Date: Thu, 29 Sep 2022 20:30:23 +0000
From: writer guy <premiershiplads@outlook.com>
Subject: Premiership Lads, Part 318

Part 318: The 10.42 to Manchester Piccadilly


Tuesday morning in Euston Station, and the First Class lounge was pretty
quiet - still, he was keeping his head low, or as low as it was
reasonable to do at 6ft4. He'd made sure he was wearing pretty bland
grey jeans and hoodie, all of his England-branded gear gladly handed over
to staff members at Wembley after the game. If it had been more easily
doable, the 29-year-old football player would have travelled home
straight away, fleeing London for the Cheshire hamlet where his family
awaited him - a couple of squad members had done so, he thought, as it
had been far from the full line-up who attended the muted celebration
drinks in the private room of a West London bar.

Harry Maguire had only gone for a couple, and even then just as a way to
get out of his lonely hotel room a couple of streets away - but a few of
his teammates had been celebrating the Germany result as if it was a
terrific win, treating the 3-3 stalemate as a dramatic upturn to a bad
run of international form. They weren't totally wrong, given the string
of goalless losses, and the show of resilience that many of the men had
exhibited in the latter half of the game... but still, he'd felt almost
embarrassed for the guys at the bar who were closing the international
break with toasts to themselves, ignoring their Nations League
humiliation and the poor omens for the impending World Cup.

Young Mason Mount, drunk at the bar and singing a song about himself
being the future of English football, was forgivable - he was young and
foolish, and full of self-deprecating humour alongside the boasts; but it
had been more cringey to see big Harry Kane getting boozy and smug, very
pleased with himself for his own contribution to the draw. Older and more
experienced players like him, Walker and Trippier, propping up the bar
and hollering at one another about how they needed to show the young guns
how to live properly. But the third goal-scoring player of the Wembley
game had been missing from the party entirely... and Harry wondered how
far he was responsible for that fact.

For all that energy and bluster, the party had been winding down when
Maguire finished his second pint and made a few quiet goodbyes before
slipping away from the bar, hunched over with his hands in his pockets.
Newcastle United's Kieran Trippier had been trying to beg a karaoke
machine out of a barmaid, and Kane was photo-bombing a cluster of younger
lads, but mainly the crowd was thinning - the under-21s kids who'd
joined them were heading home to a sober night in preparation for their
own Germany clash, and many of the players were exiting the bar in fits
and starts. Half of them lived in different corners of the capital, after
all, and he saw the likes of Dier and Chilwell skulking off in their
different directions without even really saying goodbye to anyone.

Harry himself had almost been begged into staying put, pinned down
briefly for a heart-to-heart with a stonkingly drunk Kyle Walker - the
right-back was a bit emotional, as he had been from the minute John
Stones was felled by a German player late in the first half, and he was
declaring his undying friendship in between more discreetly confiding how
he'd almost had to storm the pitch and break a few legs once he saw his
boyfriend injured and collapsed on the turf. It seemed that Stonesy was
laid up in a shared hotel suite nearby, but had almost forced Walker out
to have some drinks so he could rest alone - and Maguire had almost
stayed for a third and fourth drink out of empathy for the strangely
shaken fellow Sheffield lad. He'd never seen such a vulnerability on the
32-year-old's face. But then Walker had become distracted by Trippier
getting in a plank of shots, and Harry had slipped away before his arm
could be twisted.

Back to the hotel, low and alone, and a night of fitful sleep. He'd been
grimly awake and ready for check-out long before his booked taxi turned
up to deposit him here at Euston for the train into the North-West. And
the grim thoughts that had kept the 29-year-old brute awake all night
were materialising before his very eyes: one of the few other passengers
in the lounge, all of them suited businessman in the same dour grey as
his casual fit, had their tabloid newspaper spread wide in front of them
as they read, and he could see his own mug on the back page. He'd passed
a few of them in the hotel lobby after skipping breakfast, and he didn't
like the headlines.

Inevitable, really. There'd been enough noise about him being called up
full stop, and then he'd failed to keep either clean sheet after
Southgate put trust in his centre-back strength, giving away last
night's penalty as the icing on the shitty cake. So... yeah, he could
hardly be surprised to see himself surrounded by bold question marks on
the lower half of the back page, whilst an image of red-clad Mount and
Kane celebrating occupied the space above. He stared sadly at the page
for a moment more, then slumped forward and hung his head more, arms
pressed across the platform of his knees.

Even at the little party last night, he'd felt self-conscious - how many
of the players there were giving him looks of doubt or even ridicule? How
many of them agreed with the gaffer's insistent faith in players like
himself, despite a lack of match time at club level, or any substantial
evidence in recent fixtures...? Harry could feel his World Cup place
hovering in the balance, and even if Gareth somehow kept the faith, how
much hate and mockery would his place in that tournament bring to him as
United's toothless captain? Impotent, he thought bitterly, recognising
the physical dullness that had come over him in recent weeks, the total
loss of a once-rampant appetite.

Maguire reached up one large hand of grazed knuckles and tilted the
baseball cap a little lower over his face, half-expecting the London
businessman to look over his newspaper and clock him at any minute,
football's new favourite punching bag.

