Date: Thu, 1 Sep 2022 19:59:06 +0000 From: writer guy Subject: Premiership Lads, Part 309 Part 309: Nightcap It was well after midnight when the coach passed through the sleepy edges of the city and shifted north into the suburb that held the club's training campus; the manager, Howe, had insisted on the late return journey to avoid limiting tomorrow's training opportunities. Tonight's disappointing loss to Liverpool was already in the past, but the gaffer was thinking about their Saturday fixture against Crystal Palace, keen to grab a win. A mixture of last-minute defeat and the late travel had seen the NUFC squad clamber gloomily onto the coach and spend the cross-country trip in relative silence, with many stirring from naps as the vehicle rolled into the car park of the training ground to drop them off and part ways. Near the front of the vehicle, Kieran Trippier blinked sleepily and wrinkled his nose, briefly disoriented as he tried to remember what he'd been dreaming about, then snapping to as he saw the signage of the Newcastle United buildings nearby and the floodlit rows of parked expensive cars. His brain briefly replayed the night's events at Anfield and he scowled slightly at the fact their single point had been denied in extra time after what had so nearly been a 1-1 draw. Not to worry, the 31-year-old told himself confidently, stretching and flexing his tracksuit-clad body against the coach seat and then lifting up onto his knees to stare up and down the aisle of the parking bus, taking in the sleepy quiet of his stirring teammates. Just one loss, he thought optimistically, trying not to get too frustrated or dismayed by the unsuccessful away trip to Merseyside, and knowing that many of the less experienced players would need help with their attitude too. Trippier was near the front, and one of the first off the bus, hopping from foot to foot in the cool misty dark of the car park, waking his stocky body up and cricking assorted joints that had seized up a bit on the long drive back to the North East. The Mancunian guy was a natural leader, and had really taken it upon himself to support and encourage many of his less successful teammates as a key part of the `new' Newcastle. He lingered near the doors of the bus, ready to reach out and clap at the shoulders of passing lads as they dismounted the coach and drifted across the car park. From a congratulatory hug with their shiny new singing Alexander Isak, who had scored their solitary goal against Liverpool, to massaging supportively at the shoulders of dejected-looking Scottish winger Ryan Fraser; from a sturdy handshake with the night's goalkeeper, Nick Pope, to a conciliatory embrace with their Paraguayan forward, Miguel Almiron - Kieran busied himself with lifting the gloom as the defeated players handed kit bags over to a junior coach by the side of the car park, and fell into their various cliques and huddles before beginning to make moves for their cars to drive home. Trippier saw it as one of the main things he'd brought to Tyneside when he became Newcastle's first big-money purchase under their dubious new ownership - the calm confidence of his long career, from the Premiership into La Liga, and internationally with the Three Lions. Sure, a fat paycheck helped, but the Manchester City youth graduate saw Newcastle as the potential peak of his senior years, where he could help to establish a whole new ethos and reputation at the team that had yo-yoed in and out of the Premier League for years. It had been that opportunity to make himself into something of a club legend that had lured Kieran away from the Spanish sunshine, really. The 31-year-old eyed up the youngest member of tonight's travelling squad, and honed in on 19-year-old Elliot Anderson, approaching and greeting the Geordie lad with a pat to the arm and a stern nod. `You alright, mate?' he said warmly to the Premiership newbie, a homegrown talent who was just joining the senior squad here after a season away on loan. Anderson gave him a weary nod. `Fine,' he said, but a bit quietly and distantly, a grim set to his rugged young features, still shouldering his kit bag and rubbing at his face. Trippier pulled his arm about the broad shoulders of the other 5ft10 guy, giving the Newcastle youngster a slight hug from the side, and dropping his voice to a conspiratorial level. `Don't take it too hard, you did well when you were subbed on, alright?' he assured the midfield back-up. `Nobody saw that second goal coming from Liverpool, we had them locked down for most of the second half. We nearly got that point, but we can't dwell on it, got to look ahead to smashing up Palace, okay?' Elliot looked at him levelly, beginning to stifle a yawn. `Sure,' he agreed in a non-committal growl of his local accent, and Kieran suddenly became aware of another figure standing close to the kid, looming over them both. `He's fine,' interrupted the voice of this other bloke, moving a step closer to them both and staring now at Kieran with a stormy look on his frowning face. `We've already had a chat on the coach, bit of a de-brief,' Trippier was informed, and he found himself smiling uncertainly up into the face of the longstanding club captain, Jamaal Lascelles. Next to him, Elliot was slipping away from his loose hug, addressing them both as he repeated, `Yeah, I'll be okay guys, thanks though - just looking ahead to Saturday, aye...' And the teenager was drifted away from them with heavy steps, leaving the two senior blokes staring each other down for a long moment. Kieran raised his eyebrows, squaring up to the 6ft2 wall of a man now facing him, a bit surprised by the moody expression on his face and the quite confrontational posture of his big body, facing up to him in identical tracksuit jerseys. Trippier was about to make some simple comment about how he was just checking in with their inexperienced young pal, but Lascelles was barging past him, their shoulders briefly connecting in a manner that felt too firm to be accidental, and the well-built football captain was moving away in the direction of the manager and assistants who were still at the coach doors, in hunched conference. For a moment, Trippier stared after him, a little dazed and surprised, but quickly registering the problem here: he'd donned the captain's armband himself on a few recent occasions where the big centre-back had sat on the subs bench, and clearly Jamaal was starting