Date: Sun, 6 Feb 2022 20:54:28 +0000
From: writer guy <premiershiplads@outlook.com>
Subject: Premiership Lads Part 280

Part 280 - The Comeback Kid


Anfield thrummed with expectation for the FA Cup knockout game ahead -
not just from the gathering crowds in the stands above, but down among
the players of both sides who were warming up at either end of the pitch.
Nobody was more wired and afire with this expectation than 18-year-old
Harvey Elliott, moving stiffly through the exercises prescribed by the
assistant coaches, a little too distracted by the mounting atmosphere to
fully give his attention to the professional prep. His body sprang
through each movement with a lot of tension and wound-up energy, a clingy
bright-red tracksuit covering his proper Liverpool kit just like every
other man in the scattered groups of squad members getting limbered up
and ready here.

147 long days had passed since injury had cut short Harvey's season.
He'd been so fucking excited to get back to the club after his
prodigious loan spell at Blackburn, and then he'd barely made it a few
weeks into the `21-'22 season before leaving the game on a stretcher,
red-faced in agony. But the teen had worked his arse off for months to
get back in action, and here he was, warming up for this comeback
fixture!

He couldn't help but feel a bit pissed off that he was going to be
sitting on the bench rather than making a proper start, but he knew he
had a reasonable start of making it onto the pitch, given the tournament
and the way the coaches had been with him in recent training sessions.
Life at Rovers had built Harvey's expectations for himself even further,
and it was a little tough to feel like a minor player here in this cast
of stars, so he was absolutely determined to fully prove himself in the
next few matches and become a permanent name on the starting lineup, as
he knew he deserved.

Heavy ambitious thoughts like this weighed on the young winger as he
stretched one arm and then the other across his chest, keeping time with
the other young lads about him, and glancing repeatedly from the
directing coach to the filling stands and the noisy sea of Scousers who
were already baying for victory. It electrified him, making hairs on his
neck and wrists stand on end, and his bollocks tingle in the confines of
his sports briefs, the attention and celebrity of it always getting his
engines revving on all levels.

As the routine of stretches and exercises ended, Elliott let his eyes
wander to the side, and he noticed that his neighbouring substitute was
staring up at the stands with a slightly nervous hang to his features,
eyes wide and wondering. He reached over and grabbed the other teen
player momentarily by the shoulder to shake him reassuringly. `You ready
to smash these fuckers?' he demanded aggressively, giving one of his
trademark grins to the other lad.

Tyler Morton had crept into the senior squad in Harvey's own loan
absence, but the two knew each other well from the Merseyside club's
youth ranks, and it was nice not to be the dweeby youngest guy in the
squad any more. Right now, the 17-year-old local lad's slightly fearful
expression was also bolstering to Harvey's tense confidence, shaking him
by the shoulder again and half-hugging him as they broke formation and
trailed towards the dugouts at the manager's insistence. `Ready,'
Morton agreed in a quiet rasp, hunching and looking terribly nervous as
they followed the other guys. Harvey patted his neck a few times and
muttered at him, `This is going to be a piece of cake, this one.'

It was one thing being the pally older-brother-figure to a relative
newbie like Morton, but Harvey gradually realised that his own nervous
energy and the significance of his 147 day comeback were hardly invisible
to the more experienced Liverpool athletes around him - he found himself
getting the same semi-patronising shoulder grabs and back pats from any
number of the guys as they huddled in small groups at the edge of the
pitch and then made their way briefly back indoors for a team talk in the
hallowed home changing rooms.

`So good to have you back,' the skipper told him at one point, giving
him a serious nod on the way into the tunnel, seeming to puff out his own
chest and set his sharp jawline in a determined fashion. He leaned in as
if Harvey was in desperate need of a pep talk, and reminded him how well
he'd played in training over the past few days. Harvey nodded
appreciatively, glad to have Jordan Henderson's support, but a little
wary to realise that the 31-year-old Northerner could see nerves through
his bravado.

