Date: Wed, 6 Jan 2021 22:19:32 +0000
From: writer guy <premiershiplads@outlook.com>
Subject: Premiership Lads Part 222

Part 222: A Snog of Ice & Fire


The vivid green of the pitch was littered in the clumpy white softness of
fresh snowfall, and more flakes of it tickled coolly at his bare arms and
legs as he dashed up and down the area, engaging in a series of quick
passes with the other Arsenal players here at West Brom for the night.
Almost as soon as had gently chipped one ball to Rowe, another was being
tapped his way by Holding.

The 23-year-old defender chuckled idly at the loud complaints of the
Mancunian lad near to him, stopping the bright yellow ball beneath his
shoe and joining the enjoyment of the gathering as Rob loudly pointed out
the irony of a `warm-up' in such wintry conditions tonight.

`Not that you seem arsed,' Holding pointed out now, waving a gloved
hand at him, and provoking a ripple of hearty laughter from the other
footballers coming to the end of their pre-match drills and exercises.

In truth, it had not occurred much to Kieran Tierney that everyone else
was so layered up by comparison to him, but now he found himself grinning
dimly around at the thick jumpers, drooping snoods, gloved hands, and
flushed high cheekbones of the lads nearest to him, from Holding and Rowe
to Xhaka and Leno.

`No, our boy here feels no cold or snow!' roared Alexandre Lacazette
merrily, bouncing from foot to foot and clearly shuddering beneath his
layers as a fresh blast of snowy wind swept across the football pitch.

`He is from beyond the Wall,' pointed out Emile Smith-Rowe cheekily,
smirking at him over the thick dark snood that covered much of his face,
pulling his gloved fists inside his jumper sleeves.

`Swear he's got ice in his veins,' tittered Ainsley Maitland-Niles,
slapping him on the back.

Kieran laughed along, but with an uncertain twinge of self-doubt: was he
being laughed at or laughed with here? He stretched his limbs and
scratched the back of his neck, simply dressed in the jazzy red t-shirt
of training kit and flimsy dark shorts above his thick strong legs. Were
the lads impressed that he was so unbothered about the sub-zero
temperatures here tonight, or were they mocking him for being too dumb to
notice it...?

Never 100% sure if he was in-step with everyone else down here in
England, the Scot grinned sheepishly about him and lobbed the ball
randomly into the midst of some teammates before dropping his hands to
hips and trying to decide which teammate looked the most stupidly
over-dressed; it was barely -1 degrees if that, not exactly weird January
temperatures...? He frowned thoughtfully at that, pulling one arm at a
time over his chest and then rolling his shoulders, a slight casual
shiver running its way down his spine.

But the laughter around him was warm and inclusive and he dismissed his
youthful insecurities, bounding after the others towards the side of the
pitch to head back indoors for the team talk and last prep before an 8pm
kick-off. He was just nearing the line when he heard the heavily accented
bark of the gaffer and spun on his heel to find Mikel Arteta weaving
between the other players to approach him -- the others, beneath their
hats and hoods and still shivering, streamed past and off the snow-strewn
grass, leaving Kieran lingering in his bare limbs and pale blank face.

`Boss?' he grunted awkwardly, squaring up as the Spanish manager
rounded on him. His tone and face were as stormy as the winter night
above, layered up like the others and safely warm beneath a long thick
overcoat. Kieran found himself quickly alone with the older man as the
other players streamed away and the snowy touchline emptied of men.

`You fool,' snapped Arteta.

`Huh?'

The 38-year-old shook a hand angrily at him. `You want catch fever,
eh?'

Tierney balked at this odd, patronising question in Arteta's slightly
broken English. `Eh? I don't think that's how the pandemic works,
gaffer, er...'

Mikel clipped him lightly about the brow, standing up to him and frowning
darkly. `You idiot, you think it big and clever wearing nothing in this
SNOW? Stupid boy...' He looked ferociously unhappy and, after the almost
admiring banter of the lads, it took Kieran aback, just staring back at
him and swelling his chest defensively.

`Eh? It's just a bit of snow,' he barked back, ruffling at his
snow-damp hair and elbowing away an ushering tanned hand from the
manager, trying to steer him in towards the tunnel mouth. `Jesus,
mate,' he grumbled at the older bloke, glaring at him and swapping
polite awkwardness for the occasional flares of outright hostility that
had marked these last couple of months in their manager-player
relationship. `You don't touch me like that,' he said warningly, `or
I'll be straight on to my agent, Arteta.'

There was a stilted pause in the Spaniard's manner, digging both hands
into the deep front pockets of his managerial overcoat, furrowing his
brow. `Less of that talk,' he muttered irritably. `Inside, Tierney,
before you get ill.'

Kieran, unable to quite let this go, tutted and sneered at him, fixing
him with a contemptuous look -- there had been days when he'd regretted
his abusive messages to the manager following that heady drunken Scotland
weekend, times when he was ashamed of his cold shoulder and aloof
dismissal of the troubled head coach, and then there were moments like
THIS. Bursts of anger at the seedy old character and the vague, patchy
memory of the night he'd let him into his flat, bouncing off the walls
and munching cheesy chips, belching beery gas. And now, with Arteta
echoing his insecurities and sneering at his warm Scottish blood, was
such a moment; he felt like smacking the smug old prick in the face for
even questioning his need to pull on a load of unnecessary layers like
those other softies.

