Date: Wed, 17 Nov 2021 22:29:33 +0000
From: writer guy <premiershiplads@outlook.com>
Subject: Premiership Lads Part 277

Part 277: Return from San Marino


Another night, another flight -- this one all the more joyous and raucous
for the stellar result of England's qualifying match against their hosts
earlier in the evening. Another ridiculous scoreline against a team that
had never offered much challenge, but the victory still tasted sweet and
the Three Lions were a smug pride as their final outing of 2021 was
transported home through the November clouds.

The camera flashed and the team image was complete, the eighteen athletes
gently breaking out of their posed rows at the back of the cabin,
photo-ready grins plastered on their tired faces all the same -- captain
in the front and centre, hat-trick memento ball in his paws, and the rest
of the squad falling out of formation around him in an explosion of
laughter, back-slaps and snatches of tone-deaf laddish singing.

This left Harry Kane standing awkward but happy in the centre of the
aisle, clutching the spherical trophy to another prolific night, seven
goals over two games in a matter of days, ready to return to Tottenham
Hotspurs with new confidence and vigour. It had been a tough season for
the England skipper, after the public embarrassment of his sulky absence
and desperation for a new transfer; tail between his legs, Kane had been
left with no choice but to plough on at the seemingly cursed North London
club, chipping away at the league table and feeling like he was
squandering his best striker years. Coming into this international break,
Harry had been wondering if he would even bother trying again to move
next summer, but his back-to-back hat-tricks for his country had the
proud Englishman feeling on top of the fucking world.

Well, he thought in a flash of distraction, apart from the wet dream
he'd had last night thinking about Gareth Bale and his big Welsh meat.

Their flight was almost back in City Airport in the heart of London, and
the dopey tiredness was being replaced by a manic cheerfulness among the
squad and their entourage. Kane drifted through it, grinning and
congratulating each of his fellow players in turn on his way back to his
seat for the landing, particularly his many fellow goalscorers. Ten
fucking nil, he thought with relish, shamelessly enjoying the goal
massacre that had taken place in spite of San Marino's humble stature.
He made a point of grabbing young Saka and Smith-Rowe for congratulatory
hugs, delighted for the youngsters, and fist-bumped Abraham and Mings for
their additions to the scoresheet.

Then he was stood for a moment by the last of the scorers, the big man
who had initiated the slaughter with a 6th minute goal that made him the
most successful England defender in those stakes. Harry Maguire beamed at
him with a big clumsy grin and slapped at his shoulder with a shared
smugness over their work. `Harrys all over them,' quipped his
Premiership rival amiably, and Harry returned the smile then gripped one
of his massive hands to shake, remembering how big and strong the United
defender actually was as he did. `They didn't stand a chance,' Maguire
chuckled aggressively to him.

`Not at all,' Kane agreed, pulling his hand free of the tight shake and
hesitating here in the aisle, stood face to face with the team's big
brute, his main rival here for the captaincy. As he had at many points
since they first assembled for training last week, he felt himself thrill
in the big man's presence, his 6ft4 height and the powerful breadth of
his shoulders; he was a hard man to look at without mentally removing the
sports kit and remembering their chance encounters of the past.

`You're a fucking England legend now for sure,' the other Harry
informed him in a grunt.

With mock ego, Kane smirked and shrugged. `Wasn't I already?' He was
good at the bravado and showy confidence in public, even if he knew his
submissive place when alone with such men.

`That's right,' laughed his northern pal, shaking him by the upper
arm. `Our captain.'

Harry thought he quite enjoyed the unusual notes of respect and deference
in the bigger bloke's voice and expression, feeling a bit amused by how
sporting dynamics could shift these things, but he knew that he wanted to
fall to his knees and worship the big ugly brute. For a second, he'd
been confused why Maguire was so keen to talk even more to him, but then
he remembered that Luke Shaw had caught an earlier flight, like the other
players who'd picked up minor injuries or just not made the cut for this
evening's squad.

Kane couldn't help a little grin at that, stupidly glad to have
Maguire's attention for a moment or two without that pretty
white-toothed grin of the other Man Utd bloke around... The lanky striker
hesitated, twirling the ball between both hands, letting his gaze lock
and linger with Harry's, briefly unconscious of their position at the
centre of a crowded cabin where teammates were hollering and chanting and
regretting that they would all part at the airport.

`You travelling straight up north?' Kane asked quietly. Innocently.

Maguire grunted. `Hardly, it'll be fuckin' late. Car taking me up
first thing from my hotel.' He said it neutrally, disinterestedly, still
glowing with the 10-0 happiness of the night, but not properly looking at
his captain -- the moment's silly excitement flickered in Harry's
breast and he pulled away, looking across to his waiting seat. He could
hear the head of the steward crew politely calling for landing procedures
to begin, everybody in their seats please than you etc. Just as Kane was
about to move on, swing his big aching legs around to find his seat,
Harry's hand was at his arm again, thumbing at the loose sleeve of his
hoody.

`The hotel is just up the road from the airport,' the other Premiership
hunk said gruffly, their eyes meeting for a fraction of a second before
Maguire brushed past him, shoulder-to-shoulder, shouting urgently at
Jordan Pickford: `Oi, get off them, that's my Pringles you cunt!'

Kane leaned on a headrest and stared over his shoulder with a shivering
rush of uncertain anticipation, following Maguire's bulky outline as the
defender stormed at their No.1 goalkeeper and wrestled the snacks away
from him, all barging and elbows... a hotel near the airport, eh? Kane's
bollocks tingled in his underpants, mingled with the same self-conscious
shame that had haunted him as he sniffed around Kyle Walker's exploits
on the flight out here, a willing bitch for these alpha males. Mmm. Maybe
he could delay his taxi back to the North London suburbs...

