't deserve any more though, did he? Not
really. He'd shown himself again and again what a horny bastard he was,
his big bollocks guiding most of his choices.

He leaned a little closer along the rounded edge of the table, putting
down his fork despite having eaten less than half of his cold dinner. He
wasn't sure how to do it but he was going to do it, make some move on
this brutish older man and suggest that maybe they could think about-

`Right, I'm off,' barked JT now, slapping both hands against the
tabletop.

`Off?' Grealish exclaimed in response to that, caught off-guard on the
verge of making a first subtle nudge towards how much energy he needed to
burn off tonight, having just claimed to be `tired' ten minutes ago.
`What about the curfew?' he asked slowly in his broad Birmingham
accent, sitting back in his chair again.

`Curfew is for you lot,' he was informed brusquely. `Not for us
bosses. So get to your room kiddo and silk there instead.' And like some
infuriating visiting uncle, Terry was reaching over and mussing up the
long banded mop of his dark hair, loosening strands of it into his
forehead and his eyes, cackling to himself and getting to his feet,
adjusting the tracksuit top over his long torso and bulging distractingly
in the front of his bottoms. He grinned teasingly down at him now, full
of that nervous energy beneath the banter, probably off to fuck some old
mistress from his Chelsea playing days; EVERYBODY knew what a notorious
womaniser Terry had been, or still was, even without Jack's own
knowledge of his OTHER exploits.

`Right,' he said dimly back, `well, hope she's fun.'

`Heh?'

`Nothing, boss. See you in the morning.'



Terry pulled the collar of his jacket around him more tightly, the cold
November night in Regents Park heightening the nervous shudder of his
tall athletic body. He stomped his trainer-clad feet against first the
crunching gravel and then the soft damp grass, moving towards the spot
they'd agreed. `Remember that boozy picnic we had,' Lampard had said,
when the rules meant that they couldn't really meet indoors anyway
without clearly flouting the lockdown rules. `That time we were out with
those two Brazilian models and we ended up fucking them behind the
trees...' Hah, that had been a different time when risks had meant
nothing to the two hot-blooded Chelsea aces, even once married; not
cautious times of doubt and worry like today!

The other guy was already here, he could see him even in the dark,
silhouetted against the waters of the curving lake, a big smart overcoat
giving him a vaguely Batman vibe from this distance as he pottered along
the shore with his hands in his pockets. John Terry put two fingers to
his lips and did a little dog-whistle of alertness as he drew close,
making a saucy noise that was really just meant to avoid freaking him out
to much as he came close. The manager-in-waiting had been building up to
this confrontation all week and yet now, as soon as Lampard turned to
look over his shoulder at him, he felt his varied assertions tumbling
apart and a return of the white heat. What the fuck were they going to do
about this?

`Mate,' breathed Lampard, keeping his distance but turning an earnest
handsome face this way.

`We'll have to be careful we don't get mistaken for a couple of old
queens,' Terry grunted quickly, `and get arrested for perving about the
park at night, or...' He laughed but mirthlessly, regretting the
direction of the joke immediately, finding Frank's expression hard to
read in the dark. `Lighten up, Fat Frank, don't gimme that look... just
a joke, mate...'

`It always is, with you,' Lampard returned in a quietly accusing tone.
`But thanks for meeting up.'

`Busy day for you and your lads.' He was taking comfort in footy talk,
he could feel his own retreat. `We have all our excitement to come
tomorrow night. And tougher opposition than Sheff.'

`We're not on Sky Sports, buddy.'

`Huh. Nah. You're right. No footy talk.'

`We need to sort this out...'

`We do. We do. And this time I might avoid givin' you a smack,
fella...'

`JT...'

He flinched, regretting his banter yet again. `I apologised plenty, pal.
I didn't know what I was doing. And YOU got a bit friendly, didn't you?
You shouldn't have tried to kiss me mate, you know I ain't no queer,
I'm a proper man's man and-`

`I watched you fuck McGinn!' exclaimed his best friend and current
nemesis.

`And?' Terry barked back, riled by the quick retort. `Yeah so I put my
dick in a lad, don't mean I-`

`I think it means SOMETHING, Terry. Don't you? Fuck's sake -- yeah,
you've apologised, but you're burying your fucking head in the sand,
mate, if you don't think there's something between us...'

`Between us?' he demanded, unable to stop himself sounding mocking and
jeering. There was something desperately intimate about Frank's voice
and his turn of phrase, so unlike the straight-talking and old-school
young manager. `Mate, you're 42, not 16, and in case you forgot,
there's a cock and balls between those girly legs, so... Oi...' Lampard
was lunging at him, reaching for his arm now, so he tugged almost
violently back. `What the fuck do you think there is between us?'

`Well friendship for a start!' railed Lampard furiously. `Wouldn't
think it, would ya? Way you treat me, and ignore me when you don't like
what I say... Stuck-up prick...'

`Me?' Terry demanded, long-buried arguments of their youth resurfacing.
`You privileged twat. Always were, never had to worry when daddy and
uncle are already footy stars, you and that smug cousin of yours, what a
pair of fags...'

`I've seen you pounding your players, you dirty fucker, so careful what
insults throw about here.'

`And you were really holding yourself back when you saw me, you old
queer.'

`I think it might be you getting' a thump this time, mate, just watch
your mouth...'

