Date: Sun, 11 Sep 2022 15:18:13 +0000 From: writer guy Subject: Premiership Lads, Part 311 Part 311: The Deadline The apartment was a little smaller than he'd expected, and strangely bare for `furnished', but he guessed that was kinda the style; the `unrivalled sea view' had turned out to be pretty accurate though, and the Mediterranean skyline dominated one side of every room, floor-to-ceiling windows opening out onto the long thin balcony and staring out over this cove to one side of the Riviera city. It was something to look at, he supposed, when standing around the minimalist duplex upper-floor feeling a bit of a pillock. Which was what he was doing right now, only half-dressed after his shower and still clutching the towel about his broad smooth shoulders with only his stretchy black underpants on and a pair of dark striped socks about his feet and ankles. Ross Barkley's 6ft1 form hovered awkwardly in the arched frame that separated his large bedroom from the central lounge of the apartment, having stared out at the same view through one window and now ogling it mindlessly out of the other. Shaking himself a little, the 28-year-old Liverpudlian moved back through into the en suite bedroom, and looked at the crisp new suit laid out for him on top of his bed, then finishing the small job of drying his short brown curls of hair and tossing the towel back through the door of his en suite bathroom. Quietly, the relocating footballer dressed himself, slipping the starchy white shirt over the lean muscles of his torso and then dragging the pressed black trousers up the trunks of his strong legs, not without a little difficulty as they wrapped his thighs and were tugged up over his rump, nursing it tightly as he tucked his shirt in and fastened them at the front. A car would be arriving for him shortly to ferry him to the official press conference for his signing, delayed for a few days after his initial introduction at the French club's last home game, almost as much of a surprise to Ross himself as the Nice fans in the stadium. Between moving himself into this place, owned by the club, and going through the medicals and fitness tests with flying colours, he'd actually only made brief entrances to the squad's training schedule, including a half day this morning before being released early to prepare for the press conference. `Prepare' was a loose term for the way he'd been pawing at two different language apps on his smartphone all week, or the bookshop-new French conversation guides sitting on a desk at the bedroom windows, but he supposed they just wanted him fresh and alert for the local media, rather than glassy-eyed and aching after a full day of training. Barkley wavered for several minutes over the tie he'd been provided with, before making a clumsy attempt at getting the knot right and then abandoning it. Too formal, he told himself, annoyed that he still couldn't get the knack of tying them as smartly as some of the other blokes he'd played with. The Scouse athlete fussed through the flat, pouring himself a drink of water and forgetting to have it, giving a touch of spit and polish to his brogues, and posing self-consciously in front of the mirror in the en suite, unsure if his leg muscles had got bigger and the suit pants needed to be let out a waist size; the trouser department was never easy for him, given the size of his arse muscles, and no matter how many men and women had complimented him on them over the years, the prominence of his backside caused him a bit of shy embarrassment. It had been his least favourite bit of banter back at Chelsea, the joking Hazard comparisons; although, he thought now, it had been a fair while since he'd been involved enough in that squad to be part of any banter at all. The thought made him sigh uncomfortably, adjusting the fit of his blazer and then fiddling with the stiff white collar of his shirt, wondering if anyone would comment on his decision to ditch the necktie - then hearing the muffled honk of a waiting car somewhere outside, even as his thoughts began to wander reminiscently back to West London and his final days at the club that once seemed his big break... and to everything else that had happened in the days since the transfer window snapped shut on him. He wore a nervous smile on his ruggedly handsome face as he let himself out of the flat and down the stairs into the courtyard to meet his driver, but his thoughts were far from the sun-bathed suburbs of Nice. It had been a whirlwind, between terminating his contract at Stamford Bridge and ending up here, and Ross felt like he'd just blinked and opened his eyes in a totally new life. Croaking a hesitant `Merci' at the driver, he slid into the back of the silver car and settled down to be driven across the French city, but his head was back in England, and how it had ended... Barkley had sensibly timed his final visit to the Chelsea training campus in Cobham around his old teammates' schedule, hoping to steal in and out of the place without much conversation as he grabbed a final few personal belongings and returned a few other things that had been requested; there had been no grand goodbye party or communal send-off for the attacking midfielder when his contract was terminated earlier in the week, and Ross didn't know how he felt about that. There was a lot of relief, after dreading the inevitable all summer, and he hated the idea of much public attention on him in the team, especially under such disappointing circumstances - but his ego wished there was just a bit more fuss and ceremony around his exit, wished that anyone seemed to give a shit that he was being cast aside by the London club that had once invested a fortune in bringing him south. However, his careful timing had not been well-judged enough, because he was grabbed on the shoulder just as he emptied a few personal things from a locker and into a sports bag, and he was suddenly joined in the quiet players' lounge by a grinning face and a vivid Chelsea tracksuit: but it was only Mason Mount, seemingly alone. Instantly, the smiling 23-year-old was throwing arms open and clashing into him in a hug that Ross was powerless to resist, just letting out a breathy laugh and returning the embrace with one sturdy arm, the other still clutching his bag of items. `Hey,' the exiting player remarked with as casual a voice as he could summon, and felt himself squeezed even more tightly in Mason's sudden cuddle. `Dickhead,' the 23-year-old told him accusingly, still ear-to-ear smiles as their bodies parted, and Barkley couldn't help but observe just how much the younger midfielder had filled out in the years since they first messed about together - Chelsea's perky twink prince was an increasingly solid and muscular figure in a clingy tracksuit, not quite the goofy twig of a lad who had returned from a Derby loan three seasons ago. `Lovely,' Barkley grunted at him. `Anything else to say?' `You know what I mean,' Mount chuckled. `Sneaking in at the end of the day like this, why didn't you come in earlier and we could have had a proper send-off for ya? Loads of the lads would have been buzzed to see ya.' The younger player set about helping him with the stuff in the locker and Barkley just relented quietly to the assistance, hurrying a little to zip up the sports bag and shoulder it, then shove the locker shut with a little thud. `Would they?' he asked, his doubts surfacing in his voice and on his face. The young England stud frowned at him. `Of course they would!' Ross just nodded, moving away from the lockers, finding himself somehow irritated to look at the bright blue and familiar insignia of Mason's club kit, dressed himself in simple grey sweats, their plainness seeming to suit his own sudden lack of club allegiance. Stop it, he told himself, don't get morbid about it. `So, is this it?' the other midfielder was asking. `This is the last of your stuff, is it?' Barkley nodded, making an evasive noise of confirmation. He dumped the bag temporarily on a nearby seat and turned his attention properly to the younger player, folding his arms over his chest. `Yep,' he said more firmly and, he