`Your seat please, sir,' a polite young stewardess said primly from
somewhere ahead of him.

`Sir, too right!' hollered a beer-drunk figure somewhere to his right,
Leeds' Kalvin Phillips reaching up and waving his lager can this way and
spilling some on his neighbour, an awkward-looking Ben Chilwell. `He
should be made a fucking sir ASAP, damned right!' As Harry Kane laughed
this off and found his seat, a slurred and badly synced chant went up
from his lads, roaring out his name and demanding he be knighted before
the World Cup arrived, massaging his laddish ego and making him blush and
chuckle as he took his place and did up his belt.



If Harry Kane, experienced striker and national captain, was buzzed and
inflated by his four goals against a tiny nation, then it was nothing
next to the debutant euphoria of Emile Smith-Rowe, touching down in his
home London after netting his first international goal as a senior. The
21-year-old Arsenal winger was pretty much walking on air as he climbed
down the steps from the England jet and lugged his things across the dark
cold tarmac of the airstrip.

Perhaps more than any of his many new mates here, Emile couldn't bear
for the adventure to be over, gutted by the prospect of reality tomorrow
-- even getting back to senior Arsenal training, normally the lad's
biggest thrill, felt a bit whatever after the heady rush of joining the
national team like this and stepping up as a proper Lion.

It was mainly that sense of needing the party to keep going that had him
turn down a shared car with his bright-eyed teammate as they queued
through security. `Nah,' he told Saka in a tired-but-hyper drawl, `I
don't think it's quite the same way for us, bruv, I'll make my own
arrangements, yeh?' The younger Arsenal man gave him a politely
questioning look, as cutely innocent as always, but didn't challenge
this logic, even though the pair of them lived a few streets apart in a
wealthy suburb not far from the Arsenal training campus. Bukayo was a
lovely lad, Emile would always say, but he was goody two shoes and boring
as fuck. He wouldn't be up for a 1am beer to round off the trip, for
sure.

Moving on through the small corporate world of the airport, Smith-Rowe
let himself gently distance from the 20-year-old, just in case the
sensible suggestion returned and he ended up dozing in a cab with Saka
all the way through London. Nah, not tonight, he was fucking WIRED, and
he defo needed a little city-centre drink before he headed off himself.

The airport was strangely busy for the late-night/early-morning hours of
their arrival, but then it did feed the city's financial wanker
districts and take a lot of international flights at funny times, meaning
the England players had to be chaperoned through the various stages of
arrival and then ushered out of a separate exit in a fading straggle of
unity. Emile wandered through it all with his thumbs tucked into the
straps of his rucksack, sucking in cold breaths of London night air, and
scanning his surroundings for one of the lads who might be up for finding
the nearest all-night drinking establishment. He knew he had to be a bit
more controlled and moderate in his behaviour nowadays, now he was a
proper senior pro, but tonight was SPECIAL.

`Hey,' he called, spotting his Under-21s buddy of recent years, and
slowing his pace to come level with Chelsea's loaned-out sensation Conor
Gallagher. `What you up to now?' he asked. The other 21-year-old Surrey
lad was a real party animal in Emile's experience, a firecracker who had
led to some of the most debauched hangovers on Young Lions tours as the
pair of them proved themselves in the youth ranks. But tonight the
Crystal Palace just gave him a dubious frown from beneath his straggly
blond curtains, gripping the handles of his case.

`Getting home, fella,' the midfielder said bluntly. `I'm fuckin'
shagged, bro.'

Emile scoffed. `You COULD be, if we found the right club full of
fanny?'

`Calm it,' sniggered Gallagher. `How are you not absolutely shattered,
bell-end? Look, here's my car. Are you not going back to your folks in
Guildford?' Conor backed away, lugging his things and heading for the
growling silver vehicle at the kerb. Emile just huffed at him, mouthed a
`no', and turned the other way, watching as a few more players bustled
past him, moving rapidly from yawning goodbyes to the vehicles that might
whizz them home. Right, he thought, these fuckers are a lot more boring
once they're back in Blighty then -- all those chants and boasts on the
fucking plane!

Smith-Rowe gave a resentful sidelong look at his pal Gallagher sliding
into the car that would sensibly get him to the southern edges of the
city, and then moved away across the sweeping veranda area of this VIP
exit. Nearby, he saw Chelsea lads and potential drinking buddies Chilwell
and James enter a car with their ex-teammate Abraham, a quietly cosy trio
of mates who were all yawning and slouching -- no fucking party in them,
he thought irritably, noting in particular how downcast and introverted
that Ben Chilly seemed to be, someone he'd previously assumed might be a
real cheeky clown from their social media persona. Chilly had been a
sulky twat all through the San Marino outing, especially after his
apparent bestie Grealish had headed home early with a little so-called
injury.

And then he was next to one of the dullest of the youngsters on the team,
that sleepy-eyed beanpole 18-year-old Jude Bellingham, the supposed baby
of the senior squad. But Bellingham had a quiet maturity beyond those
years that irked someone like Smith-Rowe, and he hadn't particularly
bonded with the German league player -- it was hard not to resent someone
who had leaped into the senior first team at only 17, while the likes of
Emile and Conor were still battling in youth teams despite being a few
years older.

Jude was stood stiffly by his case looking at a map on his phone, and a
couple of points clicked into place for Emile. Of course -- a lot of the
players were pretty local to London and its surrounding teams, so it made
more sense for them to just head off locally and have an early night. But
more than anyone, Jude had a long way to go... he must not be flying back
to Germany until tomorrow morning at least, Emile supposed, and so he'd
be based in a hotel nearby like some of the more northern players were. A
hotel with a bar, surely!