As a result, Hendo's murmured words of encouragement and light touch to
the elbow had the opposite of their desired effect on Elliott, making him
more than overthink his potential performance today, and some wimpish
part of him almost desire to just STAY on the bench, and save his
comeback outing for another Sunday. Besides, Hendo was a bit severe and
serious with it, as he had been all through the week's training sessions
- a lot of the lads were saying the captain must have had an argument at
home with the missus or something, because he had none of his usual cheer
and easy-going confidence either, there was definitely something up with
him!

Captain in a funny off-mood, and there were major players missing, Harvey
remembered as they filed into the changing rooms; from his personal
perspective, the absence of his best pal and former housemate Neco
Williams stood out, though the fellow youngster wasn't as big a dent in
the squad as the obvious one. Still, it had shaken Harvey to find out his
Welsh buddy was headed south and joining Fulham for the rest of the
season, even if he understood more than most what such a switch-up could
do. Neco was a notable gap in the pre-match banter as Harvey fell into
place next to the other young guns like Tyler and Curtis, and the warm
grin of his bestie would have done a lot more to settle Harvey's
expectations than the formal encouragement of their skipper, or the half
dozen other well-meaning guys who grabbed and spoke to him over the next
fifteen minutes.

Inevitably, Harvey did give a moment's thought to the OTHER big absence
in the Liverpool crowd, the one that had everyone a bit more worried
about guaranteed success in what should be an easy cup tie: Mo Salah.
Like a number of other Premiership big names, the Egyptian hero was
abroad for Afcon, guiding his countrymen to an imminent finale... Salah's
absence was a bad thing for the club, but for Harvey it was a... mixed
blessing. He'd been conscious of the world-class striker's absence from
the moment he rejoined training a few weeks back, equally relieved and
regretful of the frisson it had taken out of his days in the training
centre.

Contact between himself and the North African man had died out during the
latter months of his Blackburn period, but many a distant look had
simmered between them in the early weeks of this season, and during
Harvey's infrequent visits to club property during his rehab months. And
yet the memories of crashing at the Salah household all that time ago
after his own troublemaking... well, they burned as fresh as ever in the
back of the teenager's busy mind, as vivid as his ambitions to make his
mark on Anfield.

It's good he's not here, Harvey told himself distractedly, supping
water and sitting his arse on a bench while those on the starting sheet
stripped down to their glossy kits, shedding the warmer layer of
tracksuit, and subs like himself just waited to follow them out into the
bright chilly afternoon. His hair, close-shaven at the sides now but
still a curly little mop on the top, was tussled and grabbed with cheeky
affection by the older guys that passed him by, strutting across the room
with clicks of boot-studs. Harvey smirked a bit and pulled away from
these gestures, trying to just centre himself; in particular, he jerked
carefully away from a light pat to the head from James Milner as the
ageing midfielder walked by. The broad Yorkshireman gave him an
inscrutable look before stomping after the others, and Harvey felt an odd
little shudder of regret.

The things he'd got up in this place, he thought anxiously. Dirty deeds.
It didn't matter whether it was older fellas like Salah and Milner, he
reminded himself, or a cheeky moment with Gomez or even Williams, sharing
a joint in the attic of their former hosts... It was all a bit kinky and
off, he told himself certainly, proud of how sensible and monogamous
he'd managed to become during the hard work of physical rehabilitation
on his injury. Ahead of him, the bulky muscular outline of the
36-year-old Milner seemed to strike a particularly distressing reminder
of his dirty experiments: he'd been so sore for so long after his close
encounter with the big Yorkshire man, and he never wanted to feel so used
or ashamed ever again.

Harvey Elliott was back at Anfield and ready to fully focus on proving
himself to the footballing world. He certainly didn't need to be
crawling about on his knees getting kinky with a bunch of greedy married
men like those buggers!

Out they went, facing the low winter sun and the vibrant crowd noises of
Anfield, and these wandering thoughts were pushed away by the 18-year-old
prodigy. He fiddled with the fit of his shorts beneath his tight tracky
bottoms, lingering near the touchline, half-listening as the boss mouthed
last instructions to the starting 11 and the rest of the substitutes
began to take their spots in the rows of seating just behind the dugout.
Harvey's thoughts came back to sport and success and how much he needed
a second-half appearance to re-establish himself here at the club that
meant everything to him and his Surrey-based family.

