Date: Wed, 30 Nov 2022 23:10:27 +0000 From: writer guy Subject: Premiership Lads, Part 331 Part 331: Dragons & Lions He sat a little distance from the main party. It was one thing keeping a stiff upper lip for the cameras, and proudly celebrating what his team had achieved already up to this point - that was no challenge for the proud Welshman and seasoned professional. But sitting with the disappointment and actually getting his head around the real defeat, that was something else. It would take a good few days before he could really analyse what had happened, and think seriously about the future - for now, he'd off-hand dismissed one of the post-match reporters question about his retirement, and whether this World Cup would be a last outing for Gareth Bale as the hero dragon at the heart of his small country's team. This tournament had been the golden dream that kept him going in the past few tough years, the rocky end of his Real Madrid time and that short-lived move back to Tottenham - and even the surreal transportation to Los Angeles FC, a bizarre step in his 30s that Bale would not have handled well if not sustained by the ultimate goal: fitness and top form for an international campaign with his Wales boyos. The 33-year-old winger had no resentment or criticism for the cluster of his less exalted teammates, who were partying quite cheerfully not far away. He understood the need for it, and that for many of them these three group stage games had been the most unimaginable thrill, an epic rollercoaster that didn't need to go any further to become a career highlight. But Gareth had won a lot of shit, and knew he was in Wales and Britain's contention for one of the greatest active players... He couldn't digest the knockout defeat and the fact that he would be flying back to California in only a day or two. He was slumped in an isolated deckchair away from the bright outdoor lighting and pulsing dance music of the pool party being enjoyed by the squad and personnel. He'd hung around in the thick of it while he could, toasting to numerous lads on the squad, and getting pretty tipsy, then ducked out when the singsongs and dancing began, retiring to this shady position at the edges of their hotel's garden, somewhere he could see the action going on but avoid being grilled with questions or platitudes by the other men. Bale was patient and diplomatic with the lower-status players who filled out the Wales team, up to a point, but now that things had gone to shit, he just wanted to be away from all this patriotism for a bit, free to sulk and wallow and not have to be some great stoic leader for the Welshmen. His thoughts were slipping to earlier in the Doha night, in the hours of build-up to the match. He'd felt so confident then, so full of vigour and his own status. He'd been unable to look across the pitch during the warm-ups without starting to picture which one of the so-called Lions he would be taming later, after the win, after knocking the smug Englanders out of this Cup. Mentally, he'd undressed half a dozen options in the dark blue training gear of Southgate's roster, and even fantasised that he might lure one of the dumb fuckers across the tunnel and into the dragons' den, where he might recruit a few other senior Wales players to help him make use of a new slut. He'd zoomed in on the England twinks, that skinny scally rat Phil Foden with his ridiculous new hair trim, and wondered how supple the Man City star would be once Bale had lured him across; he'd checked out the rising star of Jude Bellingham, intrigued by the maturity and self-belief of the 19-year-old England junior, who would surely be more of a challenge; and he'd had his eyes on a couple of their lingering bench-warmers for the night too, looking at how well Mason Mount's tracksuit hugged his surprisingly muscular build, or that Chelsea nobody Conor Gallagher, whose greasy blond hair would be great to hold while pushing his face down into new territory, ha. Staring across to the other side of the pitch, distracted from the warm-up drills of his own squad, the 6ft1 Wales winger had reached down and grabbed shamelessly at the sizeable bulge in his red shorts, toying with the outline of his sagging meat, and thought about who he'd feed it to in the aftermath of this clash between dragons and lions. It wasn't just the younger twinks of the England line-up that caught his eye, though; at that very moment, the opposition's tall captain was stooped in discussion with a senior coach, deep in conversation and trying to look all serious and responsible. But Bale knew him well, didn't he, and he knew what lay beneath the robust manly persona of England's great striker. There were tremors of awkwardness in the 33-year-old as he watched the other tall leader from a distance, thinking of how intense their North London affair had become, and the way he'd needed to cut short that Premiership loan to avoid it causing mischief in both of their marriages... But Gareth had long buried whatever feelings he'd mulled over for the other married bloke, reframing the whole experience as another testament to his alpha male status, just like the mad fun that Sergio Ramos had dragged him into back in Madrid that hot summer of lockdown. Harry Kane was just another exploit, no better than the sluts he'd fucked in the early days of his wholesome but dull marriage, and revisiting the English bitch tonight once Wales won... well, come to think of it, that was a lot more exciting than wasting his energy on any of those young wannabes. Bale had grinned wickedly to himself at this new plan, watching as Kane broke away from the coach and jogged about, being all pally and paternal with the other men in tracksuits, his big panto of captaincy. Stupid prick, he thought now. The so-called striker hadn't even scored a goal yet this cup, and was relying on all the newbies in his squad to do that work! He wasn't a real leader, Gareth told himself, and he needed to be reminded of that; reminded of those stolen nights of sweaty action in North London just last year, and how dominated he had been by a Welsh dragon...! Gareth flared his nostrils and leaned back in the deckchair, reaching into one pocket of the loose red jersey he wore over his t-shirt, finding his phone and cycling through his contacts list. At one point, part of him noted, Harry K's number had been blocked in here, to prevent any further contact from the stupid English cum-slut... but in the days leading up to this tournament, Bale had half-consciously undone that step, and toyed with a few late-night messages already, as their teams crawled inexorably towards tonight's clash at the end of their shared group. Now, he began to thumb in the message, opening up the empty chat thread that had been cautiously wiped last year, and wondering how best to lure dirty Harry out from his England celebrations, and show him who was- `Here,' broke in a soft voice, interrupted the pressure cooker of his brain as he let his thumb hover the touch-screen. Bale looked sharply to one side, having not realised another figure had approached through the deep shadows of the tropical plants here, and was now stood close by, holding a fresh beer his way and sipping from a bottle of his own. The Wales leader blinked and paused and locked his phone screen, then downed the remnants of the lukewarm beer in his lap before grasping the icy fresh one from Aaron Ramsey's hand, and nodding respectfully at the only other Wales player who could come close to him in experience and reputation. The two old friends toasted quietly in the Welsh language and then sipped silently on the weak beer, before turning to stare abstractedly across the gardens at the lights and movement of the main party, dim and hazy about the outdoor pool. `You want left on your own?' the Caerphilly-born midfielder asked him in a low voice, giving him a cautious smile and hovering there with one hand in the pocket of his chino shorts. A minute ago, Bale might have said yes, and to anyone else, he probably still would; but now he looked thoughtfully at his international crony, and smiled ambiguously at him before murmuring his `No, course not' in the gruff tones of his Cardiff accent. A new thought was creeping across the Welsh winger's mind, and he shifted his weight forward in the deckchair, grinning more fully at the Nice player. `No,' he repeated quietly, `a bit of company would be great. In fact...' He smirked, watching Aaron Ramsey's handsome features flicker into a curious smile - `I could do with an assistant, now I think about it, and you'll do just fine, mate. Are you... up for an adventure?' Gareth Bale wasn't the only Welshman who felt the need to distance himself from the rowdy enjoyment of the Wales troops, and he wasn't the only player who was finding their defeat a little harder to swallow. After all, it had all become a bit too personal for the young full-back, even before a suspected concussion had him removed from the