`I'm fine like this,' the 23-year-old said, aware of how petulant his
voice was.

`You're going blue,' Mikel snarled bluntly back. `Stop being cheeky
to your manager.'

Kieran's temperamental buttons were being pushed. `Thought you liked it
when I talked back,' he snapped. `Thought it gave you a hard-on or
summat,' he growled in his own Caledonian accent, rocking on his heels
and waving his bare arms as fresh flurries of snow blasted the pair of
them. He suppressed a shiver that might undermine his point and attitude.
`You should be careful, clipping me like that and talking down to me,'
he said under his breath, `the things I know about you, fucker...'

Sometimes when they spoke like this, Mikel could look quite shaken --
there had been almost a fortnight after that first text message when the
Arsenal boss could barely seem to look at him during training and a few
of the others like Granit had even commented on why Kieran was being so
ignored and neglected. But now, Kieran noticed, his manager looked fiery
with discontent, truly offended and aggravated -- rather than cowing his
own surly aggression, this stoked it more, and he just sneered icily at
him and folded his arms.

Arteta wagged a patronising finger close to his chest, leaning in as he
spoke. `We will be discussing disciplinary action if you speak to your
manager like that again, Tierney.'

`Fuck off, you old queen.' He grinned wickedly at his senior, seeing
the impotence in his jabbing finger and lined sneer, enjoying the way he
pissed on his authority, the little swell of ego and self-confidence it
bought him, even as he risked his central place in this big London club.
`You wouldn't fuckin' dare,' he challenged him in a contemptuous
mutter, unfolding his arms and backing off, beginning to feel the bite of
the cold after all, and wanting to be in the hot changing rooms getting
his proper kit on for the match like everyone else, not wasting his time
in this petty conflict with the old pervert.

The troubled young left-back gave the gaffer a last steely look before
running in, ready to get himself and others psyched up for a game that
needed to be a win, not just to lead an upturn in Arsenal's dubious
fortunes this year, but because their opponents were so woeful and
beneath them. Even a draw here tonight would feel like a loss. Kieran was
utterly sick of the club being regarded as a joke and a meme, especially
these odd season of surprises and numerous title challengers; he had his
eyes on the captain's armband and a big future here, especially once
that creepy cock-sucker Arteta was inevitably sacked and a real bloke was
brought in to lead things!

Gripped with aggression and ambition, the Scotsman dashed indoors and
ditched the shaken football coach, punching his fists against his chest
to warm himself up and hurrying into the noisy testosterone cloud of the
Away changing rooms, where his surly attitude was matched by all of the
other players, determined to make a big mark tonight.



Mikel Arteta was a man under great pressure, and yet here he was, arms
folded and lip bitten, stood on the line with the rest of his senior
coaching team, watching Arsenal versus West Bromwich Albion and having
his thoughts consumed with one problem in particular: not the Gunners'
place on the Premiership table or his own job security, but the need to
clamp down on troublemaking Kieran Tierney and show the lad some
discipline.

The first ten, then fifteen and then twenty minutes of the match wore on,
and still the Spanish former midfielder found his eyes repeatedly fixing
on the casually dashing figure of the former Celtic gentleman, this
rough-and-ready boy he had mistakenly dallied with when too drunk and
excited in summer -- never had Arteta regretted a move on a man or woman
more, not since the awkward night he had tried and failed to seduce his
former boss Pep Guardiola, his mentor and hero. But the consequences for
THAT unsuccessful tryst had been minimal, the great City manager more
than ready to pretend it had never happened...

THIS ill-judged, drunken fumble had returned to haunt him like a
particularly hideous poltergeist.

To begin with, he supposed, it had just been an awkwardness, but the cup
win celebrations that threw them together had been followed be a
liberated summer break, and as the new season dawned, Mikel had dared to
hope that his abuse of position could be put behind him. There had been a
month or two when things between himself and the star defensive player
had seemed fairly relaxed and ordinary, as if the drunken memory had been
fully buried by both men. And then there had been that flurry of frankly
abusive text messages, out of nowhere as far as he was concerned! And as
2020 limped to its chilly conclusions, the Scottish lad had become
increasingly off with him, ranging from cold and unfriendly to outright
rude and uncooperative. The problem was that after such a low patch in
performances, he was in no position to bench or suspend this cornerstone
of his current line-up, he was too tied to Tierney for any hope of a
clean sheet, just like tonight.

It was a difficult position Arteta now found himself in, the conflicted
Scottish lad seeming to hate and distrust him for what had gone on, but
with little chance of disentangling their professional lives. If he made
the slightest suggestion of loaning or selling KT in this month's
transfer window, he would be laughed at by his colleagues, superiors, the
other players... the North London fans even more-so. So he was stuck in
this grim discord with his own footballer, a self-inflicted mess because
he'd been drunk and needy and fixated. That sour boozy night in a London
apartment had hardly been worth it, he barely remembered anything but the
hangover that followed...