`You old enough for a drink yet, Judith?'

`What's that, Em? Gimme a minute, just trying to get my bearings...'

`What you lookin' for, your babysitter?' He didn't get much reaction
to this jibe so he changed tack, bumping elbows with the other young
athlete and tightening the straps of his backpack. `Can I help ya?' he
offered in a warm voice. `I know London pretty well, obvs.' He snatched
Jude's phone away from him before he got an answer, and angled his head
critically. `Yep, it's just over that way, you dumbass. Can't you read
a map?'

At this latest insult, Bellingham rolled his eyes but did look amused.
`How much sugar did you eat on that flight, Em?' the Borussia Dortmund
youth demanded simply. He was quiet and not so playful, but he also
looked relatively awake and composed, not a weary twenty-something like
most of their fellow England caps... Conor got his hopes up, desperate for
a sneaky pint.

`Not enough,' he quipped back. `What do you say to a nightcap,
Bell-end? On me, obviously. This hotel of yours got a bar? I'm parched,
if I'm honest, I only got like one can on the fucking flight there!
Eh?' He grinned hopefully at the young midfielder and Bundesliga
prodigy, feeling his chances of continuing the party mood fade away --
Jude was giving him one of those steady mature stares of his, something
distant and aloof in his manner, something that got a lot of praise and
kudos from others but was pissing Emile off right now in his impatience.

But then Jude gave him a half-grin. `You know what, Smithy, I think it
probably does. Will it be open at this time, though?'

The 21-year-old grinned broadly and winked. `Only one way to find out,
huh?'



There was already a car booked. Kane was a sensible-minded family guy
after all. Normally. `And here's a bit more for your trouble,' he
said, as he slipped a few £50 notes to the driver who was supposed to be
getting him home. `Thanks, thanks.' It occurred to him that there would
be consequences. His wife would not be waiting up for him awake, but she
would find out that the car company had took his cancellation, even if he
made it back to their family mansion before sunrise. There would be
questions and confrontation, as there always was these days, their
marriage still bruised by his exposed affair last year... Harry could only
thank God that she remained as clueless as she did to the fact that it
was Eric Dier who had almost ended their marriage, not some cheap tart
behind the scenes of Tottenham's club facilities.

The car went and the applauded striker was left standing in the
increasing foggy quiet of the night, looking about him for any sign of
Maguire that would confirm the subtle invite that had been growled into
his ear midway through the security queue: `My hotel, captain. We'll
get you toasted properly for what you've done for England, eh lad?'

He rolled his shoulders, cricked his neck, did his best to look relaxed
and casual. There was a chance, he admitted, that Maguire just fancied a
drink, he could certainly knock them back and loved to get the rest of
the team downing pints now and then on these international jaunts. And
maybe that was fine, he told himself. You're happily married. You've
messed around a bit and made a tit of yourself but you're making things
work now. You hardly even look at Eric in the showers!

The heavy grip landed on his left shoulder and made him flinch a bit. He
turned his face and there he was, leering close by and dropping a wink.
`You coming with us?' grunted Harry, resting his heavy hand there on
the shoulder, and making Kane tense up from head to toe. Already Maguire
was pulling away, dragging a wheeled case with him and shivering a little
as he led the way. Kane looked about him and saw they were not alone, a
few others making their way up the same lane and away from the edges of
the airport. There were clearly a few different members of the squad
enjoying a last night of tour in the swish London hotel at the end of
this street, before Premiership normality could resume tomorrow.

Kane backed away from the kerb and made a few hurried steps to fall in
line behind his defender, gripping the strap of his bag tightly and
casting a few anxious looks about the road -- at departing taxis and
vehicles, at one or two guys still awaiting their ride at the exit doors,
and up at the neon lighting of the monochrome building that rose ahead,
with some of its signage announcing a 24-hour bar that would still be
open as 1am slid towards 2.



Emile looked at them nervously down the bar. Realistically, he wasn't
one to be intimidated by older and more famous players. A steely
confidence had taken him through his teens and into Arsenal's first
team, because he'd always backed his own ability and potential. He'd
done his best to be unfazed but reasonably humble as he earned his place
as a Gunner.

The problem was that he'd seen that strange movement between Maguire and
Shaw on the outgoing flight. He'd been strangely buzzed at probably
catching the dirty buggers out, at first, but now he felt a strange
nervous expectation. Big Harry had such a dominant personality, such a
forceful presence in the squad -- a lot of the lads looked up to him as
the real leader, much more so than the mumbling and mild-mannered
official captain, for all their chanting at his ridiculous goal tally.
Maguire was a real brute, and it made Emile nervous to think that he
might need junior players to help him out now and then, just the way
Emile had leaned on the nervous but willing hands and lips of a couple of
other footballer lads in desperate moments in the past.

Jude was talking to him, supping clumsily from a rapid third pint in a
row. Emile looked back that way, the two young lads perched on high
stools at the bar, and zoned back in to the conversation. It turned out
that Bellingham wasn't actually such a bore -- he clearly got up to some
crazy nights out in his German city, mates as he was with real
high-flyers like Haaland. But still, Smith-Rowe found himself distracted,
looking idly over the slim corner bar of the posh hotel, at the way the
handful of England players had naturally scattered on arrival.

It was basically the northern blokes, he surmised. Maguire, fist around a
pint and other long muscular arm sprawling across the back of the sofa
booth -- next to him, captain Kane himself, hunched forward at the table
and more quietly nursing his own drink. Across from them, Stones and
Walker were in fits of giggles, shoving and elbowing at each other and
supping from what could be soft drinks but almost definitely weren't.
Completing the booth was an unusually sombre-seeming Conor Coady and, the
complete opposite, a cackling and gesticulating Jordan Pickford.