hoped, positively. `Barkley out. Sorry... I would have come in earlier and seen people, but...' He shrugged. `Just haven't felt like it. Soz. I'm sure nobody will mind, la'.' Mason stood in front of him, mirroring his body language, and lowering his voice slightly. `I minded,' he said smoothly, catching him by the eye and making him avert his stony gaze. `I'm gonna miss you, big man,' the 23-year-old said in the same soft voice, and for a moment he did sound like the same shy kid who'd offered to help him take intimate photos for his girlfriend of the time, encouraging him to show more on camera and then... Ross shrugged away the nostalgic thoughts of fun times with the perky lad, but he could see a faraway look in Mason's eyes and a flicker of smirk to his smile that suggested he wasn't the only one picturing a beach in Dubai. `I've got a lot to thank you for, Ross,' Mason told him thoughtfully. `Let's not go there, mate,' he told him, giving him a fond smile, but speaking firmly to shut down the subject, planting a firm hand to one of those developing shoulder muscles. `We'll stay good mates, right? No need to get emotional or anything, ha.' `God forbid,' teased the Pompey lad. `Ross, emotional? Yikes.' `Fuck off,' he tittered, giving the guy a squeeze of the shoulder. `We had some good times, but I think we've been on different paths for a while, eh? You're the Chelsea poster boy, and I'm... yesterday's news. When I look out for this team, I'll always be looking out for you, Mase, and I hope we still hang out when we can.' It was as close to a goodbye speech as he was getting, and he flinched uncomfortably against the smaller guy's affectionate grin and emotional openness. There was a time when Mase had been pretty besotted with him, he was sure, and even a time when he himself had wondered if... And then there was the wandering hand, and the soft intimacy of the goodbye was somewhat ruined. `Mason,' he said, keeping his voice level, as one cheeky paw slid against the front of his thick grey sweatpants, feeling the weight of his manhood there, the youngster moving in closer to him and continuing to grin reminiscently. `Just checking it's as big as I remember,' the Chelsea ace whispered. Ross felt the hand trace the loose outline of his large soft cock, and he stood very still in front of the kitted midfielder, looming a couple of inches over him, and taking slow deep breaths. `Mate...' Mount leaned in and kissed him once, slowly, on the cheek, his hand still rubbing at his crotch, a little more insistently. Ross brought his hands down slowly and clamped them on Mason's upper arms, just below the shoulders. He could feel his balls tingle inside his Under-Armour pants, and his cock twitch slightly where it hung, those knowing fingers tracing its shape, until... `No,' he said firmly, pushing hard on those upper arms and directing the midfielder backwards, staring a little reproachfully at his seemingly innocent grin. Mount made a little scoffing sigh. `I just wanted to say goodbye to it,' he said lightly, half-laughing, and retreating, hands up in the air to declare that faux innocence. He winked. `I think it still likes me, even if you're being well-behaved, big man.' `And what about Dec?' Barkley grunted at him, hardly for the first time. `Oh, he would hardly mind these days,' murmured Mase, relaxing his body and backing another step away, then adding pointedly, `What about your Eric?' Barkley blushed instantly, never sure if he should have confided his secret relationship in someone as excitable and well-connected as this handsome kid. He avoided meeting Mason's eyes and reached to grab the handles of his sports bag, willing the semi in his sweats to stop taking shape. `I'm not the one trying to cause trouble,' he muttered sternly. `I'll be off, I've done everything I came to do.' He lugged the strap over one strong shoulder and fixed Mason with a friendly but serious look. `I'm glad we got to say a goodbye-' `Sure you don't want a little goodbye blowie before you go?' Mount insisted, and the blunt sexuality of it should have felt exciting or at least ego-warming - but it irritated Barkley, as it had sometimes in the past, that his friendship with the other player seemed to be so dominated by sexual fantasies of the past, and by him as object of desire more than real human being. He frowned at him, unable to articulate his complex feelings about their past and present, and now his own uncertain future. `Ha ha,' he grunted sharply. `I'll go before you become too insatiable. Dec must be slacking.' Mason just raised a single eyebrow. `Have you seen him later? Hardly.' He smirked. `I was just trying to be nice, hah.' A little nervous flicker to his smiling young face. `Have I actually annoyed you...?' `No,' Ross lied simply, too fond to even try to explain how objectified the horny younger lad made him feel, and too aware of everything they'd shared in the past. `Ignore me, I'm in a funny mood, it's... Well, y'know. It's not easy, any of this.' `No,' Mase agreed with a sad distance to his voice and in his eyes. `I'm sorry, buddy.' Ross shrugged, trying to deny his own admission. `It is what it is.' Mount had nodded at him then, suddenly eager and buzzing again, the air of sexual chemistry and wistfulness dropped. `I can't wait to see who you sign for this week,' he said earnestly. `You've only got a couple of days left, the negotiations must be hotting up. Any hints you wanna drop so I can make a visit to the bookies, haha?' Barkley became immediately more stiff and awkward, backing away from him and dismissing the joky enthusiasm. `I've heard some rumours,' the younger footballer continued, slowly following him across the room, `but they're all quite far away, and surely you'll be wanting to stay on in London at the moment, what with you and Dier, so-' Ross made quick steps for the exit, turning his face away and unable to look at Mason's bright eyes and eager smile. `What about Fulham or West End, that would make the most sense?' the 23-year-old was gibbering, and Barkley paused on his way out of the door. Ignoring the topic of his footballing future, he leaned back and closed a strong arm tightly about the lad's shoulders in a brief hug, kissing him on the brow before pulling away. `Look after yourself, M&M,' he said softly, and then yanked hurriedly away, marching down the corridor to the stairwell with his things slung over one shoulder, ignoring the cheery calls of `Good luck' and `Happy deadline day!' from the naive Chelsea star. Mason was far from the only one of his friends and family to make this assumption, and Ross found it difficult to correct them; the only top-flight interest his agent was courting was north of the border, although there WAS a queue of Championship clubs lining up to accept his `demotion' from the Premier League. Barkley's pride and self-belief was not ready to make this downard step, however, and he'd made this pretty clear to his representatives - it was one thing being sacked off by Chelsea after all these years, it was another to turn his back on the Premiership full stop. On the morning of the `transfer deadline day', all of this was weighing heavily on his mind, had been since about 4am, and he stared absent-mindedly into the corners of the bedroom, his eyes scratchy and dry with sleeplessness. Mason Mount had been right about one thing, he had to admit: he WAS reluctant to say goodbye to the capital, and turn his back on the life he'd slowly set up for himself in London since he turned his back on home, and Everton. Of course, what this really meant was that he was reluctant to say goodbye to one part of London life in particular, and at that moment, it turned over in bed next thim and threw a muscular arm alongside his; warm breath tickled the back of his neck and he felt the duvet become more tangled as the weighty strength of the other man in the bed began to snuggle against him. At first, he thought that Eric was just tossing and shifting in his sleep, but then he heard the sleepy voice murmur in his ear, and that warm hand closed about the back of his own. `Mornin', gorgeous,' purred the Tottenham star's