Date: Sun, 14 Aug 2022 18:14:06 +0000
From: writer guy <premiershiplads@outlook.com>
Subject: Premiership Lads Part 305

Part 305: Up-and-Cumming


Troy whizzed the short distance on the motorway before turning his BMW in
at the junction for Blackburn, resisting the urge to keep up a wilder
speed as he entered the suburbs of the Lancashire town; his eyes flicked
back and forth to the satnav instructions on the dashboard screen, unsure
of his journey and impatient to be off the road. He rolled through close
to the town centre, vaguely unimpressed by the ordinary northern town,
and then squinting again at the online map and its vivid green cursor
taking him out the far side of Blackburn and into another set of slow
quiet suburbs.

It had been such a short drive. He'd known that, vaguely, though it
hadn't registered until tonight's journey that the distance between
their new towns was quite so slim; the north west of England was a vague
blur to the 20-year-old footballer, though he looked forward to having
close access to Manchester and Liverpool, big cool cities that were
iconic in his sport. So far, his own new hometown of Preston wasn't
quite living up to those images of the region, and this other footballing
town didn't look like it had much more than kebab shops and run-down
pubs either.

Officially, Parrott was here to celebrate the other lad's achievement,
but he was still buzzing from his own, and his generalised disappointment
with small-town Lancashire was tempered with an overriding optimism about
the near future. It's not that the Irish player's resilience or
ambition wasn't being strained - this was, after all, the fourth loan
spell in a row for the young striker, farmed out to yet another lesser
club by Tottenham Hotspur. But if the North London side had anything, it
had world-class forwards, and Troy had learned to accept that the club
wasn't ready to make use of him, but just wanted him to become more
mature and experienced. Millwall, Ipswich, Milton Keynes, and now Preston
North End - the talented young striker was trying to see the positives in
each mediocre new setting, and his performance just last night was
helping him to do so. In the opening 6 minutes, he'd netted the first of
four goals for PNE, launching their EFL Cup win over Huddersfield and
setting himself up as a significant new weapon for the Championship side,
one of the longest-established teams in English football.

But that was yesterday, and this was today: Troy's intense looks moved
from the computerised screen to the street signs that glared under the
beams of his headlights, trying to make sure he was on the right cul de
sac. He couldn't help but grin to himself at the memory of last night's
goal, and had been much the same all through the day's late training
work, toasted and celebrated by his teammates as the thing that would
take them towards Premiership promotion.

He paused the car at yet another junction, craning his neck to see its
name, and then taking the left turn on the quiet road; it was still
relatively bright with summer sun despite the late evening time, and he
had the air-con on full blast against the lingering heat. He cruised his
BMW down the curving road, counting down the buildings, and then finally
spotting the higher-rising block on the right that must be the right
apartments - angling his vehicle gently into its forecourt of parking and
prodding eagerly at buttons to shut down the navigation and background
music of his journey before undoing his belt and climbing out of the car.
He was just unlocking and leaning into the back to grab his overnight bag
when he heard footsteps crunch on gravel and then his own voice called
eagerly across the warm air: `Troy mate, nice one!'

Parrott briefly abandoned his luggage and turned his confident grin
towards the approaching voice, pulling himself up to his full 6ft2 height
as he opened his arms and greeted the other 20-year-old warmly. `Dilan
dawg,' he wheezed happily, instantly grabbing the other young footballer
in a tight manly hug and then quickly releasing him to pat him on the arm
and give him a brisk nod. `This the new digs, then? Looks decent.'

The other lad was still in his Rovers tracksuit, seeming breathless and
hurried, clearly just back home to the suburban apartment block after his
own night of Cup triumph. Troy pulled away from him, still grinning
gladly, and dragged his backpack out of the back of the car before
shoving the door shut with a satisfying click. `Great to see you, man,'
the Irishman exclaimed firmly, swinging the bag over one shoulder and
looking his friend up and down. `But,' he said with mock sternness,
`how come you're greeting me without a beer in hand, you prick?'

Immediately, his fellow Tottenham academy graduate was bursting into
matey laughter and telling him to go fuck himself, establishing the easy
banter that the pair had enjoyed for several years. Troy laughed and
grabbed at his friend with another hug as they crossed the small car
park, trying and failing to dislodge the stocky forward from his feet,
two cheerful young talents bustling and barging their way to the
building's entrance.


Dilan Kumar Markanday emerged from the one bedroom of the top-floor flat,
doing up the last couple of buttons of a simple print resort shirt,
pausing to glance critically at himself in a mirror before joining his
guest in the living room - they had the second half of the Super Cup on,
and Real Madrid were already 1 up against Eintracht Frankfurt. Troy was
lounged comfortably on the grey leather sofa, slugging from a tall can of
Guinness, and shouting criticisms at the sportsmen on the huge screen.
Dilan's massive TV had been one of his rushed first purchases in the new
flat, a disproportionately large one that made the living room feel pokey
and awkward.

`Still 1-0?' the 20-year-old Blackburn Rover called to his friend,
crossing the room to fuss through a laundry stack on a chair in search of
fresh socks.

`Aye,' drawled the Dublin brogue of his visiting pal, `but Madrid have
wasted SO many opportunities, the feckers.'

Markanday chuckled a little at the scoreline, stepping up behind the sofa
as he unfurled a pair of plain black socks in his hands. `So much for
Super Cup. Boring game. The Helsinki crowd will wish they were at the EFL
Cup tonight instead, haha.' Both lads laughed happily at this, and Dilan
moved around to sit on the arm of the sofa as he pulled one sock and then
the other onto his large hairy feet.

Like Preston North End, the Rovers had just sailed through the first
round of the EFL Cup, and Dilan was feeling pretty delighted with himself
for bagging his side's fourth goal over Hartlepool - sure, the 3-0 game
was already a safe win by the last quarter, but it had marked Dilan's
first adult professional goal, and felt like a move that would buy him
more regular starts in the Championship season, rather than bench time in
his first year. Obviously the North London youth was not quite full of
himself enough to mock the likes of Madrid and Frankfurt on the screen,
but he was giddy at the club's big win, and very glad to be celebrating
it tonight with one of his closest footballing friends.

He'd been suggesting a meet-up with Parrott for the last couple of
weeks, basically since the other player's loan deal at Preston had been
confirmed, and he was glad they'd finally managed to sort something;
he'd hoped his buddy might make it across for the game itself, but a
late finish to training had put paid to that. Still, Troy was here
visiting, and they were watching what remained of the Super Cup together
before heading out.

He looked around for his own drink and found he needed a fresh one,
nipping through into the small thin kitchen of the flat to raid the
fridge. He was just cracking open a fresh Guinness for his mate, from the
big multi-pack he'd bought in especially, and flipping the lid from a
lager bottle for himself, when a roar of excitement summoned him back to
the living room. `Fucking Benzema,' cooed Troy from the sofa, his long
lounged posture now swapped for tense uprightness. `That man is
INEVITABLE.'

`2-0? Fuck's sake, I've missed BOTH goals. Here, thought you might
need a fresh one.'

`Cheers Dil. Come on, here's the replay. Stunner.'

Markanday muscled himself down onto the grey leather beside his friend,
slurping from his second beer of the night and fixing his eyes on the
screen to catch a slow-motion repeat of the French player's decisive
goal. Both attacking players nodded and sighed appreciatively, fully
impressed by one of the world's leading strikers. `That man is a
monster at the minute,' Dilan grunted admiringly. `Fucking unstoppable.
I was reading about how it's all since Ronaldo left, y'know, that he
really had to change up his style and that's how he started to properly
come into his own.' He tore his eyes away from the screen as play
re-started, leaning over to clink his bottle lightly against the other
lad's can. `To Championship goal machines,' he chuckled eagerly.

`Too right,' the other young player agreed, giving him a bright grin.
`Setting the league on fire, us two. Fuck Benzema, I'm so made up for
you man, that goal tonight. I was watching a video of it on my phone
while you were getting changed. Quality.'

Dilan felt oddly surprised and touched that his mate would bother to look
up a clip, and his smile was as coyly emotional as it was beaming with
pride. He shrugged bashfully and drank more beer, trying to laugh off the
sincerity of the praise. `I just finished what the other guys started,'
he said dismissively, turning back to the screen.

`Nah, bro, that was sick,' Troy continued forcefully. `People better
sit up and pay attention to my boy Kumar! I reckon there'll be some
regrets back in Tottenham, you know...!'

