Date: Sun, 4 Apr 2021 10:42:58 +0000 From: writer guy Subject: Premiership Lads Part 253 Part 253: Seeing Red Whilst back at home their senior counterparts were preparing to defeat Poland and round off a hat-trick of successful World Cup Qualifiers, the Young Lions were nervously awaiting their third game in a very different predicament. The national Under-21s team had already lost to both Switzerland and Portugal in the youthful equivalent, and obviously the young men had also watched the rather casual wins of their senior role models, trampling San Marino and Albania. Here in Croatia, the Young Lions squad were an anxious collection of ambitious young footballers who were more selfishly worried about their progression to Southgate's team than the actual lost matches, though almost all of the inexperienced athletes expressed this nervous energy through brash laddish humour and overcompensating confident banter. One 20-year-old member of the England youth team expressed his nerves in a way that his young body so often did: an overactive bladder of phantom piss making him scuffle off to the loos far too frequently. It was a silly sensation that the Liverpool starlet knew would fade once his boots were on and he was marching out in full kit to take on the opposition, but for now it had him tugging irritably at the front of his shorts and disappearing from the main changing rooms into some loos a couple of twisty corridors away. The Croatian stadium they were visiting had a bleak and almost Soviet look to it, its harsh concrete greys and strip lighting just adding to the nervous atmosphere of the Under 21s. Curtis Jones shouldered his way into the mens' toilets, still fiddling at the contents of his shorts, making a beeline for the cubicles along the left wall rather than the bunch of urinals at the far side, never entirely comfortably with the stupidly public ordeal they represented, and the enquiry his own manhood sometimes brought from teammates, a topic that could make his acned cheeks burn and the light stammer that marred his soft Mersey accent go into meltdown. The bathroom wasn't empty, to his surprise; one of his fellow Young Lions was busy at the sinks and mirrors, the back of his pristine white shirt announcing his name and number: Gallagher, 18. At Jones' arrival, the other young sportsman looked over his shoulder with a flashy little frown on his broad tanned features, a note of worry subsiding into a casual smile as their eyes briefly met. With the nervous quick-shuffle of a shy pisser, Curtis crossed the bathroom without saying anything, locking himself into the first cubicle. He did his business but it took too long, the quiet rustling sounds of the other lad's presence making him slow to release and satisfy his impatient pre-match urge. When the 20-year-old Liverpool midfielder exited the cubicle and went to wash his hands, he found that Conor Gallagher was still there, something shifty and odd in his manner, yet not particularly discreet. As Curtis pulled up to the sink next to him and squidged some handwash into his palms, he pieced it together and realised what was going on: the other up-and-coming England player had a credit card in one hand, was stuffing a little baggy into the waste of his white shorts, and a couple of neat white lines were formed on the marbled surround of the sink. Curtis ogled this with a prudish distrust and a sense of alarm at the 21-year-old's public transgression. `Keep watch for me bruv, will ya?' barked the Surrey-born player in his husky young voice. The Liverpudlian just stared at him, still marvelling at the open misbehaviour. `Seriously?' was all he could slur out, though a sibilant stammer hit him halfway through the word. He cleared his throat, focused, went on, `Are you havin' a laugh, Conor...?' The handsome 6ft lad just winked. `Heck, aren't you nervous? I need some of this fairy dust to take the edge off things or I'll be a bag of nerves out there in a minute, CJ.' And with deft fingers, the Chelsea academy boy dropped a rolled note, stooped, and snorted the first line with ease. Blinking and screwing up his face, he laughed manically. `So much for keepin' watch -- you're just staring at me, dumb shit.' A big lopsided grin to undercut the abuse. `Yer mad,' Jones told him simply, blinking slowly. `I c-c-can't believe yer just...' He shook himself, stared at the neatly sorted lines that remained, then glanced hotly at the door, conscious that any other player or even coach that strolled in now would see him as partner-in-crime to this lad's dodgy habits. `C-c-conor,' he pleaded, `I don't think that-` `You never done it?' Gallagher demanded dismissively. `Bro. It feels good before a game.' He rubbed knuckles at his nostril and squeezed his eyes shut for a moment. `And we all need whatever edge we can get after those last two shit-shows, huh.' He jerked his head back to the cubicles. `And I could tell from your old man pissing that you're feeling it, big boy.' Curtis didn't say anything to that, just rubbing his hands down the front of his proudly worn England shirt and chewing at his bottom lip. Conor went on though, tapping the credit card at the edge of the counter and slowly licking his upper lip thoughtfully. `Don't blame ya for you using the cubicles, mind,' he said in a wheedling voice, `having seen you in the showers, matey -- people could trip over that fucking thing, y'know?' His cheeks dimpled with humour but Curtis could only scowl at the generic banter, always mortified by any attention to his physicality, which was always much worse here on international duty than in the quietly respectful tone of Anfield. `Does it r-r-really help?' he asked now, staring at the white lines; a curiosity and desperation came through in his stuttering voice that he hadn't privately acknowledged. The strapping 6ft1 prodigy found himself staring quite intensely at his England ally for reassurance or encouragement, and was met with a mischievous grin and a hand reaching to offer him the rolled note. `See what you think, CJ,' Gallagher chuckled. `It sorts me out. Just a shame Smithy-Rowe didn't join us for this trip and headed back to Gooner-land -- he gets the best shit in his neck of London, y'see. This crap from Birmingham just ain't up to scratch for me. That's