Date: Fri, 2 Dec 2022 23:19:25 +0000 From: writer guy Subject: Premiership Lads, Part 332 Part 332: "On a Break" A fine mizzle fell against the city streets, thinning the winter crowd; damp bluster blew through the low-build avenues and hit him even here, huddled in a waterproof jacket of a closed furniture store, just off the agreed corner. He braced himself against the chill and the damp, hands pushed into the large pockets of the Barbour item, and face scrunched up as a fine spray of wintriness hit his facial features. It had pissed down more than this in Rome on some days of his family trip there, but it had alternated with bright late autumnal sun, and the conditions back here in Blighty were just that bit more grin and pervasive - ah well, it's not like he'd be much longer in the UK, this time tomorrow he'd be watching a sunset over the Riviera once again. Joe Bryan pulled one hand out of his pocket and glanced at his watch, blinking damp out of his eyes and realising that his pal wasn't even late, he was just early. Ugh, great time, Joey boy, getting here early enough to be stuck waiting in the misty rainfall on his own, looking like a mug, and catching a chill...! He only lived five minutes away from the little Fulham road of bars, but he'd felt inexplicably concerned for the orienteering of his mate, and wanted to get here early in case he needed to direct the Scouse lad on his way, or something - there was something a little bit clueless about Ross Barkley that was very charming and endearing, although Joe supposed he was being a bit patronising, and wouldn't like to tell his fellow English teammate that. Barkley, it turned out, was bang on time - strutting down the shiny wet pavement on the far side of the road, wearing a small denim jacket rather than anything sensibly heavy or waterproof, hands thrust into pockets and head retracted as far back into the furry collar of the jacket as he could, a miserable expression on his shiny wet face. Bryan stepped out of the doorway and waved a hand across the quiet road, beckoning the quick-step hurry of the other footballing lad, whose dark skinny jeans were extra plastered to his visibly muscular legs, soaked by the weather. `Fuck this rain,' scowled the Liverpudlian as he crossed the road. `It's lovely,' the 29-year-old left-back chimed ironically, and he reached out to pat the back of Barkley's damp jacket before steering him immediately on down the pavement. `The pub's just here though, don't worry. This one, here. We'll be warm and dry in a second, ha.' He turned and grinned encouragingly at the other OG Nice player, trying to look positive and reassuring after dragging the other player out into this late November grimness; he reached ahead and yanked open the pub door, and then ushered the taller bloke in politely, following him rapidly to escape the thickening storm. Minutes later, both blokes were red-faced as they adjusted to the warmth of the old London pub, wet coat and jacket hanging in a corner, and arses pulled into either side of a narrow booth by one of the rain-streaked windows. Joe had ordered their pints on the way to the table and they arrived now, delivered by a Kiwi barmaid who spouted stereotypical patter at them about British weather, gladly oblivious to their relative fame, then disappearing to her duties and leaving them to sup greedily on the IPAs. `Right, that's better,' Bryan laughed with a grimace. `Fowl. But good beer. Yours okay?' Ross was staring a bit accusingly at his cloudy pint. `I normally just go for lager,' he said, his voice a mildly reproachful mutter. Joe just chuckled patiently and took another sip of his, then relaxed back against the lathery cushions of the booth. It was strangely good to see the other guy, his Riviera buddy, after spending the past week or so flitting between Bristol and Rome, and making the most of their release time from the French football club. He immediately wanted to tell his friend about the Italian trip with his brother and friend, but he didn't want to be a holiday bore. `How was Scouse-land?' he demanded in an upbeat tone, watching the frown lines and scowling lips of the other guy's face. The former Everton and Chelsea star just made a slight grunt, not quite looking up, and taking another long tentative sip from his pint. Joe paused, slightly derailed by this answer, but determined to get some chat going - after all, he'd made the gesture of suggesting a few London drinks with the other lad before they caught the same flight across to the French Riviera tomorrow morning. It had seemed an obvious link-up, as they both passed through the capital on their way back from their separate trips to join family. `Are you okay?' the 29-year-old player asked, lowering his voice a little. `What?' Ross muttered at him. `Oh - yeah, sound, lad. Just damp.' He scratched at his thick neck and pulled at the thin navy jumper he wore over a white t-shirt, seeming distressed by its apparent dampness on his skin. He fidgeted in his seat, but Joe recognised that evasiveness and restlessness. `Y'know,' he murmured, `it's okay to admit it when you're not?' `Not what?' `Not okay.' `Huh.' He fidgeted some more and then finally looked at him properly, a sullen look across his rugged features. He blinked and then looked away again. `It's nothing deep,' he said under his breath. `Just a bit of a break-up going on lately, and it's been a bit shitty being back in the UK, that's all.' `Oh. Right.' Joe was a little bit thrown. `I thought you'd been single quite a while.' He wouldn't say that the pair knew each other all that well, in the grand scheme of things, but they'd hung out a lot in France, fairly reliant on one another for English-speaking company in the Nice community. `Was it a tough one?' he asked, trying not to make too much fuss over his mild confusion, having not realised his teammate was even dating anyone - it must have been long-distance, he assumed. Ross made a funny face, shifting about in his seat. He took a long heavy gulp of the IPA that he wasn't keen on, staring at the misty window and watching the rain as he spoke. `We were on a Break,' he muttered, making the sarcastic capital B audible. `Right...' `And then h- they, er- she, erm... she went and got engaged, y'know, all out of nowhere. To some... bloke she'd apparently been seeing the past few months, since before we were... er, even on a break. Huh.' Ross looked back this way: sullen had become fully mournful, a bit more openly vulnerable. Joe hadn't expected quite such a quick outpouring of feeling, but he was glad that the reserved Scouse lad could confide any of this in him, and he gave him a sympathetic half-smile before lifting his pint and gesturing it towards him. `We've all been there,' he said, keeping his face chill and understanding. `Well... not those specifics, exactly, but... you know. Left behind, or whatever. It fucking hurts. Sorry to hear all that, buddy.' Ross just snorted, a kinda scornful sound... clearly he was just as angry as he was hurt, and stared moodily back out of the window, whilst Joe shifted comfortably on his seat and took a slow sip of ale. `They sound a bit toxic,' he tried mildly, scratching at his stubbled chin, and running fingers through the damp tangle of his short brown hair. At this, the 28-year-old midfielder paused, his face hardening, and he glanced briefly this way. He looked very young and vulnerable for a moment, more boyish than usual, and Joe could see the panic or confusion in his briefly glistening eyes. He looked like he wanted to say more, to somehow challenge Joe's uncertain assessment, but no sooner had he opened his mouth than he clamped it shut again, huffed loudly, and took a long drink. `You might be better off without them, anyway,' Bryan advised him in a quiet murmur, and Barkley nodded uncertainly before looking away. `Maybe,' he muttered, but he didn't sound convinced. In front of him, Eric Dier was playing keep-ups on his own, idling by the edge of the outdoor pool, still in the sleeveless top and relatively skimpy shorts of the training ground, though most of the other lads had stripped down to their swimming trunks or speedos to dip in the water or lounge about the edges. The 28-year-old