Date: Mon, 16 May 2022 20:30:29 +0000
From: writer guy <premiershiplads@outlook.com>
Subject: Premiership Lads, Part 294

Part 294: Another Cup


Premier League, Champions League, League Cup, UEFA Super Cup, Club World
Cup... and now the FA Cup. The trophy gleamed ostentatiously beside him as
they posed for another quick photograph, all light smiles, weary but
beaming - he gave a thumbs up to the assistant manager who was grabbing
the snap and then gladly returned his high-five, before relaxing more of
his aching body into the seat and turning to stare again at the revered
Cup which was perched now on the divider between his and the captain's
seat.

The interior of the club's chartered jet was noisy but happy, the
celebrations of the pitch and the lockerroom translating to the brief
flight that was taking them from London to Liverpool, a bunch of sorely
tested athletes who couldn't quite believe that they'd won again
tonight. Jurgen himself was still strutting up and down the central aisle
of the jet, leading the cheers and noisy joy of the players and staff as
their flight winged over the length of England to get them back to
Merseyside.

`Crazy,' he heard the Liverpool skipper in the next seat murmuring, and
he saw that Jordan Henderson was staring at the trophy with the same
slightly dazed relief, before picking it up and moving into the aisle to
loft it in the air and provoke further whoops and cheers from the
comfortable rows of slouched, seated or standing men.

Trent Alexander-Arnold, still only 23 and yet the recipient of almost
every achievement that his sport could offer, slid up onto his knees on
his own seat, curling his arms about the headrest and watching as Hendo
shook the shiny thing in the air and brought on further whoops of
aggressive enjoyment from the squad and coaching staff. He laughed to
himself, too exhausted now to climb off his seat and join in properly,
but very glad to watch and enjoy the ringing atmosphere of the cabin.

Milner and Robbo were up to join Hendo in a repeat of his shuffling
dad-dancing from the Wembley home changing rooms, among others, and Trent
just hugged his seat lazily, his biceps bulging a little in the sleeves
of his black tracksuit top, hanging loosely open over a garish red
Liverpool t-shirt. He knew everybody was overwhelmed and victorious, but
not all of them were lifelong fans in the way that he was, and though
Trent was too humble and sensible to rate his own sense of victory
against anyone else's, he wasn't sure there was a 23-year-old bloke in
the country as delighted and satisfied as he was right now.

Funny, it had been a potentially tense day at the beginning, he thought,
and it could have really knocked his confidence or his focus - but no,
he'd performed at his best, just like all of the lads had, and whilst
the Cup Final had been a real extended slog to the death at penalties,
they had held t heir own again Chelsea and sent the London team skiulking
back to Stamford Bridge with a third FA Cup Final loss in a row, hah. But
yeah, it could have been a very different day, really if not for...

His eyes settled thoughtfully on the captain himself, returning to their
seats having handed the trophy over to a few of the younger guys to pose
with for their social media accounts - out of the corner of his eye, he
could see Harvey Elliott donning one of those silly Salah masks again and
making gangster poses with Curtis and hoisting the Cup between them,
though neither youngster had made the cut for this particular crucial
fixture - Trent was far from denying them their part in the celebrations
or dismissing their enthusiasm, and he just grinned appreciatively from
his vantage point at the front of the passenger cabin instead.

`Alright?' chirped Hendo, sliding back into the comfortable lounger
next to him, in the same black club tracksuit, though zipped up and a
little closer-fitting. He flashed his pearly confident smile this way,
seeming incredibly relaxed now that another tournament was neatly
secured, and also looking oddly awake for the late hour.

Trent was a little too dazed and tired to answer properly, glancing from
his smiling captain to the messy photoshoot further down the aisle, then
sliding his nylon-clad body back down the leather into a proper seated
position, tired arms hanging at his sides and a sleepy warmth seeping
across his body. The last thing he heard before he submerged into
satisfied doze was a pleasant gruff laugh from the skipper, reaching over
to shove a flight cushion against the side of his head and making sure he
was in a good position.


Things had been a little off between them in the weeks since that
European hotel incident - how could it nod be? Alexander-Arnold had been
determined that he would shrug it off as he had so many other things -
his disappointing fling with Jonjo, his tiring fixation on the Egyptian
striker, his neatly severed `throuple' lifestyle with Andy and Alex -
and just pretend that the whole encounter was a fever dream fantasy, and
yet... it was hard, having that moment's intimate knowledge of a guy as
solid and wholesome as the Sunderland-born midfielder, and perhaps it was
one secret too many to be quiet and chill about in the macho hustle and
bustle of footballer life.

