Date: Wed, 18 May 2022 21:16:31 +0000 From: writer guy Subject: Premiership Lads, Part 295 Part 295: Vardy's Foxes Right now, any minute spent in training or otherwise for Leicester City was an increased joy, because it meant a solid break from the bullshit surrounding his wife's ridiculous trial - sure, there had been little spots of banter from the other lads on the squad about Rebekah's antics now and then, but that was par for the course, and not so different from the usual banter about how hot she was and how she must need a guide dog if she was blind enough to date a Sheffield rat like Jamie Vardy himself. That kinda banter was much easier for the 35-year-old to take, of course, but he wasn't prone to getting overly offended or protective about the other stuff either - it was mildly embarrassing to hear the lads snigger now and then about her battle with Mrs Rooney, but it was just another dumb laugh in here, rather than the media circus that existed beyond the walls of the training camp or football stadium. And today was a particularly good escape from that: it was actually the 35-year-old striker's 10th anniversary playing for the club, marking his somewhat belated ascent through the sport's many echelons. Jamie had already been given a little speech at the start of the training day, and done some extra interviews with the club's press team, but now their afternoon work in the sunshine had been interrupted so that he could be awarded with a little trophy and properly congratulated by the other Leicester players for reaching this milestone. Another kind of player might have taken the occasion with more mixed feelings - the unsaid part of the minor fuss was that, at 35, he was an elder statesmen of the team and would be hanging up his striking boots before long. Vardy was a realist, though - he loved his sport, but he loved his life more, and his stellar success had turned up out of nowhere and would disappear just as quickly. He'd always known the rules of the game. The decadence of retirement was not something that filled the footballer with any fear or insecurity; he knew he'd live well and enjoy new pursuits. But for now... Grinning, he accepted the surprisingly heavy plaque from the current captain, his close chum Kasper Schmeichel, then accepted a looming hug from the big Danish goalkeeper - he eyed his friend mischievously then took the engraved slab from him in both hands to shove overhead and shake dramatically for the encircled football lads as if he had just claimed a major trophy or was winning on Oscar. There was quick light laughter at his antics, as always, and a smattering of applause. `Do I give a speech?' he demanded playfully, clutching the rather ugly prize and thinking that he'd have to find a hidden corner for it in his mansion, then winking across at the goalie skipper. `Fuck no,' called James Maddison brightly, arms folded as he stood close by with an expression of playful impatience on his bearded face. `We haven't got enough time for your dirty stories about your time here, you old windbag!' There was hesitant laughter at Madders' banter, as if the well-liked midfielder might go too far, but Jamie let out a cackle of his own and signalled the group's approval - the momentary formality of the presentation was broken and the circle of men became looser, lads drifting up one by one to hug or slap at their charismatic striker. `Gutted,' Jamie complained mockingly, `I've been listing all my best Leicester moments to bore you all with, you cunts.' He grinned accusingly at Maddison, then grabbed the younger lad in a bear hug before pushing him roughly, the plaque clutched under his other arm. `Bell-end,' he chided, punching the 25-year-old player in the arm. Yes, for now... there was still this. He smirked as he looked at the young midfielder, and then back at Kasper, who still loomed by him, ridiculously tall and blond; for now, he was still an active player and in amongst these lads, and enjoying himself as much as he always had. Footballing life had always brought its opportunities for sexual satisfaction, apart from its many other players, and THAT was not something the horny striker looked forward to giving up as his talents waned in the next couple of seasons. `Well done, chief,' grunted another of the younger lads, appearing next to him and patting him on the back, and Vardy grinned affectionately at the red-haired and red-cheeked winger, then pushed the heavy engraved plaque right into Harvey Barnes' awkward hands. `Here, take this for me, will ya?' he demanded firmly, pressing the ugly gift into the younger lad's care, then winking brightly at the rosy-cheeked young stud who he had been looking out for over the last couple of years. Harvey, as he often did, looked briefly disgruntled by the imposition, but then seemed to stare back at Jamie with a youthful hunger in his eyes and flaming cheeks, and then he was turning away and oebdiently carrying the stupid thing away, his plump round bottom bouncing beneath the bright blue of his tight shorts. Vardy took a second to admire it, as usual, and then smirked broadly to himself, very happy with the network of playmates he'd established here at Leicester after his decade of bringing them goals and success. Yes, it was definitely worth hanging onto for a season or two more, then calling it quits when his legs really felt the strain. A recent extended injury absence had helped him to realise how short a striker's shelf life might really be. Cunts like Ronaldo could overdo it and make a machine of themselves if they wanted, he thought, but he was too hedonistic, and he looked forward to being able to drink and sniff what he wanted on a weekend instead of keeping his six-pack in shape. He backed away from watching Barnes' buttocks, folding his arms over his lean chest and shooting sidelong glances at Madders or Shmeichel in case those two had caught the same delightful glance of the winger's peach retreating away across the bright green grass - but nah, those two were much more discreet in these matters. The Danish giant was borderline prudish, and was locked in conversation with his back-up Danny Ward anyway; Madders was intently doing some keep-ups with the first ball he'd found, moving away in jerky bursts of activity. But another of the guys was suddenly next to Vardy, his hands resting on his hips, twisting his heavy head from side to side to stretch his neck, looking impatient to get back to work on the training after this needless interruption for a self-indulgent presentation. `Oi,' Jamie barked pleasantly at the other player, giving him the nod. `You alright, kiddo?' The 23-year-old midfielder glanced this way, and seemed to pause for a moment, lifting his dark brows and frowning ever so slightly, but then an uncertain smile and a nod of his head. `Well done on the decade, mate,' grunted the relatively local Nottingham lad, a hesitant