Spurs player was grinning quite contentedly to himself as he bounced the ball from knee to foot to knee and up to one shoulder, then lose control of it and sent it spinning awry into the pool water, where it splashed between two nearby lads and earned him a chorus of `Oi!' Shielding his eyes from the sun, Conor Coady watched his fellow defensive player from the lounger, and sniggered at the sight of the confident football lad losing his ball control, and now grinning apologetically across at Saka and Sterling before loping this way and pausing in front of the next empty lounger, pulling his vest up to wipe sweat from his face, and exposing the tightly defined muscles of his midriff. `Oops,' chuckled the other England substitute, as yet unused by their cautious manager, just like Conor himself. `Made a tit of yourself there, fella, ain't you?' the Scouser teased gently, lounging back comfortably with his shirt off and his shorts rolled up a little to bare more of his relatively pale leg muscles. The slim 6ft1 centre-back squinted in the bright afternoon sun and watched as the more muscular 6ft2 bloke whipped off his training vest and dropped it between their loungers and then lay himself down there, already a lot more bronzed and glowing than the Everton player would probably reach all winter. `They don't mind,' Eric murmured peaceably, holding up both hands to form a visor over his eyes similar to Conor, who was surveying the scattered whereabouts of their fellow Lions across the hotel pool area, the same space that last night had hosted their post-Wales celebrations, karaoke and banter as they toasted to the Welshmen's defeat, and made ambitious claims about how many goals they were going to get in past Senegal come Sunday night. Conor and Eric hadn't always been particularly close, in fact they had been relatively frosty when their paths first crossed in a recent England camp - there was, after all, a little bit of history there. But apart from that, they were natural friends, full of the same easy confidence and light humour, and they'd begun to bond as back-up defenders in this large squad, quietly resigned to their peripheral roles and mature enough to just support Southgate's favoured few where they could, patiently waiting their turn at some crucial moment. For Conor, England call-ups were still a delightful surprise, and he suspected that for his Tottenham friend, the return to the fold after a spell in the wilderness was meaningful in of itself. Last night, he'd heard Dier become a bit more open and personal as they got drunk together with others, and traces of that conversation hung with him today in the chilled recovery down-time after the briefest of training forays. `Your fiancee couldn't make it out here to be with the other WAGs then, mate?' Coady asked, after another contentedly quiet minute passed between them. Both of them were scanning the pool and beyond, watching as Mount, Rice, and Grealish play-fought at the far end and tried to push one another in, shouted at by a frustrated Hendo, who was playing at either dad or lifeguard. `Nah, she had a few jobs lined up,' the other defender returned, a little distantly. `Right, sure - I know how it is. She's in demand, then?' No immediate response from Dier, who didn't really look at him, just peering about the sizzling hot courtyard of the rising hotel. Conor went on, `A few of us were saying last night, haha, that we were just a bit surprised by her existence at all...!' He burst into a brief fit of his infectious giggles, leaning over slightly to address his fellow substitute. Eric scrunched up his bearded good looks and peered this way, still squinting against the sun. `What's that meant to mean?' he asked, not quite aggressively, but not exactly friendly either. Conor smiled apologetically at him and thought about how to word it. `Well - you know, none of us really knew you were seeing anyone, I mean. An engagement came out of nowhere a bit, that's all.' Dier shrugged his bare strong shoulders and lay back down, resting his eyes. `I'm a private person, that's all. Well... Kane knew about her, I think. Most guys here aren't close mates of mine, you know.' There was the faintest edge of warning to that quiet statement, and Coady considered it politely, still smiling to himself; he was a curious fella, and not one given to needless boundaries or awkwardness. `I think some of the lads actually thought you might play for the other team,' he pointed out, and he saw Eric's eyes flicker brightly open and his face turn this way to stare at him in a sort of alarm. Conor laughed briefly again. `Not in a nasty way, just-' He could see Eric's mood turning, and he waved a conciliatory hand his way. `No one was being a dick, nothing like that,' he assured him brightly and rapidly. `I just mean... well, I thought that a little bit, ha - sorry, mate...' `Er, right?' was Eric's uncertain response, staring at him and blinking slowly, turning a little this way on his side, and stretching one thickly-muscled arm behind his head, showing off the deep hairy pit below. `It's just...' Again, a more reserved Englishman might have faltered at Dier's manner or the subject matter, but Coady's ease with people had always relied on his willingness to just speak honestly. `Well, you mention Kane... I mean, you and him were... no? I... I don't know if I'm speaking out of turn, but...' He smiled curiously at Eric, testing his reaction, wondering if he was going to get the cold shoulder or a punch to the face, or some insight. After staring at him for a moment, the 28-year-old Hotspur shrugged again, shaking his upper body as he did. `I don't like to put a label on these things,' was his simple and reasonable response, and the Everton defender just nodded firmly in agreement, respectful of that outlook, and a little chided for his speculations. After all, it's not like he was asking the same questions about married father Harry, their striker captain, was it? He was glad he hadn't said anything too unfair or provocative last night, and had actually gently scolded Callum Wilson and Nick Pope for their insinuations. `But what about you?' Eric demanded in a thoughtful murmur, squinting at him with one eye, the other scrunched shut as the Doha sun beat down on them. `Me?' was the Scouse player's instant response, propped up on his elbows now and rubbing a hand across his slightly sweaty pecs. `What? I'm married, lad, and-' `But you and Kane,' prodded Eric knowingly, and he felt his cheeks colour and his whole line of questioning flip uncomfortably on its head - here came the awkward history between them, rising up after all. It was his fault, he shouldn't have mentioned that at all. He only knew anything about Eric and Harry because of his own role in what he'd recognised as their break-up, and so... `That was summat different,' the former Wolves captain muttered, trying not to sound moody, but instantly embarrassed and regretful; he'd just been curious about how enigmatic his pal was, really, and about the low-key relationship that he had going on outside of their footballing bubble - he hadn't meant to cause offence, and he definitely hadn't meant to end up under the microscope himself. In a weird way, he kinda thought Dier had forgotten all that; after all, he and the skipper seemed like bosom buddies this winter, as if whatever drama lay in there past was all over ,and- `But you fucked him,' Eric said bluntly in a quiet and amused voice. Conor looked at him and his knowing smirk, and he couldn't help but grin awkwardly back, shaking his head and mouthing a quiet `Fuck off' before lounging fully back on the sunbed and whistling distractedly to himself. `That was different,' the Scouser insisted after a moment, scratching at his tummy. `That was just a favour to get the right word in the gaffer's ear - and it worked, cos look at me now, er...' `And that was a one-off for you, was it?' Dier demanded suavely. He sounded knowing, but he couldn't possibly know, could he? Coady turned his head and stared at him. Well... the lad did have plenty of connections in Portugal, didn't he? But still...! He couldn't know, he wa just trying to push his buttons, and get him back for being so inadvertently