Date: Fri, 5 Aug 2022 23:36:07 +0000 From: writer guy Subject: Premiership Lads, Part 304 Part 304: Dieciocho He woke before his alarm, as he often did, and pandiculated slowly against the soft squish of bedding around him, the usual tangled nest formed by his tossing and turning through the air conditioned Catalan night. It took a few moments of this light-headed wriggling before the young sportsman's eyes shot fully open and he had to reach out of the bed to grab his phone and confirm that it was the 5th August now, and with it, his 18th birthday. Pablo Martin Paez Gavira blinked his full lashes and pushed the mobile device away from him on the bedside table, crawling back into the cocoon of his bedding and shutting the milestone day away by closing his eyes and pulling the duvet all over him. He nestled in amongst his solo body heat and the light scent of his sweat and aftershave, deciding to push away the phoney adulthood of `18' for a few minutes more at least, unsure what today's `coming of age' really meant for him. He made a few quiet groans, unenthusiastic and uncertain, and then instinctively reached one hand down the smooth firmness of his abdomen to grab softly at himself in his pyjama shorts. The hand slid inside them to pull faintly at his sleepy cock and balls, not quite aroused but inevitably on its way to it, raging inside with teenage hormones. And just as the young Barcelona player began to stiffen and warm to his own half-conscious touch, there was a loud rap on the door of his big bedroom, and then the loud voices of his mother and at least one sister were exploding inwards, cawing out `Feliz Cumpleanos' at the top of their voices and advancing on the bed like a celebratory mob. As quickly as if stung, Pablo pulled the clammy hand out of his boxer shorts and wriggled about to face his intruders, grinning uncertainly at the happy birthday vocals and the sudden crowdedness of his bedroom. `Hey, hey,' the teenager protested groggily, adjusting the thick duvet to make sure his bulge was covered and nobody would guess he had just began touching himself. His mum was shrilly exalting him as a man and no longer a boy, whilst his younger sister was demanding that he get downstairs and opened her gift first - and all Gavi could think was how he wished they'd back off and give him some space to wake himself up and adjust to the daylight streaming into the room as his other sister raised the blinds. 18, he thought ambivalently, at last? Around his nest of bedding, the day was already bursting into celebratory life, and he wriggled away from it, bending his knees and hugging a spare pillow to his bare smooth chest. `Give me a minute,' he yawned grumpily at his family, blinking his eyes, and then flinching as he was loudly informed about the special breakfast waiting for him downstairs - a message that was suddenly interrupted by the chirps of his phone alarm, thrumming against the glass top of the bedside table and somehow rescuing him from this daybreak invasion. `I'll be down in a minute,' Gavi told them hoarsely. `I'll be down, just give me a minute to check what time I'm picked up for training, okay? Okay?!' At that reminder of his premature professional obligations, the well-wishing horde of his family withdrew from the bed and the room, exploding back out into the upstairs of their beach-front villa and in the direction of the kitchen below. Pablo picked up the smell of waffles and syrup on the air and felt suddenly guilt for his prickly reaction to the birthday wake-up - but also very conscious that the morning glory in his trunks was getting bigger and stiffer, and he was glad to be alone as he scrambled out of bed and searched for his baggiest jogging bottoms. `Pablo, come on!' squealed a young female voice from somewhere on the stairwell. `On my way,' the 18-year-old athlete called out awkwardly, tugging the bottoms up and willing his stiffy to subside in there before he had to jog on through the villa and tuck in to his traditional birthday breakfast... and after that, he thought with some wary hesitation, a full day of pre-season training with Barcelona. Pablo Gavira still loved his premature success for the iconic Spanish team, still far too young and fresh to be cynical or weary about the thrills of first-team football in one of Europe's most beloved clubs. Really, he should have woken up that August Friday with nothing but excitement and relish for going in: training was intensifying and there was only one match left, a trophy contest this weekend, before the La Liga season kicked off on the 13th and he would begin another campaign playing alongside numerous legends of the game. And all of this was true, still. Gavi WAS excited, he WAS proud, he WAS ambitious. But Barca life was... tainted. It wasn't hard for the birthday boy to pinpoint the problem, or the moment it had veered off-course, because it had been just earlier this summer, and that cool Australian night was vividly painted in his memory, as everything is in the highs and lows of teenage experience, the feelings and sensations of it splashed in neon on his mind. He thought about it as he stuffed his face with waffles and sipped milky coffee, sat on a high stool at the breakfast counter of his kitchen, surrounded by his smiling family members and readying himself for another potentially awkward day's work with the squad of older and more established footballers... Gavi could still picture the dated decor of the hotel suite, and the grey-green treetops that filled the view from its windows; he could picture himself, jet-lagged and giddy as he finished up the off-kilter video call to his parents and siblings... And he could also picture Pedri, serious-faced and tetchy on the other side of the room, searching through his case for the lucky neck-chain he'd seemingly forgot to pack for the club's short antipodean tour. They were both of them exhausted: this was their first time at the other side of the world, wiped out by the journey and the time difference, and bewildered by the darkness of swapping Spanish summer for Australian winter. And Gavi... was incredibly horny. He had been for much of the journey. It was a tough ask for a 17-year-old to go more than 24 hours without a wank, and he'd warily decided against airport and aeroplane toilets as unappealing locations for the activity. Besides, he'd known all through the two flights that a night in a hotel room with his best mate was waiting, and so... well, he'd `saved himself', and anticipated this exotic privacy. And here they were, just as he'd imagined. Pedri, giving up his search, stripped off for bed in a hurry, and Gavi bashfully watched him, sitting primly on the edge of his own bed as lights were switched off one at a time. `Good night, or good morning, or whatever,' the other central midfielder told him, stripped down to just long grey boxer briefs, before turning off the final light, a wall-mounted lamp in between their beds. Gavi had stayed on the edge of his own bed, nervous fingers gripping the edge of the mattress through