He clapped his gloved hands together in front of him and let out a long
condensing breath into the bright air, then was about to back off and
follow the other subs when one of the passing players nudged elbows with
him and turned to give him a friendly grin. `See you out there when the
first switches happen,' yelped the right-back warmly, rolling his
shoulders and cricking his neck as he made to dash out and take up his
place.

Harvey, briefly dazed by his own thoughts, returning Trent
Alexander-Arnold's friendly grin with a nervous hesitance - what if he
did have to sit it all out on the bench like some inexperienced youth
team brat, after all? Is that why all of the senior players were being so
patronisingly nice to him today, because they knew he and Morton would
just be clapping from the bench and getting no kicks in on the field?

`All good, star-boy?' Alexander-Arnold demanded in his warm
Liverpudlian accent. He rested his hand briefly on Harvey's upper arm,
just a little taller and broader at his more developed 23, though it
seemed to Harvey and everyone else that Trent had been a first-team
fixture for as long as could be remembered, the poster boy for homegrown
talent here.

Harvey recovered himself enough for a dismissive snort of `Sure is',
and then slapping the older lad encouragingly on the back. `Why the fuck
wouldn't it be?' he demanded with an arrogant lightness to his tone and
expression, recovering the laddish bravado that had carried him all day.
`Get on with you,' he instructed dismissively, shifting away from the
Scouse player, who seemed to give him a curious or suspicious look for no
reason, but then launched off at a run, following Tsimikas and van Dijk
in to the defensive lines. The crowd noises escalated in anticipation of
the whistle, and Harvey climbed a few steps to complete the row of
substitutions who were spaced out behind the huddle of their coaches, all
leaned purposefully forward with their attentions fixed on the start of
the game.

Harvey sat himself down at the end next to a nervy-looking Tyler, and
found his eyes tracing Trent's route to his right-back starting
position. Huh. A proper local hero at 23, that one, and yet... even Trent
was someone he couldn't look at without a little bit of awkwardness and
regret, and the 23-year-old was one of his most valued and respected
teammates here. As a fan as well as a player, the West Derby-born star
was someone he loved and looked up to, and yet in his current agitated
mood, he couldn't help but think back to the night of their big
Premiership title win back in 2020...

Not one interaction with Trent since had ever come anywhere near
acknowledging that something had happened that hot sweaty night of summer
drinking and Premiership glory - not a single word, look, or gesture, not
like the smug expressions of James Milner or the distant intensity of Mo
Salah... But Harvey knew what his younger self had done by the back doors
of that sports club, on his knees for first Joe Gomez, and then a
terrified inexperienced Alexander-Arnold...

The whistle blew and the game started, and Elliott closed his eyes as he
pushed that summery memory further down and away. Those were different
times, and he had to leave it there in the past! Next to him, the other
substitute lads were on their feet, clapping heavily and hollering
support out at the players, particularly Milner, Thiago and Robertson,
and Elliott got up do the same, thumping his palms together and roaring
out similar cliches. `YOU'LL NEVER WALK ALONE!' the stocky little
Liverpool starlet bellowed.


Harvey not only made it off the bench and onto the pitch, but then
proceeded to complete this dreamlike sequence with a goal. His plucky
shot cemented a 2-0 lead into 3-0, and the 18-year-old screamed and
roared out to the home crowd with even more gusto than in the early
section of the game. He screamed his lungs out and slid dramatically to
his knees before being enveloped in a series of grabs and hugs by his
teammates - gone were the patronising pats and nudges of well-meaning
older lads welcoming the injured kid back into the team, replaced by
wild-eyed admiration and adrenaline-fuelled brotherhood. A lucky comeback
goal by the visiting Cardiff players a few minutes later was irrelevant;
Liverpool and its `star-boy' young winger rode through to full-time
brimming with confidence and self-belief, through to the next round of
the country's biggest tourney.

