Date: Sun, 17 Apr 2022 11:50:51 +0000
From: writer guy <premiershiplads@outlook.com>
Subject: Premiership Lads, Part 290

Part 290: Out on Loan


Lunchtime, and already the Wembley Park area was swimming with fans; he
had to have the brim of his cap pulled low and a pair of pretty
ostentatious sunglasses over his face to maintain some discretion as he
moved among the army of Liverpool fans who had made the journey here,
knowing the fuss his appearance might make. The couple of mates he was
with, old school pals who had caught the train down last night, had
ribbed him in the taxi here for his weak incognito persona, but they
understood and respected his need for a jot of privacy, and ambled
through the milling crowds with him, winding through the broad street
between the restaurants and outlet stores and the rising bulk of the
national stadium itself.

`We just need to get in and then we'll be sound,' the 21-year-old
Welshman told his fellow Liverpool-loving pals, leading them across
another road and in the direction of a heavily-guarded side entrance away
from the busy gangways that sloped up to the stadium; he was trying to
remember the detailed instructions he'd been given for their easy
access, trying to seem smooth and in control in front of his buddies, his
VIP guests. He wasn't sure he'd be able to get them in to meet any of
the LFC players this time, but they were to enjoy a pretty luxury box
with some other club guests, and up there he could strip off the stupid
cap and shades and be less shy about his identity.

`You sure they're gonna let us in, Neeks?' sniggered one of the other
young lads.

`Fuck, I feel like we're secret agents or summat,' cackled the other,
jabbing him in the ribs, all fizzing with pre-match excitement for the FA
Cup semi-final.

Neco Williams sped ahead of the other two a little bit, lifting the brim
of his cap and swiping off the oversized sunglasses - there was a nervous
half-minute as he approached a few burly guys in high-vis, and then the
crack of strong relief as one of them rapidly recognised his face and
brightened up with interest. There was a crackle of walky-talky, a fairly
excitable whispering among the heavy-set blokes, and then he was
receiving a firm handshake and being welcomed: `This way, Mr Williams!'
He turned and grinned brightly at his two buddies - they were in.

It had all been a bit last-minute, the plan for today, as he hadn't
quite known what his Fulham schedule would look like this weekend. But a
bit of contact with a few key figures back at the club who still owned
his contract and his heart had done the job, not least a flurry of
messages to the skipper himself - who Neco was desperate to try and catch
before the big game - had secured them seats in today's corporate box
and this sneaky entrance to Wembley away from the masses outside. His
mates, already quite thrilled to be visiting him in the big city, were
over-the-moon at his ability to pull strings, the bunch of them all still
young enough for his professional sports star status to be novel and
absurd.

One of the security fellas led them into the bowels of the stadium, and
the grim underground car park ambience was quickly replaced with the
slick decor of this footballing fortress, all lion-decorated murals and
big framed photographs of England stars past and present - but then their
paths diverged, with Neco rapidly explaining his plans to link up with
teammates briefly, whilst a member of stadium personnel warmly greeted
and guided away his two VIP guests. `I'll see you upstairs,' he called
to them with a thumbs up, a little apology in his eyes - they'd been
fuming last night when he explained that he couldn't actually get them
into the changing rooms pre-match to hear Klopp's team talk or out on
the pitch to join in a warm-up with all the big names.

Neither lad looked bothered now, he noted, excited to be led away by the
attractive female staff member, whilst Williams was shown down another
passage and directed towards the changing suites that his beloved
Liverpool would be occupying before their imminent match against
Manchester City, ready to battle for a place in the Cup's finale.

The 21-year-old footballer almost bounced on his chunky Nike trainers,
dark skinny jeans clinging to his slim legs. Above that, he wore a
printed t-shirt and a loose-fitting corduroy shirt, though the heat
outside had already made him wish he'd dressed more simply - it was
embarrassing just how long he'd spent in front of the mirror this
morning getting himself ready, his bedroom floor cluttered with the
sleeping bags of his visiting pals, crashing with him at the West London
house-share he occupied with a few other young Fulham players. Dressing
in front of his mirror, Neco had felt a degree of anxiety about showing
up among the Liverpool squad after all these months away, and a lot more
anxiety about being reunited with one obvious bloke in particular.

`Here you are,' one of the security guys told him cheerfully, `you
probably know the way from here. Oh, here, take this visitor badge - do
you know your way upstairs to find your pals once you're done? I don't
think you'll be allowed to stay down here for long, yeah?' He nodded
feverishly, taking the lanyard and pass, and thanking the 30-something
bloke profusely for being so helpful, then scampered on ahead through
visitor changing rooms that were vaguely familiar from an excited
previous visit.

Neco rounded a corner and was greeted almost instantly with loud `heys'
and a scattering of men rising to their feet - he was entering not the
main locker-rooms, but a sort of relaxation lounge with scattered comfy
seating and a lot of big screens, and a gaggle of familiar faces
abandoned their PS5 to get up and greet him - they were less than
surprised, word of his visit clearly having done the round, but they were
definitely pleased to see him. Grinning, the young right-back fended off
hugs and grabs from his good academy buddy Curtis Jones, and Irish
goalkeeper Caoimhin Kelleher, then a big firm handshake from Joe Gomez
and a warm embrace from Trent Alexander-Arnold himself, the hero of all
Liverpool academy graduates of recent years.

`Sight for sore eyes,' the other right-back told him warmly, slapping
on the shoulder and taking a step back. `God, we miss your banter,
kid,' the 23-year-old pro told him, and Neco was surprised to find his
tone ever-so-slightly patronising - there was only a couple of years
between them, though perhaps a lot more in Trent's experience and status
at the club. It occurred to Williams, as it had before, that there was
room for him to resent the Scouse bloke, the dominant right-back of
Klopp's choosing - and in that sense, part of the reason he was being
farmed out to Fulham to earn his stripes. But this was Trent, one of the
most likeable fellas in the sport, and an icon to young Neco.

He chatted eagerly with the four of them, glancing jealously at their
paused FIFA game and thinking back to such behind-the-scenes moments as
he'd emerged in the Liverpool senior team over the recent seasons,
before his London exit. Temporary exit, of course, he had to remind
himself, still hopeful that he'd be re-called in the summer and start
staking his place in the team of his dreams for more long-term
consistency. He'd been doing bloody well at Fulham in their promotion
battle, and in his international outings too; he was optimistic that
Liverpool bigwigs would be following his progress with great interest.

`Really quality to see ya,' Trent emphasised a few minutes later, arms
folded across his increasingly broad chest, and bouncing a bit on his
heels in the loose red tracksuit they were all wearing pre-game.
`You'll be wanting to see everyone else though, I imagine...?'