the covers, and he'd let his eyes adjust to the dark as the gossamer outline of his undressed roomie climbed down into the bed and lay on top of the covers on his side, seeming to face this way. Before his eyes had adjusted enough to peer at his friend's face and try to make eye contact, the teen had climbed up and crossed the gap between them, folding himself down onto the other bed on top of the covers too - moving with furtive speed, after so many hours thinking about this inevitable communion. He'd slid his hand eagerly over to reach for those grey undies and their contents, wriggling his body closer on top of the sheets and holding his breath- And Pablo had done so with plenty of fair expectation. After all, the two previous incidents between the young teammates had not been in isolation. As the football season quickly closed, there had been three further secret interactions between the friends. Admittedly, Gavi had not gone so far to use his mouth like he had in those empty showers the second time, overwhelmed and guilty; the following three incidents had all been just with his hands, and on two out of three occasions, the favour had been quickly and quietly returned. Five times in total, then, the horny young lads had experimented and found mutual satisfaction in the dark of their hotel rooms, still not properly addressing it in daylight as the season closed and they went their separate ways for summer break... ...and so Gavi was not crazy for expecting a positive response to what he did that night in Sydney. He certainly didn't expect the vicelike grip around his wrist and the urgent pushing of Pedri's hand on his chest, muttering `Get off me' and demanding `What the fuck, bro?' Quickly and ashamedly, the 17-year-old had slid away and off the bed, rapidly and repeatedly hissing his apologies to his buddy: `Sorry, sorry... my bad, my bad... I dunno, I dunno...' Once they were safely in separate beds, he'd heard Pedri's loud breathing and dismissive mutter: `For god's sake, bro, keep your hands to yourself and be cool.' The bitter words played over and over in Gavi's head for the next sleepless couple of hours, and he turned his back on the other bed, his face burning red-hot with shame, and tears stinging at his eyes, lost as to what he'd done wrong, or what had changed over the weeks apart, but completely sure that he'd just ruined the most important friendship in his life. And that same friendship was on someone else's mind this morning in August: it was more than just friendly banter and team spirit on his mind as Pedro Gonzalez Lopez fussed at the decorations and candles on the birthday cake in the player canteen of the Barcelona training campus, laughed at gently by the handful of other senior players who had been involved in readying this birthday surprise for `Little Gavi'. Frowning his thick dark brows at the cake, the 19-year-old Tenerife lad muttered questions to himself and then turned agitatedly in different directions as he heard the jokey remarks: `Calm down, kid, it's only a cake...!' and `Look, he's going to be pleased with whatever we do, he's just a youngster after all.' Pedri ignored the hubbub and turned pleadingly to the catering manager on the other side of the cake tray, putting on his most polite and earnest expression and tone. `Do you think you could put a bit more icing and stuff on the bottom part?' the footballer asked stiffly. `And can we really not fit eighteen candles on the top, do you think...?' The kindly face of the middle-aged woman creased into a smile, the female staff of the football club always eager to mother and spoil such young talent as he and his best mate. Best mate? Former best mate? Pedri wasn't sure. It had been a difficult summer, and the 19-year-old Spaniard was far from oblivious to the growing tension and distance between himself and his younger ally. He knew he was overcompensating in his attention to today's little rituals, and he felt silly and useless, but he couldn't stop himself - at this point, weeks after the Australia rejection, Gavi was hardly acknowledging him in training, and hadn't even opened his last half dozen Whatsapp messages. Things were getting icy. `We'll see what we can do,' chuckled the catering lady, looking like she was just about holding herself back from reaching across to pinch one of his dimples - he backed away and was grabbed and jostled by the other players, whose interest in the friendly scheme was waning now that it was almost time for the training session to actually get started. Pedri was steered forcefully towards the exit and the prospect of the morning's opening meeting, the topic of their teammate's birthday put on hold until morning break... He hadn't meant to overreact quite so much that night in Sydney. Really, he'd meant to speak to his younger friend about it before it got to that. He'd been determined to do so when they all reconvened after the summer break, and he'd just put it off, failing to make use of several 1-to-1 opportunities in the build-up to the Australia flights, or during the never-ending journey itself. At the end of his summer break back on the island, Pedri had resolved that he would talk things through with his pal and clarify that it had to stop, that it was weird and dangerous... a conclusion that he'd stumbled to on the very last day of last season, pretty much out of nowhere. How had he ended up in that odd scenario...? Well, the two of them had just been the last guys changed after the game, he supposed because they'd been the ones invited up for press interviews, and the end-of-season questioning had taken even longer than usual. Even when the pair of them had got back into the changing rooms, the majority of the other Barca players were not just showered but dressed and leaving, and Pedri hadn't realised just how significantly delayed he and his partner had been by the sports journalists: he and Ferran Torres, the two big stars of that particular win. Gavi, of course, had been taking his time getting changed, and had immediately come over to Pedri when he stumbled into the locker-room in his sweaty kit and jacket; with his usual sweet loyalty, the other midfield player had offered to sit there and wait for him rather than heading through and travelling to the party with all the others... but Pedri, not wanting his friend to miss out on anything, had convinced him to just tag along and go start celebrating without him, even though Gavi was still too young to drink back then. And that had left Pedri and Torres, quite quickly, as the only players to shower. The only players peeling off their kits and clambering through into the communal shower blocks, steam rising from their firm muscles as they stepped under the water. Some muscles were firmer than others, of course - Pedri had been unable to stop himself noticing that, not for the first time, and mentally comparing his developing physique to the 6ft Valencian. It was a fruitless task, one he should have avoided... Ferran was built like a Greek or Roman God, and his sculpted form had been