Date: Wed, 3 Aug 2022 17:55:07 +0000
From: writer guy <premiershiplads@outlook.com>
Subject: Premiership Lads Part 302

Part 302: Rehabilitation


He moved out of the medical room with a concerted effort to reduce his
limp, but unable to quite suppress the scowl and frown on his lean face.
The 25-year-old heard the clipped slam of the door behind him and
flinched regretfully, not having meant to be so obviously stroppy as he
left the meeting. He paused to glance over his shoulder for a moment, but
then carried on down the passage, letting his lingering knee injury
affect his gait more as he got away from the club medical officer - well,
there was no point trying to emphasise his fitness, not now he'd been
ruled out of the first two matches of the season at least.

Kieran Tierney huffed moodily and paused before moving through into the
players' lounge where many of his teammates were still relaxing between
training sessions; it was fucking great to be back training among the
other lads, true, but he'd been really pushing himself to be cleared for
their Friday game against Palace, a London derby that would kick off the
whole 2022-23 season! And now the verdict was that his knee rehab hadn't
quite gone well enough and he needed at least another two weeks before he
was match-ready... fuck that!

The Scotland international wove his way through the bright room, flooded
with Wednesday afternoon sunshine that the guys were sheltering from
before their next set of drills in groups. Sulky and quiet, Tierney moved
neatly between the clusters of his friends, not in the mood to get stuck
into conversation, and picking his way to the refreshments kitchen at the
far end where he poured himself a pint of orange squash and wished it was
something a little harder.

Kieran had struggled with his months out of action, particularly since he
was very ready to grasp the fan theory that his absence had partly cost
them their top 4 spot, losing out to Tottenham Hotspur. Humble as he was,
the young jock was quick to adopt responsibility and blame, and not
analytical enough to figure out that there must be a dozen other factors
in the near-miss at the end of last season.

The 5ft10 centre-back glugged on his pint of pale orange and then leaned
heavily on the counter, still frowning uncontrollably and turning over
the meeting in his head - he'd been short and grumpy with the poor
medical officer, who could hardly be blamed for the speed of his
recovery. Now Kieran's disappointment at the delay was coupled with
guilt and self-consciousness about how he was handling it, and he sighed
heavily, looking back up just as a few boisterous figures joined him at
the kitchenette, brimming with good mood and energy in spite of the
sweaty sheen on their faces and arms.

`The new skip,' boomed the deep voice of goalkeeper Aaron Ramsdale,
swaying towards the counter with both hands clasped to the shoulders of
Martin Odegaard - and the blond Norwegian player was being hugged from
the other side by the intensely tanned young defender Ben White, who was
also lauding the attacking midfielder on his new appointment. `23,' Ben
chirped, `and captain of the fucking Arsenal, amazing. We're made up
for you, bro. Such a great choice by the boss, yeh?'

Tierney paused, then tried to force a smile as he greeted the threesome.
When his name had been touted as a possible replacement captain at that
age, everyone had sneered and said 23 was too young and inexperienced for
the role; still, the Scottish fighter had quietly anticipated that he was
pretty much next in line for the armband, but nope. Perhaps if he hadn't
taken that knee injury, he would tell himself uncertainly, perhaps if...
He felt his smile slipping and he tried to nod enthusiastically along
with the good cheer of the others, clutching his pint glass so tightly it
threatened to shatter in his hands.

`And what about you?' the Norwegian player was returning as he elbowed
playfully at big Ramsdale, grabbing up cups from the bench as if to raise
a toast. `Officially our new Number One, eh...!'

Kieran should have been able to join in - these lads were some of his
good mates down here in London now he was settled in at his Premiership
club, three lads who'd much improved his social life in North London and
made playing at Arsenal a lot more fun. But the timing was wrong, the
wound too fresh - he knew these three were all guaranteed starts on
Friday evening while he would have to sit it out and wait for a delayed
start to his season. He couldn't help but resent their energy, and
particularly resent Odegaard's sudden position as his captain, when
he'd anticipated that honour for himself for the past year or so. And
not JUST because of his performances on the pitch, he admitted to himself
with a little shudder of secret guilt.

He made his excuses and left them to it, slapping Aaron and Martin
jovially on the back in a weak effort to seem celebratory. Others were
making their way outside into the sun already, and he stalked moodily
after them, scolding himself for being such a brat - but just as he was
about to burst into a jog and follow the other kit-clad guys out across
the grass, one of the assistant coaches was at his side and resting a
hand at his shoulder. `Sorry about this, KT,' the soft-voiced Spaniard
told him, before delivering the blow - he wouldn't be joining the main
training this afternoon after all, and was being directed to return to
his rehab exercises in the gym instead. The guy gave him an apologetic
pat and smile and Kieran, this time at least, did a better job of nodding
respectfully and seeming to take it on the chin - it made sense and
seemed inevitable.

Just as Odegaard and company came whooping out of the double doors from
the player lounge, the final guys making their way out there to get ready
for hard work, Tierney did a 180 and headed back inside, his posture
slumping as he cut through the lounge and back inside the slick chrome
corridors of the Arsenal training complex.

He wasn't really looking where he was going as he did so and he barged
straight into someone else in the bright doorway; for a second, the
belligerent highlander in him wanted to yell out a stream of profanities
at the clumsy oaf he'd knocked into, and take all of his afternoon
frustrations out on them... and then he realised who he was up against,
and his rash words died as a gurgle in his throat.

Like the assistant before, the Arsenal gaffer reached across and gave him
one kind but patronising pat the shoulder. `It's for the best,' rasped
the calm Spanish accent of Mikel Arteta, club legend - he frowned
sympathetically at Kieran with a more genuine warmth than either his
assistant or the chief medical officer, and his kindness made the grumpy
Scot wilt before him.