Hugging at his teammates on the field of victory, Elliott felt a million
miles from the fraught expectation of two hours ago. How could he have
doubted his own readiness? Why had his bravado faltered for even a few
minutes?! It was his turn for the smugness of experience now, shrugging
off excited hugs from Tyler Morton and Curtis Jones at the sidelines,
arrogantly dismissive of his own stellar strike. He hooted with laughter
and high-fived the likes of Andy Robertson and Virgil van Dijk as if this
shit happened every day; admittedly, the height difference on the latter
player meant he had to jump on the spot to do so, but he found himself
swaggering away from the victorious game with a sense that all of this
was just inevitable. OF COURSE he was going to score on his comeback and
remind everybody what the fuss was about, of course.

And with the self-doubt of injury and loan absence went the nagging
little worries about the sexual activities he'd got up to in the past
couple of years, drawn curiously along by his own teenage horn, and the
surprising interest of those around him. Those were things that had been
experienced by a different Harvey, and therefore irrelevant to the
Premiership hero that he was at 18. Even if Salah had been there in the
tunnel this afternoon, part of him thought, he wouldn't have felt
troubled by those dark longing glances from the married Muslim, he'd
just shrug it off and stride on!

But such thoughts really just didn't occur to Harvey in the denouement
of the afternoon's action. His mind was all about football, even when he
was grabbed and hugged by the likes of Milner - it just felt like the
genuine approval of a seasoned athlete, not coloured by the moments they
had shared when the older man followed him home to his accommodation and
took control of him in his walk-in wardrobe.

The home changing rooms were thick with support for him and his two
fellow goal-scorers, but he was dragged away from it for media duty, the
narrative of his injury comeback too good for the club's PR and the
sports channels to resist. For a minute, Elliott resented this, just
wanting the testosterone-thick air of the locker room, the aggressive
approval of all of those older men, but he was a born attention-seeker,
and he happily readjusted to the faux humility of a few brief interviews
out in the fresh air. His cheeks shone red and his curls of dirty blond
hair stuck to his sweaty brow as he chatted amiably with the reporters
and pulled a puffer jacket over his clingy Liverpool shirt.

Back in he went, clapped and congratulated by more club and stadium
staff, and eyed resentfully by a few lingering Cardiff personnel. He
walked into the changing rooms to a moment of confusing silence, as if
something terrible had just happened - an air of expectation and
concentration filled the musty and steamy environment, and Harvey paused
in naive confusion for a moment... before the entirety of the Liverpool
squad burst into chants of his forename and the nearest lads, Curtis and
Firmino, rushed to grab him in a group hug that dragged him off his
aching feet. Blood rushed to his head as he was hoisted onto their
shoulders and applauded by all of the others... `He's back, he's
back!' bellowed the gruff Glaswegian of Robbo, stood on a bench and
hopping up and down to lead the chants like a mascot, `our fucking
star-boy is back!'


The party was muted, because club life was riddled with pandemic
protocol, but the match-winners were hardly going to call it a day
without raising a couple of glasses that Sunday afternoon in a plush
hospitality suite overlooking the empty stadium.

Outside, a golden sunset was obscured by threatening clouds, and inside
was a buzz of upbeat noise.It was an oddly mixed and divided crowd; among
the players themselves, several were on healthy fruit juices and soft
fizzy drinks, but those who WERE drinking were a rapid two or three pints
in, and the footballers and support staff were intermingled with
executives and administrative staff, a myriad collection of personnel
just seizing the opportunity to get a few free drinks in this bar and let
off steam.