Dilan laughed at this remark but it touched a nerve for him, and he
shifted a little uncomfortably on the couch beside his visitor. After
all, it was the big separation between the two of them: yes, they were
both in the Championship for now, but he'd been fully sold off by Spurs
last summer for a minimal price, whilst Parrott was retained on their
books and loaned out repeatedly. After working his way up every rank of
the London club's academy and youth squads, Dilan couldn't help but
feel somewhat spurned by the Hotspurs, and Rovers were hardly his dream
football club, as much as he'd tried to commit himself to their
promotion-chasing campaigns.

`Well, I doubt THAT,' Markanday mumbled distractedly.

He glanced at Parrott and saw a hint of regret on the Irish lad's
handsome features at having even brought up the matter, something they'd
never quite explicitly discussed - as close as the two young lads were,
they tended to focus on bigging each other up and half-jokily boasting
about their dream careers in future, rather than ever sharing the obvious
worries and insecurities of up-and-coming talents on the edge of success.
And in recent years, the divergence between them had felt more obvious,
with Troy now a safe fixture in his senior national squad, whereas Dilan
felt lucky to get a touch of Under-21 action for England. And, crucially,
Tottenham wanted to keep their hold on the Irish forward, but had been
happy to sever ties with HIM.

`Seriously,' murmured Troy, his attention back on the game, `I won't
be surprised if Benzema gets another before this game closes, yeh.'

Dilan was happy to quit thinking about his own trajectory and just focus
on the ceremonial game, the play-off between Champions League and Europa
winners that always marked the return of the competitive seasons. He
trained his eyes on the action and quietly agreed with Troy's
observation. He was mildly distracted by a nagging thought about how
messy and cluttered the flat was tonight, making its boxy rooms feel even
smaller - he'd tried his best to sound proud and satisfied as he gave
Troy `the tour' and talked him through the small pad that he'd
invested in, having put most of his money into a new outer London place
for his family. But he couldn't hide the soulless bachelor gloom of the
little place, nor the scruffy chaos it was falling further and further
into. Still, Troy would hardly care, he was a slob himself when allowed
to be, and the lads knew this of each other - after all, Dilan's own
family had hosted the Irish transplant for a couple of years before he
turned 18 and was allowed by the club to live independently.

`Heh, maybe not,' Parrott was saying now. `I reckon 2-0 is as exciting
as we're getting.' A knowing grin and wink again: `Not like the 4-0
victories some Championship teams are having this week, haha.'

`Yeah, the game feels finished,' he agreed. Two beers in and he already
felt a buzz, probably helped along by the mix of adrenaline and
exhaustion that he felt after the early evening win at Blackburn's home
ground. He suppressed a yawn, thinking how rude it would be to appear
tired when his friend had made the effort to travel here on a week night
and share some cheeky beers against both lads' squad rules.

`He's just a fucking king at the minute,' Troy was murmuring
wistfully, clearly imagining himself reaching the same
Ronaldo-and-Messi-esque heights as the Madrid hero, being such a dynamic
forward and game-changing influence.

`He's in his prime,' Dilan said vaguely, no less impressed or envious,
but starting to lose interest in the Super Cup game - after all, it felt
worlds away from his own footballing life at the moment, and he just
needed to focus on that. Never mind getting all starry-eyed with future
images of the Champions League and such, like Troy here, he needed to
stay focused on building his profile in the second tier and catching the
eye of a mid-table Premiership force who might snap him up this time next
year. Tonight, he thought gladly, had been a great moment for that, and
perhaps a few scouts and coaches were already starting to turn his name
over in their thoughts.

`You can just tell he's in charge though,' the Irish lad said
thoughtfully.

`Well, he is captain now.'

`Nah, more than that, you know?'

Dilan shrugged, unsure what his friend was getting at. The game was
dragging slowly into its last ten minutes or so and his beer was empty
again. He got up, adjusting his slim-fit black jeans and wondering where
his nice shoes were in the mess of the flat. Troy belched loudly before
hoisting an empty can his way as signal for another.

`I mean, he is definitely getting head after that performance, haha,'
Troy was saying when he came back with two new drinks, and Dilan laughed
heartily at this. He sat on the broad arm of the sofa again, since his
guest had sprawled out comfortably, his tall physique spanning the couch
and his socked feet poking against Dilan's own thigh. `For sure,'
Parrott chuckled, taking his third Guiness and giving it a slow sip.

`From some Icelandic hottie?' Dilan sniggered, the two lads slipping
into the hopeful boyish banter of their teenage years housed together and
graduating from the Tottenham youth academy.

A gruff laugh from lounging Troy. `Huh. If not from one of his
teammates.' Dilan cracked up at this stupid idea, though he paused a
little uncertainly when the other young lad carried on in a thoughtful
voice, frowning analytically at the screen: `My money would be on
Valverde or Asensio, y'know.' Almost immediately, Parrott was upright
and barking at the screen, the Madrid players failing to make a third
goal seal their win, but Markanday just sat quietly on the side of his
own sofa, blinking his thickly lashed eyes.

He fixed Troy with an almost mocking look. `You don't seriously think
Real Madrid players are rushing off the pitch to decide who's gonna blow
who's stupid cock, do you?' he retorted, both alarmed and amused by
Troy's level of thought into the random comment, and his almost smug
expression as he turned back to face him.

`You make it sound like some shit 90s sex comedy,' Troy teased.

`Oh fuck off,' Dilan laughed, unsure why he'd latched so firmly onto
the passing comment anyway, shaking his head and slugging his beer,
looking back at the closing minutes of the Madrid game. `I just forget
how bloody random you are, mate, with your stupid jokes and obsession
with sex.'

`Obsession!' yelped Troy, playfully defensive.

Dilan already regretted that word and he laughed at both of them. `Oh,
whatever...'

`We were BOTH pretty obsessed, the way I remember it...'

`We were sixteen-year-old virgins, of course we were.'

`Yeah and at least you finally can't still call yourself that, ha ha!'

`Oh leave it out, it's been ages now, no need to-'

`I'm not making fun of you, just celebrating that my boy Dil finally
lost his-'

`You make me sound ridiculous,' he blurted back, but he laughed anyway,
and met Troy's joky toast with his own bottle before getting up off the
edge of the sofa and pacing the flat looking for his trainers. Nineteen
isn't even that young, he wanted to argue back to his more confident
buddy, but he wanted to drop the subject - he knew Troy meant no harm,
but the other young footballer was the only friend he'd admitted it to
in those awkward sexless  years before he finally experienced it. A time
of such silly desperation that he even remembered wanking with a sleeve
toy he'd found on the floor in the Spurs changing room, for fuck's
sake! To this day, he didn't know who that rubbery thing had belonged
to, or why he'd been so daft as to use it on himself in a lonely shower
cubicle, all horned up and clueless at eighteen.

He found a decent pair of shoes in a corner of the large bedroom and
moved back out into the hall, where Troy was emerging from the living
room, and behind him came the crowd noises of the football game ending.
`It's a sweet place,' the visitor said conversationally, glancing
neutrally about him at the confines of the flat, and Dilan nodded with
forced enthusiasm, gesturing between rooms. `I think it was a good
investment,' he claimed, moving through into the living room and
snatching up a little aftershave spray where it sat among the other
random detritus of his little-used dining table. `Really starting to
settle in,' he said, looking at the mess of possessions in front of him,
all random and disorganised and suggesting a young man who hadn't a clue
how to live like an adult.

`Still, no place like home,' Troy remarked ambiguously, giving him an
awkwardly polite smile.

`I'm stuck in sharing with a couple of Preston youth players myself,
since I had to get moved up here in a bit of a hurry.' He shrugged,
hugging his arms across the chest of his black Gucci t-shirt, and moving
away to watch the trophy ceremony on screen.

Dilan joined him, spraying himself about the neck and chest before
offering the stuff to his friend, who took it gladly. Dilan glanced back
to the huge TV and the sight of the celebrating Madrid players. Benzema,
the burly bearded beast of the winning European side, was holding up
another trophy and standing at the centre of the jubilant blokes. To
either side of him were the players Troy had named, annoyingly, the South
American Valverde and Spanish Asensio. Dilan heard himself about bring it
back up and ask the question, `You don't REALLY think that...?' but he
was spoken over and quieted by Troy's eager exclamation: `Right, time
to head out and taste a bit of Blackburn! Where we headed, chief?'