`I'm ready,' the 25-year-old lad protested weakly.

`You are VERY nearly ready,' sighed Arteta gently, leaving the hand
against his shoulder and pausing in front of him, kitted out for his
coaching duties outside. `We need you back, Kieran, but we need you back
in one piece, you are too important. Go - go get yourself fit, it will be
your time very very soon, yes?'

Tierney bristled at his soft-spoken kindness and calm reason. He could
hear the ego-massaging compliments in amongst the direction, and for some
reason they rubbed the wrong way against his mood. He frowned
uncomfortably at his boss and paused, a sturdy figure blocking the
doorway. He opened his boyishly innocent eyes wide and stared searchingly
at the club manager - and his eyes were no longer questioning the
decision around his knee or rehab, and he hoped that Mikel could
understand that. The 40-year-old Spanish man returned his look quite
impassively, just letting out a cool sigh.

Kieran didn't really have the confidence or clarity to bark out what he
was thinking in that moment. `When are you going to let me fuck you
again?' was hardly the kind of thing he was about to bluntly demand of
the prim ex-midfielder in front of him, or even could cope with furtively
whispering - so little had ever been said between the two men about their
loose arrangement, so little openness or honesty.

Arteta gave him a strange look now - there was something confrontational
or cautionary in his stance, alongside the sympathy and patience. The
hand on Tierney's shoulder squeezed him once, firmly, and then the
marginally shorter athletic bloke was pulling himself up and gesturing to
get past, saying not a word more. Instinctively and dutifully, Kieran
slid slightly to the side and swerved respectfully out of the gaffer's
way, unable to really defy or challenge him in this public footballing
world of theirs - so far apart from the aggressive ways he'd been
allowed to behave with him in some secret private moments.

Kieran briefly watched the boss, dark and tanned and confident, stride
out to join the squad, and thought about how things had seemed between
them before his injury: a frosty politeness in public that became a
greedy intimacy once the opportunity arose. The Scotland star still
couldn't really believe that he'd fucked a bloke once, never mind
repeatedly over the best part of a year, making the slim Spanish legend
squeal and whimper and load his bank account with tenuous pay bonuses
every other game.

And now... This disinterest, this distance. It was too long gone now for
Kieran to foster his previous theory, which had been that Mikel was
afraid he would manage to do himself further injury or slow down his
recovery if they got it on. Now he'd been back in mainstream training
for most sessions in the pre-season window, that seemed less credible,
and the confused young man had to accept facts: the gaffer's appetite
for his big caledonian cock had fizzled out, and whatever secret
arrangement they'd developed, no longer existed. On the one hand, this
rankled with Kieran on a very specific and selfish issue - the squealing
Spaniard on hands and knees had several times referred to him as
`captain' whilst begging him to go harder (the memories made Kieran
sweat profusely and pull at the collar of his training shirt) - but there
was another way in which the change was incredibly difficult for him to
process, and that was the slow and painful admission to himself that
he'd been enjoying it, that it had been more than some clunky physical
obligation to the boss, or a series of deeply drunken mistakes, as it had
began. Whilst injured and outcast, Tierney had missed Arteta's body, and
it was sickening to admit that to himself through its loss.


He wasn't alone in the fitness suite. A couple of other players were in
similar positions, working with physio experts and going through the
motions to get themselves ready for competitive play. He killed a bit of
time at the water cooler with Emile Smith-Rowe, remembering that the
youngster was also missing out on Friday's game - but the Croydon kid
was seemingly unaffected and optimistic, having been provisionally
cleared for his return in just game 2 of the season. As they compared
their fitness regimes and chatted to one side of the gymnasium, Kieran
just found himself irked by the blond lad's cheery upbeatness and casual
dismissal of a minor injury.

`Reckon it's gonna have made me stronger, if anything, you get me?'

The Scottish player stared moodily at him and wiped sweat from his
forehead. `Hmm.'

And what's worse - as seemed to be standard now, Emile proceeded to
mutter conspiratorially about this rich MILF he was seeing, a favourite
bite of gossip amongst the Arsenal lads at the minute. `Meeting her at a
posh hotel tonight,' Smith-Rowe was boasting whilst Tierney filled up
his water bottle again and hunched his body disinterestedly away from the
young midfielder. `Real swish place in the West End, but really discrete
cos - er - she got that hubby and family and everything, yeh? Seriously,
she's a big baller, she is, and boy your face if I could just tell you
who she is, haha-'

Kieran had heard this whole arrogant panto before. `Imagine if I gave a
fuck, mate?' he grunted in gruff Scottish, turning to glare at the
slightly taller 22-year-old. The brusque interruption had taken the
Surrey-born chav back a little bit, and he stared blankly back at him in
surprise for a second, then recovered and burst into laughter. `Very
funny, KT, very funny!' Smith bantered at him, punching his arm and
backing away with a spring in his step and a wistful leer in his
expression.

Kieran left it at that. He had no desire to hear more of Emile's
abstract boasts. The lad seemed to love being the centre of gossip among
half the squad, making oblique references to this possibly imaginary
lover who, according to various theories, was the WAG of a major
footballer, an ex-girlband singer, or even a high-profile MP. Kieran was
of the opinion that it was just some bored tart who he'd bumped into at
a bar, and that it was really not interesting to hear about.

Scowling to himself, but somewhat glad Emile was too arrogant to rise to
his remark, the injured player found a quieter corner to work in,
studying the printed sheet of exercises that he knew off-by-heart, and
grinding through another hour of dull repetition until boredom rather
than tiredness cut him off. Calm it, he warned himself, and stay focused.
Just another couple of weeks and he'd be back in centre-back, ready to
keep clean sheets and propel Arsenal up the table as the season got going
- missing the likes of Crystal Palace on Friday was a pretty minor
absence, all things considered!