to worry. Kieran laughed quietly at this prospect of rivalry, and glanced the other way, glad to see Elliot Anderson drifting towards a few of the other younger players from tonight's line-up, and hearing vague peals of laughter from those guys, as the footballers recovered from a disappointing road trip, and unwound for the night. The conflicted attention of two captains had barely registered with Anderson himself, barely awake after a fretful nap on the coach, and now just wanting to get himself home and tucked up in bed. The 19-year-old fist-bumped casually with Joe Willock and Sean Longstaff and then ambled away from the 20-something fellow midfielders, casting his eyes around the chilly car park and trying to remember which players were most likely to be driving in the direction of the coast. The young local was still working towards passing his driving test, despite having splashed out on his own luxury motor almost a year ago, but he was a good few lessons away from sitting the test again and getting behind the wheel on his own. In a moment, he caught sight of Fraser moving past him towards the far side of the car park, and he hurried after the diminutive older player, calling him as he did. `Hey, Fraze,' he panted, quickly catching up with the shorter guy and falling into step with him, `is it alreet if I grab a ride home with you, man?' The 28-year-old glanced distractedly at him, a grumpy expression shrouding his scruffily bearded features, and then coming to a short pause. `Oh - sure, sure, no bother,' the Aberdeen man said gruffly, seeming to shake himself and take stock of the situation. `Sorry, lad, I shoulda thought to offer.' He forced a smile over his match-weary expression and Anderson just nodded eagerly at him. `Aw, no bother,' Elliot told the other attacking player. `I forgot to sort anything out, when the gaffer changed the plan and cancelled the hotel stay, ya kna.' He shrugged apologetically. `Otherwise I'd have got me mam or dad to come out to grab me or whatever.' He paused, shifting self-consciously with his hands shoved into the pockets of his tracksuit top, always hating to feel like the kid next to these more independent and established blokes who he played with these days; his year in Bristol had been a helpful transition, but he was still adjusting to leaving the Newcastle youth ranks behind. `It's no bother,' Fraser assured him again. `You're pretty much on my way.' This was not 100% true, but the Scot was one of several generous teammates who had offered to ferry the teen about in these first few weeks of the new season, picking up or dropping him off around the busy schedule of training and matchdays. `Cheers,' Elliot said in relief, following the strikingly short winger in the direction of his jarringly large Jeep, shuffling along next to the 5ft4 guy and glancing back to the thinning presence in the car park, unsure if he should say any more goodbyes before disappearing, but now just keen to make use of Fraser's kindness. The Scottish guy's grumpy demeanour returned as he unlocked the doors with a beep and allowed them to climb up into the front seats of the chunky vehicle, but Anderson could hardly blame him - they were all pissed off not to come away from Anfield with a lucky draw, having travelled there with fairly low expectations in the first place, in light of Liverpool's recent 9-0 orgy over Bournemouth, 9 goals seeming to hammer premature nails into Scott Parker's managerial coffin. A draw away to Liverpool would have felt like a win, but that surprise second goal had sent them home with tails between their legs, and Elliot was as dismayed as every other guy who had shared that coach. He pressed a hand to his mouth and fought back another yawn, trying to turn his thoughts to what the skipper and Trippier had said to him minutes ago, encouraging him to look ahead to Saturday and Palace instead, yep. And before that... man, he needed his kip. Not far from the growl of Fraser's Jeep engine, Jamaal Lascelles was opening up the driver's door to his own BMW, and then pausing when he looked across the roof of the vehicle and came face-to-face with the square bulldog features of Kieran Trippier, regarding him almost accusingly from the other side of the car. The Derbyshire-born centre-back stopped, key in hand, and took a couple of long breaths before demanding, `What?' to the teammate he'd glared daggers at just five minutes ago. Trippier raised one eyebrow, regarding him critically. `Mate, can we talk?' the broad 5ft10 right-back asked with stiff politeness in his rather nasal Manc accent. Resting forwards with one sleeved arm on the cold metal car roof, Jamaal took his time to answer, continuing to stare impassively across at the other player, his large muscular frame bristling with many months of slow-burning resentment. `Sure,' the established captain answered levelly, not taking his eyes away from Kieran's, and pushing his car key back into the tight pocket of his trackies. `I can give you a minute before I need to hit the road,' he said with exaggerated reasonableness. `A minute might do,' he was told, `but I feel like we might need a longer chat, eh?' Lascelles leaned back from the edge of his car, pulling himself to his full 6ft2 height and impressively stacked shoulders, giving the other player a meaner look and then shrugging those weighty muscles at either side of him. `It's late,' he said sharply. He looked about, watching one car at a time growl out of the gates and onto the roads that would take them back into Newcastle city centre or out to the various Northumberland retreats where they lived with their families. `Can't this wait until tomorrow at training?' the centre-back asked bluntly, turning his unfriendly gaze back towards the impish newcomer. `Huh, maybe. But I'd rather clear the air now.' Lascelles nodded his head slowly, holding the serious expression on his face and pushing both hands into his pockets before stepping idly about the front of his car and coming around close to the other player, standing face-to-face with him and pleased to tower a solid few inches above him, aware of his impressive physical presence as he faced the Atletico Madrid investment. But as he did, his moody expression flickered and the confrontational set of his tall body wavered; it was Trippier's simple polite phrasing, `clear the air', and the dramatic floodlit car park setting, both making the 28-year-old feel