`Sure, sure,' Neco said, trying and failing to sound casual. `I don't
think Harvey's here this weekend, is he?' he asked brightly, delaying
the more urgent query.

`Nah, kiddo didn't make the cut,' Gomez said, and Curtis made a
stammering joke of it, `He's f-f-f-furious about it, but only us real
stars got the Wembley call, hehe.' Neco and he shared a grin, both too
close to Elliott to be really mean about him. Kelleher and Trent laughed
along, and Neco pushed on, asking airily, `Have you seen the skipper
about, lads?' He scratched briefly at his tight dark curls of hair and
let his eyes roam questioningly from lad to lad.

`Oh yeah,' Kelleher said breezily, gesturing over one shoulder, `I
think he was just having a word with some of the others through that way,
I just saw him five mins ago.'

`I'm sure he'll be chuffed to see you,' Trent said - it was an
innocent enough comment, but in the months before his loan signing, Neco
had become attuned with a special paranoia to anyone's remotest interest
in his links to the team captain, which was tough given that everyone
knew he had lodged with the Hendersons for a good six months.

`I'll c-c-come with you,' offered Curtis, the other 21-year-old youth
graduate shuffling over and putting a hand at his elbow, beaming gladly
at their being reunited. But Neco wriggled aside from the gesture,
smiling brightly at his friend of many years, climbing up the youth ranks
together. `Oh nah,' he protested quietly, nodding to the pause icon on
the big screen, `I don't wanna be interrupting this fierce contest,
lads - you get on with that and I'll be back through in a minute, yeh?'
He grinned from Curtis to the others, and was glad that Joe Gomez was
already loping back to the comfy seats and picking up a remote,
initiating a general move of the young players and freeing Neco up to
wander past them, following Kelleher's direction and seeking out his
Jordan.


It's not that Neco hadn't found his eyes wandering a little bit,
separated for huge stretches of time from his captain Jordan - and even
when he DID make it up north, visiting family or friends in Wrexham or
Liverpool itself, he had struggled to find easy ways of getting alone
with the skipper. The absence had added a new fire to their intimacy when
they did manage to scrape an hour alone together, of course, but they
were rare moments over a season of challenge and change.

Lost as he was in a big new city, it had been hard for Williams not to
gape curiously now and then at the new men around him - which was odd,
he'd thought, as he didn't think he'd ever felt remotely attracted to
a man before he lay down with Henderson and submitted to the beautiful
physicality of his captain. For the intense months of living at Hendo's
home and stealing secretive fun together in the guest bedroom, Neco had
been quite sure that it was unique to Jordan, that he wasn't gay or bi,
but just smitten by one perfect individual - as the London months ticked
by, he started to dismiss that as a teenage delusion.

And yet he'd still been slow to really accept these moments of manly
attraction, party because of their deep inconvenience and taboo to the
Wrexham lad, but also because even looking at another fella in the Fulham
locker-room felt like ambiguous adultery on the special thing he had with
his Liverpool skipper back home!

For example, how many times had he found himself checking out Joe Bryan
and denying it to himself? How many times had he clocked the jarringly
perfect physique of the 28-year-old Bristolian from across a changing
room, his eyes weighing up the dense pale muscle of the older man's
body, somehow so surprising when layers were peeled off from the oddly
bookish and reserved left-back player in his owlish spectacles.

A dozen times or more Neco had these little moments of appreciation: a
sideways glance as sweaty Joe tugged a Fulham shirt away from his ripped
upper body a few posts away down the side of a locker-room - or both in
one of the recovery pools playing a casual round of volleyball at the
Fulham training park on weekday afternoons - or worst of all, from the
perspective of this inconvenience and subtle betrayal, sharing a sauna
from time to time, Neco unable to stop his eyes from shifting back and
forward to the sweat-soaked architecture of Bryan's chest, six-pack,
arms... terrified that one of the other dehydrated players in between them
might notice and comment on his admiring glances.

But it had been only a month or two ago that the sexual awakening of
watching the 28-year-old really cut through Neco's defences and left him
unable to deny how attractive his fellow Fulham defender was: he'd been
sat lacing up his boots before a game where they were both on the
starting line-up, almost kitted out and ready, but Joe had been much
slower and running behind, emerging from some loos to come and kit up
next to him... at that point, wearing nothing but his white briefs.
Because Neco had been bent over lacing up his footy boots, he was
perfectly level with the shorter stud's waist, his face tantalisingly
close to the loaded off-white package in the front of the briefs, framed
by the pale golden tan of Bryan's muscular stomach and thighs. And the
big bulge bounced and jerked as Joe wriggled into a footy shirt to cover
up his perfect torso, while Neco remained bent over and transfixed,
practically drooling for an awkward moment.

That night, he'd had to wank himself off furiously, struggling to limit
the rustling sounds as he normally might when room-sharing with another
player. If his roomie on that away trip, fellow defender Antonee
Robinson, had heard anything, then the 24-year-old must have just
politely snored on through it, pretending not to hear Neco's frantic
fist rub against the duvet as he pulled himself off whilst visualising
Joe Bryan's body in action - and even his orgasmic groan was poorly
stifled, his back arching and his curled hair rubbing against the pillow,
whilst his seed was wasted against the sheets and dribbling across his
own knuckles.

He'd felt instantly guilty and silly, as if he'd just cheated on Hendo
with some random lad, and struggled to contain the mixture of seedy
regret and cynical bemusement with his own emotions - and for weeks
after, he'd struggled to look hunky Bryan in the eyes at training, to
the extent that the Bristol-born left-back thought he'd done something
to offend him. Nope, Neco had thought privately, you just happened to be
the latest star of my wank fantasies. Oh god, how pathetic.


When he found Jordan Henderson, the Liverpool captain seemed to be locked
in some quite serious discussions with the gaffer himself and a cluster
of key players - Salah, Mane, Thiago and a couple of others - but they
paused hesitantly when Neco came wandering close, and much to his
pleasure, the whole pack of big names seemed overjoyed to see him. Just
as with the initial bunch of lads, and the rogue two or three more he'd
greeted on the way back here, he was grabbed in tight manly hugs and
welcomed excitedly - there was not much mention of Fulham in the snatches
of conversation, which tickled him with worry that perhaps the Liverpool
guys were less aware than he'd assume of his exploits and successes away
from home, but there was so much goodwill towards him, and plenty of
`see you in the new season, we hope!'