And then, in the 23rd minute of the game, Mikel's dilemma was painfully
summed up in one microcosm: he was stood gritting his teeth and working
out how best to take the boy down a peg or two, deal with his homophobic
abuse and uncooperative bullshit, speak to his people and freeze or cut
his pay until he became more pliable, or... and then the goal was going
in, a blast of right-foot action from the powerful young player on the
wings, putting Arsenal 1-0 up and earning a raging furnace of hugs,
whoops and attention from all of the red-clad players enveloping Tierney
out there in the snowstorm. Mikel's face dropped a little, and he only
just remembered himself enough to shake a fist and take the goal for what
it was, all the while staring at the ferocious figure of his problem
defender, grabbed and celebrated by ten other men in the whirl of
snowflakes caught in the glare of floodlights.

Tierney was becoming a nightmare for him, a twisting thorn in his own
side, a monster of his own seedy creation... and yet he was also this. A
saviour. The heart of the team, one of its best chances of a strong
comeback in the second half of the season. What the fuck was he supposed
to do...?

Young Saka's goal followed within minutes, Tierney's opener lifting the
team into a dominant first half. They were 2 up when the half-time break
came and, whilst Mikel was careful to greet and praise each damp chilly
figure as they left the pitch, muttering quick celebration of their
individual efforts in the close intimate fashion he'd learned from Pep,
he could not help but fixate on the icy Scottish physique of his
left-back. He stared hard at him as he approached, last of the file of
eleven, his red Arsenal kit glued to the contours of his upper body, and
shorts riding up on exposed thighs -- no sign of the warming under-shorts
or long-sleeved lycra that other men kept under their official gear to
insulate and protect in these winter conditions.

The two men came face to face in the very public exposure of the ending
half, players and staff still milling nearby and the hangdog hosts filing
past not far away, disappearing indoors for their own break and
team-talk. Arteta felt his dark eyes seek out Kieran's, looking at the
grim and pale set of his face, refusing to shiver or react to how soaked
through he was by the mild blizzard hanging over the stadium.

`You're as cold as ice,' the manager declared, laying an arm on his,
the commentary on his early goal vanishing from the fore of his mind, the
more formal dialogue he should be having right now. He let his hand
linger against the tight, slab-cold muscle of his upper arm, feeling the
wet fabric of the kit just below his shoulder. He stared intensely at
him, seeing the fierce warrior he had in his team, totally unfazed by the
British winter in a way that so many of these Premiership divas were
not.

Kieran screwed up his whitened face back at him. `What, you gonna tell
me off?' he yelped throatily back, a little hoarse from his vocal
contributions to the game.

`No,' Mikel responded crossly, though he couldn't say if he was cross
at the player or at himself. He leaned to the side, grabbing at the arm
of a junior coach. `Towel,' he yelled demandingly at him, and was
provided with one almost instantly, which he threw dramatically around
the footballer and caught with his other hand, wrapping it tightly about
his firmer shoulders then closing his arm firmly there, rubbing the
fluffy dryness into his wet kit and worryingly cold body -- quite
publicly embracing and roughing at the surprised young man as he shoved
him along after the others. Mikel pulled the towel more tightly about
him, rubbing a flat hand over his back in heated motions, and pulling the
fabric over his arm too as he shouldered him along. The defender was
staring at him, silenced and awkward, and he just returned that dull
glare.

`What?' he demanded haughtily, and then gave him a little shove forward
after the others, sending the towel-wrapped figure on after the other
guys, whilst slowing his own step and dragging a damp hand over his mouth
and chin. That hadn't been too much, had it? It was just a gesture, just
a towel; lots of managers were tactile with their players, especially
back on the Iberian peninsula...!

After a little pause, Arteta hurried his step and followed the guys on
into the heat of the training room, conscious of the need to slip out of
this hot-headed mood and become the cool tactician once more. They needed
to capitalise on their 2-0 start, not let things slip away from them --
and he needed to think about just football, and not the almost
see-through quality of those white shorts on the broad thighs and bottom
of the Scottish lad traipsing away just ahead of him, calf muscles
gleaming with melted snow above the low roll of his sodden socks. Oh
fuck.



2-0 became 4-0, and patchy snowfall became thick blizzard. Tierney
watched it from the hotel window, curtains pulled slightly open, a
restless frown on his lean handsome features, and a restless post-match
energy pulsing through his strong virile body, even now supper and curfew
had passed and he was stuck up here in his room.

Behind him came the low rapid murmurs of his roommate's Spanish, the
loaned Real Madrid midfielder lounged on his back with earbuds in and
phone held high as he video called to family or girlfriend back on the
continent; not a lot of chat potential between the two of them tonight,
since Dani Ceballos seemed to lack English vocabulary, but recently this
had suited Kieran just fine, a quiet and reassuring presence to room with
on away trips. A lot less troubling than some men he had been placed with
here and on international duty, anyway.