Like a lot of the others, Harvey wore a loose black hoodie with a
Liverpool crest across the heart, oversized and hanging from his sweaty
body - he'd showered, but in a hurry, and he still felt pink and clammy
in the fresh clothes that he'd pulled over his tight muscled young body
to head on up here. A third pint of warming lager was clutched in one
fist and the other fumbled at the outline of his smartphone in the
hoodie's pouch pocket, feeling the sporadic vibration of notifications
arriving and being ignored; he'd missed a few calls too, which he
suspected would be from his girlfriend, and he wasn't sure why he was so
reluctant to check them and ring her back as he ought to. I'll go soon
though, he told himself, sipping the pint, thinking that there was no
point calling her when he'd duck out of his shindig any minute and jump
into a taxi to the booked-out bar-restaurant where his friends and family
were waiting to celebrate with him.

Instead of making his excuses and departing for that plan, he bopped his
head idly to the background noise of conversation, zoned out of the
immediate conversation of his mate Curtis Jones and the young Irish
goalkeeper Caoimhin Kelleher on either side of him; Curtis was stammering
on excitedly about who they might be getting in the next round of the
cup, whilst Kelleher was animatedly re-living some of his big goalkeeping
moments from the match, utterly thrilled to have stepped into Alisson's
boots today.

Harvey quietly detached himself from the two of them, half-conscious that
he should have left half an hour ago, and he stroked at the short shaggy
line of his chinstrap beard whilst looking from corner to corner of the
long bar area and its iconic view.

He caught sight of Milner, hunched at the bar and drinking a fruit juice,
engaged deeply in conversation with the skipper Hendo and a couple of
others. Harvey made an arrogant little sneer with his drunken lip,
enjoying the new coolness with which old James had treated him since the
game - hah, try looking at him like some cock-sucking little loser now,
after scoring a goal like that! There was enough booze in Harvey's
dehydrated system right now to establish a logical erasure of past sins
based on today's action. The version of himself who had quivered and
whimpered underneath the muscle-bound DILF was dead and buried, mentally!

Nah, he was a new guy now! He'd been reborn in the fire of his loan
time, burning up Blackburn and the whole fucking Championship, hadn't
he? The spotty kid who'd nervously crossed those lines, high as a kite
or full of transgressive mischief, he was a thing of the fucking past.
Harvey puffed out his lean chest under the hoodie and his vest, drunkenly
oblivious of being one of the shortest guys in the room. He swayed a
little on the heels of his latest Nike trainers as he rocked back and
forward on the spot, slurping down more warming lager. He'd drank too
much too quickly, and he'd get a few shady looks when his taxi dropped
him off to his girlfriend and his family. When he got around to leaving
this party, that was. Any minute now.

Diogo Jota saluted him on his way past, the Portuguese forward on his way
to force another beer on their new colleague, Luis Diaz; nearby, Thiago
and van Dijk were politely entertaining some old stiff in a suit who was
CEO of a new sponsor; his young buddy Tyler Morton was awkwardly sipping
Coke with the assistant manager and a couple of important-looking women;
Robbo, knocking back the beers and letting his gruff laughs echo about
the room, was over by the windows in close conversation with
broad-chested Oxlade-Chamberlain, who hadn't even played today but was
as elated as anyone else with the outcome. And then Harvey's eyes fell
on a different familiar face...

Not actually present, but magnified and elevated on a screen... Sky
coverage of the African Cup of Nations, and a close-up of the bashful
grin of a handsome tanned face... The interview clip of Salah and his
Egypt teammates flared colourfully on for a few moments more and then was
gone, replaced on the big wall-mounted screen by some clips of
Leicester's embarrassing defeat elsewhere in the Cup. But even when the
African footage was replaced with English stadiums and crowds, Harvey
blinked and saw the distinctive bright-eyed face of the world-conquering
striker, his Mohamed.

The teen was jolted momentarily by a queasy mix of sensations. A slight
sadness that Salah was not here in his usual prominence in the team
addicted to winning, mixed with a fascinated admiration for the
striker's international exploits... quickly giving way to resentment and
gladness, kinda wishing that the stupid fuck had signed for Real Madrid
or whoever in the summer, and pissed off abroad like he always joked...
Harvey shuddered slightly, blocking the creeping sense memories and seeds
of longing. A dumb youth crawling over silk sheets, meeting eyes with the
Egyptian prince, ignoring the sleeping form of his wife, and reaching
between the thickly haired legs...