it, go on -- give it a sniff, it'll sort your stammer right out, scally boy.' Curtis lunged back from the deed, feeling like a dozen electric switches were going on and off in the recesses of his brain. He stared first at Conor and then at his own gawping reflection, then shook himself and let the crackling sensation settle in his throat. Laughing, his accomplice stooped to whiten the other nostril, then the note was being pushed back into his shaky hands; Conor's other hand hooked warmly about the back of his neck and the other midfield player was leaning in more closely. `Give it one more sniff and I promise you, we'll get out there and smash the fuckers, Curt, show the bastards what Young Lions are made of, eh?' Back in the main changing rooms, the two midfielders' absence was being loudly and impatiently complained of by the Under 21s manager, and many players were staring dimly around trying to work out where Gallagher and Jones had got to, holding them up before their formal entrance onto the pitch for the national anthem. One lad, though, was sat rolling up his socks with his attention fixed more on the gormless youth beside him than the grunted commands of their head coach. `You feeling okay, bud?' Todd Cantwell whispered at his club and country colleague. The 23-year-old Norfolk lad finished adjusting his socks over his shin-pads and then sat back comfortably, looking the other Lion up and down as he hopped from foot to foot and fiddled with the tuck of his shirt into the tight elastic waist of his shorts. `You've been really quiet since we got here.' That, Todd thought, was an understatement; Max Aarons had been quiet for the past few weeks, and by quiet he meant... cold, evasive, uncomfortable. It was not exactly hard for the Norwich midfielder to identify the glaring source of tension between the close friends, but still -- he'd thought that their usual togetherness as Canaries on tour with England might melt some of the ice and bring a return to their matey alliance. When he'd been informed on the first night at training camp that Aarons would be rooming with a different player this time, Todd had been surprised by how much the snub actually hurt him beneath his bravado and vanity. `I'm fine,' the Londoner muttered back at him, thumbing at the drawstrings to tighten the waist of his shorts further. `Right, fine,' Cantwell echoed sardonically. `That's why you can't even look at me, then.' Aarons did so then, shooting him a wide-eyed glare that jarred with the cherubin innocence of his fine-featured face, but he returned it with a hard, impatient stare -- it was unfair for Max to treat him like this, they'd both did what they did, it just happened, it didn't have to be this weird and difficult! Keeping his voice low and confidential and staying seated, he said as much: `You know, you're being real shitty, mate, cos I didn't do anything bad to you and you know I wouldn't say a peep to nobody, so-` `Just drop it,' came the Norwich right-back's clipped disapproval. `Please, bruv.' Max closed his eyes to escape him, and again his smooth brown features, framed by neat little goatee and the short tight curls of his black hair, looked so remarkably innocent. He rubbed both hands over his face and blew out a raspberry breath, mock-punching the wall as he made to psych himself up. Todd got to his feet and stared disappointedly at him. `I just want things to be cool between us,' he said in a sad voice that broke his usual pushy confidence and exaggerated swagger. He saw the hesitation and awkwardness in the other Canary as his eyes opened, but then was treated to another icy stare and a roll of eyes. `I've told you to leave it,' Aarons told him bitterly. `I've told you before and I'm telling you again. We got the game to focus on, seriously. Some of us are on the starting squad, y'know?' `Right. Nice dig.' `It wasn't a dig. Isn't my fault you're on the bench again.' `Owch.' `Just let me focus, Cantwell.' `Surnames now, is it?' The petty back-and-forth of their whispered voices was broken by the general fuss of noise caused by two tall players striding in among them with shifty expressions, and the explosive mood of the head coach fixing on their tardiness: `At last! Sorry to inconvenience you gents, but we have a fucking match to play! Now, stop looking dopey and get in line, all of you... We are NOT gonna lose this match, you hear me? Do EVERYTHING to get that win, boys.' And they did -- both get the win, and do EVERYTHING to snatch it. It was a gritty and aggressive match from the outset, but particularly for wired Curtis Jones, who had never so much as sniffed a marker pen or rolled a cigarette in his football-focused Merseyside youth. The drugs sparked through him and perhaps some of it was psychological, but he did feel energised and ferocious, making him look admiringly across the pitch at Gallagher and wonder if the cocaine was really a secret ingredient to confidence and success! He felt fast and powerful and really quite unfazed by the hard-faced Croat men who charged at him. He was aware of his heightened confidence but also his more aggressive style -- but that was the gaffer's orders, they were to make this match a success no matter what! An early penalty put the young England team up and Jones was still riding an aggressive high at half-time. He was so sold on the impact of the sniffed powder that he readily sneaked aside with Conor, the cocky Chelsea loan player, and took another THREE lines of it from him, reassured and manipulated by the grinning older lad who claimed that everyone at all of his loan clubs was on the stuff, especially his current position at West Brom. Gallagher was convincing enough for Jones to entirely dismiss the fact that at his own club, still the title-holding champions, he'd never seen a speck of white or the slightest suggestion of drug use -- clearly this magic shit was what made winners, Conor told him, and his brain was on fire with it. During the match, he was absolutely convinced that it was this illegal activity that bought his goal, wild-eyed and shocked as he made it 2-0 in the 74th minute. Shortly beforehand, the West Brom wideboy had been subbed off, but Jones was so high and excitable that he mistook another effeminately blond-haired poser for his