faintly ridiculous. He'd known it was stupid, ever since Trippier arrived on Tyneside, to resent or mistrust the talented fellow defender, the first of several cautious acquisitions by the new club management; known it was unsporting and selfish to worry about the competition for space and status, when his priority should simply be the future success of NUFC. But ego is ego, and Jamaal was far from the only seasoned Magpie who had watched the Saudi takeover with a little insecurity - now they were potentially the richest club in the League, how long would the players of the old regime last before being put to pasture...? Now he was stood in an increasingly deserted car park, facing off against the suspected rival for his captaincy, the man who the bosses seem to place so much trust in, who had already worn his armband on a few occasions, and who had fussed about tonight trying to console every other player with his platitudes and bland encouragement... It was obvious, Jamaal thought, that Kieran was a threat to his position, in fact was almost definitely making an active bid for the captaincy now. Despite feeling somewhat ridiculous in the moment, Lascelles was not going to make the conversation straightforward for him. `What do you mean, clear the air?' he asked gruffly, now folding his thick arms over the broad plateau of his chest, pecs evident through the zipped-up tracksuit top. `I don't know what you're on about, fella.' Trippier made a whistling little noise in reply to this outright lie, matching his posture and folding his own arms. There was nothing confrontational, however, when he spoke, his voice low and friendly. `How do I convince you that I'm not a threat, eh?' the broad 5ft10 man asked simply, giving him a weak smile. The request was annoyingly disarming, and it just made Lascelles scowl even more evidently at him, unable to keep himself looking neutral and aloof. He could hear the last of the other cars vanishing out of the gates and away into the dark night. `So, let's have this out here...' he began, an aggressive edge creeping into his own usually mild-mannered speech, taking a step closer to this imposter, this wannabe, this challenger, and- `Here?' grunted the Manc guy sceptically. `Huh. There's a pub on the edge of Gosforth that'll still be open for one, if you fancy a late pint, mate. I thought we could just chat it out over that, like a pair of gents.' He shrugged, and his features tightened around an uncertain smile, and the captain could only stare awkwardly back at him, the wind taken from his sails. Fraser spoke rapidly as he motored the pair of them home over the quiet dark roads, half-aware that he was more or less speaking to himself; Anderson was slumped somewhat in the passenger seat, head resting at the window, and looked like he might slip into sleep before he could be delivered to his own North Tyneside home. But the 28-year-old Scot chatted on anyway, because he was pretty wiped out too, and he just needed to stay lively until he had dropped this oaf off and made it back to his own place in the next coastal town up the coast, conveniently placed for rest day getaways up towards the Scottish border and meetings with family and friends in the home country. `Still, we'll get a win on Saturday, I can feel it,' Ryan mouthed to the insides of his car, scrutinising the road signs to make sure he got the right turn-off for Whitley Bay. `Everybody will be raring for it, after tonight, and I cannae see Palace putting up much of a fight, don't you think?' He glanced furtively across at Elliot, who shifted against the car window and nodded his head slowly. `Aye,' the youth grumbled. `That'll be right.' `I reckon I'll be on the bench,' Fraser thought aloud. `I reckon there'll be a few squad changes though, to try and support Isak and getting him scoring a few more, y'know. And' - here he hesitated suddenly - `they're saying that big Cal might even be fit already by the weekend, and joining the new guy up front to really make sure we don't settle for a draw...' And he trailed off, hands on the wheel and eyes on the road, but mind drifting momentarily, as it often did when he found himself thinking about Callum Wilson. His attention wandered only briefly, but long enough to miss the turning, and swear loudly when he realised. This jolted the 19-year-old in the passenger seat into fuller consciousness, and though Anderson politely refrained from complaining, he scowled sleepily through the windscreen and looked vaguely worried as Fraser quickly explained that he'd take the next turning and circle back and it would only be a few minutes' difference anyway. He laughed nervously and cursed his own attention, thinking that he ought to be a bit more careful on the road at this hour. Dammit. It had been a long time since anything happened with Wilson, anyway, and he should really be over that awkward phase by now. The two of them, once close friends, barely hung out any more outside of their football environment, and so it should be relatively easy for him to let go of those memories of that first season together here at Newcastle, and the dawn kiss on the south coast that had preceded it. For months, hazy intimacy had simmered between the two Bournemouth-turned-Newcastle teammates, never properly discussed, but igniting whenever they ended up sharing a hotel room on an away trip, with the stocky little Scotsman crawling into the bed of the big mixed-race hunk and doing what he could to quietly bring him to climax in the sweaty confines of another temporary bed, always feeling dirty and unsure in the following morning. As abruptly as it had begun, the nocturnal connection between the two football players had fizzled away, and the end of the experimenting had been as absent from direct conversation as anything that had taken place before... Except, that is, for the way Wilson had immediately began to distance himself from Fraser in their social life, and conveniently never seeming to be his roommate any more on away fixtures or their summer tours. Ryan tried to put these thoughts away, glaring at a map screen on the dashboard, and navigating a convoluted new zigzag back towards Whitley Bay and the estate of new-builds where he had previously collected and dropped off his frowning passenger. `It's right here,' Anderson told him, an awkward hint of impatience in his voice as he corrected Fraser at the next roundabout and guided him onto the