Besides - Hendo himself had been instantly weird with him from the
following training session onwards. Fleeting and struggling eye contact,
limited chat, and a strange physical tension whenever their training
schedules or the standard movements of the closely bonded squad brought
them into closer quarters.

For the Scouse right-back, it was disappointing but not surprising.

Trent spent many a late night hour dwelling on how shocking and odd
Jordan's behaviour on that night had been - was there anyone who seemed
more conventionally happy and settled in their married family life? - but
when it came to the subsequent cold shoulder and distance between the
former team buddies, he didn't need to give it any of that lonely
contemplation. It was just how Mo often treated him, or had been during
the months when he would regularly serve the well-hung Egyptian goal
machine, and it reminded him of the difficulties he'd experienced with
bisexual Everton urchin Jonjo last year, trying to make something work
between them before realising that the other Scouse lad was just never
gonna properly reciprocate his yearning affections.

It was, in the last month or two, just another of those things - another
little burden for the unusually mature 23-year-old footballer lad to
weigh on his broadening shoulders, and put aside as he focused on his
game quality and helping the Anfield side aspire to a last-minute
overtake of the assumed season winners, Man City. Within that campaign,
their trip down to Wembley for today's Cup Final was a major milestone,
and Alexander-Arnold spent the journey down on the Friday night in a
particularly focused wormhole of his own meditations; the same during the
late dinner and relaxation time at their hotel base.

On the Saturday morning, the young defender was in the same focused zone,
and he took full advantage of the day's slow start and their freedom to
go about their own routines at the hotel before official preparations
began at 11am with a team meeting. He went for a swim on his own and then
took his breakfast to an outside table in the leafy gardens of the hotel,
sat in an indiscriminate West London location not far from Heathrow.

He was shocked then when the captain turned up at his solitary table with
a matching tray of brunch food, loitering hesitantly close to the table
and giving him a sheepish look in the bright morning sunshine. Trent
blinked slowly, unable to properly read Hendo's expression as he stepped
in front of the sun and became a simple dark silhouette. `Er, hullo?'
he crackled in his own strong Merseyside, waiting for the captain to say
something - probably he was looking for someone else, or had some message
to relay. But the Mackem guy was slow to comment, just lingering there,
then folding down into the opposite chair and joining him at the isolated
table under the trees. `Alreet,' Henderson grunted simply, picking up
his coffee and taking a long sip.

Right. Odd. Trent straightened up a bit in his chair and scratched at his
chin, then sipped from his own cappuccino and began to poke at the
breakfast food on his plate. Jordan did the same, but neither of them ate
a thing for a few long minutes.

`I've been hoping to speak to you for a while, mate.' The captain
looked at him with an odd shyness about him, his strong forearms bare on
the table, and his bitten-looking fingernails scratching at them as he
folded them next to his tray. Trent glanced up from this back to his
chiselled features and his wide, trusting eyes. All he could say was
`Right...?'

Jordan let out a long huffing breath. `I've wanted to... apologise. God,
mate. I was so awful to you that night and... well, probably since. Hmm?
Ah, man.'

`No,' Trent said vaguely and dishonestly, shifting uncomfortably under
his captain's earnest stare. `It's fine, it didn't even happen...'

`It DID,' his skipper interrupted him, quiet but heavy. `It did
happen, mate, so we should... talk about it.' A long sigh. `I'm happily
married, okay, I need you to understand that. It was just a... a slip,
that's all. I'm sorry. I really shouldn't have behaved like that, or
let you...' He cursed under his breath. `I took advantage of you, I
think. I feel terrible about it. I hope you can forgive me and still
respect me.'

Trent laughed awkwardly at this, and he saw Jordan flinch at the bitter
side. `Skipper, I respect you always,' he said loyally, and meant it,
but his attempts to dismiss the conversation and his own experiences were
again interrupted by the captain.

`I was totally out of line, using you like that.' Henderson looked grim
and anxious.

`Using me?' Trent murmured, then shrugged. His voice took on a
confessional honesty and a nervous rush that he didn't really want this
morning, when such important footballing matters lay ahead of them both -
but the skipper had brought on this confrontation, and now he felt he had
no choice but total honesty. `I'm gay, cap, and I was hardly just going
along with YOUR behaviour, okay? I... I, well, we both went too far, and
were a bit out of line, okay? Stop being so hard on yourself. I'm not
some idiot kid, remember.' Hendo just looked uncomfortable, and he
wondered if partly it was the unexpected blunt honesty of his coming out
- he was shocked by it himself. `Yep - Trent Alexander-Arnold, gay
Premiership footballer. Sorry.'