Restless and agitated, Kieran was surprised to hear a steady rumble of
noise in the changing areas as he approached, the main squad training
seemingly over already too; it put him off heading through to get changed
yet, and he'd been half-thinking that he could do with seeing his physio
for a rubdown anyway. His shorts and shirt clinging to his lean body with
sweat, he propelled himself on down the corridor and skipped the roomy
changing areas, lumbering instead down a couple more corridors and
entering the open-plan treatment rooms of the physio and fitness
department - on the way in, he had to pass the door to the medical office
that he'd carelessly slammed earlier, and he glanced guiltily inside to
check that guy wasn't still here on duty. The lights were off,
thankfully.

Less thankfully, the physio suites beyond were similarly unlit and
deserted-looking, and it dawned on Kieran that the whole training centre
was shutting down a bit earlier than usual, perhaps some treat from the
bosses for a lot of hard work in the pre-season run. He sighed heavily to
himself and took a few more limping steps through the network of
anterooms, which were striped with deep shadows and bolts of early
evening sunshine cutting in through various windows.

Hands on his hips, he paused at the centre of this space and sighed
again, disappointed but accepting. Then he jumped slightly, a bit shocked
by light footsteps and a sudden voice somewhere to his left: `That is
the sigh of a man who is fed up, huh?'

There was no mistaking the unique accent of the returned Arsenal player
and fellow defender: Kieran hadn't met any other players who had adopted
such a London-esque patter in spite of their Spanish native tongue. He
turned and smiled awkwardly in the direction of Hector Bellerin, the
older right-back taking some languid steps this way and rubbing at his
face and chest with a small grey towel.

Kieran grunted a weak laugh and brushed away the comment. `I'm fine,'
he muttered simply, catching the curiosity in Bellerin's tone and smile.
`Just hoping for a massage and it looks like they've shut shop.' He
paused, unsure if his assessment was right given the evidence - it was
pretty obvious that Hector here had just enjoyed a massage himself, given
his state of undress and the way his olive skin shone with the oils that
had been rubbed in. His whole posture and movement suggested it too, a
state of deep relaxation - he'd either just had a rubdown or spent the
entire hot afternoon in a fucking siesta.

`They are gone,' the 27-year-old confirmed quietly, his voice less
Cockney and imbued more with the lazy sweetness of Barcelona. `I was
lucky to get sent in early, otherwise she would not have been able to do
me.' He cricked his neck and stretched out his arms, then rubbed the
same towel down the front of his defined torso - the action drew
Kieran's eyes lower for a moment, making him very aware of the sagging
white briefs that were the Spaniard's only attire but for rolled-down
socks.

`Right,' Kieran grunted absently.

`Sorry, amigo.'

`Huh. Not your fault.' Kieran paused awkwardly, feeling that more
speech was expected of him, but without much to add. The undressed and
oily figure beside him was something of a legend in Arsenal terms, having
moved here at such a young age - but he'd been away on loan for much of
Kieran's own tenure at the North London club, and so the two defensive
players had little rapport.

`So,' Tierney found himself asking blandly, `will you be sticking
around with us this season, Bellerin, or have you got your eyes on some
other club?' It sounded less friendly than he meant it, almost accusing
and hostile - he'd really meant it as a friendly gambit that might hint
he was looking forward to forming a defensive alliance with the Barcelona
man. Fuck, his mood today was terrible, and he needed to stop letting it
show...

Luckily, Hector was still just grinning at him through the fine-cut
goatee of dark hair. His mullet-like hairstyle was all slicked back away
from his handsome conquistador looks, and he was dangling the towel at
his waist which gave him a little more coverage and dignity than his
skimpy underpants. `We'll see,' was the other defender's vague and
evasive reply, said with a thoughtful grin that showed he was not
offended. `There's always offers. But I'm quite excited to be back
here. Back in London,' he added, in a way that sounded vaguely offensive
to the club itself - Kieran had half a mind to take offence at that,
having heard murmurings that the handsome Spanish player had made many
requests for a full transfer and seemed `done' with Premiership life.
That was just hearsay, though, stupid gossip, almost as silly as Emile
and his sex life.

`What?' Hector asked gently, and Kieran realised how long he'd fallen
quiet.

`Just wondered,' he grunted back, shrugging. He looked around
aimlessly, as if needing some fuller confirmation that there were indeed
no physiotherapists around and he would have to slink off to get changed.
He noticed a slight frown to Hector's features and the right-back
looking downward, making him paranoid. Now the 27-year-old was taking a
slow step towards him and he tensed up stupidly.

`Your knee, how is it?' the other player asked.

`Er- oh. Well. Nearly there.'

`The scarring has healed well.'

`Huh? Erm, suppose so, aye.'

`You'll be playing soon, I'm sure,' Hector said quietly, lifting his
head to give him a bright smile. They were about the same height and
build, though Bellerin was a little more solid and proportionate, not so
slim up top as Kieran's own build, nor quite so well-built in his legs.
Kieran second-guessed himself for noticing these things, but then noted
that Hector was stripped to his undies after all, and every inch of his
skin shining like a trophy with massage oil, making it hard to ignore his
physique or darkly inked tattoos.

`Yup,' he said.

`Sorry,' chuckled the older defender. `You are sick of hearing that.'

Tierney could hardly deny this. `That obvious?'

Bellerin just grinned at him, a smile that seemed free of any
condescension or pity. He brought the towel up and around his neck,
holding its twisted ends against each pectoral muscle. `You needing a
rub down, I guess?' he asked now, his voice quiet and thoughtful.

`Well. That was the plan. Huh. But er, I'll have to do without, aye?'