The first bar the pair went to was a failure, and Troy had to just smile
and laugh it off, quickly able to see how embarrassed his keen host was.
`It's way busier on a Saturday night,' the Londoner was still telling
him as they entered the second of the two venues a short walk from
Dilan's suburb. This one was a bit less classy and expensive-looking
than the first, which seemed to make the British Asian lad a bit
uncomfortable at being recognised by fans, but Troy dismissed that and
told him that if punters recognised him they'd just be gagging to buy
him a pint for his superb goal. `It's all white in here,' the
marginally older 20-year-old told him quietly on the way to the bar, `so
one young Asian lad looks the same as the next to them, I don't need to
worry.' Troy laughed at the comment but found it to be true, as the pair
of them got a round in undisturbed and made themselves at home by a quiz
machine, feeding it coins and failing spectacularly to win any back - it
felt like a real ordinary lads' night to him, a bit like being back in
outer Dublin, and he was glad to spend it with someone who'd been so
kind and loyal to him in the early days of his English life.

Though confident and charismatic, the Irish striker was also quite
intuitive, and he could tell that Dilan's mood was falling - Troy
wasn't sure if it was the shoebox flat he'd spent too much money on, or
the old ghost of being let go by Spurs, but his wingman just wasn't
buzzing enough for someone who had scored in a cup game just a few hours
ago. Troy's answer to this was the same as most 20-year-old lads' lads
might be: jagerbombs, and lots of them.

It wasn't long before he was back on the topic of his friend's love
life, or more accurately his sex life - he wasn't about to loudly
announce to the half-crowded Blackburn bar that his good-looking
footballer buddy had been a virgin until late last summer, but he was
trying to hype him up. `That short trim makes you look way more
sophisticated,' he informed him, slurring a little bit as he lost count
of his drinks, `and the beard. Girls are into that these days-' He
stroked his own chin of dark tuft - `and I'm sure the bitches of
Blackburn will be calling you Daddy after tonight's goal.'

`Girls don't care about a goal,' Dilan tittered back at him, sipping
cider.

`Whoa, calm down there, sexist,' he teased him. `You must have your
eyes on someone at the minute, who have you been chatting to this
summer?'

`Nobody,' the 5ft10 Londoner protested, and Troy just scoffed loudly at
him. `You got to put some graft in, matey, you really do,' he informed
him earnestly. `Not slipping into anyone's DMs or hooking up with any
girls you bumped into on your Ibiza trip...? Criminal. Tell me you got
some action in Ibiza, Dil, tell me!' He laughed heartily but then saw
the other lad's creased face and he paused awkwardly, feeling that he
was starting to veer from hyping up his friend to just rubbing salt into
his wound. `Ah, come on mate, don't look glum, you're a fucking Rovers
hero tonight,' he insisted at him, a bit annoyed that nobody in the bar
had recognised his friend and given him that validation - ungrateful
twats.

Troy's focus shifted, their rambling matey conversations not seeming to
do the magic - the tall handsome Irishman scanned the pub around them for
the younger and more attractive female clientele, deciding that some
field action was what was REALLY needed to encourage and motivate his
inexplicably shy pal. Dil had always been like this, he thought, which
was weird cos he was a good looking guy and seriously buff, but he'd
never had the gift of the gab or much talent when it came to chatting up
girls. Troy drank from his vodka mix and looked contemplatively around
them.

`I just can't pick them up like you do,' Markanday said next to him,
sounding almost resentful. The shorter footballer had his broad shoulders
hunched within his pale summer shirt, leaning back against the wall as if
literally trying to shrink into it rather than standing out. Parrott
frowned at this, stood tall next to him with his garishly printed
designer t-shirt on and some severely ripped dark blue jeans clinging to
his long powerful legs. `Everybody knows how popular YOU are with the
ladies,' his friend grumbled vaguely.

Troy just laughed that off. `Now and then - buddy, I'm not exactly
Casanova or nothing.'

`Right,' challenged Dilan quietly, `you've been living and training
in Preston for a few weeks now, right? Tell me you've been chilling up
there and you've not already pulled a couple of local hotties, then.'
Dilan frowned this way, his young face too serious.

Troy just blanked at him, unsure how to easily and convincingly deny the
half dozen girls he'd been through in the last fortnight, three of which
he was still texting on and off right now. Already, his former Spurs
teammate was rolling his eyes knowingly and tugging uncomfortably at the
collar and top bottom of his shirt, making Troy gurn self-mockingly and
gesture at himself. `I can't help what the Good Lord gave me,' he
said, siding with mocking arrogance rather than trying to patronise his
less confident companion.

Dilan now was looking past him, one strong arm folded across his chest
and the other clutching his bottle of fruit-flavoured Swedish cider. Troy
leaned on their high table and strained his long neck to see the mounted
TV screens that were playing sports highlights in the background of the
bar's drunken midweek atmosphere: close-ups again of the Real Madrid
winners and, in particular, the bear-like bearded presence of Benzema
himself. Troy laughed idly to think of their brief conversation before,
wondering if it had been too saucy a comment to make in front of his
slightly prudish mate - a long-time virgin and a product of his fairly
strict family rules.

Dilan was looking at him with one thick eyebrow raised. `Reckon he's
been sucked off by his teammates yet then?' he barked, quietly but
confrontationally - he sounded sarcastic and irritated, as if these ideas
about the Super Cup winners were tied up in his own lack of confidence
and Troy's better luck - this felt wrong, Troy thought, where had the
celebratory mood gone from the night? Why hadn't the jagerbombs been a
miraculous solution? This lad had just scored his first senior goal!

Playful and engaging, Troy pretended to look at his heavy wrist-watch and
then made a slow calculating expression. `Nah, he'll be tucked up
asleep on their private jet by now, I reckon,' he laughed, downing the
remains of his vodka drink. `All satisfied and sorted.'

`You're mad,' Markanday accused simply, but less sarcastic.

Parrott knew this was something he shouldn't really be bringing up in
front of the less experienced guy, even if his friend would be turning 21
in a week or so; but he was drunk and playful and he needed to keep the
buzz going, to turn Dilan's thoughts away from whatever dry spell he was
experiencing, whatever loneliness was striking him up here in his
Blackburn life. Jeez, that flat.

`You've never noticed anything like that going on then?' he demanded,
tapping his empty glass on the tabletop between them.

`What?'

`A bit of cheeky action,' Troy laughed, treating it with the lightness
he needed to. A drunken blush was in his cheeks above the line of his
dark brown beard, and he was already unsure what truths might spill from
his overactive mouth.

`What, are you saying you have?' demanded the other young footballer.

He laughed and shrugged one of his lean shoulders. `Might have,' he
said dismissively, and then picked up the glass and nodded at Dilan's
bottle. `Another round?'

`Er - I think it's my round, mate - but, wait, what are you actually
saying? You're having a laugh, aren't ya, Troy?'

He carried on laughing, hesitantly, and moved away from the table to
approach the bar, but Dilan was next to him, then barring his way, and
looking at him quite crossly. He seemed riled by the topic and Troy
admitted to himself that it wasn't ideal casual convo for them tonight,
he really shouldn't be provoking this... `Look, I'm just saying mad
shit happens!' he said, gesturing vaguely with both arms. `And yeah -
some mad shit has happened in my experience, but... Ah, it's all just
daft, whatever, it don't mean nothing, and...'

Dilan was still frowning a bit intensely at him, a shorter but hulking
figure in front of him, looking genuinely worried for him as he squared
his broad shoulders and puffed out his gym-inflated chest. `Mate, has
someone done something to you?' he barked with a protectiveness that
tugged on all of Troy's feelings of brotherly affection for him, so that
he grabbed him for a moment in a hug that turned into a shake.

`I'm SAYING, buddy, that the girls of Preston aren't the only ones
who've had my cock in their gobs, alright?' he yelped ambiguously in
Dilan's ear before letting him go and then shaking him again by the
shoulders. `Honestly, keep an open mind, bro, it's a funny old world
when you start being open to opportunity, hah.'