sleepy voice, pulling closer. Barkley hesitated for only a moment, tempted to close his eyes and pretend he was asleep, but almost instinctively he responded, his fingers locking possessively in between Eric's, and his own hoarse growl returning, `Mornin'.' He'd never been good at pet names. Beside him in the luxurious master bed of Dier's house, the other football hunk stretched and mewed as he yawned, at first pulling away from him, and then clambering back, kissing him on the edge of his shoulder and sliding hands in over his tummy, running fingertips against the bottom of his six-pack. `My alarm hasn't gone yet,' came the defensive midfielder's suggestive murmur, his knee coming up and resting against the side of Ross's giant thigh. `Mmm?' he groaned quietly back, understanding the message immediately, but finding it hard to return the interest - he was tired and restless at once, but far from turned on. `So I've got a while before I have to get moving,' continued Dier gently, burying his face in the crook of his shoulder, not quite kissing him there but just running his warm lips against the heat of Barkley's skin, and closing his arms about his waist from behind, so solid and powerful behind him. Ross let out a sigh that was purely automatic, his stressed body reacting to the slow tenderness of Eric's early-morning touch, but even then he felt his muscles (rather than his prick) stiffening in response, pushing back a little with his shoulders, and refusing to let his heavy legs entangle with the pale fluffy muscle of Eric's. One of the other man's hands slid down to cup the front of his trunks and, with a decisive shuffle, Ross moved further away from him under the covers, letting out a little snort of irritation that he felt himself exaggerate to make a point. For a moment, Dier didn't move, left in the broken embrace in the middle of the bed, and Barkley could feel the confused glare of blue eyes on him across their pillows without turning to look at him. He pulled the covers about him and rolled more fully to the far side of the bed, ignoring the presence behind him, just burying his sleepless face into the edge of the pillow. Behind him, he heard a long sigh, and then the rustle of material as his boyfriend climbed out of bed and, by the sound of it, hovered there, staring at him. `Sorry,' the other 28-year-old player said in a gentle voice - it was full of genuine concern, he thought, not any reproach or annoyance that his morning glory had been snubbed. Unsure what else to do, Ross made a simple grunt into the pillow and pretended to be asleep, and heard another wistful sigh from his lover. It had been like this for days now, even before the awkwardness of Mason Mount trying it on with him at Cobham; in fact, it had been a bit like this all summer, as his imminent departure from Chelsea had become more and more likely, then inevitable. Ross had gone from happily burying his head in the sand, and always able to relax once he was in Eric's arms, to a sudden coldness that he couldn't shake, and a sense of impossible distance between them as Dier continued to be central to his North London side, and Barkley was given the boot. Eric disappeared from the room, his own master bedroom, for a few minutes, and Ross rolled onto his back, staring up at the ceiling and wondering how he could have handled that little incident a bit better. There were a lot of things he might have actually said to his boyfriend, rather than just rolling away and grunting, although most of the time Dier seemed quite fucking psychic and able to read his feelings. But maybe he'd forgotten that it was the 31st August, with a league game to focus on; maybe he'd forgotten that today was the last day of the transfer window? When Eric returned from the bathroom, followed by the echo of a flushing cistern, Ross couldn't avoid looking that way and briefly meeting eyes with him - the 6ft2 Spurs stud just pausing at the door to their room, somehow mournful despite his physical beauty, a statuesque man in just plain white boxer briefs that housed the obvious swell of his morning glory, ignored and unattended despite his subtle efforts. The men stared silently at each for a moment, and then Eric broke the stare, sliding into routine, and talking quietly: `I'll walk the dogs,' he announced, as he fished on the floor for yesterday's t-shirt and some nearby trackies, moving around the grey half-light of the room and no longer looking back at Ross's weary frown amongst the pillows. `And then I'll have to get myself organised,' Eric carried on, not looking at him, `and I'll be due at the training ground about midday - don't forget I've got the West Ham game tonight, so I won't be back until kinda late, okay? There's leftovers from what I cooked last night, I boxed it up for you last night, so you can have that if you like, if you're staying here and not busy, okay? I've got a few errands to run, so I might extend the dog walk... you might be out at your agent's by the time I get back, I guess...' He chattered softly on, sitting on the foot of the bed to lace up his trainers, broad shoulders hunched and face turned away from the bed. Ross, shivering slightly in the morning cool, sat up in bed, rubbing at both of his eyes and then patting ineffectively at the misshapen landscape of his curly hair - as Eric fell quiet, he began to push his body forward, making to climb across the bed and reach for the big warm body of this beautiful man... but just as he was about to move, Dier sprang back up from where he sat, glancing only briefly this way before snatching a thin jacket off a chair and moving to the bedroom door. Once again, the two lovers were staring ambiguously at each other, Ross sprawled in the bed, and Eric loitering at the door - he looked sad, and worried, and Barkley knew that there was no chance his boyfriend had forgotten about today's significance, not at all. `Give your agent a ring once you're properly awake,' Eric advised him gently as a goodbye, then adding in an undertone, `if you actually slept, that is.' And then he was turning away, padding out onto the landing and calling for the dogs as he descended the stairs - leaving Ross tired and irritable in the bed, hands rubbing across his face, dreading the day's uncertainty ahead. In the end, it was well after midday before he braved the phone call to his agent, who had nothing new to tell him; and he rang him back only a couple of hours later, opening up a can of lager from Eric's fridge, to tell him he had no interest in the Scottish leagues, and neither Glasgow team was right for him at the moment. `That's all I've got for you,' the stressed voice of the football agent told him simply down the line. `I don't know what you think you're holding out for, mate, but-' Ross cut him off and repeated his decision, and hung up just as the suited fuckwit in an office began to try and advise him further; alone in the farmhouse kitchen of the London house, Ross slurped noisily from the first can of many, and began to drink his way through the afternoon, pausing only for a long nap as the hours of missed sleep caught up with him. The afternoon slipped into the evening and into the night, a fugue of lager and video games, his phone eventually silenced and then on `flight mode' to avoid contact with the stupid fucking world outside. By the time he heard Dier letting himself back in the house, he'd more or less forgotten why he was out so late, or that he wasn't alone in his own home, and he stared quite confusedly as the pink-faced Spurs player joined him in the living room, feeling somehow caught out with the lukewarm can in one hand and a PS5 remote in the other. After a long quiet in the doorway, Dier said, `It was a 1-1 draw, if you're interested.' His voice sounded brittle and forced. `I'm just gonna dump my bag, one minute.' And then the Tottenham-kitted figure disappeared from the doorway and Ross sat drunkenly in the sofa, turning back to stare at the pause screen, and then at the contents of his hands. He put down the PlayStation remote and drained the dregs of his lager can, then got up and walked unsteadily out of the