Date: Sat, 6 Mar 2021 14:55:09 +0000
From: writer guy <premiershiplads@outlook.com>
Subject: Premiership Lads Part 242

Part 242: National Hero


`Come on,' growled the older man with some obviously forced restraint,
`not now, babe...'

He ignored the voice and the circumstances for a moment longer, pulled in
tightly against the bigger bloke in between the dismantled goalposts and
other delicately leaning equipment, enjoying the uncomfortable and risky
setting as he dragged his hand up and down on the front of those taut
tracksuit pants -- the huge contents were so obvious against his palm and
fingers, as always, and they were only getting huger and more apparent as
he pushed and fondled against them, his hand slid down between them as
they hugged and nuzzled.

`No?' he purred back, trying his best to sound patiently persuasive,
his other arm curled about the captain's waist, enjoying his body heat
as it seeped through their Manchester United training kits in this tight
secretive clinch. He squeezed at the outline of Harry Maguire's big
masterful cock and tilted his head to meet the indecisive shifty eyes of
the 6ft4 beast.

`I need to give you your birthday treat, after all,' the 25-year-old
left-back pointed out quietly, sighing out the words whilst his thumb
artful rolled against the bulging head of the semi in the trackies. He
gently parted his lips in a little pout for the frowning giant of his
lover, whose strong arms were locked about his shoulders to hold him in
place -- both close and not close enough.

`I know,' Maguire murmured. `You think you weren't on my mind all of
yesterday?' There was a satisfying growl to his voice, so evidently
frustrated and hungry. `I didn't want birthday cake, I wanted your
arse. Every thrust inside her last night, I thought of YOU, Lukey.' He
still sounded self-conscious when his words became so intimate and
honest, and he couldn't quite hold the intense stare between them as he
admitted it. `Of course I want it,' he added lamely, his voice
disappearing into a long heavy sigh, while his hips and crotch pulled
away from Luke's insistent hand.

`Big birthday boy and I couldn't be there,' Luke whispered with a
mixture of genuine sadness and playful naughtiness, letting his fingers
follow the retreat and stroking relentlessly at the outline until one of
Harry's hands dipped down to interlock with his and pull it aside
assertively. `Sorry,' the younger defender chuckled to him, reaching up
for the kiss; Maguire seemed to hesitate over even that, though they were
perfectly hidden here in the training ground storage room, and in seconds
the two burly men were locking lips and snogging briefly but deeply.

`Tomorrow,' Harry muttered, leaning again on that excuse. Well, not an
excuse, a reasonable explanation -- Luke knew he was right, and how much
his lust was reciprocated, so he couldn't really resist the skipper's
uncharacteristic resistance and self-discipline. Tomorrow was another
Manchester derby, and they should both be keeping their mind's focused
entirely on Guardiola's seemingly unbeatable City side, especially after
goalless draws in their previous three games.

`Tomorrow,' Luke agreed, with that in mind. He rested his hands on the
firm muscles above Harry's hips instead, smiling placidly and letting
the moment linger, as much as he wanted to shove one paw down the front
of those trackies and grab properly at the big snake that had bounced and
bulged all the way through their morning of drills and fitness, making
his arsehole twitch with need. Instead, he just kissed his captain and
lover again, a quick peck this time, calculated to tease and make Maguire
shiver with regret at what he was turning down. Then Luke pulled away and
cleared his throat, relaxing his body language and scratching at the
short golden fur of his beard, smirking at the sight of the bigger
footballer trying to sensibly adjust the front of his pants and roll his
shoulders about to look like he wasn't raring to fuck.

Maguire was mumbling something about needing to stay focused, and how he
had to go and be interviewed for Sky TV in a matter of minutes, but Shaw
found himself not really listening; he'd accepted the firm no, but his
mind was still enjoying the fantasy of the fuck he'd been craving, his
heavy body smashed against the shelves while the big Yorkshireman let
loose on his backside. God, why was he so randy and filthy today?! He was
always on the verge of a hard-on when matchday pressure approached, but
today he was almost teenaged in his cravings for his boyfriend, and he
had to writhe a bit at the elastic of his own sports briefs until his fat
semi was a little less prominent in the front of his trackies.