`Shall we go join them?' Bellingham said, sounding uncertain and now a
little sleepy. He slurped from the dregs of pint no.3, or perhaps 4.

`What? Nah,' Emile said, immediately and dismissively. `Don't wanna
kill their boring dad chat, do we?' He sniggered forcefully, shrugged
his developing shoulder muscles, and fidgeted on his stool. `They
didn't exactly invite us over, did they?' he added with a touch of
resentment. He and the 18-year-old had naturally found this spot and been
somewhat snubbed by the elder contingent, though Philips and Foden had
temporarily joined them before disappearing their separate ways --
Philips pissed out of his head and bumping into walls, Foden on a quiet
phone call and seeming totally disinterested in anyone else's
conversation. That left Emile with Jude, and the strangely brooding
presence of the older guys at the far end of the bar.

He looked over at the resting physique of Maguire, who was grinning and
chatting and yet still conveyed something menacing in his hulking
presence. Had Shaw really been jerking the big bastard off on the flight?
Surely not. That'd be mad. So risky! When Smith-Rowe had let lads touch
his cock it had been pretty cautious and discreet, even if drunk or high
-- well, except for the Anfield incident and getting noshed by Harvey
Elliot, when he'd shared it with two youth team buddies who had been off
with him ever since. That, for Emile, had been a risky deviation too far,
and had really cooled his naughty experimental side.

The two City defenders were getting up, he noticed, big muscular
handshakes and back-slaps with the others and the downing of their
spirits and mixers. `I dunno if we should have another drunk or not,'
grumbled Bellingham at his side in that monotone of Midlands accent,
while Smith-Rowe found himself oddly tensing as big John Stones and broad
Kyle Walker muscled past, barely acknowledging them and bouncing into one
another on their way out of the bar. He paused and looked back, seeing
the space this opened up on one leathery side of the booth. Across a
table of glassware, one member of the northern crew was staring directly
this way.

`Oi,' called the Mackem tones of Everton's goalkeeper. `Don't be
anti-social, kids. We don't bite.'

Emile flinched a bit at the sudden communication, holding onto his
warming and empty pint glass, but next to him Jude was leaning drunkenly
this way, pressing against his side and reaching past him to shout back
at Pickford. `We've been waiting for our invite!' barked the teen,
emboldened by drink and lifted from his usually serious demeanour.
`Shall I get a round in?' the young player called brashly, and then
that was it decided -- the two England newcomers were moving over to join
the red-cheeked and half-cut experienced fellas who showed no signs of
refusing a fresh drink.



Kane both did and didn't want to keep drinking. Much of him, perhaps a
very specific phallic part of him, was desperate for the bar to shut and
them to be forced up to separate rooms. With a gasping little sigh to
himself, he pictured the night he'd fallen drunkenly asleep at Joe
Hart's party, and serviced both the legendary keeper and then Gareth
Bale under a tree. But another part of him, maybe some sober corner of
his brain, thought that if he powered through another couple of drinks,
he'd just end up exhaustedly asleep here on this sofa, and have to just
endure a 5am taxi back to an angry wife, his arse-hole untouched and his
promises kept.

It didn't really matter what his cock or his brain wanted that much,
because the drinks kept flowing, and the homecoming England players lost
sense of time. But at some point shortly after the youngsters joined
them, the drinking did switch locations. He wasn't exactly sure whose
idea it was, but he'd guess at Maguire's, and in the early hours of the
morning he was swapping the clammy leather sofa booth for an individual
armchair by the huge balcony windows of a corner suite on their shared
floor, watching Emile and Jude raid the mini-bar whilst Harry and Jordan
recreated the former's goal using the match ball that Kane had brought
all the way here.

It was a chaotic scene, and Harry Kane found himself leaning much more to
the second of his two desires: he was tired and drunk and embarrassed,
and he felt that soon he'd just pass out in this corner and let the
night roll away from him, the craved fun never actually taking place.

But then Maguire was back with him, grabbing him by the shoulder and
properly rousing him, while slapping his arse down on the curved arm of
the seat so that he towered above. His stern fingers found and stroked
the back of Kane's neck with a slightly surprising tenderness. `You
holding in there, captain?' muttered the Yorkshireman in a tone that was
equal parts teasing and deferential.

`Somehow,' he laughed back.

`Don't fall asleep on us, Kanesy!'

`Won't do, ha ha...'

`Not while the night is still young.'

`Night?! It's definitely morning now, you daft bastard.'

`Not til I say so,' the other Harry boomed at him, shaking him by the
shoulders and neck, leaning over him and blowing his beery breath this
way. `You ain't had your celebratory fun yet, have ya?' There was a
delicious sleaze to his Sheffield accent that made Kane's cock twitch in
his pants and he looked with honest eagerness up at the dominant man. He
parted his lips slightly and then licked them in what a sober brain cell
thought was a subtly seductive way. It wasn't. He mouthed rather than
said what he felt: `Feed me your cock.' There was just an evil snigger
from the other footballer, and then Maguire was gripping both of his
shoulders and leaning properly in. `Nah, matey,' the United captain
hissed, `not like that, big fella. You're our fuckin' king right now,
Kanesy, you need to have some fucking respect for yourself.' He felt the
sting of this, picturing the positions Maguire had held him in before:
bound and fucked in a training camp pool-room by both Maguire and that
other handsome Harry, Winks; pressed down in a suite of that same
traditional hotel, fucked in turn by not just Maguire but Walker and
Mings. Kane shuddered with desire and repulsion.