rude, and... `I'll take that as a no,' said the unlabelled other player gently, letting out a slow deep chuckle that made his pecs rise and fall. Coady scowled at him, but playfully, and he tugged awkwardly at the waist of his shorts. `Forget I brought it up,' he suggested in a cheeky tone, wanting to move on; he was feeling quite rude and silly about his implied accusation to the other guy, framed as friendly question, and he wanted to erase the whole conversation. Eric Dier could shag who he wanted and get married to who he wanted, it was none of the team's business...! But next to him on the sunbed, the other defender just laughed pleasantly to himself, and clearly didn't rush to forget the topic at all. The topic had moved on to Joe Bryan's own love life now, which was fairly inevitable after he'd probed unsuccessfully at Ross Barkley's over the first two points; now on the fourth, he was telling his Nice teammate about a couple of messy breakups of his own, back in his late teens and early twenties, when he was new to professional football and thought he was a player in more sense than one. They were in a second pub, only a couple of streets away, and had stupidly managed to get even more sodden in the commute between boozers. This second time, though, the damp had seemed hilarious, and they were quite cheerfully installed by a log fire in one corner of the Fulham bar, drying off against its heat while Joe confessed some of his two-timing dirty deeds as a younger lad. Ross, gladly, was a bit more relaxed now, less morose and monosyllabic than upon their meeting in the drizzle. He'd opened up a little more about his time on Merseyside this last week... who he'd caught up with, what old hangouts he'd been able to visit, that sorta thing. It was the more casual detail that Joe had expected when he answered the question, and he did like listening to Ross once he got chatty, he was very honest and down-to-earth, not as flashy or boastful as a lot of players who moved in his kinda `big club' circles. Perhaps, Joe speculated, the former England star had been brought down to earth by the recent trajectory of his career, sidelined and then let go by uptight Chelsea. `But you're single now?' the 6ft2 lad asked, hunched forward slightly on his stool, and clutching a fresh pint of his preferred lager, whilst the Bristolian supped on another cloudy and sour IPA. `Oh, very much so,' Joe confirmed with a faint smile. `I mean, it's for the best, being on loan in the South of France, right...? I won't be looking to start anything serious out there, I suppose, I can't see it becoming a permanent transfer...' He saw what might be a glimmer of disappointment or concern on the other player's face and he grinned gratefully at that sentiment, glad to suspect that Ross appreciated his presence in Nice as much as vice versa. `So you haven't been on any dates with hot French chicks...?' `What? No! Haha. Have you?' Ross shook his head and they both laughed. Joe shrugged, holding out his arms and warming them against the glow of the fire. `I'm just consciously single at the minute,' he said, and he caught the cynical look on his friend's face at the self-help book jargon, and he chuckled at himself. `I know it sounds wank, but - taking some time for myself and just building on stuff, you know? I wasn't in the place to be in that kinda serious relationship while I was in London lately, I figured that out after the last girlfriend walked out. I'm just taking my time and figuring out what I really want. You can snigger at me if you like, I'm used to it.' `Nah,' Ross protested keenly. `I won't laugh at ya, mate. Good for you, I say.' `Thanks.' `But just don't be surprised if your "conscious" single life doesn't last,' Barkley blurted out now, almost spilling some lager as he gestured this way with his pint glass. `I mean, good-looking and clever fella like yourself, and all that-' `Don't, my head'll never fit out of this pub, heh...' `Ah, shush,' pushed the Scouse lad, more bold and forceful on his fourth drink. `You must see yerself in the mirror, lad. You're... you know. Good-looking an' that. And you're dead smart, always got a book in hand. Erm.' He seemed to have lost his point, and Joe just smiled gratefully at him, not keen to make a fuss over the compliments in either direction, but warmed by his friend's sincere kindness. `Just think you'll meet the right one when you least expect it,' muttered Ross, a little uncomfortably, before taking a throaty glug from his tall pint glass, straightening up his posture on the bench. `Maybe,' the short muscular 29-year-old mused, matching Barkley's upright posture, and taking a good slug from his thicker glass. `I'll just see what happens, won't I? Never say never, and all that.' He smiled warmly across the fireplace at the other footballer, quiet for a moment, and Ross awkwardly met his look, flickering back an almost nervous smile of friendship too, dimples forming in his ruggedly handsome face, before pulling his eyes away and yanking at the neck of his jumper, now overheated. `Let's get away from this fire, now we're dry,' Joe suggested, `or the pair of us will be sweating our tits off in no time. Here, you want another pint...?' They'd left the pool behind, and the casually sunning bodies of their teammates: Maguire and Trippier bare-bodied on exercise bikes and posing with a false air of casualness for a team photographer; deeply hungover Kalvin Phillips skulking alone at the water's edge; Alexander-Arnold attempting to teach Henderson chess on a travel board on another pair of sun loungers in the corner. He and Eric headed on inside, needing a break from the sunshine, and seeking cool cans of contraband fizzy pop from a vending machine at the back of the main refectory, satisfyingly sugary treats that Southgate would go ape-shit to see either lean muscular athlete indulging in. Coady had a sweet tooth he could never quite sate, and he was leading Dier astray. Cans in hand, they passed out of another door and into a shadier section of the hotel gardens, away from the lethargic recovery of the main squad, and finding seats on a shady bench among the palm tress instead, to slurp happily on the over-sweetened soda. As he drank, the Everton loan player chatted idly about what he'd got up to with his wife and kids during some weekend down-time away from the squad, half-sure he was boring his friend, but glad that he had steered the conversation away from speculating needlessly on Eric's sexuality, or inviting similar scrutiny of his own. Eric might be casual about a lack of labels for his own love life, but Conor felt protectively attached to the label `straight', especially given the trouble he'd been in with his wife before escaping Wolverhampton for the Everton season, with her catching him and his Portuguese boy together; he'd been so sure he'd behave himself on loan to the Toffees, but even that had gone awry, since that eventful morning where he'd stepped in to help Dom and Tom. His wholesome family story ran out of steam and he just stared mindlessly into the green overgrowth around them, then back up at the high terracotta walls of this side of the hotel, wondering if he'd go for a little nap now before the evening brought cooler air. When he glanced to the left, in the middle of taking a hefty slurp of the sugary treat, he found vest-clad Eric Dier looking at him askance, a sort of smirk on his strong features. `What?' the 29-year-old family man demanded in jokey annoyance. `Nothing,' Eric chuckled, but he gave him a swift light punch to the bare arm, and then prodded his shoulder. `Nothing!' the Cheltenham-born footballer continued to snort through his laughter, toying with his half-finished can of pop. `What was that look for?' Conor insisted, light-hearted and forgetful enough not to connect the thoughtful expression back to the previous conversation; he took another sip from his can before placing it down on the bench to his right and leaning slightly closer to the other England defender, grabbing at the bare warm skin of his shoulder and giving him a slight shake, laughing as he asked again, `What were you smirking for, Tottenham?' No sooner had he placed his hand on Eric's shoulder, than