Date: Fri, 29 Apr 2022 18:25:17 +0000
From: writer guy <premiershiplads@outlook.com>
Subject: Premiership Lads, Part 292

Part 292: Saturday Night & Sunday Morning


There was a jolly atmosphere to the training ground refectory, an easy
swagger in the movements of most of the Chelsea players as they filed in
for lunch - for them, it was a fairly light afternoon's work ahead at
the London club's training camp on the edge of the city, as they'd
travelled back from Manchester earlier in the day. Though the away trip
to Old Trafford had only yielded a draw, there was still a mood of
buoyant success among the returning men, their banter and laughter
filling the long bright room.

Ben Chilwell was already in there ahead of them, tucking into his own
blandly healthy lunch, and he looked up in alertness as the familiar
voices arrived to join him, welcome company after his quiet morning of
hard work. Still ruled out through injury, the 25-year-old Englishman was
rapidly approaching a chance of return, and he was accelerating through
his rehab programme in the hope that he might kick a Premier League ball
before action closed for the summer.

Things were getting a lot better now that he was allowed to train here,
though he was still often separated from the main pack of Chelsea players
in his fitness scheme, it was just nice to get back in these surroundings
and feel like a professional footballer again. His absence from Stamford
Bridge had been one of ups and downs - a few fun breaks with friend and
family that he might not have grasped without the leg operation, and a
bit of posing for fashion photoshoots that had his Instagram messaging
inbox crammed with thirsty interest, but also long unproductive weeks
where he'd struggled to take much enjoyment in his usual interests.

The handsome young defender smiled brightly as tracksuit-clad players
gradually filled up the table to either side of him, glad to not sit
picking at his salad and baked potato alone, but also immediately a
little lost for an `in' to their free-flowing conversation about last
night's match and the short Manchester trip in general - inside jokes
between Werner and Havertz about a rooming cock-up at the hotel, some
ongoing analysis of Alonso's equalising goal by his buddy Reece James to
Loftus-Cheek, and Mason Mount's breezy criticism of Jorginho for snoring
too loudly on the couch this morning... all of it drifted by Chilwell
somewhat, giving him that familiar little pang of FOMO that always
haunted these injury periods. Still, before long he would be back in the
midst of the team properly, not just getting sympathetic looks or turning
up to matches in plain clothes, ready to loyally cheer on the lads - he
knew his insistence on such appearances was appreciated by lots of them,
but he did as much for his own sanity as out of real team spirit.

It was Friday afternoon of the May bank holiday weekend, and though the
men's schedules were obviously dominated by another away fixture against
Everton on Sunday afternoon, there was still plenty of discussion of what
people would be doing on Bank Holiday Monday, which had been promised to
them as a full day of R&R. Seated opposite Ben and a little to the right,
grinning Mason was proudly boasting about the posh restaurant he was
going to in the countryside for some family member's birthday - and then
blushing and giggling when he somehow let slip that he and Dec would be
driving up there early to get the decorations just right, earning a tiny
bit of teasing from other blokes that he should be getting paid for such
secret agent work at recruiting `Deccers' back to true blue.

Ben caught his eye for a moment and smiled warmly, glad that things were
going so well between Mase and his boyfriend, even if most of the guys
here just thought the Chelsea twink prince was trying to recruit his
bestie into signing for them - Ben knew well enough how serious things
were between Mount and Rice, and he'd lost the sting of jealousy that
had once troubled him there. He'd sure had some fun with Mase in the
past and had quite the crush on his pal last year, but he had no wish to
ruin what Mason had with Declan and he kept his safe distance now instead
of pushing boundaries - Dec was a good mate too and he was determined to
put that difficult phase behind them, and stay fully friendly with both
England teammates. Mase's dimpled smirk across the table didn't always
make that the easiest, but at 25 Ben was learning a bit more
self-control.

`No comment,' the Portsmouth-born midfielder was protesting cheerily to
the general Rice speculation around them, `I'm not his bloody agent, am
I!'

`Just give him a clip around the ears if he's thinking about wasting
his time with United,' chuckled the deep South London accent of Ruben
Loftus-Cheek a couple of spaces to Ben's right, and he turned to glance
at the tall broad footballer who was coming into greater prominence on
the team under Tuchel - the 26-year-old Lewisham bloke was now chatting
pleasantly about the big family barbecue he was hosting with his
girlfriend, and Reece James, seated between them, was trying and failing
to remember the name of the boujie spot his missus had booked them for
brunch that day.

A whole load of couples, Ben thought idly, as the plans were recited
around him. He poked languidly at what was left of his lunch, having
finished most of it before the guys started arriving in here, whilst most
of them were only just getting started on loaded plates of protein that
they needed for recovery.

Havertz and Werner were doing the same - talking about their German
supermodel girlfriends and some double-date that the four of them were
apparently going on in some Cit roof garden on Monday afternoon. `Oh
yeah, we've been there,' Ziyech was pointing out idly, and Ben suddenly
felt very conscious of how blank his weekend was looking, with no away
game to be involved in and not even rehab training lined up for the Bank
Holiday. On cue, Hakim to his left and the faces opposite were turning
interestedly in his direction - `What about you, our Benjamin?'
29-year-old Dutchman was asking him politely.