room and into the hall, fishing his phone out of his pocket as Eric came stomping back down the stairs, smiling weakly at him before disappearing through the ground floor to the kitchen at the rear. Ross followed slowly, taking out his phone and putting the signal back on: foremost among the rush of missed calls and messages were a string of notifications from Eric, all variations on the theme of `Are you okay?', the question marks and exclamation marks multiplying with each iteration. `Sorry,' the 28-year-old Scouser slurred, following him into the kitchen. Dier was standing at the open fridge, a confusingly furious look on his face, bathed in the soft glow of the fridge's interior light. Fuzzy and unsure just how much he'd drank, Barkley stared at him and took a couple of shaky steps across the kitchen. `How was the g-' he began to ask, and then his voice was cut off by the exasperated shot of the other man's voice. `Have you even eaten anything today?' Eric was snapping at him, turning and frowning heavily this way before slamming the fridge door shut. Ross strained his drunk eyes to focus on him, shrugging and genuinely unsure for a moment, slowly collecting his thoughts, and... `I think I had some toast,' he offered hesitantly. `For fuck's sake, buddy,' sighed Dier's voice, staying by the fridge, and then moving sharply aside as Barkley went closer to him, reaching for his arm. He steadied himself at a kitchen counter and watched as Eric went to the wine rack and began opening a bottle of red, glancing angrily this way; through the haze of his mood and drinking, Ross could only partly identify the reasons for this mood. `I'll heat those leftovers up now?' he tried quietly, deciding that he was clearly in trouble for wasting the foodie's cooking efforts. `Well?' Dier had asked him in a clipped voice, in the middle of pouring his wine - just the one glass, he noticed, wondering if he had any cans left in the fridge. `Well, what?' Ross grunted warily back at him. Eric looked meaningfully at a clock on the wall. `Not long til midnight,' he said, in that same angry snap, but then his face and voice softening a bit. `What have you heard? What's going on? You're leaving it a bit late, babe.' Less stiffly and moodily, the handsome Spurs player came closer, his tall broad body clothed in the club tracksuit, fresh from the showers of their away game in East London. He came close, and Ross felt his own anger spike stupidly. `Fuck the deadline,' he muttered, as he'd repeatedly muttered to himself in the middle of the afternoon, when he started his mindless solo drinking. `Right,' Eric said slowly, `but... what's the plan? What have you said to Rangers? Or Celtic?' `Told `em to go fuck themselves,' he muttered. `Oh, right. Who's the new offer from? That's cool, that's exciting - was it Everton? I knew they were just holding out, everybody was saying they were eager to buy you back...' `No, no,' Ross mumbled evasively. `Oh, not the Toffees? Right, so it was...?' The handsome Cheltenham-born hunk was staring openly at him, all friendly and warm now, none of the tart exasperation he'd shown on arriving home minutes ago. He hovered there, glass of red in one hand, the other coming up to stroke Ross on the shoulder. An awkward silence formed between them. `There is no new offer,' Barkley admitted, and it felt like a confession to himself as much as to his concerned lover. He followed Dier's eyes to stare at the large ornate clock on the kitchen wall, showing how little time was left before midnight; midnight, he thought, like I'm some fucking Cinderella footballer who's gonna turn into an unemployed pumpkin when the clock strikes twelve, ha. `Right,' Eric said again, even more slowly. `Ross...?' `Leave it,' he muttered, turning away to yank open the fridge and stare at the shelf where his big crate of cans had been this morning, but was now empty, because he'd steadily drank his way through the 12-pack since mid-afternoon. He frowned, annoyed with the world and himself, and then felt Eric's concerned hand on his shoulder. `What are you playing at?' the handsome man demanded in his sternest voice. `Ross, what are you up to? You had two good deals lined up there, I told you, and your agent told you, and-' `I don't wanna move to Scotland,' he snapped, shrugging Eric's hand away and turning to face him, suddenly feeling surly and confrontational. `How come you're so desperate to see me move 300 miles away or whatever?' `What? No- Ross, I'm not desperate for you to move ANYWHERE, but-' `Doesn't seem like it,' Barkley snapped angrily back before he could stop himself. `I just don't want you giving up on yourself like this,' Eric pleaded, largely ignored. `Fucking hell, you've been on about it for weeks, lad! Glasgow this, Glasgow fucking that! Jesus, are you so bored of me that you want me to move to that dump just so it's easier to break up?' And there it was, yelped out in the nocturnal gloom of the shared kitchen, the direction of his paranoia for much of the month. Eric was staring at him, aghast, and Ross could feel all of the day's tension and dismay mounting up inside his body - he'd drank and video gamed it away, turning his phone off and hiding from the world as much as he could, but here it was, the grim truth. Deadline day was slipping away and there wasn't a football club in the Premiership that wanted him, fuck. `Is that what you think?' Dier asked in a shaky voice, but Barkely barely heard him. He stared at his phone, still in his hand, and then threw it quite aggressively across the room, smashing it against the wall below the clock, then moving forward to muscle past his boyfriend. Eric reached to stop and hold him, but he bashed aside with an arm, and knocked the wine glass out of his hand - streaks of claret stained his slobbish white t-shirt and the nylon of Eric's tracksuit top, and the glass crashed to the stone flooring as noisily as his phone had hit the wall. `Fucking hell!' the Tottenham player was exclaiming, but Ross just lurched across the kitchen and back into the corridor, moving through the house towards the stale nest he'd made of Eric's lounge, hiding there all day and letting opportunity slide away from him. Suddenly, Dier was following him, although his memories of the night were something of a blur: he wasn't sure what the other guy had been shouting at him as he followed, only his own stupid response as Eric caught up with him and grabbed his arm. `Oh fuck off, you idiot,' Ross shouted at him. `You've got no fucking idea what it's like, so just mind your own business.' He COULD remember the stunned and hurt look on Eric's broad bearded face, hunched close to him at the foot of the stairs, trying to grab and hold him, in his usual efforts to soothe and placate. The conversation was a tumbled rush in his memory, and the fragments of what he'd said (`When was the last time a club told you to fuck off, eh?') and what Eric had said (`Why do you have to be such an arsehole about this?') were confusingly jumbled with what he SHOULD have said: `I'm terrified that my career is over and I don't trust these offers from Scotland because I can't bear the thought of moving away from you right now and losing everything we've got! I'm scared that you don't want to be with me now I'm a Premiership reject, and I can't believe I've let things get so shit that Chelsea would just turn me away like this. I'm scared of being alone in Glasgow and not having you to help me with my panic attacks!' Of course, the clarity and honesty of those words had only occurred to him in the days that followed, and he couldn't find any of that to say to his boyfriend as they argued in the hallway of the house - Ross tearing away and trying to let himself out of the house, while Eric shouted at him about what an idiot he'd be to drive drunk; and then, worst of all, Eric coming into hug him soothingly, and him just thrusting him aggressively away, sending his 6ft2 frame tumbling into the bottom steps of the staircase, then the long silence as they stared each other down. As blurry as everything else had become, he could still picture Dier picking himself up, leaning