the focus of many envious/admiring jokes from the other men on the squad over the course of his first season back in Spain. The well-built forward was a ridiculous comparison point, even at 22, but his body was Pedri's ambition, a clear sculpture of what he was hoping to achieve in the gym over the next couple of years! Perhaps that was why he'd chosen to shower right beside his good friend, rather than keep a shy distance from him as the two of them showered that day, where summer escape was in the air, and everybody was switching into holiday mode after a hard-fought season's work... Perhaps that's why Pedri's usual reservedness and slight shyness weren't building a wall around him and he was casually soaping his lean 5ft9 body down next to his fitness idol, chatting over the season's highs and lows with the forward. And perhaps that's why he'd been so frank and unrestrained when things took a surprising turn. Ferran started it, definitely, spending a bit too long soaping up his privates, his hand fiddling around down there so much that Pedri could not help the occasional stray glance that broke all shower etiquette between teammates - it wasn't his fault though, the 22-year-old was being so casual and brazen as he began to play with himself and sigh loudly over his own touch, laughing when Pedri paused and raised his bushy brows. `Don't judge me,' the former Man City player had chuckled. `I just need to let one go before we go to this fucking party and smile for the cameras, y'know? My girlfriend is away.' And that was all the context he offered - the 6ft hunk stood under the hot blast of the shower and jerked his sizable prick with a few lingering moans and not much more conversation. Pedri had almost asked permission to `join', but he was trying more and more to be assertive, one of the real blokes of the squad, not just the child prodigy that he'd been seen as in his first couple of seasons. And so instead he'd just started to toy with his own dick, unable to process just how turned on he was by Ferran's company and showy masturbation - after all, he was interested in Torres only as a great friend and as a fitness role model, nothing else, right?! Without a thought for anyone who might come back to check on them, the two Spanish footballers had just wanked off at neighbouring showerheads, pulling on their cocks and sighing contentedly as their pleasure climbed and climbed - and then Pedri's mind had wandered off the straight and narrow, and again he wasn't sure this was his fault. It would never have occurred to him if it hadn't been for what he and Gavi accidentally spied from their sauna a few months ago, kick-starting their secret experiments. It was Pique's fault, if it was anyone's...! Regardless, the thought had entered Pedri's mind: maybe he was supposed to be offering a hand to the older football stud, or some kinda mutual wank was expected of him...? For that reason, he must have turned to the right, and stared for a moment too long at the intimate details of what big Ferran was up to, the movements of his soapy fist, the veiny thing it held... and this had been noticed by the 22-year-old, who hooted with laughter and reached over to slap his wet back. `What, were you hoping to give me a hand, brother?' roared the forward with obvious hilarity. Pedri couldn't remember what excuses or defence he had began to stammer at his friend, his own hard-on dying in almost immediate mortification. But he needn't have bothered. Torres had just continued laughing, making it clear his accusation was a joke. `Fuck,' the more experienced young player had announced, moments before finishing himself off and firing a messy load into the shower drains, `I've been around enough dodgy players to know that shit like that goes on. Disgusting,' he had asserted bluntly. `Totally gross. I mean, I am not homophobic, but I'm talking about guys with WIVES and FAMILIES, Lopez! It's insane what some guys let themselves get up to just because they're surrounded by men all the time in a team...!' He'd snorted with disgust and amusement and then dropped his voice conspiratorially. `There were all sorts of rumours in Manchester, let me tell you. The names I could drop. Ugh.' And that was that. Whatever open-mindedness or curiosity had been flowering in Pedro Lopez that spring and summer, whatever lines he'd begun to cross, were crushed in a single moment. He held Ferran in high esteem, and he was as eager to fit in and be normal as any 19-year-old. There and then, at the end of the season, he'd given up any thoughts of repeating the naughty actions he'd recently shared with Gavi, and gone into the summer with Torres' assessment taking over his mind: disgusting, weird, inappropriate. His rejection of his own brief dalliance was so complete that he didn't even pause to speculate on the City rumours that his friend had alluded to. Meanwhile, newly 18 Gavi was feeling the unique social discomfort that every human experiences when presented with lit candles and group singing. He did a better job this time off smiling and thanking them than he had with his own family in the morning. He was more awake now, and as desperate as ever to be accepted as one of the men at the club, though this did make the fuss seem a bit patronising. Every time an older player informed him that he was `finally a man', it made Pablo feel all the more young and alienated in the experienced company of the squad. None more so than the `old man' of the Barca stalwarts, who held a plate of cake in one hand as he passed by and grabbed the teenager in a sideways hug in the middle of the training pitch, planting an almost fatherly kiss on his temple as he did so. A surly frown twisted Gavi's showy smile and he twisted out of Gerard Pique's long powerful arm, glaring up at the 6ft4 legend who was last to wish him happy birthday in the rest break. Taking in his bitter expression and hostile posture, the giant centre-back just smiled at him and backed away, sticking more chocolate cake in his mouth and smearing some of it against his bearded face. Gavi scowled on at the most senior member of the Barcelona team, the one man he SHOULD be desperate to endear himself to in his quest to become a permanent first-team fixture here at his dream club. But old Pique knew exactly why he was annoyed to be hugged by him, and so did almost every nearby player who had watched that interaction, a frowning Pedri included. Seemingly a bit more oblivious to the private politics of it than other players, Ansu Fati tapped him on the elbow and leaned in close, speaking through a mouthful of cake. `So what time are these drinks tonight, birthday boy?' the young forward demanded excitedly, nudging him again. Gavi turned his frowning face to the 19-year-old and then tried to turn it back into a celebratory smile, and frowned. `They're cancelled,' he muttered awkwardly, his mood dropping. Then, glaring after Pique's tall outline, and glancing anxiously across at Pedri, he said it again more loudly so that others could hear his decision. `The drinks are