As they left the chilly cupboard, Harry draped a large steering hand on
his broad shoulder, a comforting gesture that communicated more apology
for pleasures denied; these days Luke felt so entirely sure of the strong
bond between them, none of the old panic that Harry was just spurning him
to be a good hetero, or because he was busy dominating some other dumb
lad. They were both just trying to be good professionals for the club.
Somebody just needed to tell their cocks.

The hand left his shoulder carefully the moment they slid out into watery
daylight on the edge of the training pitch, Harry loping away and
shooting him one last apologetic look, those tickling moments of
vulnerability that undercut his alpha persona. Luke smiled gladly back,
but his semi jolted resentfully in his briefs, not quite in line with his
romantic sensibilities today.



He supposed it was partly the memory of his own 25th birthday that bugged
him today: Harry Maguire had gone all out to spoil and reward him with
that illicit cottage and the other lads he'd invited up for the day. The
blurry cake-smeared scenes of last summer had floated back to him
yesterday while he pined for the 28-year-old and wished he could be there
to celebrate with him, instead of the two men divided by their family
responsibilities and social distancing. And still today, as they worked
hard with their teammates to prepare for tomorrow's derby, he kept
picturing the birthday orgy, not sparing much thought for the adorable
studs who had been involved -- Dier, Grealish, Chilwell, Maddison -- but
just picturing big Harry himself, the host with the most.

But as always, he needed to suppress it and be sensible.

Luke was having a strong run of form and greatly enjoying the praise and
attention it had earned him, a real turnaround after a few difficult
years where his place at United always seemed to be questioned. He knew
that his current balance and happiness was in part due to Harry's strong
support and secret love, but he also knew his burning passion for him was
the one thing most likely to derail his comeback; he thought back to the
early days of his affair with the big hunk and knew that it had almost
ruined his fresh chance here, almost allowed him to hit rock bottom and
waste his potential.

The grounds were still a little busy with activity, though they were all
pretty much free to go now, the afternoon off to recover and save their
energy for tomorrow. How many wins had Man City now enjoyed in a row
across all competitions...? It was something obscene, enough to make most
of Luke's colleagues jumpy this week.

Heh, except for this one, he thought, continuing his stroll down the side
of the pitch towards the main building, where he would perhaps skip a
shower and drive straight home to a cosy afternoon with his family. Near
to him, only one of the first team was left out here where they had all
been practising before he sneaked into the cupboards with the captain;
grunting quietly to himself, the Manchester forward was engaging in
aimless keep-ups and balance tricks on his own, almost oblivious to the
fact everyone else had moved off in different directions.

Luke diverted his path to move a little closer, adjusting the folded brim
of his club-branded beanie and joining Marcus Rashford in this corner of
the field. He stepped into his field of vision and gestured his
readiness, the ball chipped neatly to him to catch on his broad chest and
then take control of. The two young men engaged in a quick volley of
passes before either spoke a word, Rashford seeming to be relaxed in his
thoughts -- he had a way of always just seeming like a local lad having a
kickabout in the park, even when he was preparing for a top-flight
challenge where the odds were fully against them.

`You staying out here all day, then?' Shaw joked, stopped the ball
beneath one boot and resting his hands against his hips. He smiled warmly
at the other player, who paused in his readiness to receive a fresh pass,
and seemed to burst into pants as his energetic work caught up with him.

`Huh? Oh, nah, just messin' about, y'know.'

`Well, you do whatever you want, just checking you realised everyone
else had moved on...!'

`Hah. Sorry, yeah, I was a bit lost in the moment there, I guess.'

`I don't mind staying out if you wanna keep working on your passes,
though,' Luke found himself offering, though his body was sore and he
was actually craving the comfortable hug of his car seat as he drove back
through the edges of Cheshire. `Gaffer definitely said we should be
getting our rest, mind. All good, Rashers?'

`Hmm? Yeh. Fine.'

With his typically serious frowning expression, the lithe young forward
seemed to sag a little, pulling against the Nike snood about his neck,
and beginning to take slow steps off the pitch onto the path. Luke
knocked the ball up into his hands and held it below one arm as he fell
into step with Marcus, unsure how to read his quiet distance -- he had
seemed comfortable and unfazed today and in all of the week's training,
not one to worry about a tough opponent, even with the derby that bit
more meaningful to the local Wythenshawe lad. His `Hmm yeh' response
there had seemed a little slow and distracted, and Luke found himself
urged to cheer and distract the 23-year-old.

