Date: Sat, 26 Jun 2021 09:30:55 +0000
From: writer guy <premiershiplads@outlook.com>
Subject: Premiership Lads Part 268

Part 268: Everybody's Talking About Jack


Tuesday night and back in Wembley, but with a lot more hope and
expectation -- after all, he was about to start for his country in a
major tournament at last, rather than warm the bench and sit on the edge
of Southgate's plans. Grealish was doing his best to stay calmly
ambitious and just enjoy tonight's run out against the Czech Republic,
but when he caught sight of his tanned face in any changing room mirror,
he could see the nervous boyish grin play on his lips, giving away the
tempest of emotion inside. He'd waited a long time for this, and he was
putting a lot of store in how tonight went to make his mark on the
international stage.

It would have been easier to put on a façade of cool confidence if the
pre-match time rolled on more typically -- it had begun normally enough,
the selected squad busing into northwest London and warming up on the
hallowed turf of the national stadium, full of banter and private jokes
as they kitted up and posed for photos. They were heading back indoors
from said warm-up, captain Kane doing his inarticulate best to deliver a
string of rousing speeches, when the odd thing happened, and the
25-year-old Aston Villa hero found his evening a little distracted.

He first heard about it through some whoops and laughs from the
distinctive Yorkshire accents of Walker and Stones, the inseparable brick
shithouses of England's defence; Jack was strolling indoors side-by-side
with Leeds' Kalvin Phillips at that point, arms swinging at his sides
and body feeling comfortably ready in the snug fit of his tracksuit. And
then, yards from the door to the home changing rooms of Wembley Stadium,
he heard Kyle's nasal voice call his own name teasingly. Jack hurried
the last few steps, his curiosity aroused by what had got the two City
besties so amused and loud -- he pushed past a couple of other players
and into the changing rooms and started at the bizarre display in his
corner of the locker-room.

`It's like Chelsea fucking Flower Show in here,' remarked Phillips
behind him in his gruff Leeds accent.

`What the hell?' Grealish murmured, pausing in the middle of the room.

Walker made a showy wolf-whistle and stopped elbowing and slapping at his
partner-in-crime long to swing over and punch him in the arm. `What's
this then?' the 30-year-old defender demanded. `Who are you poking to
get all this delivered in here? And how the fuck did they even manage
it?'

Jack glanced dumbly at the older player and then back at the monstrous
explosion of colour. His corner position of the square changing room was
dominated by a collection of ridiculously large bouquets, an obscene mass
of flowers interspersed with flashes of lush green. It genuinely looked
like the shop window of a florist, and was totally obscuring his neatly
arranged kit and personal items. He gawped dumbly at it, and the
immediate obvious suspicion wavered in his head -- nah, Ben wouldn't try
this, would he...?

Around him, the laughter echoed and the jokes rolled, and inevitably
someone bantered on the exact worry now prodding at his head. `What, is
Benji missing his bro that much from isolation?' he heard Jordan
Pickford remark loudly and bluntly, causing various flurries of laughter
-- the laughter was perhaps layered, since several guys here knew the
truth of Jack and Ben's stalled relationship, whilst others were just
amused by the very public bromances. But then, like a punch to his
muscular stomach, he heard Calvert-Lewin unthinkingly answer his Everton
goalie -- `Nah mate, Ben won't be missing Jacko, he's got his new pal
Mason in iso with him after all, ha ha!' It was all Grealish could do
not to turn around and thump the tall Everton striker, though there was
no chance Dominic knew how close his words would cut.

Jack continued staring worriedly at the floral display until the huddled
players behind him shifted and the boss himself was marching through,
gesturing wildly at the bouquets and then nudging him to ask what the
hell was going on. Grealish, desperate to be liked by Gareth, stammered
and mumbled his own confusion and uncertainty, and found that the England
coach was bewildered rather than angry; he started barking quick polite
orders at other guys to move it out of the way, to shove them into the
showers for now and clear some space. Jack nodded quietly and did some
himself, finally noticing the prim white card nestled at the centre of
the display, which his laddish colleagues were now hoisting up and
quickly ruining -- petals and heads fell to the changing room floor as
Harrys Maguire and Kane attempted to delicately shift huge collections of
roses. Jack opened and read the card, which simply had his initials and
shirt number on the front, expecting some veiled message from Ben. But it
was so ridiculous and public, it just didn't feel like Chilwell.
Questions of how the delivery had been put in here and arranged made him
balk and fret, and he just stared at the simple ambiguous message in the
card.