accomplice, and hugged Norwich's Todd Cantwell so aggressively that he bowled the fresh Norfolk poster boy off his feet and had to apologise -- which he did without a single stammer, so overexcited and self-assured did he feel. He hugged and patted at the long-haired substitute and made sure there was no hard feeling, then got back to work -- and in the final chunk of the game, he seemed to go wilder with this energy and this inner fight. Before the final whistle could blow, it reached its inevitable crash. Really, the surprise extra-time goal from Croatio was the inevitable result of some sloppy complacency from Curtis and his teammates, but it seemed mad and improbable, didn't fit with his idealised image of the evening. And so coke-fuelled and frustrated, he lashed out at the smug jeering celebrations of the Croat men, and the conflict went from 0 to 100 in seconds; almost the next thing the Scouser knew, he was tasting his own blood and there was a melee of angry young men about him in both kits, little fireworks of pain and dizziness bombarding the insides of his skull. Curtis had taken the first Yellow card with good humour, but the Red in the referee's hand filled him with rage and he found himself struggling stupidly against the men around him, swinging at both teammates and enemies -- it all happened with such speed, he was being yanked of the pitch by the elbow before he knew what was going on, and as he stared over his shoulder and felt blood ooze from his nose, he seemed to see his own violent eruption in slow-motion, his eyes catching the Sky cameras that would have captured every mortifying moment. Slightly deaf to the loud approbations of his coaches, Jones wandered away, the dying moments of the game resuming only yards away from him -- in a dreamy daze of conviction, the Liverpool player sought out and found his target. Conor Gallagher was sat with a baggy coat over his kit, bare hairy legs jutting out from below its line, arms folded and sulky frown on his sweat-shiny features. Again, Curtis only really knew what he was doing when it was too late -- when he'd already grabbed the colour of the 6ft twat's jacket and wrenched him from his seat, when he'd already punched him in the face and brought out the same claret splashes from a bust nose, when hands were over his neck and shoulders to tug him back and the voices in his ear began to clarify. He was on the move, dragged this time into the tunnel, away from the cameras that might somehow have missed this extra aggro, and he could hear his own dull voice roaring at Gallagher: `You p-p-prick! You absolute p-prick! Your f-f-fault! All you f-fault!' The explosive end to the disappointing 2-1 game was all the young lads could talk about back at their hotel, and Todd was quickly sick of it. `A lover not a fighter', the Norfolk prince had kept well away from the brawling behaviour of his teammates at the end, and his only contribution to the gossipy chat over dinner was to tell the guys at his table that he'd known something was wrong even when Jones scored, describing the excessive grabbing and pushing and the fact the Scouse yob had mistaken him for a totally different player. (Who was nowhere near as handsome or stylish as Todd, surely, and so what a ridiculous comparison, he thought sulkily.) Besides, even if Cantwell had felt some interest in the aggro... Aarons was being lauded as heroic by both teammates and their management staff. The solid defensive player had been the one to separate Jones and the angry Croatian who had been ready to break his neck, had been pivotal in diffusing the aggression and stopping an all-out bloodbath between the two youth teams -- great, Max the fucking hero, Todd thought bitterly, not touching his healthy dessert and calling it a night with petulant earliness so that he could seethe in his boxy hotel room rather than the spartan communal lounge with its city views. Even when his roommate joined him, the 23-year-old kept a moody silence and pretended to read from a footballer memoir he'd packed for the trip, ignoring every attempt by the affable northern lad, Burnley's Dwight McNeil, to get some chat out of him. When the friendly incursions became too much, Todd stalked from the room without explaining himself and wandered the now-silent hotel alone, an unzipped hoody hanging about his shoulders over his t-shirt and just loose-fitting grey shorts hanging about his smooth legs, hair knotted tightly back; phone in one hand, open unread book in the other, wandering into the empty communal area and installing himself in the sofas by the window where he had ditched the group banter early on. The violent end to the game had left a strange restless mood among them all, but it was more his strained friendship with Max that left him tetchy and isolated. He was now dreading the return to Norwich, where he suspected he and the London kid would feel even further apart, rather than bonded by the usual international-duty-camaraderie. He threw his book vindictively at the window as if to punish it for the situation, and then scratched pointlessly at his forearms. It had been a mad fun night in the hotel when they had both interacted with Pukki, and each other, but it had turned into a morning of frost and distance when he tried to joke about it before breakfast -- somehow, the mutual curiosity and adventure of that episode had been reframed as seedy manipulation and his own puppeteering, according to Max, who threatened to report he and Teemu for inappropriate behaviour if he brought it up again... as if Max hadn't gone for it himself! The bending of the truth made him angry and paranoid, but also... sad. He'd come to rely on Aarons as his close confidant and almost a brother in their footballing life. The sudden rift between the lads was too much for him to stomach, and it had now entirely soured his experience of this international break, where at 23 he felt out of place and uncomfortable in a team he should be outgrowing. He ought to be making it big with the likes of Mount, Foden -- even that teen Bellingham had broken into the England side, while Cantwell languished here in a team he was two years too senior for! This Euro campaign would be his last appointment with them, and he feared that a transition into the senior roster