`Don't be s-'

`Obviously I'd appreciate it if you didn't rush to tell anyone else,
eh...'

`Of course, of course!'

And somehow it progressed from there - a surprisingly frank and bright
conversation between the two Liverpool players, cosseted form the world
by dense flowerbeds and the complex layout of the terraced garden, with
Jordan's stiff apologetic formality melting into his more typical North
Eastern charms and brotherly concern - and Trent shocked by his own
frankness out loud in front of a club superior, or really in front of
ANYONE. By the time he'd finished scoffing his scrambled eggs and
sausages, Trent felt like he'd just shed half his body-weight - the
openness in front of someone as trusting and supportive as his team
captain made him feel totally unburdened and liberated.

Hendo cut him off very gently by looking at his watch and squinting in
the sunlight. `I had better go, you know,' he said gruffly, `it's
almost time to start rounding people up for the team talk.' He returned
his gaze this way with a bright encouraigng smile. `I'm sorry to cut
you off, Trent - I really just want you to feel you can talk to me, you
kna, so I'm sorry to bugger off like this.'

Trent stared at him, a little agog at how open-minded and kind this older
man actually was - but then, he already knew that. Why hadn't he come
out to his skipper years ago, when he'd first begun to feel a bit
confused about his interest in the men around him?

`That's ok,' he said quickly, suddenly feeling almost faint from the
emotional honesty of the conversation they'd shared. `You've got shit
to do. Erm.' He blinked and rubbed at one side of his face. `Hendo,
mate... er... thanks for this, thanks for... listening, and being... cool
with stuff, eh?'

Henderson just smiled at him and then the 31-year-old was getting up,
pushing his strong arms away from the table to unfold out of his seat,
then picking up his tray and beginning to take Trent's remains onto it
too, tidying up for him. Trent watched in awkward silence, humbled by the
grace and generosity of the other guy, and also a bit stunned by how open
he'd managed to be - he'd confided everything to Hendo about his
short-lived relationship with a guy, whilst carefully excluding that it
had been with an Everton player. Similarly, he'd not rushed to drop
Robbo or Ox's names into the conversation, though he'd certainly hinted
that his captain hadn't been the FIRST guy in LFC that he'd gotten
`close' to.

Once Hendo was gone, he'd remained sitting there for a while, delaying
the need to get back up to his room and sort himself out before the
meeting began. Strangely, the tension and difficulty that he'd felt was
erased, and he was now wondering how much of it had existed only in his
own head anyway - Jordan just seemed so cooled and relaxed about his
sexuality, and so willing to hear him out and be there for him, it was
mad. The fact that anything intimate or embarrassing had happened between
the two of them suddenly seemed irrelevant, and he was much more pleased
by the idea of his captain as a confidant and ally than as another
embarrassing encounter that he had to cringe and avoid like some of the
things he'd got up to in the past three years.


It had set the young right-back up for a great day, and seen him through
the busy prep and the big game itself, the whole long battle of attrition
that it became before the inevitable penalty shootout. In the game, and
in the celebrations afterwards, Trent moved through the scenes with a new
lightness - not only towards his captain, who now grinned openly at him
and made him feel as included as he ever had before, but with other guys
who he might have found minor difficulty with. He posed happily with
Salah for a few trophy photos, able to look the Egyptian man properly in
the eye for the first time in a long while, and he cheerfully chided
young Harvey for getting over-excited with some champagne spray, letting
go of his prior discomfort at the way he'd got on his knees for the
arrogant youth.

By the time he was sat on the club flight to Liverpool, dozing off in his
seat and helped into a comfier position by a few kind gestures from the
captain, Trent was feeling great about himself and his position in this
laddish world. If he dreamed in that short mid-air nap, it must have been
of happy prospects, because he woke with a grin on his face and only a
slight disorientation. `We're landing, buddy,' Henderson's voice told
him, sounding very distant, but clearly coming from just the next seat.
Trent stared out of the window at the lights of his home city, and let
the fog of sleep part from his eyes and mind.

On terra firma, there was a lot of hugging and dancing in the cloistered
arrivals area, but also a lot of bleary yawning and hurried goodbye.
Trent himself was still half-asleep, and he was incredibly glad when
Hendo grabbed him by the upper arm and informed him that he could share
his taxi home if he needed to - `Actually, why don't you just crash at
mine?' the captain demanded, his bright voice again sounding faraway to
Trent's dozy ears. `It'll be quicker than getting all the way back
into the city centre from here, marra.'