Chilwell glanced at him, acting for a moment as if he hadn't quite heard
the question. `Oh, me?' he murmured when the attention didn't pass by
him. `Drive up to the family palace outside MK, maybe, see how
everyone's doing, I dunno...' He fidgeted in his canteen seat, sensing
the moment of mild awkwardness by his failure to add to the general
pattern of eager plans and coupled-up excursions.

`Ben is free and single,' Timo Werner remarked, sounding like he was
trying a little to hard to break the brief silence, `and he has not got
to run up to Everton to defeat those losers, so he probably has a much
wilder weekend ahead than any of us. Ha ha.'

Chilwell grinned vaguely at this tease whilst the others laughed more
heartily, and he felt Timo's beady eyes fix thoughtfully on him - there
had been a time where the German forward was intensely interested in him,
he remembered, but that had seemed to fade away quite rapidly after a few
early fumbles together.

`Wild,' Ben echoed lightly, impaling a slice of cucumber with his fork.

`Still single?' chimed Havertz. `What the hell is wrong with you,
Chilwell?' The question was jokey but felt harsh in his accent, and it
made Ben start slightly - it was a question that played in his own quiet
head from time to time, especially lately.

`He is still single, right?' mused another guy thoughtfully. `Nobody
interesting on the scene?'

Ben glanced up, surprised to find just how interested all the guys around
him looked at this train of thought - any news from him was perhaps a
slight novelty to the closely-bonded squad, given that they had seen so
little of him for months and were probably sick of each other's news and
updates. He hesitated, partly wilting under the curious looks from his
Chelsea friends, but also because he wasn't 100% sure of the answer, a
fact which must have registered on his lean face.

`Yes, there is someone,' barked Reece next to him, `look at that
blush.'

`Oh, leave him,' chuckled Mase supportively.

`Tell us all, Benjamin!' insisted Werner seriously.

`No, nobody,' he laughed dismissively, shaking his head at them and
leaning back in his seat slightly, finally putting down his fork.
`Don't all get too excited, eh?'

`Now, come on,' Timo was saying - `you can tell us, we're all friends
here, are you seeing someone? Are you taken, or are you still single?'
He was pushy and inquisitive, though Ben knew him well enough not to take
this as rudeness; but he twitched uncomfortably under the blond German
man's stare, and the ripple of interest from the other guys either side
of him, their conversation pausing as his vague weekend plans were
reinterpreted as evasiveness. Ben paused and asked himself the same
question - well, AM I single...? - before letting out a breezy laugh and
shaking his head.

`Some of us just have our rehab to focus on,' he said firmly. `The
sooner I'm back playing with you dickheads, the better!'


It had been almost two weeks ago, Saturday night, and he'd had some
mates around to his big London place for pizza and beers - mates outside
of the footballing bubble, old school pals who he did his best to keep up
with even though their lives had gone in such different directions -
getting stuffed with carbs and tipsy on craft lagers with football and
films on the flatscreen TV, since he would be attending the next day's
home match with Crystal Palace as a mere supporter rather than an active
player.

It had been a nice night, relaxed and old-school for the 25-year-old
pals, and Ben enjoyed being able to host them so comfortable in one of
the several lounge spaces of his swish West London townhouse, and he'd
enjoyed hearing about a couple of the guy's engagements and another's
impending second child - but a similar feeling had arisen during the
evening to the awkward sensation in the Chelsea refectory today: a
strange momentary sense of his own relative isolation as a footballer
here, having not met anyone special and feeling less and less connected
to his increasingly settled mid-20s friends.

Ben was too warm-hearted to envy or resent anyone, but it did leave him
feeling reflective when the chilled night came to an end - the FA Cup
Semi-Final at Wembley had been their first entertainment, but segued into
a double-bill of daft horror movies on Netflix, bottle after bottle being
opened and the premium pizzas from a local favourite passed liberally
about the room. Chilwell had tried not to get too stressed when cheese
and grease were spilled on his new sofas. It wasn't as if he couldn't
afford to replace them if he had to, was it?

He saw the lads out into their booked cabs, taking their hugs and
gratitude with the pleasant buzz of being able to treat your less
well-off pals, then lingered out on the driveway of the house, his
fingers half-tucked into the pockets of his slim-fit cargo chinos, a
loose designer t-shirt hanging from his athletic upper body. His usual
smile sparkled briefly on his face as he waved off the last car and then
drifted back to the house, up the short flight of stone steps to return
through the doorway.