`Enjoy the game' was the only thing written in fine black ink, and then
printed carefully at the bottom of the card was what looked like a
telephone number, a landline, seeming weird and old-fashioned. There was
no sign-off, no hint of who might have sent the lavish good luck gift to
him. Whoever it was, he decided, was a fucking idiot -- if it was really
meant to boost him and help him in this big match, then it was just
achieving the opposite. He felt queasy and confused and full of
self-doubt.

Luke Shaw was suddenly next to him, putting one of his large flat hands
on his shoulder. `Don't worry,' the redeemed left-back said quietly,
`it'll just be some prank from some twat on another team, that's all.
There's a few jokers on that Czech squad. Or some bugger on the Scotland
squad for all we know! Don't let it throw you off your game, mate.' The
big handsome United player gave him an encouraging smile, squeezed his
shoulder. Jack nodded, pleased with this take on it, and feeling
instantly how credible Shaw's suggestion actually was. `You're at the
centre of so much of our press,' Luke continued thoughtfully. `They
just want to mess with your head, whoever they are. The gimp.'

Having overheard the left-back, a few others were quickly agreeing,
speculating on the source of the stupid flowery overload. Maguire was
loudly agreeing with his boyfriend, deciding that it was John McGinn and
Andy Robertson's mischief, which set off Henderson in defence of Robbo
as not someone who'd stoop so low; Walker was still howling with
laughter, but Stones was over hugging him and making light of it and
reminding him they had a game to focus on -- and Southgate was still
standing with his hands on his hips, mystified by the whole thing.
Shifting one of the last big bouquets out of the way so that he could sit
down beside his things, Jack made a show of laughing it off, grinning
about at his teammates and pretending to enjoy the attention it had
brought him.

In his hands, he clung gently to the folded piece of card, thinking about
the simple message and the mysterious telephone number left there. Sure,
he told himself, Luke is defo right about this, what a crap stunt. It is
just banter to throw me off. He laughed again, more genuinely, and pulled
back at his shaggy sweep of highlighted hair. Just a silly prank. And yet
still, he gently folded the card and slid it into a side-pocket of his
kit bag, a little frown still playing on his features. Minutes passed,
and the lads were called to attention, ready to head outside and beat the
Czechs 1-0.



Nights earlier, before even the Scotland match of Friday night, he had
hunched in that hotel bed and stared up his boyfriend's hard cock,
taking in the crushing reality of the moan: `Mason...' Jack had held
himself quite still where he was on the bed, still gripping the base of
Ben's massive prick, his own spittle shiny on its bulbous head, and his
heart thundering in his bare tanned chest.

`Babe,' Chilwell whispered then, beginning to reach again for the
tussled curtain of his fringe, but Grealish pulled away and let go of his
cock, sliding his limbs back down the bed. He slid off it and onto his
feet, his own hard-on swinging about as he did so, and his posture
sinking and hunching as the disappointment and certainty flooded through
him. He stared all the while into Ben's guilty, anguished expression,
seeing the horror in his best friend and lover's eyes.

Ben came off the bed too and followed him, reaching repeatedly for his
cock, and kissing his neck, his cheek, trying for his lips; Jack murmured
with vague disembodied pleasure at the way he was touched and caressed,
pushing his man away half-heartedly then succumbing again to more
touching and tasting, almost dragged back onto the bed. But then with a
shudder of resolve, he pushed the other lithe young footballer away from
him and shook his head. `No,' the young captain muttered thickly, `not
after that, mate.' He pinched the bridge of his nose then clawed back
his shaggy hair. `Not after that, Ben. Please.' He covered his face
with his hands for a moment.

`Stupid mistake,' the Chelsea player told him quietly, stroking
desperately at his arms.

`Mmm,' Jack agreed distantly.

`I dunno why I said it.'

`Don't you?'

`Jack...!'

`I knew you were getting close, but...'

`It isn't like that. I love you, Jack. I love YOU.'

`And Mase?'

The pause that followed was what really swung the night more than the
awkwardly groaned name of their fellow England heartthrob. Grealish
opened his eyes and looked at him, the gorgeous 23-year-old who had been
his best mate for years but had really turned his world upside down one
winter's afternoon when he bent him over and rimmed him in his
Birmingham flat. The handsome bugger who had slowly eased him out of his
shell and made him really fall in love, from that Midlands riverbank to a
sweaty Mykonos villa... Jack felt the actual physical jab of heartache and
watched the guilt seep across the other lad's neat features. `For
fuck's sake,' he sighed, unable to express the anger he felt, only the
sadness. `Fuck's sake, Ben, really?'