Dilan was gawping at him in a way that no longer felt protective, and
Troy was in no mood for introspection or questioning the more discreet
events of the past few years - and besides, looking over the bulky
shoulders of the Rovers player, he'd spotted just what he'd been
looking for a few moments ago. At the far end of the long bar area, two
girls were picking up an ice bucket of prosecco and retreating to a
booth, skimpy dresses clinging to tanned curves, Love Island fodder done
up like it was the weekend; he ignored whatever Markanday was mumbling
worriedly at him and guided him by the shoulder. `Opportunity,' he
announced brightly to his friend, `opportunity!'


Opportunity, or to use her real name Candice, sat very close to him now,
and he could just about hear her (with a bit of help from lip-reading)
over the increasing noise of the pub; it must be approaching closing
time, on a Wednesday night, but the local place was just getting busier
and busier, and the crowd felt rowdier. And right next to him, an
intimidatingly attractive mixed-race girl was batting her lashes at him
and telling him all about how many Blackburn Rovers tattoos her dad and
uncle had on their torsos.

He was TRYING to be charming and confident, he was - he knew that was
what you had to do, had observed it in enough of his school and football
mates over the years, and he knew he had to put himself out there and
make moves. But this girl was ridiculously hot, actually, kinda porn-star
or reality TV hot, and it was making him sweat profusely in the armpits
of his shirt and the crotch of his jeans, and also he couldn't fully
understand her Lancashire accent against the crowd noise and music, and
he was pretty sure he'd drank too much.

He was also...

Well, he couldn't deny the distraction. He and Candice were on one side
of the booth, her legs sliding close against his own, and her laughter
bringing their upper bodies and faces a tad closer with every burst of
interaction - but on the parallel seat, Troy was making his moves on the
girl's friend, leant in close beside her and a hand already on one of
her legs. But it wasn't his smoothness or speed that was putting Dilan
off his stride, well not just that - it was the vague revelation of the
things he'd said twenty-five minutes ago just before they bought new
drinks and got chatting to these girls.

What the hell had Troy gotten up to? What did he mean? What was he really
saying? He couldn't be talking about anything at Tottenham, Dilan
assured himself - after all, they'd trained and progressed together
there as friends and brothers over years, and Dilan was pretty sure he
knew most of the gossip that went on at Spurs. Pretty sure. But Troy had
been posted to some pretty obscure and rough teams, hadn't he? Millwall,
for fuck's sake. Or - what about life on the Ireland national team?
International football was a pretty uncertain landscape to the Londoner,
who'd only made a few hopeful forays into squad selection for England's
youth sides.

He felt worried for his friend, more than anything else - he hated the
idea of anyone taking advantage of his buddy and he felt fiercely
defensive of him. Of course, he could feel the disconnect there. Just
look at how confident and in control Troy Parrott was in most situations,
and had been long before he left his teens. The quick-witted Irish teen
that had lodged with the Markandays was not someone Dilan could see being
taken advantage of very easily, which begged other questions: what was
Parrott secretly into? What wasn't he sharing here? Who the fuck had he
been hanging out with if these ideas seemed pretty normal to him...?

It was these questions and others that played on the Rovers winger's
mind and, eventually, broke off his stilted conversation with the girl
named Candice - she got up to `go powder her nose' and didn't return
in a hurry, and more than anything, Dilan felt relieved. He'd seen her
eyes glaze over as his conversational attempts got weaker and his ability
to follow her chatter got more frowning and clunky. And so once she was
gone from the booth he just sagged back against the worn seating, undoing
a top button and finishing both his and her drinks, just for the cool
refreshment.

He assumed, wrongly, that the friend would follow; after all, the lads
had targeted these local hotties for HIS sake, according to Troy, who'd
announced that he needed to clear some cobwebs and get more experience.
Dilan had feared that his friend might challenge him for specifics and
ask him just how many girls he'd fooled around with since bravely losing
his virginity at a summer party last July, a number he was NOT keen to
share. (Was zero a number...?) But in front of him, the other girl was now
tenderly held by the tall figure of the Preston striker, who'd stooped
his long neck to bring their mouths together. Half an hour and the pair
were openly snogging. Fuck.

Dilan left them to it, sliding out of the booth before he could look full
voyeur, watching his made get off with someone and playing gooseberry to
their hook-up. He left them to it, shuffling away from the booth, passing
through the dim crowd and moving back to the bar, thinking that what he
really needed right now was re-hydration.


Troy pulled his body through the crowd, feeling sweaty under his clingy
Gucci t-shirt, and unable to wipe the smug smile from his face after
sitting in the throes of snogging with the hot girl whose name he
couldn't quite remember, her manicured hands occasionally sliding a
little further over his crotch and getting him almost stiff in his CKs
and jeans; the young footballer smiled uncertainly at several people he
bumped into on the way, since it was hard to tell if the sharp looks he
received were for pushing past, for just being annoyingly handsome, or
because local football fans had actually recognised him as Preston's
borrowed goal threat for the season.

He made his way to the bar, where he found Dilan hunched over a pint, and
grabbed him with one long arm about his shoulders. `There you are,' he
hissed in his ear, pulling a little too close because he was drunk,
oblivious to his vodka breath on the other lad's face. `Where's your
girl? What happened?' He stretched himself and leaned an elbow on the
bar, stealing a long sip from Dilan's cider bottle.

Markanday turned a surly expression on him. `Think I bored her. Want a
beer?'

`Nah,' said Troy in a singsong voice, taking out his phone and checking
his messages idly before giving the other 20-year-old a leering wink.
`Look, mate, can we head off and take the party back to your place? Or -
mate, what do you say if I borrow your key and-' He paused, the grin
fading on his bearded lips, and he noted Dilan's soulful eyes and
stooped posture, halting in his excited schemes - the girl was fucking
wet for him and he was hoping to capitalise on that soon, aware that one
or two drinks more might just knock him to sleep after the long day he'd
had. His brain registered Dilan's solitary position here and the
dynamics of the situation, and a crashing freight train of empathy got in
the way of the more basic instincts that were telling him to sneak his
`date' into the disabled loos for a quick bit of action. Instead, he
smiled sympathetically and leaned back in closer to the Asian lad.
`Forget that, it's probably time to call it a night, huh? We both got
training, and that.'

Markanday looked awkward, and Parrott knew he would be embarrassed at it
all. Troy hadn't even noticed Dilan or the other girl leave their booth,
wasn't sure how long he'd been sat getting cosy with... god, what WAS
her name? He didn't let Dilan speak, wanting to save his dignity as much
as he could here. `I'm tired,' he told him loudly, forcing a yawn,
`and actually that girl is a bit annoying and clingy, y'know? We should
get back to yours - let's order a fucking pizza or something instead of
staying in this dive, yeah?' He could see the embarrassed relief on the
other lad's face and he just patted one of his thick arms. `Let me go
be polite to this soggy lass and we'll bust a move, okay?'

Troy didn't wait to listen to the murmured thankyou from the Rover, just
slipping back through the crowd and seeking out the attractive prospect
who was touching up her lipstick when he arrived at her table. He went
there to cool things off, maybe take her number without risking giving
away his own - although he could easily get up around here to meet for a
date if she looked as good with a clear sober head in the morning - and
ditch her to make sure his mate was okay and not feeling too down on
himself. Those were definitely Troy's intentions, it's just that the
plan become very difficult to stick to once she'd cheekily whispered the
word `threesome'.


This was exciting, Dilan told himself. This was a fantasy, the sorta
thing young lads joke and banter about and secretly hope for when jetting
off to Ibiza. Okay, the 2-to-1 ratio was maybe the other way round in the
fantasy, he'd admit, but even so - sharing a girl this hot with a
football bro was exactly the kinda shit people assumed Premiership
football studs got up to, and Dilan told himself firmly that he'd enjoy
it and banter about it with Troy for years to come, a bonding adventure
that would also shift his friend's (correct) assumptions about how
inexperienced and shy he actually was. This was exciting. And not at all
awkward or terrifying, nope.

They were on his double bed now, after a brief spell on the grey leather
of the couch. She was almost entirely undressed, had been within mere
minutes of entering the flat, and she genuinely seemed eager to have them
both, had practically chewed his mouth of in bouts of snogging on the
clumsy walk from pub to apartments. And right now her hand was in the
front of his jeans, feeling him through his boxer briefs, and he was
being allowed to kiss hungrily at one of her glorious tits, slobbering
across her tanned skin and rolling his tongue across her hard nipple in
the hope that she was into it. Dilan felt self-conscious and awkward as
he did it, none of the ease or drive that he'd observed in the male porn
actors from whom he'd learned that this was the sort of foreplay you
were meant to do.