one of the other man's own large warm hands had landed on his thigh, just wear his shorts ended and the lightly-haired pale skin of his bare leg began. The hand stayed firmly there as Dier turned a little more and grinned at him, and Eric found himself quite close face-to-face with the sexually fluid enigma, the England teammate he never expected to bond with so much after their previous antipathy. `You just made me curious, is all,' said the 28-year-old, his voice a silky purr now. His hand was shifting, moving more fully onto the stiff fabric of the shorts, and still moving. Conor didn't stop him, but he did stare at him with cautious warning in his eyes, and tense up his body language, staring past Eric and taking in the promising emptiness of the garden path and this whole side of the quiet hotel. The voices of their teammates only barely drifted between the trees and plants, that and the odd heavy splash from the pool, sounding incredibly distant. Dier's hand was on his crotch now, rubbing him slightly where it mattered, and Coady took a couple of deep calming breaths. `I know my ex enjoyed it,' the other footballer murmured lightly, `so why shouldn't I give it a little try...?' They'd given up on the steamy warm pubs of this end of Fulham, and taken a bottle of red wine back to Joe's apartment. He partly liked being back in the familiar riverside home he'd made for himself in London, but it definitely felt quite odd and alien, the longer he stayed in the minimalist pad he'd rented in Nice; this place now felt like a relic from a different life, even though it was crammed with his treasured possessions and his more personal tastes, and there was an odd thrill in showing it to Ross, and sharing a little more of himself, rather than the sterile ex-pat vibes of their hangouts on the Riviera. They were on the sofa, and Barkley was still more oddly chatty, drunk as he was, reminiscing about some of the highlights of playing for Chelsea, and how difficult it had been to agree an exit package with the management and render himself a free agent in the late summer. Joe didn't like to interrupt or derail him, since the Liver lad was usually so tense and minimal in his speech, but his own thoughts had already wandered from the topic of their very different senior careers. It was being on this sofa, he thought, though that was a ridiculous claim. He'd spent hour after hour on this sofa, before and after the episode he was mulling over. It was being on this sofa, though, with a big glass of wine in hand and a warm drunk buzz in his head and his chest, and feeling the faint body heat of another pumped-up footballer bloke close next to him... that's what made him think of that fateful night with the Fulham blokes, after the fracas with the hot girl from the nightclub. Even now, having had months to turn it over in his head, Bryan was chilled by the half-formed suspicion that he'd been led to: that the whole honey trap operation had allegedly come from none other than his former boss, clubless footy manager and ex-England star Scotty Parker. Joe had spent several seasons under Parker's management, being teased by Harrison Reed and others with the notion that the youthful gaffer had a crush on him like every WAG who met him - banter that had irked him because it stank of Reed's obvious homophobia - and now he had to contend with the jarring and bizarre chance that the joke was correct. Either that, or his old boss was out to get him or the others in trouble, and that was even more disturbing...! `What are you thinking about?' Ross asked him, having paused in his monologue, and taking a small sip from his chalice of wine. Joe hesitated before full disclosure, deciding not bring up the Parker mystery right now, though he'd alluded to it repeatedly to Ross and Aaron and Kasper on their few social occasions as a group of four former Prem stars. He didn't go as far now as bringing up that theory, but he did return to the nugget that he'd regrettably confided in these other blokes that first time they got drunk together. `This is where it happened,' he muttered. `I mean... that thing with... my mate, Tom Cairney, at the start of summer...' Ross looked at him quite blankly for a moment, then seemed to catch on, revisiting that old conversation, and Joe just gave him an embarrassed look of wonder, and laughed at himself. He shouldn't be bringing it up; he shouldn't ever have told Barkley or the other men, though he'd been so desperate to confide drunkenly in SOMEONE, and actually he'd been stunned by the causal open-mindedness of Danish Schmeichel and Welsh Ramsey, and even this Scouse lad who looked like he'd run a mile from that sort of admission. `We were both so pissed,' the 29-year-old muttered, staring into his wine. `I'll bet,' came Barkley's quiet support. `I've not ever really spoken to Cairney about it,' he added. `I mean, since. Never seemed to find a good moment, and then- boom, I'm in France, aren't I? I haven't really been able to catch up with any of the Fulham fellas while I've been back, what with Rome and everything. Which is... a shame, but like...' He squirmed slightly, and looked awkwardly at the other muscular guy on the short sofa. `I guess part of me is avoiding it, though, cos I think next time I see Tom I should kinda ask him about it.' Ross stared at him in a pleasingly patient and thoughtful way, no sign of judgement or disapproval on his quite sleepy-looking face. `And what will you ask him?' the midfield player murmured, sounding genuinely interested. `Ohhhh, I dunno,' moaned Joe, realising how silly the notion was. Hey, captain, good to see you- do you remember jerking my cock off at an afters one night, when we were both wasted and the girl we were shagging turned out to be a hooker spy...? Yup. `Maybe I won't then,' he laughed aloud, reaching this conclusion in a beery haze. He sipped the wine. `Probably best to just brush it under the carpet like all sorts of other shit.' One of Barkley's hands settled on the back of the sofa near his shoulder, and he saw a friendly concern enter the other lad's face. `What kind of other shit?' The question was quiet and probing, but Bryan just gave him an evasive look, and decided not to go into his mental health right now. It would be a spiral of deep-and-meaningful that would lead them to open another bottle of vino and be miserable on the flight back tomorrow. The hand on the back of the sofa shifted a bit, and now was it on his shoulder, resting on the thick plaid of his shirt. Joe smiled gratefully at him for this gesture of support, and sighed. `It's good to talk.' `Yeah,' Ross agreed, giving his shoulder a squeeze. `It is.' `But maybe not to talk to Tom,' Joe sighed, `about that. What WOULD I ask him...?' Ross paused, and Joe wasn't quite aware of the heaviness of his breathing next to him. He was distracted and distant now, thinking about himself and the Fulham skipper in here in their pants, restless and frustrated by the sex fun turned scandal in the bedroom. Thank god he'd been able to seize and destroy that footage once he caught up with her...! `Did you enjoy it?' The question from his neighbour on the sofa drifted to him and he could only twist his face briefly in discomfort at the reality of it before, liberated by drink, he muttered out the truth: `Sure, it was decent, but it was a weird new thing, obviously.' He felt the hand on his shoulder a bit more firmly, and he felt his left thigh in his loose-fit chinos rub against the tighter and still-damp denim of skinny jeans. He looked Barkley's way and saw the shift in his expression, the different little light in his eyes. The hand on his shoulder felt a really firm grip now, and it seemed to mean something. Ross was really staring at him, like he had for a moment in the pub, and Joe stared back. Without saying anything, he watched as the other player's hand slipped off his shoulder, and travelled down the breast of his wintry check shirt, and dropped to the crotch of his mud-brown chinos, resting there over the top of one thigh. He looked at the hand, and then up the well-filled woollen sleeve, and then at Ross' staring face. They were both breathing quite heavily now. `It was quite decent,' Joe echoed