He could leave all of the mess, in theory, since the twice-weekly
cleaning staff would be over tomorrow morning, around the same time he
would be setting off to go and vicariously enjoy the Stamford Bridge
atmosphere as his teammates got to work against Palace. But his
half-hearted self-comparison with his friends' lives had left him with a
slight restlessness that conflicted with the beery sleepiness in his
toned young body, and he set about clearing plates and crumbs, pizza
boxes and empty bottles. The TV played quietly in the background,
scrolling through movie trailers on the streaming services, and he padded
barefoot through the ground floor of the spacious bachelor home, rinsing
out a few glasses and wrangling with the complicated system of recycling
options that he barely understood at his bins.

He made to shove some more rubbish into the main bin at one end of his
chrome-heavy kitchen, and found it full. Quietly pleased with his own
little burst of domesticity, the footballer lad tugged up and tied the
bin bag, then heaved it out and over one shoulder before heading back
through the quiet empty rooms and out of the front door - down those
steps again and onto the quietly crunchy driveway that connected the
front of his house to the street of near-identical classy Fulham homes.

`Hey.'

Ben, having spent most of his Saturday night watching horror films, even
when cackling stupidly through them with his old school buddies,
immediately jumped in a panic and dropped the bin bag he was holding in
front of the wheelie bins, whirling around in the half-light of his
driveway. His jerky motion triggered some security sensor and a beam of
brighter glow shot vividly past him, illuminating the apparent intruder
who was stood a couple of yards to his side.

`Jack,' he breathed, steadying his nerves and glaring briefly at the
other man, then stooping to collect up the spilled rubbish and shoving it
awkwardly into the bin, not 100% sure he'd even got the right one - why
hadn't he left this to the Sunday morning cleaner?!

`Erm, hi,' the unexpected visitor said now, his voice less jarring and
unexpected, just familiar in its slow breathy accent, extra Brum. Ben
turned to look at him in the harsh security lighting, blinking in sleepy
surprise, and taking in the 5ft9 frame of the other player, now taking a
step closer to him with a sheepish gait. He was in a clingy pale blue Man
City tracksuit and he had a weekend bag slung over his shoulder and
chest. There was a slightly haggard tiredness to his long face behind the
drooping curtains of hair.

Ben blinked again and cleared his throat. `Hey,' he said, a bit less
coldly or worriedly than his initial outburst. `Hey, come here...'
Stiffly, with an artificial air of their former closeness, he beckoned
the other guy closer, and put his arms briefly about his shoulders, then
backed off, and nodded at the house. `You coming in, mate?'

Turned away from his friend and marching indoors, Ben's mind raced -
what the heck was Jack doing here? Surprise, or a crate of lager and too
much dough, was making his brain slow - once they were in the hallway, he
stared abruptly at his friend and connected his presence with the fact
that earlier on he and his friends had literally been watching Jack's
team fail to beat Liverpool for a place in the FA Cup final.

`Shouldn't you be with the team?' Chilwell demanded, sounding a bit
sharper than he wanted to, but confused and surprised. He slowly led the
way into the kitchen, where he instantly set about making a cuppa for the
Brummie guy without asking - he knew exactly how Jack liked his tea, and
how many he could sunk in a day.

`Uh, yeah,' Grealish was saying with that uniquely dopey charisma of
his, `kinda, but I just said I had a family thing to be back in
Birmingham for and so it didn't make sense for me to travel to
Manchester tonight, y'know. Um.'

`Oh, right.' Ben said this quietly, his voice a little brittle, as he
fussed with kettle and teabag and sugar. More domesticity. Neither lad
said anything for a couple of minutes now, until he had pressed the warm
mug into Jack's cool hands and then backed off, rubbing his hands
aimlessly on a tea towel and watching as the Man City star took a couple
of noisy slurps from the too-hot tea.

But there was a little stiff resolve in the injured Chelsea player, and
he forced out what he knew needed to be said. `What are you doing here,
mate?' he asked in a soft, low voice, letting his arms hang at his side
and watching Jack across the dark kitchen.

A long deep sigh from the 26-year-old attacking midfielder. Jack took a
couple more sips from the tea, not quite meeting Ben with his eyes -
though when he did, Ben wished he wouldn't, because there was that
smouldering look that could be so totally captivating. Jack matched his
tone, speaking so quietly that Ben had to take a step closer.

`Just been a bit intense lately,' Grealish told him. `Everything gets
a bit much sometimes, y'know? I... just... Needed to be somewhere else.
Out of that bubble.'

`...Right.'

`Can I stay?' the former Villa captain asked, his voice becoming an
even quieter gruff whisper as he did so. Ben met his eyes, briefly, then
shifted uncomfortably from foot to foot, scratching the fine dark stubble
of his neat chin. `It's okay if not,' Jack added quickly in a grunt,
straightening up his posture and raising his voice somewhat. `I've
checked and there's rooms at the hotel near the station and I'll be
travelling up to my mom's first thing in the morning for the day, so-'

`Of course you can stay,' Ben interrupted in a quiet rush. He heard the
strained resentment in his voice, mixed with friendly concern. He hugged
his slim strong arms across his chest. `I'm hardly going to say no,'
he added. Again, 50% fond welcome, 50% passive aggressive pointedness.