was less likely by the month. None of this could be quite angled as Max Aarons' fault, not logically, but tonight his mood had taken him past logic. At some point in this lonely sulk, Cantwell decided that a confrontation was needed, and it was organised with surprising ease. Aarons had shifted rooming to share with their own home teammate: Tottenham's Oli Skipp, an amicable 20-year-old who was on loan with them at Carrow Road, and who both lads got on with well. It only took a few carefully worded messages to the loaned out Hotspur to come to an agreement; Todd didn't even have to explain to Oli what the conflict was between he and Max, he supposed it must already be obvious to their mutual friend that something was wrong. Oli quickly agreed to go and hang with McNeil for a bit and allow Todd to visit Max alone in that room, a chance to clear the air and set the record straight about the incident with Pukki. Even as Todd walked through the corridors to find the room, though, he felt his temper rising. Perhaps it was the aftershock of the game and its tense conclusion that made him feel more aggressive than normal, fists clenched at his side and jaw set angrily, or perhaps it was the depth of his disappointment and betrayal. Either way, he let himself into the unlocked hotel room with far more bitterness and accusation in his face than friendship or reunion. Max looked shocked to see him, but only briefly, slumped on one bed flicking through TV channels, just in skimpy black boxer shorts and a big oversized jumper. They both spoke in quick, frustrated voices, accusatory and unhelpful -- Todd would struggle to recall his exact words the following day, but he regretted the harsh words as soon as they left his pretty mouth. It escalated quickly, him slamming the door behind him and wagging an angry finger -- Max leaping up off the bed and squaring his low thick shoulder muscles. Soon the two best mates were in each other's faces, yelling with just enough volume control to avoid disturbing the neighbouring suites: `You're a lying prick if you think that's how it happened,' Todd was railing at the right-back; `I don't even feel comfortable with you in my room, you dirty perv!' snarled the Hammersmith youth. And then, just like on the pitch for the others, it was physical, both young men seeing red. Todd was grabbing at the dark green material of the other lad's jumper, shoving and shaking at him, and Max was smacking him in the cheek and then the chest, then grasping at his hair, an awkward fumble of limbs and palms and their bitter dialogue reduced to grunts. None of the careful explanation and reconciliation that had been on Cantwell's mind as he messaged Skipp and sought this private encounter with his best pal. The two young players clashed with the same testosterone madness as some of their comrades had on the pitch earlier on, losing control. Todd's honey-coloured hair was torn free of its knot and Max's jumper slid up the caramel contours of his midriff as they tumbled back and forth, only managing to catch a few awkward blows at each other, neither really sure of what they were trying to achieve -- until, quite suddenly, reeling from a stinging smack in the jaw, Todd knew exactly what he was trying to achieve, and he went for it. Pulling tightly at the chest of the other lad's top, dragging their bodies violently close and parting his stinging lips, he leaned in and stole a kiss, planting their mouths aggressively together and slipping a tongue against the surprised warm softness of Max's, and freezing their furtive combat in this one intimate move. The younger lad was instantly still and quiet against him, his muscles and frame becoming limp, his face relaxing into the meeting of their mouths, both of them quiet but for the deep gasping breaths that escaped when their damp mouths parted and their anxious eyes met. Because it seemed like either that or take another punch, Todd leaned in again, and kissed his friend once more, a little more calmly, tasting the soft sweetness of his plump lips. In the room directly below, one player was more officially and distinctly isolated than Todd's self-imposed mood and the outburst it had just led to metres above. The intervention of the gaffer had been swift and furious and this seemed to be the main thrust of it: removed from his shared room and placed in immediate isolation until the morning flight home and he could be placed in a car to Liverpool. In the aftermath of the game, he'd been barred from even joining the lads in the away changing rooms and, partly as a result, remained unshowered even now, hours later -- slobbing against the bed in his dirty kit, eating alone and watching the senior England win over Poland without great enthusiasm. Curtis lay there with bland expression on his lean face, because the blows to his face were too painful to even scowl and frown through. His face had been cleaned up by a medic but there were still red-brown stains on the pure white of his England shirt and shorts where it had fallen, the garments stiff with dried sweat and clinging to his muscular 6ft1 frame as he dozed on the bed, incredibly angry at himself. The consequences for his behaviour seemed obvious: his place in the Euros line-up was undoubtedly threatened by his rash aggression, and there would be questions about his professionalism even back at Liverpool once he returned there tomorrow from the airport. There had been no hints that anyone important knew he had been high on drugs when he lost control and got his red card, but this was a fear that lurked on the edge of his consciousness tonight -- and was the first thing to go through his head when, quite apart from the odd thumps and wordless raised voices he'd detected from above, there was a firm and impatient knock at the door of his new isolated room. The gaffer, he thought, or worse, some FA exec, ready to talk disciplinaries after he had let the national sport down here in Croatia! At best, he dared to wonder if his roomie, Watford's Ben Wilmot, might be sneaking him some of his own belongings from the shared suite he was meant to be staying in tonight. Opening the door to come face to face with the slick sleaze of Conor Gallagher and the world's least convincing apologetic smirk, the dull gloom of his