Terry snarled and huffed and held his fists tightly at his sides,
resisting the temper and aggression stoked by his old best mate's words
and voice. `You trynna threaten me, you ponce?' he demanded, launching
himself angrily forward and slamming both hands into the guy's chest,
pushing Frank scrambling down against the grass. They were both big
fellas and neither had let their bodies go quite to seed in the short
years since retiring from the pitch, but John was the taller and more
powerful player, always had been, and now he stood over his former
wingman, crouching pathetically before him and awaiting the first blow.
He stood squarely above him, legs planted firmly to the ground, fists
bunched and teeth gritted, and instantly hated himself; he could still
remember the pain in his hand as he struck his long-held friend in the
face that summer night, the look on Frank's face, and the sickening
guilt that had coursed through him. Now, again, tough guy Lampard was
whimpering before him awaiting the attack, hands barely held up in
defence as he failed to regain his balance and just hunched to the ground
for a long moment of anticipation.

Terry spat as heavily as he could, gobbing on the sleeve of that
expensive Kings' Road coat, then took two steps back. `Fuck you
Frank,' he shouted at him, `fuck you!' And he burst backwards into a
quick jog across the dark grass and back onto the crunching shifting
gravel, a vein throbbing in the side of his head and vague muffled sounds
following him as Frank shouted for him to slow down and stop to talk
properly. But JT was already on the move, launching himself over the
locked park gates and onto the grey pavement, haring for the side-street
where his parked car awaited him.



Chilwell was still sulking a little at Lampard's interference when he
made it back to his house, having taken much of the journey home to
decide that it must have been Mason who dobbed him in; Mount was the only
one at Chelsea who actually knew what was going on, and he was such a
good-hearted kid, this had his name all over it. Of course he'd go
weaselling to the boss and expressing his worries, meaning well but... Ben
didn't want anyone, not Mason and certainly not Frank, interfering in
his business and jeopardising his footballing because he was... well,
y'know...

Crushed?

He couldn't believe that somewhere in this city right now, his
Birmingham boy must be checked into a hotel, unless Villa were traveling
down in the morning ahead of their Arsenal match, but that was unlikely;
coaches didn't like players on `long' journeys on matchday, it was bad
for fitness and morale. So Jack the Lad must be in some hotel up in the
north of the capital, he surmised, and realised how upset he was even to
be UNSURE. The fact that he didn't know where Jack was and what he was
doing was madness -- even in the safer days before their friendship
stepped up, the two of them regularly messaged or called each other from
their away trips, jokily comparing notes on motorways and hotels and
trying to establish the shittest away trip England and Europe had to
offer. Innocent times, Ben thought sadly.

He was just locking the car and trudging up the neatly gardened front of
his South London home when he saw the guy by the doorway, waving a bottle
of red wine at him and grinning broadly in welcome as if he had every
right to be there, and it was his job to greet the returning footballer
who was shattered from the battle against Sheffield United.

Ben stopped in his tracks and stared at him, baffled. `Timo?!'

Inside, he followed the German's instructions in a daze, fetching two
big wine glasses from a cardboard box on the kitchen sideboard. (He'd
more or less unpacked now and started to settle into his London life, but
he had spent so much time feeling sorry for himself that the Wimbledon
mansion still felt rather unlived in and clinical.) He returned to the
main lounge, where the hard-bodied German forward was skilfully uncorking
the bottle, his coat and jumper shed on an armchair, just in a tight
white t-shirt and black skinny jeans. As he had been when they parted at
the stadium not long ago, moments before Ben was summoned for his
`talking to' from Lamps.

Ben paused halfway across the room, a glass in each hand, staring warily
at the handsome blond goal machine who had done so much to reinvigorate
the Chelsea squad. Between them, they'd contributed so much to the
squad's points this season, and it was much their newness and confidence
as any real common ground that had built up their jokes and camaraderie
over the past couple of months. I mean, it didn't HURT that Timo Werner
was hot as hell and apparently quite fluid and adventurous in what he did
with his body, based on that hot shower-room blowjob shared with
Christian Pulisic.

But what was he doing here tonight?

`I know it is against the rules,' Werner told him, once their glasses
were filled and clinking together in their hands, `but who will know...?
And we are both alone tonight.'

`Alone, mate?'

A vague wave of his free hand. `The girlfriend is away on a -- how you
say? -- photoshoot.'

`Oh. Right. Yeah.'

`So just us "lads" tonight, yes? Hah. Drink up!'

Ben took a long sip, nodded appreciatively at the well-chosen plonk.
`Er, yeh, cool. Good idea.'

`I've been hoping we could have a drink for a while, you see?' Werner
added, raising one dark brown eyebrow. `Just you and I, Benjamin.'

`Oh right,' Chilwell said vaguely, watching him took a lingering sip of
wine and then lick its tart red liquid from his lower lip. He remembered
the surprisingly delight of that foxy mouth around his big boner the
other weekend, the indiscretion that had led to that awkward phone
argument and this horrible icing over of relations with his Jack. He
cringed at that, but shuddered with irresistible desire at the memory of
the blowie itself. He pictured himself, worshipped as a match-winner by
Werner and by lovesick Pulisic. It had felt so innocent and fun, it
hadn't felt like something that would ruin his life and piss off that
jealous hypocrite at Villa...

`Who knows,' Timo said now in a low sultry murmur, `after the bottle
of red, maybe you can find me something else to drink, jah...?'