warmth in his voice, something nervous and undecided in his body language as they stood side by side in the centre of the dissipating group. Somewhere, a coach blew a whistle to summon attention and start the next set of drills, making Kiernan Dewsbury-Hall immediately twitch and tense and look keen to jog off and get going. Vardy, on the other hand, remained casually still, looking the youngster up and down and smirking to himself. `Thanks,' he said quietly to the nearby player, dragging his attention back here from the direction of the whistle. `Just checking,' he added in the same low growl of south Yorkshire twang. `After Sunday, I mean.' Kiernan's eyes flashed wider for a moment and his lips pursed awkwardly, and then suddenly he was scratching at his chest through his training shirt and then at the patchy darkness of his beard. `I'm fine,' he grunted, rolling his shoulders, and rapidly breaking away from Jamie's eye contact. `It's awesome that you've done ten years,' he muttered rapidly, snapping back to the other topic. `I hope I can be such a big name here, y'know, I want to do big things for City like you've done, erm.' `Sure,' Vardy said blandly, enjoying for a moment the squirming body language of his teammate, and then letting out a slow, knowing chuckle. `Big things,' he echoed with a smutty edge to his voice, and when Dewsbury-Hall glanced up his way, he winked again, then laughed. A whistle blew again, and the blushing Notts lad jogged off the spot immediately, speeding away from him with the general flow of men who were getting into position and awaiting clearer instruction - Jamie just chuckled to himself, patted his hands against his ripped abdomen, and made a slow jog after the others, looking eagerly around the lithe athletic bodies of these other footballing lads, and reminding himself just how much fun his Leicester years had really brought him... 5-1, even against floundering Watford, was a fucking incredible Sunday result, and Kiernan Dewbsury-Hall was absolutely fucking buzzing as the final whistle blew from the nearby referee, and the added minutes had ran their course. At once, the Leicester lads were congregating to celebrate the home win against their flailing opposition, and the 23-year-old Nottingham lad dashed forth to join them - thick powerful legs propelling him across the damp grass, moving through the humid drizzle to throw himself into the hugs and jubilation of the other players who had helped to secure this 4-goal lead. The celebrations on the pitch were a giddy blur as always in such wins, and the midfielder sought out the goal-scorers in particular, keen to grab his buddy Harvey into a full-bodied hug and then high-fiving Madders so aggressively that his hand stung after the slap of their palms; with a little less confidence, he pushed his way in for a brief hug with Party Vardy, always somewhat cowed by the natural authority of the Premiership legend. Next to him, the substitute goalie was also enthusiastic in his praise, taking a pause from scrunching Jamie's short damp hair to throw a massive arm about Kiernan's own shoulders and pulling him in for a proper group hug - it was unusual for big Kasper Shmeichel to remain on the bench, but it had been Ward in goal for the afternoon's heavy win. And then the men were exiting the pitch to much applause from their home crowd, taking their time in doing so - like the others, Dewsbury broke away, lifting his arms to clap enthusiastically back at their supporters, soaking up the approval from the City crowd before eventually circling to the tunnel mouth and disappearing inside the lower levels of the Walkers Stadium. His pals Barnes and Maddison were being taken aside on the way down the tunnel, of course, being readied for some quick press interviews, and it made Dewsbury-Hall slow down too - he was a bit jealous that the other midfield players, close to his own age, had made the scoresheet and were in line for such attention and praise, but not in a bitter or resentful way. He was equally chuffed for Harvey and James, and keen to bask in their success, slowing his strut and clapping loudly in their direction, a big grin plastered on his friendly face. `That's right,' grunted a voice in his ear, and a hand clamped about one of his shoulders. `Clap for these fucking legends. Yes!' From the side, Vardy gave him a shake by the shoulder, then strutted past, hurrying in between Madders and Barnes, an arm about each lad's neck, burdening them with his slim muscular form, and shepherding his fellow goals-scorers further down the tunnel towards the press set-up where they would be interviewed. Briefly alarmed by Jamie's attention, but ultimately chuffed to be included like that by the former England hero, Kiernan hovered where he was and grinned happily, fiddling with the waistband of his Leicester shorts and watching as a small gaggle of sports reporters flickered about the other lads, preparing for their quick televised interviews. They were a bedraggled sight from the heavy summer rain that had slashed across parts of the game, but Kiernan supposed he must look equally damp and muddy himself. He backed away, wired and excitable, but didn't rush into the home changing rooms, from which he could already hear rowdy singing; he wanted to wait for the others, so he could properly congratulate his pal Harvey on managing to bag two goals in the game, a brace to match fucking Vardy's. Like a big excitable puppy, the 23-year-old rested by the door to the home locker-rooms, and was then cornered by one of the assistant coaches - casually, he expected to be hit with some plaudits for his own part in the 5-1 victory, but this guy was one of the mour dour members of the Leicester staff, and he bypassed such niceties to start giving the young player some precise critique on a few of his weaker moments in the game. Slightly deflated, Kiernan gave the older guy a serious look and took the comments om board with a flurry of nods and `yes sirs', always wanting to appear fully professional and determined to do his best, but privately horrified that this was his post-match experience compared to the mini press conference going on down the tunnel from here. `Right, right,' he murmured, when the impromptu lecture came to an end, scratching at his beard and neck, and staring vaguely into the middle-distance. There was a slap and shake of his shoulder and then the middle-aged coaching expert was disappearing through into the changing rooms with everyone else, and Kiernan was just hovering by the doorway, the wind somewhat knocked from his sails. After a few minutes, the sensible media duty was over and the tunnel echoed with the loud voices of the three Leicester goal-scorers: Vardy leading the younger two in a quick chant and stomping down in this direction, stripping off boots and socks as they came, and then all three of them encircling Dewsbury in one