`Wotcha-'

He blinked again and slurred his words as he made his quick and clumsy
`Hey bro' at the teammate suddenly next to him, clinking a slim beer
bottle against his pint glass and giving him the same warm smile that
they'd shared seconds before kick-off. Trent punched him lightly in the
arm, swaying next to him in the same dark hoodie. `You feeling
alright?' the native Scouser asked with a friendly laughter in his
voice.

`Why you always asking me that?' Elliott snapped back unthinkingly.

Trent just laughed off this little growl, sipping from his Estrella and
wiping a sleeve across his pouty mouth. `Fair,' was all he said,
looking away - to the screen, at their teammates, and then back at
Harvey. There was an interesting thoughtfulness in his wide bright eyes,
an edge to his lilting smile.

`What?' Harvey barked quietly at him, blinking away a little surge of
drunk feeling.

`Nowt, nowt,' the right-back said distantly. `Just...'

Harvey drained the rest of his pint in a bullish gesture,
half-consciously asserting his masculinity for the other young
Premiership star, not quite meeting his eyes and staring doggedly at the
screen instead, which showed the Nottingham Forest men celebrating their
shock win over the Foxes. The room was noisy but there was a moment of
quiet between them in which he felt hotly aware of Trent's presence and
closeness, and of his eyes looking him up and down. Itching beneath his
hoodie and the black cargo pants he'd pulled on his aching legs, Harvey
checked the time on his watch. He knew he was late, so it was pointless
confirming it to himself.

`Somewhere better to be?' Trent asked with the same edge of curious
amusement.

`Yeah,' Elliott scoffed at him, trying to shake the traces of silly
confrontation from his own young voice, but stupidly shaken by his little
Mo Salah moment. He patted his own face and shook himself and glanced
apologetically at the other player, someone he certainly didn't want to
disrespect. `Sorry, I'm a bit hot. Drank that one a bit fast.' He
suppressed a timely belch and Trent just laughed at him and took the
empty pint glass from him with a nod.

`Where are you going?'

`Party. Family `n friends, y'know. Big comeback, innit.'

`Doesn't get much bigger,' Trent said. His voice sounded almost
mocking, but Harvey saw only sincere friendly praise in his facial
expression. He blushed warmly in the beery heat of the room and felt
oddly self-conscious. Around them, the other guys milled, and somebody
was shouting about vodka shots at the bar, shepherding a gradual movement
of all the other Liverpool personnel.

Harvey glanced after them but then moved the other way. `I should get
out of here,' he said, mostly to himself, but he found that Trent was
walking with him, finishing the beer and clinking both vessels down on a
table that they passed. Then they were out in the stairwell beyond the
doors and the air was immediately cooler.

Harvey hesitated at the top of the stairs, resting one pink hand on the
bannister. He glanced interestedly at the 23-year-old, and then behind
them through the double doors into the vague scene of celebration. `I'm
fine,' he grunted in response to the unspoken quesiton of friendly
concern in Trent's eyes.

`Cool,' the older footballer said lightly. `Just checking. You seemed
on edge all day, that's all. But you were fucking awesome out there,
la'. Great stuff. We are so lucky to have you back, like everyone
says.' Trent smiled and nodded, then gave his shoulder a squeeze.
`Enjoy your party mate, you properly deserve it.'

Harvey silently ignored the positive comments, shifting a footstep away.
But Trent made no move to head back or to follow him, just staying at the
landing, arms hanging loosely at his sides, and head at a thoughtful
angle. Harvey, stamping down some memories on the inside, shot him a
fierce look and muttered suddenly: `I had no idea what I was doing,
y'know, it was just a stupid night and I'd drank way too much for my
age.'

Trent's calm expression reacted very slightly to this little outburst,
but he just said, `Dunno what you mean, bro...?'