Luke liked Marcus a lot -- who didn't? There were few Premiership
footballers more universally admired and respected, especially with
Rashford now making a name for himself off the pitch chasing social
justice. They had bonded well when Rashford, just a teen, had begun
arriving in the senior squad soon after Luke's own move to Old Trafford
-- though that closeness had dimmed as the Mancunian striker went from
strength to strength and Luke struggled through a series of bad injuries.
But like everyone else at the club, Luke held a great deal of respect for
the strong-willed young player, and now found himself joking
self-deprecatingly about a couple of his own slip-ups in the morning
sessions, teasing at the antics of other lads, and failing to get more
than a distant chuckle out of the serious-faced youngster all the way
across the fields.

`You're not getting stressed about tomorrow, are you?' Shaw asked
finally, patting Rashford on the upper back and giving him a reassuring
smile, the product of his own complacent happiness. `Not like you to
sweat it. Unbeatable City, eh? We'll see about that when you're in the
box...'

`What? Oh, no. We'll show them.'

`Yeah, sure we will.'

`I'm good,' Marcus insisted in a flat voice, staring away into the
distance and scratching at the front of his training shirt where it clung
to his hard torso muscles.

Luke, only mildly concerned, took a lazy stab of a guess. `I suppose
it's weird for you not having Lings about the place,' he said, the two
Premiership lads making their way indoors and passing alongside the
faintly busy gym suites where some of the others were working on their
personal fitness to a pulsing soundtrack on the speakers system. There
was no immediate response to this idle remark and Luke stared concernedly
at his younger friend. `You missing your bestie, then?' he asked,
careful not to sound dismissive or mocking; he knew how hard it could be
to adjust to squad changes like that, having experienced similar losses
in his early United years, not least with Memphis Depay.

Rashford gave him an odd, alarmed look. `What? No, not- I mean, yeah,
sure. I think everyone is, right? Jesse was always the life and soul of
the party, even if the party was a 7am warm-up.' He frowned again then
seemed to correct himself and laugh a bit. `Just glad he's enjoying
himself at West Ham though, obviously. Great to see the lad playing well
and getting to shine, you know? Compared to how he was here lately.'

The 25-year-old nodded fiercely, seeing something of himself in
Lingard's difficult phase and recent accomplishments at his loan team.
Obviously he and the 28-year-old midfielder had a little difficult
history of their own, but he was still chuffed to see the clips of
Lingard scoring and assisting at the London club this past couple of
months. Still, he found himself a little curious about the odd expression
to Marcus' face as they passed by the fitness areas and through into the
social lounge beyond, which still shook with bassy music from behind
them, and was occupied by only a few winding down reserve players.

`Still,' Luke pointed out quietly, `I guess you'd normally be hanging
out with Lings on an afternoon like this, to help stop you getting
stressed...'

The other player seemed almost offended at this innocent comment, alarm
flashing in his eyes and tight lips, then brushed aside. `I guess,' he
said with an odd uncertainty, since he and Jesse had been almost
inseparable for as long as Luke could remember. Marcus sighed heavily and
seemed on the verge of speaking more, but just tugging away at his snood
and gloves, stripping a layer now they were in the warm indoors.

Luke was not about to push it -- he was mildly concerned for the quiet
Mancunian, but he was also thinking about his plans for the afternoon.
Since he couldn't be fucked senseless by his lover, he would just be
wholesome and comfortable at home, and make the most of the downtime.
There would be another secretive occasion where Maguire's 28th birthday
could be properly `celebrated', he was sure, and he would do everything
in his physical power to satisfy that big sexy bru-

`It's just shit,' Marcus blurted, breaking his chain of thoughts,
paused beside him with his arms folded and his eyes fixed quite blindly
on a game of pool being contested by two younger lads at the far end of
the room. Luke was about to ask what was so `shit' when the answer
tumbled out in a confiding whisper. `To part on bad terms with him,
y'know?' mumbled the 23-year-old. `All those years as best buddies,
and then...'