big sweaty group hug that made him laugh and whoop even as he briefly dwelt on the criticisms still ringing in his impressionable young head. Inside the changing rooms, the initial explosion of manly energy was spent, but there was still a bit of a roar and a tuneless singsong as the goal-scoring trio joined them, Kiernan huddled with them; but many of the players had already vanished into the showers and so the big square changing room was patchy as they found their way to their lockers and spots, all of them equally keen to get out of their wet, mud-streaked kit. Kiernan's was right by Harvey's, and the two lads sat down in parallel, tugging tight wet footy socks down their calves and unstrapping shin-pads one at a time. KDH had been eager to lavish praise on his buddy for the brace of goals, but the coach's critique still hung over him and he found himself unable to find the right words just now, falling quiet and thoughtful instead, whilst Harvey still panted and blushed from the scrutiny of being interviewed out in the tunnel. Socks and pads off, Kiernan slumped back against the wall for a moment, white shorts and blue shirt clinging to his aching body. He wasn't going to hurry into the showers now when it would be so bloody full, he'd hardly be able to get himself washed without bumping into half a dozen other bodies, and that aspect of sporting life had always made him a tad uncomfortable - he didn't understand how other blokes seemed so casual about their nudity and close proximity, the accidental brushes of skin and momentary lapses where you might even - god forbid - glance at another guy's parts without meaning too! It seemed a weird, provocative minefield to the Nottingham lad, who had grown up surrounded by yelped homophobic jeers and assumed that this prejudice was the norm he was meant to emulate. He'd been pretty embarrassed in his first weeks of senior football when a couple of older players here had told him off for using gay slurs in training, forcing him to re-evaluate the influences of his Nottingham upbringing. Unsure why such memories were circulating on the edge of consciousness, he wiped his palms across his grimy face and ran his fingers through the shaggy damp of his dark blond hair, scraping it back over his head. Next to him, Harv was on his feet and peeling off his Leicester shirt - fuck, how was the ginger lad so ripped? They did almost identical gym routines together, but Barnes was always surprisingly defined in a way that thickset Dewbsury-Hall didn't seem prone to, for some reason, though he knew he was in great shape too. Speaking of six-packs, a shirtless Vardy was holding court on the other side of the room, whipping his wet shirt at passing guys as one by one, towelled players returned from the communal shower, re-entering the room in a haze of steam and rippling wet muscle. Kiernan admired Vardy's exuberant confidence and reckless humour, wanting to be a big persona like him as he matured and settled in - he was far from shy, but he still felt like one of the new kids here, young and inexperienced alongside much of the main 11. Though Barnes and Maddison were only a little older than him, they'd been on the first team for a fair bit longer than his own breakthrough, and had made better connections - for some reason, Kiernan felt himself more on a level with someone like 20-year-old Luke Thomas, still practically a kid, who was sat to one side with the other unused subs in their matching tracksuits, already enjoying a discreet beer from a cooler box that the gaffer had apparently cracked open whilst Kiernan was loitering in the tunnel. Within minutes, the midfield player realised that the same awkward reserve that had made him delay entering the showers was going to make sitting here on his arse just as uncomfortable an experience: though to one side he had Harvey still wiping sweat off his stupidly visible six-pack with his own discarded shirt, Tielemens was taking his spot on the other side, and already unknotting the towel from his slim waist, presumably to casually dry off with the same nude self-confidence as so many senior players seemed to possess. Sitting here on his soggy bottom, Kiernan could quickly see himself sitting level with a dozen exposed cocks, and he dreaded accidentally making eye contact with one; he pushed up off the seat, hurriedly dragging his own wet shirt up his torso and over his shoulders. A quick sharp sting to his back muscles alerted him, almost making him trip up as he yanked the shirt over his large head and tossed it at the front of his locker; he glanced over his shoulder, glad to see it was just Vardy on his way past, still using his wet shirt as a playful weapon. Now the striker had his shorts off too and was strutting past in just a pair of fairly skimpy grey briefs; he paused to slap a palm against Kiernan's lower back. `Didn't hurt you too much there, eh?' chuckled the famed striker. He snorted. `Fuck off, Vardy!' At the next spot down the wall, Harvey was in the middle of yanking tightened wet shorts down his thighs, having to lean forward with a hand to the wall to keep balance as he did so; to Kiernan's great surprise, Jamie lingered between them and then brought one playful hand crashing against the winger's backside, spanking him in his tight black briefs and making the ginger 24-year-old yelp and flinch before bursting into nervous laughter. Kiernan was immediately embarrassed to see the spanking but also thrilled - again, he admired Jamie's easy confidence and the way he struck up such banter with everyone on the team, no pretensions or pomposity. He hardly even seemed to mind his wife's name being something a running joke in training this last month! Apparently Maddison had also enjoyed the joke - as Vardy strode on, Madders came swaggering past and did the same, thwacking one hand off Barnes' backside, before grabbing him in an ungainly hug from behind and tussling his fluffy red-brown hair in his other hand. `What are you like?' James cackled at the other goal-scorer, and Kiernan suddenly felt left out of their forwards' banter - why hadn't HE had a spank on the backside from Vardy or Madders? No sooner had the envious question passed through his steam of conscious than the 23-year-old was blushing deeply and judging himself - for fuck's sake, why would you even want that, you plonker? He shook his head, colouring in the cheeks and on his neck, and shoved down the clingy white material of his shorts, pushing it away from his hips and rump and loosing the saggy bulge of his own tighty whities, immediately self-conscious once he was stood in just them; he snatched for his folded towel and followed Harvey at pace, stumbling after the other young player until they were passing into the thick steam of the communal shower. Kiernan moved with the same quick deliberateness that he always did, keeping his chin high in that level way you