pitch, brought violently down to the turf by a full-bodied tackle from the man he'd loved. Maybe still did. It had all been a painful blur, and crashing out of the World Cup had taken on a different and even more agonising significance to the Wrexham 21-year-old. Neco Williams was entirely sober, having been warned against the booze by a team doctor, and drunk Welsh blokes were not great company to keep if you couldn't just join them. Instead, the Nottingham Forest defender had taken his tropical fruit juice and drifted away from the pool in the opposite direction to where Bale and Ramsey were plotting. He drifted about the side of the hotel and onto the raised terrace overlooking its entrance, finding a cool stone bench there where he could sip on his straw and nurse his aching body on his own, no longer needing to look tough and resilient for his teammates. It had been a crushingly difficult first World Cup for the rising star, and tonight he just needed to be on his own, away from the noise. It would help if he could stop picturing the strange look he'd shared with Jordan fucking Henderson in the tunnel before the game - or more strikingly, the image of the LFC captain bearing down on him for that tackle, and bringing him crashing to the ground for the second or third bad knock of the tense grudge match. Or worse than the simmering look before kick-off and the violent take-down in the midst of play... the way his former team captain had stayed by his side, touching him tenderly on the arm, his bearded face full of fear and concern as he barked urgently over at the Wales dugout, unwilling to leave him until his fall was being attended to... Yeah, it was that which haunted him now, making him deeply uncomfortable with himself and his complex feelings, on the night his World Cup dreams were dashed by the Three Lions. For now. The Doha streets outside their hotel were incredibly quiet, and so it didn't take him long to notice the hooded figure moving through the streetlights and up onto the broad steps that led up to the entrances. The hoody itself was pretty fucking distinctive, marked with the logos and sponsors of the England national team, and even with the hood up, he could make out some thick strands of the lad's afro hair in chubby locs. What the actual fuck? The 6ft youth got up from his bench, not without a little pain, and he put down his drink before pacing quietly through the bushes and lawn and off the low edge of the terrace, picking up pace until he was cutting off the strange lad's approach, and stopping him his tracks right in front of the hotel's sliding doors entrance. The England hoodie stopped instantly and the Wales defender stood squarely in his path, staring him down, tough expression clawed back onto his lean face. `Hi there,' the 21-year-old said awkwadly, unsure how to follow up his dramatic appearance in front of the unwanted visitor, and waiting for this strange apparition to say something. He glared at him and folded his sore arms over the chest of his own loose black t-shirt. `What do you think you're doing here, mate...?' Another of his former teammates glowered back at him, and pulled back the hood of his top, as if his identity wasn't alreayd obvious enough. Trent Alexander-Arnold took a few moments to say anything, and when he did, his strong Liverpudlian accent was raspy with frustration and difficulty, as if he'd been rehearsing this all the way here. `You need to back off,' the Scouser informed him bluntly. `You need to let him go, okay? I know what you two had, but it's int the past. Stop... digging it up. He's moved on, right? He's moved on and... him and me, la', we're pretty happy, so just...' `You finished, then?' Neco said to him, when this angry little sentence trailed off. `Jesus, mate. Who do you think you are?' A bitter little laugh. `Nice to see you again too, old buddy, nice to catch up, eh... yeh yeh, I'm doing fine since Liverpool chucked me away, how `bout you? Oh... no, you didn't just come for a chit-chat, nah?' He swore in a bit of Welsh, just to irritate the English prick. Trent continued to stare stonily at him. `You're messing with his head, or something,' he accused with that same anxious vagueness to his words and tone. `He's been weird since we got here, and you just keep popping up-' `Funny enough, mate, I don't organise the FIFA match schedule...' `Fuck off, let me speak,' Trent insisted, a touch of violence in his voice. At this, Neco backed away a step, but he curled his hands into ready fists and stared down the shorter but thickly built 24-year-old, unwilling to be intimidated by this former friend and now apparent rival. Neco's head was a mess of pain and thoughts, and he was not in the mood to be spoken down to by this jumped-up defender, not after everything else... `Nah,' Neco grunted to him, `you've said enough. What the hell are you doing here? I dunno if you heard, prick, but I've had a pretty rough week, and THIS ain't what I need. Fuck off back to your own hotel, Trent, and we'll pretend this never happened. You're embarrassing yourself. I can't help it if your boyfriend still fancies me, can I?' he added after a hesitant pause, unsure whether he felt up to such venom. He saw the flash of hurt and worry on the handsome features of the right-back's face, and it gave him an ambiguous mix of vengeance and shame. `I'm sorry,' snapped Trent quite unapologetically, `I know you've had a difficult time, so I don't mean to be harsh, just-' So, thought Neco, this one had seen that same look between them in the tunnel, hadn't he? That must be it; it couldn't just be Hendo's compassionate visit here to meet him the other night, surely. Paranoid Trent had sensed the same simmer of sexual tension that had confused Neco in the staidum tonight before ,during, and after the 2-0 defeat. Well, what did it all mean? He waved a dismissive hand at his confused visitor, not in the mood for this argument, even if there was an odd hint of contrition in Trent's last outburst, and he stepped down closer to the intruder, ready to square up to him properly if needed - Trent needed to clear off and leave, otherwise Neco could feel himself throwing some punches and starting a fight he wasn't physically up to. Seeing his stance, the other footballer seemed to hunch his bigger shoulders and bring up his fists too, and the pair of them were spilling into a clash that he suspected neither of them really wanted tonight... Until that throaty accented cry echoed across the street at them, and made them both look down the stairs and into the lamplight of the pavement. There he was, striding this way in the same oopen hoodie as his teammate, his 6ft form hugged by a tight blue tracksuit of England's merch. His bearded face had the same look of abject worry that had come over it as he loomed over Neco's painful writhing on the pitch, and it filled him now with the same conflicted emotions; he'd worked so hard to get over that beautiful secret relationship, and done so well, but looking into that bearded face, it was straight back to square one. `Lads,' the Liverpool captain was barking through his pants as he drew closer. `Hendo,' grumbled Trent awkwardly, looking horrified rather than relieved. `Captain,' Williams murmured, unable to drop the honorific that belonged in the past. This man was not his captain any more, nor other things beside, but even now... He blinked furiously and looked from one unexpected visitor to the other, watching their uncomfortable body language and worried eyes, and the cautious way they now stared back at him too. He paused and let out a long sigh. `I guess you both better come inside, okay?' Only a few shiny blocks of ultra-modern development lay between the streets of the Wales compound and the hotel basecamp of the Three Lions - but it was almost all shut down and eerily silent as one more member of the Wales team strutted through it, following the confusing map directions of on his iPhone, and wondering why city life in Doha shut down so ridiculously early in the midst of a major international tournament. Daniel James turned another confusing corner and peered left and right, then back down at the dizzying glow of his phone screen, trying to work out if he'd turned out onto the correct block or not. Looking back up, he finally caught sight of the relatively discreet neon of a hotel sign and the logo of the joint he'd Googled - aha, that was the one, wasn't it? With an optimistic grin, the 25-year-old Fulham winger set off at a hurried pace, following the broad new pavement towards the closed gates of the flashy hotel, and pausing awkwardly in front of the big fancy intercom that would presumably be required to get into the compound. Hmm, this might be a challenge. Pleasantly drunk from a few rushed beers back at his own team's defeat party, the footballer took a few steps back from the gates and turned back to the phone that had, more or less, guided him through the Doha night to get here. It