Lampard had yet to undress from his TV-friendly suit of the early evening
Chelsea match, but his tie was off and his shirt unbuttoned down his
fuzzy thin chest hair. He caught sight of his face in a hallway mirror
and scowled, annoyed by how haggard his stressful job and more stressful
private life were starting to make him; where was the slick young fella
from his playing days?

He was pottering the West London townhouse eating his heated-up dinner
without bothering to sit, listening to his wife Christine's quiet
monologue as she travelled around the first floor; the heavy splashes of
her filling bath sounded from the other end of the upstairs hall,
accompanied by some gently playing soul music on the sound-system in
their generously sized bathroom. The wife came ducking past again, now in
her fluffy robe, rattling on in her narrative of entertaining the kids
today, now asleep up on the second floor.

Luckily, her talkative mood excused his own sullen silence, scooping
saucy pasta form the bowl in his left hand and chomping
unenthusiastically. It was tasty enough, but his mouth was sour with his
own bloody where he'd bit his tongue falling stupidly in the park,
pushed to the ground by that aggressive bastard he'd once have done
anything for. Thinking about it made his chest muscles twinge a little
with the lingering pain of the passing blow.

Christine disappeared into the bathroom away from him, leaving him alone
on the landing, still staring accusingly at his reflection in the mirror
on the wall. He put the bowl down heavily on the dresser beneath it and
glanced to the left through the half-open bathroom door, horrified by his
lack of interest as the robe dropped and he caught a narrow flash of
Christine's bare body before she got into her bubble bath, a sight that
should fell him with red-hot lust. He felt like he'd left his libido and
his bollocks somewhere by the lake in Regent's Park, or worse, months
ago against an East London shopfront where he'd first made a proper move
on JT and been smacked for his interest.

Then, suddenly, there was a low chiming noise and he looked to the right,
down the broad staircase into the entrance hall of the house, the
doorbell rolling smoothly up to his cold ears. `Oh, who the fuck is
that?' came his wife's from the bathroom. `Get rid of them, Frankie,
jesus...' He paused uncertainly where he was, making a vague murmur of
agreement, the sneaking suspicion forming vividly in the front of his
mind. `Will do, hun,' he called again vaguely as she swore irritably
and busied herself with her toilette.

Lampard descended the stairs slowly, and the doorbell was rung one more
time when he was only halfway down into the broad art-furnished
entranceway of the big Kensington house. He opened the door and took a
sharp intake of breath despite finding exactly what he expected, brooding
silently on the step, and staring at him with bright awkward eyes.

`Mate,' John began in a growling voice so quiet it was barely audible.
`Let me in.'

`John,' he moaned in anguished relief, holding on to the door and
feeling a double conflict of self-consciousness: he didn't like the idea
of a visitor stood on his step like this in the possible eyes of his
neighbours, when no households were allowed to mix at all; but inside,
his wife was in the bath, and now shouting down this way... `Who is it?
Frank?' Her distant muffled voice carrying over the landing and down the
stairs behind him, as he mouthed his friend's Christian name once more
in silence.

On the doorstep, Terry brought one single finger up against his lips in a
gesture of hush, and then stepped on in. Lampard shifted instinctively to
allow him in, their bodies an inch apart as the intruding younger
football coach writhed in beside him and he pushed the door shut with a
firm little thud. `Who was it?' came Christine's voice again, and he
feared her emerging at the head of the stairs, back in her robe, needing
to see who would dare disturb them at this time of night during lockdown
part 2.

They stood very still, both close to the door, a little shiver running
through his body from the draught he'd let in with this visitor. And
then he read some private urgency in Terry's thin face and intense eyes.
`Nobody,' he called up loudly without risking a look at the stairs,
keeping his eyes focused intently on John. `Nobody, luv... just some...'
He let his voice trail off vaguely without bothering to finish the
sentence, hearing the vague thud of a door closing properly and then a
lift in the volume of muffled music. She was in her bathing bubble now,
cut off from the suddenly tense world of the rest of the house, where two
powerful men were staring each other down in silence.

He began to open his mouth to form the first of many questions but the
one finger of quiet that had been held discreetly over John's lip now
came and pressed on his , stopping him before he could verbalise his hot
rush of thoughts. And then each of Terry's hands were on his shoulders,
thrusting him sharply backwards and hitting the papered wall. It made a
fleshy wooden thump and he shot his eyes away up the stairs, wondering if
the noise was audible up there over the taps and music, but it was hard
to tell... Terry was pinning him to the wall, pulling close, scrunching
the shoulders of his half-open shirt, face to face, and... Lampard's lips
trembled open, seeking a kiss that didn't quite arrive.

Then, instantly, his fellow retired Chelsea star was pulling back,
dragging him with his movement, wrenching at the shirt until at least one
more button popped open; Frank scratched his hands at the front of the
jacket and sweatshirt of Terry's body, imbalanced and submissive. He
craned forward with his face for the kiss but again was denied and, once
more, the strength of the old centre-back's hands was controlling him
and thrusting his body back in another direction. Now he was slamming
back against the post at the bottom of the bannister, a flinch of pain
running up his 6ft body, but drowned out as, finally, the rough cold lips
landed on his and he was allowed that kiss.