`Yeah you do,' Elliott muttered, lowering his gaze. `Stupid fucking
night. Gomez getting bit frisky. It was just... ugh...' He shrugged, his
face burning red, and he regretted mentioning anything at all. It
occurred to him that Alexander-Arnold might genuinely have no memory of
standing in a dark doorway in the summer night of victory, Harvey's
mouth about his prick. He felt queasy with his own hotheaded stupidity,
and he made to mvoe away.

`Hey...' Trent's voice and gesture was soft as he said this and grabbed
him by the arm. `Shit happens, yeh... that's all just water under the
bridge. You know how much I respect you, yeh?'

The two of them stood there at the top of the stairs, and Harvey let out
a couple of frustrated breaths before moving away. He began descending
the flight, but Trent followed, and caught up with him at the next
landing, quieter and more removed from the general jovial noise of the
bar above. Harvey paused, squeezing an awkward hand against the
bannister, and feeling Trent hold and stroke his shoulder as he came
close to him.

`I regret it too,' the Scouser murmured at him. `I mean, you were
pretty young and green, and we were all pissed, but it was Joe, y'know,
he kinda grabbed me out there, and was just like...' Trent made an
awkward laugh. `I mean, it was just...'

`I ain't sucking your cock,' Harvey blurted at him, a bit too loudly.
It was a good job they were down here at the next landing. Still, he
glanced back up the stairs stupidly, and then glared at the lingering
amusement on Trent's handsome brown features. `I mean it,' he repeated
dimly, and this just made the defensive player laugh quietly.

`That was not what I was thinking!' Alexander-Arnold mumbled.

`I don't do that any more,' Elliott said, mainly to himself.

`That's fine... I wasn't gonna ask you to, for fuck's sake.'

`Just stupid times, didn't know what I was playing at, so...'

`Relax, bro - I hardly remember it, we were both wasted, so-' Trent
seemed to stop himself, and it seemed to Harvey as if he were in conflict
over what to say next - but Harvey's thoughts were turning to the missed
calls and messages in his pocket, and the fact that he was due at his own
party almost an hour ago. He tensed, letting go of the bannister, but
found something intriguing in Trent's smile and the closeness of their
bodies here on the landing. Suddenly, the hand of Trent's on his
shoulder was squeezing just a little bit more, kneading at his muscle
through the thick fabric.

`You could say I owe you one,' the 23-year-old said very quietly.

Harvey was drunk and distracted and it took him a while to click.
`Huh?' he grunted, even when the significance of the comment was
falling into place. He eyed his teammate up, his whole body tingling
hotly under his clothes. There was a lazy stirring in his crotch and he
found himself enjoying the amused smirk and pout of Trent's lips, the
tipsy laziness of his eyes and dark lashes. `Huh,' Harvey repeated
breathily, but this time it wasn't really a question.


Harvey didn't bother lifting the baggy hoodie, just kept it on, feeling
his cargo pants slide down his muscular thighs and past his knees to hang
about his grazed shins; he rested back against the shut cupboard door,
keeping it firmly shut, and reached down with his hand. His fingers found
the tight dark fuzz of Afro hair and he clutched awkwardly at its
texture. Trent's face pushed in against his crotch. He felt those damp
lips kissing at his cock and balls through the boxer briefs he was
wearing, and his cock throbbed. He made a low drone of pleasure, pursing
his lips and closing his eyes against the dark immediacy of the cupboard
they'd lunged into a couple of corridors away from the staircase.

The only other sound was Trent's heavy breathing, out of sight to
Harvey's tightly squeezed eyes, but now very busy down there. That
surprising greedy mouth was finding the outline of Harvey's growing
excitement, but still through the frustrating layer of fabric. Harvey
began reaching for his own CK waistband to correct this but Trent's
hands found his and forced them aside, maintaining control - the teasing
kiss and stroke of it continued for minutes that became weirdly
agonising, a drunken numbness coming over all of Harvey's body. It made
him let out an impatient whimper of noise, and push his crotch firmly
into Trent's gasping face.