The 23-year-old moved away from the window and the snowy view of outer
Birmingham, letting the curtains fall back closed, and padding quietly
across the room. Again, his clothing choices reflected his permanently
high body temperature, very limited black Scotland shorts tucked high
over his thighs and baggy old tshirt hanging over his shoulders, unlike
the comfortable jogger tracksuit the handsome Spanish lad was curled up
in as he chatted quietly on his video call.

It had been a great game, and part of the reason he couldn't just climb
into bed and lull himself to sleep like he ought to was that ongoing
excitement. He knew it was a little selfish but he was particularly
enervated by his own early goal, always a rare treat for a defensive
player like himself, but he was also buzzing for the tantalising
turnaround in Arsenal's chances for the season. And there under the
positive surface was the uneasiness that gnawed quietly at him, and had
done for a good few months, making it harder and harder for him to just
unwind and let go. The Scot had enough self-awareness to note his own
lashing out as a result, but not enough self-control to stop himself or
do anything at all about it.

He rummaged pointless through his bag by the bed, getting out a tablet,
staring at an app menu, then pushing it idly back in. He scratched at a
spot on his neck in a mirror and then inspected a tiny missed patch
whilst shaving his upper lip. He went to brush his teeth and remembered
he'd already done it. He accidentally knocked over a bin, making a loud
clattering, then winced and gestured apologetically at Dani for
interrupting his treasured home contact. Lastly, Kieran wandered across
to the long bureau against the wall and picked up an out-of-bounds room
service menu to peruse pointlessly, his clumsy hands almost making more
unnecessary noise by knocking over the little tea station of mugs and
accompaniments, then recovering them just in time. Restless.

It was the back page of the little leather-bound catalogue that caught
his eye, boasting the Birmingham hotel's spa facilities, somehow
appealing to the restless throb of his limbs and muscles, and made him
pause with his thumbs rubbing idly over the laminated page. He glanced
back at the other young player, who was chuckling away and staring more
devotedly into the screen -- definitely girlfriend now, not family. Well,
he thought, it's probably a nice gesture to give him some time alone
with the lass, right?

Aye. Aye. He looked back at the menu and brought it closed between his
hands with a light slap of plastic, and resolved on the minor decision.
He certainly needed out of here, couldn't be contained by the boxy
eighth-floor suite listening to a language he didn't know. He put the
booklet down, slid his bare feet into a pair of aged, scrappy flipflops,
and then picked up a room key. `Don't mind me,' he mouthed needlessly
at Dani from the door, aware that Ceballos was unlikely to be very
interested in his whereabouts, and headed out into the silent corridor to
explore the lower regions of the almost deserted hotel they occupied
tonight, needing something to switch his brain off and bring on the
night.



In a room not far from the gentle unheard flip flop flip flop of
Kieran's journey, his head coach was tilting his head back and opening
his mouth a little wider, cupping his bottom lip and wrinkling his nose
in anticipation. Above him came the deep satisfied growl of his striker
and then the salty load hit his mouth and face in messy streaks. Arteta
leant in instinctively, pushing his tongue in against the bulbous red tip
just as a second little burst of French cream slung his way, catching it
in his tongue and savouring the strong hit of his flavour.

And then he hunkered back, his body sagging a little now that the frantic
game of pleasing the panting French beast was over, and Lacazette was
just gasping and chuckling breathily above him without any particular
regard for the dirty mess he'd made of the Arsenal manager's face.

Mikel looked up at him: the way the waist of his pyjama bottoms caught
the heavy curve of his ball-sack and now wilting brown hard-on, the flash
of hard abs where his jumper had rolled up, the sweaty sheen of his
handsome bearded face and that big white-toothed grin. Everything about
the black Lyonnaise striker was exciting and arousing to the Spaniard,
but then there was also something disappointing about THIS moment: the
roll of his hips as he backed off and pulled his jumper further up to
wipe his face, buckling with relaxed laughter and letting his heavy
satisfied prick swing loose a little longer so that Mikel's eyes danced
after it.

He remained on his knees a minute more, a little out of breath and dazed,
and then turning sideways towards the foot of his expansive bed. He
leaned in and pulled the sheets up to wipe at his face, finding more goo
on his stubbled cheeks and chiselled jaw than had got into his briefly
greedy mouth. Already, the excitement was fading, taking with it the
stiff uncomfortable erection in the front of his corduroy bottoms, and
leaving behind the dull shame of having just fellated Alexandre.

Lacazette thanked him almost dismissively in French, somewhere behind him
sorting himself out, and Arteta dragged himself up against the bed and
licking thoughtfully at his salty thin lips. When he turned around,
Alexandre was drying his cock against a stray garment -- Arteta
recognised a shirt of his own draped in the confident forward's hand --
and then pushing his privates away, leering this way and flashing him a
little wink. `I scored twice,' he pointed out, now in English. `So set
an early alarm before breakfast, eh coach...?' He gave a long wheezing
chuckle, narrowing his eyes and giving one of those recklessly sexy
smiles that came so naturally to him.