The conversation that followed had been tough and Jack winced to think of
the tears both lads had cried at different points -- but it hadn't been
protracted or aggressive, it had been quite simple and honest, and he was
trying to be as civil with Chilwell as possible as they continued to
share a pitch. When they'd parted, Jack going to beg a spare bed
elsewhere in the team hotel, he'd meant what he said -- `I'll always
love you, buddy,' he'd groaned miserably in his strong Brummie accent,
`and I don't want us to stop being friends because of this.' Ben had
looked really wretched then, and part of Jack had wanted it, wanted to
hurt him more for his lack of loyalty -- but his feelings for him really
were still too strong. He felt horribly sure that their thing together
was irreparably over, but that night had been difficult, constantly
tempted to tiptoe back to their shared room and slip into bed and pretend
nothing had happened.

But it had. Ben claimed to still love him, but he couldn't deny his
growing feelings for Mason, and so Jack felt he had no choice but to pull
away and protect himself. Their relationship had never been strictly
faithful in a physical sense, but he was not ready or able to share
Ben's feelings like that, and so... they had separated, and soon after
the Scotland game had come, and a close contact with Chelsea boy Billy
Gilmour. Ridiculous rules, but some long post-match chat between
Chilwell, Mount, and Gilmour had led to isolation for the pair... and now
Jack had to contend with the knowledge that the man he loved was tucked
away in a different wing of the hotel with only his new love interest for
company. Wow.

The flowers, he mused that night after the Czech game... the flowers
really could have been from Ben. It was hardly typical of him but their
situation was fairly desperate, and he'd seen the love and hurt in
Chilwell's eye as their relationship fell to pieces around them. There
was still a chance that the bouquets in the changing rooms had been some
mad wild gesture from him... and yet, the simple message and the random
phone number! Jack tried it that night, but it seemed to confirm Luke's
theory of a prank: all it got him was the answerphone of some ambiguous
office that made no sense. It sounded like a law firm or accountancy
office, and he hung up swiftly.

No, he decided resolutely, the stupid excessive flowers were NOT from Ben
Chilwell.



There had been others showing interest in him, to be fair. Jack wasn't
conceited about his own attractiveness it was hardly a new feature of his
life -- though admittedly an awareness that blokes might be as interested
in him as the ladies was a very recent discovery. He didn't like to make
lazy assumptions and he couldn't assume his own saucy adventures at
Villa were in any way typical, but there had been any number of little
moments so far this camp that made him... wonder. Little snapshots of his
exciting England experience, one he was determined to enjoy to the max in
spite of a broken heart, but moments that sizzled with unexpected sexual
tension and made him contemplate what else might happen if he pursued
them.

Tyrone Mings, for a start -- obviously the Villa mates had played about
before in a couple of adventurous moments, but even the morning after Ben
whispered Mason's name, the gigantic defender had made a subtle move on
Grealish. He'd spent the night on a little couch at the side of the room
Mings was sharing with Coady, a blanket pulled over his near-naked body
and very little actual sleep achieved. In the early hours of the morning,
Jack slithered off the couch and stepped carefully around the room for a
discreet piss, stalking into the adjoining bathroom and pulling his cock
out over the waist of his boxer briefs. He blinked sleepily down at the
jet of his own piss, then washed his hands and leaned heavily on the side
of the sink while he gave a bestial yawn. When he turned around and moved
back into the hotel room, he realised that Mings was awake in his bed and
looking this way. Without saying a thing, the long muscular arm of the
big lad was reaching for and lifting the bedding, exposing a patch of
sheets and offering an unmistakable invite to join him in the warmth of
his bedding. A sleepy, lopsided grin had settled on Tyrone's attractive
features below the braided fringe of his hair -- Jack stared oddly back
at him, a bit amused at the offer in spite of himself and the swirl of
painful feelings that had dragged behind him in the night. Then he looked
past Tyrone to the other bed, where the covers were half kicked away from
Conor's sleeping form, and the likeable Scouser was snoring like a
buzzsaw.

Grealish frowned and smirked at sleepy-eyed Mings and scoffed at the
maybe-mock-maybe-serious invite and moved subtly past the bed to go back
to his uncomfortable couch, sensing Tyrone's eyes perhaps follow him on
that quiet tiptoe back to his blanket and snoozing. Later, over
breakfast, Mings had murmured a chuckling apology to him, claiming it was
a jokey gesture, and Grealish had simply shrugged it off, uncertainly. He
didn't REALLY think his Villa teammate had arranged a bunch of stupid
flowers for him in some mad gesture because he was now (possibly) single
again. You're getting ridiculous and big-headed, he told himself.