After a few more minutes' discomfort, the big defensive player got up
from his seat and shouldered his single small backpack, padding to the
quiet info desk and finding out which platform he needed to be on for the
10.42 train, glad when the Polish-accented young lady behind the desk
made no sign of recognising him. On the platform, at least one of his
slim hopes was realised: the mid-morning train up the West Coast line was
clearly not going to be very busy, and maybe his First-Class carriage
would be free of football fans who might want to ask about his defensive
mistakes last night in the national stadium. He'd felt very honourable
and worthy when he'd refused the FA offer of a private vehicle to drive
him home today, but now he felt sick about being on the edges of this
busy central station, and facing a couple of hours on public transport
between him and real privacy.

Before long, the doors onto the train were unlocked, and Maguire lumbered
to the far end of the platform to let himself onto a blissfully empty
First-Class carriage, finding his comfortable seating and dumping his bag
in the spacious rack overhead before dropping his weighty centre-back
body into seat itself. He rested his large head against the window and
stared mournfully out at the slate-grey guts of Euston Station, an aptly
gloomy setting for his mood, just as the drizzle on his taxi had been as
it winged him from hotel to concourse.

A ticket inspector or some other train staff bustled past him and he was
relieved to find it wasn't yet another passenger. It was too good to
believe that he'd have the coach to himself, but the platform had been
sparse with passengers, the train timed neatly after the early rush but
before the afternoon tourists. Still, he kept on the cap, shifting about
in his seat and trying to get comfortable, and frowning regretfully about
more than just the short international camp and its further knocks to his
reputation.

Harry made a little snort of dismay when he heard a carriage door hiss
open somewhere behind him, and the light steps of another passenger
making their way down the carriage, some weighty luggage knocking
sporadically off headrests as they clumsily approached down the aisle. He
looked away, resting his craggy brow against the window again, and
expecting the carriage's only other passenger to move on to the far end,
nearer the next vestibule between compartments - but no, a flash of pale
colour and a heavy manly breath, and it became clear that this only other
passenger was booked in for one of the seats opposite him. For fuck's
sake, he thought, look at all the free space this git is ignoring to come
and sit here...

As keen as he was to melt discreetly into his corner, a mean feat for a
man of his proportions, Maguire turned and shot a critical look at his
First-Class companion, about to try and communicate with just one broody
stare that the dickhead should reposition himself to literally ANYWHERE
on the train but this booth of four- and stopping as his deep-set brown
eyes connected with the bright blues of the other football lad's. Harry
blinked once, his face twisting awkwardly, as Luke Shaw heaved another
sigh and settled down into the opposite set of seating.


Luke Shaw had skipped the little England party, despite the insistent
invites of his good friends Declan and Mason, who had been largely
responsible for booking the little venue and mustering up some
end-of-camp morale for a little knees-up. Luke wasn't entirely sure what
he was avoiding in his desperation to skip the event - well, someone in
particular, but not just him, not just that. He was itching to be away
from the tight-knit gang and the constant scrutiny, and for some reason
even the plaudits for his goal against Germany were not putting a healthy
shine on the end of the week's activity. Just before guys starting
heading out from the Wembley hospitality space where they'd assembled
for a debriefing with Southgate, he'd been jostled by a grinning Raheem
Sterling, inviting him to stop at his rather than at a hotel, if he
needed somewhere to crash before heading to Manchester. `I've got a
huge guest bedroom at the back of the new place, where you could sleep
and-' Luke had stopped him there, and been as cold as he could manage
with the bright-eyed Chelsea signing, brushing him off as bluntly as he
had every morning in their hotel rooms.

But Sterling had got one thing right: he DID want to avoid the hotel room
that a Manchester United liaison had arranged for the club's players
before their transport north tomorrow, where Dean Henderson and Harry
fucking Maguire would be accommodated. Luke had ditched that room of
likely luxury, and instead jumped straight into a cab south, returning to
Kingston-upon-Thames to stay with some family friends instead, almost
wishing he could take a week off and kick about his old suburb at
leisure, though he'd moved away from the outer London commuter town at a
young age to chase his first youth contract.

The journey from Kingston to Euston had been far longer than the quick
taxi it might have been across the West End, as planned for him, and
he'd almost missed the 10.42 as he huffed and puffed through the busy
concourse, a thick beanie hat pulled low to minimise his visibility and
obviousness to the London crowd.

He'd made the train, just, and had to stalk up the aisle through several
different carriages to reach First-Class and search for the tickets the
booking app had assigned him - unlike the hotel, this journey had been
booked independently, after he'd scoffed at the prospect of sharing a
hire car with his United teammates. Luke had balked at the idea of a
three hour drive in the backseat with Harry, and felt even worse at the
prospect of Deano ending up squashed awkwardly between them!

`Hey,' the 27-year-old exclaimed weakly now, shifting from buttock to
buttock in the booked seat, his large bag dumped at his side in the other
space, and Harry Maguire glaring at him over the dividing tabletop after
all. Well, on the plus side, Dean Henderson wasn't here to complete a
threesome and cringe in the social awkwardness.

`Hey,' returned Harry, his voice level but hoarse. `I didn't know...'

`No,' Luke murmured, when that sentence trailed into nowhere, `me
neither.'

He looked thoughtfully about them. Was the carriage totally empty, but
for them? That meant there were any number of other four-person booths he
could shift himself over to, but that somehow felt... very wrong. It was
one of those strange bits of human magnetism. Surely neither of them
wanted to spend the next two hours together right now, but this was where
his booking had taken him, and some invisible law now bound him politely
to it. To get up and excuse himself and drag his bag down the aisle to
another space... It felt so un-British that the London scenery flashing by
in the window-frame might just implode.