had been a daft move, part of him knew, to ditch that party of male bonding, just when it was getting fun, but he'd become hooked on a different idea of tonight, one that lay beyond these decorated steel gates. The thing was... Dan James had ALWAYS fancied Luke Shaw, or certainly for as long as he'd had any awareness of his bi leanings. The blond defender was an absolute stud in his eyes, an intoxicating man who had been more than influential in luring him out of his shy doubts and exploring his body in a new way. To this day, James would often picture a particular time in the showers of a remote training location, when the Prem had first began to recover from lockdown, and he and Shaw were just training as a pair for a few weeks, before full team sessions were authorised - he could still see himself being fucked by the left-back in the showers of the empty school gym they'd been using, gasping for every powerful thrust from the England star. So, Dan had ALWAYS fancied Luke Shaw, but NOW... He'd seen it from afar, but coming up close to him in the build-up to their World Cup game together... wow. There was something transformed about the new Shaw, or at least a combination of the pretty boy who had first signed for United and the more rugged bear-ish man he had turned into during his skinhead years. In the tunnel just before the game, Dan had found himself staring lustily across at the bulging muscles under Luke's England shirt, and he'd been distracted by the sight of him for the rest of the night! Contact between the buddies had weakened after he limped away from Old Trafford for his Leeds season, and had faded out almost completely now he lived in London and played for Fulham; there'd been a few cheery and encouraging messages between the two of them since landing in the Arab state, laced with joking banter about tonight's game. But as soon as there was a quiet moment in the defeated locker-room of his Wales side, Daniel had found Luke's number in his phone and sent him some heartfelt congratulations, in spite of his own loss. He'd become immediately and undeniably flirtatious, hinting heavily at how hot he thought Shaw looked tonight, and wondering if they might grab a drink before he had to fly back to the UK... Dan's suggestions had turned from the vague tomorrow (`Sure' had been Luke's simple response) to `Why not tonight...?' Now he was here, the 25-year-old lad of Welsh extraction could tell that the whole plan was stupid. The England left-back hadn't replied to him in a while, and actually hadn't responded at all the notion of meeting tonight. After all, there'd be a big party here too, a bigger one for the winners, and he thought he could hear the muffled voices and undercurrent of music from it somewhere beyond those locked gates - Luke would be busy celebrating with his England bros, why would he want to share a pint with a member of the opposition...? But he was here now. He'd tore himself away from the supririsngly jolly `defeat' drinks of his precious Wales crew, and found his way through the empty streets to this enemy hotel, and he was a bit annoyed that Luke wasn't responding to his messages or picking up his calls. He stared drunkenly at the hotel entrance for a while and almost just set off home to the hotel where his teammates were probably still getting drunk by the pool, but then decided to check for another way in. Swaying a little from the incremental effect of his night's beers, the Fulham player followed the high walls of the hotel compound, straining to pick out recognisable voices in the near-but-far sounds of the England victory party, as his home nations rivals celebrated their progression into the Round of 16. To Dan's delight, he did find another way in, and one that was a lot less secure. Around the side of the walls, a smaller gate was closed but unlocked, and there was no need for a code or a card, he was in. He giggled stupidly to himself in the warm blanket of night, feeling like a mastermind criminal as he breached the walls of the England base, a spy on enemy territory...! A notion that would have been a lot funnier had Wales remained in the competition and an actual threat to the dominant national side. Ahead of him was a curving path up to the walls of the main building, which he followed, stepping through pools of amber lamplight and wondering if he dared show face at the major gathering of England stars if he stumbled upon it. Part of Dan's brain was screaming at him that this was all a terrible plan and he was making an awful fool of himself. He looked at his phone again, seeing that Luke Shaw hadn't even read the last few messages where he announced that he was imminently heading over/on his way/here. This sober corner of the young player's brain was just about managing to break through the excited haze of his drunken lust, when he rounded a dark corner and bumped straight into the taller stronger body of another athletic lad. Dan reeled awkwardly back, unsteady on his feet and almost tripping into the undergrowth of the hotel garden - but he caught himself against the post of another amber lamp, and turned his giddy eyes towards the other figure in the pool of light. Equally startled, he found himself face to face with a different but equally familiar member of Southgate's squad, one who was gawping at him in shock and bursting into a little coughing fit of surprise, dropping the chicken wing he'd been chewing messily on, barbecue sauce all over his face. `Dan, mate,' barked the England midfielder in alarm. `Oh, hey,' he chirped stupidly, suddenly unsure how the hell he might explain his presence here at the wrong hotel, but smiling widely at his former Leeds colleague. `Hey there, Kalvin...!' And Kalvin Phillips stared oddly back at him, sucking sticky sauce of two or three fingers, looking totally bamboozled, but then bursting into cheery laughter: `Dan! Come here mate, give us a hug!' They were in their large shared suite now, a bigger one with almost separate bedrooms to it; the kind of special treatment afforded to a man of Bale's stature on a team who had waited this many decades to revisit the world stage of football. Really, the 33-year-old could easily have demanded a room all of his own in the Wales hotel, but he liked Ramsey's company and he knew that the two of them were better off together, rather than either of them having to room with the starry-eyed younger lads. Those lads had their moments, of course, when Bale's dragon got frisky in his pants, but they were all a little irritating in their fan-boy devotion, whereas Ramsey was reliably unfazed - the two of them had been at the heart of their national team for as long as anyone could remember. Now, Ramsey was mixing them drinks from the mini-bar and Bale was reclined on the sofa in the communal section of their extended suite; behind him, windows were wide open to the stuffy Qatari night, and through it echoed the shouts and whoops of the squad party as it rattled on downstairs, young men dive-bombing the pool and bursting into snatches of singing in both English and Welsh. Gareth was back on his phone now, exchanging a flurry of messages with his home nation counterpart. `But u can leave soon???? Nobody cares if captains are at party, we're like the boss lol' `Mmm dunno - I'm really shattered - and it's a good laugh here' `Come on - old time's sake. I'll get u into this hotel and...' Devil emoji, eggplant, LOL. `Maybe maybe - let me ring u later lol' `Not later... NOW' `Hahahaha' `COME ON' ... `Ramsey here 2. Haha. U into that?' ... `Come on' `FFS mate' `?????' This conversation of short messages was less rapid than it looked; Harry was taking several minutes to reply each time, perhaps finding it hard to steal his phone out and engage in their illicit cross-team chat whilst he was meant to be celebrating the 2-0 win with the rest of those smug English bastards. At the lack of reply to this last slew of question marks, Bale growled audibly and threw the device down the length of the sofa, past his bare feet; it bounced on the cushions and skittered dangerously to the hard stone tiles of the floor, luckily without too severe a crashing crunch to its landing. Crossing the room with small glasses of vodka mix in each hand, the near-6ft 31-year-old paused and smiled indulgently, then raised an eyebrow. `Careful, G,' he chuckled. `Here, take this. It was the best I could make. Here, have your phone back - what'd it do to you...?' Bale shifted his large feet to make space as the other senior player sank down into a comfortable position next to him. He took the phone back and slurped on the drink, pulling his knees close and hugging his hairy forearms about them where his shorts ended. He winced a bit at the strength of the vodka and coke that his friend had mixed, but said nothing about it, still internally raging at Kane's disappointing messages and then radio silence. Ramsey, thankfully, seemed chilled, though this was hardly turning into the