A very slight shrug of Hector's shoulders, another little twisting
stretch of his neck muscles. `I could give you a bit of a massage, if
you needed,' he offered simply. `I'm no professional, but we all know
the ropes.' He stifled a yawn casually. `We've all had enough sports
massages over the years, you know?'

The Scottish centre-back could only stare at him and blink slowly. He
hadn't seen that offer coming at all, and he had to stop himself from
bursting into matey laughter while he stared at his colleague and tried
to figure out if this was a joke or not. A lengthy pause crackled between
them and then it was Hector laughing, though not at that - `Oh, you
British men,' he said in something that was half a laugh and half a
sigh, `you all need therapy. It's just a massage, pal, it was just an
idea, if you're very sore or tense.'

Kieran still didn't quite know what to say, standing awkwardly there in
front of the other 5ft10 football star, scratching at his stubble and
making a vague `Err' noise on and off. He joined Hector's tinkling
laughter and shook himself. `No, er, no I'm not offended or anything, I
just- Well, that'd hardly be fair on you, you've done your work for the
day and-'

`I wouldn't offer if I minded,' Bellerin cut him off simply. He smiled
and shrugged, and then dragged the towel against the oily curls of his
black-brown hair. `I'm only suggesting a quick rub-down, I don't have
the skills for anything more therapeutic...!'

`Right,' Kieran slurred back. `Well, er - yeh? I guess? I mean - if
you really don't mind?' He WAS pretty sore and aching, he had been
pretty sure he needed the massage to round off his day - and he DID have
to take close care of his fitness, didn't he? Otherwise this delayed
start to the season would only get WORSE, so...

`Yeh?' said Hector pleasantly. `No problem. Just - you wanna use one
of these massage beds back here, then? And I apologise in advance if I am
terrible at this. My ex used to say I was great at it, but maybe she
talked shit...?' A flighty giggle from him that Kieran awkwardly joined
in with, following across towards the far wall and the back row of
parallel black treatment beds.

`Well, did she talk shit about other things?' Tierney asked in a dull
yawn.

He didn't really notice the slight pause to Bellerin's chat there, or
the carefulness around pronouns. `They tended to tell me what I wanted
to hear, you know?' the Spanish player mused quietly. `Here, this one,
pal? Uh - oh god, I forgot I was just in my pants. I should really get
dressed first, haha, right?'

His mind still lingering over the dismissal of British men and their need
for therapy, Kieran found himself just shrugging generously and then
proceeding to tug his sweat-damp shirt up and off his body. `Doesn't
bother me,' he grunted simply, just marvelling at how casual a lot of
continental lads like Hector were around their body and their underpants.
A lot of the UK players, himself included, were far more conservative and
repressed, though someone as vain as Ben White tended to push that
stereotype to its limits.

Hector shrugged too. `Well, good. Get on the bed, Kier.'

Kieran proceeded with a nervous awkwardness, but also a clumsy bravado
intended to hide it. He flung his training shirt onto the windowsill with
contrived casualness and then lumped one trainer at a time off his feet,
before pushing down his white Arsenal training shorts and clambering onto
the bed on his back in just a pair of clingy black trunks. More than
anything else, he felt one of those regular burning epiphanies about how
pale his body was - he conformed strongly to the Scottish joke about
starting off blue and needing a summer's tanning to even reach pasty
white. In reality, Kieran was almost bronzed by his own low standards,
fresh from summer break and lots of rehab in the sun, but he felt sickly
and pallid next to the oiled-up glow of the Spanish man's exposed form.

`Comfy?' Hector demanded.

`Uh, yeah, great.'

`I'll start, then?'

`Er, sure. Sure.'

Apart from squelching some massage oil into his palms, Hector got quickly
to work, starting at his ankles. His touch was immediately warm and
businesslike, and Kieran marvelled at how natural and soothing it felt -
none of the usual awkward tickle or sensitivity that sometimes made him
squirm and scoff when receiving physical treatments. Nope, the Scottish
centre-back just lay there in comfortable silence, while two strong hands
worked in tandem on his left and right ankles and then shins, calves,
lower thighs. He began to tense, expecting a little bit of pain when
Bellerin drew close to his recovering knee, but the amateur hands circled
carefully around the scarring and Tierney just couldn't help himself:
before he knew what he was doing, he'd let out the long appreciative
sigh, his breath escaping noisily from his pursed pink lips.

Hector laughed gently, making his cheeks blush, but didn't really
address it or make any bantering jokes. Instead, he just worked his
skilled warm fingers back down Kieran's lower legs, massaging his calf
muscles and sore shins in a series of repetitive motions that suggested
more experience than expected. When the magic hands circled back towards
his knees, Kieran was ready, and he held in the little gaspy moan this
time, determined not to embarrass himself further in front of the more
experienced European player.

`That okay?' Bellerin asked.

Kieran found himself capable of only a tense `Mmm' of assent, which
made the volunteer masseur make another of those soft tinkling laughs.

Up came the hands, now, moving across his thick fluffy thighs, the
second-strongest muscles in Kieran's slightly imbalanced physique. And
wow, Hector's stern fingers felt even better against that tight muscle;
he really seemed to know what he was doing! He lay very still and found
himself momentarily watching the other lad at work, but then shutting his
eyes out of some obscure respect: it felt wrong to watch Hector's glossy
body at the side of his, leaning over him with concentration in his eyes
and tension in his arm muscles, his torso curving forward a little and
the bulging pouch of his white briefs rubbing against the side of the
bed. Kieran had to pull his arm in against his side a little, thinking
that otherwise his hand would accidentally brush at the man's crotch!