Shaw could only frown uncertainly at Rashford. `Well, I didn't realise
you'd... What? You argued or something?' He wasn't often so oblivious
to team gossip, so he peered curiously at the other player, matching his
body language and folding his arms over his broad pectorals.

Now, having blurted out some truth, Rashford looked regretful and
embarrassed, his face and body clamping up. Clutching to his discarded
layers, he moved away, on towards the changing rooms, and Shaw made to
follow. `Ignore me, just talking crap,' the Manc lad asserted quietly,
hurrying away. Luke followed him through worriedly, grabbing his elbow
before the double-doors that would take them through into the changing
rooms, from where several deep voices sounded. Marcus seemed hesitant to
escape into that company, hesitating here in the vestibule with him, and
shooting him an anxious look.

`Hey -- you know you can always talk to me, mate, if something's
bothering you...?'

`Forget I said it, please. It's... embarrassing.'

`Too embarrassing to tell a mate? Mate?'

Rashford's eyes gave a solid `yes' to that. He pulled his arm away and
pushed forward into the changing rooms. Shaw made to follow but hesitated
to join him, thinking again about his cosy afternoon notions and his
plans to skip the shower and head straight to the car. But his kind
nature and curious mind were captured and he found himself moving through
the locker rooms, where the only other players present seemed to have
already occupied the showers, their voices crawling out with the steam
and heat. Rashford had found a spot at the far end, beyond those steamy
doorways, and already pushed down his tight trackies to stand there in
just a dark under-shirt and some clingy trunks. He looked over his
shoulder as his friend approached, his expression unclear -- he seemed to
be both annoyed and relieved.

`Mate,' Luke said gently, `you sure you don't wanna talk about
this?'

Marcus gave a long sigh, and the beloved football hero actually looked
quite upset with himself -- it was something Luke had only seen in him
before if he'd missed a penalty or had a really bad outing on the pitch,
the only moments of real negativity the local guy ever showed. Unable to
stop himself, Luke reached out and touched him on the arm in a gesture
that he might have avoided with more laddish colleagues present, but in
the moment felt right. `Not here,' the other player muttered now,
looking awkwardly down, tall and tightly muscled in his under-garments.

Luke, still in his fuller training kit, shrugged his broad shoulders.
`Come with me a minute, then?' he suggested, and he nodded beside them
to the other doors that led on to the physio areas, seemingly empty of
noise or action. Rashford nodded and walked on, leading the way again,
ditching his other clothing and leaving the changing rooms whilst raucous
banter and laughter spilled from the showers.

Gently closing the dividing door behind them, Luke followed him through
and then sat his arse against one of the high treatment benches, waiting
for Marcus to find a comfortable position against the parallel one. Luke
tried to stop admiring the ripped muscle of the other lad's legs, one
tattooed and one smooth brown, or the hints of his six-pack that rose and
fell in the lycra vest; Rashford was one of many United studs that he had
frequently ogled in the past, but it felt unfair and insensitive when the
23-year-old was apparently upset and about to confide in him.

`What is it?' he asked encouragingly, surprised again at finding
himself the calm and mature older one at 25, just as when he'd advised
and reassured hot-headed Brandon in the past.

`It's a bit personal,' the forward told him hesitantly.

`Well, I got that. But you can trust me, mate.'

`I know,' Marcus said heavily, and the trust in his eyes was endearing.
Luke felt guilty about the way his eyes dipped down those tensed
chocolate-brown arm muscles and to the notable package in the front of
the tight undies, red Nike boxer briefs that reminded Luke of the young
footballer's modelling campaign last year: there had been inevitable
stick from the lads for the photoshoot, but he'd just envied his body
confidence. Luke snapped his eyes upwards and smiled helpfully at the
lean lad, focusing on friendship over getting an eyeful.

`So you and Lings argued before he left...?'

Rashford nodded once. `Kinda. It was... Agh. It's so uncomfortable,
Luke. It's -- I mean -- I try SO hard not to be homophobic, y'know?'
The outburst took Luke aback but he tried to maintain a calm expression
of active listening. `All those campaigns we do,' Marcus was saying.
`The rainbow laces, and shit like that. I believe in them! I really do.
Like, I want to tackle homophobic shit as much as racism, right, I do!
Everyone should feel comfortable in football, they really should,' the
young national hero said earnestly.