right side-street to access his estate and its bleak coastal view. `Right, aye. Sorry. Here we are.' The car pulled up at the edge of a long gravel drive, leading up to the tall narrow new-build, blanketed in darkness but for a single security light by the front door. The local kid lived here with his family, not yet opting for some flashy bachelor pad in the Toon, and Ryan yawned as he examined the view from behind the wheel. Blinking, he glanced to the left, and found his young passenger staring at him - for a moment, he assumed that the ungrateful whelp was annoyed at him for his slow commute and over-reacting to the five-minute delay of taking the wrong turn-off, and he was about to make some sarcastic comment about his lack of driving licence or his lame living arrangements with his folks. But Elliot then gave him a worried look and coughed politely. `Do ya, er, wanna come in for a cuppa, or summat?' the lad asked. `Or - you could leave the car here and order a taxi. Just - you seem a bit tired to be driving at this time, is all. Erm.' The spotty teenager scratched a little at his cheeks, frowning self-consciously after this indirect criticism, and the offer suddenly seemed so charming that Ryan laughed gruffly at him and itched thoughtfully at his beard. His first instinct was to laugh off the concern, thinking that it was only a short trip up the coast to the village he called home, but he hesitated, thinking about how his thoughts had wondered just now - drifting from the car and the road, and slipping away through heated physical remembrance of Callum's powerful body beside him beneath bed-covers, wordless but affectionate. `Hmm. Maybe you're right,' the winger admitted in a quiet murmur. `I'd say just crash here,' Elliot muttered, `but there isn't a spare room at the minute, man, and I dunno if you wanna kip on a sofa then get up for training, huh.' He grimaced apologetically, fiddling with the zip of his jersey at his neckline. `You did seem really knackered back there on the road, like.' Ryan nodded slowly. `You're right,' he said vaguely. `I don't have far to go,' he added uncertainly, his eyes briefly distracted by thoughts of just how well built this lad was, sat there with developing muscles bulging through clingy nylon, something very grown-up about his looks and build, as if he could pass for a lot older than nineteen. It was something about the way the young player now stretched and flexed beside him, still recovering from his short appearance in the game, before opening up the passenger door and hovering with one thick leg jutting out onto the gravel - it drew Ryan's attention to the 5ft10 youngster's size and build, his worried rugged looks, his surprising and charming maturity. `Heh, maybe I'll call that taxi,' he said in a thoughtful sigh, turning off the engine and opening his own door. `The Jeep won't be in anyone's way if I leave it here?' Anderson was shaking his head so he got out of the car after him, pushing the door shut and clicking the lock, then following his younger colleague up the crunching path toward the house. `I dunno about a cuppa,' he yawned, `but I could go for something stronger whilst I wait on the taxi, haha. What d'ya say, kid, can I get a nightcap?' He trudged closer to the glow of the entrance, and Elliot gave him an ambiguous glance in the half-light. `Oh - er, sure. Good idea.' His expression was uncertain, as if worried about how long the taxi wait would be, or wondering what his parents would think of this late-night intrusion, and Fraser was more aware of how young and clueless the youth academy hero was after all, despite his rugged blokey appearance. Still, he thought wearily at the doorstep, look at the shape of that arse in his tracksuit, fuckin' hell... Last orders had rung just as he got their pints in, but the two of them had nursed the drinks quite slowly in a narrow booth to one side of the small pub, and the staff seemed in no hurry to rush out them or any of the other quietly tipsy customers occupying the roadside inn. Still, Kieran spoke quickly and forcefully, determined to make his points, and by the time the two men were supping at the dregs of their lager, Jamaal was wearing a relatively embarrassed limp smile and the newer signing was patting him heavily on one of his big shoulders. `You see, I'm not after it,' Trippier emphasised to him, having made this point in a variety of manners over the past thirty minutes. `Sure, I'm happy to step in when I need to, and I'm happy to be a more experienced shoulder for some of the other guys to lean on, but... YOU'RE the captain here, big man, and I've no interest in changing that, seriously.' He bumped his fist against the tabletop as he repeated, `You - are - the - cap - tain. Mate, the respect these guys have for you, and the fans, it's obvious, so you do NOT need to worry...! Not about me, not at all.' He stared earnestly at the bloke across from him and picked up his pint to drain the last of the amber liquid. Lascelles went to speak back to him but just huffed and closed his mouth and shook his head slightly. The 6ft2 brute of a man was hunched forward with his thick arms folded on the sticky tabletop and his fingers tracing limply against the side of his near-empty pint glass. Eventually, he sighed, `I'm sorry, bruv. I got in my head about it all. It was...' He huffed grumpily and Trippier just smiled sympathetically over at him, careful not to appear too patronising or dismissive. `It was some stuff in the papers, that's all, rubbish in the rags. Saying you were... ah. I dunno. Fuck.' `I'm not looking to cause any trouble, never have been,' he assured the slightly younger player, pulling his hand back and folding them in front of him on the table. `Bud, I'm just trying to make things work up here, is that not proper obvious? I am loving it, this is the most fun and challenge I've had since my Burnley days. Fuck Spurs and Atletico, I wanna be a legend in black-and-white, y'know. This is it for me, this is the big one.' `Huh, sure,' murmured Jamaal with a slow nod. `Me too,' added, a touch defensively, and Trippier nodded fiercely at him. `Yeah, we're both gonna take these guys places,' Kieran insisted, sitting back in the booth and relaxing his tired body a little. `Team like this, the way things had been, they need more than one leader, don't you think? Mate, we're like... I dunno. Co-captains. But, but-' quickly correcting himself, `YOU