heavily against the bannister, and feeling at his left temple where his head had apparently knocked against it or a wooden step. Ross stared at him, forlorn, his hands opening and closing into tightly-clenched fists. `I...' `You know what,' Eric grunted, taking slow retreating steps up away from him, `you just do what you want, fuck your life up as much as you like mate, okay?' With that, he'd trudged off to bed, probably exhausted from the West Ham game and maybe from worrying about him all fucking day, and Ross had just shotued stupidly after him: `Thanks, glad to know you think I'm a fuck-up, just like everyone else in the League!' Sitting in the car in the Nice traffic, Ross stared out of the window and pictured himself slumped in the sofa, choosing to spend his fitful sleep there in the living room, rather than occupying one of several guest bedrooms in the big house. He shuddered ashamedly to think of the way he and Eric had stomped silently around each other in the following morning before he sobered up enough to drive home to his little-used flat in Kensington, and the way he'd ignored three consecutive phone calls from his boyfriend later that day. When the call from his agent came, he'd snatched the device up from the bed beside him, expecting it to be Dier again, and just about ready to attempt conversation with him at last, though with no idea what he'd say. But the call had been his agent, breathless with excitement. `How's your French?' he'd blurted as soon as Ross hit `answer', hungover and depressed. `Forget that, you won't need to learn a fucking word, they'll look after everything, haha. Nice, mate. Nice! They're very keen, and I've really talked up the salary deal. What do you say, Ross mate? And there was us thinking you'd go without a club til January, eh...!' It had progressed from there in a blur. There were no more missed calls from Dier, and even though he'd ignored three, Barkley couldn't bring himself to ring his boyfriend and tell him that he'd just accepted a contract in the south of France, too stunned to say anything but `yes' to the unexpected offer. All through the 1st September and the next couple of days, he thought of flashes of things Dier had said in their argument, and over recent weeks - how he had to accept new challenges and broaden his horizons, how he needed to just go with the flow and not be so anxious about what was or wasn't the right direction for him. And here he was, doing just that, following the mad twist of fate that his agent had thrown in his lap, but miserable and alone in his lifeless flat, and feeling unable to discuss it with Dier. The Nice deal happened quickly, and so did the arrangements for his travel to the French riviera. In another phone call with his agent, he pleaded for more time, insisting that he had loose ends to tie up in London, but the slick businessman laughed these ideas off, promising to take care of any business on his behalf. Right, thought Ross, maybe you can plead forgiveness with a Tottenham Hotspurs defender for me, then... And the next thing he knew, he was on a late-night flight to Nice, where he would be putting his signature on the dotted line early tomorrow morning; the flight was short, but he still managed to put back plenty of complimentary vodka, enough to raise an eyebrow from the stewardess who failed to return his desperate flirting, and he was quite drunk when he was checked into the airport hotel at the other end of the journey. Drunk enough to stare for almost an hour at the WhatsApp chat between he and Eric, nothing typed by either of them for several long days, not since the string of ignored messages on deadline day, where his boyfriend had been trying to focus on a London derby with West Ham, but distracted by worry about him and his silent gloom. Gripped by vodka and bitterness, Ross sent the message: `Hope ur happy now then. Movin 2 France as of 2nite. Goodbye!!!!! Sorry am a fuck up.' In the moments before he fell drunkenly asleep, he tried to delete the message, annoyed at his inarticulate stupidity and anger, but there were the damning blue ticks, and he knew Eric had already read it. As his car pulled up outside the stadium for the press conference, he was sat staring at his own idiotic message, ignored all week, and had to be called out of his unhappy reverie by the French driver, who clearly overestimated his language skills as he jabbered away at him in the local lingo. Jerking back to life, he nodded and muttered `Cheers' at the driver, and snapped his thumb against the lock button, drowning out the sight of his written stupidity and his petty outburst at the most supportive person in his life. Ross forced on a weak smile and let himself out of the car, immediately greeted by the cameras of the French press. By the time he was stepping out of another taxi, he was drained; the press conference had been a longer process than he'd expected, and being interviewed via translators had been long-winded and awkward, as had the evening meal he'd spent with a bunch of executives and coaches, but not a single one of his fellow players. His face felt sore from trying to smile and look excited and committed, and he was seriously beginning to doubt his resilience in this strange new setting - there had been some heavy assurances this evening that he would be travelling to Sunday's away game and making his debut appearance, but he was very conscious that he'd barely trained with the others, and had gone a ridiculously long time now without playing in a competitive game. He paid the driver a fistful of Euros, unwilling to navigate the difficult conversation and trying to understand what he actually owed, and then pulled irritably at the fit of his suit, which had felt tighter and tighter as the afternoon and evening wore on. Overhead, the sky was darkening, and he now knew that he would need to be on his way to the club early tomorrow to assemble for the flight to Corsica and their game versus AC Ajaccio. For a few slow moments, he didn't look very closely at the figure at the top of the white-painted external stairs up to his floor of the duplex, because they were shared by a row of several sea-facing properties, and he thought it might be a neighbour - another shite conversational attempt where his three words of French would humiliate him. He'd had more than enough of that during the press conference and dinner - even the paid translator had started to stare judgmentally at him at one point, seemingly fed up of trying to understand his Scouse accent. At the top of the stairs, it became impossible to ignore the twilight figure, partly because they moved closer to him and loitered by the door to his apartment, but also because they said in clear English: `Long day, buddy?' Ross blinked and paused, clutching his key so hard that it almost cut into his palm. Here was Eric, a simple canvas bag over one shoulder, out of which jutted a thin baguette and the neck of a bottle of wine. A thin white linen shirt clung to the muscular curves of his upper body, and slack camel-coloured trousers ran down to his flip-flop feet. There was a warm smile on his bearded face, and a casual shrug to his free shoulder. `Well,' the English player demanded quietly, `are we gonna stay out here on the staircase all night, or are you going to let us in?' Ross found he couldn't move for another moment or two, still grasping at the key, and staring at the visitor in disbelief. There was a significant build-up of questions in his throat, but the most practical of them jumped out first: `How did you find me here?' he asked, throat suddenly very dry. Eric, still smiling, just rolled his eyes. `Is that really all you've got to say to me, babe...?' Ross shook his head quietly, and then lunged forward, grabbing hold of him in a tight and urgent hug. `No,' he muttered in his ear. `I'm sorry. I'm so sorry. I was such a pig.' He squeezed his arms about Eric, not wanting to let him go, just holding firmly onto him, suddenly overwhelmed with emotions that he'd been badly suppressing all week. `Right,' coughed Eric in a laugh, `I wasn't hinting for an apology... just this...' And Ross