He thought for a moment for his big bachelor bedroom upstairs, dominating
the front of the house, and how empty that stupidly big bed could feel on
some nights - especially when your muscular young body wasn't as
completed drained by sporting activity as usual, due to the leg rehab
from his op, and he'd spent more hours staring up at the ceiling than he
was previously used to. Too much time thinking, and running one arm
across the empty sheets next to him, that was it.

`I'm not being a dick,' Grealish told him quietly, seeming to strain
to read his expression and his mood. The other footballer had put down
his half-emptied mug on the side (Ben could not ignore the delicate
little lick of lips and facial hair that the Brummie lad did
instinctively in a pause between sips) and was patting his hands together
- he seemed cold, as if maybe he'd been pacing laps of the block before
getting up the courage to actually show up on the doorstep like that,
rather than just heading straight here as an unlikely bolt from the blue.
The thought gave Ben great pangs of affection for the inconsistency of
Jack the lad's confidence, but also cause for hesitation - don't
romanticise this, you tit, he cautioned himself, this is more about him
than you.

`City life getting a bit much then?' Ben asked quietly, ignoring
Jack's ambiguous comment there, and coming a bit closer to him. He
opened a cupboard and offered him a chocolate biscuit with his tea, then
watched as Jack crunched thoughtfully on it. He'd lowered his bag to the
kitchen floor, and Ben watched idly as the material of the City tracksuit
pulled and flexed against his wiry body.

`Big fish, small pond... turned small fish, crazy pond, y'know?'

Ben raised an eyebrow. `You learned about metaphors, then?'

Jack snarled playfully. `Meta-what, mate?'

Quiet. `Tea okay?'

Slurp. `Lovely, mate.'

`Mm. Good.'

Jack repeated what he said before. `I'm not being a dick. I mean- I'm
not here expecting anything.' He lowered his gaze. `I just don't know
anyone in the city like I know you, and I couldn't face booking a car
home to mom just now.'

Ben nodded slowly. `There's nothing else, is there?' he asked a little
nervously. `Nothing wrong, or anything? Jack?'

Head shaken firmly. `I'm just tired,' Grealish told him, and he
sounded it. Looked it. `A lot of pressure there, and...' He twisted his
face. `It's funny how quickly things can get complicated, y'know?'
Ben daren't try to interpret this, because he knew a jealous streak
would burn up and he'd be wondering WHO might be making things
complicated for simple-hearted Jack at his new club. Was this just about
League pressures under the great Pep Guardiola, or about something more...
intimate?

`You can stay,' the 25-year-old defender assured him softly, but at the
same time he took a careful step away from the smell of Jack's signature
cologne, and manoeuvred past him out into the hallway. `I'll just go
check if one of the guest bedrooms is ready.' He said it firmly and in
as detached a voice as he could muster, before hurrying up the broad
staircase and hesitating on the landing - he knew full well that every
bedroom in the house was made up, that he'd had them prepped in case any
of the guests tonight wanted to crash and make a fuller weekend of it.
Ben had made sure he had a couple of extra passes for the stadium
tomorrow if they did, but nope... they all had their partners or young
families that they wanted to be back among.

Soft carpets meant that he didn't quite hear Jack's approach up the
stairs, but a creak of bag strap alerted him and he continued on down the
passage a bit before turning to face him. He nodded at a door equidistant
between them. `That's the nicest,' he offered. `Big en suite. You'll
be comfy.' Jack was taking a step in his direction, but he carried on in
this airy artificial voice, somewhere between a matron and a slick estate
agent: `I don't have to be out very early tomorrow or anything so
you'll be at your leisure in the morning, it's-'

`Ben,' whispered the winger, coming right up in front of him, one hand
hooked into the strap of his bag, and the other reaching for a light
touch on his elbow. `Can I not stop in your bed?' Ben heard his
downstairs affirmation as a quiet echo. So much for `not being a dick'.
He tensed, but as soon as he glanced at Jack's puppyish features and
stood in front of him, he knew he was going to agree. He could sense the
weariness and sadness about his best mate, and he ached to fix whatever
was broken for him. He just nodded, and now Jack grabbed him the hug - it
was tighter and warmer than his polite embrace by the bins, and he let
out a shaky sigh.


Ben went quietly through his motions, talking blandly to Jack about his
week: his rehab, his piano lesson, the car he was in the middle of
buying. He brushed his teeth and moisturised and changed - in the
bathroom - into a thinner t-shirt and a pair of loose shorts, whilst Jack
perched on a chair by the window and did none of these things.

Ben moved like an automaton, needing to follow ritual and speak of boring
details, because he could picture a very different scene unfolding if he
let it - and neither of them needed that. In his bedclothes, he pulled
back the covers and slid in, quickly settling into an approximate
impression of easy comfort on one side of the bed. A minute passed
without his room-filling chatter, and then he kept his eye
not-quite-closed, sensing and half-seeing the movement of Grealish
getting up from his seat and stripping out of his tracksuit layers, a
bare tanned figure moving about to the other side of the bed and getting
into it. Their elbows and ankles made the briefest of grazes and then
they were apart, together under the cover but carefully distanced; Ben
had already turned his back to the middle and, foetus-like, angled
himself towards the windows in a practised pose of sleepy indifference.
The gentle shift of bedding told him that Jack was doing the same,
turning away with a huff of breath, and lying back-to-back with him,
rather than defying the body language and crawling across to spoon him
for old time's sake.