He held his breath and parted his lips willingly for the brutish snog,
tongue invading his mouth, his back muscles pressed hard into the wood
and his arms immobilised by the tight grip on his biceps as Terry pressed
forward into him. A rush of panic rose in his chest at the risk of this,
and as he was gradually released, he stared back up the stairs in terror,
then squeezed a hand around John's, nodding away -- down the corridor to
some of the reception rooms or the door beneath the stairs that led down
to his basement games-room. The one where he'd `lost' to Redknapp not
so long ago.

But JT seemed to have other ideas, tugging on his wrists, and curling his
lips in a snarl; he was jerking his head in nods to the stairs, courting
risk and disaster, and pulling Frank with him. To resist or struggle or
insist on a safer route would have been to make too much noise, to push
them closer to ruin, so all he could do was follow, scrambling up the
first few steps and then being pushed into the lad, John's taller
powerful presence right behind him as he mounted them to the landing,
conscious of every wooden creak beneath his socked feet.

Ahead of him was the bathroom door, from behind which came Adele songs
and his wife's terrible singing voice; metres away, she was naked and
soapy and relaxed, but maybe she could still hear him taking steps out
here on the landing, floorboards betraying him... but John's hands were
on him, strong and authoritative, rubbing one of his shoulders through
the shirt and reaching around to rip open the final two buttons over his
navel. Quickly, the loosened garment was dragged off his back so he was
topless, spun around then by the imperious paws. He wanted to gasp out
the other man's name but how could he, a couple of yards from that
doorway?!

Terry leaned in as if for a second kiss, and Lampard's cock went
rock-hard beneath his boxers and suit trousers, but no kiss; one of the
big hands clasped chokingly at his neck to hold their faces apart while
the other dragged his wrist down and pressed his fingers into the stiff
front of the other man's dark trackies, then shoving forward, almost
carrying him off his feet and across the landing and in through the
doorway of the master bedroom.



Timo was moving closer by the minute. At one point, they had been on
different bits of furniture, laughing at the Borat sequel streaming on
the telly, working their way through the dregs of the wine bottle then
moving on to some beer Ben had sourced from the back of a bare cupboard.
Somehow they were now on the same sofa and the German lad was right
beside him, pulling close and letting his denim-hugged calf rub over
Ben's shin, and his arm brush close to his shoulders on the supportive
cushions behind him.

Chilwell looked away from the screen, forgetting the comedy, looking
instead at his Chelsea teammate, his sharp features and sparkling eyes,
the light playful curl of his smile as he moved his head a little to meet
this intimate glance. They sat there looking at each other for a few more
moments, Ben becoming away of the subconscious way he was sat, his chunky
legs parted to highlight the bulge between them, his chest pulled up
firmly and puffed out; he was liking the attention, more-so with each
fresh drink he supped. He glanced back at the screen, once then twice,
but found that Timo's steely attention didn't leave his face.

`Such a handsome man,' mused the German.

`Heh,' muttered Ben evasively.

`More like a little movie star than a normal English footballer,'
Werner pointed out cheekily.

`Er, I dunno about my acting skills, huh,  but...'

`Take a compliment, Englishman.'

`Hah, yeh, funny... er...'

The arm behind Ben's shoulders closed in against the warmth of his neck,
and Werner's other hand crept over and rested on the folds of his top,
over the taut pull of his dormant six-pack. The other guy was really
close now, curled up against him at this end of the sofa; how had he
managed that? Because you let him, a scolding voice at the back of Ben's
mind told him. The hand on his abs was shifting down towards his waist
and beyond. Not that Timo hadn't felt and tasted what lay down there,
but there was still a tickle of novelty in watching this manly European
striker reach for it, tracing the famous bulge. His slow tenderness was
so surprising and uncharacteristic for this enigmatic newcomer, whose
sexual leanings remained something of a mystery to Ben. When he'd gone
down on his knees and sucked him last time, he'd left to fuck a woman
without wanting his own equipment touched by Ben or Christian. Hmm.

Timo's hand closed more firmly about his bulge. Horny instincts burned
alongside the heady effects of the wine and beer. He felt fingertips
brush his neck in just the right spot. Everything about the way Werner
approached suggested he was as precise and talented in his lovemaking as
he was in front of an opposition goal, and Ben could not deny the
tingling new anticipation of fun...

`No,' he said, and he heard his own voice as if it came from someone
else entirely. It was as if his conscious or his romantic heart spoke
through him whilst entirely bypassing his scrambled brains or, since it
was doing his thinking right now, his chubby cum-filled balls. `No,' he
repeated, pushing Timo's hand away and wriggling his neck from his
fingertips. He clambered up off the sofa, ignoring the semi in his pants,
`No!'

He took several quick steps away from the sofa, shaking himself, trying
to wriggle away the arousal and the warm sensations of this late-night
tenderness. He turned and glared accusingly at Werner. `Your
girlfriend,' he barked hypocritically, as if SHE was the issue here.
`We shouldn't do this. We're teammates. Stop it, mate.'

A polite little cough of disappointment. `I see.' Quickly, Werner
seemed to coolly recover, getting up from the sofa and adjusting his
black skinny jeans a little. `Never mind.' But there was a sourness in
his expression that revealed the hurt ego behind these calm little
utterances, and why not... he was such a handsome charmer, such an
impressive athlete. `No' was probably a novelty to him.