When he was gone, the door clicking to behind him, the football coach
passed quietly through into the bathroom and washed his face without
switching on the light, the temporary thrill of having Alex in his room
and reaching inside his bottoms for his ample privates all but gone, and
just the awkward self-doubt of his ongoing dilemma returning to him.

Getting on his knees for the goal-scoring stud had been as much about
occupation and distraction as it had about eating his silky cum and
hearing his mounting moans. But it could only work for so long, while the
bloody was rushing and the thick tool was in his sluttish mouth. The
extra-marital kinks he had begun to explore in the years since hanging up
his football boots were only ever passing thrills, just like that,
temporary extra fun that could remove him from the pressure of his new
career in football management.

And now the compact 38-year-old stood alone, hands resting on the hips of
his loose-fit trousers, squinting critically about the quiet confines of
this solitary manager's suit, no comforting masculine partner like was
the norm for the players themselves. It was a nice hotel, at least, one
of the finer venues on the Premiership circuit when Arsenal travelled
beyond London. The rooms were larger than some and quite tastefully
furnished, and...

In a state of fidgeting distraction, he moved across to the large desk by
the windows, and stared at the leather-bound booklet that had fallen open
there, proudly advertising one of the finest spa hotels on this side of
the Midlands... he peered unhappily at the listed facilities and let out a
wistful sigh, asking himself `Why not...?'



The late hour lack of massages had been obvious enough, but still
disappointing to Tierney as he flip-flopped through the quiet bottom
floor of the hotel, ending up here in the slatted wooden furnace of a
sauna. He was never sure how long you were meant to stay in these things,
nervous about his hot-blooded metabolism in such intensity, but he knew a
lot of other sportsmen who swore by them. It had only taken a couple of
minutes for his bare body to feel blistered with hot sweat, and the soft
pink towel about his waist where he sat drenched against his thighs and
buttocks.

When the door opened a crack, it was a little relief, some weird marker
that he had probably spent long enough in here and should maybe make
space for another hotel guest; it was also a little thin blast of cooler
air creeping into the oppressive woody dark of the sauna, tickling his
glossy chest and shoulders. But then in the increased lighting it
approved, he recognised the towelled man entering and joining him in this
narrow cuboid of bare wood and sweltering temperatures.

After the initial glaring shock, he could see that Arteta was as alarmed
and tense at the crossover as he was: the 5ft9 football manager stood in
a matching hotel towel, one hand resting primly above the hip knot, his
bare torso patched with wiry dark hair. His furrowed face spoke of the
same irritation and disbelief as now pulsing through Kieran, his legs
stiffening on the bench and his bare back pressing into the thick slats
of hot wood.

`Kieran,' breathed the head coach quietly.

`Sir,' responded Tierney, the shock bringing out the respectful
humility that had been drilled into him in his Celtic days and Scotland
youth ranks. Then, remembering his grudge, shifting thigh to thigh and
frowning unwelcomingly -- `You ever gonna stop followin' me, fuck's
sake...?'

At that, Arteta's face was briefly severe, as it had been just before
the game, making a fuss over his flimsy training gear, and then softer,
more harassed; the way he looked after the repetitive losses and draws
that had blighted those first months of the season. At last he took a
proper step forward and let the door shut behind him. Almost instantly
the temperature seemed to soar back to its sauna status quo, the little
cooling draught removed from Kieran's bare skin.

`I am not following anyone,' snapped Mikel, and with an almost defiant
motion, he crossed in front of Kieran's knees and seated himself two
feet away on the same stiff warm bench, matching Kieran's awkward formal
posture, two naked sportsmen in comically pink towels. `I just need to...
steam. Sweat. Whatever you English say. It's been a long night.'

Kieran made a vague grunt of agreement, knowing he should make a stand by
clambering off the bench, keeping the towel tightly over his big bottom,
and letting himself out of this overbearing heat and into the cool quiet
passages of the spa area beyond. But instead, he hesitated, feeling the
rivulets of sweat on his arms and neck. `Well, I hope you've stopped
banging on about disciplinaries,' he put out harshly instead. `After
that goal of mine and everything.'

Mikel's voice back was weary with defeat. `Forget what I said.'

`Aye,' Kieran agreed gruffly but hesitantly, `I bloody will.'

After as lengthy pause: `You cannot keep behaving this way, my friend.
You cannot send me those messages. It is... I will...' A long, huffing
breath, one that admitted he would be going nowhere near any authority or
police charges about the horrible homophobic abuse Kieran regularly
texted him after too many stupid beers. He cringed at himself, unable to
look across at his appointed enemy.

`You should never have interfered with me,' he spat back very quietly,
hiding behind victimhood.