awkwardly, thinking about what he'd let Tom do for him. `Good,' was the raspy murmur from Ross ,and then his hand was pulling gently on the bulging middle of Joe's crotch, feeling the outline of his manhood where it lay in a fold of cotton. He sucked in and whistled out a very deep breath, staring the othe rman in the eyes, and feeling drunken history repeat. No, he thought, not again. Not on this couch. Somehow, it was the second of these negative resolutions that really registered with him: not `not again', but... `not on this couch'. As Ross gave him a gentle squeeze through his pants, he lifted his left hand and rested it on the faintly damp woollen sleeve. `Not in here,' the left-back breathed quietly, and he nodded in the direction of the bedroom door. `Okay?' They were in private now, and he tried to feel more relaxed about having the other England substitute rubbing vigorously at the front of his shorts, making him stiff and throbbing. His thin laughs of enjoyment did little to dispel the tension of it, and he wondered if it was too late to laugh off the offer of a blowie, and tell Eric that he was fine after all; but right in front of him, the big macho viking lookalike was sinking down to his knees on the hotel suite rug, and it was starting, moving inevitably beyond control. Shivering with anticipation, Conor Coady brought his arms up and he locked his hands behind his head, resting them against the short dark fuzz of his hair, and feeling his England shorts get a gentle tug down from his waist and over his hips, until they were falling down his parted legs, and a man's face was pressing gently in against the outline in the front of his dark green trunks. Dier mouthed him through said underpants first, and even that made him gasp and growl, and earnestly tell the other defender, `Fuck, your lips feel GOOD, lad...' But this was just teasing. Soon his trunks were halfway down his thighs, and the lips that felt good through cotton, felt incredible on closer contact. His stiff cock was taken into the manly stud's mouth, and he was back in his Wolverhampton living room, enjoying that Portuguese slut, before Mrs C walked in and the trouble kicked off. But... he felt like a traitor even thinking it, but... Well, in all honesty, Eric was better. Wow. The man's mouth felt incredible. So controlled and firm, but so slow and teasing, so... just, wow. He said so, repeatedly: `Wow, mate... wow, fuck... wow...' The 29-year-old stood there in his room, the door locked somewhere behind him, and Eric Dier just going to town on his cock, licking and kissing it. In snatches, he opened his eyes up and looked down to watch it, though at other moments he pressed them shut and leaned back, and told himself it could be anything sucking his dick, any attractive woman; except it would have to be an attractive woman with enough soft beard hair to tickle at his shaven pubes and low-hanging balls, which seemed unlikely. And when he could bear to open up and look down, it was so jarring to see: the 6ft2 Spurs player seemed like an epitome of bristling Northern European masculinity. But the tanned hunk was luxuriously sucking him off as if it was nothing, without the nervous excitement of his Wolves playmate, or Everton's Tom Davies; Eric had his dick in his mouth, yet the 28-year-old seemed to be in control of the moment, not him, and that slightly worried Conor. As he sucked, Dier was pulling the underpants further down, over his knees and then down his lower legs, fingers stroking the leg hair on his calves. His mouth moved very slowly and carefully, pleasuring Coady in a way that made him tremble like a man who'd been away from his wife for too long without alone time. It was incredible, leaving him breathless, but then it stopped; Eric was rising back up, unbending his knees and suddenly up against him, a little taller, and faintly intimidating in his thick upper body. Face to face, the other guy grinned, his lips a little shiny, and his eyes lit up with the secret intimacy of their time in this room, the one he shared with the captain. Conor let out a breathy chuckle, thinking perhaps that it was over, and his teasing treat was over, some kinda point proven for the other lad, who had maybe just wanted to goad him and punish him for questioning his engagement to an attractive woman - but no. Eric nodded invitingly towards one of the beds. `Go on,' he said casually. `Lie down, it'll be better.' But first: `And get this off.' His hands were back on Conor's electric body, feeling his sides and now helping him out of his bright blue England training top. The 29-year-old Scouser stepped out of his undies and shorts and pulled one white sock after another off, then hurriedly got onto the bed. At Dier's direction, he lay across it and gave his cock a slow tug or two, only to have his hand pushed aside by the other man, who crawled onto the bed and lay alongside him, taking control of his cock in one stern fist, and then wrapping his mouth over it once more, and making the centre-back groan long and loud, surprised by just how talented Kane's ex-boyfriend was - and even more surprised at just how welcome this man's touch really was. It filled him with taboo excitement, and made him slightly miss his time with Neto, but also a little kinky anticipation at returning to Everton and seeing if he could get more mischief out of the lads who'd joined him in that locker-room session with Tom Davies' greedy mouth. He groaned again, but felt Eric's mouth pull away from his quivering cock, and looked down the length of his own body; they were lying side by side in opposite directions, both on their sides a little, and Eric had pulled off his own vest and shorts before joining him. He was just in bulging white sports briefs that made Conor's eye boggle and flick away, looking up the thick muscular torso and seeing the grin on the other player's face, hovering over the red tip of his hard-on. `Go on,' the Tottenham player urged him quietly. `What?' Coady replied quickly, his confusion genuine. A light chuckle from his new friend. `Come on - return the favour, mate.' With one hand, Dier pushed casually down his six-pack and into the loaded white briefs, pulling free his cock, alarmingly close to Coady's face. He stared at it, the big thick meat in the man's grazed knuckles, and then back down his body to his smirking face, unsure if the other fella was joking, or - `Go on, just a bit,' urged Eric. `It's only fair.' To add weight to his argument, he stooped and ran his large tongue over the head of Conor's cock, making him shudder and groan, and then he pulled his face away threateningly, making it clear that such pleasure was... conditional. Conor stared at the ominously big and thick thing that Eric was pulling gently on. He wasn't sure how to respond. Pointing out that he was `straight' and married felt futile, and any other excuse felt... what, selfish? Prudish? Here he was, after all, on the other England player's bed, when he could have laughed off the idea in the afternoon heat, and scampered back to the safety of the other guys, rather than following his teammate up through the cool passages of the sleepy hotel. `Give it a go,' the 28-year-old purred softly, sliding his hand up and down Conor's hard-on in a gentle tease, then spitting heavily on it to lube the touch more, and finally pushing his lips roughly about the head and swallowing it into his skilled mouth. Conor could only shudder and reach a trembling hand to take a hold of the alien cock, feeling its hardness and heat on his palm, and then licking his dry lips, ready to try. In the bedroom, Joe moved almost robotically, pulling his shirt open one button at a time and then letting it slide away, then doing the same with the belt and flies of his brown chinos. Gently creaking footsteps followed him into the darkness of the room, something in the sound of them reminding him of the height and stature of his company; no pretending it was some petite beauty like the girls he went for. But he was doing this, wasn't he? It was the drink, he told himself, just the drunk - just like last time, with captain Cairney. But... he'd been sober in France, albeit hungover, when he ended up in that chlorine-scented