Suddenly big Harry was wheeling away from the edge of this seat and into
the centre of the room. His loose-fitting sweatpants sagged a bit and his
white t-shirt rode up, so flashes of bare skin and the waist of his white
Calvins went on show. `Ey up,' he was barking at the others, `who's
gonna get on their knees and suck off this fucking hero for England,
then?' It was all barked out with a white-hot confidence and certainty,
but it still poked a wary snigger from the other three as if he was
joking.

Sat on the edge of one bed and swigging from a Corona bottle, Pickford
played with his curtains of mousy hair and told his mate to `Fuck right
off' -- stood to the side trying to make miniatures cocktails in
teacups, Smith-Rowe and Bellingham looked more alarmed and defensive.
`Very funny,' muttered Jude, and Emile didn't say anything.

`I'm serious,' ranted Maguire. `This man scored SEVEN fucking goals
for us, you know? Seven, lads. He's a fucking sir and a gentleman, like
we said. Someone ought to get down there and thank him properly, haha.'
As he said this, he stuffed one of his big hands down the front of his
pants to scratch himself, and then groped about for a drink with the
other.

`Aye,' sighed Mackem Jordan from his slouched position. `He has a
point.' Snigger.

There was something of outrage in Jude's half-joking reply. `Right,
yeah, that makes sense. Jeez, what is with you fuckers? Nearly as bad as
Jadon,' he added, and then seemed to regret that, though Kane was far
too drunk to wonder what young Sancho had to do with any of this. He was
too busy staring warily at Maguire in a drunken trance, his
disappointment turning to nervous excitement -- was this sexy monster
really about to insist that someone serviced HIM, instead of making him
his own?

`I know I've got blowjob lips,' Emile chimed suddenly, `but that
don't mean nothin', haha.' There was so much youthful bravado in his
banter, and he had edged further back, sitting himself at the desk by the
mini-bar, clutching his teacup of whatever spirits. `What `bout you
Jude?' he yelped, and Kane thought maybe there was something curious in
his voice and his beady eyes.

Jude just scoffed. `What the fuck is going on here, lads? Get me back to
Germany, seriously.'

Maguire was guffawing, Smith-Rowe was adding to his drink, and Kane was
shifting about in his seat, pawing at his thighs and suddenly feeling too
hot in his open jersey and clingy t-shirt. The room felt stuffy and the
drink felt like it burned at his skin. He was going beetroot in the face
and the attention caused by Maguire's big claims was suddenly making him
want to be in that taxi homewards -- he was up on his feet and looking
for where he'd put his bags when the Sunderland accent of the goalie cut
through his fog with a strained casualness that silenced the room.

`I guess it'll have to be me,' Pickford said, not moving.

Kane stood where he was, trying not to sway. He looked at the Everton
player and let out a few stale laughs. He saw that Maguire was staring at
him too with some intensity and surprise. It was obvious to Harry that
his mate had been eyeing up the impressionable younger guys when he made
his dirty demand, and he was as taken aback by Pickford's outburst as
anyone. Sat on the bed, Jordan just shrugged, and flexed his arm muscles.
`What?' he said, looking around at them all. `It's a solid idea. I'd
do anything to big up that bugger, what he's done for us all in front of
goal. Fucking hell I would.' Blotches of pink on his cheeks and neck
betrayed the coolness of what the 27-year-old lad was saying to them.

`Mate,' murmured either Jude or Emile.

`Alright,' Maguire was barking though, `prove it, for fuck's sake.'
He still had a fist in his pants, adjusting himself and shifting from
foot to foot. Kane glanced excitedly at him, feeling the need for
approval, and then back at Pickford. `Yeah,' he found himself belching
eagerly out, `why don't you fucking prove it, if you're so in love
with me, No.1?'

With a boldness that he knew was somehow for Maguire's benefit, Kane
advanced on the bed, sticking a hand into his sweatpants and the front of
his black boxer briefs, where his dick had been getting harder and harder
since Harry touched his neck. He laughed stupidly and swayed in front of
the seated man, grinning down at him as if this was all just a hilarious
lark. `Why don't you put your money where your mouth is, or your mouth
where your... haha, fuck it, I dunno what I'm saying...!' He looked
around for Harry and the others' supportive laughter, saw hesitant
amusement and disbelief from the young ones.

`Fuck it, I will!' responded Pickford, and suddenly he was pushing
Harry's hands out of the way, grabbing at the pockets on the sides of
his sweatpants. Dragging them down. Laughing and sniffing and leaning
forward. Kane turned his head back, a bit stunned by this development,
and looking down just as Jordan's lips closed about his rigid member.



Smith-Rowe was agog. He let out an exaggerated laugh of shock, as if
he'd never seen such a thing happen in real life, and took an excessive
slurp of mixed spirits. `Holy fuck!' he announced, elbowing clumsily at
Bellingham and then staring reprovingly at the way Maguire lurched and
applauded. `What the fuck, guys?' Emile found himself asking the room
at large. `Are we for fucking real?' Okay, okay, a wary voice in the
back of his head said: the lady doth protest too much.

It was drunken relief making him overact and shout out a series of `No,
bruvs!' as he topped up his drunk and stumbled about the room, sitting
on the corner of the other bed. Some nervous tension in him had snapped
now, because the role he had weirdly seen himself inevitably falling into
had been taken by someone else. As he came up here earlier, he'd felt a
weird jingle of destiny, and thought that he might have to give someone a
handjob to prove himself, to earn his stripes, that was how this sorta
shit worked. But nahhh, that crass Mackem bastard was... fucking hell, he
was really going for it!