could do that stopped you ever accidentally glancing below waist height and seeing what you didn't want to see - and he angled himself quickly to the nearest corner, rather than taking up position along the main wall of shower nozzles that the others had gravitated to. He only pulled at the waistband of his white briefs once he was safely at a showerhead, his towel hooked up beside it, and he made a silly hopping motion to free his thick legs from the stretchy undies, making his cock and balls bounce beneath the thick bush of his dark brown pubes. And then, shoving the balled undies onto the mesh shelf by the toiletries, he set about quickly covering himself in hot water and a soapy lather. Quick, purposeful, self-conscious. Clearly nobody else in the shower felt the same: the metallic space rang with peals of laughter as Vardy, Maddison, and even shyer Barnes threw insults at one another that ranged from comparing their match goals to comparing their cock sizes, from `Wagatha Christie' chatter to generic ginger jokes at Harvey's blushing expense. Kiernan laughed uncertainly with each fresh cackle from behind him, rinsing soapy water off his broad, lightly fluffed chest, and away from his treasure trail and the curly hairs on his inner thighs, hurrying to feel clean enough so he could get a towel about him and be soon safely inside a fresh tracksuit and on his way home. Soon he was done, rubbing water from his eyes and splashing hot rinsing water against the frothy damp of his pubes and low-hanging privates. The latest wave of brash laddish laughter was imploding behind him as Kiernan grasped his towel and threw it about himself in a hurry - he'd been like this at school too, confused about how guys were supposed to act normally around each other in these weirdly exposed circumstances. Back out of the showers in a hurry, the echoey laughter following him as if the guys were chortling at his physical shyness... no, it wasn't exactly shyness, just... he shook himself, feeling hot but refreshed, and seeing just how quietened the changing rooms actually were. Other than the three guys left in the showers (`Oi, stop pissing on my toes, you cunt!' and `Who the fuck's dropped my towel and got it soaking fucking wet?!'), there were only a couple left in here, and two of them were grabbing beers from the cooler box and then disappearing out of the door without properly acknowledging Dewsbury. Holding the knot of his towel tight at one hip, he took a few slapping wet footsteps across the home changing room and inspected the cooler box - there were only empties in there now, it had been a small stash and he'd actually missed out on it, for fuck's sake. He huffed with vague sullenness, attracting the attention of the last player left in here; it was the big man, the replacement captain since Morgan's retirement, and he was sat quite casually just to the left, busy with something on his phone, big legs spread in a dark blue tracksuit, but the top removed and his bulky muscles on show. `Thomas grabbed the last bottle before he went,' remarked Schmeichel in his odd Danish-Manc accent, giving him a vague smile before looking back down at his phone screen and continuing. `The gaffer has dismissed everyone to go home when they're ready, the meetings upstairs got cancelled apparently.' He tilted a half-empty bottle in one of his big pale hands, almost apologetic. `Sorry you missed out, Dewsy.' Kiernan lingered by the box, taking this in. `Huh, doesn't matter,' he said, more lightly, `I should lay off the stuff anyway, trying to trim my body fat.' He backed away, hugging the towel about him, but thinking that somehow sharing the changing rooms with one fella was almost worse than being surrounded by too many. He needn't have worried about that. Barnes was huffing towards him in moments, emerging from the steamy rectangle at the same time as Madders and Vardy - and glancing their way at their voices, Kiernan was mildly horrified to note his pal's towel strapped over his shoulder and held in place. Immediately he had to stop some weird instinct sending his eyeline south, conscious that Harvey was apparently far less shy than himself... and beyond his mate, he caught sight of bare bottoms where James and Jamie were strutting by in the same way, towel folded and thrown over one shoulder, wet body on show. `For fuck's sake,' he heard Kasper's deep voice comment, `but some clothes on, the lot of you, or I'm not waiting any longer.' `Ooh, Danish fwend,' cooed Maddison. `What are you waiting for anyway, Vards to take you home so you can tag-team Rebekah in her court outfit...?' Kiernan and Harvey both gasped and chuckled at this, turning that way. Harvey, holding his towel now in both hands and pulling it against the back of his neck, strutted that way, and Kiernan found himself glance briefly at the rear view - his broad back and slim waist, the round pale globes of his buttocks. Immediately, he felt silly, and he turned back to the wall, reaching down to dry his privates through his towel, whilst still listening. `Waiting for you cunts to get dressed so we can hit the bar,' barked Schmeichel. `Isn't that the plan?' `No rush,' he heard Vardy say thoughtfully. `Oi, get off my towel,' he heard Harvey giggle, hearing a little physical scuffle. Dewsbury-Hall cringed, but at himself rather than the horseplay. He just wanted to relax and take his palce among these older lads, though two of them were much older, and two of them were only matured by first-team experience. In a moment of boldness, he let out a whistling breath and undid the knot of his towel, letting it fall away and bunch about his toes. With adrenalin and aspiration overriding his awkwardness, the Nottingham lad spun round and swaggered side by side with his mate, stark bollock naked... and immediately noted by the others. `Well `ello `ello,' chirped Madders playfully, `what's got into you, Dewsy?' `Haha, did you get your towel nicked, or summat?' exclaimed Harvey hotly. `Good lad,' was Jamie's verdict, now sat casually on the same short bench as Kasper, towel abandoned and completely naked. His 5'10 body was leaned easily back to the wall, his abs crunching a little in that posture, legs splayed and- suddenly, for an awkward moment, Kiernan's eyes were sizing up the long member that draped from short trimmed pubes, and then they bolted in a different direction, taking in Kasper's bemused handsome features and the unreadable smirks on Harvey and James' faces. Kiernan was blushing red. `Alright,' he grunted, `no need to make me feel shy, dickheads.' `Aye,' Jamie grunted quickly, `leave the lad alone. I'm glad he's not hiding in his towel like a loser. Kiernan is Billy Big Bollocks today. And he sure fucking is, ain't he?' Immediate laughter from the others, and Dewsbury fought the urge to back off and reach for any cover he could - instead, he stood brazenly beside his ginger pal, and