felt his face held and angled, and then lips on his, and all either of him had to say was the deep wet kiss, risky and public on the stairwell of the apartments. Inside, Ross stood in front of the sea view, and watched Eric unpack his only apparent luggage, a tote bag of goodies from a local market, on the counters of the kitchen, and then inspect the cupboards until he had two wine glasses and was sloshing white into them. `How come you're here?' Barkley asked. `Aren't you...' `Match cancelled,' Dier told him simply. `Old Lizzie, ain't it.' `Oh. Yeh. Right. That.' `So... free weekend for us lot... and I started looking at flights, and... well, next thing, I'm on one, aren't I? So here I am. I, er, travelled light, as you can see.' Ross nodded slowly, stood in front of him but separated by the kitchen counter, and taking the glass of white wine that was passed to him. He shifted from side to side in his tight-fitting suit, his face heated and red. Eric was so calm and unaffected, as if there had been no conflict between them, and he examined his handsome face to see if there was any mark from the tumble on the stairs a week ago - didn't seem like it. Maybe he'd exaggerated that moment in his shameful memories. `It's good to see you,' he said, since it was, and he didn't really know what else to say. There seemed to be everything and nothing needing discussed, and he was in shock. `I'm glad you say that,' Dier admitted, still tucked away behind the kitchen counter, taking a slow sip of wine and looking almost shyly this way. `I kinda wondered if I'd be sent on my way as soon as you saw me. I even booked a back-up hotel in the city, just in case.' `What? Er - why would I do that?! Er-' `Ross...! You were pretty pissed off at me this week, so...' `No,' he pleaded dumbly. `I was just... I was being a dick. Too much paranoia and drink.' `That message you sent...' `Oh god. I'm so sorry. Eric, I...' `It's okay, it's okay.' The handsome Spurs man was staring openly at him, still smiling, and Ross felt overwhelmed again - he was thinking about how cold and unloving he'd been in recent weeks, and the mess he'd become on deadline day, and their stupid clash that night... `It's not okay,' he protested. `I was...' `You were upset, and I didn't deal with it well,' Eric butted in. `Well, I mean... neither of us did, did we? It was... stupid. But... You ARE glad to see me, right...?' `Yes! Yes...! I'm just...' He didn't know what to say. He put down the glass of wine, which was one of those fancy ones that Dier liked, but still tasted like vinegar to him. `It's just been a mad week, y'know.' He put his hands down against the counter, gripping the edge of it so that his knuckles turned white. `I thought you were mad at me.' Now Eric did hesitate a bit. `Well, a bit, but... I dunno, I thought about it all properly, and how tough it's all been for you...' Both men hung their heads, and Ross felt a surge of panic, that for all the excitement of seeing his man here in France, they were just jumping back to the awkward miscommunication of the 31st August. He felt just as lost for words as he had then, unable to explain himself and tell Eric how he'd been feeling about his situation - and it seemed, for once, as if Dier was struggling too. Maybe it wasn't the time for talking. Falling silent, he began to pull the black blazer away from his shoulders, letting it fall off and against the pale floor tiles. Then, one by one, he undid the buttons of the shirt, and let his eyes meet Eric's on the other side of the counter; the other man held the wine glass to his lips, frozen there, just watching the striptease as Ross pulled open the shirt, baring his chest and abs, and then letting that fall away too. He undid the buttons at the front of his trousers and left it at that, walking across the kitchen to the door, posing in this frame with his arms at his side and his pecs heaving. `Are we drinking that shitty wine, or are we fucking?' he demanded boldly. Eric blinked and grinned, and slowly lowered the glass to the counter. He scratched and stroked at his beard as he turned this way. `Oh, it's like that, is it?' He chewed on his lip and took a couple of slow steps closer. Ross stared greedily back at him, bringing his hands down to his waist and pulling the front of the trousers open a little across the waist and crotch of his black trunks, stepping slowly backwards, leading the other footballer through the line of the flat, back across the living room and then into the doorway of the bedroom, all of it lit golden by twilight over the Mediterranean. `No more talk, then?' Dier asked quietly, following him in. `Nope,' Barkley promised. `Just action. Please.' But as Eric moved closer, starting to unbutton his own thin white shirt, Ross contradicted himself, speaking in a low rush. `I was scared of leaving,' he admitted, the whisper barely audible. `I didn't think you'd follow me...' Eric scoffed at this idea, matching his intimate whisper as he came close, and took his hands, bringing their faces close but not yet kissing. `You big dope. I'd follow you to shitty Glasgow, and I'll follow you here to the French Riviera, and a hundred other places, you idiot. Now... let me show you how much I've missed you.' Ross stood tall but shaky, feeling the shudders of first anticipation and then pleasure: Eric sinking to his knees on the carpet, and kissing him just below the navel. Strong fingers pulling the tight suit pants down at his hips, having to yank a bit to get them around the curve of his glutes, and then down his thighs, and then those kisses descending to the front of his underpants, kissing his dick through the slightly sweaty fabric, where his nervousness all evening had made them faintly damp about his privates. He let out a shivering `Ohh' as he was kissed and fumbled through the material and then those same fingers were pulling down his undies, and now bare lips touched the skin of his cock, and took it between them... `Ohhh,' he sighed, his dick hardening against the soft warmth of that familiar tongue, and those firm hands closing about each of his round strong buttocks. Eric took his time, teasing and then lavishing his big cock, licking about the head and up and down the shaft, and then even tending to his low-hanging balls, and Ross just standing there, gasping quietly and appreciating it, this release from a week of tension and fear. He'd thought this pleasure might be lost to them after their argument and the ensuing silence. `I love you,' he murmured hotly, before falling back against the bed and having Dier climb up on top of him, bringing their lips together. Eric's face hovered over his, warm grin and slight laugh to his sigh, `I love you too, you big idiot.' The tension was forgotten, or transformed, and the two athletic men grappled with each other's bodies over the bedsheets. Off came Eric's shirt, thrust away so that Ross could grab and scratch at those bulging arm muscles and across that broad sturdy back; his own hard cock rubbed against first Eric's tummy, and then his matching thick erection as it was unleashed from loosened trousers and dropped boxer shorts. Wriggling fully free of clothing, they kissed and cuddled, rubbed and grasped, and rolled about like that for many long minutes, each of them wanting to go further, but just happy to explore the other's missed body, free and hungry with each other as they hadn't been since Ross sat down with the Chelsea chiefs and had his worst fears come true. And then Ross was turning over, guided by Eric's hands, and he was lying on his front, with Eric on top of him, kissing his neck and his cheeks and the back of his ears, whilst the tip of his cock slid up and down his crack, making his hole twitch and tense. Briefly, the weight of the other man's body left his back, and his cheeks were spread as Eric spat between them and dug a thumb into his tight hole, making him groan and arch his back. `That's it,' growled Dier's voice. `I've missed that tight pussy, baby...' `I want you inside me,' Ross hissed, pushing his big arse up and open, and feeling more of the other man's spit against it as it was fingered and