Emile gawped, because so did the others. Harry Kane was pulling his
t-shirt up and off, exposing the long toned expanse of his torso, patchy
with golden-brown hair, and his crotch was hidden from view by Jordan
Pickford's face. The longer new hairstyle of the goalkeeper bounced and
flopped as his head made stiff motions back and forward into the crotch
of their captain, who was starting to make some appreciative gasps. It
was, Emile had to admit to himself, weirdly horny -- an England legend
like Kane being rightly appreciated, and a macho straight yob like
Pickford subjugating himself like this in front of them all. In truth,
Emile was thinking ahead: he was picturing himself as a World Cup captain
in a couple of tournaments' time, coming off double hat-tricks like this
and being adulated by the lads in this exact way.

`Fuck, man,' he heard Jude say uncertainly. The 18-year-old had drifted
this way, arms folded and brows creased, and he was standing between
where Emile sat and Maguire lurked. His eyes were serious and Emile kinda
expected him to fuck off now -- his drunken loudness had faded and surely
the straitlaced bugger was gonna freak out and escape. This must be
blowing his mind, Smith-Rowe supposed, oblivious to the odd kinky moment
Bellingham had witnessed in his friendship with Jadon Sancho. `Do all
goalkeepers suck dick like that?' the Dortmund player demanded suddenly
with dry humour, and then they were all laughing in surprise, everyone
but Jordan who was too busy slurping and gagging.

`Take a break,' Maguire was instructing now, standing beside Kane,
somehow suddenly with his top off too -- the both of them, big tall
buggers with their bodies out, though Maguire's broader and thicker-set,
with a darker trail of hair on his pecs down to his CKs. He was wrapping
a strong arm about Kane's shoulders as he laughed and joked. `Leave off
and take a breath will ya, cocksucker?' he boomed playfully, and
Pickford was pulling away, gasping for air. He was red-faced and giddy
looking, while Kane reached down and stroked his slick wet prick.

`Alright, who next?' Maguire demanded, and Emile felt an instant tremor
of excitement in his privates, he couldn't help it. But he was shocked:
Bellingham was pushing forward, laughing and nudging Kane to the side a
bit as he undid the drawstring at the front of his own trackies. In a
surprised daze, Emile got to his feet and stood between the beds,
watching as Pickford giggled and gasped and then leaned a bit to the
side... lunging in and licking the slim brown prick that was offered to
him. Whoa.



Kane felt like he should be too drunk for this action, but his cock felt
incredibly sensitive in his hand, pre-cum leaking already after the brief
and clumsy oral attention that Pickford had given him. It had been a long
while since a guy went down on him, Harry realised now; back in the day,
Dier would luxuriate over it, sucking him off slowly after he'd already
finished himself in anal, really taking the time to please and satisfy
him in hotel rooms and store cupboards for those beautiful months of
intimacy they'd shared.

Since then, Kane had fallen deeper into the role of sub and slut. He'd
been pissed on in a pub toilet by Jamie fucking Redknapp, messed around
by that Welsh god Gareth Bale, and used and abused by... Harry Maguire.
Who right now was standing next to him, stroking and patting at his back
and shoulders, and playing with himself while they watched Pickford
fellate Bellingham. Behind those two, the other young lad looked excited
too, up on his feet and grabbing at his bulge with his jaw hanging loose
and his eyes wide and bloodshot.

Kane couldn't help but want it. He could feel the other Harry's body
heat next to him and he let his right hand sneak back, brushing those
muscles, thinking to head south, to find the massive tool that lurked
below -- god, had he ever seen anything as big as the weapon that fella
carried? Or had memory exaggerated its proportions over the months? He
needed to know... `No,' hissed Maguire's voice close to his ear.
`You're captain here. Fuckin' behave.' Maguire shook him, laughed
again, and Kane understood: the other man was right, he had to watch
himself. He had status and reputation, he had a position to uphold. He
needed these other men to respect him... even if the brutish defender knew
his truth.

So instead, Harry just stroked himself, and laughed demandingly. `Go on
then, suck his dick,' he barked stupidly at Jordan, who eyed him wildly
as he worked. `You dirty Mackem bastard,' he added sourly, and then he
grabbed roughly at Pickford's hair and stole back that wet mouth for
himself. There was a general sense of approving laughter, and the circle
of men closed in. They were all standing around seated Pickford now, and
he realised that Maguire had his cock out -- he could see its immense
size and its shiny red tip out of the corner of his eye, and then he
could see knuckles about it. Jordan was wanking it with one trembling
hand even as he blew Kane's own piece. Fuckkkk.



Emile itched with horny impatience. He was hovering there like an idiot,
his panics of earlier forgotten, just a cocktail of beer and testosterone
now making him jealous of the attention the others were getting. Jordan
was sucking Harry Maguire now, slavering over that ridiculous big nob and
struggling to do so, gagging loudly and going bright pink. Kane and
Bellingham were jerking themselves off and Emile's own nob was rock hard
against the tightness of his briefs, leaking pre-cum against the fluff of
his thighs where the head had erupted out of those pants.

He looked shiftily from guy to guy: Maguire's lazy satisfaction as he
glowered admiringly down; Kane's wide-eyed buzz as he sniggered and
groaned; the still intense and serious aloofness of Bellingham, who
wanked himself in the same business-like way he did everything else.
Dirty fucker, Emile thought, never would have thought he had it in him!

`What about me?' he blurted suddenly, grabbing at his painfully hard
bulge again, edging closer.