Good, Ben thought wearily. That would be disastrous. Totally disastrous.
And not at all lovely and comforting and everything I every fucking
wanted.

Chilwell surprised himself by quickly falling asleep. If he'd been
thinking with any clarity, he might have expected a fitful night of
awkwardness and simmering tension, but the few drinks and a fairly busy
Saturday took their effect, and he was off into vague Premiership dreams
in a matter of minutes, and then out for the count. When he woke, he had
to wonder if the whole thing had been a dream, in fact, but a glance over
his shoulder confirmed otherwise: if he'd paused long enough, the
rattling hiss of Jack's snores might have done likewise, and once he had
slid out of the bedding, so might the messily discarded items of his
clothes. A sock here, a vest there, the tracksuit top dangling from the
edge of his mirror.

Ben pulled a thin dressing gown about his shoulders, though the morning
was far from cold, and he left his own bedroom on his tiptoes. On the
landing, he paused and dragged his hands bitterly over his sleepy face.
Madness, what was the dopey lad playing at? He marvelled at his own
nighttime resolve, the cool distance he'd maintained, for whatever
reason he felt he must.

`Jesus,' the left-back whispered to himself, and he made his way
downstairs.

In the kitchen, he found and woke up his tablet, using it to browse his
socials and then the sports news, taking a quiet interest in write-ups
from Liverpool's victory yesterday, analysis of the City defeat that had
just allowed it; he shifted from that to speculation and predictions
about his own club's weekend game against Palace, his own Wembley
weekend, with that extra guest pass going to waste in his pocket.

After a while, he heard steps from above, and guessed that Jack was awake
too. Thoughtlessly, he went to make another cuppa, grabbing the kettle
and filling it at one of the sinks, then standing close to it at the
counter as he took two mugs and readied them; it was a banal moment, but
it gave him serious de ja vu for mornings when they had been more than
friends, following this exact ritual in other apartments, brewing up for
the pair of them. The sound of the kettle must have drowned out further
footsteps, or that soft carpet - because now he could hear Jack's bare
feet slap gently on the cool tiled floor of the kitchen. He deliberately
didn't turn around, because he knew Jack would have slept in just his
underpants, and he didn't really need to see that.

The footsteps didn't stop, but approached. He waited, momentarily, for
Jack to pull up next to him at the counter and casually ask what was for
breakfast - Ben had already been working that question out in his head a
minute ago - but instead, they stopped just behind him, and then he felt
warm hands brush his hips through the thin robe. `Jack,' he said once,
his voice low and cautious.

Grealish didn't answer, but just rubbed him a bit more firmly there, and
pulled in closer. He felt a musty breath rub at the back of his neck, and
he sighed in unison, first tensing up and then relaxing as he felt
Jack's bare hot body pulling close to him from behind. `Morning,' was
all the Brummie guy said, a rough whisper of interest.

Ben straightened up. He was about to push back, to slip out of this
familiar morning position, but... Jack's hands had reached around
slightly, taken the lapels of his dressing gown, and pulled it back,
letting it slide gently off his shoulders and down his back with only a
faint rustle. And the hands were up on his arms at the border of his
sleeves now, and then up on his shoulder. He could still feel those warm
bed-breath sighs on the nape of his neck as Jack's hands, inexpert but
instinctive, rubbed at his shoulder muscles through his t-shirt, and Ben
could not help but let out a tiny moan of appreciation.

This, he thought, was dangerous - but he still didn't shift away, or say
anything against it. He just stood there, resting his palms forward on
the counter beside the mugs, and let Grealish massage his shoulders and
his neck from behind, breathing quietly against him as he did so, but
saying nothing. It went on, a strangely beautiful moment in the quiet
kitchen with only a few shafts of morning light cutting between the
blinds and casting the springtime sunglow on them both. Jack's amateur
hands were experimenting - one was working up his neck a little to the
base of his skull to softly massage his head, and the other was jerking
over his shoulder and toying with the edge of one sleeve. Then he
stopped, perhaps bored with it, but staying there, rhythmic breaths
quietly disturbing the peace of Ben's skin and sending shivers down his
spine. And then, just as he might have moved to reach over for the kettle
and carry on with the tea, the hands were gripping at the thin white
fabric of his pyajam t-shirt, and pulling upwards - Ben made a faint
sound, as if of resistance, but then relaxed his torso and held himself
in front of the slightly shorter athlete, even lifting his arms one by
one until Grealish had delicately pulled the t-shirt up and away and,
presumably, let it glide behind them to the kitchen floor. His hands were
back on Ben's shoulder muscles, but now it was skin to skin, and he
shuddered.