promised adventure that Bale had gruffly promised him down among the shadows and palms, ditching their teammates to relax up here; he'd assured Aaron in the elevator that they would be getting a chance to take their frustrations out on the most English bloke going, and not yet revealed that he was planning for them to spit-roast the mumbling skipper of the Three Lions. Now... that looked unlikely. `Plans might have to change,' he grunted vaguely. `Fine by me,' sighed Aaron quite contentedly, his black shirt open halfway down his chest, and arms splayed comfortably out against the backing of the sofa as he sipped on the drink and seemed fine with its concocted strength. He looked pretty blissed-out considering the night's disappointment, his head a bright halo of platinum blonde, and his eyes twinkling vaguely at some distant thought of life on the Riviera. `You don't seem too gutted,' Bale said, quielty but accusingly. Ramsey turned a thoughtful look his way. `About the plans...?' `About the game,' he said, a bit more harshly. `Mate,' the other Welshman sighed. `It was always gonna end this way, don't you think? But we had great fucking fun getting to this point. I'm okay. And who knows... you and I might still be kicking it at the next one, 2026.' He shrugged and grinned. `I'm too tired out to be grumpy or disappointed, mate,' he added in a weary, wistful way. `We're too old to go about smashing the hotel up just cos we were bested on the pitch.' `Hmm. You've lost your fire,' Gareth told him, but slowly and conversationally, without much fiery accusation of his own - he didn't like to hear the defeatism in his long-tim pal, but he understood Aaron's relaxed position, and he respected it. There was a lot of understanding between the two of them. They'd shared a lot over the years, not just the wide-eyed Welsh twinks on their squad. Which, he thought now, would have to be the new plan for tonight, since Kane was being a cunt... He took a second long slug of the vodka coke and opened up his device to check... grey ticks had turned blue, but the England skipper had left him on fucking read, the prick! He grunted loudly and Ramsey laughed gently. `What is it? What's the big surprise?' `Nothing,' he growled aimlessly - no point boasting at what he'd been planning, now it looked less than likely. Though perhaps big striker Harry would still get back to them in a little while, if he stayed horny and drunk, and convinced Aaron to wait... `Just my plan,' he muttered to his friend. `I had a guy in mind for us to fuck, y'know. You'd be up for that?' He stared intensely at the other married Welsh bloke, checking that Aaron was still as surprisingly fluid and open-minded as he'd turned out to be in recent Wales camps - it had been a shock for Gareth, who had been dragged into kinky fun by king Ramos in Spain, and he suspected that pretty boy Aaron had dabbled in that stuff long before he suggested it one drunken night in Wales. He found himself staring quite thoughtfully at the midfielder, who turned his handsome profile and looked this way too. `Forget him,' Ramsey told him quietly. `It's all okay. I'm happy chilling here, no adventure needed. Must be getting old.' His smile was quite sweet and wholesome, which irritated Bale a little, because it seemed to piss on the wild kinky mood that had stirred in his big chest - he wanted to get rough and rowdy, some outlet for his aggressive disappointment and his hate for the Englang team and their self-entitled assumption of superiority. He wanted to make Kane whimper. `We could go back down,' he muttered with a little fierceness back in his voice and in his intense rugged features. He held the drink in both hands, knuckles turning white. `There's a good few lads here who-' `Just relax,' urged the former Arsenal hero in that almost sleepy chilled voice, reaching a hand out and slapping it over one of his bared knees, giving it a rub. `Relax?' the winger murmured, then grunted irritably. `It's been quite a night, boyo, I don't know if you noticed...' Aaron rubbed at his knee and found his hand, giving it a pat and a squeeze. `But there's nothing more we can do,' the slightly younger bloke reminded him very quietly. `The hard work is over for now, we deserve to... chill.' His fingers played there against Gareth's stony knuckles and his wrist, and his eyes seemed to focus sharply this way. Gareth stared back into them, his mind still roving down about the pool party, thinking of those ripped younger footy lads who'd be just in their shorts now, jumping in and out of the pool and getting drunker and drunker and- Ramsey's hand squeezed a little more firmly about his, and made him look more intently back towards his long-time Wales ally. He mouthed a silent `What?' at the other football player, but his friend was leaning this way, sliding across the sofa in a slight shuffle, and brushing closer to him, a bit of hairy thigh rubbing at his ankle, and then... Before Gareth Bale knew what was happening, his fellow alpha male had leaned gently in, rested a hand on the chest of his t-shirt, and brought their faces very close. The rugged Welsh champion could feel warm beery breath brush his lips. He was about to mouth `What?' a bit more audibly, but then another mouth closed over his, and his closest football mate was kissing hi, rubbing soft lips on his, and then sneaking a tongue into his mouth - and at the same time, his hand had slid down the inside of his thigh, and found its place on the crotch of his nylon shorts, waking the dragon. `It's okay,' Neco said glumly, handing each of them the cool beer cans from the mini-bar of his hotel room. `I don't know where Dan's fucked off too, but he wasn't even at the party when I left. Probably hooked up with some girl from the liaison team, or something. He was texting someone like crazy in the changing rooms after the game.' He was over-sharing now, but someone had to say something, rather than just the oppressive silence of the two Liverpool and England players who were now inappropriately present in his hotel suite, none of them quite knowing where to look. Visibly uncomfortable, Trent moved over to the room's big windows, staring out at the twinkling harbour lights in view, and Jordan remained in the centre of the space, hugging his biceps and frowning heavily. Neither of them hurried to crack open their beers, and Neco took one sip of his own Sprite before losing interest in it, and pacing down the side of the room to take a seat on the edge of his bed. `This could be nice,' the 21-year-old said with a relatively gentle mockery in his voice. `Reunited with two of my fave Liverpool teammates, here to comfort me after a shocker of a night in the World Cup.' Hendo and Trent flashed him differing looks of guilty concern, but the young Forest player just chuckled distantly to himself. `Man, this is weird, though. I guess it could be nice to know I live rent-free in so many heads after I left Anfield ages ago...?' `Don't be like that,' his old captain muttered unhappily. `You make everything sound...' `I'm not up for being lectured,' Neco told him brusquely, staying where he sat, and running his fingers through the dark curls of his hair. `Suspected concussion, remember. I haven't even touched a drop of drink tonight... which I'm not sure I can say about either of you, huh? Trent mate, you stink of it. He's pissed,' he said with childish accusation, looking back at Hendo, `and he's trying to warn me off you. How funny's that, when you ditched me ages ago...?' Henderson just looked sadly at him, not bothering to contest this murky evaluation of how their love affair had ended. It had been distance that killed it, Neco knew, more than anything either of htem had or hadn't done. But he wasn't feeling too generous with his emotions right now. Still... he'd invited the dysfunctional pair up here, hadn't he? And not just to shout at and take out his mood about the Wales defeat, so... `Trent,' he called, looking towards the windows. `You got to stop worrying, yeh? Hendo came over here to look in on me when I was upset, and nothing fuckin' happened. Alright? He's all yours, I guess. If you two are... as serious as I assume.' He fidgeted uncomfortably, not sure that this magnanimous maturity really suited him yet. He got up form the bed and stood there awkwardly, arms at his side, whilst his former captain and lover drifted closer to Trent at the window and put a hand on his shoulder. `He's right,' the 32-year-old Sunderland man was telling the young Scouser, but Trent's sharp reaction jolted Neco into greater interest, and almost made him burst into harsh sarcastic laughter. `But what about Adam?' the right-back demanded, pressing back against the window sill and keeping his thick brown arms folded over his impressive chest. What the fuck? `Mate,' sighed Henderson, sounding exasperated. `That wasn't how it looked. Lallana was literally here for two nights cos he had to do this nterview for the Times, and