Right now Troy was kissing her, holding her neck at an angle as they did,
his much taller body lying alongside her and one of his legs, bare now
that his jeans were around his ankles, spread over hers. Her other hand
was on his tight six-pack, his t-shirt rolled up to the chest, though
that was not what caught Dilan's eye and made him feel a bit awkward -
after all, he was pretty ripped himself these days and had hit the gym
even harder since moving up north away from family and friends to play
here.

No, it was another part of his friend that made things uncomfortable,
something already infamous to him - after all, it had been regular banter
amongst the immature lads at the Spurs youth academy, hadn't it?
Everyone had known indistinctly how blessed their Irish friend was, even
if they hadn't seen it, it was the source of too many crass jokes and
stupid comments, even at a point where Dilan knew that Troy was chastely
dating a girl back in Dublin and was as virginal as himself! The size and
shape of it was pronounced and obvious in the white Calvin Klein pants
and Dilan was now feeling an attack of discomfort at sharing a stage with
the `Trojan Horse'.

Still, action proceeded. Now she was snogging him instead of Troy and it
was his wet fingertips playing with her nipple, and he could feel her
pushing at his jeans, getting them down his super-hairy legs, and clawing
at the backside of his grey Sloggi boxer shorts; suddenly he felt
insecure about his body hair too, having been joked around with on that
for a lot of his teen years too, the only South Asian lad there,
prematurely furring up under the arms and boasting a beard before he
could legally buy cigarettes. He kept his upper body waxed as a result,
but he felt her hand claw against a hairy arse cheek and he shuddered,
wondering what she thought of it. Troy's legs were hairy too, but not
like his own.

He felt a strong grip on his wrist and it made him glance sharply across,
surprised by her strength; but it wasn't HER strength, it was Troy's
hand on his, pushing it between her legs. He made brief, uncomfortable
eye contact with his playmate and saw Troy's dirty grin and intense
eyes, and he let his fingers follow instinct as they entered her wetness.
Even that instinctive action he now questioned: did girls like it like
this? He'd heard that all of the real stimulation was on the outside for
them and that he should just focus there, but you saw a load of deep
fingering in porn, so...?

More shifting of their sweaty drunk bodies on the bed. His boxers were
still on, even if the waistband was awry and half his chunky glutes were
exposed, and her hand was in the front of them, playing with his chubby
dick, which was taking its time to decide whether it wanted to get hard
or not, nervous. More nervous, he realised, as he saw Troy's white
underpants slide down his thighs and calves, and the huge thick thing
released slap against her thigh and make her gasp. Jesus christ - Dilan
had seen it in the showers, caught embarrassing glimpses of its pendulous
swing, but to see it engorged like this - it was again something like
he'd observed in porn and it made him cringe in comparison, suddenly
sure that his dick was tiny and embarrassing compared to THAT.

Troy was tickling above her cunt while his own two fingers were in there,
and kissing her on the neck, and rubbing his hard cock against her leg
until she took hold of it for him. Her hand had become limp in the front
of Dilan's own undies and he thought she was probably confused why he
wasn't as rock-hard as his accomplice. A stir of panic was rising up
through Dilan's hot and flustered body as he hunched there at her side,
and he knew with sudden force that he couldn't go through with this -
couldn't bear the thought of trying to turn her on and be part of the
fun, couldn't bear the idea of climbing on top of her and being watched
by Troy, or WORSE, lying here limp and voyeuristic and seeing the other
young striker use that thing inside her, fuck.

`One minute,' he whispered vaguely to her and Troy and separated from
them, skidding from the bed and disappearing across the room with his
shirt open over his waxed chest and his underpants halfway down his hips,
one sock on and one sock off. He could only bear one quick glance back to
the bed as Troy climbed on top of her and buried his face between her
breasts - most of the view was the lightly tanned smooth muscle of the
6ft1 Irishman's back, and then the spread of his hairy thighs and,
surprise, the swell of his arse cheeks, the canyon between them a little
darkened by chestnut hair that made him, dizzied, acknowledge that maybe
a hairy arse wasn't such a horror after all. And then he fled through
the flat and into his bathroom to splash cold water on his face, his
brown cheeks burning red and ashamed.


It took Troy more than a few moments to register that three had become
two, but he did; even with his face buried between her thighs and his
tongue rolling on her clit, the thought strolled through his brain that
Dil had vanished and not returned, and this three-way was not quite
fulfilling its promise to the owner of the flat. His cock was hard and
leaking pre-cum and the girl was, he thought, even hotter here on the bed
than she'd looked in the dim lighting of the Blackburn pub. But...
Leaning up over her and having her tickle his low-hanging balls and start
guiding his foot-long against the wet lips of her fanny, he felt a sense
of being a traitor, and of a question: where the fuck was Dilan right now
whilst he was smearing sweat and other juices on his bedding? This
wasn't right.

He kissed her and resisted slipping her his tongue, holding himself up
firmly and parting their clammy bodies, making eye contact with her and
ignoring the way his massive nob tingled as it brushed her soft wet
entrance. `This isn't working,' he grunted very quietly. He saw the
instant change in her ecstatic expression, the frown and then sneer to
her attractive features. Her hands stiffened on his lean sides and her
legs closed subtly beneath him. `What?' she demanded, but Troy was
already pulling aside from her and then hopping up off the bed with the
most casual and bored expression he could muster, clashing with the
perpendicular edifice towering from his trimmed bush.

`I'm not feeling it,' the Tottenham player announced in a quiet and
blase voice.

`What the actual fuck?'

`Just not enjoying it, sorry. Don't think I can do it.'

`But you're-'

`I don't consent,' he announced awkwardly. `I'm not cool with it any
more. You'll have to go.'

`I'm wet as FUCK.'

`Are you?' h sighed in a pantomime of oblivious innocence. `I'll pay
for the Uber-'

`Too fucking right you will!' she screamed loudly at him now, rising up
from the bed with one arm folded over her tits and a snatched garment
(Troy's t-shirt) covering her crotch. She was an explosion of drunken
indignation now, and Troy knew she was right to be baffled and fuming,
but he kept a straight face and, half-consciously, goaded her further.
`Everyone's entitled to change their mind,' he informed her tartly, as
if he hadn't greedily chased every aspect of their hook-up, of their
three-way with another player; he met her anger with a dopey expression
and took the brunt of the awkwardness, allowing her the outrage she
deserved until she was sticking the middle-finger at him from the rear
window of a taxi whilst he pulled the borrowed dressing gown shut about
his naked body in the entrance of the apartment block.

Back upstairs in Markanday's flat, he let out a whistling sigh of relief
and let the fluffy gown hang open instead, enjoying its softness against
his hot sweaty skin as he strolled through the small place and wondered
where the hell his buddy actually was. The door to the bathroom opened
and Dilan stared awkwardly at him. `You didn't have to do that,' the
lad said in a small voice.

Troy was ready to extend his Oscar-worthy performance. `Wasn't she
annoying?' he blurted, forgetting for a few moments that he was naked
but for socks under the robe. `Not my type at all, and she really
wasn't how she seemed back in the pub - good riddance to her, I say,
and-'

`Mate,' Dil grunted, and he thought for a moment that the host just
wasn't buying his performed disinterest. `I really didn't like the way
she kept biting at me,' he lied. `And I don't think she was really
into me as much as you, so once you left, it was just like-'

`Mate!' the Rovers player hissed again, gesturing downwards.

`Oh,' Troy said, looking down at the restless rod. `Oops, yeah.' He
burst out laughing at himself, particularly conscious now of rock-hard he
must have been the whole time he was rejecting and seeing out their
unlucky playmate. And stood here now in the narrow corridor with his best
English mate, the throbbing veiny evidence was somewhat spoiling his
attempt to sound unbothered by the aborted hook-up. Still, all he could
do was drunkenly laugh, and shrug his shoulders. It didn't really enter
his head that the scale of his erection might be part of Dilan's
problem, because he regularly forgot how well-endowed he was and tended
not to think of it as anything special other than when Eric Dier was
whispering it in his ear after swallowing his load.

Dilan rubbed a hand over his face, standing there in just his saggy grey
pants and one sock, groaning dismally. `I feel like shit. I'm already
hungover. I'm so sorry, mate, I really am. I fucked that up for us
both.'