Trent agreed in a sleepy grunt, leaning on the handle of his small
personal suitcase, and dawdled there on his own whilst Hendo went to make
these arrangements. With idle interest, he watched the big bear-hugs
between nearby Oxlade-Chamberlain and Robertson, trying to pick up on
hints of the greater physical intimacy that he knew so well between the
two fellas - but they were parting and going their own ways to waiting
cars. He briefly caught eyes with Mohamed Salah, and perhaps he imagined
the hungry look on the striker's face, the hint of invitation in his
frowning brows, but he smiled blandly back, thinking that the Trent who
had submissively got on his knees over and over for him was a different
bloke to the confident FA Cup winner stood here today.


In the taxi to Henderson's place, he rolled his window partly down,
allowing the thin blast of cool night air to rouse him a bit - he was
aware that the 31-year-old was much more switched on than him, seemingly
still wired on the evening win and the celebrations that had taken them
from the trophy ceremony to this airport taxi. Hendo was talking to him
about the League and he struggled to answer, but found himself a little
more awake every minute, leaving behind the dreamy fog of the flight by
the time they were being dropped off in the leafy suburban close of his
captain's home.

`We'll have to be quiet,' Jordan told him on the doorstep. `It's
about 2am now - can't wake anybody.' He smiled apologetically at this
apparent inconvenience, and Trent just quietly thanked him for the kind
stop-over in one of his guest rooms, following him into the big main hall
beyond the porch.

Trent blinked sleep out of his eyes, wondering if he'd be able to fall
back into such a contented state when he hit the pillow, now that the
staged journey had gradually snapped him back into the same wired state
as the other footballer. He lifted his small case rather than let it
squeak or rattle on the hard floor. A half-open door away to the right
looked like it led into a guest bedroom, and he nodded that way with an
eye on the skipper.

`Is this me then?' he asked.

Jordan, in the middle of kicking off his trainers and unzipping his
tracksuit top, paused. The football captain stared at the doorway, tucked
away beside the stairwell that wound up to the rest of the house. He
seemed alarmed or confused, though Trent was too exhausted to give it any
real thought - he could never have guessed at the private significance of
the particular bedroom even if he'd been wide awake, though.

`No,' Jordan said at length, `not that one.'

He scratched his stubble and shifted from foot to foot. `Actually - I'm
gonna use the recovery pool before I hit the hay, y'know. Up to you if
you wanna join, or I'll show you a room upstairs and you'll be grand.'
He stifled a slight yawn. `I'm just still too buzzed, I'll fidget and
annoy the missus if I head upstairs right now.'

`Er, sure,' Trent said casually. It didn't sound a terrible idea. He
was starting to feel the same way: restless and excitable, even at this
ridiculous hour, because they'd been through such a whirlwind since that
final penalty bought their win. It made sense to wind down before trying
to sleep, although if he was back at his own penthouse right now that
would most likely involve some online gaming and a secretive spliff on
the balcony.

Chez Henderson, that involved crossing the mansion's back garden and
entering the newest part of the extension, where a small recovery pool
had been added to the sportsman's home fitness suite. As they both
undressed, Trent thought with some relief that the comfort and normalness
had returned between them - that breakfast conversation felt weeks ago,
rather than 36 hours - and there was none of that tension there, that
tension that had maybe only existed in his own embittered imagination.
When he stared at Jordan, who was wriggling out of a vest and exposing
his back and shoulder muscles close by, he felt more tempted to admire
what a progressive and kind-hearted fella the Wearside midfielder was,
rather than checking out the ripple of his muscles or the way his gold
crucifix chain fell against them... although it was difficult NOT to
notice those details at all.

Down to his underwear, black briefs that were again hard not to, erm,
notice, Jordan was into the cool water, singing an earlier victory song
tunelessly to himself, and doing a bit more of his shimmying dad dancing
as he waded in to his waist. It made Trent laugh, toying slowly with the
waistband of his black bottoms, suddenly reluctant to strip off properly
and join the skipper in the small pool. Hendo was straddling a submerged
exercise bike whilst idling on his smartphone, his bare strong legs
working to unwind in slow underwater pedalling motions. He lifted his
head and smiled this way. `Come on, the cool water will do you good,
matey.'

`Yeah,' he agreed vaguely, but his eyes were distracted - did Jordan's
arms always look so bulgy with muscle? He frowned at his own wandering
eyes, which seemed disrespectful and irritating after today's
revelations and support. He stepped closer to the pool's edge, still
fumbling with the drawstrings of his tracky bottoms, but staring at the
soft ripplings of the water rather than of his captain's muscles.