off,' he said, trying not to sound too moody or bitter. `I'm just not in the mood, to be honest.' The first time spying on Pique had been a complete accident, Gavi remembered, and it had also been a shared experience with Pedri, giving it some amusement and comedy value as the months wore on. Plus, the pair of teen footballers hadn't REALLY seen it that first time, had they? All they'd seen had been silhouettes in frosted glass, and their hormonal imaginations had nervously filled in the gaps. The second time, though... Gavi had repeatedly questioned himself on why he didn't actually share the story with Pedri, given how intimate they had been becoming at the time. But for some reason he had kept it anxiously to himself, and then only a couple of days later, he'd been shoved roughly away in the Australian dark, and the possibility of confiding in his older friend had disappeared away. It had happened the day before the squad left for Sydney, during one of only two training days in Spain before the touring began. Gavi couldn't remember why he had been wandering around the training centre on his own, it was probably to do with all the kit photoshoots going on, and the media stuff. But for some reason, he'd been traipsing alone through the top floor of the main building, and he'd heard the familiar and not-so-familiar voices behind the doors of a particular gym. The door, only a couple of inches ajar, had a circular window in it, and the teen had crept close enough to jut his head up into this circle and peer through, and he had held himself carefully against the frame so that he could stay there for a full minute of curious voyeurism. This time he was not just watching silhouettes from the heat haze of a sauna: he was peering straight across a fitness suite at the unmistakable form of the team's 6ft4 defender, his shirt pulled up to his armpits to expose the long thick mass of his torso, and his tracksuit bottoms halfway down his hairy tree-trunk legs. And yep, it was the same lad on his knees, just as Gavi and Pedri had suspected that first time: Dutch midfielder Frenkie de Jong, his face red and sweaty as it pulled back and forward at the crotch of the centre-back king. But not just those two... in that long minute of observation, a shift in their bodies about the gym equipment had revealed a second tall figure stood over the busy cock-sucker. That had been the bit that shocked Gavi the most, given that the rest of the scene was just a more explicit peek at what he'd already overheard. Frenkie had been passed roughly from crotch to crotch, his head steered and pushed by one of Pique's big hands, and then that spiky blond hair had been grasped instead by the hand of... the club's brand new singing, striker Robert Lewandowski. For about fifteen more seconds, an aghast Gavi had stared awkwardly as de Jong was grabbed and spat down on by the two big men, the grizzled Barcelona legend of 35, and the 6ft Polish 33-year-old, whose contract ink had barely dried. `What the actual fuck?' the accidental spy had mouthed to himself, silently - or had it been silent? Had he made a noise? Had the floor or doorframe creaked a little then, as he hovered there, aware that he shouldn't be seeing any of this...? He wasn't clear on what sound he'd made, if any, but at that moment Gerard's head had twisted this way, looking towards the door, and the terrified teen had ducked and retreated at lightning speed, dashing back around the corner and away through the building on his own, praying that he'd not been noticed. If only it had just been those two times, Gavi thought now, getting back to work in the next stage of the training day. If only the sauna and the gym had been the only times he'd accidentally become witness to the secret action of Gerard Pique, a man whose posters had once decorated his bedroom wall. Fucking hell. He didn't really want to think about the third time, especially since almost everyone he worked with at Barca seemed to know about it, and someone had leaked it to the press. Some talented PR officer of the club had quickly squashed that `rumour', of course, but there were a lot of sayings about smoke and fire. The truth was that Gavi had come home that same day, just before the Australia tour began, with all sorts of fuzzy ideas in his head - maybe it was okay, after all, that he'd taken Pedri's cock in his mouth, if legends like Pique and Lewandowski were at it! - and walked through the house, the house he'd bought for his whole family with his first couple of paycheques, and grabbed a snack from the kitchen before cutting through into the downstairs games room, and- He'd never forget the sight of Gerard's back muscles and buttocks, jerking up and down against the pool table, and the distinctive voice of his own mother, squealing out `Harder!' and `Faster!' as she contributed to the breakdown of Shakira's marriage. Pedri had tried and failed to catch Gavi at lunchtime and again at the end of the training day; the most the two teens had shared all day was a quick `Happy birthday'/'Thanks' and a formal half-hug during the cake presentation; even when another player had effusively explained how the whole cake was Pedri's idea and organising, the 18-year-old had sidled away and busied himself with finding plates to share out the sugary treat with the other players. Pedri had just sighed and backed off, not wishing to spoil the moment or make anyone uncomfortable, even if he was quite hurt. Mainly for that reason, he'd not been in a position to hear Gavi's loud cancellation of the planned night out, and he didn't find out about it until he was at his locker at the end of the day, skipping a shower and packing up his things to drive home. He had been in a moment's reflection, thinking about how dull and quiet the drives to and from training were these days, since the car pool arrangements had been shuffled and he no longer picked up his best friend in the mornings. But Gavi's name had pricked his ears as a few of the others strolled by on their way to the showers, and he'd turned in their direction, immediately confused. `What did you say?' he called to them, hugging his arms across his front in the close-fitting training vest he'd been wearing all day. `Oh, you must know better than anyone,' muttered Martin Braithwaite, shirt off and towel over shoulder. `Is he always such a little grump, that one, or is it just because he's going to have to get a round of drinks in for the first time...?' There was a lot of laughter at this, and Pedri just ogled them confusedly. `What...?' `Why did he cancel anyway?' demanded one of the others, Nico Gonzalez. `He's been planning it for weeks, hasn't he? Never shut up about it all the time we were in the States!' `Yeah,' Braithwaite agreed, `and we were all looking forward to it too. Should we just go out without him, do you think? I wonder if he's cancelled the VIP floor at that bar.' Between the other two, a shirtless and tattoo-rich third player was quieter on the matter, but giving Pedri an inquisitive look now. `Do you know what's