`Yes,' Luke agreed, his confusion and self-consciousness making his
voice sound strained. `But... Lingard?' He thought sourly of when the
older player, the cheeky midfield jester, had become so fixated on his
and Harry's relationship, blackmailing them stupidly in the summer
lockdown.

Rashford seemed to realise how incomplete his story was. He screwed up
his face but went on. `I shouldn't have reacted how I did,' he said
sadly. `But I was so shocked, y'know? When he... moved on me, like that.
I never saw it coming. He'd never said a thing. It was just... one minute
it was goodbye beers on his terrace and the next his hand is... fuck!'
Rashford planted both hands against his face. `I was so mad with him,
Luke, I said some really shitty things. I hate it. I'm not homophobic! I
should have been a better friend, been there to listen, or...'

Luke felt himself piecing it together, and he let out a sympathetic sigh.
`Rashers,' he said, `there's a difference between being homophobic
and not wanting to shag your best mate.'

`I know, but...' Marcus stammered a bit, then reached a new point. `But
I bet you'd react better,' he said, sounding furious at himself, `if
it was... well, you know, Danny J, or the skipper, your mates, y'know,
you wouldn't have... oh mate, the things I said to him, so out of
order...!'

Shaw tried not to colour and heat up as much as he felt inside at the
allusions to two friendships that had enjoyed more than their fare share
of benefits. He straightened up away from the high bed, letting out an
uncomfortable laugh, unsure how to respond to Rashford's oblivious
comparison. `Look, what actually happened?' he asked, trying to sound
breezy about it. `It sounds to me like you were just caught by surprise,
so I wouldn't beat yourself up...'

`I dunno, I just feel like a shit friend,' Marcus told him, stepping
instinctively closer to. `I feel like I let him down, after all those
years of friendship. I just... he was... he shouldn't have...' A dismal
groan. `I mean, not that what he was doing was wrong, I don't mean
that, I don't wanna be judgmental and shit, just...'

`Hey, hey...' Grabbing a hand to each of his shoulders and squaring up
to him, the taller and broader of the two, Luke stared him firmly down.
`If things got out of hand, maybe he was out of order. I guess you'd
both had a drink? It sounds like you both did or said things you'll
regret, so I'm sure you can sort it out and make peace.'

`Maybe,' Rashford groaned quietly. `I just wish I'd handled it
differently.'

`What, and just let him?' Shaw answered in a hoarse, manly laugh.

`No!' was the shrill, panicked answer, then `Well, I dunno, just not
called him the names I did, just for... you know... trying to touch me a
bit... Do you think I'm awful? Do you think I'm a cunt? I called my best
mate a faggot. I've never even used that word before! I hate language
like that.' He actually had the mist of tears in his eyes and Luke had
never felt more kindness towards the young guy who he'd watched grow up
beside him in the team. But he also felt a certain cynical amusement at
his naivety and guilt, knowing what a snake Jesse Lingard could really
be; it was hard to see Rashford as really in the wrong here, whatever
shitty names he'd used in his shock and outrage. He rubbed at his
slightly sweaty bare shoulders a little and sighed forgivingly.

`I think you're worrying about nothing,' he told him simply. `I'm
sure Lingard will forgive you.'

`I was such a dick,' Marcus complained.

`But you didn't want him touching you,' Luke pointed out.

`No.'

`Did you?' He wasn't sure why he asked this loaded second question,
because the `No' was firm and he had no real suspicions about Rashford
in that regard. Still, the 6ft1 left-back found himself standing over the
other player with his hands against his hot soft skin, staring
questioningly into his miserable frown, and unable to stop picturing the
half-formed scene between he and Lingard.

`No,' Rashford repeated, but it sounded more like `No?' He went on,
`I just felt so dumb, so shocked. I never knew Jesse was... well, into
anything like that, I'd never have guessed, so... and I guess I was
annoyed that he thought I might be, but that's not fair, is it? And I
guess he just wanted to... well, I dunno, say goodbye, or summat, in the
best way he could think of, so...'

`Marcus,' Luke said soothingly, `you don't have to let a mate suck
you off to prove you ain't a bigot, you know? Not unless you want to.
Ha.' He cringed at the question and suggestiveness of his own phrasing,
but Rashford seemed not to notice, just sighing heavily and nodding his
head unhappily.