There was Foden too, of course. Platinum blond aside, the City prodigy
was another lad on the England squad who seemed to get masses of
attention and interest inside and outside of the training camp. But
Grealish couldn't help notice how quiet the Stockport scally seemed to
go when they were near each other, and how he hung on his every word.
He'd often caught him staring thoughtfully across at him during meetings
and team talks, even noticed it in some of the work by the team
photographers -- but then there was something about young Phil that could
be misread, and maybe the 21-year-old stared at every older bloke on the
line-up with that same reverence? (Even so, Grealish found himself
momentarily wondering if the Manchester City golden boy liked a bit of
cock in secret, and briefly wondered if he wanted to find out, before a
return of the cold dead sensation in his crotch that came with being
betrayed by his Ben.)

One guy on the team he KNEW was looking at him with that more specific
interest was big Slabhead; Harry Maguire had trained with them since the
start of the camp, even if tonight's Czech Republic win was his proper
return from a long spell of injury. And from the day the blokey
centre-back unfolded from his taxi, Jack had caught some lingering looks
his way, usually replaced by stony disinterest if he caught him out and
glanced back. They had brushed close once upon a time celebrating Luke's
birthday, of course, and he knew how his Ben had dabbled with his old
Leicester pal before they had started dating.

It was the morning after his and Ben's falling out when Maguire had
seemed to make some vague move on him, and Grealish was sleep-deprived
and numb. He was standing about, up and ready early for the day's work,
ready to lose himself in the morning fitness sessions and not speak a
word to Chilwell or Mount or in fact anyone other than the coaches. Jack
was leaning against a pillar in the quiet gym suites, waiting for others
to head this way from breakfast, his arms folded, and his head tilted
thoughtfully downwards. Just in the corner of his vision, the mountainous
figure of the Man Utd captain strode casually past, drifting along with
his hands in the pockets of his shorts, making their dark fabric taut
across the distinct muscles of his rear. This reversed things: now it was
Jack looking with brief instinctive interest at just how tall and
muscular Harry was, reminded of seeing him in action in that cottage
garden, though at the time he'd only really had eyes for Ben. And it was
Harry smirking gently from his rugged features as he caught Jack looking,
their eyes briefly connecting across the fitness room floor.

Jack said nothing, still lost in the sullen silence of heartbreak, unsure
how he was going to stay composed and focused all day when all he could
think about was the way Ben had moaned another lad's name in front of
him. But Harry was glowering at him with that strange quiet intensity he
had, gently flexing each arm from the short sleeves of his England
training shirt, then lifting one hand to pat his chest, while the other
edged downwards. Very subtly, Harry played one large fist against the
front of his close-fitted shorts, exaggerating the way they pulled about
his bulge, then cupping it slightly, knowingly drawing Jack's eyes to
the sizeable mound it created there...

Was Jack turned on? Not really. He wasn't capable of that today. He was
impressed and he was interested, but his own privates felt cool and limp.
He grimaced and averted his eyes from Harry's showy gesture, glad to
hear voices and footsteps of other players entering the gym somewhere
nearby. He glanced back and caught Maguire's little grin, then heard his
purring murmur: `Maybe when you sign for United at long last ,eh?' And
then the 6ft4 defender was turning away, off to fist-bump and speak to
the other guys, and Jack returned to his sulk.

There was plenty of that, he thought -- lots of banter about his future,
with rumours circulating wildly about the offers and interest of big
clubs, but especially the rival Manchesters. Maguire, Rashford and
goalkeeping Henderson made constant remarks about how excited they were
to play with him in the new season, whilst Walker, Stones and Sterling
joked about who would have to sit on the bench once Grealish was at City.
Saka made playful attempts at the same humour regarding Arsenal, and
recently Ben White had begun to claim Brighton were making an offer too,
much to everyone's enjoyment.

The only player who seemed to have made a sincere play to get his
attention on behalf of their club was actually Liverpool skipper Jordan
Henderson. Though not so much older than him, the calm maturity of the
Mackem fella was an almost fatherly presence in the team, and Jack had
found a surprisingly comforting and supportive friendship with the
midfielder -- later that same day, the morning after his world fell
apart, they had a more formal photoshoot as a team, and it was Jordan who
came and helped him figure out the knot on his tie, patting him on the
shoulders and bigging him up as they dressed in their crisp M&S gear. No
way could Hendo know what had gone on, or surely even that Jack and Ben
were together, yet the 30-year-old had been so kind and gentle with him,
and for a stupid few moments Jack had wondered if even Jordan fancied him
a bit -- something about the sensitive way he played with his tie and
collar, then let his fingers play against the outsides of his arms and
shoulders -- but then he'd cursed his own growing ego and told himself
to get over it. Hendo was a married man and not as dirty and naughty as
half the fellas here!