he thought he'd look in on us - he wanted to see YOU too, mate! He... look, he was just being friendly, and yeah maybe he hugged me for a bit too long, but...' Neco stared bug-eyed at the both of them, and shook his head - yikes, sounds messy. It was an odd sensation, to feel like an outsider and observer to the drama all of a sudden, instead of its focal point. Right, so this was about more than just his Wales team ending up in the same group as England, and clashing so aggressively in tonight's defeat? He sighed now and then did laugh, a low heady chuckle, one that made the two conflicted lovers stare suspiciously in his direction. Henderson had lifted one hand up to the side of Trent's big arm, and moved in a bit closer to the handsome Scouse lad, but both of them were staring awkwardly at Neco, distracted by his amusement. It had taken Williams a long time to get over the vague feeling of abandonment and loss that had followed his sort-of break-up with the married DILF of his Liverpool suburban dream. But he was young and resilient and he suspected he'd only ever been in love with a fantasy, not the awkward future of being that handsome man's side-piece hidden in the spare bedroom, mor elodger than lover. What had slowly dawned on Neco in the last few months living down in the East Midlands had been a growing sense of what he needed form a relationship, and Captain Hendo just wasn't it, not whilst he was also married with kids. This epiphany came back to him in a strange rush as he looked at the two of them, staring his way, and he laughed again, and clapped his hands together, then walked towards them. He knew what he did and didn't want in a relaitonship, sure, but that didn't change his sexual fixation on the man who had changed his young life. `You two gonna kiss and make up?' the Wales player demanded throug his laugh, and he saw it make Trent smirk a bit, though Henderson still looked distressed. `Oh come on,' Neco urged them. `Lala, me, we don't matter... it's you two what matters, if you want it to. For fuck's sake. Don't make me be the only grown-up in the room.' He joined them at the window, smiling oddly from man to man, and shaking his head. `Life's short, guys, I feel like I've learned that this week - and I ain't gonna watch this patehtic argument go on any longer. Now, are you two gonna kiss, or will one of you snog me?' He hadn't really thought through the ridiculous question until it was out of his mouth, but once he'd said it, he knew exactly what he wanted. His Hendo was closer, so he touched him tenderly on the shoulder, feeling the firm muscle through the layers of clothes, but then drifting closer to Trent, and slipping a hand into his - and right in front of Jordan's eyes, leaning in and taking the 5t9 stud's mouth against his, kissing him deeply and comfortable, Trent too surprised to resist. They hadn't joined the actual party; perhaps Phillips understood the mad awkwardness that would invoke, or perhaps he genuinely did just want a one-on-one catch-up between the former Elland Road teammates, both of them having gone their new directions at the close of last season. Whatever his thinking, the 26-year-old Man City recruit actually seemed quite unfazed by Dan's illogical presence here in the England camp, after his initial shock and bewilderment - it actually seemed as if stocky Kalvin had been more shocked at losing the rest of his chicken wing than finding a Wales player hiding in the shadows of the Lions' den. Instead of the outdoor party where Phillips' teammates were clearly still toasting to the Welsh downfall, the two of them were on stools inside an otherwise deserted indoor bar area, not far from the quiet path where they had bundled into each other. `Luke?' the equally drunk English midfielder had chuckled brashly at him. `Think that boring fucker went to bed half an hour ago already - him and his captain, actually - Slabhead, what a fucking legend that man is, king of headers...!' And so on and so forth, drunken excited chatter between both of the rival footballers. Sitting on the barstools now with a couple of dubiously sourced beers open in their hands, the conversation tumbled drunkenly on: Kalvin was excitedly regaling him with a second-by-second account of his debut World Cup minutes at the end of tonight's winning match, and Dan was nodding along eagerly as if what was being described wasn't the crushing of his family's patriotic dreams. With an ounce of common sense, the 25-year-old was abandoning his little night-time quest - there was no way he was gonna figure out which room Shaw was occupying, and he certainly wasn't gonna be going around waking up him and terrifying Maguire...! He'd lost interest in that mission, though the vision of Luke's six-pack shining through a damp footy shirt would no doubt haunt his dreams for weeks to come... But his mind was elsewhere now, and it was hardly just common sense that had put a stop to his other quest. He smiled enchantedly at the Leeds bloke in front of him, enjoying the dimpled smile of joy on Kalvin's broad face, and the bulge of his biceps outside the sleeveless training top he wore above his baggy basketball shorts. There was a lull in Kal's excited chatter, and Dan made a flirty giggle to fill it, leaning heavily on the bartop and feeling very glad that they were alone in this quiet atmosphere, a few party noises echoing in from one of the open doors down its side, presumably leading out to the courtyard where the others were oblivious to his intrusive presence. `You miss Leeds at all?' he chirped. Phillips scoffed at the ridiculous question, giving him a light push on the arm. `What d'you think, mate...? That place is everything to me. Signing my new contract was one of the toughest days of my life, buddy. But I knew I needed to do it, and I try just to think happy thoughts I had at that club, y'know. It'll always be home, wherever I end up playing.' He burst into stupid laughter. `You know, Barca or PSG or wherever... haha...' Dan indulged him, sniggering along to this jokey ambitions, and shoving him back, but letting his hand linger against that thick bare arm, feeling the strong muscle there. He left his hand there against it and smiled meaningfully across to the other guy, broader and taller than him, but just as beer-tipsy. His smile deepening, Dan gave the muscle a slight squeeze, but couldn't bring himself to vocalise the smutty compliment that he wanted to. Kalvin was looking back at him in a more sobering manner, caution creeping into his bright eyes. `Mate,' came the midfielder's nervous low murmur, and his anxiety was infectious; Daniel felt suddenly less daft and confident than he had as he swaggered through the night streets, getting lost on his way here, and kidding himself that he was in for a solid fucking from Luke Shaw. For a moment, his attention had been deliciously diverted by this mixed-race Yorkshire stud, but Kal didn't look too keen... `And you ever think about Croydon?' the 25-year-old murmured, the false confidence of the question dying before he'd finished saying it. `Mate,' came Phillips' ambiguous muttered response. He drew back slightly, his posture stiffening, and his arm retracting so that James' curious fingers slid away from the muscle, past his elbow... but dropped optimistically against his thigh, caressing the Adidas three stripes that ran part-way down his furry thigh. `I do,' the Wales player told him quietly and simply, eyeing him hopefully. Kalvin frowned back, his expression clouding, and his leg jerking to shake Dan's hand away from it. With a sigh, he pulled back too, placing his hands around his cool beer, and accepting that tonight wasn't going to be that kind of fun after all - he'd have to end his World Cup experience on a more wholesome note, arm-in-arm with his Wales brothers, if he could make it back to base before the party died out. And then, on cue, footsteps skipped into the bar room with them, and a third figure was rapidly approaching the line of stools, clapping hands together and making a jovial `whoop whoop' and `Big Kal, Big Kal, the Yorkshire Pirlo!' If Dan James and Kalvin Phillips were pretty tipsy, then Jack Grealish was actually steaming; the 5ft9 football icon was quickly between them, a hand on each of their shoulders, breath stinking of tequila, and his famous hair flopping down in shaggy curtains over his shiny sun-tanned face. `Lads, lads, lads,' the other Man City star chanted, and then he seemed to suddenly work out that something was odd and unexpected here. `What the heck are YOU doing here, sheep-shagger...?!' He burst into hearty self-satisfied laughter, and Dan grinned awkwardly from him to his Leeds mate, regretful of any controversy he was about to cause. `This your old boyfriend or summat, Kal?' Grealish was barking before either of the former Leeds players could speak, his hand squeezing at both of their shoulders. Phillips looked mortified by the joke and James was about to