`Nah, it's all good.' The honesty of the drunk and the comfort of
being here with just one really great mate fuelled his casual solution to
the situation. `But I am gonna have to wank this off - you got some porn
on your laptop in there, lad?'


That's how they ended up side by side on the bed, their lower legs
separated by only the width of a MacBook; this wasn't exactly a solution
to the crisis of confidence that had curtailed Dilan's almost shag
tonight, and yet here they were anyway, and there seemed to be no
reasonable exit from the awkwardness, not now he'd mumbled his agreement
and acted like a quick wank over the same porn video was totally fine
with him. He could hardly get up and wander out of the room now like he
had while Troy was all over the girl, or so said some code of politeness
and normalness in his frenzied brain - some weight of social pressure had
him lounged down one side of his bed with one sock still on, and his hand
buried in the front of his grey boxers, and the heat of his friend's
body tangible against his right elbow as their skin almost brushed. At
the base of the bed, between their shiny sweaty shins, the open laptop
glowed with the vivid colours of the chosen porno scenario, two girls and
a guy, and their obscene squeals seemed to fill the room.

Although... it was less intimidating, wasn't it, with the girl gone?
Lying here like this, Dilan could see clearly that his body was a bit
more developed than his friend's more lanky frame; he was trying not to
move his eyes from the laptop screen too much, admittedly, but he could
see that whilst taller, Troy almost looked a bit gangly and pale lying
parallel to his own thick and muscular physique, and he wondered if his
friend felt any envy or awkwardness about that. Still, there was no
denying the stupid proportions of the thing that Troy held lazily in one
hand, stroking back and forward on it with apparently no qualms about
another lad so close to him - a stray thought that took Dilan backwards
through this strange evening, and brought the question out of him that he
instantly regretted.

`Have you really let a lad suck you off?' he asked, and felt the weight
of the question and the topic sit on the bed between them like an obese
elephant. He daren't look at Troy's face after dropping that bomb,
squinting at the action on-screen and tugging on himself in his
underpants, feeling the stirring of his dick and balls now he was
slightly more relaxed and could fixate on the detached action of fantasy.
The pants and cries of the online video meant there could be no awkward
`silence' in the double bed, and yet there still felt like one,
stretching from the question mark to Troy's eventual murmur: `Er -
yeah, I told you, it's not such a big deal.' The answer, which actually
sounded kinda shy and embarrassed now in this setting, weighed heavily
between them too, and the gasps of a porn actress occupied the hollow it
left in the room.

`Right,' Dilan said eventually, trying to sound cool and unfazed.

`Does it bother you?' he was asked, and now he did twitch his head to
glance at Troy's knitted brows and puzzled mouth, and he shook his head
instantly. `Nah, why would it? I'm not gonna judge you. I'm just...
surprised.' There were a couple of dozen follow-up questions lining up
as he toyed with himself and shifted his weight on the bedding, quite
hard now and wondering if he really had the bollocks to just whip it out
and play with it in front of a friend, as body-confident as the well-hung
Irishman.

`Don't ask who,' came Troy's guarded mutter now. `I mean - I don't
wanna be cagey or weird, it's just...'

`Sure, sure...'

`They're not the kinda guys who'd appreciate that being said about
them, I don't think. Couple of them have wives, and...' It was Troy who
sounded nervous now and it made Dilan cringe and feel a bit of a cunt for
bringing the subject up again. He nudged his elbow against his friend's.
`None of my business,' he insisted quietly. `No wonder you're so
fucking sure of yourself, married men chasing your big dick, haha.'
He'd meant to defuse the tension but his comment sounded loaded and lewd
and it made him twinge uncomfortably, pausing on the verge of pushing his
boxers away and getting his dick out to play with properly.

`Oh fuck,' Troy was laughing, thankfully, and then, `it has been a bit
like that at times, but... Fuck it, I enjoy the attention, I won't lie.
I'm sure that makes me a vain prick. I don't care. I just do what feels
right in the moment, me. That's the key, mate, I swear. Live in the
moment.' There he was, the gangly stud, jerking himself and spitting
lube into his palm, but muttering out life advice and looking out for his
friend at the same time. It made Dilan blush but also decide to stop
being a pussy and let out his cock, which he did, fumbling with it and
cupping his own heavy hairy balls as he pulled on the shaft. His cock was
thick and chunky and only looked small because of the nearby comparison
point, which Dilan thought NASA could probably see from space.

`Yeah,' he said slowly. `Live in the moment. I need to do that more, I
get it.'

`I'm not trying to be a prick or a know-it-all, just...'

`Nah, you're right, mate, you are. Thanks. Let's just enjoy this vid,
shall we? Er - haha - I should shut up and stop talking, putting you
off.' It was visually obvious that his chat was doing no such thing. `I
just talk when I'm nervous.' Why did you say that? `I'm sorry again,
mate, I really ruined that threesome, I must have pissed you and her off,
I'm really sorry-'

Parrott was just laughing heavily, not even pausing in the stride of his
pumping fist, moving up and down the glistening thickness of his weapon -
`Just shut up and wank that fat cock, you gibbering idiot!' And now
they were both laughing, though the notion that Troy had looked over and
sized him up made him tingle self-consciously.

He was pretty much hard, but not quite. He spat on his hand like his mate
had done and pulled it up and down the slight sag of his heavy dick,
appreciating privately how fat it actually was, and a fair length really,
building up to the think pink tip, circumcised unlike Troy's long and
gentle curving thing - god, stop looking at it, he'll think you're some
perv like those married men! What married men? Who does he mean? The
questions plagued him when he ought to be focused on the porno and it
made it difficult to really pull himself to stiffness that might reach an
end and finish this difficult scenario - whereas the Ireland national was
tugging quite ferociously on himself now, his tall lean body tensed and
his free hand pressed hard against the lower rungs of his six-pack. He
was red-cheeked and making a noise that alternated between laughter and
panting.

God, Dilan thought, he's actually about to shoot his load. In my bed.
The latter thought hit him like a brick, and he didn't really know why -
he'd left the room expecting Troy to finish inside that girl on these
same sheets, and hadn't really thought about the lack of a spare bedroom
in his flat. But the thought pushed and pulled at him and he found his
eyes were most definitely sliding from the MacBook. He couldn't help
himself, it was just cos Troy's cock was so annoyingly big, and the
pumping of his white-knuckled fist was so fierce, and his pants so
breathy and urgent - `I'm gonna have to blow,' Parrott was grunting at
him now with a tone of friendly warning, `I'll try to aim it at-' The
words became gasps, the loan player going redder and falling into a
convulsive ecstasy - and the jet of white was bursting from his cock like
Vesuvius, showering his fluffy thighs, but also the leaf-print bedding,
and -and -and Dilan's own hairy lower legs, grey-white splodges against
the curly forest on his shins, knees, thighs, oh fuck. It made the
nervous Londoner tense and cringe, of which he was very aware, less
conscious of how much harder his solid Asian cock was in his grip, or the
throbbing of his full balls.

Troy's pants were turning to hoots of laughter and he was stretching out
his long body, eyes shut and mouth hanging open. `Sorry, sorry, I
didn't think it would be so messy, I already came twice this morning,'
he was admitting in a lethargic slur, and the porno on the screen was
finishing up, ended with a cheesy blast of muzak, leaving a quiet but for
the sound of Dilan's own hand jerking uncertainly at his rock-hard
member.

He stared at his own cock, framed between the dense fur of his thighs,
and then at the splashes of Troy's mess in among that leg hair, and felt
uneasy. `You know what,' he announced, listening to the rise and fall
of Troy's recovery sighs, `I don't really need this, I'll just stop
there, now you've had your moment-'

There was an instant transformation in the lounging lethargy of the lad
at his side, and Troy was propping himself up on elbows and frowning.
`Nah go on mate, you can do it,' he said, as if they were encouraging
each other on a training pitch again. `Don't let me faze you,' the
other lad said in his Irish brogue, rather than something more sensible
like offering to fuck off into the other room. `You just need to
relax,' he was insisting, and Dilan knew he was talking more generally
than about this drunken activity.