It was just stupid egotism to think that any of these blokes around him
were actually interested enough to have tried to grab his attention with
a ridiculous load of flowers, right?!



There was another suspect on his mind, though, a bit closer to home. It
had happened yesterday, Monday, during a lull in the preparations for
tonight's game -- the lads had been let loose in the swimming pool to
relax and recover, but Jack had found himself moody and preoccupied, and
slipped away early to go dry off and stop having to plaster a confident
smile on his face. Water dripped from his athletic body and he scraped
back all of his hair out of his face as he waddled damply into the
swimming pool changing rooms, already beginning to pull and wrestle with
his wet swim-shorts that clung invasively to his crotch and his
buttocks.

Jack glanced over his shoulder at the sound of more wet footsteps, and
caught sight of pink-cheeked and equally damp Declan Rice shuffling this
way, a towel already draped about his shoulders. His hurried awkward gait
made it seem as if he was deliberately following, and Jack gave him a
careful studying look -- back in the pool, Dec had been the centre of
much banter from the lads about being a `lost soul' whilst Mason was
separated in Covid isolation. As always, the tall defensive midfielder
took all jokes and teasing very well, but Grealish couldn't help but
wonder if the laughter was hiding a bit of pain more like his own.

`Hey,' grunted Rice, moving closer to him, tall and wet and in equally
clingy shorts.

`Alright,' the Brummie footballer mumbled at him. He wondered if he had
the balls to broach the topic at all today, and found he didn't, so he
just gave Dec a vague smile and padded on towards where his things were
waiting in the corner -- but still the West Ham player followed. `It's
weird, innit?' the young Londoner asked in a low voice. `Being around
here without the other two.'

Jack glanced over his shoulder and gave him a sceptical look through the
straggly curtain of his hair as it fell out of place. `I guess,' was
all he could muster, finding the comment weird and casual when surely
Rice knew what the fuck was going on. He wanted to make some sharp remark
about what he feared the `other two' might be getting up to together in
isolation, but it would be like kicking a puppy. Declan moved closer to
him still and touched him on the arm. Jack stared at the other lad's
hand on his bicep in mild surprise.

`You look good today,' the West Ham player said, in what might have
been the worst bit of flirting Jack had heard in all his 25 years. `I
mean, like, you always do, but...'

`Dec?' he murmured back hesitantly. The taller lad's hand closed a bit
more about his arm, stroking there, and then with his other hand he began
feeling the front of Jack's wet shorts, quickly finding the shape of his
cock and balls through the soaked wet material. Jack's posture stiffened
but his cock only twitched with mild interest. He stared in surprise at
the 22-year-old. `Mate...'

`Come on,' grunted Rice with a sudden note of bitterness in his voice,
`why shouldn't we have our fun too...?' And then he was leaning in a
bit and going for a kiss, pressing forward with his strong wet body and
giving Jack's privates a good squeeze; Grealish felt the tremor of
arousal and an awareness of just how powerful and randy his mate was, but
he planted a palm against his smooth pecs and pushed back, their lips
barely grazing.

`No mate,' he said firmly but not harshly. `Stop it.'

Holding himself slightly away from him, still gripping his arm and his
bulge, Dec looked horny and devious still for a moment, a certain
aggressive lust in his eyes and mouth -- but it quickly faded and his
large masculine features were just a pitiful mask of vulnerability as he
stood there, his grip loosening. Jack pulled his arm and crotch away but
then threw his wet arms about the other lad's broad shoulders and hugged
him tightly. `Just cos we're hurting, we shouldn't do that,' he
whispered in his ear. `Don't do stuff you'll regret, big man.
Please.' He squeezed him and planted a single kiss on his cheek, then
pushed him away. `Go swim, you big dork. Go on, fuck off, buddy.'
Awkwardly, Rice nodded and avoided meeting his eyes and shuffled away --
and Grealish dried off alone, ignoring the semi in the netting of his
shorts and feeling shocked by his own powers of resistance.