are the skipper, big man, and I'll be your deputy. We can get them winning games like tonight, Liverpool or City or any bunch of dicks, whoever.' Another slow nod of understanding from the captain, whose tattooed arms bulged out of the sleeves of his dark t-shirt. He rubbed a hand lazily against his face, a slight blush of embarrassment still colouring his cheeks. `Ah bruv,' he sighed, `I've really let this get out of hand. I'm sorry - I've been pretty off with you all year, I reckon, and I shouldn't have been like that...' `Nah, nah, it's fine,' Kieran said, pretending the other man's ire hadn't been increasingly obvious since late spring. `It's great that we could have this drink and clear the air, ain't it? I wouldn't want to be making anyone uncomfortable, that ain't my style. Hey, we should hang out more,' he added brightly, `and that way we can really work together to keep the team at their best, yeah? What do ya say?' He clinked his empty pint glass noisily against Jamaal's, then watched as the Derby lad downed the last of his. `Tch, I just wish we could grab a second one here,' he added in a low chuckle. Lascelles blocked a deep yawn with a rolled fist, laughing noiselessly at this. `Maybe,' he agreed tentatively, `but I'm fucking done in, and tomorrow will be hard work. I need to be getting home, not stewing in this shit-hole til sunrise.' Despite his tough talk, Kieran could see the relaxed smile on his handsome features and knew that in his furtive lecturing, he'd gotten through to the other guy and convinced him. Of course, Trippier knew that Lascelles' fears weren't ENTIRELY unfounded, the thought had crossed his mind at times that the gaffer might transfer the responsibility to him more permanently, with the big centre-back often benched at the moment. But everything he'd said to the more established Magpie was true: he wasn't particularly interested in snatching that armband off him and making anything official. Kieran was here to win and make a difference, and he was just as confident in doing that as a respectable lieutenant to whoever took the burden of captain on their shoulders, especially if they were as big and capable as this lad's. `So,' he said with a smile, `I take it that's a no to flirting with that old granny barmaid until she allows us another cheeky pint, eh?' `A definite no!' the younger man laughed at him, patting a firm hand on the table. `I got to be moving, bruv. It's a bit of a drive over to my place by the river, and I'm not sure I should have had that one. But... thanks for this. It's...' He seemed to struggle for the right word and Trippier just shrugged pleasantly at him, bumping knuckles with his fist. `Say no more, skip.' He felt a sense of relief and refreshed determination as he got up and pulled his tracksuit top on over his slim-fitting white t-shirt, through which his soft nipples poked visibly on the front of his broad chest. The bigger lad ambled past him and he made a flirty gesture to the old dear behind the bar, thanking her, and noting that she was still in no rush to clear out the other drinkers, all ageing Geordie men who looked like they'd been supping here since last century. `Hold up, I need a wazz,' the Mancunian right-back called cheerily as he followed his captain through a low-ceilinged passage to the exit, eyeing the gendered stick man on the black door to the gents'. Ahead of him, the lofty figure of his teammate paused and glanced back, blinking briefly as if reminded of the existence of his own full bladder. As Trippier shoved open the door into the loos, he found the other Toon player shuffling in after him, muttering, `Yep, same, better piss here than on the drive home.' The 31-year-old City graduate whistled optimistically as he moved in on the cramped toilet space's metallic gutter trough of urinal, positioning himself at one side of it whilst the big frame of his captain occupied the other. Kieran loosened the drawstring of his sweatpants and pushed them down at the front to scoop his chubby cock and tight balls out from inside his trunks, angling his equipment at the scummy wall of metal before loosing his stream against it with a mild splash. And then, quite innocently at first, he let his whistling face swing slightly to the right, and cast a cursory glance down at his neighbour doing the same - it was hardly the first time he'd seen the big dark snake between Jamaal's tense knuckles, but it was certainly the first opportunity he'd had to pause and observe it properly. His vague whistled tune turned, almost automatically, into a little wit-woo of appreciation, and the taller man turned his head sharply this way to give him a look that was puzzled and surprised, but not quite... offended. `We both know who's in charge, with that thing swinging in your shorts,' Trippier laughed mildly, leaning back slightly as he jetted his piss into the trough. `Leave it out,' Lascelles chuckled, a hunched awkward giant at his side, holding that long brown pipe and splashing his own urine down into the shared gutter, while Kieran just sniggered and whistled and stared ahead for thirty seconds before turning and giving a more open, examining stare at his neighbour's meat. `Big lad, big lad,' he echoed in a singsong voice. `Yeah, all in proportion,' Jamaal boasted, but quietly, stiffly. `True,' chirped Kieran lightly. `But still, what a monster.' `Alright, give it a rest.' Kieran had finished now, cock and balls hanging over the front of his waistband, hands paused just over his crotch, at the hem of his t-shirt, and eyes flicking from the sag of the captain's cock and then back up to his quite gormless face of self-conscious pride. Kieran winked at him, and smirked, and started reaching over slowly, moving his hand inch by inch across the gap that divided their bodies - slow enough that he could yank it back and cackle happily as soon as he saw any danger in the other man's reaction, ready to call this a prank, but nope, Jamaal was almost relaxing, and parting his big hands gently from their hold on his hanging prick, clearing the way... and Trippier could take it gently in his palm and fingers, feeling its soft thickness, giving it the softest tug, and locking eyes with the other man at the urinals, smirking interestedly. He nodded slowly, giving it another gentle pull, and measuring the level of horror on the other bloke's face: low. `How's that feelin', captain?' he asked in a low voice. Jamaal