darkness with Aaron Ramsey pressing gently against him, and sliding down to his knees... Without saying a thing, the left-back sat heavily down on one side of his big bed, glad of the darkness of the room, doing nothing about it. The heavy presence of the other man followed him, and shed the layers of his jumper and t-shirt too. Barkley's muscles rippled in the darkness and then he was down on his knees in front of him, pawing gently at his bare thighs, hands warm and sensuous against the bare muscle. Bryan planted each hand against the soft bedding behind him and leaned his ripped torso back a little, closing his eyes as it began... the feel of hot warm breath on his tummy muscles and the insides of his thighs, and then the soft kisses through his boxer briefs, nuzzling against the throbbing presence of his erection. He closed his eyes more tightly and tried to control his breathing. There was an odd clarity in amongst the drunken buzz and physical need, making everything a little dissonant and surreal. Tom... Aaron... and now Ross? None of it made sense, he thought, none of these guys made sense to him, doing shit like this... Joe leaned back further, giving a little more space and access, and very slightly lifting his rock-hard glutes from the bed, as the elastic waist of the boxers was pulled on, sliding over his prickly hot skin, and moving away, so that his growing hard-on was free and loose... but only briefly, because in the same way it had been tightly held by the fabric of undies, it was soon held in a hot soft mouth, wet and receptive. He let out a long gurgling sigh, hearing the breathy moan of the man whose face was pushed between his thigh muscles, defying all expectation, holy fuck. `Shit,' he gasped, feeling dizzy - had he drunk too much, or was he having some kinda out-of-body experience? His entire muscular mass was tingling ridiculously like pins-and-needles, and the hefty muscles in his arms felt papery and weak, sagging back into the bedding. Those lips roved up and down his shaft, and the flickering attention of a knowing tongue roved against his head and beneath it, and he swore again, `Fuckkkk, man...' This went on for several more minutes of surreal tenderness, but then it was a hand rather than a mouth, pulling back and forth on his meat, and the mouth was kissing at the heavy rungs of his abdomen, working up towards his bulging pecs. It was such a soft and giving mouth, but he kept feeling the little faint scratches of stubble on his skin and he could almost feel the presence of the 6t1 lad over him, making him beginning to tense up with realisation at what he'd let himself in for yet again... why was he doing this? Was he even drunk enough to blame the beer or wine...? The kisses rubbed against his chest, lips brushing one hard nipple, and he felt himself sink further back into the bed, the other man almost on top of him. He felt legs rubbing his and hands grasping at his upper arms, and then he could feel breath against his cheek, and lips coming for his. Immediately, instinctively, he turned away, dodging the kiss as he felt lips reach for his. `No,' he murmured awkwardly, and he pulled one hand up to feel the top of Ross' head, reaching fingers across the soft and faintly damp curls of his hair, trying to push his face back down across his pecs and towards- `No,' he murmured again, a bit more firmly, as the other man's hands roved up his arms, and the head resisted his gentle push, a mouth seeking his in the dark. No. He pulled his face away from the reaching kiss, shaking his head, and he felt Barkley freeze against him, tensing up like he had. Their bodies remained very close in the deep darkness of the room, and he heard a sort of complicated sigh; heard it, and felt the warm breath against his collarbone. He could hear his own pushy `No' in the stale air, and his cock ached to be licked and kissed and sucked again, but he could tell that he'd ruined something. Good, he tried to tell himself. This was too much, this wasn't really him. And then the other English Ligue 1 player was pulling gently away from him, just a ripple of muscle in the dark once more, and he was collapsing further back against the folds of bedding, soft and comfortable beneath the weight of his muscles and the heat of his skin. The big bulky presence of the other lad was briefly in front of him, and then gone, and he heard the door shut gently after him; a couple of beats, and then the louder and more final thud of the apartment door. Drunk and tired, he squeezed his eyes shut and felt the onset of the headache, a sort of premature hangover arriving in the late night dark, and an immediate sense of regret. Conor gagged almost as soon as it was in his mouth, and he pulled back with a slight cough, staring directly again into the one-eyed serpent rising from Eric's fat balls and close-trimmed bush. He cleared his throat and squeezed a hand about the base of it, and opened his mouth wider, taking the firm hot meat in against his lips and tongue again, and resisting the urge to gag and choke on the sensation. Eric, who was sliding his hand up and down his prick in slow wet motions, purred out his approval - `That's it, give it a good suck mate, mmm...' The feedback was... encouraging, but also jarring and unsettling, making him really think about what he was doing, touching a cock like this on another man, and tasting it in against his mouth, so firm and huge and a bit salty. But Dier was blowing him again, and it felt amazing, and it felt as if it would only go on for as long as he tried his best to reciprocate. He felt sure he couldn't actually match what the other bloke was doing for him, he just didn't know how to use his mouth like that, but he could feel how hard and excited the Spurs bloke was, and so he held it tight and pulled his mouth about it, never quite licking, but letting it fill his gob and rub back and forward against pursed lips. Every few moments, the other football stud paused in licking at his dick and moaned very heavily, repeating his praise, `That's it, mmmmmm, yeh...' Coady did his best, clumsy and unsure, but wanting to prolong the ecstasy of Dier on his dick - he was licking and sucking at his balls now, letting Conor's cock slap against his face and brush against the soft hair of his beard in long strokes. Strong hands rubbed at his thigh muscles to part his legs more and allow that handsome face between them, giving his balls a good licking and then sucking on his aching cock itself, repeatedly bringing him so close to orgasm and then slowing back and pulling away to moan and encourage. `You're a natural,' came Eric's teasing growl, followed by a deep chuckle. `You're gonna make me cum, bro.' This was a bit much for him. He pulled back, blinking fiercely, but keeping his hand about the base of the cock. He noticed, with mild horror, the oozing smear of pre-cum around the fat tip of Eric's big dick and he couldn't bring himself to put his mouth back anywhere near it. `Oh, just wank me off,' came the other guy's groaning voice, but even that felt too much. He pulled weakly on the dick at a funny angle, and felt Eric's attention to his own throbbing cock wane. Dier's hand took over, reaching down and wrapping about his veiny shaft, and pulling on it in long powerful strokes. Coady leaned away a little, but found himself fascinated and staring, stuck in this 69 position with their lean powerful bodies so close on the bed. Eric was sucking him whilst wanking himself, and every big muscle of his relaxed body twitched and flexed, and then seemed to convulse. His cock erupted like Vesuvius, its messy white load not shooting far, but dashing plentifully over his knuckles and hairy forearm, over one thigh and pooling at his waistline. Conor stared breathlessly at the mess, then closed his eyes and moaned again as Eric gave his bollocks another lingering kiss. `Go on,' the 28-year-old Hotspur moaned at him. `Take a taste.' `Nah,' he chuckled instantly, but Eric was smearing a finger in the cum on his tummy and holding it this way, one thick digit with a creamy white tip. He stared nervously at it, feeling his own balls shiver, and Eric suck once more on his whole shaft, taking it into his mouth