night briefly sparked with the same aggressive instincts that had driven him in the stadium. But then he saw the purple-green bruising already starting to show about one side of the West Brom player's face, the result of his swinging fist, and the 20-year-old just stepped back shamefully in acknowledgement of what he'd done -- yes, this twat had got him into tonight's mess, but he couldn't really blame anyone but himself! `I'm not meant to be down here,' Gallagher said quietly, `but can we chat, bro? I don't want this bad blood between us, y'know. Not before we go to the Euros.' Jones grimaced and the gesture hurt his bust nose. `I'm n-n-not sure I'll be invited, m-mate.' `Oh, come on. Minor slip up. Everyone knows you're the best we've got, CJ. Can I come in?' He shrugged reluctantly, moving further back and allowing the Chelsea academy graduate into his isolation room -- he felt the immediate contrast between them, Conor all pink-cheeked and slick-haired, freshly showered and in a light tracksuit, something cheeky and rueful in his manner, against the blood and mud-spattered mess of kit that Curtis still wore. It had actually escaped his attention and now he felt a bit self-conscious of his grim hygiene to be slumped around in the same dirty gear as a match that had ended hours ago. `I'm sorry, dude,' Gallagher was saying, pacing into the room and staring about it as if inspecting a prison cell, when it was really no different to the austere rooms shared by pairs of lads on the floor above. `You know, I never realised you were totally fresh, I thought you must have done a bit of sniff before, didn't expect you to turn green and go full Hulk...' Seeing that his banter was doing little to cheer or move Curtis, he sighed and changed tack. `You were fucking ace out there, bro, the goal will mean more than a little spat at the end.' Curtis ignored this and spat out his own uncomfortable apology. `Does it hurt?' he asked, nodding at the beginnings of a black eye, one that he suspected would look worse tomorrow. He chewed his lip and pawed uncomfortably at the dirty England shirt on his long torso. `A bit,' Conor said with a touch of bravado, `but I think your bloody nose probably hurts a bit more.' And then, outrageously, he tilted his head and stepped closer into the middle of the room. `You know what'd numb that pain well nice for you, CJ?' Wink. `You're unbelievable,' Curtis murmured, taking this for a joke, and actually feeling some relief that maybe this would just become a silly anecdote once the dust settled and he was comfortably back in the comforting red of his boyhood club -- but to his shock, Conor's hand was sliding out of a pocket and dangling the little plastic baggy of white crystals after all, leering at him. Curtis frowned and again felt the jabs of pain in his face, making his expression and mood more dismal as he backed off and slumped back to sit on the bed, white shorts pulling tightly about hairy thighs. Gallagher sank slowly into a seated position beside him. `Look, it can't get us in any more trouble than it has already,' he said in what he presumably thought was a mature and thoughtful voice. `Here, pass me that bible.' `What?' `In the drawer. There's always a bible, innit.' With a dull sense of marvel at Conor's disregard for any rule, Curtis fished into the bedside drawer and, sure enough, produced a blue hardback New Testament, which was just about large and firm enough for the task at hand. Next to him, his 21-year-old teammate was tapping a little heap out and then nudging into clumsy lines with his fingers, grinning foolishly and squinting at him, obviously in more pain than he let on. Curtis was not fooled by the idea of this gear as medicinal, but it did seem to have a symbolic power -- it could at least heal a friendship, since he currently felt more bad about smacking the smug Chelsea reject than he did about this illegal activity. Still, he winced as a thin page was torn form the bible and rolled into a neat tube against Conor's flared nostril. Sniff, then `Fuckkk, this bag is way better quality than earlier. Maybe this is some of the stuff from Emile, actually. Here, give it a go, bud.' Then, unbelievably, he was doing it again, having sat up here for the past couple of hours hating his decision to try it and let it influence his footballing behaviour. Contrary to Conor's medical advice, the blast of it to his nose stung and burned worse with the pain there, and he wondered if his nose might start bleeding again -- but then the fiery sensations in his skull were a beautiful distraction from the pain and shame, and he felt very glad that Gallagher had come down to find him, unlike any of the other lads. `That's it,' muttered Conor. `Feel good? I knew you'd like it. Lad like you.' `What's that mean?' he demanded moodily through the instant fug, eyes half-closed, trying to work out whether he was feeling more pleasure or pain from the onset of the cocaine rush. `Well, you know, a Liverpool scally,' the southern lad sniggered offensively. `Erm, you f-f-fthink I go about stealing cars cos I'm from Liverpool?' he asked dizzily. `Nahhh, bruv, just -- well, you're tough sorts, innit. And you're a fucking special lad, ain't you!' `Huh?' `I mean, big lad like you, what are you, well over six foot...?' `6'1, that's all...' `You look bigger, I'd say, right strapping bruiser. Here, do another line, I've set it up for you. That's it.' `Ugh. Should we really be d-doing this? My nose f-f-feels like...' `Give it a minute, relax. Close yer eyes, bro. Let it take you, yeah...? Doesn't just have to get you hyped and crazy like it did in the game. And, fuck, it did work, didn't it? You were fire, bro -- that goal! Serious, that'll be what people are talking about tomorrow, not the fight, not even that boring win the seniors got tonight against Poland. Fuck, you'll be replacing Mason Mount in the proper squad, haha -- way more fight in you than that pipsqueak.' There was an obvious resentment in the 21-year-old's voice, Curtis noting that he and Mount must have been classmates on their way up the Chelsea academy... he wanted to make a joke of this or question it, but his mind felt scattered and freed, his big body relaxing back a little. His head lolled after the second line and his hands pushed