Instead, Shaw turned his awkward and slightly sleep-haggard face towards
the other player, meeting his eyes, and not quite smiling, but giving an
expression of such awkward helplessness that Maguire's frown softened a
little. He still looked defensive, and Luke wondered if the other guy
thought he was actually here to harass him, intentionally joining him on
the train home, rather than thrown against him by the ridiculous
machinations of fate and ticketing algorithms.

`This is weird, huh?' Luke breathed.

Harry didn't immediately react, just rubbing his knuckles across the
front of his strong nose. `I thought you mighta gone last night,' he
grunted, without much apparent warmth. `Didn't see you at the bar, or
about the hotel, so...' There was some hint of accusation in all this,
and instinct made Luke colour in the cheeks and avoid eye contact,
shifting against the back of his seat, pulling at the collar of his
t-shirt and sweater.

`Visited friends,' he said, vague and evasive, and then suddenly
clocking that he was feeling a surge of guilt or anxiety as if HE was the
one in the doghouse here - and he gave the other man a puzzled frown of
defiance, sure he didn't have to explain himself. `I didn't fancy
it,' he said, and his voice sounded quite cold and dismissive, he
couldn't help it - he was certainly not looking for an argument, it had
felt a long morning already, but...

`Well, you could have let us know,' Harry suddenly muttered, staring
out of the window as they whizzed by the Arsenal stadium and out towards
the northwest of the city. `Me and Dean, I mean, we didn't know if you
were alright or whatever.'

Luke opened and shut his mouth, restraining himself against the barbed
comeback, which somehow involved a nasty question about whether Harry had
resolved that worry by offering up his arse-hole to the reserve keeper.
Instead he just scowled quietly and tried to get himself comfortable in
his seat, and then stared at some of the other seating options around
them, doubting his British politeness. For fuck's sake, this was not
what he needed today, tired and a bit headachey - he'd only had a couple
of drinks at the family friends' house, but now he felt almost hungover,
probably with the dehydration and the general physical intensity of the
past week.

The training and games, he thought guiltily, but also the fucks.

A reluctant peacekeeper, he told Maguire that he'd just needed to get
away from the bubble, and he thought he'd said so in a group chat - he
hadn't - so had assumed he and Hendo would think nothing of it. With the
same strained friendliness, he asked about the squad drinks, but got
little warmth from Harry, just vague grunts and murmurs about this or
that, and so he sighed and looked away, crossing his arms across the
chest of his pale tan sweatshirt. Out of the other window, their view of
London's outskirts was slowing somewhat, but Wembley itself was still in
view, the setting of last night's battle - Luke was annoyed that he
couldn't feel more pleased or relieved about his own vindicating
performance there, given the flak he too had received for his
international summons, but the whole thing felt tainted, and he knew
he'd forever associate this camp with lying atop Raheem, and picturing a
different muscular coupling that haunted his imagination, his captain and
his striker.

`Why the fuck am I getting this cold front?' the left-back was snapping
before he could stop himself, annoyed at being annoyed, annoyed at the
flare of guilt when he'd been so badly betrayed. `What exactly have I
done wrong, eh?'

The 6ft1 blonde leaned forward, elbows to the table, and deep frown aimed
harshly at the other footballer, as Harry stiffened and puffed out his
chest, looking conflicted but aggressive. And here comes the stupid
argument, he thought, the vain recriminations that he'd been avoiding
all week as he and the centre-back circled each other at St George's
Park.

`Don't start,' growled Maguire.

`Right, no, why would we talk about it?'

`Fuckin' hell, Luke... here?'

`Here, wherever - maybe we could actually chat about it and-'

`You been up for a chat, have you? Avoidin' me all fuckin' week,
and...?'

`Can't think why, mate.'

A tense pause.

`You let him fuck you,' Luke put it bluntly, his voice a harsh whisper.
`Why? Go on, try and explain it away for me, like all the other fucking
problems. Come on, smooth talker, tell me why you had to bend over and
let that absolute twat do you like that, eh?' His whisper had raised to
a growl with every syllable and now he could feel himself shaking
slightly, fists pushed against the table that divided their seats. At his
bluntness and crudeness, Harry was staring frostily at him, not saying
anything, and the pair of them just hunched uncomfortably there like
that, facing off across the booth, and separately hoping that the
carriage was still as empty as they thought.

`I've said I'm sorry,' muttered Maguire after this long pause.

`Oh, great,' mocked Luke very quietly. `That helps.'

`Luke...'

`Just don't, mate.'

The train continued to slow, rolling through the outer boroughs, on its
way past Watford and out through the home counties, but neither of the
United and England players gave this diminishing speed any thought. Their
eyes barely left each other, deep stares of mixed emotion, after so many
days of completely avoided contact, even on the field of play.

`And what were you and little Jadon up to?' came big Harry's grumbling
mutter, after another icy silence, and Luke stared at him in disbelief.
`I mean, how the fuck did THAT topic of conversation come up, eh, for
the kid to be telling you about how he supposedly saw...'

`Supposedly?' Luke bit. `So what, are you actually denying it now, you
liar?'