This felt right to him. This was different. He could picture himself on
his knees for Trent and Gomez, overwhelmed and needy, but this felt more
right to him - of course Trent should be going down on him, after a
performance like that! The whole fucking team ought to be, he thought
deliriously, imagining a queue of them in this cramped dark space - whole
fucking lot of them should be sucking his cock to thank him and show
their appreciation! `Yes,' he barked, `suck my fat prick, you
Scouser!' The whole City of Liverpool could get on its knees for Harvey
fucking Elliott, he thought!

Trent giggled a little at his dominant remark, but Harvey felt the lad's
fingers under his waistband, and then the boxer briefs were being dragged
over his thighs too, and he could feel warm beery breath tickle at the
sensitive skin of his cock, which sprung prominently up in a gentle arc,
straight to attention. And then the softest lips and tongue imaginable
were on it and Harvey shuddered afresh, pressing his compact weight back
into the door and stifling a long moan in his throat. Neither of them
said another word, and so the only noise was the fussy wet slobbering of
the fellatio.

Harvey recovered enough of his will and brought his hands forcefully back
to Trent's head, digging his fingers into the thick natural hair, and
guiding it back and forward so that his cock slid in and out of those
thick delicious lips. He let out a thin raspy moan, barking words of
dominance dying in his throat before he could get them out. He was
breathless and excited, the numbness wearing away.

The 18-year-old found a rhythm in his hips, gently fucking his teammate
in the face, and holding his head there even when he could hear the
snuffling struggle for breath. He let his balls slap softly at chin and
goatee, and just pushed his own meat deeper in against the tongue and the
roof of the mouth. His moans threatened to get louder and he had to
cautiously stop him, unable to forget where they were, in this fucking
stadium.

Weirdly, he'd never particularly enjoyed oral sex from his girlfriend,
all teeth and tentativeness, and he preferred to just get straight to the
proper sex with her. But a man's mouth on him, wow... It was odd that it
had never much occurred to him before, slapping his lips around several
cocks in the past two years, but he could see now why he easily gave so
much pleasure to them all. And the pleasure was driving him WILD.

He fucked Trent's mouth more forcefully, pulling his bare strong glutes
away from the cool wood of the door, and thrusting his crotch in against
that wet throat. He could feel how sweaty he was beneath the hooded top
but he just went on, straining and grunting and needing urgent release.
He lost much sense of Trent as a friend and teammate, just a thing to be
fucked, and got lost in his climax - his assertion of strength and
manliness after these confusing periods of experimentation and trouble.

And then he was looking down at the mess he'd made, hearing the
desperate gasps of Trent who was almost choking on the gooey mouthful
that shone on his bottom lip in the tiny shard of light that crept into
the cupboard through the outline of the door. Harvey stood there, shaking
on the spot, feeling his cock throb and cool, smelling his own seed in
the air between them; below him, Trent sucked in mouthfuls of air but
then also lapped his large tongue against the tingling tip of Harvey's
erection. `Fuck,' the 18-year-old moaned into the private darkness of
the cupboard, `oh fuckkkk.'


Leaving Anfield, there was a lazy swagger to his movement. He felt dizzy
and tired from the quick intense orgasm, but he also felt supremely sure
of his own power and potential. He'd hung on in the cupboard, letting
Trent lick him clean while the other lad jerked off and came, unseen in
the shadows, but Harvey had silently refused to offer a hand or mouth of
assistance on that. He'd just rested and caught his breath, saying
nothing, just rubbing his sticky cock-head against Trent's cheek and
lip. And then he'd left him to recover, still stuffing his prick into
his undies and buttoning up his cargo pants as he reached the stairwell
and headed south.

Now he swung into his taxi with a smug last glance back up at the rising
bulk of the stadium against the sunset, and paid little attention to the
fan-boy sentiments of the driver who was excited to be collecting him.
The driver confirmed the destination address with him and then went back
into this reverie, heaping praise on his performance and his goal today.
Harvey leaned casually back on the leather, eyes half-closed, taking deep
luxurious breaths and feeling the hot sex sweat cool beneath his clothes.

`You're a fucking star,' the local man was saying as they hit the
roads.

`Yeah,' Harvey sighed lazily. `I think I am.'