Maguire fixed him with a look. `What, and your BJ lips?' he jeered.
Then laughed, reaching over and slapping him playfully on a cheek, then
pushing Pickford's head away from his glistening dick. Pickford lurched
between them, drool running down his pale-stubbled chin; the cock-sucking
goalkeeper made an awkward breathy laugh, not really saying anything
since he'd volunteered for this role. He just leant this way, almost
falling over, looking hungrily towards Emile, who bit his lips excitedly
and began pushing down at his pants. But one of Jordan's goal-saving
hands lunged out, pushing him hard in the abs, and making him flop
backwards on the bed. Emile laughed as he fell and caught himself and
then suddenly Pickford was on him, wrenching his sweatpants down and
nuzzling at his full briefs -- whoa!

Smith-Rowe just lay there and let out a gasp as Pickford's tongue found
the exposed head of his cock, wet and warm on him, oh holy god!

He heard hoots of appreciative laughter and the squeeze of bedpsrigns as
they all moved. He spread his legs and felt the twang of his own tight
black briefs dragged over his developed young thighs. Jordan took his
thick stubby cock into his wet mouth and did the same to it as the other
three. Emile let out a long gasping cry, then felt even more excited as
he realised Jude was kneeling near him, wanking himself silly but also
pushing Jordan's head down further to deep-throat him -- wow! And
Maguire was wanking that monster there too, towering over the scene and
just laughing dumbly... and pushing Kane this way, down the side of the
bed, shoving him in his tanned sides and shaking him at the shoulder, and
saying something, laughing really loudly and calling their names...

Emile looked that way, sprawled back with his hands resting just above
his waist, where his t-shirt bunched and creased. He looked to his right,
confused for a moment why Harry Kane was resting a knee there and looming
up beside him, but... He saw the cock swing and bounce with each muscular
jerk, and then looked from it up to Kane's long face and big dumb grin.
`Go on,' he could hear Maguire muttering filthily, `you're the
newest. You know you should, pal.'

Well, Emile thought, in a drunken rush -- wasn't this just what he'd
expected?



Kane would never have pushed it. He could see that Smith-Rowe wasn't
sure. But at his side, Maguire was grabbing and shaking him, and
bantering loudly at their newest England colleague. And to Harry's own
inner shock, the 21-year-old was reaching a hand over and caressing it
very clumsily against is wet shaft, even as he gasped and moaned at the
blowie he was getting from Jordan.

Harry was pushed further forward, further onto the bed on his knees, and
he felt Emile's fingers close more firmly about his tool. He looked down
at just how handsome the youngster actually was: full pouting lips and
high cheekbones, that scruffy blond hair and almost German looks. His
body was strong and compact beneath his t-shirt and his exposed thighs
were powerful, and the thick tool that was being drooled on by the
England No.1 was an impressive piece that in a different moment, Kane
would be desperate to sit on.

However, he was now caught up in the fantasy of what Maguire wanted for
him, and so he edged forward, and reached down to stroke the softness of
Emile's blond crop. `Go on,' he breathed, `do you wanna suck your
captain?' Still, for a moment, he saw doubt in those brown eyes, but
then a spams of pleasure passed over the Arsenal man's face at some
licking gesture of Pickford's, and then he was leaning sharply this way,
curious or convinced. His plump dark-pink lips brushed the tip and then
the shaft, and then he was sucking on Kane with a delicate uncertainty.
`Ohhhh, fuck,' the England captain moaned. `Oh, holy FUCK.'



It tasted funny: salty, already. It tasted like football changing rooms
smelled. He closed his eyes and did it, feeling some relief to cross a
line that had always occurred to him in moments of dangerous madness. Why
not try it, he asked himself sometimes, while some doey-eyed fucker with
a crush on him jerked him off in his shorts behind the bike-shed or
whatever. He supposed he'd always wondered, and now he was trying it,
drunk as a skunk and getting his own cock serviced intensely -- but he
didn't quite know what he was doing and he kept making Kane flinch as he
grazed it with his teeth or pushed too much or leaned at the wrong angle.
When it slipped out of his mouth, its weird imposing presence, Kane would
slap it at his cheeks or drag it over his lips, and he got an even fuller
taste of its saltiness. It was weird, because he found that he didn't
exactly like it, but he also didn't NOT like it. He was confused.

The blowjob on his cock had stopped, he realised, and he reached to play
with himself while opening his eyes and staring across. Pickford was
blowing Maguire instead, but simultaneously jerking off Bellingham; Kane
was still next to him and poking his wet cock at the side of his face, as
Emile's wide eyes found Jude's, and then he felt a lot less sure about
it all. The way the 18-year-old was now staring at him, such conviction
and accusation in his eyes! After the way he'd muscled in and shoved his
dick in Jordan's mouth?!

The look from the teenager was enough to kill Emile's drunk curiosity.
He spat out the taste and made a twisted face, pulling away from Kane,
who immediately took the hint. There was even a flash of panic in the
tall guy's eyes, of guilt or regret.

But it seemed the moment of awareness between Emile and Jude hadn't just
killed his moment's buzz and risk-taking; it had freaked out the Brummie
kid, who was now backing off and dragging up his pants. `Fuck this,'
Jude was announcing, largely ignored by the others. By the time the hotel
door slammed after him, Emile wasn't sure anyone had really noticed he
was gone. Maguire, he saw, had flopped onto the other bed, his pants all
around his ankles and so much of his 6ft4 body on show, stretched out but
with Pickford crouched between his hairy legs. That left him and Kane,
the latter still kneeling on the edge of the bed with a guilty look in
his eyes ,and Emile lying back on his elbows with a faint and disturbing
salty taste to his pouting lips.