Up and up went Hector's gifted hands, really working at the sides and
bulging mounds of his thighs, and circling gently inwards to release the
tension where they met his crotch. With a polite cough, Hector rolled the
edges of his black trunk boxer briefs upwards an inch or so, and Kieran
made a vague grunt of approval, feeling the oily touches dig in against
his loins - fractional movements that then, quite suddenly, felt a bit
TOO close. He wasn't annoyed or offended, he knew that this was how
massages went, but he WAS self-conscious - he didn't have Hector's
natural confidence and didn't like how obvious his own package must be
to the kind lad who was helping him out like this. And worse: he could
feel his chubby cock tingling in their elastic, knew that actually the
tender touches were stimulating certain nerve endings and that there was
a terrifying chance he could spring a semi (at least) whilst poor
Bellerin was just doing him a favour!

There were an agonising few minutes of this tension before suddenly
Hector was moving further up the side of the treatment bed and beginning
to massage atone of his arms instead. Kieran hadn't realised how tense
he was, or how much breath he had sucked into his thin chest, until he
released it. A pleasant murmur from masseur Bellerin: `That's it,
buddy, just let go and relax. This is okay, yeh?'

`It's great,' he praised with quiet earnestness.

`Too kind,' the other defender chuckled lightly.

On it went, and Tierney found himself really sinking into a state of
relaxation in the dim shadows of their corner, though every now and then
Bellerin's moving form beside the bed caught the brilliant shafts of sun
and his olive skin gleamed more intensely. He massaged up and down that
first arm and shoulder, and then the other, slipping casually from side
to side, and letting Kieran sink further into the half-conscious
enjoyment of a massage patient; he didn't even flinch or snigger when
his new friend began to work on his chest, circling his sensitive nipples
and giving a few hard rubs to his pectorals and back to the shoulders,
which were melting appreciatively to all this tender attention.

`Turn over?' interrupted Hector's breathy voice. It was definitely
more of a query than an instruction. Contained within it were other
questions: Is this okay? This isn't too weird, is it? Are you okay with
me carrying on? The question mark needn't have been there - Kieran was
lost in the strong tenderness of his teammate's massaging ability, and
he would have obediently shuffled over if instructed. And that was what
he did now, clumsy and huffing as he rolled his loosened body over onto
its front - in the process, he found himself briefly looking up at
Bellerin, their eyes meeting, and he smiled broadly at the 27-year-old,
trying to communicate just how relaxed and satisfied he really was
without searching for the words. Once on his front, he lay his face down
into the designed groove, and let out a long unconscious sigh of
anticipation. There was a long pause, as if maybe Bellerin was changing
his mind about the favour, or was put off by just how much it was being
enjoyed - but there was the little squelchy noise of the oil bottle, and
then the warm strong hands were on his back, and he gasped quietly to
himself once more.

Hector made a few vague comments as he worked on Kieran's back muscles:
`You are still tense, brother... I hope this is okay, it has been a
while... Just tell me when you're fed up, hey?' and then, in a quiet
singsong voice: `Jesus, your thighs, man. Highland beef, hey?' It made
Kieran laugh softly into the groove of the leather bed, and he marvelled
at how his body was loosening up under Hector's care. He considered
returning the obscure compliment and suggesting that the Barcelona boy
quit playing and re-trained, but that sounded indirectly insulting. He
kept his mouth shut and enjoyed it.

Eventually, the attention moved from his back and neck to his legs,
working on the thighs and calves in a different way. It was good, but
Kieran wanted Hector's hands on his upper back muscles again, where it
had been particularly soothing and perfect. But he lay still and quiet
and breathed happily, submitting himself to the surprisingly expert
touch. Even when Bellerin gently asked his next question, he just made a
softly breathed `Mm yep' in response. Bellerin had asked `Is it okay
to roll your pants back?', and he did so now, peeling the elastic away
and exposing the strongest muscles of Kieran's physique to the cool air
- feeling that, he paused, and might have tensed up a little bit if the
subsequent feel of Hector's hands on each glute was not so IMMEDIATELY
perfect. Instead of tensing or resisting, he just let out another little
gasp, one that made Hector chuckle to himself.

Connecting it with his upper thighs and his lower back, Bellerin moved
his brilliant hands in circles on each big buttock, rubbing and pushing
and kneading, and seeming to trigger nerves and sensations up and down
the length of the centre-back's rehab-weary body. Wow, this guy knew his
stuff! Of course, he still felt a little alarmed at the fact his pants
had been tucked down beneath his buttocks like that, but... damn, it felt
good, even when his cheeks momentarily spread apart with the circling
roll of Hector's touch. It had that same worrying effect on stimulating
his cock a bit, admittedly, but that was less of an issue lying on his
front, less exposed than when those fingers had kneaded at the very
inside of each thigh, shuffling against his crotch from either side.

`Thanks mate,' he slurred into the face-pit.

`No problem,' murmured his teammate.

When did the thumbs against his buttocks feel TOO intimate? When was the
point where he might have said `Oi' and called out Bellerin for going
too far? It was hard to pinpoint, because the massage was so silky and
enjoyable. The hands slid from his arse to his lower back, and then back
onto his chunky thighs at points, but always returning to the twin mounds
of his glutes, parting and working them, and the thumb-prints sliding
deeper and deeper into the canyon between them until, gradually, Kieran
was aware that his masseur was rubbing right down his crack, really
making his gooch tingle and his body try and fail to tense up in protest.

The problem was, the problem really was... that it just... felt so good.

`Relax,' Hector whispered at one point, and then a minute later,
`Shall I stop?'