There was something disappointing but disarming about the weary tone of
regret as Arteta now apologised. `You are right,' he said heavily. `I
was rash, stupid. I think you were far more drunk than I. I should never
have taken advantage, I was an idiot. I am so deeply sorry, Kieran, and I
think about it almost every night-`

He spoke because he just had to cut off the sincerity and heaviness of
this, taken aback. `Alright,' he growled, `alright, forget it, let's
not-`

`I am your manager,' Mikel declared, and now Kieran did look curiously
at him, at his fiery expression beneath those thick dark brows. `I am
the boss and you are my player, I should never have done that, never have
let you... It was madness, summer madness.' His nostrils flared and his
lips pursed.

`You just wanted me,' Kieran said to him, his voice provoking and firm,
but his own thoughts muddled and reflective. It was as much a question as
an accusation. He realised he had not taken a breath in too long and
sucked in the smothering hot air, seeing a look on Mikel's face as if he
had slapped him rather than laid out the truth. `You were an idiot
because you wanted me?' He glared demandingly at him, letting the
questioning inflective push for the truth. `Tell me,' he snapped.
`Tell me why it happened.' He knew he was being hard, knew it was
unreasonable -- after all, it hadn't been Arteta who drew him into this
confusion, had it? What about Laca and Xhaka, snoozing somewhere
upstairs, his surprising roommates who had first bewildered and bothered
him with wandering hands...?

What had happened with Mikel was different, he countered angrily in the
warzone of his head, thinking of the way he'd woken up in that hellish
headache, knowing how far he had gone.

`What do you want me to say?' grunted the football manager, safely
apart from him on the bench but the whole sauna feeling tiny and
claustrophobic as if it was shrinking in the heat. `What do you want me
to admit, boy? That I wanted you? Yes I wanted you. I was an idiot, I
have told you. I am SORRY. I cannot keep saying sorry. We have to forget
it.'

`But you can't,' Kieran said needlingly. Why was he being so pushy and
cruel?

`Kieran,' returned his gaffer warningly.

`I see you looking at me,' the Scotsman almost shouted at him,
spreading his thick legs a little and planting his palms against the
wooden slats, almost boasting his bare slippery body and the trails of
hot sweat shining on his porcelain skin. `All the time. You can't help
it, you fuckin' lech. Makes me sick.' Even as he said this, he knew the
riled snarl on his face said otherwise, the intensity in his narrowed
eyes. `It wasn't just summer madness, chief, was it? WAS IT?'

Mikel gawped at him, beginning to gleam with the same level of sauna
heat. `I did not follow you in here, Tierney. I just needed to-`

`If you want it,' Kieran found himself snapping imperiously, `then
it's RIGHT HERE.' He shoved at the loose wrap of the towel, flopping it
open and exposing himself, mad with the heat of the shared room and mad
with the heat of his own suppressed lusts. It had been a quiet, sexless
Christmas.



Mikel acted almost immediately: reaching first for the clammy thick
muscle of the thigh and then for the exposed cock itself, the Loch Ness
monster curled between those chunky upper legs, nestled between the badly
trimmed nest of pubes. He held it and remembered the hot chunky feel of
it that summer night when he had been confident with too many drinks. He
was almost drooling already.

For the second time tonight, he went to his knees, the towel slipping
from his body as he did so, planting himself between Kieran's open legs
-- but not yet taking the big Scottish prick in his mouth, needing to
retain some power or advantage by holding off that inevitability.
Instead, he pressed his mouth in and kissed the mousy brown fur of
Kieran's thighs, tasting his salty sweat, pecking up and down each
muscle to the knees, and then up and forward to kiss his tummy too,
tonguing the thin treasure trail of hair below his navel. Kieran's
hands, slippery with sweat, grasped then at his head, pushing down
commandingly, and he relented happily, kissing downwards to the sizeable
treat, snogging his way down its chubby length before opening wide and
taking his second cock tonight in against his tongue. Kieran's felt
almost as long and thick as Alexandre's now before it even got hard, he
thought admiringly.

The football manager gobbled on it, desperately sucking it into life,
unable to stop roving his hands around Kieran's legs and onto his hips
and the sides of his buttocks, then up his flanks. And Kieran's hands
moved too, roughly with his head and shoulders, pushy and authoritative
in a way that made him shudder in the heat, crazed with this lust. He
thought for a second about how gorgeous Tierney had looked in his soaked
kit coming in from the snow, and now just as gorgeous dripping in hot
sweat in front of him, and he sucked desperately at him, expecting any
second for this pleasure to be broken and the Scottish brute to become
aggressive and reject him. There was no alcohol to blame here, though
both men were almost desiccated by the heat.

It was hard now, firmly upright and so veiny and thick. He held and
stroked it while plucking more kisses at the insides of those spread
thighs, aching with lust for it. His knees felt like they were burning
against the rough wooden floor and the hot trickle of sweat from his
spine in between his tanned buttocks made him tingle and crave MORE.

He was mad to push for it, when it was so enjoyable to kiss and lick at
the lollipop of Tierney's cock, but he couldn't stop himself -- he'd
already given one masterful blowjob in this hotel and he needed more from
it, needed to feel what he knew had happened under that influence. His
memories of it were so hazy and now he needed a replay.