teased, and then, at last, puckering against the fat head of Eric's cock. The 6ft2 Spurs defender was back on top of him, holding him just below the chest, kissing roughly at the side of his neck, and nudging the tip of his meat inside him, and Ross yearned to be full of him, to be opened up and claimed. It stung and took them time, because he'd gone a while without taking it now, but soon he felt himself opening up and relaxing, and felt Eric pushing further into him, so hard and strong, and it was everything he wanted - lying there, face-down, pinned and entered, with Dier's hard breathing at his ear, and the gentle creak of the bed as they began to pick up speed. The 28-year-old English stud pinned him to the bed and fucked him, his movement so frantic that it was obvious he'd been craving this for weeks. When Dier's prick was pulled back, Ross rolled over, eager for a shift in position, but still wanting fucked - but Eric went down between his spread thighs to suck on him some more, fingering his wet hole as he did, and it made him groan and gasp, loving how well this stud knew his body and his needs. Two of Eric's fingers in him and the man's skilled mouth enclosing his throbbing cock. He scratched his fingers over the short crop of Eric's dark blond hair, holding his face down there, reaching for the strength of his upper back... his hole throbbing and clenching about the two digits. `Fuck me,' he begged, and he said it over and over, knowing how Dier loved to hear it, until they were fucking missionary, bodies pressed together as the Spurs man ploughed him, their faces level but not touching, eyes locked. `I love you, I love you,' he repeated wildly, legs up in the air and arse cheeks clapping against the thrusting of Eric's strong hips. He was still gushing these words of romance as he gushed cum up against both of their six-packs, unable to hold back and stop playing with his cock as his hole was pummelled. `I love you,' he gasped on, dazed and climactic, while Eric showed no signs of slowing down, continuing to push deep inside him with force and rhythm, then finally kissing him again, silencing him with lips, and changing his pace as he emptied his load inside him, claiming his territory once more. They were back in bed again, after a break for wine and bread and cheese, and Ross had just sucked Eric to a second orgasm, earning a sticky load over his face and chest before wanking his own cock to a watery second load, and now their bodies were draped over each other on the sheets, one of the big windows opened up to the warm sea-breeze, and distant music drifting in from another apartment's balcony. `I wish I could just... tell people what I'm feeling,' Barkley admitted quietly, now that the action was over and there was no choice but to talk about the problems they'd had, though Dier kept shutting him up with kisses when he did. Not this time - the other football stud was just staring sadly but kindly at him over the pillows, playing fingertips over his sweaty pecs and nipples. `It's okay,' Eric sighed. `I should have... I mean, I did know what you were going through, I just... I wanted you to get a deal, that's all, I didn't know you were so scared of moving away from ME, I just... did you really think that would be the end of us, just because we aren't in the same city...?' Ross hadn't quite communicated that fact aloud, but he saw now that Eric had, as usual, read between the lines, and figured him out. `I don't know,' he said weakly. `Honestly, I... I thought that even if I stayed in London, you'd be sick of me, and not want to be with such a failure.' It sounded melodramatic out loud, and he cringed. `I'm so stupid.' A frustrated sigh from Eric, their legs rubbing together as they shifted and relaxed. `So you keep telling yourself,' he murmured disapprovingly. `I just wish I'd realised sooner, or... I dunno. I shouldn't have pestered you and interfered.' `No,' Ross mumbled, `I'm glad you did, I'm glad you care.' `I didn't actually WANT you to be in Scotland, for fuck's sake.' `I know that now... Erm. Now that I'm even further away, hah.' He leaned over to kiss him, and grab at his thick arms, his sides, his limp cock that had tasted so good. But they were both tired and spent, and the fat prick didn't respond much to his strokes. `Will we really be okay, long-distance?' he asked nervously. `Why not?' Eric demanded, sounding a little more alert, coming up on one elbow and smiling at him, stroking his chest again, one finger circling one nipple. `People do it. It isn't even that far. I was on a flight here before I'd even finished asking myself whether you wanted to see me, you know. It was easy enough.' Barkley nodded slowly, always so contented and open in the safety of Eric's side after sex, the only times in adult life where he felt totally safe and honest. He could feel the other questions floating like ghosts in the bed, the uncertainty about how they would manage things - there weren't many weekends of cancelled games due to Royal deaths, and they would both have mad busy schedules for most of the season. He must have looked worried in his moments of quiet, because Eric leaned in and pecked him with a reassuring kiss. `We'll make things work,' he promised. `As long as you actually return my calls, okay?' He nodded eagerly at this, and then suddenly paused in horror as his short-term schedule caught up with him. `Oh fuck, Eric... this weekend... I have to get on a flight to Corsica tomorrow, I won't be around again until Sunday night, so...' But Eric was just laughing at him and kissing him on the shoulder, squeezing him about the waist. `And? It was worth the journey just for tonight, gorgeous. Stop worrying!' And more kisses silenced his anxious comments, Eric's body closing over his, and their cocks stirring as if up for round 3 already, though they were sore and tired, and enjoying the breeze on their naked skin. `When will you learn to relax?' Dier demanded quietly on his ear, pinching one of his nipples gently. `You're always safe with me, okay? I'll be here whenever you need me.' Ross smiled back at him, although he knew this promise couldn't be quite true, and that they would both be involved in matches on opposite sides of the English Channel, week after week. But Eric had made it here tonight, out of the blue, and following him even in the face of his sullen silence - so maybe the hunk was right, and this could really work, even after his rash move to France. In the morning, their chatter was light and superficial, and Ross held back from admitting to his visiting lover just how terrified he was about his move here, and how it would all work out. He kept the fears to himself, suspecting that the handsome Spurs player would dismiss them and just encourage him to relax - but it was easy for cultured Eric to say, a man who'd grown up on the Continent and seemed to be at home wherever he went. It had taken Barkley years to feel at home even in London from Liverpool, never mind on this foreign coastline in a whole new league and culture, not to mention language. But he smiled through their naked breakfast on the discreetly screened balcony, and enjoyed the slow loving blow-job in the shower, Dier refusing to let him return the deed and just massaging him clean, rinsing his body and toying briefly with his hole. `You just keep your mind on today,' the Spurs man told him, knocking off the water. `You're gonna make your debut tomorrow in Corsica, babe. A whole new chapter. You need your energy for that.' Holding him and kissing him as the hot water trickled down their muscles and dripped to the floor of the wet-room. And then Eric was gone, waving at him from the window of an airport taxi, and Ross was lingering on the stairwell in shorts and vest, strangely feeling more alone now than he had been before the brief and magical visit. Alone, he sat on the top step and hugged his knees nervously, watching as Dier's taxi disappeared onto the road and then out of view, taking him back to the airport and to London - back to that house where Ross had unofficially moved in over the course of this year, spending less and less time