He was pleased, albeit intimidated, to catch up very briefly with Jurgen
himself, and with such towering Liverpool heroes as Mo Salah, but he was
immediately relieved when the skipper broke away from these fellas and
steered him by the shoulder. `You guys carry on,' Henderson called to
the other Liverpool elite, `I'll just check in with the prodigal son,
haha.' And then the 31-year-old midfielder turned a gorgeous smile on
him and steered him more quickly away, throwing a strong arm about his
shoulders.

`So good to see you,' the older man said earnestly, and Neco resisted
the instant urge to lean across and pluck a kiss from the sturdy muscular
man, just gawping and nodding gladly in agreement instead.

`Thanks for helping me get sorted in the box upstairs,' he said in a
polite rush, `and for making sure security knew to let me in. They said
you'd reminded them five times.' He laughed nervously, conscious of how
much effort Hendo had potentially taken to ensure he could be part of
today's battle in his own way, when no doubt the Premier League skipper
had plenty else on his mind. Spending time at another club was just
giving Neco fresh appreciation for what a great leader Hendo actually
was, how well he looked after team members, and all of his community
outreach work beyond that. He found himself staring dotingly on the older
bloke now, with more than just the expected physical desire of being so
close to him in his muscle-hugging red tracksuit.

Without stopping their slow purposeful walk, the two of them spoke
quickly and warmly, but ultimately blandly - `How's your shared house
going?' `How was the journey down?' `You got any score predictions?'
`Did you see City getting all lary with Madrid?!' - until Jordan had
directed him away from the labyrinthine changing rooms and into a recess
between doorways, dipping out of any direct line of sight, but still in a
risky public spot.

Their conversation fumbled and paused, and then Jordan lunged in,
scooping that muscular arm about Neco's waist and onto his back. The
5ft11 man's solid body pushed at his fractionally taller slim physique,
bearing him back against the firm wall, and then locking lips with him in
a furious kiss. The tracksuit top was zipped all the way up to his
stubbly chin and it scratched against Neco's smooth neck as their
tongues tussled. Jordan moaned softly into his mouth, and his roaming
hand pressed meaningfully at his lower back, threatening to edge lower
and cup his pert buttocks through his jeans, but stopping shy of what
they both clearly wanted. Their mouths parted in low gasps of relief.

`I've needed that,' growled Henderson softly.

`I could tell,' he replied through a slight chuckle, his voice becoming
weak and wobbly in his immediate lust and devotion. `Fuck... you look so
hot, Jord...'

`Shush,' laughed Jordan soothingly, hugging at him and nuzzling their
faces briefly together again, pulling so close to him in this small
discreet corner that could be so quickly rendered pointless if anyone
wandered through the doorways to either side.

`I'm just glad you're here,' the Liverpool captain said softly and
wistfully. `I will feel even stronger out there, knowing you're
watching us. Supporting all your brothers here. You're a good lad.'

`I wouldn't miss it,' Neco insisted. `Er - when you win - not IF, you
know, haha - is there an after-party or something? So I can see er,
everyone properly, and er - well, see you a bit more, or... heh...' He
grinned bashfully, unsure if he was pushing it too far.

Jordan's smile was tight-lipped, showing hints of nervous caution as he
released their embrace slightly, his hand lingering and brushing at
Neco's down at their side. `You know what hotel we're at, I already
texted you,' he said quietly. `I'm sure there'll be a few quick
drinks there before we travel north, if you time it right. I'll...
message you, as soon as I can after the game, okay?' They locked eyes,
lost for several risky moments in staring at each other, and Neco was
about to lean in for kisses, but the captain pulled cautiously away. `I
should be with the boss,' he said apologetically.

`Of course, of course,' the young defender told him in a rush,
squeezing his hand briefly then pushing him encouragingly away. `I just
need to see a couple more people and then I'll be out of here - best go
check my friends aren't causing any chaos with the rich buggers we're
boxed with, yeah?' He gave his captain and the man who'd broken him in
a cheeky but wistful smile, resisting the urge to try for one last kiss -
and then surprised as Jordan lunged in and claimed that very kiss,
brushing their mouths roughly together and holding him with both hands to
his head for a moment.

`Now get out of here before I lose all control and have to fuck you,'
Hendo whispered, backing away from him and disappearing back quickly the
way they had come, leaving Neco stunned and aroused in the doorway, and
in the mood for much more than watching a semi-final.


If only the odd cheeky wank about Joe Bryan's muscles or Harrison
Reed's ginger smirk, or Tim Read's heavy American accent and Michael
Hector's massive shoulders... if only they were the only dirty secrets of
Fulham life that Neco now carried with him as he embraced Jordan
Henderson on a Saturday morning at Wembley.

If only he hadn't allowed himself to get so drunk on that recent away
trip, when the points tally had begun to look so convincingly like Fulham
were entering the Premier League in August - he'd drank way too much, as
had so many of his teammates, noisily occupying the ground floor bar of a
Barnsley hotel, then shifting upstairs to a more secretive set of
drinking games in somebody's hotel room once the manager's curfew had
passed.

It had been a fun night, a really bonding experienced for the ten or
twelve footballing blokes crammed into one room, mixing mini-bar spirits
with bottles of cheap pop from a corner shop, and playing daft card games
whilst fantasising about their Premiership salaries next season - and a
highlight of the action had been loud rallies from the gathering about
how important it was that Neco, their defensive secret weapon, stayed
with them instead of shooting back to Merseyside!

He'd been drunk on both the alcohol and this praise when he eventually
tried to make the journey back from that room to his own, somehow losing
sight of his particular roomie on the way - and ending up instead
drifting into a totally different hotel suite instead, guided and steered
by a burly arm about his shoulders and the leering chuckles of the
Championship club's star striker.

Aleskandar Mitrovic had mixed them each another drink, and Neco
remembered noticing that the room's other occupant, Bobby Reid, was
already fast asleep and snoring like a chainsaw. The pair of them cackled
about that, the 20-year-old loanee and the 27-year-old Serbian striker,
whose record-breaking goal tally was clearly going to his head - he was
boasting loudly to Neco in the lamplight about how he would be
challenging Mo Salah next season and making the Premier League his bitch.
Drunk as he was, on both vodka and attention, Neco had readily agreed,
betraying his Liverpool roots jokingly, and agreeing that Mitro would be
the Premiership's top goal scorer in just a year's time.