so skilfully, and making his whole body tremble. Driven to it, he leaned his head forward and his mouth connected awkwardly with Eric's pointing finger, his lips and tongue brushing against the salty tang of man-juice. He sucked very briefly on the finger, just as he felt himself close to bursting, and then Eric licked the head of his cock in such an expert way that it became all too much for him, and he was emptying his load into that wasting mouth. He pulled back from the dirty finger, the taste filling his mouth, and his head and shoulders collapsed back to the bedding, his 6ft frame tense all over as he emptied his cum into the hot wet mouth of the footy hunk, sapped dry by the intensity of the moment, and unable to think clearly about the lines he'd crossed in getting there, not yet. In the UK, Ross nursed his headache and waited by the departure car park at their Heathrow terminal, his heavy bag hanging over one shoulder. The 28-year-old popped another painkiller and sipped from his OG Nice water bottle. He could see Joe climbing out of the nearby taxi with his own luggage, something a little washed-out in his face and sluggish in his body language, revealing that he too was feeling worse for wear after the pints and wine bottles. The men greeted each other in a quiet grunting fashion, then hurried out of the car park drizzle and into the brighter warmth of the terminal, without saying much more. They walked side by side, Barkley's travel bag bouncing against one hip with each stride, and Bryan tugging a wheeled case along with one hand. `Few too many last night,' Ross growled at length, as they approached the small security queue to their First Class lounge. `I'll say,' the Bristolian guy agreed quietly. Ross glanced sideways at him, reading too much into his tone and expression, and grimacing privately. He rubbed at his chin and the rest of his heated face, then scratched at his soft curly hair. Joe moved ahead of him as they were forced into single-file, and he stared gloomily at the 5ft7 defender, who apparently had nothing else to say to him as they met here to check in for their flight to Nice. There, Ross thought grimly, another friendship ruined. Last night had been so nice, up to a point, and he cursed himself for the way it had ended. One minute they were enjoying a last wine on the couch and enjoying one another's confidence, and then... He could see himself reaching lecherously across to make physical contact with the tight-muscled bloke and then following him through into the dark bedroom, and he rashly blamed himself 100%. It didn't occur to the Scouser, in the throes of his hangover paranoia, that he'd been invited into that bedroom, or that he'd hardly overpowered the Fulham loanee. When they were through security, Joe asked him to look after his luggage while he went to get them coffees, and Ross sat glumly on a bench with the bags, feeling spun out and irritable; after the Uber home to his own abandoned London residence, he'd struggled to sleep properly, and he felt dehydrated after numerous pints of water. He'd probably just piss constantly the entire journey back to their shared French city, and the resumed training regime of their Ligue 1 club. This was stupid behaviour, he scolded himself, thinking of how sensibly he had resisted a couple of quiet advances from Kasper Schmeichel in France, knowing that he was in no mental or emotional state for such a dalliance. But that had been before and during `the break', as he still called it, rather than now, in the fresh hurt of the actual break-up. He'd seen the social media posts about the Dier engagement out of the blue, only a couple of weeks after the long-distance couple agreed to `cool things down' and `re-evaluate' after a little break. For at least a day, the Tottenham player ignored his calls, finally ringing him up for a brittle conversation of half-hearted apology... None of it made sense to Ross, who could still remember how devoted and passionate his boyfriend had been when flying out to surprise him in Nice not so long ago. As far as he could tell, one moment the returning England player was admitting to a quick foolish shag with a mutual friend, and the next he was posing with an Instagram bimbo and her diamond ring. What the actual fuck...? Joe had returned, passing him his Starbucks, and Ross thanked him quietly. He waited for the patient and friendly comment from the other player and self-appointed mental health ambassador, asking him about his low mood or whatever, but today Bryan had very little to say. Once he'd sat down, he pulled a book out of his backpack and began to read it with a look of weary concentration on his gently lined face, and Ross just sat and sipped his coffee in isolated silence, not knowing how to be cool and chill after briefly taking his mate's cock in his mouth like that, then reaching for a kiss. If he hadn't gone for the snog, a guilty part of him speculated, then maybe he could have sucked off the gorgeous hunk and left it at that, and maybe neither of them would feel so awkward right now...? Ross was a little too mature and experience to quite believe in his own logic, but his generalised regret was overwhelming all the same. He felt that he'd trashed a valuable platonic relationship now, and allowed himself to get carried away on alcohol and heartbreak, and he was dreading spending the rest of the chilly day with his Nice colleague, unable to make more than the most passing snatch of conversation. Next to him, Joe sighed to himself and turned a page in his book, and Ross just sank morosely back into his side of the bench, people-watching in their quiet corner of the airport, and turning over the familiar questions that had preoccupied him into the winter period: where had he and his Eric gone so wrong...? It was already midday in Qatar, and lunch break for the England squad, who were back to work after yesterday's post-Wales recovery. Most of the men were in the refectory of the local stadium where the bulk of the Three Lions prep work went on. Eric Dier, though, was outside in the sun, on the other side of the big windows to this dining hall, looking in at the queue of his teammates collecting their grub and scattering to assorted tables with trays in hand. He would join them momentarily, as soon as he could wrap up the call with his UK lawyer, who was in a cheerful mood in the light of his win, and seemingly wanting to prolong the conversation with his affluent client. `So,' Eric said, trying to suggest a mix of gratitude and impatience through his tone, `it's all over, then...?' `Settled,' the London lawyer confirmed. `And I think we will get quite a payment out of them in exchange for not taking any further action against them, you'll be glad to hear - not that it's about the money. I wondered if you might like to turn it into a public donation to-' `Nothing public,' the defensive midfielder grunted quietly down the line. At the table nearest to the window, he could see his training buddy Conor Coady, getting loud and lairy with Pickford and Ramsdale, engaging in some sort of minor food fight of stray lettuce leaves and then almost falling off their chairs in laughter. `Maybe a private donation,' the 28-year-old murmured after an awkward pause. `A good idea, mate.' `Well, it will be your money, of course,' came the oily voice of his lawyer. `I already have my fees. Ha ha. But yes, Eric, it's all very much settled now - problem wiped away, as we always promised. You really did come to the right firm.' `Yep,' he said quietly. `Thank you for everything.' `Not at all, not at all.' `They won't publish anything...?' `Not unless they want to face a crippling lawsuit, now that they've signed the NDA. It has all gone our way, Eric.' He didn't like the over-familiarity of the guy, who he could picture with his feet up on his desk, counting the mountain of money that his services had cost to get Dier out of his pickle - but still, he'd needed this guy to deliver, and he had, by the sound of it. He thanked him again, and the guy moved from his `no problem' oiliness to a strange laugh almost of disbelief. `How they thought they could make this stick,' the lawyer chuckled. `Ridiculous that you really needed our