back on the duvet to support his torso -- the England kit felt so tight and uncomfortable now on his muscles, for some reason, but he just took deep breaths and hoped for a calmer high to take him. `Way more fight in you than anyone, really,' Conor's voice was murmuring, an outer London twang on the edge of his clouded consciousness. `Not surprising really, weapon like that in your shorts. Fucking obscene the way it bounces about when you play, matey...!' `B-b-bugger off...' `It's like you've stowed a ferret in them shorts sometimes, ha...! Look at it! Ridiculous, bro.' `Leave it out, I just...' `No wonder you're such a tough player, you must have balls of steel haha, I bet you do...' `Mmm, w-w-whatever...' `Jesus, just look at them -- they're huge, aren't they? Have they even been emptied this season, for fuck's sake? God, it's even longer than I remembered -- is that cos you're starting to get hard? God, you are, you mentalist, but don't blame you, the coke makes you well horny sometimes haha, can be a danger if you do it before a game...!' Curtis listened to this swaggering monologue of compliments and randomness, struggling to keep up and quite understand what the other Young Lion was telling him. By the time he did, he was opening his eyes and staring in great confusion, because the bloodied shorts were halfway down his broad furry thighs, and the tight white briefs were pushed under his big thick balls, crowned with black curls of pubic hair... and his long dick was stretched out against Conor's hand, which was sliding gently back and forth beneath the shaft as he spoke. `Bloody hell, what a monster,' Gallagher muttered, his voice sounding like it was miles away, but his hand so oppressively close, weighing and patting the long trunk of Jones' oversized manhood. `It's just ridiculous, buddy, how the hell do you even fuck a bird with that thing...? Look, see... it's like twice the size of mine!' Dizzy with the coke, Curtis opened his eyes a bit more and turned his head gently, making the room spin and swirl, seeing for the first time that both of Conor's hands were at work, teasing himself through the material of his tracky bottoms, and beginning to rub a bit more firmly at Curtis... he opened his mouth to question what was going on, or to protest that it was weird and out of order, but no sound came out. And then the bible was being lifted, and all he could see was a snaking white trail of powder, which he brought his nostril hungrily down to, breathing in its magic while his big hard-on was teased to full mast -- he heard Conor spit heavily, and felt wet skin rub up his shaft, making him lean back and sigh... Above, the two Norwich lads had stopped kissing, but remained tightly close together, Todd reaching about to hold his lower back, hands slid under the sweatshirt to feel his smooth skin. `Oli won't be back unless I message him,' the 23-year-old whispered. `Please, don't keep being angry with me. Just let me... make it better?' Max's face was full of conflict. Eyes wide, lip trembling, cheeks pinking with shame. But Todd moved a hand round, finding the loaded front of those tight black trunks, stroking as gently as he could at their contents, and bringing his face close so the tips of their noses rubbed side to side. Max's purring breath tickled his lips and so he planted one more kiss there before heading downwards -- pushing back gently at Max's firm body and going down until he was rubbing his nose and lips against that heavy drooping bulge, making more shaky sighs escape from the Londoner's lips. He steered him back to the edge of the bed and let him fall there with a squeak of springs, kneeling on the carpet in front of him and parting his strong bare legs so that he could really get his face in to mouth at the front of the undies, stirring and teasing the big dick he knew was thinly hidden, finding its shape with his mouth and sucking it through the stale fabric. The noises Max emitted were soft and cautious and they showed as much conflict as his expression a moment ago -- gone was the jarring aggression and repressive anger, there was a frightened surrender in his voice as he asked, `Is this happening?' `Damn right it is,' Todd muttered, lifting higher so he could push the jumper up his six-pack a bit, then run his fingers back down to tug the waistband and slide the boxers away, exposing the fat shape of that thick brown meat, lifting gently in excitement and then enclosed in first his fingers, then his lips. He sucked greedily on it, earning huffed swear words and mixed emotions from Aarons: `Oh buddy... no, don't... ohhhh god yes... this is so wrong... mmmmm, Toddddd...' Cantwell climbed up on the bed to join him, wanting a better angle at which to mouth the full length and girth of his friend's impressive equipment. He propped himself up on knees and elbows, dipping his face into the sweet-smelling crotch, taking as many inches of it in his mouth as he could manage, rubbing his tongue against the glans. Max's hand rubbed at his body instinctively, feeling at his tshirt below the hoody, rubbing along his ribs, then scooping inwards between the legs of his shorts... but Todd reached down, clamping his fingers over his friend's knuckles, stopping his grip just shy of his own tenting hard-on. `No,' he murmured, drooling deliberately over the head of Max's cock. `No, just relax and let me do this, yeah?' He turned, long fronds of his blond hair dangling about the paradise of Max's crotch, meeting the 21-year-old's frightened expression. `Just let me show you this is okay, you don't have to do anything but enjoy it, okay?' The Norwich right-back stared at him with dumb awe, mouth hanging open and body slowly relaxing onto the bed, and Todd got back to work, keeping their gazes locked as he wrapped his pink-red lips about the thick saft and nuzzled the prize, dipping low and swallowing it into his hungry gob. `Fuck, it just feels massive,' panted Conor, but the voice didn't sound so deliriously far away now, it felt terrifyingly close, and the hand about his meat was tight and insistent in its long continuous strokes, up and down, up and down. The room swam and span and Curtis just propped himself there, unable to stop staring down the length of his kitted torso, past the England logos and