Soon, the contact that those warm puffs of breath had been silently
promising him landed on his sensitive skin, and Jack was kissing him on
the back of the neck - not once, but over and over, soft wet pecks
against his ticklish nape, whilst rubbing warm strong hands over his
shoulders and across his upper arms, holding him firmly from behind. Ben
tensed and relaxed again and he let his head loll to the side as he was
encouraged, so that the rubbing hand could move forward onto part of his
chest, and the kisses could rove from the back to the side of his neck...
Mmm. This is... a... bad idea... But he didn't say it out loud, because
what if it stopped...?

Grealish held him from behind, gently-haired arms swooping down now and
crossing his sides, holding him while the kisses terrorised his neck and
just below his ears with gorgeous morning intimacy. He could feel the
firmness of Jack's chest and abdomen against his back, and the fullness
of his underwear resting against his own rump, making him want rid of the
loose cotton shorts - it was as if Jack could read his mind, because
hands were pushing down his own six-pack and finding the knot of cord at
the front - though not pausing to loosen it, just pushing the bed-shorts
past his slim waist and dragging them down, inch by inch, until they were
falling past his thighs, his knees, his shins. He was naked now, with
them about his ankles, and Jack holding him quite tightly from behind,
bestowing kisses along the length of his strong shoulders and then back
at the base of his neck, oh holy fuck.

He opened his mouth as if to speak, but what could he say that wouldn't
threaten the moment...? So he just pursed his lips and bowed his head a
little bit, feeling Jack's hands begin to rove more adventurously down
the sides of his body. The kisses were travellng, delicate pecks down the
length of his spine, and the hands were above, then on, his hips, the
sides of his broad sturdy bottom. He felt Jack's warm breath on the
small of his back and, guided by the hands, he bent forward a little,
resting more of his weight onto the kitchen counter, letting his arse
push back gently - letting the cheeks spread naturally, and then more
forcefully, Jack's fingers kneading his glute muscles, until he could
feel the Brummie's stale breath tickle between them. A soft wet sound of
spitting, and a lukewarm sensation in his crack, and then... Jack's
muscular tongue, diving in there, the cheeks pushed more firmly aside.
Ben felt a palm push his lower back more and he bent further forward,
obedient, and let his buttocks be parted and his whole licked and prodded
and spat upon.

His hole, not fucked in forever, clenched and quivered, and his whole
body trembled as if the kitchen was suddenly freezing cold. Jack's hands
moved in firm, comforting sweeps of massaging gestures, across his back
and hips, up and down his strong thighs, and then back onto his cheeks,
to pat and squeeze them, to prise them further apart and to spit on his
twitching ring.

And then... Jack's face between his thighs, his soft morning hair rubbing
ticklishly against Ben's buttocks and his balls, and his own cock kissed
and licked from behind where it hung, increasingly pendulous with
swelling, beginning to rise away and jut at the kitchen counter, but
pulled back by Jack's warm lips as it was sucked gently from below.
Then, twang, released, that mouth tending instead to his balls, one at a
time and then between them... a tongue-lashing of interest that made him
throb and shiver, made his breaths go shallow and rapid - he couldn't
seem to move himself to reciprocate any of this, had no idea if that was
required of him, he was just frozen to the spot against the kitchen, his
hole aching.

It all proceeded with the same languid tenderness as the initial
massaging and kissing: Jack wriggling about below, nipping and kissing
his bollocks and then sucking a little on the tip of his hard-on again
before letting it spring away, and then back to his arse, pushing between
his cheeks and licking the fuzzy hair of his crack - the kisses moving up
to the downy hair on the small of his back, whilst one of Jack's fingers
found its way into his wet hole in slow gliding jabs, opening him up for
the first time in ages, and making him let out a long thin whine of
anticipation.

But soon, in spite of this glacial pace of excitement, Jack was up on his
feet behind him, breathing against his neck, and holding him, and Ben
could do nothing but ease his arse backwards and relax himself, feeling
not a questing finger between his cheeks, but the fat head of Grealish's
longed for cock. He let out long sighs whilst Jack's hands moved up and
down his abs and onto his firm pecs, teasing across his nipples and up to
stroke his neck and jawline... all the while, the fat tip of that great
cock easing against his renewed tightness, testing and stretching him,
finding its way.

`Oh, Jack,' he mouthed, unsure if the moaned name really came out loud,
not that it mattered - their lithe strong bodies were communicating now,
that was enough. Gradually, Jack was inside him, and he knew his muscles
inside were welcoming and gripping the shaft, recognised the happy sighs
and gasps of Jack's breathing on his neck and in his ear. The gentle
tipping rhythm of hips as the cock was pushed more fully into him, the
strain of their bodies as Jack found his angle and his rhythm, beginning
to push him in slow jolts, so that he had to grip the counter more to
steady himself and not go skidding away. Ben bent very slightly and held
himself still, his arse fucked slow and deep, and his body grabbed and
rubbed and massaged by those two large hands. Even Jack's animal groans
had a Peaky Blinders twang.