just nodded silently, then slowly moved his gaze down, to look at the hand that had found his snake. Kieran squeezed it a little more firmly inside his grip, and ran his thumb along the side of the fat shaft. `Cos it feels pretty fuckin' good in my hand, skipper.' Elliot Anderson stared sleepily at the contents of his parents' home bar, at the back of the house's rear lounge, not so familiar with the myriad of old-fashioned liqueurs and fortified wines that cluttered the two shelves, more a fan of IPAs and the odd cocktail with his lad mates or girlfriend down by the Quayside. He glanced tentatively back across the room, which he had led his friend into because he thought their deep voices were less likely to wake anyone upstairs; Ryan Fraser was perched in one of the old-fashioned armchairs that, in daylight, would look out onto the small back garden and its sheer drop onto the seafront, but in the early hours of the morning just felt gloomy and dim in the light of a single standing lamp. `Just looking up a cab firm,' he heard the Scotsman mutter from his seat, and he turned back to the selection of drinks. He picked up two small tumbler glasses from the selection, and then stopped fussing, grabbing at a bottle of whiskey, not something he'd ever tried to warm his buds to, but what he assumed an Aberdeen fella like this might expect as a `nightcap'. He didn't risk presenting the bottle to Fraser, vaguely aware that it might be the wrong type or the wrong blend or the wrong vintage or, fuck, the wrong spirit altogether. Instead, he just put the two glasses on top of the home bar and unscrewed the lid, which rasped noisily against the glass of the bottle, then sloshed into the glasses in brief spurts, Elliot suddenly aware that his youth football career had preclude the bar work that occupied most of his school pals. Next problem: did fuckers have ice with their scotch, and would there be any cubes in the freezer...? But suddenly the 19-year-old was aware of the teammate near him, though he hadn't heard him get up from the armchair or cross the room. Ryan had the phone pressed to the side of his face, stood close at his side by the bar so that the six inches' difference in their heights was particularly apparent. Frowning at an invisible audience as he listened to a voice on the other end of the phone, Fraser snatched up one of the glasses - ah, no ice, then - and stood firmly there at his side, making a little snort. `Well, that company aren't as 24 fuckin' hours as their website claims,' the Scot grunted disappointedly. Elliot awkwardly picked up his own glass, wondering if this would taste as vaguely unpleasant and throat-burning as his other experiences of supping the stuff with his dad at family events, trying to `put hairs on his chest' and join the older generation of the Anderson clan. He was just about to take a cautious sip when he saw Fraser, still frowning, throw the whole generous measure back in one go, downing it all and making a satisfied rasp of breath before dumping it back down on the top of the bar. Fuck, he thought, and copied him. `Ugh,' he couldn't help but groan, feeling the fire in his gullet, and clutching the near-empty glass in his right hand, grimacing. Suddenly, Ryan was laughing, a throaty growling laugh that was a bit louder than he'd like with his family asleep upstairs, but he was making as much noise himself, coughing and flinching as he willed the burning sensation to pass from his mouth and the back of his throat. Then Fraser's hand was on his upper back, patting and rubbing him there, and the little guy was chuckling at his side. When the coughing fit had subsided, the winger smirked at him. `Ye'll develop a taste for it in time, laddie.' `That's what me da says.' `And it'll put hairs on yer chest, haha.' `He says THAT too,' Elliot complained, but through an awkward smile. He became more aware of the hand that remained on his back, reaching up and flat between the muscles around his shoulderblades, pressing his warm skin through the thin grey t-shirt there. And he was aware of the thoughtful smile through Ryan's red-brown beard, curling mischievously against that furry backdrop. `What?' the 19-year-old demanded in a quiet mutter, though a part of him already knew the question that hung in the air between them. As young as he was, he was not naive, or not as naive as others around him might assume. He had made his first steps in the senior line-up over his late teens, gradually becoming used to the swaggering egos and strange dynamics of other senior players at his club... and he'd seen some flashes of strangeness in the steam of the showers, once or twice in particular, back when Andy Carroll had still been here, an idol of Elliott's childhood who had never fulfilled his potential. Anderson saw himself as Carroll version 2, the next local hero out of Tyneside; the next Alan Shearer, to be blunt. He could feel Fraser drawing slightly closer to him, still touching his back. He remained still, unsure what he thought of their closeness in the dimly lit back room of the house, with his folks asleep just above, and all of this heavy tiredness hanging on them both, the frustration of defeat in their chests... `What?' the teen asked again, his voice a bit more hard and determined. `Nowt, lad,' murmured the winger. `Just... pour me another shot of that scotch, will ya?' Elliot was trying to appear unfazed, but the bottle exposed the tremor of his right hand, spilling a drop on the lacquered wooden surface. Ryan didn't comment on it, just taking the glass. Elliot hesitated but refilled his own, a smaller amount, and then took it up reluctantly, meeting eyes with the other player before gulping it back begrudgingly. He'd heard things about Ryan Fraser. Heard things about a handful of fellas at the club, like the major rumour that Paul Dummett was in a proper gay relationship with one of the back-up goalies, and that him and Carroll had once had some weird thing going on; ripples of this passed through the senior squad and the youth academy, muttered disapproval and curiosity by those on the fringes. He'd heard a couple of things said about Fraser and Wilson being a bit TOO close, `if you know what I mean, like', but he'd never been able to believe that of big Cal; Fraser, though, had something wild and chaotic about him, and almost anything was believable, so... `Sit down,' said Ryan, sudden and quiet, and he jerked his head