pipe up with some atrocious lie to save face, but Jack the lad continued: `The Man Utd twink, this one, everyone's fave fake Welshman, ha ha. Bet he sucked every dick at Elland Road, this little slag.' Dan blinked and stared at the sexy bastard's greasy face and swaying posture, and then at the hot pink blush of Kalvin's cheeks, and the worried flickers of his eyes. `Mate,' Phillips began to grumble, apparently now capable of only that one word. `What have you heard?' Dan was shooting nervously at their third wheel, scared but excited, and feeling Jack's hand grip a bit mroe tightly at the shoulder of his retro Wales shirt. Jack's fingers moved from his shoulder to cup at the back of his neck, and the hot sweaty figure of the Brummie stud pulled in close next to him, practically grabbing him in a headlock, whilst nervous Kalvin just stared at them in a guilty reverie. `So what's the plan?' Grealish was cackling, as Dan breathed in his aura of sweat and machismo. `Are we fucking his mouth or his arse first? Haha - what you sayin', Big Kal?' They'd left the windows open, to keep the thin trace of a breeze creeping into the suite, and it was a good job that the defeat party by the pool was still raging loud, because nobody down there would be able to hear the grunts and squeals that emanated from one end of the large double suite. Both of their clothes were scattered on the clothes between the sofa and Ramsey's half of the compartmentalised room. Two pairs of shorts first, Ramsey's beige chinos and the crinkled black sports ones Bale had been wearing; then upper layers, one black shirt hanging over the arm of another chair, and Bale's off-white t-shirt dangling from a lamp. Into the bedroom space itself, socks and underpants punctuated the route to the large bed, and somewhere on the square rug, at least one glass tumbler could be seen where it fell, spilling a dark coca-cola stain across the sandy colours. On the bed, the 31-year-old was pinned up against the headboard and the wall, every inch of his lightly tanned skin shiny with night-sweat; Gareth Bale stared at this as he ran his big hands over it, rubbing and grasping at the ripped muscles of the other player's body whilst keeping up the furious rhythm of his hips. Over and over, he pounded his long thick meat in between the pert cheeks of Aaron's backside, still shocked at how well the other football stud took it, clearly not his first time! Bale held him tightly, grasping at his upper arms and his shoulder and his neck, pulling him back against his own rugged physique, then forcing him in against the tall wooden frame of the bed, and into the painted coolness of the wall. He grunted repeatedly and loudly, with every shaking thrust of his own 6ft1 body, enjoying the ominous way the hotel bed creaked and strained beneath their combined weight. The kiss had taken him by surprise, but the sloppy blowjob on the sofa had shocked him more; he'd only ever seen Ramsey in the same position as himself! A deserving alpha who other lads would do dirty things for, but who didn't need to sink to that himself, no way. He'd thought that Aaron thought like he did, thought of other guys as just alternative lasses, and fair game for their mighty alpha cocks... Never had he expected the other confident 30-something to open his gob and go down on a fella like that. And now... Gasping and moaning, Aaron had led him across the big suite to his bed, stripping them both off, and looking at him with such desperate yearning that Gareth had been dripping pre-cum before he even got his thick cock anywhere near the peachy smooth bottom of the midfielder, the bottom which now felt so tight and good about his shaft as he rammed in and out of it, bouncing Ramsey into the headboard and the wall with his massive strength. `Harder, harder,' whined the manly player in front of him, stunning him with each cry for more - this was a side to his teammate and best pal that he'd never once suspected, and though it had taken him aback, he was enjoying it with relish. Fucking someone as handsome and manly as Ramsey felt very different to having the likes of Harry Kane slobbering over his privates and whimpering submissively. Aaron, he felt, was a real man, a real WELSH man, and boy did his arse feel good...! `Harder,' bellowed the Nice player, pretty much pushing his strong arse back into him as Gareth buckled passionately against him, sweat pouring down his lightly-haired chest, and the top-knot of his dark hair almost coming loose as his head and shoulders moved back and forth at such frantic speed, desperate to meet the demands of his sexy bottom, wanting to go even harder for him, wanting to really show him what a powerful bastard he was! `Harder,' Aaron shouted again, though surely Gareth couldn't go any harder than this, every muscle of his 6ft1 body was performing just as thoroughly as it had on the pitch, if not MORE...! Harder?! Had he actually said `harder'? Ramsey shouted it again, his hands clenched against the wooden rail of the headboard, and his head knockign gently against the wall with each trembling jolt of his 6ft frame. It sounded less like `harder' this time, and in the heat of his fucking, Bale found he was unsure what his Wales man was actually saying through his huffs and grunts and cries. Not `harder...' but... `HECTOR,' came the other man's strangled cry of satisfaction, and Gareth was briefly confused, slamming into his arse and holding him by the shoulders, powering into him and giving his hole a good stretch - who the fuck was Hector? The confusion didn't slow him down, and Aaron didn't say it again. Now, he was just growling out `That's it, that's the spot' and `Fuck yes, mate, fuckkkk', and the ambiguous commands or growled name was forgotten, because Gareth could only focus on maintaining his stamina, keeping going, feeling his balls on fire as he built up to his climax, smashing his teammate up against the top of the bed, and taking out his epic frustration on the sturdy body of his new lover. Only a few rooms away, in a much smaller and plainer suite, more typical of the hotel's shared rooms, a weaker bed was straining more loudly, three athletic bodies sprawled across it: Henderson was in the middle, the 32-year-old already stripped to the waist, and he had his two young lovers at the sides, cuddling in against him and planting kisses on his shoulders, his pecs, his biceps, and taking it in turns, his hungry mouth. On one side, Neco gasped excitedly at the familiar taste, though Hendo's beard was thicker and more tickly than it had ever been on him. He couldn't decided he preferred it or not. He let Trent be the first to slide his hand further down the skipper's six-pack and inside his tracksuit bottoms, but once the 24-year-old had taken a few good tugs, Neco pushed his hand in there too, so it was both of them stretching the waistband and running their fingers over his daddy cock and fertile balls. Neco leaned to the side and began to kiss his way down his captain's chest, looking briefly at Trent for permission before taking his pecking lips all the way down the older man's furry trail. Trent willingly pulled his hand aside and even str0ked Neco's dark curls approvingly, allowing him to peel back the layers and wrap his lips around that gorgeous Mackem cock. And like this, they shared him. There was, after all, plenty of the 6ft stud to go around, plenty of muscle and cock and energy. Neco took things slow, his body much-bruised by the last three games, and his emotions on a knife-edge between comfort and dismay. He was thrilled to be back against the hot body of his beloved captain, but Trent's company in the bed was... oddly welcome. He didn't mind watching Jordan turn his head that way and snog the face off the Scouse lad, not whilst he had a mouthful of his cock, and Jordan's other hand reaching down to stroke fingers across his cheeks. How could he mind that? Move by move, the three of them rolled and twisted across each other on the double bed, making it groan and creak. T-shirts were pulled away and tossed onto the cluttered carpet of the hotel room. Boxer shorts came down and off, and hard cocks sprung free. Neco had of course studied Trent's CK shoot quite closely last week, so he was unsurprised by the curved beauty of that light brown erection, and he gladly took it in his mouth as a change from sucking Jordan's bigger meat; in the interests of fairness, Trent was soon pulling open Neco's legs instead and mouthing at the angry red tip of his erection, whilst Jordan kissed him on the tummy and chest and tickled his skin with that beard. Though he'd been happy to let Trent get the first feel of their shared man's cock, Neco suddenly felt very hungry and greedy to have it in him. He straddled Hendo, rubbing his bare bottom over his hard-on to hint strongly at his desire, and cuddling and kissing Trent to one side, putting on a lavish show for stunned Jordan, who stared up at them with wide-open eyes and