Ben scowled, far more angry at himself. `Can you go please,' he
mumbled. `Please. Now. I don't want this. I can't do it. It's... it's
complicated, mate, I just... sorry...' He rubbed a hand over his face,
unable to look at Timo's inquisitive expression and patient interest.
`Just go,' he insisted, grabbing his jumper and coat up from the arm of
the other chair and thrusting them at it. `Please, just GO!'



Terry threw him onto the bed, letting his strength free more now he was
in this room and not on the risky landing -- and yet the invasive
wrongness of it all was what made his cock so rigid in his pants as he
lunged onto the bedding and pinned down the middle-aged manager,
straddling his waist and grasping each of his clammy hands so he could
stretch their arms out across the pale silky covers.

`You dirty slut,' he growled into Frank's face, pressing the hardness
of his excitement down onto his old teammate's tummy, squashing him down
against the bed and holding his face two inches above his, feeling the
lips and nose brush close in search of another kiss. `You dirty fuckin'
slut, Fat Frank, you know you want this...' He spat again, like he had in
the park, letting his saliva drip across Frank's stubbled chin and open
mouth and sunken cheeks. Then he pulled in and ran his big firm tongue
over his face, licking his own spit across Frank's mouth, then letting
out a hissing laugh under his breath.

He let go and rolled aside, still in his warm jacket over his Aston Villa
tracksuit, and shoved one hand down the front of the bottoms and inside
his trunks, grasping his thick stiff prick, rubbing his hand over it and
the fat hairy balls beneath. Then he tugged the hand out and reached it
across at Frank, who was looming in desperately beside him, tugging at
his clothes, his bare chest reddening with excitement and his suit
trousers straining at the front where his hard-on showed.

`Oh fuck,' panted Lampard, as Terry thrust the hand into his face,
giving him an earthy sniff of how sweaty and salty his privates already
were. Like a dog with a scent, the Chelsea man was lunging over, seeking
it, and Terry denied him no longer; he reached back in and tugged out his
big rod of equipment, bringing its swollen head to meet Frank's
descending mouth. With his other hand, he grasped at the back of his head
and pushed it down on his crotch, filling his mouth and throat with his
dick, pushing up too so that he really fucked that eager gob.

The rough 39-year-old sprawled back with dominant gasps, loving the feel
of this bloke's mouth on his prick, so much more exciting than any of
the sluttish young fellas he'd possessed and misused in the past --
maybe it was knowing what a hot rabid fucker Frank was himself, having
seen him sucked off or in full fucking action in so many shared hotel
rooms over the decades. Maybe it was the location, lying here on his
marriage bed and fucking him in the mouth with his wife in the next room,
soaping up her cunt and tits; part of him wanted to invite her in and
make it a three-way, and even the stupid prospect of it made him groan
more and push deeper into this gorgeous mouth.

But the Villa deputy wanted more than oral. The lust that had made him
quit his circular drive around the nocturnal city and rush here to
Frank's house, having ruined their park meet-up so rapidly, well, it was
a burning lust that couldn't be satisfied by just a MOUTH.

He clambered off the bed, dragging Frank with him. To start with, the
host dropped loudly to his knees on the boards, still trying to lap at
the long chunky shaft, scrabbling off the edge of the bed. But Terry
pushed at his face and hiar to get him away from his tool, stooping to
grab his gently hairy armpits and hoisting him up. He twisted him and
thrust him down on the bed face-forwards, landing a muted slap on his
broad bottom through the tight grey fabric of his suit. It was a good
arse, meatier than most, each cheek chunky with the muscles of a
legendary midfielder.

He didn't bother reaching around for the flies at the front, he just
gripped the waist and pulled back, stretching them and make the fabric
buckle and tear at the hips. Down he tugged them, the checked boxers
beneath coming with them, baring the meaty pale curve of each arse cheek
in front of the masterful centre-back, whose dick wavered at waist-height
and dripped Frank's greedy saliva. Terry spat on the base of Lampard's
back, twice, and then pushed his fingers against the slick of it, rubbing
them down into the well of his arse-crack. The Chelsea manager squealed
quietly, the effort of controlling his noise so obvious, as John ran two
fingers down into his crack, spitting into the gap again and massaging
his saliva into that furry crack repeatedly and forcefully.

`Oh fuck fuck fuck fuck,' muttered Frank, squatting forward on the bed,
pushing his face into his folded bare arms, his freckly back beading with
sweat.

`You dirty fucker,' Terry growled at him, `pissin' yourself on your
wife's bed with your arse gaping for me, you proper slut...'

`Yes,' wheezed Frank now, `yes mate, yes I am...'

In went a finger, roughly entering his hot tightness; a bit of John was
shocked at how genuinely virginal his mate was, for his needy advances
tonight and before, but mainly he was just utterly thrilled by it. He dug
his finger in deeply, feeling Frank's whole body tense and lengthen in
response, hearing even more ragged difficulty in his controlled squeals
and gasps. He wriggled his finger inside him, pushing it so deep,
laughing cruelly and slapping one of his bare cheeks as he did. He
couldn't help but grasp his own big cock and rub its leaking head over
that cheek, then slide it in the crack, shifting his fingers so he could
really tease the edge of his meat in that impossibly narrow gap, making
Lampard whimper in utter delight.