`Why am I posting my fucking legs to my Instagram story, haha?' Hendo
asked rhetorically from his position on the exercise bike. Trent lifted
his gaze, mesmerised by the movement of those mighty limbs, and by the
hunched physique above them where he sat. He took in and let out a long
whistling breath, suddenly less happily compartmentalising his friendship
with the skipper and that strange one-off that had made him so
uncomfortable with him for the past month. It HAD happened, however much
he repressed it. He'd actually sucked off this married straight stud,
hadn't he...?

Jordan was looking this way now, something like concern on his
good-looking features. `Trent?' He was frowning, but he didn't seem to
mind being stared at; his face was just full of the same friendly concern
that he'd shown over breakfast.

He finally removed his tracky bottoms and took a few steps into the pool
in the colourful boxer briefs below, letting his strong brown legs
disappear into the cool water, bringing it up to just above his waist as
he approached the whirr of the exercise bike.

`I told you loads this morning,' he said in a sleepy monotone. Jordan
made a vague noise of agreement. `But you didn't tell me much back,'
he added, some odd passive aggressive edge to his Scouse accent. The two
of them in their undies in a pool brought back some sense of that night,
of him and those other two fools posing in the water for Salah's
instagram for some reason. He stood close by to Hendo, and the older man
had stopped pedalling, a stillness and tension returning to them both.

`Like what?' Jordan asked quietly, resting his phone and hands on the
handlebar of the exercise machine, shifting about on its saddle.

Trent took and released another very deep breath. `Like do you make a
habit of other players doing that for you,' he remarked, and he
instantly felt bad for its pushy accusation, the slight neediness in his
voice - it was as if in a few words he was stripping away the comfort and
reassurance of their long conversation in the morning sun. He wasn't
sure why he was picking the scab. He stood there uncomfortably, letting
his arms hang at his side and his fingers trail through the water with a
gentle splash. Jordan was staring at him with a strange expression -
glum, really, rather than cross or offended. `Mate,' he huffed simply,
staring at some point in the water just between them. Trent quailed,
unsure why he was self-sabotaging quite so badly - the bloke had invited
him over to stay, and now he was throwing shit like this at him in the
small hours of the morning...? He pictured how comfortable and satisfied
they had been sat together on the jet, pictured the photo that had been
taken of them sharing the trophy. What the fuck?

But then Hendo was slipping off the saddle, crashing down into the water.
He was taller, though only by a couple of inches, and the pool suddenly
felt even smaller as they stood close and face to face. Jordan had that
same odd look on his face: conflicted, and more sad than angry. Trent
frowned deeply, more at his own stupid bluntness than any feelings about
what Jordan did and didn't do with his prick - it wasn't really his
business, was it? He had a captain that accepted him, that should be
ENOUGH.

`Like I said,' Hendo confessed in a hushed mutter, `I was really out
of order.'

`But,' Trent lurched, unable to let go of the thread, `had it happened
before?'

Henderson opened and closed his mouth a few times as if struggling to
answer. `What does that matter?' he demanded, and it was a fair
question, but it also felt like an answer.

`But you're happily married,' Trent mumbled stupidly at him, but what
did that mean? So was Mo Salah, for fuck's sake, and he'd had that
thick circumcised meat down his throat three dozen times last season. He
cringed at himself, and tensed up as Jordan took a small step closer to
him in the pool - for a second he thought that the bigger man was bracing
to smack him, some vindictive blow for failing to respect his kindness
and apologies, but he was just bringing his hands up to hold him at the
elbows and pull even closer to him.

`These things get complicated,' the Liverpool captain murmured.

`These things?' Trent questioned, but he instinctively knew. He could
feel the change in Jordan's body language, something in the way he was
holding his arms. He shuffled forward, their lower bodies splashing in
the water a little bit, and their faces suddenly very close. It had
started with a kiss, hadn't it? A strange unexpected little peck in the
hotel changing rooms in Europe. He wanted to initiate it now, but he
couldn't quite make himself brave enough, even with the skipper's hands
at his sides and their torsos achingly close in the water. He felt the
hands on his arms tighten, saw the tension in Jordan's pectorals and his
squared shoulders. It was as if he couldn't decide whether to drag Trent
into an embrace or push him backwards into the pool.

`You need something better than this,' the skipper said in a dry,
mournful voice.

Trent stared dumbly back at him, unsure what to question first. What was
`this'? What might that `something' be? How did Jordan seem to
understand him so perfectly? And right now, was there anything he wanted
more than to try kissing this guy again...? He could still taste it on his
lips, the unexpected passion and urgency of that night. He needed to
revisit it before he could even begin to think sensibly. He didn't even
need to make the move - Hendo's grip on his arms became tighter and he
was yanked forward, his lips crashing against the other man's, the kiss
a thunderbolt to his senses.