`He said it was these stupid pants,' the forward pointed out now,
making Luke look irresistibly back downwards the slightly garish red of
the Nike sports underwear. He frowned, momentarily uncertain of the
connection, but again Rashford explained: `Said he'd always looked at
me like a brother until I did that stupid photoshoot that everyone took
the piss out of...! God, why did I do that? One minute I was trying to
feed the children, next I was...'

`Bulging on billboards,' Luke supplied in a slightly preoccupied
voice.

`Something like that,' Marcus muttered back. `Oh god, I fucked up. He
just surprised me. I was so annoyed and confused. He just pushed his hand
in my shorts and I was like... fuck!'

`Right,' Luke said slowly, nodding, able to picture the scene a bit
more now. Still, he was unsure what to say, and he just patted at the
outside of the other lad's arms. `I don't think you did anything
wrong, mate. I'm sure you can apologise for any shitty words you used,
yeah? He'll understand.'

Rashford nodded but looked uncertain. `I just think... all these years
with the rainbows and shit, trying to make a point and tell the fans to
sort it out and be kind... people calling me a "hero" and shit and I go
talking like that to my best mate just cos he... god, what was I thinking
doing those adverts?! It's so not me, mate, I can't believe I let my
agents talk me into it...!'

Luke spoke a little thoughtlessly. `Well, I liked them,' he said, and
he didn't even know how far he was letting his thoughts slip dangerously
out, or making a flirtatious gambit. He gurned apologetically at his
friend and teammate and laughed dismissively at himself. `I'd never
have had the balls to pose in my pants like that, not when I was 22 and
probably not now, haha.' He let an awkward moment settle then just put
the truth out there. `You looked great in them. Don't worry.'

`You think?' Marcus was asking quickly, a stiff pride in his
expression, seeming to forget his miserable regret for a moment. Then he
coughed and shifted uncomfortably and Luke pulled his hands kindly away
from his shoulders. `Well, Jesse thought so,' he muttered grimly to
himself, `but I shouldn't have overreacted when he did that. I was such
a dick. I should have talked to him properly. Sorted it out. Not let him
go away with that shit between us! We haven't spoken once. I'm not
prejudiced, you know, I'm really not, and I...'

`Hey, it's cool,' Shaw said softly. `You were freaked out. That's
all.' He added a tone of teasing humour to his voice as he leaned in a
little closer. `And next time you'll be less freaked, so you can be
properly "woke" and chill about it, when a daft guy tries to grab the
goods, haha.' He grinned and stood very close to the shorter leaner
player, enjoying their sweaty closeness for a moment, but with no real
intention of overstepping the boundaries of this friendship, not really.

Rashford laughed gratefully at this daft remark. `Next time?' he
mumbled. `God. I hope not.'

`No?' Luke said wistfully. `Oh well.'

`Why?'

`Why what?'

`Nothing. I'm just... ahem. I just... erm.'

They both stood there in silence, Marcus seeming to tense up, but Luke
rather enjoying the momentary frisson. `Much-loved hero like you... I'm
sure Jesse won't be the last fella who thinks of you in that way, ha.
Especially if you keep posing for Nike...!'

`I looked ridiculous,' the 23-year-old murmured.

`Nah,' Luke almost whispered. `You looked... awesome.'

`Really?'

`Yup. You can't blame Lings for... well. You CAN blame him for stepping
out of line, but not for... wanting to. Don't worry about it, buddy. I'm
sure you can sort things out with him. He'll understand. You're being
so hard on yourself. Yeah?'

`Right...'

`And nobody should make you feel that uncomfortable,' Luke said
carefully. `Nobody should touch you unless you want them to, you know?
Just cos we're guys, don't mean consent isn't important!'

`Right,' Marcus repeated. They were standing so close now, their two
footballer's bodies only inches apart from in the low light of the empty
physio suite. The voices in the changing rooms seemed very muffled and
distant. Rashford looked tense and confused still, but he was holding
himself very still and close to Luke's presence.

`So that's why I'm going to ask permission,' the left-back said after
a long pause.

`Sorry?'

`Before I do anything. I'm gonna make sure you're cool with it.'