sneered jovially at the others, shrugging his strong shoulders and ignoring the inevitable bounce of his cock and balls at every slight movement of his limbs. `Fucking chill out,' he said to them all, as if his cheeks and chest weren't turning scarlet, and he hadn't spent all season being the quickest guy in and out of the showers in every Premiership stadium there was. I'm not even shy, he reminded himself, it's just all this weird cocks-out-casualness that doesn't sit right. `We going to this bar or not?' Schmeichel was saying to Vardy. `You up for a drink?' Burnley lad Harvey asked Kiernan, giving him a quizzical look. He shrugged again, now feeling more silly, standing nude in the middle of the room whilst the other two young guys were making an effort to dry themselves - but backing off to get his towel now seemed to undermine his stance. `I guess,' he said, non-committal. Rather than grab for a towel, he sat himself down, plonking his damp arse and thighs against the next bench to Kacper and Jamie - straight away, he regretted this position, since it meant that James and Harvey drifted in closer to form a tight circle with them, and he was sat level with their middles. His eyes fell momentarily on their crotches, noting the faint ginger stubble of shaven pubes around a short chunky length, and the almost waxen smoothness around Maddison's pornstar member. He didn't know where else to look, so he stared to his right at the big goalie, and find the Danish man grinning thoughtfully this way, blue eyes on him. Kiernan flinched and smiled awkwardly back. `A game first,' Vardy announced. `Uh no, not one of YOUR games,' laughed Maddison, but not without excitement. `Well, not a game so much-' `Can we just go get drunk?' insisted Schmeichel. `Okay, just a fucking circle-jerk,' exclaimed Jamie bluntly. Kiernan, feeling like one of the big lads, burst out laughing, choosing to enjoy this risque direction rather than glare in dismay at the horny old goat - he'd heard so many tales about how unfaithful the striker was to his embarrassing missus, though the identity of the mistresses had always been... ambiguous. Kasper was making a vague groan of disapproval, but Madders was sniggering and rubbing his hands together, and Harvey was... well, looking at him, a nervous expression on his youthful features, a sort of questioning expectation in his wide eyes. Kiernan, confused, stared back at him, slow to understand that his friend was trying to gauge his reaction before responding to Vardy's apparently serious suggestion. `Come on, it'll be a laugh,' the striker was saying. `What?' Kiernan reacted aloud without control. `What the fuck?' `Does he not know what one is?' Madders was laughing. `I'm sure he does,' Schmeichel said more languidly, staring this way again and smiling. He'd slid one of those big keeper's hands down the front of his tracky bottoms, the only man wearing anything other than a towel about his shoulders. Kiernan blinked uncertainly at him then averted his eyes to Jamie, just past him, leering and chuckling and flexing both arms at his sides. `What you thinkin', Dewsy?' asked Barnes in a small voice. He stared at him, raising his eyebrows - the Burnley's lad earnestness was most troubling, because it spelled out to him that this was a serious idea, and maybe something that some of these guys had even done before. He stammered out an uncertain `D-dunno' before folding his arms across his chest and bringing his chunky legs a little closer together, though it did nothing to hide his soft cock. His arms unfolded gently until his forearms rested protectively across his lap, and he only caught half of what the others were saying - `Here?' someone had asked, and a couple of others laughed `Why not!' Jamie had got up, that jester swagger in every moment of his bare body. He was pretty aged by striker standards and yet he was incredibly defined - not Cristiano Ronaldo defined, but more solid and ripped than many players half his age. As he moved, it was hard for Kiernan not to notice again the length that slapped against one of his legs, and he grimaced. `Here on the floor. Madders, lock the door will ya?' And that was that, Kiernan thought. This is... happening. Jamie was sitting down like a slim muscular buddha, still laughing to himself. Kasper was getting up from where he sat, shaking his head as if he was far too mature and sensible for this nonsense, all the while lifting one foot after the other to pull away his trainers and ankle socks. Kiernan remained seated, as if his bare arse cheeks were stuck to the narrow bench, whilst Madders returned from latching the door and flopped down into a sitting position on Jamie's right. He looked to Harvey, who still seemed hesitant, but was moving closer to the others, folding his strong bare legs down into a seated position next to James... the confidence of the group was magnetic, and Kiernan pushed himself away from the bench and up to his feet, taking two slow strides into the circle, just as big 6ft2 Kasper, markedly taller than anyone else, descended into a slouched position on Vardy's left. It was only Dewsbury left on his feet for a moment, waiting for the punchline, the inevitable laugh, the piss-take and the reveal that would make him the butt of every joke for the rest of 2022. But no - the other four were looking at him expectantly, so he sat down, dropping his bum to the linoleum floor and crossing his thick legs loosely, then shuffling forward in sync with the others as they closed the circle. `Cockwise or anti-cockwise?' quipped 25-year-old Maddison, who was already playing with himself, toying with the thick circumcised prick that seemed disproportionate to his slender build, perhaps emphasised by his waxed crotch. In response to the terrible pun, Vardy clipped him across the back of the head, and then thrust the same hand into his crotch - Kiernan's eyes bulged and his heart raced at sight of this contact, seeing Madders' own fingers pushed aside and the striker's roughly grazed knuckles close about that stretching prick. On cue, the others seemed to know what to do - had they really all done this before? Surely not HARV? - and he could see Schmeichel moving one of those huge goalkeeping paws over to slide down Vardy's inner thigh and tease at the dormant snake; Madders was playfully cupping Barnes' privates in his right hand and now Harvey - fucking Burnely brusier Harvey Barnes! - was reaching this way and patting the top of one of his thighs gently. Kiernan stared awkwardly at him and almost told him to stop, but his mate gave him a reassuring nervous grin, and slid the hand further in - his fingers tickled at Kiernan's unchecked pubes, and closed around the girth of his meat, making him jolt nervously and have to steady himself where he sat. And the circle was still incomplete. Harvey was grinning oddly at him, stroking the fat lazy outline of his