`N-no,' returned Harry awkwardly, his sudden little explosion of blame
fizzling out, but the angry look on his stony face going nowhere. `I
know you've not exactly been keeping to yourself since, have you? You
think I don't know where you fucked off to the other weekend, do ya?'
He shifted uncomfortably but indignantly at these comments, shaking his
head dismissively, and refusing to engage with it - they'd had a deal,
of sorts, once upon a time, and he knew that he hadn't broken things
anywhere near as much as the bigger guy, he knew that for a fact.

He felt himself about to lash out worse, and he stopped himself short.
His fists turned to tight flat palms against the table and he gave
Maguire a real bitter look of contempt before pushing himself up to
standing and edging out into the aisle, grasping at one strap of his
backpack. `I'll leave you to it, big man,' he snapped at him. `I
don't think we're ready for this big chat, do you...?' But as he stood
there, about to storm away and find another seat in this carriage or the
next, or as far as away as he could from the presence of his so-called
captain boyfriend, he was almost thrown off his feet by an unexpected
jolt. Luke steadied himself, holding onto the headrest of the seat still
occupied by his bag, glaring up and down the aisle and then back at
Harry's angry face.

The crackly tannoy voice barked over their heads, announcing the
temporary delay. `There is a tree on the tracks,' a bored voice was
explaining with flickering inconsistent clarity, going on to apologise
uninterestedly for any inconvenience or delay that might be caused whilst
they waited for the green signal.


The train's pause became interminable and oppressive, even as an
announcer's voice thanked Harry for his patience and assured him that
they would have an update very soon. His face set in a rigid frown, the
6ft4 Yorkshireman pressed back against the support of his seat and stared
balefully out of the window at the bland outer London backstreets, unsure
how close they even were to the journey's first stop.

This First-Class compartment was still empty, and in a way he ought to be
glad of that - not so long ago, he'd been anxious on the platform,
expecting a lot of polite and awkward greetings with people who
recognised him on the public journey, and so the deserted carriage was a
miracle. Except that Luke's presence filled it oppressively, the weight
of their damaged relationship, the albatross of guilt about his neck. And
worse, or equally bad, the vague feeling of inescapability about his
career crisis, though it was harsh to attach any of that misfortune and
disappointment to the lad who struggled along beside him at both club and
country.

He wasn't sure exactly where the other footballer had perched on the row
of identical booths, but he hadn't heard the mechanical hiss of the
connecting doors since the stoppage, and he'd definitely heard Shaw's
voice swearing under his breath at one of the several apology
announcements that had transpired in the past twenty minutes.

Maguire muttered his own pointless curses, shifting his weight and
position in the chair, which had seemed luxuriously comfy for about one
minute of the journey, but now felt impossible stiff and misshapen
against his battle-weary muscles. As he sat there in this foul mood, he
couldn't help but revive bursts of the disastrous conversation, in two
ways: one minute he was thinking of whip-smart comebacks for Luke's
remarks, furious in his suspicions about the other lad's recent antics,
and then he'd be rehearsing dead-end apologies that he should have
thrown desperately at his left-back lover. After all, he'd been
rehearsing those same apologies since he did the dirty deed, before Luke
had even found about that day in the Carrington gym, spreadeagled on the
weights bench and submitting to Cristiano with a defeated whimper.

Given the stationary vehicle and the surprising privacy of their coach,
it was pretty apparent that he could get up and give it a second attempt
- after all, Luke hadn't even switched carriages in his indignant
escape, and if Harry sat down near him, they could switch the convo back,
and try again. Harry could say all the right things, and make some
amends. But he hardly trusted himself. It's not that he was ever the
most articulate bloke, but there had been a time when he was sure he
could say the right things to the curious sexy lad and wrap him around
his finger... though he'd quickly fallen from this manipulative upper
hand, he supposed, when he'd fallen head over heels in love with him.
Recently, Harry had been thinking a lot of some of their early memories,
and the way Luke had loyally looked out for him, waited for him,
persisted with him, overlooked his behaviour, all of it... They'd lost
that, he thought bitterly, there was no way his baby could still feel
that loyalty now.

Moody and increasingly sad, Maguire opened up his phone to distract
himself, playing for a couple of minutes on a gaming app, and then
shooting a few self-pitying messages to his wife about the disruption on
his journey. There were a few friendly messages from other England
players there, Hendo and Dier included, and absent Pickford, along the
lines of `chin up'. Well-meant, but not what he needed to see now - he
hated the truth that his teammates were surely thinking about his shit
performances and his tenuous place in the upcoming tournament of
tournaments.

Harry wasn't stupid enough to start googling himself and reading media,
but news notification on his homepage were harder to swerve, and he
quickly clocked his own name on a scroll of news items as he was about to
go to a different website to do some online shopping for family
birthdays. `Maguire takes more criticism than-' began the truncated
headline on a bbc news tab, joined by a pig-sick photograph of his own
consternation mid-game. Unable to resist, he thumbed at the link and
brought up the full article, which turned out to be a report on another
bbc outlet's morning interview, and-

He stared at it, stunned.


Luke looked up with a start as the two seats on the other side of the
booth became occupied, Harry falling heavily across both of them with an
urgent breathy noise, staring blankly at him and looking on the verge of
speaking for several moments without managing a noise. Another tannoy
announcement interrupted him as he finally blurted out a syllable, and
then paused until the weak apology had finished, before: `You were
talking about me,' he exclaimed in a voice that sounded stupefied and
almost accusing, his broad face just full of confusion. Luke stared back,
genuinely confused about this latest swipe, and psyching himself up to
really tell his centre-back to go fuck himself, but then: `To 5 Live,'
grunted Harry, still sounding breathless. `Yer interview, this
mornin'.'