And then there was a calm after the storm: Jordan's bristly face pulled
away from his and the pressure of his fingertips on Trent's biceps
becoming all the more intense as he tore their upper bodies slightly
apart. Trent shuddered unsteadily on his feet in the water, dazed by the
sudden kiss of passion, but more dazed by Hendo pulling away, his face
almost anguished. `Sorry,' the skipper was grunting, pushing him
roughly away, `sorry, I shouldn't have done that...' He looked pained
and regretful, but Trent was frenzied now with the desire that he had
been gloomily suppressing for several long weeks since their last
encounter. It had been too painful to admit to himself how much he
actually fancied his hunky captain, and how he could not see him in the
same innocent light after what they did. He threw himself powerfully
against the other guy, grabbing him at the waist, stretching his neck and
kissing him back on the lips, pulling his smooth brown chest against
Jordan's, clinging to him and letting the water splash about their hips.
Hendo responded instinctively, hooking arms about his shoulders and
squeezing him, and pushing a muscular tongue inside his mouth - Trent
melted into that strong manly grip, tonguing him back and letting his
weight slide against the bigger body until they were toppling and
crashing into the water.

They came apart, briefly, splashing limbs in the small space of the pool,
and then both of them pulling to the side, Jordan taking hold of him once
more by the arms and shoulders and thrusting him almost violently against
the smooth rim of the pool. Trent knocked into place, and closed his eyes
as the captain kissed him even more passionately on the lips - he felt
those strong hands rove about his shoulders and biceps and down his
flanks to the waistline of his underpants. He groaned against Jordan's
mouth and grasped back, running his hands against the hard contours of
chest and stomach, then downwards - underwater, grasping at the shape in
the front of those clingy briefs, finding the outline of the Mackem's
prick.

Jordan broke the kiss, growling pleasure, holding him tightly against the
pool's edge, and now snogging him on the side of the neck instead. It
tickled and burned and he grabbed back at the captain's hard body,
grabbing everything he could, letting their bodies rub and flail.

With a grunt of strength and a hoisting motion, Hendo was suddenly
pushing him back but also lifting him, and Trent leaned his hands on the
skipper's big shoulder to help - he was thrust back until his arse was
hooked on the pool's edge with his legs spread, and Jordan's face was
up against his six-pack, kissing his wet skin there. He folded his arms
about this, cradling the passionate man's face in against his lower
torso, groaning at the feel of the soft lips and harsh scratching
stubble. But he was pushed back further, back onto his elbows, his wet
strong legs still spread and parted - the captain was fondling him
through his damp colourful boxer briefs, staring intensely at him over
his own body as he did. Trent bit his lip, inadvertently seductive as he
stared back at the older guy. `Really?' he gasped in surprise, unable
to believe that this straightforward guy was feeling up his hard-on
through his undies - it was mad enough that he'd sucked off his captain,
but now the favour was to be returned?

Jordan carried on kissing him, stooping to plant soft kisses just below
his navel, and then on the furry inside of his upper thighs, but then
peeled away the wet cotton, and planting those lips on his slim veiny
semi instead. Trent stared with wide eyed and sucked in his shocked gasp,
his arms pressing hard against the tiled floor. His cock was taken in the
midfielder's mouth, teased into fuller life, and sucked very gently -
almost hesitantly, a hint of needy shyness in the usually confident set
of Henderson's face.

`Yes,' Alexander-Arnold could whisper, unsure what else to say, `yes,
yes...'

Up and down bobbed the other man's head, their eyes locked on each
other, Jordan playing his curving prick like a flute, sliding his pursed
lips along its length and again its slightly bulbous head, then back
down, taking so much of into his gentle mouth - gentle now, though the
kisses had been so rough and insistent. And the captain's hands squeezed
and rubbed at his thighs and around his knees and up to his waist,
pinning him there on the pool's edge and slowly, lovingly almost,
fellating his member.

`Oh Jord,' he groaned, and almost giggled at this familiar name,
feeling almost as if he ought to be calling him captain or sir in this
context - but none of this was proper or by the rules, this was INSANE.

Hendo didn't say much of anything, his mouth was busy, and his hands
too, and it was driving Trent WILD. He sprawled back and fidgeted,
twitching and gasping with pleasure, the tight wet elastic of his shorts
pressing in against his swollen balls, his leg muscles jerking and his
arms flexing. He reached down, taking the sides of Jordan's head in his
hands, stroking the slightly protruding ears and the downy softness of
his hair at the sides and back, then kneading his fingers on the thick
muscular neck... `Oh godddd, ohhhh yesss...'