So he stood and turned round, leaning both arms forward into the scratchy
panels of the wall and arcing his body slightly to present his pert
little arse to the young man. He knew this inviting posture could go
either way, half expected to be kicked and pushed aside, the door yanked
open and cool air rushing in -- but no, after the knife-edge pause, he
felt one of those clammy hands pat and squeeze at one of his hairy
buttocks, and then the creak of wood as Kieran rose up from the bench. He
could hear every ragged breath of the 23-year-old jock. `Fuck me,' he
whispered excitedly, `fuck me here, Tierney. I am your slut.'



Kieran wrapped his arms about the slim, hard-muscled waist of his gaffer,
and yanked him to the side and then spun them around; as he pushed him
roughly forward, Mikel lifted his knees and went skidding onto the
panelled bench they had occupied, its surface damp with their sweat. This
position was better. Now he could just hold him by the hips and his arse
was at exactly the right height. Kieran didn't want to dirty his fingers
by exploring that dark hairy crack, he just kept his hands on the man's
waist and pushed the tip of his cock in between firm muscular cheeks.
Both his big meat and the passage there were soaked with sweat, enough
lubricant for him to rub his cock-head in against that furry crevice and
feel its tight invitation.

The feel of a man's arse against it seemed to unleash the memory: his
own swaggering drunkenness and Cup-boosted ego, dragging the Spanish man
into his bedroom and throwing him down against the mattress... he thought
drunken amnesia had killed those images, but now they were flooding back,
the feel of that hairy tightness and his own hands fiercely holding onto
Mikel's wiry golden-tanned body, thrusting him roughly in against the
bench of wood. He forced his cock in and took rasping breaths, enjoying
the pained whines of the smaller man and just thrusting bluntly against
him until his cock piled inch by inch inside his arse.

It really was as if he was that drunk again, dehydrated and frenzied as
he pushed into him and felt the hole squeeze about his girth. He gripped
his waist and slammed at him, hearing the woody thud as Mike's head
battered a few times against the panels, provoking yowls of pleasured
madness from him. Kieran went like an animal unleashed, his whole body
feeling as slippery as an eel with all this sweat gushing over him, and
the sweat of Mikel's skin smearing against his palms, his fingers,
against his pelvis. Mikel was squealing something at him in Spanish, he
had no idea if it was `enough' or `more', he just ploughed madly on,
dizzy and desperate. He couldn't understand the words but he thought he
could understand the throaty noises that signalled the older man's
orgasm.

And then it became too much: he was burning up, he could feel his pulse
like a drum-n-bass track. His thrusts slowed and only then did he realise
how deeply his massive weapon was buried in the man's backside, and how
much his whole torso was heaving with the effort. He felt for a second
like he might pass out, cock still deep in Arteta, and he had to reach
past the man's body for the wooden slats to hold himself up. He blinked
and steadied himself and then felt his cock released from the muscular
grip of that tight arse. Before he could slip the wrong way, Mikel was
supporting him, holding his 5ft10 body in place, and then reaching for
the door. As soon as it was open, the cool reviving air blasted him, but
he still felt like he could faint and collapse.

`Out here,' came Arteta's soothing voice, `out here and we will make
you good...'

Weakened, Tierney let himself be led, cock swinging and greasy, from the
sauna and out into the riskily public passage, where any stranger might
turn a corner and find him naked and aroused. But it was as if his
manager had no sense of this risk or just didn't care. He supported him
carefully and led him around the corner and down some steps and then his
skin was touching icy cool water in a recovery pool, tingling at his
throbbing muscles.

He relaxed back, his elbows hooked (with the other man's help) over the
edges of the pool and his overheated body stretched out in the cold water
to revive and cool him. And no sooner was he up to his soft little
nipples in this refreshing cool, than Arteta was in at his side and
reaching for him, holding and jerking his cock. Even though he felt
bleary and dazed, his dick felt as sensitive as ever, and he just let his
head loll back over his shoulders, reclining in the recovery pool,
letting the underwater handjob happen. `Are you okay?' whispered Mikel,
splashing cold water on his upper chest and neck, then running a cool
damp hand over his burning brow. He whispered more concerned enquires
while at the same time jerking his dick furiously beneath the splashing
surface of the small pool.

Kieran just lay there in a daze of fire and ice, tilting his head gently
that way to blink wearily at the other man who was now tending to him,
allowing him to brush his mouth and kiss him once. In that moment, he was
reminded not of the memories of Arteta in summer, but his Scotland
captain in that European hotel room: he shuddered to think of it in the
cool water, the way he'd behaved with Andy Robertson, the silly things
he'd uttered in the night.

`OH FUCK,' he growled deeply, letting go of his cum in the pool water,
his bollocks tingling.

When they were done -- he had to lie there shaking for a good five or ten
minutes, eyes closed and just sucking in breaths of cool air -- his coach
helped him out of the water in shaky steps and led him into the nearby
showers. Kieran found himself just stood there, helped into place beneath
one of the broad monsoon showerheads, then drenched in lukewarm water.
His hands were shaky and confused but he could feel the soap being rubbed
against his shoulders then chest, and found it was Arteta's hands doing
the work. Slowly and tenderly, he was washed and rinsed by the hairy
older man beside him, and then the water was turned off. When he was too
dazed and overheated to pick up a towel, he just stood dumbly in the
corner of the changing room and let Mikel dab at his legs and arms and
slowly leave him cooling and dried.