Later that Monday, after all of this conflict and attention, those powers
finally broke, and Jack let himself go. He was alone again in one of the
gym areas, powering away on an exercise bike, working up a sweat and
staring blankly into the panel of stats between the handlebars, glad that
nobody else was around and he didn't have to wear a fake smile for a
bit. Soon it would be dinnertime and he would have to be Jack the Lad,
all affable and bantering and psyching his mates up for Tuesday night's
match... for now, he could grunt and growl and take his frustrations out
on the exercise bike, indulging angry fantasies about Ben and Mason
cuddled up in a hotel suite on the other side of the park, cut off from
the world by their Chelsea catch-up with young Billy.

A gentle throat-clearing noise announced the unwanted presence of another
player in the room, and he glanced away from the panel towards the wall
of mirrors. It was his captain. Harry Kane picked his way across the gym,
meeting his eyes in the reflection but not actually saying anything. Out
of some politeness code, Jack slowed and ceased his cycling, bringing it
to a sweaty halt and gripping the handlebars tightly. Kane was right by
him now, laying one hand on his warm back and towering over him at the
right. `How's it going, Jack?' he asked in his North London mumble.

`Great,' Grealish told him simply and curtly.

`Sure?'

`Yep.'

`Right.'

`Okay.'

Kane patted him on the back a couple of times, stepped away a little, let
his arms hang at his side. `A couple of people have said they're a bit
worried about you, is all,' he said with some awkwardness. Jack studied
his expression and his posture, seeing the reluctance and uncertainty
with which the England skipper approached this apparent duty; but also
maybe hints of that same interest in him that he'd been picking up for
the last fortnight, from Foden, from Maguire, from poor Declan. Was big
old Kane checking out his leg muscles, or just not very good at eye
contact?

`Who is a couple of people?' Grealish demanded, more fiercely than he
meant.

Harry swerved that question. `If you need to talk, I'm always here. As
your captain, as a mate.'

`Good to know,' Jack just muttered, finding himself bitter and
resistant. He rolled his feet idly against the pedals of the exercise
book, but his leg muscles were throbbing and really the interruption had
been timely. He shouldn't do much more with his body today, if he was to
be ready for his big start against the Czech Republic.

`We're all here for you really,' Kane said then, a bit more
confidently and sincerely. He was such a big imposing guy but his body
language was all wrong right now, as if he didn't know what to do with
his limbs. He stood by closely in his fresh white top and grey joggers,
and Jack exuded a cocktail of his sweat, aftershave and hair products. He
suddenly felt really fucking horny, all of the teasing attention of the
week seeming to hit him like a wrecking ball -- the unfinished erection
of the night when he'd had to push Ben away from him and end their
lovemaking for painful conversation was coming back, pushing at his
skimpy shorts, making him rage. `We all want you to do well here,' Kane
was saying. `This could be your big moment, Jack. Don't push your
teammates away, okay?'

`I'm not pushing you away,' Jack said, then with sudden boldness,
`I'm not even annoyed that you're just standing there drooling over my
calves like an idiot.' He watched Harry's long face contort in alarm,
blinking slowly and gawping at him. He began to murmur some protest at
this stupid accusation, but Jack ignored him and stretched up his torso,
leaning back in the saddle and showing off his legs and bulge more,
watching as Kane responded by staring into the pit of his lap. `Did you
come here to check up on me, or cos you wanted to perv?'

Harry huffed out a concerned breath. `I'm your captain...'

`So what?' Jack muttered. `You're A captain. I'm a captain too. Half
of us are. What does that mean?'

`I just came to...'

`You want some cock or not?' Grealish found himself snapping,
unreasonable and risqué. He grabbed Kane by the hand and pulled one hand
in between the hairy meat of his thighs, pressing it on the sweat-damp
crotch of his shorts and rubbing it there, not even glancing about to
check they were still safely alone in there. He thrilled at the way big
married Kane stepped in closer and nodded his head with heavy breaths,
pawing at his cock and balls through the material and looming over him
with wide worried eyes.

Jack sat there, arrogant in his frustration, just patting and stroking at
Harry's arm and side, encouraging him as he played with him through his
shorts and breathed in his sweaty odour. He reached for and pushed down
on one of his shoulders. `You gonna suck it, captain?' he barked
quietly. Harry looked at him worriedly, as if to say `Here?!' with his
eyes, but Jack just stared him fiercely down then looked dismissively the
other way, confirming how empty the gym was. Then he pushed down more on
Harry's shoulder and the tall Tottenham striker began to kneel, stooping
down beside the exercise bike. Quickly, his worried face was burying in
between the mounds of Jack's thighs, and mouthing at him through his
shorts. Jack just leaned back in the saddle and sighed encouragingly,
letting Harry wriggle and tug at the shorts until his hardening cock was
loose and free down one leg -- now Kane's long tongue was lapping over
its pink head and pushing back the foreskin, tasting his sweat and making
him groan dangerously.