Then Hendo was changing it up again, pulling on his legs, dragging his
muscular younger form back into the water, kissing up his six-pack and
onto his chest as he did, then to his neck and then his cheek and THEN on
the mouth, snogging him again with that urgent roughness, and pushing him
back against the edge. Trent's hands wandered, reaching underwater again
and grabbing at the hardness in those submerged briefs - but he was
pushed back and manhandled, something rough and hurried in the captain
now, less tender and attentive than the intermission of sucking.

`Turn around,' that soft Sunderland accent growled at him. Trent had
been hoping to push Jordan to the edge and reverse the position, get that
thick cock out and taste it again - how many times had he guiltily wanked
off imagining it now, since getting so close to it in that hotel room...?
It had been so hard to tell himself that it was a mad one-off, a freak
event as meaningless as so much of his manplay in the past. But Jordan
was taking control, with no interest in clambering up onto the pool's
edge and enjoying the attention he'd just doled out... no, he was pushing
Trent around, gripping at his muscular sides, and pressing against him,
kissing the sides and back of his neck. Oh, yes...

Trent couldn't form words, but he groaned loudly, hoping to god that
this fitness extension was soundproofed well from the main block of the
Henderson mansion, but too excited to be truly cautious about it. The
fitness area was softly lit, but anyone in the grey darkness of the
garden would be able to see what they were up to through the huge window
panels. This realisation brought a fresh tremor of excitement to his body
as he was pressed forward against the edge, Jordan riding against him
from behind, kissing and holding him, rubbing his bulge against Trent's
bare buttocks, nipping at his ear, snogging roughly at his jawline and
behind his ear... And then, he realised, it wasn't a bulge rubbing
against his cheeks from behind, but the feel of a loosed cock, the briefs
presumably dragged down and Jordan's body as exposed as his on the
water's edge. `You want it?' he heard Jordan's fierce voice growl
quietly in his ear.

`Yes, yes,' Trent gasped repetitively, unable to say anything more
imaginative.

`Good,' hissed Jordan frantically.

And then there were his fingers - parting Trent's cheeks and jutting
roughly into his crack, finding and pushing at his hole, making him groan
even more loudly, and push his body forward, further out of the water,
gripping the rough tiling to support himself. Jordan mirrored his
movement, pulling more of his bigger stronger body out of the water, both
of them uncomfortably splayed against the side of the pool, and the
captain shoving an index finger right inside him in long smooth jerks
that opened up and stimulated his hole. It had been so long since he'd
been fucked, he realised, not really since the last awkward bout of
break-up sex with Jonjo Kenny, and he'd been far too upset and confused
then to really enjoy the rough cum-and-go humping of his repressed
Everton loverboy.

A second finger was in him, and now his groans were actually silent
throes of longing, his mouth wide open and his eyes screwed shut. A third
finger, and he was buckling, his legs really splashing at the surface of
the water and more of his smooth body clinging to the sides, sprawling up
onto the tiles. And then it was the head of the captain's cock, thick
and huge on his ring, and he felt those biceps around his, Jordan's arms
enclosing and supporting him, and the kisses on his neck becoming more
fierce, almost bites. `Yes,' he cried weakly, and he did his part,
relaxing and welcoming... and feeling the captain's girth entering him,
pushing him open, pushing deep, ohhhh... `YES!'

It was as if Hendo was suddenly half-conscious of where they were, and
the danger of waking his wife. He clamped a hand over Trent's mouth,
silencing his affirmative gasps, while grunting in his voice in a low
voice: `Yes, baby, take it, hmmmm yes, oh you feel so good, so tight,
hmmm....' The sound of that Mackem accent, so soft yet manly, grunting
these dirty words in his ear, and thrusting inside him, stretching his
hole with every push, oh jesus it was making him lose all control. He
felt like he could cum hands-free, his cock almost knocking against the
pool's edge but cushioned by the wet folds of his boxer briefs. He
reached down for it, taking it in his hand, and it felt so sensitive that
he could hardly bear to wank it, just holding it in his fist, leaking
pre-cum on his wet fingers. `Fuck - yes - ohhhh - take it, take it...'
And then animal growls from the captain that could only mean one thing -
it was so passionate that it was over quickly, Jordan thrusting against
him in short rough movements, making Trent's wet butt-cheeks slap loudly
against his own skin, and then a gasping halt, their bodies pinned
together, and Henderson spent inside him.

`Oh god,' was all the young Scouser could whimper as the hand released
from his mouth, but his body was still held in place by his skipper.