Sometimes, no answer is an answer. Kieran lay there, feeling his thick
heavy legs gently pulled a little further apart, and then felt one of
Hector's oily thumbs slide very firmly down his crack, but pause,
midway, and tickle against something. He let out a short huff of breath
and then bit his lip. The thumb-tip rotated gently, back and forth, but
keeping its focus on that one meaningful spot; at the same time, the
other hand massaged the small of his back, melting him with the way it
undid the knots around his spine. The hands swapped over, and this time
it was a different digit, not a thumb, that rolled back and forth over
Kieran's twitching rose-bud.

Again, the quiet question came. `Shall I stop...?'

Kieran hesitated, but the sigh he let out was far from an instruction.
Hector went on, running two fingertips at once up and down his greasy
crack, sliding through the fleshy furrow, parting his glutes more, but
then returning to that little knot of muscle, and... easing against it in
a way that was soft and firm all at once. Kieran let out a wordless
little noise that would be hard to describe, but was somehow understood
by the man above him.

`Up on your knees a little,' urged Hector's silky voice, an intimate
whisper.

Kieran was as ready to obey as he had been when Bellerin hesitantly asked
him to turn over. He pressed his forearms into the leather and tensed his
core, then bent his knees and brought them under him, sticking his big
bare bottom up into the air. He daren't think about how the posture
looked from above, just lying forward, his face still buried blindly in
the groove, and his forearms folding beyond it. Hector's hands were back
on his glutes, rubbing and probing them, and then... there was that thumb
again, in against his bud, and now sliding into it... ohhh...

It was not QUITE the first time anyone had investigated the entrance of
the Scottish centre-back's big man-booty; his plump arse had really
caught the attention of Granit Xhaka when the Swiss stud and his French
boyfriend Lacazette had first toyed with their dopey young newbie... but
Xhaka had barely tickled at Kieran's crack, and it was not something
that he'd ever thought about since. Here was Bellerin's thumb, pushing
slowly inside him, and his whole body relaxing to take it... holy fuck. He
made another noise, and it must have sounded nervous. The thumb still
circling at his hole, he felt the other hand slide up his back and the
whispering voice had come closer to his ear: `Let me finish the massage,
baby, you'll really like this bit. Okay...? Kier... okay?'

`Okay,' he whispered, alarmed by the shaky quality of his own muffled
voice.

At that, the thumb pushed more firmly, and he really felt it going inside
him. Oh, wow. His cock and balls were still enclosed in the tangle of his
trunks, stretched and taut beneath his exposed rump, but he could feel
them tingle with stimulus as the short stumpy thumb digit ran in and out
of his entrance, digging only a tiny distance inside him, but stretching
the reluctant sphinctre. He could hear Hector's breathing too, and the
little rasp of excitement in it.

Kieran couldn't find anything to say, so he just kept his mouth shut,
and tried not to gasp or sigh too loudly. He became just a body, just a
mass of relaxed muscle, melting at Hector's touch, as oily and glossy
now as his exposed body; and when the pressure of the man's thumb left
his ring, he felt the absence keenly, was shocked at the craving it left
behind. There wasn't a long pause for this. A different, longer finger
was back against his bud now, and sliding into him - further into him,
more fully inside, making him moan quite loudly. `That's it,' breathed
the Spaniard, `relax...'

In and out went the single finger, while the spare hand was always
massaging somewhere else, at one of his glutes or thighs, or back onto
his lower back, or even reaching over to squeeze at his shoulder or
tickle the back of his neck. He submitted entirely to it, his knees and
elbows digging into the leather, and all of his day's worries slipping
away from him: his knee injury, the squad line-up, the gaffer... ALL of
it. None of it mattered, all he could focus on was the prick of pleasure
rippling inside him as he felt Hector's firm knuckle push repeatedly
against his tight ring, the finger puckering in and out of him.

Suddenly, something subtly changed enough for his body to start tensing,
but Hector was patting his buttock and shushing him. He was confused for
a moment, unsure what was different, but then his blind senses got a
handle on it: the finger had left him and seemed bigger now as it tried
to re-enter. No, it was... two fingers? Two digits, tightly pressed
together, kneading against his tightness, prodding quite gently at him,
but with an inevitability that was not retreating from the challenge...
and then they were in him, he knew it, TWO fingers, sliding inside him
just like before, albeit more slowly and carefully... `Fuckkk,' he
moaned, unable to stop himself.

`That's it, baby,' came the husky growl of Bellerin's voice. `You
like that, I knew you would.'

Tierney couldn't stop himself, he had to touch his cock. He pressed one
forearm deeply against the rim of the leather headrest and pushed his
body up slightly, digging one arm down his oily front and into the
stretchy black fabric of his trunks. He pulled his cock out and squeezed
its thick hardness, and began to wank himself. Unconsciously, he fell
into the same motion as the fingers who were popping in and out of his
hole with a tiny little squelch sound, and both motions seemed to match
the low rhythm of their breathing - his own hoarse gasps and the purring
moans of the man at his side.

`Let me try a third,' whispered Hector now.

He didn't reply - couldn't. What would he say? He just squeezed his
eyes shut and relaxed his hoisted body forward, pushing his forehead
against his own slippery forearm, and his other hand pumping back and
forth on his cock. He felt the emptiness return, the sense of abandonment
as the fingertips slid away from his hole. But then again there was
something bigger against it, the threatened third finger, and he felt
Hector's three digits push against him, way too much, too thick, far too
much, definitely not going in, well not going any further than that, not
getting in, not getting all the way in, but... oh fuck, oh fuck...

`That's three,' the Spanish Cockney accent hissed excitedly.