But there was a sound -- gentle creaks or shifting outside, maybe a door.
Terry backed off, cock in one and drool running down his chin. Lampard
scrabbled backwards, big white arse still in the air for a moment, then
straightening up, looking wildly around. JT grilled with the evil thrill
of it and backed off, into the open wardrobe doors, left wide where
Frank's wife had been raiding her clothes for the bathrobe. Terry
disappeared backwards into it, watching as Lampard dragged up his boxer
shorts while kicked his damaged trousers down his thick lightly haired
legs.

In she came, hair done up in a turban of towel, robe over her attractive
soapy-smelling body, crossing the floorboards to approach and cuddle the
jittery undressed figure of her husband. Smoothly and rapidly, John
advanced and then side-stepped past her back and out of the door -- it
was a ridiculous moment, his cock loose and throbbing, an utterly
destructive discovery so very likely. But Frank was jabbering loudly at
her and pulling her into a sweaty embrace, red hand-marks still visible
on his torso if she'd been looking for them. And in this moment of
distraction, Terry could slip silently onto the landing while pushing his
dick inside his trackies, leaving the couple to it. For now.



Jack watched him as he returned from the bathroom, his new close ally and
fairly consistent roommate. The big lad was still in the middle of
brushing his teeth, stripped down just to a thin black vest that hung
loosely from his lean torso and clean white boxer shorts that hugged over
his thighs and bulge. As he turned to the side to lean over and inspect
the phone sitting on his bedside table, those same white undies pulled
tightly around the prominent meat of his backside, the seemingly defining
feature of his sturdy 26-year-old teammate.

Grealish couldn't help himself; he got up from his own bed, putting down
the men's fitness magazine he was pawing quietly through, and hopped
onto his feet in the characteristically skimpy pyjama shorts and baggy
retro tshirt he was wearing, his hair fastened back by a simple
headband.

All night he'd been feeling randy. An itchy sorta arousal, a frustrating
need to seek simplistic physical comfort that would blink away his
internal conflict. It had been stoked by big manly Terry after dinner,
but simmering uncomfortably for the past couple of hours, and now it was
reaching boiling point. He felt a heated nausea about the strangely
physical awareness that Ben was on the other side of the city, but he
would rather allow himself to be gripped by base desire than actually
confront how emotional he was tonight, distracted on the eve of a big
Premiership game.

So he advanced towards the other side of the hotel room and the open door
of the bathroom, looking at Ross Barkley's sculptural masterpiece of a
rear, and the bared strength of his shoulder muscles beyond the black
vest straps. The burly attacking midfielder was watching himself
thoughtfully in the mirror as he gargled mouthwash and bent forward to
spit it out. Another great view of his thick sizeable cheeks as he dipped
like this then straightened back up and paused, noticing Jack's goateed
face in the mirror behind him.

Ross, dabbing at his mouth with a hand towel, turned and gave him a
patient smile. `Sorry, all yours,' the big scouser said, stepping out
to join him in the main room, misreading his impatient anxious expression
and tense body language.

`All mine?' Grealish chimed, and he reached for what he wanted,
planting his hand against the sizeable package in the front of those
crisp white undies, taking hold once again of his new teammate's
equipment, then flinching at how instantly his hand was pushed away and
Barkley backed off away from him, frowning deeply.

`Mate!' the northern lad protested angrily.

`What?' Jack snapped. `Aren't you horny?'

`Mate, what are you doing?' grumbled Ross, face reddening. `Don't
just... fuck's sake...'

Jack coloured too, embarrassed by any rejection, especially tonight. `I
just thought... you know, you might be up for... I mean... fuckin' hell
mate, erm...'

`Hey,' argued Barkley, backing further away from him and reaching down
to toy with and adjust his package, `it was you who backed out last
time, but... y'know... you were right. Mate. We play together, we
shouldn't... well. Play together. Okay?' He huffed loudly. `Fuck, you
just... mate, I'm sorry, I'm not...' Grumbling and growling as he turned
away and ambled to his bed, muttering more to himself before loudly
exclaiming, `We're just two straight lads with a match tomorrow, we
shouldn't be messing around and...'

`Fine!' Grealish railed at him, irritated, pushing past him towards his
own bed. `Be like that, you bore.' He reached for a hoody crumpled at
the foot of his bed and tugged some long sweatpants up over his legs and
shorts. `Jeez, just messin' around, Ross the Boss, no need to get so
touchy... never said you weren't fuckin' straight, matey, so don't be
protesting too much...' He blinked his dry eyes and felt the embarrassed
burn in his cheek as he dressed and forced his feet into some sliders,
making a quick move to ditch Barkley alone in the room and ignore their
curfew. He heard the start of a regretful sigh from the new Villa star
but didn't wait around for further explanation or apology, taking the
rugged hunk's disinterest as another slap in the face on a night of
self-loathing, and marching off into the quiet hotel corridors to sulk
alone wherever he could.



As quickly as he could, the Chelsea manager descended the stairs, his
life left to her rituals of expensive moisturiser and specialised
night-creams, enthroned at her dressing table while he could vanish
rapidly down into the house, a long silky dressing gown pulled on over
his checked boxers and white socks. His heart was beating out a festival
in his chest and his breathing was as ragged as it had been when he was
pushed forward on the bed and fingered for the first time.