Dilan fixed on the drunken aspect. `I'm too pissed,' he groaned, and
felt it was half-true. `I don't think I'll cum, you know how it is
when you're-'

`Relax,' Parrott was insisting loudly, shifting ever-so-slightly closer
on the bedding, lifting up onto his side a bit. `Just relax and keep
going, you'll get there.' Was it weird? Was it a bit off that his
friend was encouraging him like this, over this really private thing?
Dilan didn't know, but he felt trapped by politeness again, and he felt
his cock harder than ever against his own hand, his balls tingling -
truth be told, he felt closer with every word spoken by this lothario,
this uber-confident Irishman, this Tottenham Hotspur player who had
outlasted him at his home football club.

`I dunno,' Markanday felt himself groaning, even as his hand pumped up
and down and his fingers played uncertainly against the fleshy sag of his
bollocks.

`Jesus, keep going like that,' Parrott was laughing, `you're really
close, I can tell - just be in the moment, bro, like we said, yeh? Think
of that bird from before, imagine she's with us now, haha - licking my
cum off your thighs.'

`Fuck's sake,' Dilan hissed at him, turned on in spite of himself.

`Licking up every drop, the dirty bitch,' Troy said - it was a giggle,
but also a deep throaty voice made for dirty talk, the way Dilan had
heard him speak urgently and quite dominantly to the girl as they climbed
into bed with her. It had made him nervous then, but now... `That's it,
mate,' the striker said, his voice feeling worryingly close, `just
imagine she's slurping on that big Asian cock of yours, yeah? Jeez it's
thick, haha, you never said you had a big whopper, Marky!' Dilan was
laughing and blushing uncomfortably, but something in his tense body
language or urgent handiwork must have revealed that he was liking this
pep talk, this verbal encouragement, because his friend didn't stop:
`Wank it mate, just like that, spit on your hand some more - good one,
you'll be done soon, fuck yeah, come on-'

`Fuck,' Dilan cursed anxiously, unsure what exactly he was swearing at.

`Think of her tits,' Troy urged, `think of her wet cunt on your
fingers...'

`Fuckkkk...'

`Remember how she felt,' Troy groaned. He was close now, oh wait no,
he'd reached over - his arm was on Dilan's bare shoulder and his
fingers were on the back of his neck, cupping and stroking it a little as
he spoke. In the corner of his eye, he could see the lazy flop of Troy's
spent cock, still huge as it wilted, spread against one mucky thigh as he
tilted this way on his side - `Yeah, think of her sitting on you,' Troy
hissed, sounding quite excited, `and you're pushing up into her mate,
you like that yeah? Fuck her good, give your big Indian cock like she's
begging for, and-'

How long would Troy have gone on like that? How dirty would he have got?
Dilan wondered these questions as his own physical release cut the
throaty Irish voice off, because his body buckled and his back arched a
little and he unloaded days of cum, eyes closed and head pressed back
into the pillow. Not just the pillow - the strong hold of Troy's palm on
the wet nape of his thick neck.


`Jesus,' Troy cursed loudly, reaching instinctively and apologetically
with his right hand for the gold St Christopher that hung close about his
neck, just above the gentle flicker of chest hair between his hard rep
nips. `Wow!' It was the only word he could find to say, seeing just how
much mess the other lad had spewed, he couldn't remember the last time
he'd held himself back long enough to make that much of a load; it
drooled from the mottled pink-and-brown meat and oozed over Dilan's
shaking hand, and was intermixed with splashes of Troy's own seed on his
leg hair, matting his bush of pubes, staining the sheets. If Troy's
orgasm had been Vesuvius, this bugger was Krakatoa.

Markanday was gasping loudly next to him with his eyes still shut, mouth
wide open and his bearded jaw flexing wide; his face was soaked with
sweat and his short dark curls of hair were damp to Troy's touch as he
let go of his neck, briefly tousled his hair and then pulled a few inches
back form him on the bed, still watching the volcanic ooze of spunk that
was coming out of the other lad's short thick monster.

`Jesus,' he said again, and laughed heartily. That had been weird but
fun, he thought, feeling somehow worthy and selfless for coaching and
reassuring his uptight friend like that in such an intimate way - it was
harmless, wasn't it, to try and help the daft lad let loose and enjoy
himself a bit more?

`Fuck,' the 20-year-old Rovers lad was sighing again, this time
sounding apologetic.

`Enjoy that?' teased Troy, inching politely away from him and reaching
down to play idly with his softened nob. Dilan opened his eyes and
glanced momentarily this way before staring at the ceiling. He looked
mortified, and it made Parrott laugh more. `Silly question - look at the
mess you've made, you monster.'

Dilan was sitting up, quickly, revealing the glossy wet sweat of his back
muscles. Troy reached over and gave one of his shoulders a squeeze,
thinking momentarily just how bulked up his friend was becoming. `You
dirty monster,' he teased again, before climbing out of the bed and
looking about them for a towel or similar. `You didn't even need the
porno,' he commented quietly, giving the blank laptop screen a glance -
and privately toasting his own skilled dirty talk, learned from those
weird phone calls where he'd been able to listen in on Shane Long giving
it to his wife, wanking uncertainly along as invited.

`Fuck, fuck, fuck,' the Indian lad was muttering to himself, and Troy
picked up his own black t-shirt from the ground to use as a cum-rag
against his crotch and thighs, wiping his mess from himself and then
spotting a crumpled towel which he threw against Dilan. `Relax,' he
told him, `that was stupid, but it was fun. Glad you let go, mate, proud
of ya. Next time you're in a three-way you'll be way more chill, don't
you think?' He grinned brightly at his best mate as if he'd just
performed an obvious public service.

Dilan was wiping tenderly at his body, looking startled by how much spunk
he'd jettisoned. He laughed nervously and began to say sorry. Troy cut
him off. `Don't be, you obviously fucking needed that - and I'm the
one who should be sorry, getting it on your leg like that. Here,
actually, let me...' And in penance, he stooped over the bed and used the
wad of black t-shirt to wipe some flecks of cum from around Dilan's
calf, unsure whose it actually was, but wiping it matter-of-factly away
and then tossing the dirty garment in the direction of what he hoped was
a laundry basket.

Dilan was sitting up, his large chest heaving, and his hands loosely
covering his crotch as if everything hadn't been on show between them
both. Troy picked the robe he'd borrowed before off the doorknob and
tossed it his way, conscious of his shyness, before finding his own white
undies and pulling them neatly up his long legs. `You made SUCH a
mess,' he said, unwilling to let that matter drop just yet. `How long
since you spunked, you mad bastard? You're gonna make your balls drop
off if you carry on like that. Or do you always just jet it out like
that, for fuck's sake?'

Dilan was vague, slurring, uncomfortable. Troy felt bad for teasing him
and he wanted to just make things chill. `Hey,' he said, as if an
important thought had just hit him, `you probably spunked more than that
big bastard Benzema did in Helsinki, you know.' He was glad of Dil's
half-hearted laugh and flash of more comfortable smile. And still Parrott
couldn't help but goad further, he was just too sexed up. `Only
question,' he joked, `is whose face it was on, like I said... Haha!'

`Oh for fuck's sake,' Markanday told him as he got up and covered
himself in the robe, but laughing rather than sounding prudish. `Let
that go, you perv. Karim probably spent the night in fucking prayer, you
idiot. Don't try and tell me Marco Asensio has been on his knees handing
out BJs to Ballon d'Or candidates, fucking hell.'

`Hah, maybe you're right,' Troy relented, patting his hands musically
against his ripped tummy muscles and wondering what he'd wear tomorrow
now his t-shirt was a spunky messi in the laundry basket. He yawned
heavily through his laughter. `Maybe, maybe. Just praying and being a
good husband, yeah? After a game of that kind? Hehe.' He winked cheekily
across the bedroom at his friend.


A dimly-lit bathroom stall. The sounds of the Helsinki nightclub were
muffled, but the bass of the music could be felt through each wall of the
narrow space, a throbbing backdrop to the other noises: the creak of the
toilet lid beneath his muscular weight, the odd rattle of the other body
jutting back against the cubicle door... the wet slurps and gasps from
waist height, and his own eager grunts and French whispers.

`Suck it,' snarled the 34-year-old striker in his own language.

The answer below was just a willing choking sound. He slapped at the head
between his bare thighs, spread wide to accommodate the kneeling figure
on the bathroom floor, now deep-throating his huge heroic cock, taking it
deep with skill and enthusiasm. Karim groaned and grunted and pushed and
slapped at the head, tweaking his small ears and angling the keen face to
better pleasure his throbbing circumcised hard-on.