`Er...'

`You mind if I give it a little stroke?' Luke asked sweetly. `That
huge package that I've seen on billboards?'

The quiet pause that followed was electric. Shaw knew he'd stepped out
on a gangplank of disaster here, and that the delicate questioning could
utterly ruin his kindness and confidence, that Rashford could be
horrified and disgusted all over again. But his expression of confusion
was more... curious, hesitant, indecisive. Luke just smirked at him.

`Mate,' was all Rashford could mumble to him, but still he didn't move
away.

Luke leaned his face in and whispered the blunt offer into his ear. `You
want a blowie, bud?'

They locked eyes, Luke smirking and Marcus deeply frowning. Several
second passed. Then the single blunt nod of approval and permission. Luke
felt his smile broaden and his own blue eyes sparkle. He nodded
complicitly back, then quietly inched back and lowered his core, bending
his legs and squatting to the ground in one slow movement.

He didn't waste any time in actually giving it a stroke, as initially
suggested, or as poor lusty Lingard must have in a moment of drunken
overconfidence. Instead, he brought his slightly parted mouth in against
the front of those red pants, tasting the odour of the lad's crotch, and
finding the warm fleshy shape of his prick with his lips. His own beard
hair must have tickled through that fabric, but Rashford held himself
very still and didn't make a noise, didn't even seem to breath. Luke
opened his mouth wider, taking a proper grip on the prominent tool with
his mouth, sucking it through the fabric, and NOW... well now Marcus DID
gasp a little, a thin suppressed noise of surprise and enjoyment. Mmm.

He teased him like this for a while, the only contact being his lips and
stubble on the bulging front of the advertised Nike undies; but then he
reached his hands for his legs and stroked all around those pronounced
thigh muscles until he was sneaking fingertips under the hem of the pants
and stretching them. Then he was pulling, slowly but firmly, at them form
below, stretching and then dragging them until they began to pull down
and away; Rashford's hands came rushing down to the Nike waistband and
for a moment Luke thought the fun experiment was over, but the other
player was actually just eager, and about to push his undies down. No.
Luke stopped him, silently smiling up at him and holding his hands away,
doing it himself. He hooked his fingers into the tight elastic and then
dragged it down, exposing the fat brown snake against the black wire-wool
halo of pubic hair.

Luke breathed against it, knowing just how to prolong the anticipation
and perfect the moment of first proper contact. His hands strayed left
and right on the sensitive skin of the waist, then slid up, reaching
under that tight dark vest and feeling the washboard tummy. In turn,
Rashford's hands hesitanrtly found his, gripping them through the lycra
where they rested, not quite allowing them to explore further up, but not
pushing them away either. And his cock, free now, responded with a rapid
alertness, rising and pointing away from his tight body until, unable to
resist longer, Luke dragged his tongue all the way down then back up the
shaft. Rashford shivered and moaned.

Everything that made Shaw love and respect his teammate as a footballer
and a man -- his good heart, his social conscience, his wholesome
propriety -- made the taboo of his tasting his sizeable cock all the more
delicious and perfect. It was exactly what he needed to sate today's
frustrations; if he couldn't have the fucking he needed from Harry, he
would use his mouth and his arousal for good, and bring off this heroic
stud who everyone loved and protected.

As he fellated the forward, it felt like a win-win: simultaneously
feeding his own selfish lust and sloppily pleasuring a national hero.
Well, everyone had to do their bit these days, right?

There came a turning point where Rashford either forgot it was a lad's
mouth or fully relaxed into the adventurous behaviour that must have been
on his mind ever since Lingard's exit: he reached down and scooped his
fingers through Luke's short-cropped hair, holding and wrestling with
his head and beginning to thrust quite actively, fucking his mouth rather
than accepting the hot wet blowie. Luke adjusted to it, gripping his
thighs and relaxing his face to accept it, trying not to gag, controlling
his breaths and squeezing shut his eyes... mmm, delicious...