But then, the pair of them slurring their words and sitting on the bed,
the joke had slid and shifted, just as the mood had, with their growing
sleepy drunkenness. Alesandar went from joking about making a League his
bitch, to teasingly asking Neco whose bitch he was, and telling him what
a pretty mouth he had. In blurred moments, the bulky 6ft2 forward had his
top off and was showing Neco some of his tattoos, then taking his hand
and encouraging him to rub his bulge through his tracksuit bottoms,
chuckling in his ear and calling him a `sexy little English bitch'.
Neco's clearest memory of the encounter was politely correcting him with
`Welsh', then sinking his head willingly into the older man's crotch
and beginning to mouth at his hard-on through the nylon.

Neco could see it now as if he'd just been an onlooker, rather than a
participant - Mitro sprawled out on the hotel bed with Reid asleep just
two metres away, and Neco crouched between his heavy legs, pulling his
thick cock out of his black trunks and slipping his mouth hungrily around
it, sucking him. It might be an edit by force of wishful thinking, but
Neco could remember fantasising it was actually Hendo's cock in his
mouth, though this was shorter and thicker than the Liverpool captain's
- and the cum, when it flooded his mouth and the big Serbian striker
grunted out his pleasure in language that Neco couldn't understand,
tasted very different. More sour and pungent, tinged with regret.

Afterwards, Mitrovic was another teammate that Neco found it hard to look
directly at when sat across the breakfast table from in the hotel, or
across the aisle from on the team coach across the country - but whilst
gentle Joe Bryan had wondered if he'd said something to offend the young
right-back, big burly Mitro just gave him knowing leers and the hint of a
wink, a hand sometimes straying close to his crotch as if wanting to
remind Williams what he'd done in those drunken 2am moments of desire.


The first half of the game was electric, more than enough to occupy
Neco's attention and remove him from such guilty reveries - albeit with
a few distracted glances down towards the dugout, where he could just
make out the silhouette of the team captain lingering on the bench behind
the manager, uninvolved in the first 45 but more wildly cheering on his
men.

Neco sipped reservedly at one drink while his mates ploughed through
three or four pints, since they didn't have Championship training on
Easter Sunday morning like he did - he didn't mind, as loud and
excitable as they were as three goals went in and Liverpool took a
convincing lead by half-time.

In the break, without the game to fixate on, Williams did find himself
slightly strugglign to engage with the chat in their box, he and his
mates mingling with the guests of some high-paying sponsor who was mainly
occupying the VIP Wembley space. It felt odd and wrong to be up here, he
reflected, rather than down below in the changing rooms, at the heart of
the action, with his brothers. He wondered if they would let him in at a
time like this, let him be part of the fray - but it was a senseless
question, it would take him the length of the half-time break to make it
down there, and he'd look ridiculous traipsing in with them in his
casual designer gear, them all sweaty in their kit.

The second half quickly brought tension, Jack Grealish's goal for City
provoking a murmur of discontent mingled with admiration. The masterclass
first half that Neco's team had put on was being slowly chipped away at,
and he found himself hugging his arms across his chest and uninterested
in the rest of his second beer. `They're holding strong,' one of his
mates commented hopefully, and there was a rustle of agreement amongst
the men in the box. Neco kept staring fixedly down behind Klopp and at
the bobbing heads on the subs bench, willing his captain to be called on
to bolster this flagging lead - and around the 70 minute mark, he saw his
wishes come true. Jordan was up and changing clothes on the touchline,
ready to step onto the field - the team needed him, Neco found himself
arguing quite passionately to his mates, telling them that they had no
idea just how influential the Mackem bloke really was at midfield.

He calmed himself down, worried that he'd sounded a bit TOO passionate
or devoted there - but nobody seemed to have found anything odd in his
words, every one of them as passionately Red as the other.


But Liverpool wasn't the only red that the three mates would often don -
they were Welshmen too, and it was life in Neco's OTHER team that most
regularly surfaced to pain him and make him feel terrible about his
disloyalty to his captain. Or one of his captains, at any rate.

Almost a month ago, and Wales had just bested Austria 2-1 in a World Cup
qualifier, leading to ecstatic scenes in the national squad's suburban
training camp where they returned after the match in inner Cardiff -
things were always so much more raucous and drunken out in the Welsh team
life, Neco had quickly realised, although such late-night antics on the
road with Fulham were challenging that. Back at Liverpool, he reflected,
things were so much more sensible and controlled - such professionalism
under the big-money pressures of the Premiership.

These thoughts had struck him as he was encouraged into doing another
three shots at the bar, coddled and championed by the likes of
Tottenham's Ben Davies and Joe Rodon, big established Wales players now
excitedly embracing him as one of country's leading men - even Neco's
yellow card whilst playing on the left-wing that evening had earned him
as much kudos with the other Welshmen as if he'd contributed to the
goals!

The clubhouse bar rocked with the squad's celebrations, and their
coaches and management team were in amongst them, everyone knocking it
back and singing in Welsh to celebrate that their `tiny' country were
almost definitely heading to the World Cup. Neco drifted from group to
group, happy to strengthen his new friendships in the senior squad,
having started to cut his teeth with them in the last couple of years -
he had praise heaped on him, and there seemed to be a consensus among the
guys here that he was better off at Fulham than Liverpool, that the more
regular hard-fought Championship matches were boosting his skills more
than being a second-choice sub at a top four Premiership side. He wasn't
sure he agreed, longing for Anfield (and longing for Hendo), but he was
swept along with the boisterous mood of the night, and it had been a
couple of weeks since he'd last swore `I'm never drinking again!'
whilst waking up with some Serbian cum crusted on his collarbone.

Neco ended up spending the later part of the night with Harry Wilson,
fellow Fulham player, and smoking cigarettes out on the terrace now that
the bosses had drifted off to bed - the younger players were congregating
out here, blaring rap music from their phones and convincing themselves
they were gangster. Inside, Neco noticed, a lot of the more senior Wales
players were thrashing about the centre of the bar to indie music on
somebody's portable speaker, centring around the head-banging enjoyment
of the night's big hero, Gareth Bale.

It was impossible to overstate how central the big man was to the spirit
of this team, and Neco was as in awe of their Welsh champion as anyone
else - he grinned distractedly, peering through the glass and watching as
the Real Madrid man bounced and bopped with the likes of Joe Allen, Jonny
Williams, and Aaron Ramsey. Seeing these men in their late 20s and early
30s so full of life made Neco question the languid cool of the younger
lads out here, making him restless and bored.

Across from him, Dan James was laughing sycophantically at some tale by
Nottingham;s Brennan Jonhson, and Bournemouth's Chris Mepham was rolling
a couple of joints for himself and Joe Rodon. After a moment's
indecision, Williams, still just 20 then before his recent birthday,
separated himself from the table. `I'm getting another pint,' he
announced quietly, unsurprised when everyone around him was too drunk or
stoned to properly respond, and he moved down the terrace to let himself
back into the bar, grinning inanely at the dad dancing of the men he
passed.