He almost fell the last five steps, catching his balance and gripping the
bannister, seeing the spots where Terry had mastered him, dislodging
ornaments and frames and hanging coats. He stared at the front door
before opening it, staring out onto the steps, wondering if Terry had
escaped out this way and was gone. How the fuck had he managed to get out
of the bedroom without her noticing? She had been so lost in her
post-bath reverie that she didn't even observe Frank's erection in his
boxers, though she'd made some horny murmurings about what they might
get up to when they crawled into bed quite soon.

Shutting the front door again, he pulled the robe more carefully around
him, aware of the way his boxers tented around his prick and his arse
cheeks twitched with memory of being pulled and parted by the dominant
man. Teeth chattering nervously, Lampard made his way down the hall, past
the stairs, past the closed door to the basement, into the kitchen at the
very back of the house. He paused, noticing the bright glare through
those rear windows; the security lamps were on, their motion sensors
triggered. Frank moved across into the rear reception room with its big
wide French windows, dragging the blinds aside and undoing the bolt at
the side to open them a couple of feet, allowing him to slip out into the
back garden.

Terry HAD sneaked out the front door, he realised, but not stopped there;
he'd come around here to the back where he was now waiting for him,
stood squarely a few metres from the house like some optimistic burglar,
tall and broad and aggressive. And sexy as fuck.

`You're mad,' he told him breathlessly. `What if she'd...'

Terry ignored him and glanced up the back of the house. Lampard did the
same. The security lights over their heads timed out, darkening the
space, but there was still a warm glow from the big bay windows of the
master bedroom there where his wife was creaming her face. While down
here he was creaming his boxers. He calculated the angle and reassured
himself that the view from the bedroom wouldn't look down this sharply;
as long as they stayed close to the back of the house, they were screened
from any view of those windows up the back of the house.

Before he could take this any further, he was being grabbed, pushed,
manhandled. Forward into the hard double-glazed chill of the French
windows, the robe being dragged from him. He spread his arms to make this
easier, ignoring the night chill as his 6ft body was exposed in the dark
and John grabbed him from behind, biting him on the back of the shoulder.
He gasped, his breath forming a plume of mist and condensing against the
glass. This was insane. This was utter madness. They were screened from
the windows above, but what about the neighbours?

Terry was either uninterested in that danger or turned on by it. Here in
the shadows at the back of the house, he pushed down Frank's boxers once
more and grasped at his buttocks, nuzzling at his neck and shoulders and
swinging from aggressive -- more bits and nips -- to tender, kissing the
top of his pine and tickling fingers down his flanks and biceps. And
then, like upstairs, Lamps could feel the big thick head of his mate's
tool pushing between his cheeks. He could hear more heavy spitting from
the big rough defender, feel the warm fluid creep between his cheeks,
then fingered into his aching tender hole.

He pressed his face in against the glass, watching it cloud up with his
breath, his body jerking as he was frigged by two of Terry's thick
fingers. In, out, in, out, in out. Ohhh. He did his best to hold in the
screams of pained passion, holding himself against the hard glass and
letting John fuck him with his digits, stretching and loosening his
unused hole. Oh fuck.

Terry was impatient and commanding. He didn't stick to fingers for long.
He could feel the hugeness of his prick back there in minutes, and felt
Terry's strong arms fold about his waist and chest as he began to push
it in ,easing its girth in between his muscular buttocks. Out here in the
cold and danger, he was being fucked for the first time, held in wiry
strong arms and a voice growling in his ear, telling him what a dirty
slut he was and how much he need to be used and abused. He shivered and
yelped quietly, holding in the gasps and screams, knowing the slightest
noise could alert Christine above -- or even without that, she could
drift curiously downstairs at any moment and enter the lounge, switch on
the lights and be greeted by the sight of him, pressed up against the
glass with his dick dripping pre-cum, being mounted by the Premiership's
most feared bad boy in years.

It hurt so much. He had a new respect for the men he'd fucked, realising
how much it took to relax and allow the huge manliness enter him, stretch
him, fill him. He began to squeal and up came John's hand, covering his
mouth, accidentally closing off all his breath for a couple of moments
before adjusting to let his nostrils flare and pinch. In went Terry's
big dick, deep and invasive. Frank's body was almost lifted off the
ground, pressed hard against the glass, fucked good and proper. `You
dirty bitch,' John hissed into his ear, `you always were, always were a
little bitch, Frank, mmm...' The filthier and more horrible his words,
the more Lampard shuddered and relaxed and opened for him. It hurt, it
really fucking hurt, but it was a pleasure like no other for him; a depth
and sensitivity no sexual experience had ever allowed him before.

So much so that as soon as Terry's reaching hand (had big John ever
touched another man's dick before, or was he too selfish for that?)
reached down and grasped his hard-on, Frank spunked his load against the
double-glazing, dribbling his seed down it as testimony to this insane
pleasure. Still Terry fucked him, slapping his ragdoll body against the
windows until he was reaching his own filthy climax. He clamped his hand
tightly over Lampard's mouth and grunted out his final dirty messages.
`Feel that in ya, my bitch, my little girl, my princess... mmm.... Yeh....
Fuckkk... baby girl...' And then he was squeezing his body even more
tightly, humping him with one last deep thrust, emptying his seed inside
him like he was impregnating some young bride.