Grealish didn't pick up the pace, didn't bring his characteristic
roughness and urgency, this was... different. It carried on, slow and
sure, making Ben burn and ache with the near-climaxing pleasure of it,
his own huge cock rigid and swollen and deftly ignored by his lover's
wandering hands for the duration of the fuck. He just remained pinned to
the kitchen counter, his cock pressing up against his tummy as the slow
thrusts got harder, and opened himself up to it, happily held in Jack's
strong arm. They were both gasping heavily for air, and he could feel his
skin dampen with sweat, not just his own.

He recognised the raggedness in the Brummie's gasps, knew he was getting
close, and yet still, Jack's movements were slow and purposeful, firm
but measured, even as he gripped Ben's hips and thrust his final ounces
of strength into him and then, swearing under his breath, shot his load
deep inside Ben's arse, collapsing forward more heavily against him as
he did, guttural noises and clinging hugging. His chest felt damp against
Ben's back muscles, squeezing him from behind and remaining buried to
the hilt in his bottom, gasping for recovery, a moment that Chilwell
found himself wanting to last forever.

As soon as Jack began to recede and withdraw, he felt a coldness shudder
across his skin, a little nameless dread - and yet he shouldn't have
immediately worried. Pulling back from him and downwards, JAck was
manhandling his hips again to turn him around, to make him spin and plant
his sweaty back to the counter, his fucked cheeks to the cupboard door,
clenched about his stinging hole - and his big cock swinging free and
into Jack's waiting face, all red and clammy. Immediately, Grealish was
sucking him, slurping lovingly on it, seeming dazzled by its size as if
he'd forgotten - his eyes squeezed shut and his blotchy red face fixated
on the task at hand, which they both knew would take seconds at this
rate. Ben stared wondrously down, clenching backwards and holding the
edge of the counter, watching as the length of his fat bone went in and
out of that slurping mouth, much of Jack's handsome looks hidden by the
scruffy fringe of hair.

Almost silently, the Chelsea player climaxed, unable to hold out or stop
himself or tell Jack to go easy - it was received gladly and noisily,
queasy wet noises as Grealish slurped jizz from about the head of his
cock and slobbered over the shaft to get every thick creamy drop of it.
Ben's balls tingled and his head swam. He gripped the counter more
tightly, worried he was gonna slide to the kitchen floor if he didn't
compose himself. His leg muscles juddered and spasmed and he felt soaked
in sweat, more than he'd realised as he was fucked with that slow
morning passion.

And then it was over, and he was hanging his head and gasping for air,
and he felt Jack get up and hold him gently, patting the outsides of his
arms, their faces very close, his mouth drifting close and Ben puckering
up for a taste of those jizzy lips... that never came. Jack was pulling
back, still huffing and panting, and reaching past him, finding a
tea-towel that he could rub across his beetroot face, sweat trickling all
down his torso.

Ben spun to the side silently, gasping too, and reaching a hand to click
the bottom of the kettle, letting it rapidly return to boiling point. He
poured it into their mugs and stood there, naked and shiny, until Jack
reached over to stroke and pat his back, and then disappeared to the
fridge to get milk. In a minute, they were stood facing each other at
opposite sides of the kitchen, sipping sweet tea and studying each
other's bodies. Jack broke the quiet in a thin voice: `I best go and
shower, then.' Ben stared at him and nodded, and sipped his tea.

At a distance, he followed Grealish up the stairs, bringing the tea with
him, and then just lay down on top of the bedding, still naked and
sweaty, and stayed lying there quietly, head propped up and sipping tea,
when Jack emerged from the en suite and dressed in front of him,
strangely at ease. Neither lad dared to say anything that might ruin it,
and yet Ben knew eventually one of them might have to; it may as well be
him.

Leaving Jack to it, he got reluctantly off the bed and walked downstairs.
He ignored his other clothes but picked up the creased pile of the gown
and slid it about his tightly-muscled body, tying it at the waist and
then washing his face in the sink. Out of the kitchen window he saw the
branded van of the cleaning company pulling up in his driveway, and he
grunted unhappily at this interruption. `Jack,' he called warningly,
moving out into the main hallway, but stopping when the other man was
fully dressed and halfway down the stairs.

They both paused, staring each other down. Grealish was hard to read, but
he glowed with post-sexual satisfaction. Ben held the bottom of the
bannister and Jack descended to meet him, resting a hand on his.

`I'm not stupid,' the 25-year-old said quietly but, he thought, quite
brightly. `I know this doesn't just mean we're back together and it's
like nothing happened.'

Jack stared at him, not saying anything to confirm or deny this, and
something in his remoteness cut at Ben's feelings. He pulled his hand
away, though he knew he had no right to get angry, and he couldn't say
what he thought the other guy was feeling about their early morning fuck.

`Do you have to go?' he asked in a hot mumble.

`I do.'

`Come to Wembley. I'm going to support Chelsea.'

A gentle scoffing laugh. `That'd look great, wouldn't it? After
yesterday.'