got to him?' asked Memphis Depay, fiddling with the waistband of his training shorts and the self-branded underpants beneath. The Dutchman tilted his head and stared curiously this way, and his presumption made Pedri feel oddly uncomfortable and exposed. `Is it you-know-who?' Depay probed further. `Is it still just that bullshit with his mom?' Pedri opened and closed his mouth and then just shrugged at his three shirtless teammates, backing away closer to the lockers and picking up his bag. `I really don't know,' he said slowly, unsure how aware anyone was of the chill that had developed between him and Gavi, and pretty sure he didn't want to be asked about THAT next. Both Gonzalez and Braithwaite had lost interest and were heading for the showers, grabbing at their towels and dropping their shorts, but Memphis Depay lingered, and Pedri found his look a little too knowing and pushy. For a moment, the 28-year-old forward looked about to ask him more questions, or express some opinion of his own on the cancellation of the 18th birthday party tonight... but then he just gave a worrying wink and moved on after the others, strutting his thickly muscled short frame and intricate tattoos across the locker-room. There were plenty of reasons for Pedri to feel bad about what had happened with Memphis, plenty. It was yet more man-on-man weirdness when he was pretty sure he was straight. It was more furtive difficulty with someone he had to play with every week, and needed to have a straightforward professional friendship with. And of course it felt like like a striking betrayal of his rejected buddy... Would have felt like a betrayal, he thought, even if the timing had been different. But given that it had taken place less than twenty-four hours after he shoved Gavi out of his bed and swore at him...! THAT was what really made the 19-year-old sweat guiltily as he turned away from Memphis in the changing rooms and grabbed up his kit bag in both arms, hurrying away and out into the car park. On that first full day of the Australia tour, Pedri had been just as groggy and light-headed as everyone else on the tour, but also possessed with a kind of manic cheerfulness that was allowing him to avoid confronting the sudden tension with his roommate and friend, and just buzzing from player to player as the Barca players were shown around a local stadium and readied for tomorrow's game against a prominent Aussie side. He'd done anything that day and night to end up alone with the lad he'd be sharing a hotel room with for the entire trip, from volunteering for every photo opportunity to faking a headache and missing out on the most exciting sightseeing that was arranged. And somehow, that had led to an evening walk back to the hotel with none other than Memphis Depay, the wannabe hip-hop star offering to escort him back and make sure he was okay, though he spent the entire journey showing Pedri videos of himself on his phone and explaining how he was going to develop his brand next. Pedri hadn't minded. He was a little awe-struck by the showy Dutch star, not for the same sporting credentials as some of the legends on their side - Pedri had played with Messi, after all - but because he was always overwhelmed by the level of celebrity and glamour that the 28-year-old seemed to pursue and revel in. Forgetting that he was supposed to have a headache, he'd comfortably humoured the narcissistic Dutch striker and taken a genuine interest in his business jargon and social media theorising. At the hotel, their conversation had continued over a soft drink in the bar, and somehow shifted into the health spa - specifically, into an outdoor hot tub overlooking the hotel's lush gardens and a distant view of the bay. By that Pedri had entirely forgotten his fake headache, so he must have looked puzzled when Memphis asked him if he was feeling any better - genuine concern all over the older man's handsome face. Pedri had caught up and regained his performance, explaining how the pain was coming and going and was probably just an after-effect of the long journey or something. `They work you too hard, kid,' the self-styled rapper informed him across the hot tub, spreading his thickly muscled arms at either side and dipping more of his stocky body into the frothing water. `Sure,' Pedri agreed distantly, thinking about the luxurious few weeks he had spent back among all his family and friends onTenerife. `The amount of games you've played at your age,' Memphis had exclaimed gruffly. `It not so many,' Pedri had answered clumsily. Depay's Spanish was limited at best, but so was the 19-year-old's English, which was probably why he'd allowed the conversation to be so entirely one-sided all the way back to the hotel, and even now as Depay quietly massaged his ego and talked about the stellar rise of his young career. `You need to make sure you're looked after, dude,' the Dutchman told him, before sliding around the circular seating of the hot tub and ending right beside him, oddly close at the left, giving him a tap and then a rub on one of his shoulders. Depay whistled then. `Someone is hitting the gym, huh?' `Haha, now and then,' was Pedri's bashful response, though he enjoyed the comment - like Torres, Depay was an impressively built guy, even without the height, and it was great when other men noticed how much the young midfielder was attempting to bulk up and strengthen in readiness for his 20s and his first World Cup. The compliments came thick and fast then, Depay chatting casually in his American English, and Pedri failing to grasp half of the idioms and adjectives that came his way. What he did understand, on a primal level, however, was the way Memphis kept touching his arm, his shoulder, his neck. Kept inching closer. Kept leaning in as he spoke and giving him that louche smile. Pedri dared to guess at it many minutes before it happened: the underwater hand on his thigh, and then when he said nothing, up the leg of his trunks. It was almost as if he was drunk - on compliments and chatter, on the time difference and jet lag, or on the complex emotions of what had gone on last night between the hotel beds. Pedri's frustration was manifesting as thwarted horny energy, the sense that last night his pride and worry had denied him a free handjob from his devoted sidekick, all because of a passing comment from Ferran Torres barely a month ago. So he just sat there in the hot, soothing bubbles of the hot tub, this end of the spa floor pretty much deserted but for them, and the angle of the terrace screening them from the muffled restaurant crowds in the garden below. And he stared at Memphis - not in disgust or disapproval, but in light-headed curiosity. Come to think of it, he'd never seen this superstar with a girlfriend, or heard of him attached to any women of interest, for all his international playboy persona. What secrets lay behind the bling and body ink? Less than twenty-four hours after shoving Gavi away from him, the young Barca star sat there, legs spread enough, with a strong hand inside his