in a nod to the nearer of the two armchairs, `and knock that lamp off a minute, will ya?' The 19-year-old found him in a moment of decision-making, and he would have struggled with it if not for the power of sleep and whiskey, making his strong young body sluggish and placid, ready to give in and be serviced. In one movement, he tugged on the string control of the lamp, plunging them into darkness, and he let his weary body flop into the nearby armchair, sinking into its cushions, and hearing Fraser's breath draw close to him as his eyes adjusted to the dark - and then there were hands just above his knees, feeling his muscle through the sweatpants, and it began. The two of them had pulled away from the grimy urinal and barged into a cramped single cubicle that barely contained them, not much less dangerous than remaining in the main space of the gents'. But Lascelles, stood over the closed toilet lid, could reach with one of his strong inked arms and grip his fingers against the rattling lock of the cubicle door, holding it shut so that Trippier's hunched form didn't knock it flying open with his jutting arse as he stooped and wrapped his lips about the captain's hard cock. Jamaal gasped and did his best to stay quiet, pressing one elbow to the cool wall, and keeping his other arm outstretched to hold the lock, just standing there and enjoying it, his pants and sweats around his lower calves, huge thick leg muscles exposed, two dark trunks of strength, with Kieran's head bobbing back and forth between the bulge of his thighs, lavishing oral attention on a cock that hadn't seen action in too many weekends. The blowjob was too good and desperately needed for the married father to question or challenge it, certainly he hadn't even paused for a second to consider refusing it, and telling the other footballer to fuck off and stop fooling around. Here the England international was, crouched before him, tonguing his foreskin and gripping the base of his rocket, sucking and licking luxuriously at his tool after admiring it over the urinal, then bringing it quickly to attention and pretty much dragging Jamaal in here by the dick. Jesus, he thought, this was mad, but this was right, this was what he needed. He willed himself to be quick and knew this would be the case, so loaded up with tension and need. Either he or his missus was always too tired at night, these days, with family life and football commitments draining energy and opportunity, and leaving the big lusty man so unsatisfied in that department, not like the good old days of their early 20s. Jamaal breathed out his sighs of pleasure, stopping the louder groans or exclamations that he might have emitted in a different setting, and also not reaching down to grab and hold Kieran's head like he might to a slutty girl, a big fan of throat-fucking and the sound of gagging. He didn't know how rough he could be with this mad fucker, could hardly believe that the team's new-ish star was into this kinda shit. But Jamaal had speculated idly on it for years, not Trippier in particular, but pumped-up athletic men in general. He couldn't help but think back to a day's golf with a would-be mentor, the great Alan Shearer trying to pass him some advice about captaining the Magpies, and then... In his mind, Jamaal was back in the passenger seat of a car, stared at in that strange way by the ageing hero. He could remember Alan's thick fingers under his gooch, probing at his arse, and how many times had he wondered about that over the past two years since...? Then, with a violent need, he let go of the door handle, took the risk, and reached not for Kieran's head to fuck his lips, but for one of his clutching hands, clinging to the side of his thigh, and yanked it around instead, pushing it against his clenched glutes. In a low growl, he leaned down slightly and begged, `Play with my arse, mate.' In the dark, it could be anyone sucking him off right now, thought Elliot; his eyes were half-closed and still hadn't adjusted to the inky texture of the night. It could be his girlfriend down between his bare thighs, or some hot bitch from a Newcastle club, or a pornstar from one of the websites. It could be anyone! Well, except for when he felt Ryan Fraser's tufty facial hair tickle at the inside of his thighs or the skin of his low-hanging balls, as the gasping Scotsman slobbered over his aching prick and sucked him as if his life depended on it. The 19-year-old sat there stock still, hands clutching the arms of the chair, and back and neck pressed firmly against its cushions. Eyes almost closed, mouth hanging partly open, lips dry. Chest muscles rising and falling beneath the t-shirt that he still wore, pushing Ryan's hands away when the older lad tried to start tugging it off him and getting him fully starkers in the armchair. He sat there and let it happen. Was he enjoying it? ...Yes. Was that bad? Maybe. Weird? Perhaps. Was he drunk, from the two scotch whiskeys? Already? Surely not. Just mad with tiredness, and- Fuck, he'd never had that before, he thought, as one by one his fat bollocks were taken into the wet mouth and sucked away from his body in brief drags, then allowed to hang once more before the tickle of beard on his dick and then the enclosing massage of lips up and down the shaft. He grunted out his breaths, part of his strained consciousness becoming more and more aware of the sleepers in the rest of the house, the exposure of this back lounge with its big windows, and the fact that he had quietly consented to this dirty deed without much thought or difficulty. He'd been ponderously aware of this sort of stuff, yeah, but he'd thought of it as the mad territory of desperate older fellas, not young lads like him with a busy social life and a hot new girlfriend most months... `Cum for me,' growled Ryan's voice, ruining the magic darkness in which it could be any hot babe on his dick. Nope, it was a rugged little Scotsman with a filthy mouth. `Cum for me,' hissed the little fella. `Shoot yer big load in my mouth, you dirty cunt.' Did Elliot like the dirty talk from the cock-sucking bully-boy? He didn't really know, but maybe his fat balls did, because he could feel himself getting closer and closer. Ryan's hands were rubbing aggressively on his smooth thigh muscles and he could really hear the snort and gag of his breathing as he went up and down the length of the shaft, all of it hidden form Elliot's eyes because