`Who would know? Who'd care?' Even as he muttered this, Ben kinda knew
it was daft, and would hardly pass unnoticed - a new-ish City player
turning up on the fringe of he other semi, watching Chelsea perhaps
succeed where City had obviously fallen short. He was being daft, and he
cringed at himself. But to his relief, Jack dropped off the bottom step
to come level with him, and pulled him into a tight hug that broke the
momentary awkwardness, or perhaps just immortalised it. Ben grabbed him
back and the two young footballers held each other. Ben heard the sound
of a key in the lock outside, the cleaners usually having to make their
own entry if he was either having a lie-in or already out to training.

He pulled away from Jack, who he saw looked surprised and worried, but he
just patted him on the arm. The door opened and Ben shouted a polite good
morning to the masked lady who bustled in and immediately went past them
to get started on her rounds. They were left alone again, but with her
footsteps and rustles sounding throughout the ground floor of the
townhouse. Jack smiled a bit, and walked towards the door with his bag.
Ben followed him.

At the door, he took the risk, and pushed it.

`Is there somebody else now?' he asked.

Jack didn't answer, and there was a worriedness in his expression. No
answer was an answer of sorts, and Ben quailed. He sighed, and rubbed at
Jack's arm gently, then let their hands slide together and their fingers
briefly lock together. Still no kiss. Just a hot lingering stare between
them in the doorway. `I just don't know,' Grealish admitted in a huffy
breath, and Ben wasn't sure precisely what question was being answered,
but he honestly whispered, `No, me neither, baby.'

Somewhere else in the house, a hoover roared. It made them both smile
stupidly at each other, and Ben guessed Jack was thinking how easily they
might have been caught at it in the kitchen just now in the slow throes
of their passion. It made him laugh giddily and he squeezed Jack's hand
in his. He realised how wrong his words had been just now, how
pointlessly ambiguous.

`If you figure it out, you know where I am,' he said earnestly.

Jack did look a little surprised, raising his brows and biting his lip.
But he didn't say anything affirmative or dismissive in response -
though his hand did grip meaningfully back at Ben's for a moment more
before he reached for the door and let himself out, stepping away out
into the bright Sunday morning, leaving a naked Ben in his robe, resting
on the doorframe and relishing the old ache in his arse.


He checked his phone as soon as he left the shower, finished with his
day's training scheme and needing to get out of the centre and on the
road back to his place. There were various notifications from a number of
apps, but there was nothing from Jack. Still. As there had been nothing
every day for the past two weeks since that Saturday night and Sunday
morning.

He sighed and locked it, and went on drying his compact muscular body,
alone in the player changing facilities since the other guys were still
at work on their light afternoon session. He took his time, drying and
styling his hair and lingering over packing his things into his kit-bag.
He almost checked his phone again, as if for some reason Jack Grealish
was going to pause in his Friday afternoon and finally text him: `That
was the best sex of my entire fucking life'.

On the way out, he bumped into a few of the other players, who seemed to
have given up doing anything productive after all and were just drifting
around the fitness centre in an aimless fashion, all still in recovery
from a quick away trip halfway up the country.

And somehow their kindness irked him, made him feel even more single and
alone than he had before. It was lovely, really - big Ruben loping up to
him outside the changing rooms, that handsome smile cracking his large
face, and laying a big hand on his shoulder as he asked whether he'd
liked to join them for the BBQ on Monday; and antsy Christian Pulisic
only minutes later, explaining that his girlfriend was away on a
photoshoot and he had nobody to hang out with either, maybe they should
do something - and then Werner in the foyer, calling across to him and
bluntly asking if he wanted to be a fifth wheel at this table with he and
Havertz and their girlfriends. Then, the icing on the cake, a
worried-looking Mount jogging after him in the car park, then slowing
down and giving him a cheeky wave, and telling him there'd be space in
the car if he fancied coming along with him and Rice and helping to set
up the birthday party.

`I'm not some charity case!' Chilwell protested as brightly as he
could, backing away from his buddy and heading on to his car. `I've got
plans, don't you worry - you guys just go and smash Everton to pieces,
will you? Don't go easy on them just cos it's Frank.' He gave his
friend a meaningful look, fully aware of everything that had gone down
between the midfielder and the former Chelsea gaffer, INTIMATELY aware.

`Hah, we will,' Mount promised him. `I didn't mean to be annoying
there, Benny. Just a bit worried about you, that's all.'

`Worried! Don't be worried. I'm cool beans. Buddy, I'll be back on a
pitch in no time and I'm feeling great. Honest. Just gonna have a
chilled weekend and see you all at training next week, that's all.
Yeh?'

`Cool, yeah.'

`Give my love to Deccers. Well, not love, but- y'know. Something that
doesn't piss him off. Enjoy yourself, Mase. Go get a goal against the
Toffees, will ya?'

He waved him off, laughing and shaking his head, and let himself into his
own sports car, then before he could start it up, gave in to instinct and
hurriedly fished out his phone, checking his messaging apps and sighing
sadly at the lack of new communication; never mind. Not yet.