services at all, if you don't mind me saying.' `Mmm.' `I mean, really... were they actually going to print some hazy screenshots of a Grindr profile and think that would make a story alone?' sighed the lawyer, his tone dismissive but amused. `Those pictures were ridiculous, unconvincing. What did they really have, eh? A few screenshots from 2019 and nothing more. A few cringe messages, and a lot of suspicious bullshit, if you pardon my language. I am glad to work with you, Mr Dier, but really... they would never have dared to publish any of this, they would be laughed out of tabloid-land, for sure.' Dier paused quietly in disagreement at this, watching the lunchtime of his England pals, and then he hurried the call to its completion. `Really got to go,' he said heavily. `I'm being called back to training...' `Of course, of course. We are all behind you boys in the office, I must say. And once you're back in London, if you could just see about those...' `The hospitality box tickets, yes. You mentioned. No problem.' He gritted his teeth, instinctively irritated by the suited bloke he'd never met in person, and only dealt with via phone-call and Zoom. He hadn't felt able to use any of his usual representatives on the case, and especially not the ones who dealt with his business investments with his brother and friend. But this firm had come highly recommended, and seemed to specialise in such tricky media cases. He thanked the guy again but cut off his platitudes, ending the call and letting out a long sigh of relief. It did feel good to hear the guy tell him it was all over, and that he could begin to relax at last. Or to try, at any rate. All over, he thought, but at what cost? Eric headed indoors, taking a tray and collecting his lunch of flatbread and grilled vegetables, taking his time to choose which table to join now that all of the other England guys were seated. He went for the space near to his roommate, teammate, and former lover, Harry Kane, because these days their friendship was one of the most comforting supports he had, even if he could no longer feel the special passion he'd once held for his national captain; it was strange to think that it had been in the last world cup, in the Russian summer, that the pair of them had first become more than just pals. Seated by mumbling Kane, he could fade quietly into the background without much attention, only half-listening as Kane chatted with Henderson and Maguire and Shaw. Perhaps now that the legal case was resolved, he would be able to make a better impression on the gaffer, and get a chance to join these seasoned men in Sunday's knockout clash with Senegal - or perhaps he'd be a bench-warmer yet again, forced to just be grateful for his tiny role here at the tournament. His background presence was one he could accept with dignity, but it did leave him restless, and he blamed that for yesterday: his eyes picked out Coady's profile, still messing about and bantering with the blokes at his table, full of beans. He hadn't meant to mess about with anyone, never mind the guy whose career ambitions had more or less ended his relationship with Kane, but he'd needed the release. And besides... there had been something so very comforting about his rattling Scouse accent as they messed about, something that had filled a gap. Eric ate his lunch quietly and thought about how things had gone in the last month; now that he was basking in the glow of apparent safety, it was easy to become self-critical, and doubt his decisions, but everything he'd done had seemed like the only option at the time. After all... he and Barkley had already been on the rocks, hadn't they...? They'd seemed to argue constantly from the moment Chelsea let their Liverpudlian midfielder go, and the long-distance element hadn't been working well. They'd been on a break, and then... As soon as the newspaper warned him about the story they were preparing, that grim decision had been one of his first responses: he'd known he needed to make sure that this mess didn't get anywhere near Ross Barkley. He could only imagine how badly his precious stud would cope under that scrutiny or scandal, and he'd begun working out how to end things as soon as he could... though now, looking back, he knew he'd turned coward and not made the cut quick enough, not once the proposal took place and he'd reassured himself that marrying a woman was the perfect solution to the near-exposure. She'd been a simple fling at first, a taste of something different during the break from his boyfriend, but then... with the newspaper lawyers piling on the pressure, he'd bought the ring and took the plunge, and employed the cut-throat lawyer to make the problem go away. `Tantamount to blackmail', the top London solicitor had called it, and he'd made pretty short work of the tabloid scum who were breathing down Dier's neck. Of course, Eric knew full well that the screenshots were everything they claimed, knew that one of his weak dips into the gay dating app had gone badly, and that the guy certainly did have some telling evidence, even though he'd wimped out and failed to meet the fella. It had happened five or six time in total, him downloading the app and almost meeting guys off it, desperately seeking something more real than what he'd shared with Kane, but always too scared, especially once they began to guess at his real identity. Around him, the other players were getting up with their trays, and nobody paid him much attention at all, which he was grateful for. He was thinking about Ross, and telling himself that he'd done the right thing. It had all become too risky, and for a moment it had looked explosive. Cutting Barkley loose had been the kind and pragmatic decision, he couldn't bring any more hurt or stress into that sweet man's life; sure, Ross would hate him right now, but he would never tell him what had almost happened, his own rash past mistakes coming so close to biting their discretion and success. Troubled by the narrative he was trying to spin, Eric pushed food around on the plate, and sipped from his glass of iced tea. Coady was walking past now, with the others, and looking this way as he did, winking once; he looked pretty chilled and happy today, Dier thought, though the silly guy had looked freaked out after tasting his first dab of cum, and having his own load swallowed by another bloke. He'd recovered fast - the cheeky chap had definitely played about with more than just his ex, that's for sure. You did the right thing, Eric told himself, thinking about the brown manilla envelopes from the newspaper editor and their legal reps, and the first tense conversation with his new lawyer. He thought about the feeling of safety that had come with popping the question to his girlfriend, and letting her announce his secure heterosexuality to the world. As he'd told Conor, he wasn't into labels, but sometimes they were needed, and this past month had certainly been one of those times. All for the best. He could see a way towards happiness and stability now, and surely Ross would be better off without him! Surely. But just for a moment, he allowed himself to indulge the sadness, thinking about that big Scouse lummox on his sofa in his pants, playing video games. He thought about their first time, in the toilets of Liverpool Street station. He thought about dog walks and kitchen cuddles, and he felt the threat of tears in each eye. But he rubbed one large hand across his face and tried to brush it all away, reminding himself of the necessary sacrifice, and the safety he'd carefully bought them both. It had come so close to falling apart, thanks to the tabloid scum, and their witch-hunt for gay footballers; Eric had done what needed to be done, and now everything was... settled. He got up and trailed after the other men, having barely eaten; an afternoon of more training in the hot sun awaited, and his chance to earn his part in Sunday's battle for the Quarter Finals. That, he told himself, was what mattered right now, what he really needed to focus his energy on, not some scummy journalist and their dossier of dirt on him; that problem was solved, and it was time to move on! '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