nob. And Madders and Vardy seemed to be staring at him too, even with their hands full. Oh. Right. He turned his neck and head slowly to his right, at where one of his legs brushed against the downy white-blond fur of Kasper's thigh. He might have just sat there frozen, staring at the bigger man, but the Danish hero helped him out: the goalkeeper's hand took his and brought it across, brushing more soft leg hair, pulling his hand down until he could feel the soft warm shape of it against his fingers. He didn't look down at it, just staring into the big handsome face, the brightness of the blue eyes, the kind smile, the sharp silvery jawline. He let his fingers find their way around the serpentine shape and he gave it an almost squeeze, echoing the feel of his pal Harvey's hand on his own. Fucking hell. There was a collective laugh - his terror must have been obvious to them all, and there was a sympathy in the smirks and chuckles of the other men, but also an impatience. They were all hunched there on the changing room floor together, and before his eyes, he could see Jamie Vardy's hand bringing quick life into Maddison's dick. His first thought was that his buddy James was more of a `grower' than a `shower', since the sizable shape between his legs didn't grow much past its impressive start, but stiffened and curved and jolted upwards. Vardy spat on his hand before playing with it some more. Kiernan gulped. His own privates tingled, but he was not quickly hard like Maddison, crippled by nerves and self-consciousness. But Harvey's hand DID feel good, at least when he didn't look too much to his left and take in what was happening - a hand was a hand, he supposed, and winning football matches must make all guys super-horny, he guessed. He jerked again in uncertainty when he realised how stiff and hot the thing in his right hand, and finally he looked down at it. His body was leaning towards the slouched posture of the bigger man, and he looked down the muscular length of his own arm to the fat uncut monster he was holding, its girthy length protruding from the short wiry curls of dark blond hair that sprouted between those furry thighs. He held it firmly, then glanced up to meet Kasper's eyes. `You'll have to do more than hold it, mate,' teased the Mancunian accent of the United legend's son. Kiernan began to imitate the feel of Harvey's hand on himself, pulling his hand back and forth against the veiny girth of it, realising just how well-endowed the 6ft2 fella was, every inch of it throbbing against his clammy palm and shaky fingers. He was concentrating so much on matching the feel of Harvey jerking him that he barely even realised his cock was waking up last, swelling and stretching and rising to the occasion. `Good lad,' he heard Barnes mutter, and then he realised that other remarks (`Not just Billy Big Bollocks, then' and `What a handful, haha!') from the other two were directed at him. They were looking at his hard cock and complimenting it. He thought his face must be hot and red enough to cook bacon on. Barnes just laughed warmly, and Schmeichel smiled vaguely at him. `That's better,' the Danish guy told him as he played his hand up and down his length, and there was a hint of breathy groan to the two words. Somehow, Dewsbury-Hall felt himself start to relax. It was absurd. He must be hallucinating. He couldn't really be sat on this floor wanking off with four other lads. Four other Premier League athletes. It was mental. He felt hot and feverish. But... he also felt horny, really horny, and more than that... he felt one of the guys. Like this was an extension of some group hug between the goal-scoring heroes and he was one of them. It didn't occur to him that Schmeichel had not scored either - it was hardly a likelihood for him - nor even played a minute of the game. He was the usual captain and he was just as revered a figure in the squad as Vardy. It was the relaxed confidence of the two 35-year-olds that made all this okay, part of him thought - these two have played in the big League for ages, they know how things work, they're both married dads. This MUST be okay. Nobody needed to say it. He could take his cue from them. This was... well, it wasn't much madder than a dozen naked men squishing into a small shower, in a way. The 23-year-old had spent so many years appalled at undressing beside other men that somehow this physicality wasn't SUCH a stretch. Or so his racing mind told him, feeling Barnes' thumb rub gently against the head of his prick. He let out a long breathy moan and the others laughed, particularly Maddison. `Enjoying yourself, fella?' the West Midlander tittered. `Leave him alone,' breathed Harvey ambivalently - his fingers were so soft and dextrous and it was surprising Kiernan that this felt so much better than a handjob from his casual girlfriend. He found his eyes locking with Jamie's across the circle, catching the knowing and cunning in them, the dominant smirk on his lips. Well, he'd been hooked on his charisma for years, envious of his total self-confidence, and now... gulping, he let his eyes rove down past Jamie's chest and six-pack, seeing the size of the equipment. It still looked big with Kasper's fist around it. Yikes. Vardy made more sense to him. They were all speeding up. He could only respond. He felt Harvey wank him a bit more vigorously, although they were all at awkward angles really, and it was totally alien to the Nottingham-born lad, reaching across and doing this to anyone but himself. Alien, and yet... kinda the same? No, not the same. He could feel how much thicker and longer this thing in his hand was than usual, and he'd never once considered himself to be even average in that department. A few different girlfriends had confirmed his suspicions that he was a pretty decent size, and now he would have to ask Harv... Nervously, he glanced to the left. Barnes grinned brightly at him, rosy-cheeked and excited-looking. Too excited, he might have said, if his mind wasn't going 100mph and there weren't distracting groans from first Madders and then Vardy and then, fucking hell, from Kasper. `That's it,' he moaned, sounding more Danish, `nice and slow... spit on yer hand, lad, lube it up...' When he paused to follow this instruction, he realised how much he was shaking, but he also had to suppress another groan, feeling Harvey's hand slide down to tickle the loose folds of skin around his heavy balls. He spat noisily against his palm and slapped it again to the thickness of the Danish man's cock. `Yes,' Kasper groaned encouragingly, and suddenly his free hand was massaging at Kiernan's bare shoulder muscle. Almost instinctively, he copied, pushing his free hand back and clamping it somewhere on Harvey's upper back, the men's strong bodies supporting each other as they reached, held, jerked, teased. Dewsbury daren't think ahead, really, he daren't imagine the