`That's it,' he growled, too drunk and arrogant to care how load his
growling voice was in this nightclub toilet, or how much the door did
rattle as he shoved and manhandled the kneeling figure every few minutes,
resting his own strong bulk against the toilet and cistern, legs wide and
body prickling with sweat. His shirt buttons stretched over his pecs
below his thick neck, and damp patches stained the expensive material
where his muscular body sweated too profusely against its confines.

`Take it deeper,' Benzema instructed with authority, knowing how
powerful and important he was now. He held the head in both hands and
pushed roughly upwards, inserting his cock as deeply as he could inside
the soft gorgeous mouth of his teammate, whose nostrils were full of his
wiry pubes.

But he withdrew his cock before he came, he always did; he liked the
sight of it drizzling down an inferior footballer's face more than he
did the knowledge of it filling their throat. He held the other man at a
distance and pulled roughly on his meat until he felt the electric spark
and began to empty himself over Eden Hazard. The Belgian slut gasped and
groaned, sticking his tongue out and opening his mouth wide like the pig
he was. He was Benzema's favourite plaything, really, though certainly
not his only one.

In rare moments where Karim really addressed his own behaviour, he
thought how long ago it seemed: that day at the president's mansion,
cornered in a bathroom by Sergio fucking Ramos, and his cock worked and
pressured by the dirty bastard until he couldn't help but jizz. Ramos
had led him astray, or Ramos had opened his eyes, he wasn't sure which -
and then Ramos had gone, and Benzema had been truly king of Madrid. The
big tattooed demi-god was gone from the Spanish city and club, along with
all his influence and energy, and there was only one powerful force left
in the squad who could fill that void...

`Lick it up,' the 34-year-old Frenchman snarled, covering Hazard's
face with the icing of his seed, and then slapping his heavy cock against
one of his cheeks, and spitting down on him from the toilet seat, the
throne of the king of Madrid.


They were too tired to set up the sofa bed. That thought took a few
moments to clarify in Dilan's head, when his stretching legs came
brushing against others and his feet bashed against Troy's. `Fuck
off,' was the Irish lad's sleepy protest against the pillows, his back
turned this way, `let me sleep.'

Dilan stared briefly at the glimpse of bare shoulder and neck, the short
mussy brown hair against his other pillow. He had a sudden and vivid
image of last night on top of these covers, watching the porno. He pulled
away, a little disgusted with them both, and then threw his thick hairy
legs over the edge of the bed whilst checking his phone. `Fuck,' he
growled with all the rich luxurious horror of a hangover. `I'm due at
training in about an hour. Which...' He pawed at his face, his beard.
`Which means you're probably already meant to be in Preston, you
dick-head.' He climbed fully out of bed and stretched, glad of the thin
white vest and loose check boxers shorts he seemed to have dressed in
before sharing his bed with a friend like that. God knows what Parrott
had on under the duvet, he wasn't sure he wanted to find out - he
stomped out of the room, which smelt of sweat and cum, and moved through
into the flat's tiny kitchen to pop the kettle on and make strong
coffees.

Dilan hated the prospect of training hungover, though he tried to assure
himself that he wouldn't be the only one with a sore head, given last
night's cup win. It would be a light morning's work, he guessed
hopefully, and he might even get an afternoon nap to try and sleep off
this headache and nausea. He wasn't convinced that his PNE mate would
have the same benefits, so he shouted impatiently on him whilst making
the coffee and buttering some near-burnt toast for them.

He was glad when Troy got up, though he did wish his visiting friend was
wearing more than the white CKs that had been eaten up by his buttocks
and were all tangled and out-of-shape about his bouncing package. It was
a bit much to see whilst he peeled a potassium-rich banana and perched
against the back of his sofa, slurping strong coffee.

But for all the pain of the hangover and his discomfort at Troy's
bouncing bulge, he felt a surge of gratitude to his friend. He couldn't
help but think badly of his own behaviour as host, falling into such a
negative mood and then ruining their chances of shags with two hot girls
who he now couldn't pick out of a police line-up. He felt he'd been a
bit of an arsehole, overall, and he felt incredibly grateful to have a
friend who would just patiently make the best of that, and still be...
keen to help him, he thought, although the word `help' had big air
quotes about it in his imagination, and he felt a bit queasy at the
mental image of himself, powering to orgasm with his buddy needing to
talk him through it...


Troy felt pretty fresh, but he kept quiet about that - he'd learned
through experience that nobody needed to hear about his lack of
propensity for hangovers, even other lads as young and fit as himself. He
ate the toast and drank some of the coffee, glad that he'd been shouted
out of bed. No way would he be on time for Preston training, but he'd be
able to make some tale up on the drive there, and the coaches were so
besotted with him after his 6th minute goal the other night in the cup.
The sun was shining out of his hairy arse at his new club, he thought,
and one late arrival was hardly going to ruin that, Preston North End
fucking needed him.

Such was the level of the Irish lad's breezy confidence as he borrowed
clothing from his friend, old Tottenham youth kit that they both owned,
feeling this would be less of a giveaway of his drunken night. He
wriggled into the slightly-too-small polo shirt and joggers and downed a
pint of water before heading out of the flat, accompanied into the car
park by a queasy-faced Dilan, who was swathed in dressing gown over his
vest and old man boxer shorts, bearded and grumpy and looking more than
his 20 years.

`You sure you're sober enough to drive?' Markanday demanded once they
reached the BMW.

`I'm golden,' Troy promised. `I'll be there before I know it.'

`What will you tell `em?'

`Dunno. I'll think of something. It'll be grand. Cheers for the fun
night.'

The Indian lad shrugged, grumbled. `Not as fun for you as it coulda
been, to be fair. Sorry.'

`Stop that,' Troy insisted. `It was all a laugh, before and after that
boring girl buggered off.' He thought this gentle edit to the true
events was worthwhile for both their sakes, though he smiled knowingly at
his pal. `It was all good. You had fun, yeh?' Dilan nodded, but avoided
his eye contact. `You'll be okay, mate, will ya?' he asked.

The directness of this question seemed to bother his friend. `What does
that mean? I'm fine. It's going really well here.' He spoke quickly
and hotly and there was annoyance in his vulnerable eyes. Troy just
smiled disarmingly back at this.

`It's hard, the moving,' he said quietly. `The shifting between
teams.' He knew how it had affected him at times, the ego bruises and
the more literal challenges. The unsettled hard work of it all. It had
been Eric, he supposed, who he'd always turned to for advice and
support, and it had always been there by the bucketload; the older Spurs
star always made time for a call and a chat when needed. Who did
Markanday have...?

Dilan still looked defensive, but he kept his voice quiet and soft.
`I'm sorry it took us a while to organise the meet-up, but let's do it
more regularly?' he said, and at that his friend nodded with more
certainty. `Hey,' he said, the idea forming moments before he put it
out loud. `This is crazy, cos I know you threw a load of money into this
place, but... I dunno, I wonder if there's somewhere mutually good that
we could house-share, mate.' He laid it on thick: `It's just, my
housemates are a bit young and shit, and Preston ain't my kinda town,
so...'

He knew Dilan was too bright to take the cover-up, but he was glad to see
his hesitant smile and slow nod. `That's worth looking into,' came the
croaky, hungover answer, and Troy grinned eagerly back, unlocking the car
doors and slinging his backpack into the passenger seat. He was about to
back away towards the driver's seat door when Dilan surprised him by
lunging in and giving him a tight hug, their bodies warm with last
night's drink and sweat. Troy laughed and held him back for the long
grateful moment, then pushed him away, announcing `You smell like
you've already thrown up, dick-head. Like I say, just something to think
about, might be worth researching, if you fancy - I'm not saying you
need to move flats just to improve my situation, matey.'

Dilan was grinning now, his posture more relaxed. `Just get in the
car,' he was demanding, `and get there before your contract is ripped
up, nob-cheese. Go on!' Mutual laughter and light flurries of punches
between them, Troy climbing into the vehicle and Dilan backing away
towards the apartment block, hands thrust into robe pockets. Troy grinned
at him over the dashboard and gave him a thumbs up as he started up the
engine. Cruising the BMW past him and towards the road, he wound down his
window and barked out at him. `I'll get on the phone to estate agents
tonight, will I?' And then he threw it into another gear and sped away
onto the quiet suburban road, growling through Blackburn and away from
his friend's bachelor pad.




'Writer guy' - Premiership Lads on
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