The whole thing was ridiculous and risky, idiotic really, but Jack was in
a wild place -- it had been such a difficult week, trying to be at his
footballing best and to process the fact he and Chilwell might be over,
and now he was just consumed with a bitter selfish lust. He let the
shorts be prised aside and then pushed roughly at Harry's golden-brown
hair, guiding his face up and down in a furtive suck of his hard Brummie
cock. He groaned and muttered and gave only cursory glances of caution
across the gym towards the doors, no sign of interruption.

Kane was sluttish and eager, taking him entirely by surprise -- the big
6ft2 striker reduced to a quivering bitch as he licked and kissed at
Grealish's meat, his eyes begging and wide as they rolled up to stare at
him for approval. This submission was just what Jack needed to boost his
ego and keep him strong, and he pushed himself roughly in and out of that
gaping mouth, fucking his mouth a little and realising that he needed to
fuck him for real.

He clambered off the bike with stooping hunched Kane still trying to kiss
his dick and the insides of his thighs, and he looked uncertainly around,
unsure where to do this. Could he really just fuck the England captain
here in this gym? It was insane! He looked down, shocked at just how
eager and submissive the Spurs star really was -- his future teammate,
according to the rumours that claimed they were both on City's shopping
list, hah!

`Come here,' Jack growled urgently. They moved over the room to a
slightly more discreet corner, where the big crowded weight machines
screened them a little, and he pushed the taller man towards the
weightlifting bench, pushing his shorts down and letting his cock fully
free, but leaving his cling sweaty top on. Harry scrambled to push down
his joggers and his boxer shorts, and then he was on his back on the
bench, lifting those massive striker's legs -- Jack stooped at the end
of it, spitting on a finger and pushing it between the plump white cheeks
into his arse. He acted quickly and roughly, desperate to get his hole.

`Fuck me,' panted Kane wildly.

Jack spat more, rubbing saliva across the head of his cock. He fingered
more at his captain's crack, shoving it in to the knuckle and then
adding a second. He looked over his shoulder with a little stab of panic,
knowing that they shouldn't be doing this here, but then he just went
for it. Taking Kane's calves in hand, letting them rest on his
shoulders, he started pushing his dick in against that slicked hole,
amazed at how quickly this had transpired and how reckless they were both
being. Harry groaned quite loudly even though he was just rubbing his tip
against his entrance; to solve this, he stepped back, dragging his shorts
over his chunky white trainers, and then he reached over and pushed these
over the captain's face, gagging him with the damp shorts and letting
his mouth and nostrils fill with their musty lining. Then he resumed his
position and began pushing his cock between those large meaty buttocks,
bending his knees to lower to the right height, angling himself carefully
and forcing his way in.

Grealish fucked Kane wildly then, fucking away his frustrations and
worries. The big man jerked and writhed on the weightlifting bench,
gripping its legs with outstretched arms to steady himself, his face
covered in shorts, and his legs up in the air. His arse felt great,
though not the tightest -- Jack wondered how much this surprising man had
been fucked before and by who, but only briefly and vaguely: really,
Harry Kane barely mattered, was irrelevant to his selfish need for
pleasure and escape. He just held him like another piece of furniture,
slamming his cock repeatedly into him and making very little noise
himself, just ragged little breaths of effort, getting sweatier and
sweatier.

Jack closed his eyes and the risky setting melted away... but painfully,
it was replaced by a rural barn in Derbyshire, and he was fucking
Chilwell for the first time. He thought about Ben's perfect body and his
irresistible smile, thought about all the trouble they'd endured to try
and be together, only for some Chelsea pretty boy to ruin everything...!
He hadn't even realised that one of Harry's hands had reached up to
sort himself out, but now Kane was exploding with cum that splattered his
own shirt front as well as pooling about the bigger man's crotch. Mouth
full of sweaty shorts, Kane just whimpered.