shorts, jerking his eager cock at speed, the hot tub bubbles hiding the frantic movement of that muscular brown arm. And in just a few minutes, Pedri was leaking his cum into the froth of the tub, a frustrated teenager who hadn't cum in days, leaning back and panting while the busy hand lifted out of the water and stroked up and down the back of his neck. Depay chuckled softly. `I just thought you needed a little treat, Lopez.' `Treat?' breathed Pedri, eyes closed and sweat mingling with the moisture on his chest and face. `I no understand that word.' The striker just laughed again and squeezed his shoulder. `You're too cute, kid.' And with a gentle splash, he dragged his muscled body up and out of the hot tub, and left Pedri alone, reclining into the hot fizz of the contaminated water, and slowly succumbing to the sensations of guilt and regret that would plague him for the rest of the tour, the rest of the summer. In Gavi's imagination and planning, he was currently supposed to be looking slick on the balcony of a famous Barcelona wine bar, posing for photographs with friends and teammates and live-streaming half of it to social media to show the world what a party boy he was going to be now he'd come of age. He was supposed to be getting legally drunk for the first time, in reality getting drunk for the first time full stop, since he'd always been such a sensible rule-following apprentice in the sport that defined his life. Instead... He was avoiding the annoyed questioning of his family, and spending the evening of his 18th birthday on the roof terrace of the villa, scrolling aimlessly through thirsty fan messages from girls on his social media app, and wondering how wrong it would be to reply to a few of them. He'd even had an argument of sorts with his mother, who guessed part of the source of friction for him at training, and had burst into weeping at the thought that her own misadventures had led to him cancelling his own party. So here he was on his own, changed into a pale khaki t-shirt and a loose pair of black shorts, stretched out on a lounger watching the sea, and staring at the DMs of international teen girls who were apparently in love with him like he was some boy-band vocalist. He made occasional bitter laughs at the desperate and sometimes x-rated messages, and scratched at the soft curls of his honey-coloured hair, shaking his head awkwardly and blocking some of the more intimidating messagers. He didn't hear the door open at the far end of the terrace, and he literally jumped when the sudden voice interrupted his egotistic reverie. `Hey, pal,' came the husky and hesitant murmur of his best friend, and Gavi twisted to the side to see Pedri standing a few yards away, holding a large shiny parcel in both hands. Gavi blinked and pouted and stared at this intrusion uncertainly, inwardly cursing his mother for allowing the visitor in against his ranting instructions about being alone, and then sending him up here unannounced. For fuck's sake. He bristled and fidgeted and turned off his phone, embarrassed for anyone, even his closest friend, to know what he'd been up to. Although, some petty corner of his brain voiced, maybe it would be good for this dickhead to know how many thirsty girls were after Pablo Gavira...! `Hey,' Pedri said again, and his throaty voice sounded less bright and optimistic this time, more resigned and mournful. It plucked at several heartstrings and made Gavi twitch awkwardly in his face and posture, before climbing out of the lounger and taking a confrontational step towards his visitor. `What?' the 18-year-old blurted. `Well, I think it's pretty obvious I'm here to give you a gift,' the slightly older Spanish player said, and this time with a kind of snappish impatience that made Gavi wilt and cringe, starting to reconsider his own moody antics. `Don't worry. I won't stay to watch you open it. I just thought, I thought - well, I thought somebody should check on you, since everyone else has just gone out partying without you, and nobody seems to care that you've locked yourself away here like an idiot, and and and-' `Oh, buddy,' Gavi whispered weakly, several weeks' resentment and frostiness thawing in seconds, and his whole body sagging in defeat. Just like that night in Sydney, he could feel embarrassing tears pricking at his eyes, and a fierce blush starting up in his round high cheeks. `Here,' Pedri said, snappy again, pushing the wrapped parcel into his hands. `It's those new boots you were after. I spoke to my agent and got the first pair in Europe. I had to offer to do a whole TV advert shoot just to make it happen.' He paused, while Gavi stared down at the box in his trembling hands. `And I got the right colour and everything,' Pedri was adding, a shaky quality entering his deep young voice. `And now I'll go, right?' Gavi didn't know what to say. He felt like a complete idiot, but he mostly felt small and silly and he kept thinking of the way he'd been pushed abruptly away just for climbing into bed with this lad who he knew so intimately. His mind wandered guiltily and ashamedly to another hotel bedroom, making the tears sting more and his whole body sag further in sudden misery. `Mi amigo...' `I'll go,' Pedri repeated, taking a step away from him, arms hanging at his sides, the black t-shirt clinging to his lean torso and the loose combat trousers swishing a little at the hidden power of his legs. Gavi took a step after him, clutching the box, and now Pedri stared at him with open worry and longing, and he tried to think of what to say to make things okay. But suddenly all he could think of was his own shameful behaviour since, and what Pedri might think of him if he knew... Many times over the pre-season weeks, Gavi had wondered if he had been seen at that gym door or not, though his curiosity about Pique's sex life had been more than a little dampened by the fact he'd also been fucking his mum, and was now famously embroiled in a messy divorce from his Latin popstar wife. If Gavi hadn't been so quick to blame himself, he might have thought about how vulnerable he'd been that night in Australia, so fresh after discovering Pique's adultery in his own household, and realised why he'd been so desperate to cling to his best friend and get physical comfort. But the teenager hadn't connected the two problems at all, and was mainly giving Pedri the cold shoulder because he was just so ashamed of his own neediness and deviance. He couldn't believe that accidentally spying on Frenkie de Jong had made him want to try a second go at sucking his friend's cock, couldn't believe that he'd been about to suggest that to Pedri as he sneaked across into his bed, only to be spurned and ridiculed. But the two problems DID connect, on a stuffy hot night in Miami, and flashbacks to it had crossed the teenager's mind before sleep every night since... probably contributing to the morning glory that he awkwardly resisted each morning out of shame, including on the morning of his 18th birthday. He pictured it now: the beach bar in the Floridian