the streaks of his own blood, to see the long thick shape of his own cock jerk back and forward beneath Gallagher's ministrations, hand lubed with spit. All the Liverpudlian could do was gasp, words becoming broken and senseless when he tried to say something: it didn't matter whether he was trying to frame a comment on how good it felt, how the cocaine had sharpened his every sensitivity, or whether he was asking the other lad what the hell he thought he was doing and why this was allowed between them, none of it could quite get out of his bruised sore lips. He could see Conor's hands going wild on both of them, jerking himself in an awkward left-handed manner, but his right fist pumping so determinedly on Curtis. Everything except this seedy sight seemed to be out of focus and moving, making the talented midfielder fixate on the sight of his own brutish dick and just how much bigger it was than the perfectly normal boner of his friend. He'd always known he was unusually endowed, but with a more awkward regret born of schooldays nicknames like the Elephant Man, never a sense of this as impressive or showy -- even his long-term girlfriend through his teens had a certain reluctant disregard for it, telling him how inconvenient it was and how they could only have sex every other week maximum because of how uncomfortable he was for her to take. She managed to make his proportions seem like a chore and a nuisance of her WAG lifestyle, not the muttered awe and respect he could hear from Gallagher -- Gallagher! What the fuck was this weirdo up to, touching another lad like this? (The more pertinent question of why it felt quite so amazing, well he pushed that one away.) `M-m-mate,' he managed to mumble at last, feeling so dizzy he almost felt sick with it. `Come on, empty those massive balls -- I know you gotta do it, bro. Don't you ever jerk off?!' Well, Curtis thought with the strange wild clarity of the drugs, he had been incredibly shy of it lately; it had been that weird night when he'd accidentally woken up to his Liverpool teammate at it. The shame of seeing and hearing Nathaniel go about his business in the middle of the night had made Jones all the more awkward and self-conscious and so he hadn't touched himself once in the week or so since joining the Under-21s crew, had been nervously saving himself for when he got home tomorrow -- hoping his girlfriend would feel able to take him at some point this Easter weekend and not resent his hugeness inside her. `That's it, you must be close,' Gallagher muttered in filthy glee, `shoot it for me, big lad, go on!' The air, Curtis realised, smelt strongly of sex -- that sickly sea-salt tang. But not his own. His eyes slid to the left and he saw the glisten of those fingers on his mate's left hand. The other guy had already cum as he did this, had already finished himself off! But his knuckles still jerked up and down, pausing only to hock more spot into his palm, then bring it back to the job... Curtis stared dimly at himself, wondering if he really was TWICE as big as Conor, as the Irish-blooded Chelsea graduate claimed... surely not, that sounded insane, but then... `Come on,' Gallagher urged, `let me see you make a mess, mate! Here...' And his left hand, sticky and shiny with goo, was moving over, giving Jones a brief shudder of horror -- but he was not about to bring that messed-up paw to his face, as dreaded, but hoisting the near-empty little plastic bag, and dropping the last of its contents onto the chest of his shirt. Curtis, with a shaking right hand, snatched at the material and pulled it up, dipping his face, snorting noisily at the dregs of their coke, losing himself in a final rush -- perhaps coincidence, or perhaps it was this chemical liberation that took him over the edge, and he groaned deeply with his climax. His eyes snapped open to see it, oddly fascinated by his own huge dick, seeing it in new eyes: and specifically seeing its vesuvian eruption of messy white cream, lancing at his shorts and legs, oozing onto the grazed knuckles of Conor's hand, splashing on the sleeve of his top. `F-f-fuck, fuck,' Curtis stammered immediately, the whole world coming into focus all of a sudden. `G-g-get off me,' he stumbled, staring at the guilty trickle of his own seed crossing the back of the other lad's hand. The hand was pulled quickly back and smeared over the bedding between them, and a soft cackle of glee from Gallagher filled the air -- but Jones shuffled the other way, his big hard-on swinging messily side to side, then gripped in his hands as he jumped up and began trying to push it back into the hold of his briefs, without much luck. `You messy bugger,' Conor chuckled, `how long had you been storing that up for?!' `F-f-fuck off,' Curtis struggled out, still trying with both hands to constrain his member within his sweaty pants, backing away and staring at the other footballer. Conor was getting up, pushing his dick neatly away, wiping his palms and knuckles on the edge of the duvet, laughing headily and giving him a red-cheeked leer of success. `That thing is like a footlong subway,' the West Brom loan was saying through his laughter. `Have you actually bothered to measure it, you monster?' `G-g-get out,' the Liverpool junior barked at him, overcoming his stammer to continue, `get out of here and don't you dare tell anyone what you just did, you... you... f-f-freak!' He stared madly at him, his shorts pulling uncomfortably over his sideways erection, which still throbbed and leaked. Conor was just giving him a quite bemused look through the dangling of his long fringe, reddened with effort but not with shame. `L-l-l-lighten up,' he responded, parodying the speech defect and adding to Curtis' mortification. When he tried to say more, to swear at and accuse this druggy weirdo, the words wouldn't form properly and he just gritted his teeth in a frustration his impediment hadn't caught him since primary school. He advanced on the other lad as if to punch him and blacken the other eye, and that did have the effect -- still sniggering, the other lad was pulling his hair back out of his eyes and waving the other hand in surrender, backing away to the door. A thud caught his attention and he stared to the left in panic, finding it to be only the abused bible