Grealish was in no mood to stop though. He pulled out, but only so that
he could pull insistently on Kane's heavy legs and shift him into a new
position, up on his knees with his arse in the air, making it an easier
height and angle -- Jack pushed his throbbing cock back into that
puckered hole and began pounding at him with more ferocity, keeping his
eyes open now so that his imagination wouldn't wander. Why fantasise
about his boyfriend, his ex-boyfriend maybe, when he could enjoy that he
was dominating and topping the fucking England captain?! This big pillar
of a man bent over and submitting to his cock, whining weakly and leaking
cum while Jack smashed him from behind, close to unloading his balls.
Closer, closer. But he wanted to make the domination more complete, so at
the last minute he pulled his dick out and stumbled around the bench,
angling his cock at Kane's face and bringing himself to climax. Gasping
and panting, Jack coated Harry's face in streaks of spunk, seeing the
agonised happiness there, confused and triumphant himself.

When it was done, the men had little to say -- Harry wiping himself clean
and sitting for a while in a hunched posture that looked like shame or
guilt, Jack going to pour himself some much needed water before he even
pulled his shorts back on, strutting about the gym with his bottom half
naked and his legs fully on display. At last, he pulled them back on, and
then watched as Kane seemed to switch modes, going from this hunched
nervous slut to the tall, broad-shouldered leader. `See you at dinner,'
was all he said though, the hint of a limp to his walk as he exited the
scene of his fucking.

So, Jack now wondered, had that fucking been more than just rabid lust to
the captain? Was it Kane who'd lavished him with stupid bouquets on the
night of a big game, trying to show his affection for him after giving up
his chunky arse? Or, he speculated, was it even a bitter move from Declan
Rice, snubbed and rejected and torn-up? Did Rice somehow blame him for
disrupting his cutesy romance with Mount, when clearly it was Chilwell
causing trouble...?

He just didn't know. But by the time England were 1-0 winners and
topping their group, through to the knockout stages of the Euros, the
incident of the flowers almost seemed forgettable and irrelevant. It had
bewildered and surprised him, but he knew he had put in a good shift in
the match, and he felt confident Southgate would make more use of him as
they progressed into the last 16 and beyond, chasing that Wembley final
and moment of glory -- Jack was heartbroken, but he knew his worth and
how much everyone wanted a piece of him, not least the slutty captain who
kept glancing longingly at him on the way out of the stadium that night,
remembering what they'd done in the gym just the day before.



The previous Friday. England-Scotland, a goalless draw fractious with
historic rivalry. Kilts and chaos in the socially distanced stands of
Wembley, both national teams battling it out on the field below. Jack
Grealish quietly seated with the other England substitutes, awaiting his
turn that would come soon when he would be called on to replace young
Foden for the final chunk of action. Everyone had an opinion on the
England line-up and who should start; everybody was talking about Jack.

This everybody included many of the VIP attendees further up the terrace,
famous faces from sport and culture who had snagged their tickets to the
England-Scotland group match. Few were more famous than the family up at
the top of that section, seated comfortably with a perfect view of the
game -- and few felt more at home in Wembley Stadium than the neatly
suited 46-year-old who now folded his arms and fixed his attention on the
dugout below, watching as Grealish shed layers and began warming up to be
subbed on by Southgate.

Off came Foden, a grinning lightbulb of bottle blonde, and on went Jack
the lad.

Seated between his teenage son and a former agent who he had brought as
guests, the VIP audience member scratched at the thin golden beard on his
stern jawline, watching one of England's top prospects bound into play
and join the fray. Rain lashed down at the pitch, but fortunately up here
only a few stray beads of the summer damp blew inwards and troubled the
comfortably warm celebrities in the upper reaches of the seating.

`That Grealish is really something, ain't he?' grunted the old
Mancunian bloke to his left, swathed in coats and scarves despite the
June warmth.

Sitting composedly in his designer suit, David Beckham nodded his head
slowly once, a light smile on his lips. `Yes,' he agreed simply, `he
really is.' He brought the tattooed hand stroking across his bearded
chin again, grinning thoughtfully. He glanced over to check that Romeo
was still enjoying himself here, and then murmured apology to his old
agent and friend before leaving them both to strut along the row for a
bit of quiet and privacy before retrieving his phone from an inside
pocket and dialling up the number of his PA's office.

Beckham watched the game proceed with its frustrating drought of goals
while he spoke to her on the phone, making his instructions in a clipped,
secretive tone. `Yes, the usual florist,' he demanded curtly. `And the
key word is discretion, yes? Good.' He hung up, gift arranged. The
retired football ace had been watching the young forward's career with
interest for some time, but it finally felt like time to... show
interest.



'Writer guy' - Premiership Lads on
Nifty https://www.nifty.org/nifty/gay/celebrity/premiership-lads/

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