Silently, his face serious and intense, Jordan pulled out of him and
flipped him over, pushing him sprawling onto his back, which scratched a
little against the texture of the grouting. And Hendo, red-faced, stooped
over him, and put his mouth again to his aching hard-on, and sucked on it
- not for long, it didn't take more than a couple of minutes. Trent
watched it in a daze, his eyes half-shut, but he saw it: the white mess
of his cum on the stubbled chin of the married man, and the gentle kisses
that those sticky lips then planted around his lower abdomen before
retreating, vanishing back into the water and resting against the edge,
muscles heaving in long recovery gasps.

Trent closed his eyes and remained there on his back, only his lower
calves and ankles dipped into the cooling water. His still-hard cock
lolled between his legs and he felt some of his jizz drip against the
inside of one thigh. His hole ached where it had been so briefly but
powerfully claimed, and it twitched at the thought of Henderson's big
cock and the load he had shot inside hit. When Trent opened his eyes, he
stared up at the plain white ceiling and the central skylight that showed
the faintest glimmer of stars. Then he sat up, his head swimming, and
stared curiously at Henderson, who was climbing out of the pool and
drying himself, his skimpy black briefs discarded from one ankle, wet and
tangled on the ground. Trent stared nervously at the back muscles as the
captain dried off in breathy quiet. He hardly dared to hope that their
captain-player relationship might be anything but ruined, but he wanted
to see Jordan's face and read his mood.

He picked himself up and traversed the edges of the pool, tugging his wet
boxers up over his privates and his rounded buttocks, and drawing close
to the captain. Jordan turned this way and his stare was... hard to read.
Not disgusted or regretful, but a little cool and detached, maybe
indecisive. And then he thrust the towel this way, pushing it against
Trent's upper body and wrapping it there before pulling him into a
standing cuddle. Trent sighed uncertainly, relaxing into it and unsure
what it meant. Jordan kissed his cheek, stubble scratching on his skin.
`You okay?' the captain asked in a reedy voice.

`Sure,' Trent murmured. It wasn't quite the romantic exchange he might
have scripted in his head, yet it was... tender.

They remained there for a long minute or so, rocking a little on bare
feet. Jordan held him tightly, rubbing the towel about his back and
shoulders and squeezing warmth into his aching body. He pulled away and
the movement seemed reluctant, his expression conflicted. Trent found he
had no words for the moment - no romantic remarks or even jovial laddish
banter, just a bewildered tender silence. He hovered there, the towel
draped about him, then lowered it to wrap about his waist. Jordan had
found a bathrobe on a hook and slid into it, covered up his muscular
nudity. He was staring and Trent just stared back. `Can I still stop the
night?' he asked in an awkward murmur.

Jordan smiled weakly. `It's about 3 in the morning, lad. Where were you
planning to go...?'

Trent laughed nervously. `Right, sure. Erm.'

`You're sure you're okay? I mean - I didn't, like, hurt you, or...?'

Trent shook his head, still dazed. `No,no. Oh god no. It was...' He felt
silly, but he said it anyway, `It was... amazing.'

Jordan's smile deepened for a moment. His face was still a little red
from passion and exertion, but there was a hint of a blush in his cheeks.
He scratched at his neck and his back and then fidgeted his arms against
the front of his robe, nodding towards the doors and the garden darkness.
`I'll show you to your room, yeah?' he said quietly. He sounded
blandly friendly, welcoming, the host with the most, all that. Trent made
another nervous laugh and nodded, picking up his things in a bundle,
holding it all against his damp chest and following - then stopping just
in front of the sliding doors, Jordan's hand closing firmly on one of
his shoulders. The captain was smiling fondly at him, their faces and
bodies close - he'd turned off the light switch and they were in safe
darkness now, though their poolside fuck had been floodlit for anyone to
see if they'd been in that empty garden. No more words were spoken, but
Hendo leaned in and kissed him softly on the lips, then pulled simply
away, tugging the door open and leading them out onto the patio.

Trent followed him back to the house in a bleary dream state, unable to
grasp what had just happened. The sudden urgent passion between them, the
blow-job and fuck, the utter insatiable energy that had captured both of
their bodies in and around the pool. Even winning the FA Cup felt like a
month ago.

When he'd been left alone in an upstairs spare room, he sat on the bed
for a while, the towel still about his waist. Then, quite literally, he
pinched himself on the side. Nope, he thought, not actually dreaming.
Trent flopped back against the bed without getting under the covers,
letting his armful of clothing spill loosely to the side, and he drifted
into satiated sleep with the towel still clinging damply to his legs, his
hole throbbing at the memory.




'Writer guy' - Premiership Lads on
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