It was more than the Scottish bugger could cope with. It hurt, though it
still felt as intense and weirdly relaxing as it had at one and two. But
his balls felt on fire and his cock was throbbing against his hand. He
gurgled wordlessly and felt himself struggle to stay in position, his
elbow and knees slippery with sweat and oil - for a moment he thought he
was going to collapse or topple sideways, but then realised it was just
the convulsion of his climaxing body. He heard the little splash of his
emptying balls, his cum streaking the leather beneath him and his own
torso. He kept wanking, and the three fingers nudge gently at his hole,
only partway inside him, not like the deep frigging pushes of before.
`Ohhhhh gawd,' moaned Tierney helplessly, `ohhhhh...'

The fingers left his hole and became two hands, rubbing gently and
soothingly across the length of his back, from his aching shoulders and
down his melting spine, to the quivering orbs of his big butt-cheeks.
Tierney stayed on his knees for a moment longer, but then eased forward,
returning to the flat posture, though he felt his big cock fold at an
awkward angle between his legs, and his lower abs slick against the
puddle of his own jizz. He lay there and haved with each breath, and felt
the motion of Bellerin's hands slow and weaken on his relaxed back
muscles, until they lay still in its middle, resting on top of his spine.

He made an awkward nauseous groan, the only sound he felt capable of, and
it was met with no fond chuckle or whispered erotica from the Spaniard at
his side. Hector's breathing had become quiet and reserved and, at last,
his slippery hands shifted away from Kieran's bare back. `I bet you
feel relaxed now!' he heard the right-back exclaim in a weary but
chipper voice - it was said casually, as if the final dramatic ending of
the massage had not happened at all. `Was that okay?' the amateur
masseur asked, in a voice loaded with caution, as if pretending to be
unsure of his skills when he was really checking on the throbbing pain
that now existed between Kieran's glutes.

He made another vague noise in response that couldn't slot into words,
it was just a resigned huff, a sound of real exhaustion. Kieran couldn't
bring himself to twist his neck and look at the guy next to the massage
bed - didn't want to see that bare oily body or its ostentatious inked
messages. He was scared of seeing those skimpy white briefs or
rolled-down socks that just emphasised the expanse of olive nudity around
them. And he was terrified of looking Bellerin in the face and
acknowledging that he'd just had his arsehole fingered until he came.

One last contact: a gentle and playful slap to one of his cheeks from one
of the masseur's hands. `Lie there a minute,' he suggested quietly.
`I needed a quiet lie down after my own. That's why I was so dazed when
you turned up and it was empty here, huh. But I'll go shower now. You
just relax, Kier. Just let your muscles have their moment, okay?' No,
one more bit of contact: that same hand on his buttock, but not slapping
it, just stroking it gently, giving it a little bit of a squeeze, a touch
that made him flinch and tense now where before it had melted him into
human goo.

`Yeah,' he managed in a hoarse mutter, still not turning to look.

`See ya,' Bellerin responded quietly, and his footsteps drifted and
disappeared, and Tierney just lay there, wiped out, his body and his
bollocks drained and soothed.


The boisterous mood in the changing area was not quite over when the
Scottish lad headed through, shorts pulled on but training shirt bundled
under one arm, bare pale body glistening with the remnants of the
massage; but at least half of the players had moved on and there was less
showy celebration for Odegaard. These changing rooms were bigger and less
enclosed than those in football stadiums, anyway, and so the Arsenal
players here were scattered and sporadic. It was easy enough for Tierney
to drag his things into a more remote corner and undress at the slow pace
he needed to, his head feeling like cotton wool - and his bottom feeling
tingly and uncomfortable.

He took his clean towel from the shelf and entered the long communal
shower, able to take up a spot that wasn't too close to the handful of
other guys washing down - including the dark-haired figure of Hector
Bellerin himself, quiet and solitary at the far end of the line. Kieran
allowed himself only the briefest glance in that direction, though even
in that split-second his eyes seemed to take a polaroid of the lean
muscles and solid pert backside, all rippling under a cascade of steam.

It was Ramsdale and White again, nearest to him, still showering - the
big Stokey keeper washing his thin blond hair and the slim tattooed
centre-back just inspecting his face in a mirror whilst going through
some skincare ritual, his body naked and glossy. `Oh shut up about
that,' Ben was insisting in his faintly posh south-coast accent,
lathering his face in off-white cream; a glance from the corner of his
eye allowed Kieran to spot his peachy bum too, less solidly muscular than
Hector's and certainly not as broad as his own- STOP IT, he told himself
fiercely.

`Come on,' bellowed Ramsdale playfully over the sound of water, rubbing
suds out of his eyes with those big keeper's hands. `Has she tried it
again, or not?'

`What's that?' called young Reiss Nelson, who was just a couple of
shower-heads further down the line, midway between Ramsdale and Bellerin.
`What's she been trying?' the South London winger was loudly
demanding, quick to intercept this gossip between Aaron and Ben. Kieran
himself was not overly interested: he was acting in a daze, fogged up by
the intense relaxation of the massage and its, erm, ending.

`Tried slipping him the finger, dirty bitch,' Ramsdale was chortling;
Tierney's body tensed.

`Shut up!' White yelped irritably.

`What the fuck?' Nelson was cackling. `Haha, that is MAD shit, bro...'

`It was just once!' Ben could be heard muttering, back under the shower
water now and rinsing expensive creams away from his pretty boy features.

`Just once,' Aaron was mocking through a series of watery splashes and
slaps at his neighbour, and Kieran closed his eyes and cringed under the
blast of water.

`You got fingered by her?' Reiss was yelping immaturely.