The clubhouse bar staff had given up for the night and Neco stood
awkwardly at the bar for a minute, wondering if it was okay for him to go
behind there and fetch himself a bottle from the fridge - until suddenly
he was surrounded by the hot sweaty figures of the men who'd been
dancing to Mr Brightside. Bale himself was suddenly right beside him,
throwing a big sweaty arm about his shoulders and kissing him on the side
of the brow, calling him a `warrior' and wondering if `fucking
Liverpool' even knew what they'd sent away to London town this season -
Neco laughed but wriggled against this physical closeness, whilst
handsome Aaron Ramsey frog-jumped the bar and began pouring them pints of
Welsh lager from the taps, putting on a high-pitched barmaid voice as he
did so. `One for you, and one for you,' the new Rangers man giggled
playfully, spilling froth and booze across the bartop, whilst Ben Davies
called him a `sexy wench' and Joe Allen demanded to see his `tits'.

With that, Neco was briefly and drunkenly one of them, a slender 6ft
youngster in among the seasoned brutes of the Welsh national team, rather
than lounging outside listening to Soundcloud rappers and trying to be
too cool to party with the others.

It was Barnsley all over again: the 20-year-old footballer was too drunk,
restlessly horny, and surrounded by brash sporty men who made him long
for his captain, or for the strength and intensity of a man like him, at
least. And everybody kept referring to Bale as `captain', as `chief',
as `skipper' - and the rest, perhaps, was inevitable.

He was rooming with Wilson, but he accepted the invitation to come back
to Bale and Ramsey's room for a last drink without any hesitation,
giggly and swaying as he did. Not that the two older men weren't just as
pissed as he was, of course, the three of them - how was it suddenly just
the three of them? - staggered and bumpered their way down a second-floor
corridor to the big corner suite that two of the squad's biggest stars
seemed to be occupying for this international break.

Almost as soon as Neco was lounging on one of the beds, he was touching
himself through his skinny-fit tracksuit bottoms, sensing the
testosterone and need in the air - it wasn't as if he hadn't seen or
heard evidence that either of these burly married blokes wasn't open to
a little bit of `fun'. He knew that Dan James had noshed off half the
squad, basically everyone did - and he was glad now that the Leeds player
was nowhere to be seen, because he was suddenly eying up the bulges in
Ramsey's skinny jeans and in Bale's olive chinos, and he wanted to be
made `a bitch' just as he had by Mitro a couple of weeks before.

Too inebriated to really navigate conversation, Williams just sidled over
to the closest of the two, 31-year-old Aaron, and began to rub at the
crotch of his dark blue jeans. The Rangers midfielder laughed and hugged
him and called to Bale, `Yup, you were right - he's up for it.' But
Williams found himself drunkenly disinterested in what the two
international stars had to say to each other, instead wrestling with the
buckle of a belt and the tight zip fly of the skinny jeans - but soon he
was sucking Aaron's cock and sliding off the bed onto his knees, and his
hair and neck were being stroked and scratched by another hand as Bale
moved over to join them.

Like the Fulham away night eating Aleksandar, it was a beer-soaked and
vodka-singed blur, a series of sensations as much as clear memories - and
it would ricochet through his hungover brain the following morning and
for the next month, still bothering him on the way into Wembley on the
day of the FA Cup semi.

One minute on his knees, sucking the long curved tool sprouting from
Ramsey's bushy brown pubes, and the next being forcibly fed the chunkier
proportions of Bale's equipment, gagging on it but begging for more when
it was pulled from his drooling mouth. He felt like a slut and, in the
heat of the moment, he loved it - he called Bale `skip' as if it was
Hendo feeding him cock and pre-cum after all, and in some way it may as
well have been. Big athletic bodies next to his own slimmer physique,
dragging off his t-shirt and helping him out of his tracky bottoms - lots
of laughter and groaning from the older men, and Neco just moving from
one cock to the other at speed.

At some point, Ramsey went from clothed to naked, and he basked in the
striking physical attractiveness of the lean midfielder's body - the
Caerphilly star was up on his knees at one end of the bed, and Neco was
crawling to him on hands and knees, only his socks left on. He lapped at
the long pink rod, licking and mouthing its tip and then taking it as
deeply as he could, his skills gradually trained by all those nights and
early mornings sucking off the Liverpool skipper last year... and then he
could feel Bale's enormous hands on his buttocks, pawing hotly at his
cool skin, spittng into his crack and then rubbing it into the fine dark
fuzz of hair that lined it. Neco hadn't been fucked since a rushed New
Year session in the back of Henderson's car down a country lane, and he
hadn't known how much he was craving it until one of Gareth's big
fingers was sliding up and down between his cheeks, and more of his
lukewarm spit was shot down against his quivering hole.

He pictured himself in the scene, spit-roasted then by the two prime
hunks of the Welsh team, who he guessed had been getting up to mischief
like this for years - he wondered if that whore Dan James had ever
enjoyed both at once or not, pinned between two big Welsh cocks like he
was that night. His hole spread and stretched by the girth of Bale's
cock, and his arse fucked for the first time by anyone other than Jordan
Henderson - his mouth alternating between Aaron's gorgeous cock and his
tight hairy balls.

Once or twice, the 6ft Cardiff striker and the 5ft11 ex-Juventus player
swapped positions, but Neco remained the centrepiece, two different cocks
jabbing deeply within his stinging arse-hole, fucking him with none of
the patience and gentleness that he'd experienced pinned beneath
Hendo's body. The comparisons only came to him in the hazy pain of
morning, not in the height of drunken passion - in the night, the
beautiful 20-year-old just relished being used and claimed like this,
more than happy to be their toy. He wasn't sure if he came or not, his
cock becoming limp with the alcohol in his system, and his arse
eventually too sore from the rough humps of the Real Madrid villain.

He didn't remember taking their loads, but he must have, unsure if their
seed had been spilled over his toned body or on his pouting face, or if
he'd swallowed it - or if it had been deposited deep inside him whilst
he was fucked, a ragdoll between their powerful bodies. He woke up on the
floor between the two double beds, wrapped in spare sheets and pillows,
aching all over - he managed to dress himself and make it back to his own
room before the inevitable hungover vomiting began, his arse stinging all
the while from the action it had taken in the early hours of the morning.

This had been weeks ago now, but little flashbacks to the scene struck at
him now and then, often late at night when he was aroused and pleasuring
himself - but he would always feel ashamed afterwards, lying there with
sweaty pits and crotch, cum trickling over one thigh, to think of how
he'd thrown himself at those two randy blokes, desperate for a strong
older man to hold him tightly and make him his own.