dropping to the carpet next to some dark wet flecks that were probably from his orgasm -- in the moment of distraction, his intruder made it to the door and exited with a last peal of playful laughter, leaving him alone in his sweaty kit, red-faced and trembling, unable to stop picturing the monstrous length of his prick in another lad's hand! When Aarons came, Cantwell urged him up onto his knees so that it would gush all over his face. He maintained eye contact, laying low on the bed and staring upwards, letting the stream of white dirty his cheeks and chin as well as his lips and tongue, tasting it and remembering how delicious it had been against the sourness of Finnish spunk. Overhead, the other player, his sweatshirt now removed, hovered there with heaving reddened chest and flushed chubby cheeks, his eyes all wide and innocent and his lips a pout of uncertainty. Todd licked his lips in a showy manner, tasting more of the seed, then dragging a hand across his face to wipe it away, though some of it stuck strands of his long locks to his cheeks and nose, and he left it there among the damp patches of his sweat. Slowly, quite reluctantly, he pulled away, feeling the little damp patch in his own undies and trackies where he'd pleasured himself without bothering to get his dick out properly. He pulled off his hoodie and used it to wipe his face properly, standing by the bed in just tshirt and shorts, feeling flushed warm from the long exciting task of pleasuring this beautiful lad. Suddenly, from above, was a jarring thud, of something heavy dropping to the floor -- it made both Norwich stars look sharply up and then back at each other, and for Max, it seemed to signal some harsh reality outside of this beautiful moment. He was off the bed, dragging his boxers up and stuffing his sizeable cock into them, all shakes and muttering to himself. Todd could see and hear his panic and regret, so he moved quickly to him, grabbing him by both arms. `Max, it's okay,' he said in a rush, `this doesn't have to be a bad thing. It didn't feel bad, did it? It... well, it tasted fucking amazing. You're amazing.' He regretted the earnestness of that last comment, but he knew he meant it. `Please don't freak out, buddy. Not like last time.' `I'm not gay,' Aarons spat at him, some of that bitterness returning. `I've fuck all idea what either of us is,' he protested, squeezing his biceps. `But we're bloody good mates, right, and what we just did, well...' He stroked thumbs up towards his shoulders, then slid both arms about the back of his neck and pulled him into a cuddle, holding the thickset defender to his own lean frame, matching height for height, holding him tightly and warmly. `I just know you taste really fucking good, Maximillian, and I don't want that to be the last time you feed me. Okay?' `That's so wrong,' came Max's shuddering murmur into his shoulder. Todd guided him onto the bed, pulling the cover over both of their warm bodies, creating a little cocoon of heat over them. He knew he would need to go, couldn't explain this away to Skipp or to his own roomie, but for now... He squeezed Max's side, the pair of them lying face to face under the heavy covers, both wide-eyed and unable to stop staring at one another. `I know this is mad,' Cantwell said in his whispery rush, exposing his own shaky thoughts aloud, `but it's also kinda... cool, isn't it? Like when we played on the beach that time, nobody knew but us, and it was real fun, wasn't it?' Max paused and breathed heavily before answering. `What about Teemu?' `What about him?' Todd demanded. `You think he's going around telling the guys he got pleasured by us two, do you?! Hardly. He was fine with both of us the next day, which is more than we had from each other... I don't think old Pukki gives a shit, you know, it was just a laugh to him. Relax.' `It's not just him,' murmured the other young player very faintly. `It had happened before.' Todd nodded his head, pulling hair out of his eyes then reaching over to stroke a couple of fingers down Max's face slowly. `For me, too. Kinda. It's a long story. Well, maybe not that long -- I guess you finally know why I got so weird about Jamie Redknapp for a while, mate. But... I dunno. I thought about it a lot, and... maybe it isn't such a bad thing, to... keep an open mind?' Max fixed him with a quivering sulky face. `How can you be so cool about it?' he asked, and Todd wanted to ask him about his own experience, about what had happened to or for him before their strange joint endeavour on Teemu Pukki. But those conversations could wait for another day, he could already see his Redknapp revelation had shaken the less open lad. He stroked at his face and rubbed their shins together gently under the covers. `How can I not be cool about it?' was his answer, gently murmured. `Because you're the coolest lad I know. No idea what this is, mate, but... I'm glad it's happening with you. Okay? Whatever it is or whatever we do, I know it's cool, cos it's you -- and if you want me to fuck off and never mention it again, I will, I don't want us to fight or go quiet with each other. But I wanna say it to you now while we're here in bed, okay... I DO want it to happen again. I really fucking do. So tell me, yeah, what it is -- which way do we go? I'll zip my lips and I'll literally never bring it up until we're old codgers in the footy retirement home, Max, or I'll suck every drop of cum from these balls next time I'm allowed. Just tell me which.' He hadn't meant to speak at such length or in such a comical rush, but now he paused, holding his hands against the shaky heat of the other footballer's strong body, watching and waiting for his reply -- but Max said nothing, just stared dimly at him, mouth half-open and eyes wide with innocent fear, as if he had no idea which of those options it was going to be. THANKS FOR READING - LET ME KNOW WHAT YOU THINK OF THE LATEST CHAPTERS AND WHAT YOU'RE HOPING TO SEE MORE OF IN THE REST OF THE SEASON. ONE MORE INTERNATIONAL STORY ON ITS WAY, I THINK, THEN BACK TO THE LEAGUE... 'Writer guy' - Premiership Lads on Nifty https://www.nifty.org/nifty/gay/celebrity/premiership-lads/ Amazon Wishlist here if you wanna say thanks LOL https://www.amazon.co.uk/hz/wishlist/ls/26BW3WSABBHNM?ref_=wl_share