Shaw bridled defensively, pulling at the sleeves of his sweater, and
briefly averting his attention from Maguire's beady eyes, looking out of
the window then back at him. `And?' he muttered, throwing maximum
exasperation into the syllable. `They rang me up, wanted to speak, I
agreed - think the other two goal-scoring buggers had refused an
interview, or summat, though that's hardly like our Mase.'

The 29-year-old was just staring dumbly at him. `But you...'

`They asked about you,' Luke said sharply. `I didn't bring it up. I
thought they wanted to chat about my goal but I think they just wanted to
throw shade at any World Cup hopeful they could, so...'

`But you... you... defended me?'

`Yeh. Yeah, of course I did, what the fuck? What do you think I'm gonna
say? Leave the duffer at home, Gareth?' He stared crossly at the
awkward-faced brute and gestured irritably at him. `It was just a quick
interview, I didn't know it would get passed around the whole of the BBC
and Sky Sports, I just-'

`It was really kind, that's all,' Harry muttered at him, his voice
small and hoarse.

`I just-' Luke was repeating heatedly, the wobbly vulnerability of the
bigger man's voice caught him off guard, and their eyes briefly locked
before Luke looked back out of the window, folding his arms across his
strong pecs, and huffing out a long uncertain breath. He matched the
softer tone of the other player as he murmured, `Well, it's what any
one of us would do for the others, isn't it?' He shrugged both thick
shoulders. `It's what a team is, it's guys who look out for each
other, especially when things are tough, yeh?'

`Right,' he heard the centre-back say, almost to himself. `So it was
just about the team, then?' An awkward little pause, in which Shaw began
to register the mournful tone in Harry's brittle voice. `You were just
doing what you'd do for any guy on the squad,' came the hollow
follow-up, flecked with self-pity and realisation, and Luke turned to
look at him properly.

He'd been surprised when his agent put through the call form BBC 5 Live,
never the most publicly championed of England regulars, but he'd only
been half-surprised when the focus of the interview shifted from his goal
in the clawed back draw to the status of himself and Maguire as Man Utd
losers and much-criticised additions to the latest national line-up... Of
course he'd pushed back against those suggestions, and been quick to
defend his captain, his centre-back, his Harry. It had come quickly and
instinctively to him in the conversation and he hadn't stopped to pause
once as he pointed out how expansive and unfair the criticism was,
becoming quite impassioned as he argued this with the sports presenter
over the telephone. He'd felt a little odd about it afterwards, but he
hadn't hesitated or questioned himself over it - but it was only now,
looking at Harry's mournful expression on that big dopey face, staring
at him across the table, that a thought from earlier in the morning
caught him smack bang in the chest. He loved him unconditionally, even
still.

`No,' he muttered quietly but fiercely, `it wasn't just... that. I
can't hear people talk shit about you, Harry. Shock horror: I fucking
care about you, yeah?' He glared meaningfully at the other man as he
said it, sounding angry but feeling quite warm and nostalgic inside. He
rubbed a hand over his face, somewhat frazzled by his delayed morning
journey, the pressurised phone interview, and getting on to this doomed
train to find himself trapped with the man who occupied his every waking
thought.

Maguire had gone silent, of course. Not exactly the man of the match on
communication. He was even looking awkwardly away, pulling at the collar
of his hoodie, and clearing his throat noisily. Shaw sighed - he was
gonna have to do the work here if this real talk was gonna happen.

`Yeh,' he said heavily, `I've been acting like a prick since
you-know-what. Yes, I went to Barca, okay - I don't know how you
fuckin' know, but you're right. I went to him.' Maguire looked like he
wanted to smack the table and blurt out a Wagatha Christie `I knew it!'
but he seemed to bite it back and stiffen awkwardly in posture. `I was
hurting,' Luke pushed in a quietly angry tone, `and I've been fucking
anything I can to try and fuck the hurt away. Okay? So... like, you can
hate me if you want to for it, but...'

`I'd never hate you,' Maguire professed in a rush, and one of his
hands reached for his on the table; uncertainly, Shaw pulled back,
conflicted.

`I thought we had rules or something,' he muttered. `I mean, you know
I always just wanted it to be you and me, nobody else, I didn't need
that, but it was you... You said that...' He screwed up his face,
determined not to cry in front of Harry, not to cry here on this fucking
train carriage, stuck in the middle of god knows where. `You know what
I'm talking about. It was one thing, you shagging Ronaldo, I kinda got
what you thought you were doing there, alright? But... jesus Harry, you
NEVER bottom, you never take it! So...' He felt silly using all the
sexual jargon here in the train seats and he rubbed both hands over his
flushed face, unsure why he was even entertaining this discussion.

`I'll never do it again,' hissed Harry, and the giant centre-back had
never sounded so weak or needy, it took Luke by surprise. `I promise
you. Take me back and I'd never let a man touch me there for as long as
I love.'

He put an uncertain hand down on the pale grey table between them and
Harry grabbed it instantly, squeezing at it. `Take you back?' Luke
muttered, wondering if they'd ever officially split up - or, in another
sense, ever officially been an item. `I don't need promises,' he
barked anxiously, `I just need to understand.'