mouth. The captain's big hands roved over Neco's back and Trent's too, rubbing at their bare muscles, speechless with delight and respect. Neco wanted more, though. He didn't just want to be looked at so lovingly, or to be held tenderly by both of them. He rubbed back with his pert cheeks, and bit his lip coquettishly at the man who had deflowered him in that spare bedroom. `I want him in me,' he growled, directing it at his old defensive teammate, and glad when Trent gently nodded his head, then stooped down to kiss their captain on the lips. To receive the beautiful cock, Williams lay almost face-down, pushing his arse back into the air, and he felt four hands rove his back muscles and fluffy upper thighs, then just one powerful cock slide between his cheeks to tease and stroke his hole. He could hear the wet sound of their loving snog overhead but he didn't mind, feeling both Jordan and Trent stroke and massage at his sore body, and then Trent's hand reach underneath to pull on his cock, whilst Henderson angled his hips and began to push his stiffness more firmly into the goal. Neco groaned and purred with pleasure, saying nothing but expressing everything. Soon he was being fucked into the bed in a way that he hadn't felt since before the Euros. When Jordan retreated and applied his slow powerful thrusts to Trent's arse instead, Neco just lay on his back and watched them, wanking himself in long thoughtful strokes, and studying the attractiveness of both bodies, listening to their synchronised pants, and remembering how tender and sweet his nightly sessions with Jordan had been whilst he lodged at the Hendo house. It had been so perfect for a little while, but it hadn't survived any distance or gaps in contact, and he'd accepted that fact now. He and Trent made excellent use of Jordan's rocket-hard prick, and they passed their shared top back and forward between them in brief rounds of action, taking it in patient turns to open their cheeks and let him slide in with the happiest of groans. The three of them snogged each other indiscriminately and unjealously, and it was only sheer tiredness and lingering sports pain that made Neco began to hurry proceedings, wanking himself off more urgently, needing to unload his balls and bring the gorgeous three-way to its conclusion. The Liverpool players seemed to pick upon his behaviour quite instinctively, and Neco came down to lie at his side and do the same, but lifting up his strong brown thighs; Neco matched him and Jordan knelt there in front of them both, reaching down and pushing two fingers into each of their holes so he could help them both along. The look of care and concentration on his lined face was gorgeous and hypnotic, and it helped Neco to rapidly reach his explosive finish, showering his own dark-furred inner thighs with cum, but also splashing dots of it on Trent's caramel skin and on Jordan's strong torso. Heady with orgasm, Neco leaned generously over to the side and put his mouth to Trent's tool, helping him for a few moments before pulling back and watching as he spunked up his softly defined abs. And then it was Henderson's turn, rising up higher on his knees and pulling on himself with real fury - until he was cumming heavily across both of their bodies, daubing their crotches and wastes in silvery streaks of his love. It started with some blowies, but it was all a hurried blur, his mouth and hands shifting from one sweaty cock to another in the hotel room they all scurried to; Dan wasn't even sure whether it was Jack's or Kalvin's. He didn't particularly care. He was high on the thrill of it, back to the cat burglar excitement of finding and penetrating that side gate before he bundled into his ex-teammate and got distracted from Operation Shaw. Luke was forgotten again now that he had his hands and mouth alternatingly full of dick, and was being passed roughly back and forward between two England players. Whilst Phillips was trembly and just kept laughing with manic uncertainty, Grealish was full of the post-match banter: `Yep, suck that English cock mate, bet it tastes better than Bale's, haha - he got a micro-penis in them shorts? Go on, you can tell us...!' It was difficult for the 25-year-old Wales winger to decide whose body and presence he was more excited by, as the two of them stripped off and high-fived overheard, their two big boners bouncing about inches from his wet lips. Kalvin was someone he'd crushed hard on in his brief Leeds tenure, utterly delighted when a drunken strip club experience had allowed him to get his gob about that lad's big nob, one he'd watched in many a communal shower, and really enjoyed sucking. But Jack... he'd fancied this superstar probably for as long as his mate Luke, always loving to come up against Villa in the League, and a member of the Jack Grealish's Legs fan-club long before it was a mainstream meme. Back then, Dan had mainly wanked over his Old Trafford teammates and men on the Wales squad, but some opposition players had struck him more than others, and the bouncing bulge and magnificent leg muscles of the Aston Villa captain had driven him WILD. And it was sexy Jack doing all the leading here: gabbling on with dirty innuendo until they were following him up here, and bossing Kal about in his Brummie slur, telling him to drop his shorts and slap his dick on `the Welsh wink's face'... and now he was the one taking it further, grabbing for and slapping Dan's bum through his boxer shorts, whilst also pushing on the back of his head so he really went deep on Kalvin's delicious prick, balls squashed up against his chin. But it was Kalvin's moan of almost surprised enjoyment that really thrilled the 25-year-old winger, not the aggressive chuckles or rough direction of the other football star, he thought. Still, he happily rolled over to let Jack rip away his underpants and slap properly at his exposed buttocks, whilst he kept on slobbering hungrily about the head of Kalvin's cock, and licking down the shaft to kiss his sweaty balls, making the shy stud pant and gasp and murmur `Fuckkkk' over and over - okay, really it was the combination of the two of them, he thought. Phillips was sexy and unreachable, but unleashed and liberated by the charisma and force of Grealish, who was now spitting on his fingers and pushing one of them into Dan's hungry hole. The Wales player was more than happy to get on all fours and be spit-roasted by the pair of them, loving the idea of himself as their prize for the match win, loving his illicit presence here in the wrong hotel, in the wrong room, with the wrong studs. This was amazing, and he almost wished he was more sober to enjoy and remember it, though without the beer he'd be terribly self-conscious. As it was, he could gasp and whimper freely, debasing himself fully for the two England studs, and crying out delightedly as Jack really spanked him with stinging blows, and Kalvin roughly forced his cock to the back of his throat and made him gag messily. Jack's cock felt great in him, and he crouched there between their tools, happy to be their toy, and losing himself in it. After all, he'd been craving this rough treatment all through the tournament, desperate to feel some fun. He'd made eager eyes at Bale and Ramsey on enough occasions, hoping to get a good stuffing from one of those legends, but he'd had to settle for a couple of furtive bowjobs to Wilson and Rodon. In a pause without Kal's cock in his mouth, he howled in pleasure, rolling his neck and pushing back with his big bubble cheeks, taking all of Jack inside him. `Ohhh yeah,' he wailed, feeling himself split open by the hard fast thrusts of the Brummie shagger. `Fuck me good, England, fuck yehhhh...! Come on, Villa...!' He was thinking about Grealish in the good old days of his tiny Kappa shorts, whenever United played Villa, and the opposition captain bounced around like he had a pet ferret in his pants. He turned his open mouth towards the delicious cock of the Leeds lad but found that Phillips had backed away a bit, wanking himself and looking worried. Dan groaned happily but wanted his mouth filled up as much as his arse, not quite listening to the snatches of conversation over his drunken head. `Go on, try it!' `Nah, I ain't going that far...' `Mate, his arse feels SO good...' `I'm not into that, Jack!' `Oh no, you like his slut lips, don't ya? Try his fuckin' peach!' `Fuck, I dunno Jacko...' Dan hardly knew the City lads were swapping positions until he was staring up Jack's idyllic torso and into those Gucci model looks, the cheeky eyes twinkling down at him and the tilted smirk preparing him to get his gob stuffed full of Brummie cock. As he sucked it, he realised that the thick tool rubbing his ring must be Kalvin's, and he shook with anticipation - he'd tried so hard to get a fucking from the stocky midfielder in that wild strip club, but it had scared the straight lad and put an end to the night's experimentation. But now... he felt his