he refused to fully open them and let them adjust to the night; he let himself stay blind, his body pulsing with heat and pleasure, as his balls finally gave up, and he released his sticky young seed against the back of the older man's throat, giving him what his filthy voice had begged for. Trippier was gunning for the same goal, wanking the cock at its base with one hand now, and only playing his mouth and tongue against the head of the big thing, desperate for a taste of his salty release on his own tongue. And with his other hand, he was reaching between the thighs, a single digit pushing inside the tight sweaty ring of the man's chunky arse, prodding him up there at his request, and excited by the feel of his muscles clamping about his index finger as he did, thrilled at this further boundary crossed with his teammate, surely bringing him closer and closer to climax. Growing up in Bury and moving from the City academy to Burnley and then Tottenham Hotspurs, he'd remained incurious and conventional, a lad's lad with a strong appetite for pussy, of which there was always so much to choose from. And then he'd landed on the Continent, making his exciting leap into La Liga... and somehow, at one party or another, his oblivious eyes had been opened. There had been no shortage of potential playmates in Madrid, he'd discovered, feeding his cock to hungry mouths in the back alleys behind swish nightclubs, or going dangerously further on discreet sun terraces on midweek afternoons. By the time the Trippiers were jetting back to the UK for his Newcastle deal, Kieran would describe himself as quite confidently bisexual, no major hang-ups or worries about his late 20s discovery for man-to-man enjoyment. Of course, he'd assumed, that sorta shit didn't go much in boring conventional England, and the prospect had almost kept him in sunny Madrid. Guys over here were so repressed, popular wisdom and Spanish amigos told him. He'd never get that kinda side-action in his new role at Newcastle, he'd believed, but the career ambition of it had eclipsed that minor problem. After all, he loved his beautiful wife, and their sex life had survived with full passion, defying the cliches. But here he was, kneeling in a pub toilet, noshing off this big stud, this lad so straitlaced in hsi view, who was not only feeding him his big cock, but allowing him to frig his tight little hole to bring him over the edge. Fuck, Kieran thought, maybe I can find more than my career peak in this frigid little city! There it was: Jamaal's cum in his mouth, hot spurts of it on his tongue, and a tighter clamping of that arsehole about his one dirty finger. Trippier lapped at the sticky mess, taking lots of it in his mouth and laughing eagerly as he did, listening to the big man's heavy groans that sounded as dismayed as relieved. He knew he'd find a regretful frown as soon as he looked up, but he just smirked back with sticky shiny lips, and gently retrieved his one finger from between those rock-hard chunky glutes. Trippier stood up, and he didn't quite come face to face with his 6ft2 skipper. Lascelles stared awkwardly at him before losing the ability to maintain eye contact. He was reaching around him to unbolt the door and push it outward. Kieran sniggered and looked down, fondling the outline of his erection in his trackies. He looked back to Jamaal, who was nervously noticing this too, and perhaps doing some thinking. `Don't worry,' he whispered to the other bloke, `I'll save that for Mrs Trip when I get home, wake her up and cum inside her, okay?' He laughed and patted the sweaty chest of the bigger man's t-shirt, then backed off out of the cubicle, moving to the sink where he could splash cool water on his face and neck. Behind him, the Newcastle skipper was yanking open the door to escape the toilets, but their eyes met in the chipped pool of the mirror, and Kieran gave him a respectful nod. `Good chat, captain,' was all he said, and he enjoyed the conflicted stare he got back from the other stud, before he disappeared away through the door and left him alone, cradling a hard cock in his pants and wondering how quickly he could drive home to his wife. Anderson didn't turn the lamp back on until he'd quietly pulled his boxers up his legs and then his sweatpants after them, feeling very sweaty and sticky under them and his t-shirt. The faint light bathed the home bar and the bay windows and the chintzy decor, and he looked anxiously over at Fraser, who had his back to him, hunched over his phone as he booked his taxi through an app. The 19-year-old considered a hoarse thank you, but decided he couldn't say it without sounding and feeling too weird. Instead, `You want another whiskey before you go, man?' He hovered by the bottles and glasses, watching Ryan from behind, feeling strangely ignored and rejected now that the dirty deed was over and he'd emptied his balls inside that hot breathy mouth... that could have been anyone. Anyone. Any girl. `Nah,' the Scot groaned quietly, glancing over one of his low shoulders. `I don't have time. This driver will be outside in a minute, aye.' He barely looked up from his phone screen, seeming quietly disinterested, even bored, as he moved away and back through the dark quiet downstairs of the Anderson house. Elliot followed, feeling unable to process just how casual and aloof the other Toon player was - it was as if nothing had happened, not that short intense episode in the dark, his thighs rubbed and caressed and his cock brought to orgasm in mere minutes of throaty action. What'd he want, though? Was Fraser meant to be thanking him and gushing over how good he tasted, or something...? Well, hardly. (Did he taste good? What'd cum taste like, anyway?) He scampered after the short bloke, following him to the front door and out onto the driveway, stepping lightly to avoid too loud a crunch on the gravel. `See ya at training, laddie,' Ryan told him, not looking back. A car was pulling up over on the main street, beyond the driveway and his abandoned Jeep. Elliot slowed and paused ,staying close to the house, still feeling the clammy itch of his sweat in his armpits, and the sensation of his sticky cock pressing on his boxers at the front. He stood and watched his older friend disappear out onto the street and get into the Uber to leave, and then went slowly back into the house, totally overwhelmed. '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