at the flat he'd now ditched in his move to France. So, he thought, at least they were still together. At least he still had Eric, even if it was going to be tough to see each other, and keep things going. How could Eric be so casually confident about the distance and the challenges of making time for each other, now they were in different countries?! But that was Eric, he thought, just so sure of himself and always happy that things would work out. There had been a time when both players were out of favour at their London clubs, but Dier had never taken it to heart like he had, and had calmly and resolutely worked his way back into regular match starts, and was once again a staple of the Tottenham line-up, like it had never happened. Whereas Barkley... He sighed and told his intrusive thoughts to fuck off, and went indoors to get ready. At the airport, he looked out for Eric Dier, as if their paths might cross again so soon; it was ridiculous, because his boyfriend would be touching down in London by now, and he was surrounded by his new teammates anyway, they were hardly going to rush at each other for a departure lounge snog like something from a rom-com. Backpack over the shoulders of his bright red OG Nice t-shirt, Ross queued up alongside the other guys, feeling like the new kid at school, and trying to remember the names of the guys lined up in front of him, but still unsure who was who. It wasn't exactly a club full of big names, really, though he'd already had a bit of banter with the other two former Premiership big shots who'd also joined this summer - Kasper Schmeichel had greeted him warmly at his first visit to team training, but then taken a few pot-shots about how shite Chelsea were compared to everyone's favourite underdogs, Leicester City; he'd also been pleased to meet with Wales' Aaron Ramsey, but the former Arsenal favourite made similar jibes with him, joking that he should be glad to part ways with the 5th best club in London. Ross was nervously optimistic that he could build friendships with the pair, guessing they would have a lot of mutual friends and experiences, and at least knowing that the Welsh and Danish blokes spoke fluent English! But he wasn't quite ready to spar banter about his old team and the fact they'd let him go, so today he had refrained from hurrying to join the Premiership alumni at the heart of the pack. Instead, he skulked to the rear of the group, clinging to the straps of his backpack and attempting to read various signs and notices around them, disappointed to find his nominal French vocab didn't stretch much further than the `Bienvenue' that he'd seen in many an airport over the years of international football travel. `Here,' said a voice just behind him, and he glanced over one shoulder. The guy behind him was proffering an earbud his way, giving him an encouraging smile. `I'm listening to the airport chapter of a great podcast about learning French,' the other player admitted, almost bashfully, the other earbud still tucked in to his right ear, and the offered one wavering as he seemed to change his mind about the offer. He removed the bud from his ear and clicked both listening devices inside their little charger case before stuffing into the pocket of his black shirts, his own red t-shirt particularly clingy about the broad muscles of his torso. `Oh, right,' Ross said, a little taken aback by the sudden approach. This was the lesser-known of the other three Premiership purchases who'd preceded him in Nice's transfer business, and he'd not said more than a quick `Hey' to him when he was paraded at the end of the man's debut game last weekend. `Sorry,' Joe Bryan said, laughing at himself, `I thought you might want to listen to it too. You looked like you were trying to read the signs is all.' He smiled and shrugged. `I thought my French was decent, but I've been lost most days since I got here, especially during training.' He folded his strong arms across his chest and made a weary shrug that felt very relatable and familiar to Ross, who was enjoying the slight West Country twang to the Fulham guy's accent. `I've been trying too,' he said, conscious that it was more or less a lie - he'd invested in the resources, but he hadn't really made the effort yet. And he was too self-conscious about pronunciation to even test out his limited vocab in public, just grunting hopefully and relying on the assumption that everyone here spoke English anyway. `I'm not great at languages,' he added lamely, as the 5ft7 left-back stepped up next to him, joining him in the queue of red t-shirts. `Well,' the 28-year-old Bristolian mused, `I guess you're still getting used to English, after leaving Liverpool behind...?' He winked, and punched Ross lightly in the arm. `Sorry, shit banter, but that's what you get used to at Fulham.' Ross rolled his eyes at the lame dig but smiled, glad to be chatting easily with someone, and relieved that Kasper and Aaron weren't the only English-speaking blokes in his new squad, since they were international big-shots in their own right, less used to provincial England than Barkley himself. Just then, they were interrupted as one of the coaches - he was still trying to get his head around the hierarchy here, so he wasn't that sure of their status - came marching past them, firing out rapid burbled questions at each player as he did. Just as Ross was staring unhappily at the assistant manager, wondering if there was even a single word he recognised in the question, the muscle-bound shorter lad next to him leaned over and addressed the coach in a string of awkwardly-formed syllables, gesturing confidently as he spoke. The coach nodded firmly and approvingly, clapped Joe on the shoulder, and then moved on down the queue. Bryan looked this way, smiling self-consciously. `I learn quite fast,' he admitted. `I think I mispronounced half of that...' `Right,' Ross murmured, impressed and feeling faintly betrayed by Joe's Francophone performance. `And there was me thinking I wasn't the only idiot here...' `Oh, relax,' chuckled Bryan, echoing something of Dier in his confident dismissal. `We'll learn together. Here, take the earbud, we can listen to this podcast on the flight, if you want? It's quite interesting, you see, cos they go on about French culture and stuff as well as teaching you the grammar, so...' Barkley nodded and listened, already a little intimidated by the other import and his apparent gift for languages, but ready to cling to the prospect of a like-minded friend in this alien world. The queue began to move, shuffling out onto the airstrip and towards the club's chartered jet that would take them to the island for tomorrow afternoon's game against Ajaccio. Warmed by last night and this morning's time with his boyfriend, Ross began to relax into the strange newness of it all, and accepted the earbud from Joe's hand, joining him on the steps up to the plane, glad that he'd found someone to sit to on his first away trip at least. `So,' Joe said, flashing him a bright smile as they loitered down the aisle together, `where shall we sit, Barks?' `Er - wherever you want,' he mumbled, noticing for a moment how handsome the Fulham loan player was, and just how tight that red t-shirt was against his pecs and upper arms, trailing along after him towards the nearest row of free seats. A new friend, he told himself happily, and someone to help him survive in this foreign land, thank fuck. He threw himself into the seat next to Joe, who'd positioned himself at the window, and felt their muscular legs rub briefly together as he spread out to get comfortable. `Sorry,' he laughed, pulling his thigh away from the other football stud's. Joe shrugged, looking back at him from the window, and popping one bud into his ear before fishing his phone out of his pocket again to hit play on the podcast. `No worries, mate, no worries.' And for a moment, Ross stared at him in profile, taking in the strong set of his jaw and the bulge of his biceps as he bent his arms, and then looking sharply away. A new friend, he told himself firmly, and that's all. '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