He glanced sharply back at Kane, defiant but uncertain. He couldn't undo
what he'd just tried, what he'd just allowed himself to do to his
captain. He couldn't take that back, he thought now, Kane might always
seem him in a certain way! Just like he'd looked down on the other lads
who he'd let touch him in his late teens. Emile found himself
contemplating whether he wanted to try it again, to put his nervous lips
back to that pipe... but it didn't feel right. He wasn't so pissed and
crazed as he had been minutes ago.

Just as he felt unsure what to say or do next, he realised that Kane was
shifting position -- leaning back, sliding his body down, reaching over.
Before Emile knew what was happening, the positions were reversed.
Unnoticed by the other two, the England captain was going down on HIM --
what the fuck?!



Kane just couldn't stop himself. He didn't care what Maguire thought or
said. He was just so horny and hungry. He sucked aggressively at the
lad's beautiful cock and played with his own with his free hand, the
other stroking those glorious thighs and then scooping inside the t-shirt
to tickle at the hard abs and furry navel. Dear god, this fucker tasted
good!

Smith-Rowe was just too hot. Kane had watched him in the game tonight,
but only really appreciated him here, up close and dick out. He was such
a sturdy young guy, and something in his stocky strength was actually
reminiscent of... well, another dark blond English lad with a lot of
muscle on him, who Kane really shouldn't be thinking of right now.

Less thinking, more sucking.

Emile came soon. His panting was rapid and Harry knew what to do. He
clamped his mouth around the cock so that he could take the load against
his tongue, tasting it like he'd wanted to on the aeroplane floor not
long ago, suspecting the leftovers of Kyle or John, who he'd craved
across the table in the bar earlier. And a second later Harry himself was
cumming, spewing cum on his hand and on his legs as he knelt there,
swallowing every drop of Emile's juices and cleaning them from his shaft
and foreskin with his talented tongue.

`God, god,' the 21-year-old was moaning, seeming to simultaneously grab
his head close and try to push his body away. The lad sounded conflicted,
but his juice tasted great.

Kane reeled away, wiped out by his own orgasm, and feeling a trickle of
spunk course down his thin goatee. He rose up on his knees, his body hot
and sweaty, and he turned to look over his shoulder. Harry Maguire was
standing up on the other side of the bed with his back to them, all
rippling muscle and bare hairy arse, thrusting his hips and fucking
Jordan Pickford in the face. Harry knelt there, riding the wave of dizzy
pleasure, and watched that big dominant stud unload his balls into the
surprising slut of a goalkeeper. The sight had him awestruck, but also
relieved; Maguire would have no idea that he'd given in and blown Emile,
not really, maybe he could keep up a pretence of being an alpha male like
his rival for the captain's armband? Maybe he could impose a new
leadership on the England squad ready for the World Cup when it came
around...

He looked furtively back at Emile, who was edging over the bed and
reaching down to pull his briefs up over his sticky crotch. The two men
looked uncertainly at one another, and the youngster looked pretty
dubious and shameful. Kane rose up, moved closer, and patted his side.
`Don't you worry,' he said vaguely, unsure exactly what he was
promising -- but he knew now that he'd always look out for this young
forward, who might one day be his successor, because this lad had tried
to suck him and then tasted so fantastic when the favour was returned.
Harry met his eyes again and just winked. `Captain's favourite,' he
promised ambiguously. Behind him, Maguire's orgasmic groans were like a
volcano erupting, and were followed by the wet gasps and choking sounds
of the Everton goalie: `Yes sir,' he could be heard whimpering, his
brash North-Eastern confidence replaced by a sluttish greed, an
emasculated neediness. `Yes...'



They shared a taxi. It made sense.

The City was grey with the dawn, and Emile watched it pass through aching
hungover eyes. He stared intently at the scenery as the car wound them
out of the city centre and up steep quiet roads into the north, past
Hampstead. The grey world looked a bit depressing, but it was better than
looking across the taxi seats at the England captain whose cock he had
briefly tasted.

Kane had helped him back into his pants and got him out of the hotel
room, whilst Maguire lounged about naked and Pickford curled up in a
foetal position against his legs, too bare and intimate for the
21-year-old Arsenal player to deal with. There was something next level
about what he'd witnessed of Harry Maguire that frightened him, even
with his own leanings and preferences. He'd been relieved to get out of
that suite and be led down to the foyer whilst his captain arranged the
car and said little else to him. In fact, neither of them had said a word
since getting into the vehicle.

Only once the first drop was made did that change. Emile climbed out,
tired and unsteady on his feet, and wondering if he actually had all his
bags with him. He stood on the grey pavement, feeling the chill fog creep
past, and looked up at the outline of the new house he and a few mates
were currently sharing, then glanced back into the taxi. The driver
seemed a world away in his front compartment, drowned in radio music --
Harry Kane, looking so much more like the respectable national hero with
his clothes back on and his hair fussed over, slid down the back seats
and leant out of the door to address him in a dawn whisper.

`You did well this weekend,' he said ambiguously.

`I guess,' Smith-Rowe returned in a cracked voice.

`First goal,' the captain told him, though his tone spoke of other
firsts.

Harry was staring intensely at him, and despite his nauseous hungover
doubts, Emile did feel a shiver of something more pleasant and positive.
There was a look in Kane's eyes that he'd seen before in lads, and
he'd been packing his shorts well for enough years to enjoy the
attention. His dry chapped lips edged into a sort of curious grin as he
returned that look, amused by the slow return of Pemier League sentiment
-- he wasn't looking at his teammate and his captain any more, he was
looking at a dirty Tottenham player, and he almost said so before
thinking better of it. `See ya,' he said croakily, backing away from
the car. Kane just nodded and dragged the passenger door shut, then was
driven sharply away into the fog. Emile watched him go, and scratched his
crotch idly, remembering how it had felt to cum inside his captain's
mouth.



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