city, his own bored sobriety contrasting with the drunken cheer of everyone else, a big party thrown by their new sponsors, Spotify. How many Coca Colas was someone meant to politely drink in one evening in an effort to keep in with the beer and bourbon of his mature teammates...? And for every one he drank, he needed to empty his bladder twice! He saw himself pissing at the urinal and stifling a yawn, and wondering how early it would be okay to request a driver to take him back to their hotel so that he could watch a movie and fall to sleep. He saw, in his mind's eye, Gerard Pique walk into the small darkly decorated bathroom and take up position at the next urinal booth, a towering figure beside him, whistling as his jet-stream of urine tinkled against porcelain. He saw himself, turn and stare accusingly up at the bigger man, the homegrown legend of Barcelona; he couldn't, however, see or hear the details of their short sharp conversation. He couldn't, or wouldn't, remember the embarrassing snarky comments he'd thrown at his former hero, or the homophobic digs he'd tried to make about what he'd seen in the sauna and the gym, giving away his brief accidental voyeurism - he COULD remember the deep confident laugh of the 35-year-old centre-back, casually accepting this and asking him why he thought Frenkie de Jong was so desperate to turn down Manchester United and stay put, if not for the pleasure of being Pique's personal dick-cleaner? And then, like a montage in an adult movie, the memory skips, and Gavi can see himself on his knees in the toilet stall, panting and pouting, and he can see the big monster cock up close, not even hard yet as it hangs from the open trouser flies, and swings against his face. He sees himself almost in tears with frustration as he opens wide and tries to take it - he sees himself in de Jong's place, replacing that Dutch slut, and getting his lips around a cock just like he desperately did for Pedri in the showers. He sees Pique's leer down at him, and hears his mocking voice: `Is it too thick? Is this your first time?' And he tastes the cum that showers his face once he has to give up, unable to take Gerard in his mouth, unable to perform, and just a target for that messy load to splash and dribble on, tainting his lips and making him screw up his face in panic. Pedri stared into Gavi's shiny eyes and looked at his wobbling lips, and he lunged forward, unable to take the tension any more. He clasped his strong hands against Gavi's, holding the parcel with him tightly, their bodies close and separated only by the shoebox and wrapping paper, faces just inches apart. `I'm sorry,' he hissed, at last - why had this apology taken him so long? `I'm sorry, buddy, I'm so sorry. I was horrible to you and I don't even know why. I've wanted to make things okay for so long.' `You did?' the birthday boy mumbled at him, loosening his grip on the box, which fell loudly between them, against their feet, against Gavi's bare feet and Pedri's scruffy trainers. He ignored it, and grabbed the other 5ft8 teen by the shoulders, pulling him in close, so close that for a dangerous moment he wondered if he ought to kiss him - but no, that was a bit extreme, wasn't it? `Please,' he whispered, `will you forgive me? I didn't meant to be such a cunt to you in Australia, it just happened. I was tired and stressed and - God, you'd been through so much that week, I didn't even know - you wouldn't tell me! Why didn't you tell me how upset you were, about what what you'd found out? I heard it in the tabloids and from everyone else giggling at breakfast. Fuck!' `I couldn't,' Gavi muttered, tears welling up. `You can tell me ANYTHING,' Lopez growled insistently, shaking him and pulling him even closer. He wrapped his arms about him and held his head to his shoulder, their warm bodies colliding. Their voices had been sharp whispers, but he still felt self-conscious - what if Gavi's mum was listening at the door or below, or someone was watching them from the garden? He backed away, and nodded fiercely indoors. `Can we go to your room?' he asked, and he heard how pushy and loaded the demand was - he didn't care. It was suddenly what he wanted. The bedroom. Gavi was picking up the shoebox and trembling, but he nodded. `Come on.' Fortunately, they did not bump into any of the Gavira family on the stairs or the landing, and could disappear through into the biggest en suite bedroom of the airy villa, the one that the young owner had claimed for himself whilst spoiling his single mother and younger sisters with the proud purchase. Inside it, he dropped the parcel by the bed and stood there looking embarrassed, whilst Pedri moved decisively to the windows and pulled down the blinds one at a time, before marching back to his friend and holding him by the upper arms. He'd only come here to apologise, to make things right, but now that was taking a more specific form, and he had a different gift to give his best friend. One hand still gripping a lean bicep, the other reached down, and through those black chino shorts, he squeezed the meat between those strong thighs, enjoying the surprise and delight on the other lad's face. `You want this?' he asked breathily. `You forgive me?' Gavi nodded his head urgently, falling forward into his hold and grabbing at his waist with both hands. `Yes,' he mumbled eagerly, `oh yes.' Pedri squeezed his dick through his shorts and realised how close their faces were. Again, there it was, that urge to- Friends didn't kiss, not like the kiss in his head right now. If he did that, then- Whilst the majority of his young brain prepared to tumble on and overthink it, some primal and powerful part of him smashed that aside. He planted his lips there and kissed the boy fiercely, rubbing his crotch as he did, and letting his own dark stubble tickle at the smooth softness of Gavi's chin and cheek. After a minute, their mouths pulled apart, both gasping, and Pedri stared into Gavi's wide eyes of innocence. He recovered from his own stunned quiet and was taken over by lust, grasping his friend's hand and pushing it against the front of his combat pants, where his dick was as hard as rock. Gavi felt breathless and wild, and he fell back against the bed, pinned beneath the thicker body of his bulking teammate. His mouth had gone all dry and he still couldn't believe he'd just been kissed like that by another boy. But his main focus was rubbing the thick outline in Pedri's trousers, and slipping his under hand under the black t-shirt, rubbing it up the developing six-pack and tickling against the blossoming chest hair he found. Pedri now was kissing his neck at the side, snogging him there quite aggressively, making him tingle and let out a whimper of desire. But then Pedri was backing away, up onto his knees, straddling him at the waist, and pulling that t-shirt up and off. Gavi grabbed for his body, rubbing at his sides, admiring the slow build-up of muscle that the gym work created. And then he was grasping for the waist of those cargo pants, and helping him out