Frank collapsed weakly between his grip and the window, all his strength
gone, overcome with pleasure and pain, thinking about when he'd first
fucked a bloke, topping Mason Mount on his mahogany desk: perky little
Mason, who he'd thrown about as his plaything for a couple of months, no
appreciation for how much it must hurt the lad! Little Mason, he thought,
who'd played on that shared past to push his buttons today and convince
him to intervene with poor depressed Chilwell, who apparently was
heartbroken by some girlfriend back in the Midlands... well, he'd
honoured his bond to Mount and given it a go, but Ben had seemed
reluctant to engage, lost in his own world... just like Frank was now,
shivering weakly and slumping forward as his lover released him and
backed off, grunting and growling like a wild animal, then dashing off
with a rustle of fallen leaves, abandoning him naked and whimpering in
his own back garden.



After bouncing around the hotel on his own for a good half hour or more,
Grealish had resorted to the cold night outside, regretting the thin
layers of his chosen clothing as he patrolled the nearest streets of
Islington in a cloth mask and tugged low baseball cap. He'd regretted
the dramatic late-night stroll as soon as he was out there on the empty
pavements, England's capital silenced by lockdown except for purring
delivery scooters and the occasional overspill of bassy music from an
open window way above street level.

The sulking Premiership captain was soon returning to the hotel grounds,
realising he would just need to stomp back to his shared room and hope
that big kind-hearted Barkley was already asleep; he knew Ross well
enough already to hope that tonight's little spat would be forgotten in
the morning, his own petulance forgiven or forgotten in favour of their
increasingly effective footballing partnership. But he couldn't face the
awkwardness of going back into that room when he'd been such a little
twat to him, so he figured he might just hide in reception for a bit
before slinking upstairs and checking in on the room...

He was just crossing the forecourt, looking up at the dimly glowing
windows of the floors above and trying to figure out which belonged to he
and Barkley's room, when he heard the deep ragged breaths of another man
in the darkness here. He tensed up cautiously, realising he might have
been stupid to wander these North London blocks in his designer gear. He
almost jumped out of his clothes when the other guy in the hotel grounds
was suddenly next to him, right up in his face, breathing heavily and
reaching for his arm -- but then he saw the guy's face, lean and tanned
and stubbled, hair combed neatly back and eyes wide with desperate
interest.

`Jack,' hissed Ben Chilwell, seizing his elbow, `where the fuck have
you been?'

Grealish blinked dopily at him, still lost in his moment's terror of
being mugged, struggling to adjust to the new reality that Chilwell had
teleported across the city and into his presence as if summoned by his
anguished thoughts on his lonely walk. He remembered himself and pulled
back with his elbow, away from Ben's cold fingers. `What?' he snapped.
`A walk, man. What's it to YOU? What are you doin' here anyway?' The
angry words tumbled out, dripping in spite.

`I've been ringing for like fifteen minutes,' hissed Chilly.
`Where's your phone?'

`In my room!' Grealish said back, pulling up his height and trying to
look less frightened and vulnerable than he had felt a moment ago. `God,
what's with the questions? Why are you HERE, Ben, mate...?' He glared at
him, and the glare took some effort; he was welling up with relief and
excitement to see him for the first time in this many weeks, really
bewildered and overwhelmed that his sulky silent return to the hotel had
been intercepted thus.

`I needed to see you,' the Chelsea and England heartthrob insisted,
reaching for his arm again. `I needed to talk to you. Jack. Please.'

`It's late,' Grealish mumbled desperately at him, feeling annoyed even
as he said it that his anger and distress wouldn't let him just shut up
and listen. `You shouldn't be here, man. Quarantine rules. If you were
caught, then...'

`Jack, just STOP,' he was told forcefully by the slightly younger
footballer, who grabbed him for a moment by both arms and shook him.
`Listen to me! Please! Shut up that stupid mouth for five minutes and
just LISTEN, okay?' There was something really fierce and determined in
the other player's expression, and a force in his grip that stilled and
stunned Grealish. His overwhelming gladness and comfort at seeing the
handsome fucker was fighting to get past his slow-burning heartbreak.

`What?' he cried. `What the hell is it? How can you just be here
after...'

`Forget it,' Ben insisted, `forget it all, we were both fucking
stupid, weren't we? It doesn't matter. It doesn't have to matter,
Jack. Please.' He was pleading but he sounded so sure and authoritative
rather than desperate or emotional. Grealish stared and gawped at him,
surprised even more as the other guy began to descend, still clinging to
his arms but sliding his hands down from his elbows to the cuffs of his
hoody then locking fingers with his. Ben Chilwell was down on his knees
in front of him on the quiet dark flagstones of the forecourt. Jack
stared at him, uncomprehending.

Ben let go of his hands and Jack felt a rush of neediness at that, wanted
to reach out or stoop down to grab them back, couldn't stop himself. He
heard his voice out loud saying more stupid angry things, demanding to
know why Ben was here and what he wanted, but his body and soul were
craving touch, embrace. But then Chilly was fumbling in a pocket and
pulling a hand back up towards him, holding something towards him and
staring up with that open handsome face.

`Jack,' he gasped, almost soundlessly. His eyes were bright with what
looked like tears, and so the Brummie lad felt his own mist instantly
with the same intense emotion, staring at what Ben was lifting from one
palm and holding up in two fingers towards him. A small gold ring that
bulged at one side with a thicker etched stub. A little signet ring he'd
seen Ben wear on his pinkie finger time and time again. Jack stared at
it, the breath knocked from his athletic body.

`Jack Grealish,' choked his lover on his knees, `will you fuckin'
marry me, mate?'