Officially, Neco was going back to the big Hammersmith townhouse to avoid
being tempted by booze - he thrust handfuls of £50 notes at his visiting
school friends and recommended a few key bars to them in Mayfair,
grinning his apologies and demanding that they bring him horrific stories
of debauchery when they taxid home in the middle of the night from
central London. The cash and encouragement more than dissipated their
disappointment that their pro footballer buddy wouldn't be joining them
for the night out; they were already pretty smashed from drinking their
way through the Wembley event, and Liverpool's eventual 3-2 win over the
Manchester side.

Instead, he watched their taxi whizz away down the Wembley side-street,
and then made for the luxury hotel where he knew the Liverpool camp had
been based last night - he spotted their familiar discreet coaches
outside and knew the squad would be setting off north very soon, were
perhaps just delaying things to make the outer London traffic a little
easier - and no doubt toasting to their win and their place in another
cup final.

Getting inside to see the squad now was a little trickier than his plans
at the stadium. The hotel reception staff seemed to have no idea who he
was, and he was just about to embarrass himself by having to Google his
own name and football credentials when one of the junior coaches passed
by with an ice bucket of champagne, and immediately took him under his
wing. Neco saw the embarrassed and regretful faces of the reception staff
but just flashed them a patient, polite smile, before disappearing
upstairs to the private bar with the coaching personnel.

Neco's presence at the celebratory drinks was a lot less marked than his
welcomes inside Wembley two hours ago, but he could hardly resent that.
The guys were thrilled and boisterous, racing through a few glasses of
fizz provided by the hotel, a lot of management staff fussing around and
wanting to hurry things up so that the men got on the coach okay. Neco
made happy small talk with his pal Curtis, and with an already tipsy Andy
Robertson, the senior defender massaging his ego by appearing to be much
more well-informed on his Fulham trajectory than anyone else, and most
complimentary about it.

But the 21-year-old was here for one person alone, in his heart of
hearts, and he soon found and made needy eye contact with the captain.
Henderson was posing for a few photographs with hotel staff, ever the fan
favourite and community-minded skipper, but he readily slid away from
these obligations once he noticed Neco. Separately, they made quiet
beelines for the edge of the informal party, and then quite urgently they
were stepping their way down a passage to the side and disappearing into
another little private bar area, one where the sounds of Liverpool
celebrations were muffled and distant-feeling.

`You made it,' Jordan breathed quickly, pulling both arms about him in
a short tight hug.

`Of course,' Neco laughed.

`Where are your mates though?'

`Oh, er - sent them off. Just... needed to see you, hey.'

Jordan grinned, though there was something poised and nervous in it. Neco
stared adoringly at him, feeling more terrible than ever about the things
he'd done lately in the absence of this calm and reassuring presence,
the first man who'd made him feel any of those things - well, apart from
some joint-smoking exploration with his filthy pal Harvey, that is.

They kissed, more slowly and enjoyably than the furtive snogs in the
locker rooms of Wembley, although the risk factor remained high. Neco
chose not to worry about that, relaxing into Jordan's grip and enjoying
their mouths on each other. Again though, Hendo had his darker training
jersey zipped right up, and it scratched a little at Neco's chin, making
him wince and giggle - he pulled up his hands and undid the zip,
loosening the slinky top's fit over Hendo's muscular upper body,
exposing the swell of his chest through the t-shirt below, but also...

He started, staring at it, then flicking his eyes back up to meet
Jordan's. It was clear that the captain immediately knew what he was
looking at: the scratchy red-brown bruise along the side of the
midfielder's neck. It could, of course, be a mark from a clash on the
football field, but it looked like something far more obvious. `A
hickey?' Neco mouthed quietly. `A love-bite?' He laughed, an awkward
pitchy sound in the moment. `Er...?'

Jordan was staring quite intensely at him with an expression of
indecision. Neco willed him into the explanation, readied himself to hear
and believe it - a particularly frisky night between husband and wife, of
course, a bit too much to drink and some old-school tunes banging, until
they were acting like they were Sunderland teenagers again, and then- but
no, the excuse didn't come, and the Liverpool captain looked as guilty
as sin. `Who?' Neco found himself demanding hotly, his face stinging
with heat and his stomach churning. He pulled away, but Jordan's hands
held his upper arms tightly, and the skipper frowned unhappily at him,
but his eyes becoming unfocused.

The seconds dragged by, and no explanation came readily from Henderson.
It made Neco feel sick, and he pulled away from that grip, which had
become too tight and was painful against his lean muscle. He staggered
further away from the 31-year-old, shaking himself, and feeling his
little world spin on its axis. How stupid had he been to think that
Jordan would be chastely waiting for him back on Merseyside?

`Who?' he repeated weakly, but found he didn't need or want the
answer. `Fuck this,' he said simply, immediately picturing his mates in
a taxi on its way into the West End - why was he here, hanging about the
edges of a Liverpool party, when he was a Fulham lad about to be promoted
into the Premier League? He lurched back towards the passage and evaded
Jordan's hand snatching at his wrist, not even turning to look at his
captain - fuck him, he thought, fuck the stupid team and their stupid cup
chances, fuck it all!


Friday night in a Wembley hotel, and Jordan was away from his room, sat
alone in an empty bar area with a view of the mighty stadium itself - in
front of him sat a blank iPad, tilted on its stand from his video call
back to the family in outer Liverpool. He should now pack it away and
head back to his room, shared with old Milner, but he needed some minutes
alone, staring contemplatively out at the dull lighting and jagged
silhouette of the national football arena that their hotel faced onto.

Tomorrow the team would clash with City, trying to capitalise on the
tiring week their opponents must have had in Madrid, and buy a ticket to
the FA Cup final. He already knew that he wasn't in Klopp's starting
lineup this time, but he still felt the significance of his role - had
been hard at work boosting moral and organising the lads since they
assembled at the training ground this morning and began the weekend away
trip together.

But tomorrow would also bring a flash of trouble for him, having gone out
of his way to help Neco Williams attend - he was looking forward to
seeing the beautiful lad, but not with a pure and simple outlook. He felt
troubled by where things stood between them, and even more troubled by...
well, what had gone on in Lisbon recently, giving in to his base desires
and the intimate moments with Alexander-Arnold.

It was as if his troubled thoughts had magic powers then, and could
summon people out of nowhere. When Henderson took his eyes away from the
window and began sliding his Apple tablet into its case, he saw Trent
himself saunter slowly into the deserted bar, hands dug into his pockets
and broadening shoulders quite hunched in the open zip hoody he wore.
Trent seemed to pause at the sight of him, and Jordan sat still, holding
his gaze.