hole give way and his backside fill up with the hot girth of the dick he'd been sucking, and he was spit-roasted once again, in different directions, by the two hot City stars, the two English victors, their Welsh bitch. In the post-nut clarity, the misheard word or name had suddenly made more sense to the 33-year-old, and he thought about it now as he lay side-by-side with the other sweaty mass of muscle, one hairy arm thrown about his side as he spooned into him form behind, skin almost sticking to skin, both of them glazed in their sweat, and the air-con doing little to help. `Hector', he thought, and he had a very clear mental image of who that was; the picture had loomed into his mental view in the startling moments of disbelief when he was pulling his cock out of Aaron Ramsey's spunky hole and kissing at the back of his neck, choking for breath and feeling every muscle in his body aflame with exhaustion. Hector... He could picture the Spanish poser quite easily, Aaron's former Arsenal colleague. Had he just misheard what his sexy lover was saying, or...? The two Wales studs, the kings of their plucky squad, lay spooned together in the clammy bed, and Gareth just stared sleepily at the view of one smooth strong shoulder and the stubbled jawline, the shock of blond hair from his latest bleach job. He stared at him, trying to process this new version of his best mate; he had recovered from the surprise of sharing these sexual transgressions with his deputy quite easily, but this was a very different view of the self-assured international star. There was part of Bale who felt a little bit disappointed. Some toxic sense of his own masculinity was slightly affronted to find that Ramsey didn't think like him, and that he'd assumed so wrongly. He'd pictured the two of them smashing some slut together, not just fucking together like they were... a couple, or something. That was a bit too much like how it had become with Kane in London...! Ugh. But this was just a small part of him. He lay there, draping his arm heavily across the side of Aaron's body, holding him about his washboard abs, and it was a different thought or feeling that seemed to consume him, making him nuzzle in more closely against the rich scent of the man's neck, and to lift one heavy Welsh thigh over the other man's, holding him with every part of his strong body. The main thing that Bale felt, spooning in against the other Wales legend, was a vague and worrying jealousy: Hector fucking Bellerin? That Spaniard could piss off. This man was his now. He hugged the sleepy form of the 31-year-old tightly against himself and breathed deeply of his scent, all thoughts of Harry Kane and the England twinks completely forgotten, his World Cup ending on a very different new note. Neco Williams could have quite happily fallen asleep in this position, his body nestled between those of his former teammates; but he needed them gone, for all of their safety. He knew Dan James to be a fairly flexible guy, but he found him a little hard to fully read, and there were a lot of Wales players in this building who might not take kindly to finding the LFC pair in their midst come sunrise. No, the two of them needed out now, whilst the majority of the squad were distracted by their drunken singsong at the pool... But it was quite hard to break the hug, Jordan spooning him comfortably from behind and stroking his beard over his shoulder, and Trent's thick strong build enclosed in his own hold, his very own sexy CK model for a few more precious minutes. Neco sighed happily, pinned between the England winners, and feeling for a second like he'd been transported back to his early career at Anfield. In the afterglow of ejaculation, the 21-year-old Wrexham lad felt even more generous towards the visiting couple: he felt chuffed for them, and very smug to have somehow reunited them after the little conflicts that had divided them. It was easy in those warm moments to tell himself this was all altruism, as if he hadn't just enormously enjoyed their powerful bodies and gorgeous cocks, and shot his biggest ever load whilst nestled against them both, Jordan's two fingers stretching his tight ring. `Come on,' he purred softly into Trent's ear, then reaching behind him to stroke and shake Jordan about the midriff, `you guys need to get back to the England camp...' In an oddly happy daze, he watched them dress separately, and helped them to find a stray sock. Still naked himself, he tiptoed about the room, and supposed that when they were gone and he was alone, the worries would return, the knowledge of his country's tournament defeat and other things... But for now, he just smiled contentedly at his guests and went into the bathroom to wash splashes of dried cum from his toned skin. He pulled a pair of shorts, possibly Dan's, up his legs, and walked with them to the door. `That was...' began Trent, but the 24-year-old defensive player apparently couldn't finish the sentence. Back in his England gear, he stood awkwardly by the door, staring at Neco and trying to shape his mouth around possible adjectives. The Wales defender just chuckled and punched him softly in one pec, nodding him out; this time, the right-back understood the signals, and he left them briefly alone, out into the lonely corridor, whilst Jordan hung on, and turned to face him with an incredibly guilty expression. Neco just smiled beatifically at him, and laughed gently. `Don't start apologising,' he said quietly. Jordan, like Trent, opened his mouth to speak and then gave up. `You've been very kind to me this week,' Neco told him, then added, `just like you always were.' Jordan cleared his throat awkwardly. `Even the tackle...?' Neco grinned weakly. `Oh, fuck off.' He reached down and their hands met and squeezed. It felt a lot like goodbye. `He's a lot of fun, isn't he...?' He saw another flash of guilty panic on the captain's face, not his intent, so he just sighed sympathetically, and squeezed his hand again. `Look after each other, huh?' Then, after a beat, `You English pricks. Now get out of here before Gareth Bale comes running down the corridor with an axe. Welsh tradition. See ya.' Dan staggered home to his own hotel, even less steady than he'd been on the way, and even less confident in the maps app that he needed to track his route; his arse throbbed with pleasant pain, and he felt like he'd struggled to sit comfortably for the entire flight home to London tomorrow. Every couple of minutes, the young footballer burst into stupid drunk giggles, pawing at his Wales shirt and the waist of his shorts, his whole body feeling sticky with sweat and patches of drying spunk, showered over his smooth form by both of the studs when they'd finished fucking his holes. He hadn't finished properly himself before he was ushered out of the hotel room, and he thought that he'd wank off in his hotel room when he got there, replaying every second of the manic tipsy threesome - every freeze frame of big anxious Kalvin Phillips, and every glimpse of cheeky sexy Jack Grealish. He hadn't made it so far as his Lion prince Luke Shaw, but he had no complaints about the bed he'd ended up railed in. More through luck than map-reading, the Fulham player found his way to the front steps of his own hotel, staggering up them and through the automatic doors into the deserted reception area. A background bassline told him that somewhere here, the party of his countrymen raged on, but he was suddenly very aware of how exhausted and wasted he was, and he wasn't sure he could face anything but collapsing into his own bed and sliding into a sexy dreamscape of the whole England and Wales squads using him as their toy. Unsteady on his feet, James was just about to head for the row of elevators when the nearest of them pinged open, and two men in Three Lions tracksuits spilled out in a hurry. They paused only briefly in front of him, staring oddly at him as if he was the one out of place, and he just giggled and waved: two Liverpool stars, of course, somehow that didn't seem so weird in here, after the night he'd had. A frowning swerious Jordan Henderson looked him up and down whilst a more affable Trent Alexander-Arnold gave him a slight wave and bumped his fist before rushing past, saying nothing. Sure, Dan thought, maybe I'm already in my sex dream? He staggered into the open lift that they'd left behind, drifting into one of its mirrored walls, and sliding slowly to the floor of the elevator box, humming contentedly to himself and hugging his knees sleepily. The 25-year-old Wales player fell asleep right there, slumped cheerily into one corner of the lift, with his arse-hole stinging excitingly and red slap marks still there on each of his big round cheeks; he was thinking not about rough eager Jack, but about big strong Kalvin and his worried eyes, and wishing he'd been sober enough to appreciate being that hunk's first man-on-man shag. '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