And then, starting to really come to, he was sat down on the low central
bench of the spa changing room, the only sound a dripping tap somewhere a
few anterooms away. And Mikel was stood a couple of yards in front of
him, buttoning his shirt back up in a quietly civilised manner, watching
him with a careful expression. Keiran was still naked from head to toe,
his clothing piled neatly nearby where he had left it before his sauna
visit alone.

`Are you okay?' the Arsenal manager asked in a low voice.

`I'm fine,' he responded in a reedy little voice.

`You are sure?'

He nodded, too drained and parched to say much. He needed a glass of
water. He still felt like everything since he sat down in the sauna was a
headachey little blur, rather than a good half hour of intense sexual
satisfaction. He watched Mikel's slow nod as he did up his last button
and then dealt with the cuffs at his wrists.

`You are... magnificent,' Arteta told him simply. `Truly...
magnificent.' Kieran looked at him warily then down at his bare legs and
feet, cradling his chin in his hands, still needing to cool off more
before he could face pulling on a scrap of clothing. His manager
approached him and stroked one of his burning hot shoulders, the fairly
short man looming over him for once. `You should not worry,' the
Spaniard whispered now. `You think I am... in love with you, or...?' A
gentle chuckle. `I am married, Kieran, I have my wife, I have that...
This is... something else.'

Kieran tilted his head to glance up at him, not entirely sure he
understood. He was surprised by Mikel's coolness, his relaxed smile. `I
don't think that,' he muttered, although perhaps he had, as he stressed
and panicked about what they did together in the summer, triggered and
abusive towards a manager he had previously respected to the max.

`This is something separate,' Mikel whispered now. `Something just
between us. I want you, yes, who would not? But...' He laughed again, an
affectionate but dismissive noise, stroking at Kieran's shoulder and
neck then into his drying hair. `You are magnificent, yes, but I do not
love you... I just want to look after my star player. So whenever you need
that monster handled, you simply come to me, your boss. I will never let
it go to waste. Eh?' His last laugh was more sleazy and satisfied and
Kieran could see exactly what the arrangement was: he was a valuable
piece of prized meat, but nothing more important or obsessive to this
man, as he might have... feared.

`This does not have to be heavy,' Arteta promised him, patting his bare
shoulder quite gently, and then backing away, doing up the buckle of his
belt. `But god it felt good. Hah! I will sleep tonight.' The Spanish
man had a satisfied glint in his beetle-black eyes, and a swagger in his
step as he picked up Kieran's neat clothes and dropped them right by his
thigh for him, another helpful little gesture like the soaping and the
towels. And then he began to leave, smiling calmly and quite sternly this
way. `We are not idiots in love, this is not madness -- this is just
pleasure, and needs. Trust your coach, my friend. Trust me.' And off he
went.

Kieran stared after him for a moment or two, aware of how cool and
assured he should feel now, another taboo hurdled. Just as he'd once
feared, he'd fucked a man good and proper, and made him squeal, and it
had felt good. He'd been lavished with attention but not had to do
anything that made him prudishly uncomfortable in himself. He was the
manager's adored star after all, the most irresistible hunk in the
Arsenal bubble.

But there was something haunting in the quiet of the changing rooms as he
stood up slowly and pulled on his boxers and shorts and t-shirt, nodding
distractedly at Mikel's sentiments. Yes, he had a manager who desired
him, who would wank or suck him or offer up his hairy cheeks whenever
lockdown frustration drove Kieran to the edge -- perfect, right? It
didn't have to be heavy or weird or intense, it was just physical and
satisfying...

Because Arteta, rather than being some crazed stalker or desperate
pervert, was a happily married man and this was all `extra' to him, a
transgressive bonus! Kieran mulled this prospect, slipping his toes into
the thong of his flip-flops, then walking very slowly out through the
deathly silent spa areas. He paused to stare at the sauna door, daring
for a moment to enjoy the image of himself pounding his gaffer, then
walking on towards the elevators and the route back upstairs. Yes, he
quietly convinced himself, this was ideal. He was a hot-blooded man who
just needed sexual satisfaction, nothing more! He punched in the number
for his floor and whistled to himself on the way up with a strained
cheerfulness, convincing himself that he was not a lonely boy in need of
love.



*ALL I CAN DO IS APOLOGISE FOR THE GAME OF THRONES PUN... HOPE YOU
ENJOYED THAT. WHO NEEDS TO MAKE AN APPEARANCE IN THE NEXT FEW STORIES...?
ANY OTHER LOOSE ENDS THAT NEED TO RETURN, OR CLASSICS TO DEVELOP? OR ANY
TOTALLY NEW CHARACTERS YOU WANT TO APPEAR? ALWAYS OPEN TO IDEAS AND
REQUESTS.*