`We're... we're guys under pressure,' Maguire began to mumble,
dragging out the generic excuses, the same ones he'd once used to
justify their playtime when he was adamant that it meant nothing. Luke
groaned over his mumbling and ignored him. `Stop talking shite,' he
insisted loudly, not caring that someone could walk through the doors
from the vestibule at any moment. `Stop blethering on and give me some
fucking truths - or, or, or I am getting off the train and you'll never
see me again.'

It was, he instantly knew, a ridiculous thing to say - after all, layers
of contract locked the pair of them into the same United team, or at
least the same United bench, and the threat was as empty as Harry's
explanations. But it did seem to have some impact on the big bloke, who
shut up and hung us head, and withdrew his shaking huge hands. Luke
stared sadly at him, beginning to think that talking would solve nothing,
and that his Harry was just incapable of this.

`What can I do?' Maguire mumbled weakly, his voice weak and tiny again,
and Shaw felt frustrated by the desperation of it - he didn't need grand
gestures or extreme promises, he needed... he didn't fucking know what he
needed. Truth? Or something like it.

`Tell me why you did it,' he said shakily. `Tell me why you let him do
that to you. When... when you've only ever let me do it like... three
times, or... two and a half, I dunno, so... Harry, you have to help me
understand it, okay?'

The sigh was heavier than anything before, and it was Harry's turn to
hold his face in both hands, and Luke got up and moved gently around
until he was next to him on the same side of the booth, shoulder to
shoulder, which seemed to loosen something in the 6ft4 beast. He squeezed
one of Harry's thighs through the thick denim that covered it. `Help me
understand, Harry.'


In slow mumbled bursts, Harry Maguire told him: how much the
responsibility of the captain's armband had weighed on him in the last
two difficult seasons, and how that same need to be strong and unbeatable
had leeched across into relationships. In as much detail and honesty as
he could muster, which was not easy, he explained how he had started to
feel a bit crushed by the need to be Luke's powerful dominant man. He
stared guiltily across at the other man as he expressed this in strings
of inarticulate apology, knowing that he was ruining something special in
their shared memory.

`I'm not sayin' it right,' he choked gruffly, rubbing knuckles across
his chin and rubbing the fingers of his other hand across Luke's, where
there two hands met on their brushing thighs. `It sounds shit like I'm
sayin' it, as if I never enjoyed nothing we had, or... I don't mean
that, not like that at all, just...'

He stared hungrily at the 27-year-old, trying to find a better way of
saying it, and explaining how what had once been beautiful and fun began
to sour alongside their dropping form at Old Trafford - how the weight of
being captain had become inseparable from the weight of being Luke's
rough reliable stallion, and how sometimes he just wanted to be held and
vulnerable. `I didn't know I needed it,' he grumbled uncertainly,
thinking about the feeling in him as he pulled and pushed at Cristiano
that day in the gym. `I went in there to show him who was boss. I wanted
to fuck him senseless and remind him of what I know, how he was Rooney's
bitch for years, I wanted to... I wanted to be the alpha. Fuck's sake, I
know how stupid it all sounds.'

Luke had gone very quiet during his explanations, and the look on his
face was hard to read. Not exactly sympathetic, but not exactly outraged
or offended. Harry let their fingers rub and knead, wanting to take the
hand in his, but too frightened of the way the other England defender
might pull away from him if he did. He felt sick and his chest felt
tight, and he was regretting everything he'd said already - it was as if
he pissing on their years together, and the powerful dynamic that had
turned them on so much, his raw strength and Luke's desperate need to
take him. He regretted none of it, and he tried to say as much, but Shaw
cut him off, shaking his head.

`I think I might get it,' he muttered, but his voice sounded a little
cool and distant.

`Do you?' Harry asked weakly. `I don't think I'm making any sense.'
He thought about how good it had felt to submit to Ronaldo as his rival
and frenemy. There had been such tension between the pair of them since
the day the Portuguese legend arrived back in Manchester, ready to
reclaim his throne. They'd almost come to blows within weeks of the
signing, and that tension had simmered for so many difficult months
before his aggressive sexual challenge in the showers, before he'd
claimed Cristiano as another pussy with his massive prick, now limp and
defeated in his boxers. It had felt so good to give in to Ronaldo and
accept defeat, and just be a hole for him - but how he could explain that
bit now, to Luke's gorgeous face, without pouring salt into an open
wound?!

`I've ruined it,' he gasped, knowing he couldn't say these things,
and feeling the tight panic in his chest burst and pour through him.
`I've ruined it all, Luke, and-'

`Why him, though?' Luke growled, cutting across his voice. `Why that
prick?' He still looked so sad and angry, and Harry knew that everything
he'd had to say was useless and inarticulate, and he'd explained
nothing - and he deserved this anger, this judgement, he really did. He
pushed his body against the window, as if making distance between them,
unable now to look at the other lad... and yep, Shaw was pulling away from
him, up off the seat and not even around to the other side of the booth,
but across the aisle, flopping back against the parallel seats, a
defeated frown on his face. `Why him?' he asked again, loudly.