He reached down to pleasure himself, pushing his fist inside his trackies
and briefs, finding his dick rock-hard. He didn't bother getting it out,
a mix of impatience and consideration for Rashers. Instead, he just
wanked himself awkwardly inside his bottoms, letting his pre-cum slick
against his upper thigh and his knuckles, while his mouth and tongue
responded neatly to every clumsy jab of the big brown dick. He could
taste the salty hints of what was to cum, and he made sure he opened wide
and wasn't pushed away in regret before it could happen: the inevitable
wave of Rashford's gently sour cum washing against his tongue and
throat, and the deep raspy growl overhead as the Manc lad climaxed.

Luke swallowed and sucked more, jerking himself madly whilst savouring
Marcus' flavour. Only once he was spurting his own seed inside his pants
did he dare taking his lips from around the shaft and looking up, seeing
a perfect flash of six-pack and then the frowning handsome face above,
hook-nosed and serious but dilated with satisfaction. Already, Rashford
was shaky and dazed, and Luke knew enough to begin dragging his
underpants up for him, planting just a single kiss on the tip of his
wilting prick and then sitting back to wipe his own face on his shirt.

`It's okay,' he assured him, back up on his feet and patting his arm.
`That was okay, wasn't it?' He giggled cheekily. `Nobody can ever
call you homophobic now, right...?'

Looking drained, Rashford laughed, but uncomfortably. `You won't...?'

`Tell Sky Sports? Nah. I think I'll hold onto it.'

`I'm not...'

`Never said you were. Not even sure if I am. But your cum tastes great,
pal.'

`Huh.'

`You okay?'

Rashford nodded slowly,pushing down on his vest and clearing his throat.
There was a glossy sheen of sweat to his face as he moved gently away,
the outline of his fading boner still visible in the stretched red
material. His breathing was still ragged. `Er... thanks?' The uncertain
question of his gratitude was adorable in its polite horror.

`Very welcome,' Shaw told him simply. `Anything for a guy like you,
Rash. Go get your shower, yeah? And stop beating yourself up, okay?' The
younger lad just nodded and trailed silently away, leaving Luke to pant
and grin and dab at his sweaty neck and brow. Alone, he laughed more
fully and breathed deeply, his own cock and balls aching with the awkward
little masturbation.

He thought about Rashford in the adjacent room, peeling away his vest and
underpants and stepping shamefully into the showers. He'd be okay, Luke
felt sure. He was such a calm sweet lad. He'd check in with him and make
sure there was no weirdness. He was adamant that this sexy mouthful was
not about to fuck up a close friendship like that, though he was not
optimistic that there would be a round 2. He knew to be careful, always
cautiously maintaining his closeness with James and Williams, and
fiercely devoted to nobody but Maguire. In spite of that, he knew it
would be best to keep this secret from Harry, just in the sense that it
wasn't really just HIS secret to share.

Luke went the other way, taking the long route out of the building and
into the car park, licking his lower lip and thinking just how good the
big Rashford dong had felt on his tongue. He'd be thinking about it for
the rest of the day, but at least it would squash some of the summer
fantasies back to his own 25th, and the wish he could organise something
that special for big Harry...!

He felt quite light about his indiscretion, considering. After all, there
was still an ambiguous openness to their `relationship', neither of
them quite sure of the rules: Maguire was bluntly honest with him about
his own transgressions, the dirty deeds he'd achieved when away with the
national team, and Luke could hardly deny that hearing about them gave
him far more excitement than envy at this stage. For his part, he felt
less need to be vocal about the little encounters his appetite brought
on: the odd dip back into a confusing closeness with Dan, though every
time he swore he wouldn't lead on or confuse the Wales player further!
It wasn't that Luke lied to or hid from Harry, but he felt that their
dynamic demanded slightly more discretion and less showiness: he
couldn't imagine Harry being turned on or amused by the details in the
same way as vice versa.

So Luke felt no real qualms about the secretive one-off with Marcus. A
vague unofficial `don't ask don't tell' hung over his faithfulness to
Harry, as far as he understood the rules. He could do what he wanted
these days as long as he remained loyal and devoted to his skipper. Well.
Almost. There was one thing that he knew, without it being more clearly
stated, lay dangerously outside the bounds of their secret love affair.
One transgression that would come with consequences.

And because that's how humans work, it was slowly becoming the one thing
that crossed his mind in the dark of night or after inconvenient
rejections like earlier today... the one forbidden fruit that teased
Luke's consciousness and made him ever-so-slightly restless within this
relationship:

Memphis Depay.