inevitable outcome of all these helping hands. And yet if he had, he would have assumed that the `circle' would remain, that this almost ritualistic laddish experience would be all mutual and - though this didn't make sense to him - they'd all have to finish at exactly the same time. The imagined mess was a huge obstacle in his brain. But no... Schmeichel had stopped playing with Vardy and was supporting his heavy upper body with both arms jutting back, heels of his hands pushed to the floor. He had his eyes closed and his pale features were colouring with heat. His big chest rose and fell, tickled with silvery hair. Kiernan frowned at the changed positions, half-expecting Harvey to stop wanking him off. But when he glanced over, his own fist still about the base of the Danish cock, he happily saw that Barnes was still helping him out, running both hands attentively around all of his crotch in slow sensual motions. It was Madders and Vardy who had broken apart from the fivesome. Vardy, he saw, was on his knees, and playing with his own long scimitar cock, not as thick as some others, but impressive nonetheless. Intimidating. Maddison was lounged on his side, his body pulled a little away from where he had been reaching over to pleasure Barnes. He tilted his head, grinned, and then nuzzled his face against one rack of ab muscles, Vardy reaching down to cradle his head and stroke his hair, and then... Kiernan saw it almost in slow-motion: the opening of the midfielder's mouth, the casual way he slipped it about the angry red head of Jamie's cock. And then, right in front of him, his 25-year-old mate was slurping on the striker's cock like it was a fucking Solero ice lolly, and he felt a shiver of nervous excitement cross his whole body. It made him turn to stare at Kasper anxiously, wondering if he was supposed to do the same. The Dane was growling loudly as he picked up some rhythm, jerking his big meat at a better angle, though his arm was going dead and he felt like his naked form was going to slide backwards and tumble in the wrong direction. His legs were going numb and he was shivering as if the room was much colder than it was. `I'm going to cum,' he heard the Leicester and Denmark goalie suddenly announced, and in an instant he was letting go of his dick. He pushed away and his arse and lower back, slippery with either shower residue or fresh sweat, sent him skidding onto his side at an awkward angle, his whole muscular form jolting away from his big friend, terrified by the prospect of bringing him to climax. But no sooner had Dewsbury pulled uncomfortably away than Madders was on his hands and knees, crossing the circle. He watched, aghast, as that same greedy mouth closed about the captain's dick. He saw one of Kasper's huge hands clasp the back of Maddison's head, pushing it forcibly down. He saw the rocking shudders of the big guy's body, and he understood that Madders was taking a mouthful. He groaned uncertainly, and then felt Harvey's hand re-find his dick. He was ungainly on his side, and Barnes was next to him, stroking up and down the outside of his thigh, patting him on the hip, grinning at him. `Relax, let me,' hissed the Burnley lad. `No,' Kiernan mumbled uncomfortably, reaching down and pushing his hand away. It took some effort. His cock was rock solid now and eager to explode. He shuffled awkwardly away, confused, and then pushed himself unsteadily to his feet. Crouching next to him, Barnes looked disappointed and embarrassed. Just behind him, Schmeichel was collapsing back to the floor, still pressing a hand down on the back of Maddison's head and holding him face-down into his crotch. And kneeling beside that was Vardy, the dirty instigator of all this, one hand on his own slick cock, and the other stroking over his own pectorals. `Go on,' Jamie was growling at Madders. `Suck up every drop of it, you slut.' Kiernan felt dizzy. He stumbled to the side, pushing away an attempt by Harvey to stroke his leg. He staggered towards where his towel was heaped on the floor. Bent over and grabbed it. Without looking back at the guys, he dashed through into the shower block. The hot condensation had receded, it was a cool and echoey space. He dropped his towel aimlessly on the wet floor and pressed himself against the far wall, letting his face and chest rest on the cool metal wall. He could hear the groans and wordless mutters. This was madness. What had he been thinking? He reached out a hand and, with a little difficulty, twisted a nob and blasted water over his shaking body. For a few painful but liberating moments, it was cold, and then it warmed rapidly and the hot rush sprayed across his shoulders and down his chest and back. He let it drench his hair again and pour over his grimacing face. It coursed down his body and some of it collected in his pubes and ran in a little stream down the rock-hard prominence of his aroused rod. Shit. He willed the hard-on away, but he had been so horny, and the hand on it had done a good job. A minute more, he thought, and I might have... He realised that the groans were stopping. The voices were increasingly muffled. They'd all finished, he thought, they'd all had their fun without him, and... `You okay?' came the soft voice somewhere behind him. His head pounding, he wasn't sure which of them it was. Instinctively, he thought it would be his mate Harvey, coming to check on him - he thought of how hesitant Barnes had been in looking at him for approval and consent before, it was impossible to believe that the grumpy young Northerner had ever really behaved like this and done these things before. And yet, his hand... No, that hadn't been Harvey's voice, he thought, it wasn't his pal behind him. He heard steps approach him, and somewhere outside of the showers, he heard a more high-pitched energetic voice: `Last one to the bar is getting the first round in!' It was, unmistakable, James Maddison, who he had seen put two different cocks in his mouth. But James was a new dad and... well, totally straight, WASN'T HE? Holy fuck. `Here,' the voice behind him said, and he felt a hand rest on his back. Another wet step and the figure was right behind him. Not just behind him. Looming over him. It wasn't Vardy either. It could only be Kasper. Kiernan let out a shaky sigh. `I just freaked out,' he whispered. `That's okay,' came the low rumble of the taller man's voice, just behind him. And then a dangerous whispered question: `Do you want me to finish you off?' Kiernan pushed himself against the cool wall. The water had gone off, though rivulets of it travelled down his 5ft10 physique, from his broad shoulders down his back, finding paths around the softly haired mounds of his arse. The hand midway down his back rubbed him gently there, and he felt the question in the touch. Schmeichel's words played back in his head - the offer sounded kind, yet almost reluctant. He'd looked