`I'm sorry,' Harry hissed, his voice deep and emotional. `I just-'

`Why him, and why not me?' came Shaw's gritty exclamation, and Maguire
jerked his heavy head up to look across at him. He saw the ferocious
passion in the younger defender's face, the wide confrontation in his
sparkling eyes. `What the fuck, Harry? You don't think I can do you
like that? You think I'm just some pussy who needs you to fuck him over
and over and I can't make you feel something different when you need
it?' There was a real growl to his voice, one that caused a little spark
in the hairs on the back of Harry's neck.

`I- I don't think that, I j-' He stammered uncomfortably through the
words, unsure what to say, something in Luke's tone and face startling
him more than what he was saying.

`I've fucked my way through three different footballers this last week
and a bit,' the 27-year-old barked at him, and Harry knew that he should
feel jealous at that - three?! - but he just felt intrigued, or
distracted, or... excited.

`I don't think you're a pussy,' the centre-back mumbled, the words
feeling silly on his thick tongue, and he slid his arse across the seats,
moving desperately towards the aisle - and as he did so there was a jolt,
a cranking sound beneath them, and then a sudden low vibration of every
surface he was touching. He stared deep into Luke's blue eyes as the
other footballer looked his way, and their talk was interrupted by a
crackle of static and a voice overhead: `Ladies and gentleman, we have a
geen signal at last, and-'

Harry Maguire didn't hear the end of the announcement, he just heard
Luke Shaw's low animal growl, directed fiercely his way. `Go to the
toilet now and don't lock the door, Harry. I'm gonna show you what I'm
made of.'


Luke sat very still for almost a minute, one hand tightly gripping an
armrest, his whole muscular body of 6ft1 poised for action, but held
still against the edge of the seating, his chest heaving up and down, and
muscles tensed beneath the slim jeans and the close-fitting t-shirt. He
took long deep breaths, sucking in the air, and sighing it out almost
aggressively - and then he got up, and dragged the sweatshirt off him in
one quick movement, dumping it in a heap on his chair beside his
backpack.

And then he too marched to the far end of the carriage. Under his
trainered feet, the train was moving again, and you could hear a muted
applause sounding from the next carriage, blocked by two closed doors.
The first of these slid open automatically at his presence and he
barrelled into the vestibule between them, where the motion of the train
roaring out of London was all the louder, the clanks and groans beneath
them, the thrum of an unseen engine.

On his right, one of the sliding toilet doors was almost but not quite
shut, and through the gap was a sliver of a sight, a mere strip of his
boyfriend's frame, a single beady eye fixed on him as that big shaggy
head turned to check who was dragging the door aside and pressing in
against him in the tight space that wasn't really meant for two athletic
Premiership defenders. Behind him, Luke dragged the door shut and twisted
the lock, and then he barked, `Turn around, H.'

Maguire stopped staring wonderingly at him and faced the wall, the low
toilet pressing close to their right and the complicated sink alcove to
the left - so close in fact that Luke's elbow set off the hand dryer as
he brought both hands to the man's side, feeling his torso through the
fabric of his hoody, and pressing against him from behind, just holding
and pressing him, then shoving him further into the wall, quite roughly.
Harry gasped but did not complain, and Luke slid his hands under the top,
rubbing them up the warm skin of Harry's six-pack until they were
cupping the lightly haired muscle of his chest, baring most of his back.
He leaned in and kissed him sensitively on the back of the neck, moving
his lips slowly against the skin and hair, while his hands roughly
travelled south, back over those abs, and into the tight waistband of his
jeans.

`Oh, fuck,' Maguire groaned for him.

`Shut up,' Luke snarled, and it was half and half: 50% a kind of
seductive roleplay brutality, and 50% a grudge of treasured resentment.
He gasped excitedly and wrenched at the button fly of Harry's jeans,
pressing hard against him so that his own erection rubbed seriously
against the firm muscle of the bigger man's behind.

With rough quick movements, he forced down the jeans, and then the black
and grey boxer shorts beneath, and he kissed at that thick neck again.
With one hand, he tugged and played with the familiar weight of the
29-year-old's fat cock, and with the other he slapped at one buttock
then the other - again, his jerky movements set off the hand dryer and
hot stale air brushed against them. He spat on the fingers of his right
hand and pushed it between the firm downy cheeks and into the more
thickly hairy crack, until his wet digit was rolling back and forward
over the tight bud of his captain's arsehole.

This wasn't the attentive care he'd taken with virginal Sancho, nor the
almost mechanical determination he'd applied to wide-eyed Depay, and yet
it wasn't the sort of heartless physical madness he'd plied to Raheem
Sterling's bubble butt. Roughly but intimately, he fingered at Harry's
hole and heard him gasp and yelp at it, opening up that ring and pushing
his finger deep in long strokes. His left hand still toyed with the
weighty full balls and the swelling prick, and his lips and beard nuzzled
against the top of his spine. Both mean breathed heavily, animals in the
hunt.

The left-back stopped playing with Harry's cock and balls and used his
left hand to undo his belt and zip instead, whilst two fingers of his
right hand were squeezed into the muscular entrance, needing a bit more
spit for lube. `Feel that?' he growled. `Feel that inside ya, H?'

`Yeah,' groaned Maguire. `Oh, yeahhh...'

`It's gonna be my cock in a minute,' drawled the Kingston lad. `You
gonna take it?'

`Fuck yes,' came the Sheffield bloke's throaty growl.

`You don't need nobody's cock but mine,' Luke promised, a touch of
tenderness in his aggressive bark, close to Harry's ear. `Nobody but
me.'