`How are you feeling?' he asked loudly, aiming for friendly captain's
concern.

Trent was slow to answer, standing there and watching him as he shoved
the iPad case into a small backpack and threw it over one shoulder,
getting up from the booth seating by the window. `Confident,' the
23-year-old right-back said vaguely. He stopped staring at Jordan and
looked out of the window instead, contemplating the football cathedral
and their appointment there tomorrow afternoon.

Jordan hovered beside him. He owed the lad explanations and apology, or
at least... what, a tentative thank you? `Cheers for sucking me off
lad'. Ugh. He scratched his stubble and the back of his head, and then
Trent glanced questioningly at him, his silence loud and forceful
somehow. `Look, Trent,' he said, dropping his voice and the
over-friendly captainly tone, but the right-back just sighed heavily and
shook his attractive head.

`Don't,' advised the Scouser very quietly.

`But-'

`Don't,' repeated Trent, and looked away as he spoke. `What happened
happened, it's cool - just, please, don't say anything about it to any
other lads, I dunno why you would. It was out of line, it was just
over-excitement from the game and stuff.' Even more quiet and shaky: `I
don't need people around here generally knowing that I'm gay, okay? And
you don't have to feel bad about what happened cos we both wanted it to,
so it's fine.'

Trent's candour was disarming and made Jordan just feel more grim about
himself. He lifted a hand to one of the 5ft9 Liverpudlian's muscular
shoulders, resting it there, but feeling Trent tense and flinch at the
contact. `I just don't want you resenting me,' Hendo said softly, `or
feeling like I took advantage of you, or anything...'

The 23-year-old gave him a thoughtful look that turned into almost a
grin, something dry and ironic in his wide eyes. `Oh no, nothing like
that,' he muttered with a half-laugh. `Like I said - we both did what
we did. I wanted it to happen. Sorry if it's weird for you to hear that,
skip, but I did. No regrets. Don't make it weird, okay? Please.'

`Why would I make it weird?' Jordan asked in a nervous hiss.

`Married guys do,' muttered Trent with a weary, cynical edge to his
voice. He sounded like he had a fair bit of experience to base this
judgement on, and it made Hendo squirm.

`I'm still your captain,' the Mackem bloke told him a bit more firmly,
his voice more gruff and matey. He squeezed his shoulder. `I'm here for
you through thick and thin, and all that. Please don't let things be any
different just cos of...'

`You can't even say it out loud.' Trent's voice was teasing rather
than accusing.

`Trent, please.' He pushed across a smile. `Like you said, let's not
make it weird.'

A long quiet look passed between them. `No,' Trent agreed. The bar area
was completely deserted at this time, no staff or customers, or any other
members of the Liverpool entourage. That's why Jordan had chose it to
come and speak at length with his wife and kids over video call. Peace
and quiet. But now... a simmering sexual tension. His hand lingered
against the muscle of the younger man's shoulder, and his eyes locked on
Trent's, wide and open and curious.

Looking back on it in bed that night, and in the cold grey Saturday
morning, and later on in the moment of guilty revelation in front of
Neco, Henderson found it hard to really know which of them had moved
first. It was like they were stood interlocked, playing a game of
chicken. One minute a tense silence and light physical contact, the next
thin their mouths locked together and their bodies pressed close,
snogging over a view of Wembley. Had Trent really lunged needily for him,
or had he grasped possessively at the attractive young defender...? He was
scared to really focus on it, because he wasn't sure he'd like the
answer.

What mattered, as he regretted the next day, inspecting the mark on the
neck, was the animalistic passion with which they then grabbed at each
other, disappearing into a corner of the bar area and grappling with each
other's bodies. Trent was like a thing possessed, though Jordan knew he
was trying to shift blame by even thinking that - but still, without
negating his own actions, Trent's hads had been EVERYWHERE, exploring
his body through his t-shirt and his jeans, cupping at his heavy cock and
balls and bringing them to hardness against the denim. Jordan knew he had
made weak defence against his own loyalties by breaking off the mouth
kisses and refusing to continue, a pathetic gesture of piousness - but
that had just led Trent to snog at his neck instead, kissing the side of
his throat so passionately that he'd leave a bruise, whilst jerking his
hard-on through his jeans, Jordan's own hands roaming up and down his
back until...

That was the other guilty question - who had broken it off? Had he really
pushed the younger man away, as he now told himself, looking guilty at
the love-bite on his neck, or had Trent pulled frustratedly away from him
when he murmured `No', or refused to snog on the lips, or didn't
reciprocate by reaching for the obvious bulge in Trent's sweatpants. He
could remember much more distinctly the young star's voice as he dragged
his body away from the booth couch they had sprawled against, rubbing at
his lips and cheeks and backing away. `Married guys,' the young Scouser
had sighed with that same world-weary disappointed, and then buggered
off, leaving Hendo alone with a hard-on in his jeans and a hot red blush
on his face.


Henderson moved quickly, reaching the same staircase down which he'd
seen the lanky youth disappear. At its foot, the Liverpool captain had to
barge quite rudely through a cluster of people, whose annoyance at being
bumped into was then mixed with surprise as somebody recognised the
England footballer on his way past - he caught a glimpse of Neco
disappearing out through revolving doors and he paused, very briefly, to
question his pursuit of the young lad.

Outside, Wembley would be swimming with football fans of both
allegiances, and it was a bit more than Jordan was prepared to deal with
this afternoon. But the look on Neco's face was going to haunt him for
the entire coach trip back to the Mersey, whatever was said or done, and
he felt sick about it already. He shot forward and out through the doors,
and then hesitated in the shadows of the hotel - a mixed crowd lay just
ahead, nobody yet noticing him, and he realised the more practical issue
of finding a handsome Welsh needle in this London haystack.

By chance, he glanced to the left, and caught sight of the tall figure
hunched at the corner, who then caught sight of him and vanished
instantaneously - Jordan lurched around that same corner, following Neco
into the thin alleyway of bins that was tucked between the bulk of their
hotel and the next one, luxury towers in the shadows of Wembley itself.

Williams skidded to a halt between the bins, turning to stare at him, his
open shirt whipping about him as he moved. Hendo jogged the last few
paces to him, breathless but urgent. `Let me explain,' he hissed.

`What's to explain?' the youth snapped. `You got bored of waiting.
It's fine.'

`Neco!'