of them, rolling onto his side as their bodies tumbled. He pushed down at his own shorts and lifted his arms as Pedri now dragged his t-shirt off too, casting them over the side of the bed. `Does the door lock?' hissed the other young footballer, and the question briefly puzzled him; doors? Locks? But then he understood and he leapt off the bed, his shorts about his ankles and his white CKs tenting around his erection. Trying not to stomp too much, he made for the door and clicked the lock, and then turned around. On his bed, Pedri was sliding his pants, the same long grey trunks he'd worn in Australia, down the dark fluff of his thighs, and letting out his big vivid cock. He stared this way and nodded firmly. Gavi, breathless, rushed back onto the bed and took it in his hand, then leaned in eagerly for more kisses - Pedri was suddenly reserved on that front, steering his face away, yet rubbing and grabbing at his shoulders and scratching at his soft hair. One of his hands closed about the back of Gavi's head, and he understood what he was being shown. He licked his lips and plunged down, and took that big Spanish cock into his mouth, opening as wide as he could and trying not to gag as it filled him. `Ohhhhh,' came Pedri's groan. Gavi loved it, the sound of his friend's pleasure, knowing he had sparked it. He tried harder than before, less confused or worried - he slid his tongue up and down the bottom of the shaft and then curled it against the red head, grasping at the hairy thighs on either side and staring hungrily up to meet Pedri's dark intense eyes. The hand remained on his head, guiding him up and down in bobbing motions, quite pushy and controlling, but not unwelcome. He was excited by the urgency and ferocity of his quiet friend, thrilled by what he'd somehow unlocked in him - and loving the size of the thing that kept making him choke and splutter, aware that it was somehow more manageable than what you-know-who had slapped in his face in Miami. He banished that from his mind, knowing he would need to confess it to Pedri somehow, and just focusing on the present. He took a rest from the sucking, exhausted, and Pedri seemed happy with this, guiding his hand onto it and showing him how to pump up and down on the shaft, as if he hadn't done so five times already. And Pedri's hand came reaching for his cock too, pulling it out of his white CKs and making things mutual. Gavi stopped him, only because he felt like he would cum in seconds if he didn't, and he went back down on him, spitting against the big brutish sword and then taking as much as he could into his mouth, disappointed when he realised that was barely half of it. Pedri piled on top of him, rolling their naked bodies again, and coming in to kiss him, but not on the lips now, just the neck again, snogging him there so hard that there would be a bruise in the morning. And as he did, he reached for Gavi's cock, ignoring his protests, and pulled on it once, twice, thrice - `Fuckkkkk,' the 18-year-old gasped, spunking heavily against that hairy forearm and all over his own lightly tanned thighs. He convulsed and shuddered, unsure how long it had been since he blew a load, so full of shame and angst after Australia and America. He twisted his head in Pedri's direction and said it before he could stop himself, drunk on orgasm and still leaking cum from the tip of his thick inexperienced cock. `I love you,' he gasped, and heard the three dangerous words fill the room. Pedri stared back at him in a way that seemed briefly frozen, impassive, but still intense - whatever his reaction was to that violent claim, it was hidden from Gavi, who instantly felt horror at his own loose lips. But before he could second-guess his outburst or take it back, those lips were put to work; Pedri was pushing his face down and guiding his cock in against his tongue, choking him on it and thrusting upwards. In seconds, Gavi was tasting him again, like he'd done in the dripping stadium showers when things got out of hand before. That salty flavour filled his mouth and he focused only on its taste, rather than thinking about what he'd said. What he felt. The 19-year-old growled like an animal as he emptied his balls, holding Gavi's face down there in his crotch for long uncomfortable moments, then releaisng him and collapsing fully backwards, sucking in deep breaths and staring at the ceiling. Gavi rolled aside, shaking, and wiped his dirty mouth on the back of one arm. One of Pedri's arms came towards him, and he was confused why, until his friend began smearing it over his face, rubbing his own cum onto his cheek and mouth too. He said nothing as he did it and didn't look this way, and Gavi didn't really know what he meant. The pair of them lay in silence other than their heavy breathing. It took Gavi a few moments to realise that he was hearing a muffled voice from elsewhere in the house, and as soon as the female voice clarified and registered, he felt a tremor of panic. He glanced at Pedri, who looked worried but exhausted, and then Gavi hopped from the bed again, moving to the locked door and resting against it, conscious of his naked back and ass on show to the boy on the bed. Gavi shouted through the door, the call of the teenager: `WHAT DO YOU WANT?' The muffled cry from below sounded again. `DOES PEDRI WANT SOME DINNER?' Gavi stood there, resting his body and his face against the wood of the door, and then he glanced weakly over his shoulder. Pedri was staring at him with lazy eyes and a sheen of sweat on his chest and legs, his big cock sagging and lazing against one furry thigh, leaving a little shiny slick there. `Er... do you wanna stay for dinner?' Pablo asked his best friend. Pedri just nodded, slowly. Gavi staggered from door to bed, and found his white underpants at his feet, tugging them on quickly, self-conscious of his trembling spent cock and the shaggy bush of his dark brown pubes. `I love you', he thought, for fuck's sake; there were surely a dozen things he could say now to break the tension and undo that silly saying. He could laugh it off and wipe away the awkwardness. But he didn't want to. He didn't even care if he'd freaked out or offended the other youth - it was the truth, right? So the Barcelona boys dressed in silence, Pedri just staring out of the window as he peeled on his t-shirt and pants and found some hand sanitiser to wipe the cum stain on his arm. Gavi watched him nervously, pulling a baggy hoody on instead of the khaki t-shirt, and longer trousers because his shorts didn't feel enough to subdue the lingering swell of his excited cock and balls, even after shooting. If Pedri had said so, he would have been up for more immediately, he knew, felt like he could have got down on his knees and sucked life back into the Tenerife beast. But instead, he unlocked the door and sat down on a chair to unwrap the boot box, and shouted abstractedly downstairs, informing his mom that yes, his best friend was going to stick around for dinner with them. '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