He spat more on his fingers and rubbed it in Harry's tight hot entrance,
then spat on his dick and rubbed it up and down the length of his thick
shaft, not really much less meaty or long than Maguire's foot-long
monster. He pressed the head between the cool skin of those cheeks and
rubbed its end up and down the hairy crack, feeling it wet and quivering,
and then rolling the chubby tip of his member into the tight hole that
he'd fingered. Both of his hands grasped at Harry's arms just above the
crook of his elbows, fingering at his biceps through the sleeves of his
hoodie. Both of them groaned, not caring about the thin door that
separated from the vestibule; it would hardly be audible over the thunder
of the train itself, catching up with its schedule on the West Coast
line.

Luke pushed inside him, reclaiming his man, and wiping away the image of
Cristiano.


Harry pressed forward into the hard wall of the tiny bathroom space, his
forehead meeting the cool metal surface, and his hands splayed against
its lined hardness. There was barely room to move, no space to bend over
and move into an easier position. He was held between the firm wall and
Luke's powerful grip, and down below, he was stretching open for it, the
thick warm presence intruding on his backside, and he gritted his teeth
and took it, bracing himself through the initial pain, which he
remembered all too well, and allowing the slow indescribable wave of
pleasure.

More shocking than any other miracle right now was the urgent hardness of
his cock, its tip almost rubbing the wall, but his hits jutting back a
little to prevent this. His balls felt tight and swollen beneath the
splendid shaft, woken back up by Luke's rough touch.

Standing there with so little room to manoeuvre, Harry took it: Luke's
urgent fucking. In and out of him shoved that beautiful man's beautiful
cock, and the grip of his hands on his arms got tighter, bruisingly so.
No words, just deep guttural moans, and the fleshy slap of muscular
bodies connecting in the most intimate way. Luke angling his body that
little upwards to meet the difference in their heights, fucking up into
his arse from below, humping against him like a rabid wolf. Insistent and
rhythmic, unstoppable and urgent. Harry couldn't stop each breath
escaping as a moan, and the wall creaked against the pressure of his
muscular weight. He tried his best to keep his hands against the wall and
not reach down for his cock, because he now felt like he'd explode at
the lightest touch. He just squeezed his eyes shut and stood there,
taking each piledriver thrust into his backside, his muscular cheeks
clapping against Luke's bare front, and his hole getting wetter and more
welcoming with every invasive push.

`Yes,' he moaned, finding words, `oh yes baby-'

`You're mine,' came Luke's strangled cry in his ear. `You're
MINE.'


Luke came first, inevitably, emptying himself inside that arsehole that
he'd coveted in quiet moments, watching Harry's bare arse across a
hotel room, thinking about the important first time when it had been made
his in an act of contrition, and then the couple of feeble efforts to
repeat that dynamic in the time since - but now he was really going for
it, fucking into Harry's sturdy rear even after he came, making the most
of it, really riding against his captain, claiming him and owning him,
giving him what he apparently needed, and what Luke had really discovered
he liked to give.

In the post-nut clarity of his echoey brain, he did wonder about what
this meant for the future: would he ever feel as dominated and possessed
by this majestic fucker again, after this grunting inversion? Was the old
way broken now, and was there no going back? Would he fuck Harry again,
and again, and that would become the norm? He didn't know if he wanted
that or not, but he knew that something important had changed, or
returned, and he could feel an enormous pressure leaving his whole being.

Once he'd pulled his trembling dick out of Harry's tightness, he turned
him around and wanked him forcibly, their faces pulling together in an
almost-kiss, breath mingling, whilst Harry's cock was pulled over and
over until it was shooting a sticky mess against Luke's tummy, where his
t-shirt was pulled up almost to his nips. Cum hit and smeared his navel
and six-pack and Harry's dick throbbed hard in his grip. `Fuuuuck,'
moaned the married centre-back into his face, completely drained, and
`Fuck yes,' Luke snarled back happily, finally kissing him on the lips.

The snog lasted for several minutes, the men grabbing at each other with
mucky hands, sweaty and cum-stained and shuddering with each breath, but
locking tongues and kissing deeply and hungrily. It was only the little
mechanical fart of an accidentally triggered auto soap dispenser that
broke the breathless passion and made them pull apart, full of throaty
chuckles and self-conscious red faces, bare cocks rubbing together,
sensitive and tingling from the roughness of their connection.

It wasn't easy, but they washed their hands, helping each other out a
little with the soap and water, and then adjusting their clothing item by
item. A few moments' cautious silence before the lock was twisted and
the sliding door elbowed open, and Luke shuffled backwards into the
vestibule, looking left and right, and then giving Harry the nod.
Together, they moved through the next automatic door and back into their
empty carriage. The windows showed that the train was slowing, and
cruising in against a platform in Watford Junction - a handful of
passengers were out there with their cases, presumably joining them in
here. Without commenting on this, Luke led the way back to their booked
seats in the original booth, settling comfortably in on one side whilst
Harry folded in against the opposite chair, never breaking eye contact
from him. They both breathed deeply and wriggled their muscular bodies
against the cushions to find the right position, whilst lower legs
connected under the table, calf muscle on calf muscle.

The 10.42 from Euston whizzed on to Manchester Piccadilly, and the two
United defenders stared silently at one another, digesting what had
happened between them, a fire reignited.