Jordan groaned miserably. This exact confrontation had tumbled through
his mind on repeat since what had happened in Portugal earlier in the
month, since the first of two slips in loyalty to the beautiful
youngster. `Please,' he groaned. `Let me explain it, I'm so sorry.'

`Who was it?' the younger footballer was demanding still. `Who gave
you that? Who are you fucking?'

`I'm not fucking anyone,' Hendo cried earnestly and honestly, though
he knew the awkward caveat of heterosexual marriage lay between them like
an elephant. `It's not like that, I didn't fuck him, it just- Neco,
please, I need to explain how tough it's been...'

The younger man stared angrily at him and looked on the verge of several
explosive responses to this, tears welling up in bright eyes - but then
he was feinting backwards and leaning on one of the bins, and then
backing further when Jordan rapidly approached him. `Fuck, fuck, fuck,'
cried the 21-year-old as they pulled closer and Jordan finally took him
in his muscular arms.

`Neco,' he said softly, `just stop and listen to me, please... I am SO
sorry, and...'

`It's not THAT,' the defender grunted through a sudden jolt of tears,
and Jordan found that he too had moist eyes and a tremor to his voice as
he tried to speak, but shouted over now by an emotional Neco. `I've
been bad,' the Welsh lad snapped bitterly at him, `and I've fucked
things up too. Jesus Christ, what a mess. Fuck!'

For some reason, it took Hendo several slow moments to really absorb what
the beloved right-back was telling him, stroking desperately at his arms
and shoulders, pulling him into a hug, straightening him up and then
glancing anxiously back down the alleyway to check that they were indeed
alone. `What do you mean?' he asked weakly. It was hypocritical, he
knew, but it felt like a punch to the gut, the implications of Neco's
bitter retorts. `What did you do?'

Neco groaned. `I thought I could be good and just wait for you, but...
It's been so intense down here, a whole new life, and...' Bitterly, he
blurted out the truths - telling Jordan stupid details about wanking over
teammates here, about getting on his knees for Mitrovic, about his
exploits in Cardiff with the Welsh blokes. Each word was another kick to
Jordan's ribcage and ego, and he stood quite weakly, more leaning on
than embracing the younger athlete now. He hid his face in Neco's
shoulder, digesting this - he felt an unreasonable selfish anger, even at
the same time as his own shame for giving in to other temptations, but...

`It's okay,' he muttered quietly, squeezing Neco tightly. `It's
okay.'

`How is it okay?' Williams demanded fiercely.

Jordan pulled back. It took him a lot of strength to hold back his own
tears, but he did it. Captain's duty. `I was stupid not to break this
off when you left,' he said, trying his best to keep his voice level and
somewhere between tender and detached. `I was stupid to think we might
do this.'

`What? No...' Neco sounded desperate and heartbroken already.

`It was selfish of me,' Hendo told him urgently, `to think a young lad
like you would... I was an idiot. We need to just end this,' he said,
very quietly, trying to hide the break in his voice when he said it. Neco
was sobbing at him, pawing at his sides and back muscles. `What we
had,' the Liverpool captain said heavily, `was so magic, so fucking
special, but... you are down here now, and like you said, it's a new life
for you at the moment. I should never have told you to wait for me, to
hold on to anything. You need to be young and free and enjoy yourself.'

`I don't want it,' the 21-year-old told him ina heady rush. `I don't
want any of this London shit, or any of those guys, I just want YOU - I
want to be back at Anfield and next to you and-' He was crying too
heavily to carry on, and he rubbed knuckles against puffy red eyes
miserably. Jordan squeezed and held him, speaking soothingly. `I know
you do, and maybe you'll come back to that, maybe things will work at
some point... but not now, not like this. You need to be FREE, Neco, I
should have let you go. This is okay. This is good for you. Believe me.'

`If it's good for me, then why does it feel like I just had my guts
ripped out? Fuck!'

Jordan battled with his own emotions, beginning to pull himself away from
the younger player. `Give it time,' he said with an air of forced
coolness, `give it time and you'll feel so much better about what
we're doing now, you'll feel-'

`You're just breaking it off because of some other fuck-boy,' Neco
snapped viciously, and the half-truth of it burnt Jordan deeply. He
blinked slowly and avoided further intense eye contact with the young
man. `Who is it?' Williams snapped. `Is it Harvey? Curtis? Is it -
Fuck's sake, just tell me, captain!'

`It doens't matter,' Hendo urged, `it's not about THAT. It's about
you, about us.' He took deep breaths, squaring his hands against the 6ft
youth's shoulders and staring him down. `I loved you, Neco, I really
did, and I always will. But I can't limit you like this, not while you
are here, not while you are finding yourself. I'm sorry - I know this
hurts, but it's for the best, for you more than anyone. Please try to
understand that.' He let go and backed off, hanging his head. A few
rough sobs from Neco, but the Wrexham lad did not try to grab closer at
him or pull him into another hug.

The Liverpool skipper took slow backwards steps away, lifting his head
and looking at the slim, handsome youngster more seriously. `Go and join
your friends,' he urged quietly. `Enjoy your night. It's Easter
weekend. Celebrate.'

Neco stared at him, his beautiful face screwed up. He looked like he
might spit some new vicious retort at him, but he just nodded miserably,
and they stared silently at each other for a minute. But neither said
another thing, because what was left to be said right now? Jordan backed
further away, and began to hurry - if he stayed here any longer he would
run back to the Fulham defender and grab him, kiss him, fuck him, but...
He meant everything he said, and this was about being cruel to be kind
now. Tough love.

He mouthed a `goodbye', knowing that it could hardly be permanent, but
for now the severance would certainly pain them both. He disappeared
around the corner and hurriedly back through the revolving doors of the
hotel - in reception, he was massed by randomers who were excited to see
the Premiership midfielder in their hotel, and he had to plaster on the
PR smile, the captain's grin, pose for photographs and make his way very
slowly back upstairs to the dying moments of the little party. Around
him, everybody cheered and sang, and would do so for the entire coach
journey home - Jordan moved through it in a daze, stopping only to engage
with the world when, for a moment, he was helping the boss to see
everybody onto the coaches beside the hotel, and he had to make eye
contact with young Trent, and grab his palm in his in a congratulatory
handshake.

The 23-year-old eyed him worriedly, and Jordan stared blankly back,
unsure what he could really offer the anxious young football star - Trent
seemed to be looking for some confidence or reassurance from him, but
Jordan could only woodenly echo the words of the manager next to him.
`Great performance today, lad. Let's take that Cup home, yeah?' Trent
nodded silently, and his eyes slipped away, and Jordan's heart ached.




'Writer guy' - Premiership Lads on
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