`Shut up!' White shouted at either him or Ramsdale or everyone.
`Don't you start, Rammers,' he was growling, shoving at the goalkeeper
so that the tall guy almost staggered over this way, making Tierney
glance frostily in their direction. `Things I could tell about you,'
the 24-year-old centre-back could be heard barking at his bigger buddy,
but Ramsdale was just laughing and grabbing at him in a soapy hug. Kieran
turned away, ignoring them and their banter, and just washing his bare
body in a nervous rush - he did NOT want to hear saucy details of other
lads' sex lives right now. Especially not... that. Fortunately, the
others were gone in moments, and for about thirty seconds it was just the
two of them in there, he at one end washing his cock and balls earnestly,
and the Spanish stud at the far end, stroking fingers through his inky
mullet of hair. But then Bellerin left too, in no rush to cover himself
in a towel, and it was just an anxious Kieran, who proceeded to soap up
his hand some more and slide it awkwardly between his two big cheeks,
washing away the massage oil that slicked against his hairy crack - and
with it, wash away the shame of another crushed boundary that he'd lay
there and allowed.


Quietly drying himself off, the 27-year-old Catalan smiled faintly and
listened with subdued amusement as the nearby three lads continued to
cajole each other over the most basic bedroom experimentation: `If a gal
did that to me, bruv, I'd be outta there like lightning!' Reiss Nelson
was insisting fiercely, whilst Aaron Ramsdale had softened his position
to `Ah, leave the lad alone, we all get curious now and then, right?'
whilst Ben White himself just scowled and swore at the other two and
loudly repeated `It was just this one-off, okay?!'

A few benches away from the banter, Bellerin sniggered quietly to himself
and finished drying his hair before dragging a fresh Gucci t-shirt over
his upper body and then stepping into the clean black briefs that clung
to his waist and comfortably enclosed his emptied balls and lazy cock.
He'd found a quiet corner between the treatment room and the showers to
wank himself off and expend the throbbing erection that had accompanied
his massage therapy for that Scottish dope - a bit quick and sleazy, but
he'd needed the release and it hadn't taken long. Besides, a quiet
evening alone lay ahead of him now, with no realistic chance of good sex,
so a covert wank would have to do.

Buttoning up his frayed jeans over these briefs, Bellerin half-watched as
a towel-clad Tierney emerged from the steam of the showers, head low and
shoulders somewhat hunched. He didn't look as relaxed as he should,
after that special treatment! Huh, never mind. Hector kept an eye on him
as he dried and dressed, all in a hurry, and saw the clues of physical
release even if the Scottish prude was a little freaked out by what had
happened. Last out of the showers, the injured centre-back was still the
first of them out of the rooms, bag dragged over his shoulder and no
reply when Ben White called out `Goodbye, KT!'

Hmm. Well, that had been interesting. Tierney had caught his eye before,
obviously, being kinda his type - muscular, celtic, reserved - but he had
never quite expected any interplay with the repressed lad. When he'd
offered the massage, he hadn't intended to go quite so far with it, but
the poor dumb lad's big body had been screaming for it, he'd seen that;
Hector knew just the type of awkward straight boy, a tiny bit of ass-play
was all they needed to let off steam and reset their systems.

He smirked to himself and dismissed any notion of further intimacy with
Tierney, deciding he'd found the big lad's boundaries somewhere in that
oily fun, but enjoying that he'd given him such a messy release after
all. Still grinning over the images of it all, Bellerin did up his belt
and pulled a thin linen shirt over his t-shirt, then casually exited with
some swift goodbyes to the last players left - Ramsdale and White,
bickering privately in whispers.


Out in the car park of the training centre, Bellerin whistled to himself
as he moved towards his own compact sports car - he felt pretty relaxed
and released from the secret fun too, it had been great to get his hands
on a sexy Brit boy like that again, and push some boundaries! It had been
the first action he'd had since his sweaty reunion with Ramsey, after
all, and he had been rather downcast himself since discovering that his
Welsh hunk had signed a deal in the south of France after all, no
glorious Arsenal homecoming as briefly suspected.

The reunion fuck with Ramsey in his Spanish apartment had really set the
young romantic back on the process of moving on. Before that, he'd
really made progress with his expensive therapist, and begun to put that
hot affair behind him and look out for something new and HEALTHY, but
then... there Aaron had been, surprising him in another world, and their
bodies had interlocked that tense night in the Spanish summer.

So now he wasn't exactly back to `square one', but he WAS feeling
nostalgic and sad, and he needed bouts of light fun to get him moving
along; massaging a big dumb stud like Kieran wasn't exactly what he'd
had in mind in that department, and yet it had done the trick, and he was
about to drive home in a pretty good mood. He would cook himself a
solitary barbecue and do a little late-evening sunbathing in the garden
of his newly-rented townhouse, and maybe he wouldn't even need a
sleeping tablet to get his head down later on.

Bellerin let himself into his car and started up the engine, still
whistling a tune he couldn't name, and feeling lightened and rejuvenated
by the oily playtime and exercising of his handiwork. He manouvred out of
the emptying car park and paused only briefly at the security gates to
wave at the gaffer in the next lane, spotting Arteta making an early-ish
exit from the training camp - who was that in the passenger seat next to
him? Bellerin was only casually interested, really, tilting his head a
little and leaning to one side to confirm what his eyes had detected, but
then losing interest as he had to power up the car and get out onto the
main road behind them.

`Thought it was him,' the Spanish lad murmured distantly to himself,
unconcerned. After all, there was nothing too odd about seeing his
manager giving a lift to the club's new youth coach, was there? Why
shouldn't Arteta be sharing a ride with that returning club legend, a
former teammate of his own and someone he was clearly keen to keep
involved in the Arsenal family, even now he was retired... Ahead of him,
the manager's car turned in the opposite direction and sped away, Arteta
driving, and Jack Wilshere in the passenger seat next to him, and Hector
completely dismissed the sight from his mind as he steered to the right
and hit the road. No thoughts for the coaches, just chirpy whistling and
a brief mental image of Kieran's big bare bottom opening up to his
fingers - lovely.




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