indecisive, hadn't he? Almost resigned, as if he wasn't so sure that this behaviour was okay, but maybe his long-time pal Jamie Vardy had convinced him, or... `Yes,' Dewsbury found himself grunting quietly, before he even knew he was considering the offer. Instantly, the hand on his back felt even firmer, and there was a second hand - it slid across his tummy, the softer muscle there that he had worriedly compared to Harvey's and Jamie's tight six-packs. It brushed over his bush and found his cock. A big hand on a big cock. He sucked in his breath and tensed, pushing his elbows and forearms to the wall and supporting him. Through half-open eyes, he looked at his own lengthy meat, held in those big pale fingers, and then teased back and forward in a few slow strokes. Just a few, and then it sped up. He felt the firm control of one hand on the small of his back, and the other pumping back and forth on his cock. He could feel what must be the bigger man's chest muscles graze behind his shoulder. A tickle on the back of his neck that might be little puffs of breath. Every inch of his body felt uncontrollably sensitive. It didn't take long. He groaned out each breath and his balls tingled. A minute, maybe two. And then he was grunting apologetically to the world and shooting a sloppy trail of jizz against the lower section of wall, his seed painting a line down the softly coloured tiles. He heaved with each breath, the big hands still on his dick and on his back. Behind him, a soft laugh - affectionate rather than patronising; admiring rather than ridiculing. Then the big hands were just patting him - one on the shoulder, the other just above his right buttock - and the Danish goalie was retreating away from him, job done. Kiernan gasped and sighed and reached limply for the knob to switch the hot water back on, letting it explode against his tingling skin. Three days later, and the Leicester midfielder was staggering wearily off the training ground with the same slow pace as everyone else, watched from a short distance by the 35-year-old striker. Tomorrow night was a big game for the squad, away to Chelsea, and so their coaches had been working them extra-hard. The result, from Jamie's current POV, was a painful slump to Kiernan's gait, and huge damp sweat patches in his shirt and shorts, enough to make the lusty older man lick his lips. He'd been delighted to get Dewsbury-Hall involved. He had, after all, admired the gruff young lad for a while, and he'd returned from injury to find the 23-year-old more permanently installed in the first team. He'd certainly not been disappointed by what he saw jutting between those big thighs, though he'd always been slightly more taken with the rear view than the obvious bulge swinging in KDH's white shorts. And yet... he'd been a bit shy, hadn't he? And kinda belligerent. Fucking off into the showers like that just when things were getting fun! Perhaps Kiernan wasn't worth the effort, Vardy thought, compared to some of the other options in the squad. Barnes, for example. Not far away, the loyal redhead was picking up his plaque and gift bags from where they'd been left, ready to help carry them indoors at the end of the training day. Good lad. He had him well-trained. Harvey had come a long way from the belligerent young yob who the bosses had asked him to mentor. It was amazing what a good rimming could do to an arsey youngster over the course of a season. His smirk deepened. And then there was Maddison, he mused, as they all trotted indoors. But ahead of him, the bearded poser was flirting disastrously with that handsome young tart Luke Thomas - Vardy himself had drawn a line at the 20-year-old as too embarrassingly innocent and virginal seeming, just not rough enough to interest him. Madders, though, couldn't seem to leave the youth alone, besotted with him. Even though Jamie privately knew that the tattoo-sleeved midfielder was in a fairly intense relationship with a guy at another club. Lastly, his eyes fell on Kasper Schmeichel, the towering authority who had paused on the way into the gym suite, talking to the head coach. Of all the men Vardy had `played' with, his big `Danish fwend' was one of the most hesitant and reserved, though of course all that could change in the throes of passion. He was regularly trying to provoke the goalkeeper into topping him again, but it had only happened three or four times, and Kasper seemed to bitterly regret it in each event, though it never affected their close friendship. The Dane seemed so conflicted when it came to such easy gratification, and someone of Vardy's moral compass found it impossible to understand. Ahead of him, a sweat-soggy Kiernan was stomping through into the gym, on the other side of which they would break apart, some to the changing rooms and some heading home to shower instead. He watched Dewsy's big impressive rump bounce along (was it nicer than Harvey's? Probably) and then pause as he passed by the goalie - a moment passed between the 6ft2 blonde and the slightly hunched younger guy, a little awkward look between them that sent Kiernan hurrying more furtively ahead, and left Schmeichel staring down at his feet, losing track of his conversation with the gaffer. Vardy smirked. When he'd fucked Maddison in the mouth and then stood over him with one hand on his cock and the other on Harvey's, making them both spill their loads on the slut whilst he finished himself off, where had Kasper gone to? He'd assumed that the big guy had fucked off because he'd cum and lost interest, but maybe... An image of his big Dane fantasy and the big-arsed midfielder in the showers together played in his hotly active imagination, and he chuckled to himself, envious but amused. Maybe, just maybe? `Where am I putting this?' asked a hesitant voice somewhere to his left. `Hmmm?' The striker glanced to the side. Harvey's face glowed with heat and sweat and he was holding the heavy plaque in both hands. Jamie just laughed quietly. `In the fucking bin?' he joked, and then shook his head. Barnes looked embarrassed. As he stepped by, Jamie reached down and gave his bottom a good squeeze, making him gasp enjoyably. The proficient striker leaned in close to his ear. `At least I've still got you, eh, Redhead?' Barnes made a little giggle, unsure what he meant, and gave him a look that was at once wary and intoxicated. `Erm, yeh?' Jamie kept his hand at his rear, feeling the firm glute through the thin shorts and the mesh lining beneath. `Maybe it's time we took your training to the next level though, Barnesy. What do you say to that?' Eyes full of mischief, the Leicester hero grinned wickedly at his protegee, and the 24-year-old gulped. 'Writer guy' - Premiership Lads on Nifty https://www.nifty.org/nifty/gay/celebrity/premiership-lads/ Amazon Wishlist here if you wanna say thanks LOL https://www.amazon.co.uk/hz/wishlist/ls/26BW3WSABBHNM?ref_=wl_share