Date: Tue, 6 Dec 2022 19:17:18 +0000
From: writer guy <premiershiplads@outlook.com>
Subject: Premiership Lads, Part 334

Part 334: Recruitment


The 19-year-old paused and lifted up his mobile phone, a delighted grin
splitting the lean handsome features of his face; ahead of him, two of
his England teammates were posing dramatically face-to-face, imitating
the night's iconic moment of celebration - but this time it was Jordan
Henderson's fellow Liverpool player, Trent Alexander-Arnold, with his
nose and brow pressed dramatically in against the older man's, shoulders
squared and fists curled hard down the sides of his body. Beaming at the
sight, Jude Bellingham snapped the faux aggression of the other two
England players and then took a quick selfie of his own toothy grin,
quickly merging the two to whip onto his social media and broadcast some
of the post-match buzz after their 3-0 win over Senegal.

Instantly, Hendo and Trent were parting with deep peals of laughter, and
Bellingham was clapping his hands cheerily together in approval, stepping
up to the other two players in their layers of training gear over
tonight's sweaty kit. Without much hesitation, the Liverpool FC captain
was pulling this way and grabbing him in a tight brief hug, squeezing the
back of his neck as he did, and repeating the strong words of praise that
he had already barked and muttered at him out on the Qatari pitch. And
the younger Anfield player joined the hug, the pair of them grabbing at
the 6ft1 teenager and almost shaking him from his feet, so that he had to
push the other guys away from him in protest.

`Okay, okay,' he cried, struggling to push away the tactile affection
of the other two England players, and keep up his usual cool maturity -
it was hard not to be flattered and delighted by the approval of these
two Premiership stars, and it took all of his composure to just rub
softly at the side of his nose and shrug off their championing as the
three of them fell into stride towards the England squad's changing
rooms to join the others. `I've just been singing your praises to the
interviewer,' the Brummie youngster chimed at the other midfielder,
whose goal he'd skilfully assisted. `They wanted to know all about you
mentoring me, or something - I had to try and point out to them it was
the other way around.'

The bearded Northern bloke grinned his way and Jude winked cheekily at
the older guy, who slapped him heartily on the back as they walked.
`Sure,' the Liverpool captain agreed through his throaty laugh, `you
tell them what you like, Jedi apprentice. Listen to the confidence on
this one, Trent...!'

Jude flashed the same big grin at the other player, marginally closer to
his own age, but still one of his fastest friends in the Three Lions
pride, and was glad to find Trent deeply amused by his joky egotism. `I
think he might be teaching you a thing or two, if you aren't careful,'
the young Scouser called across at his teammate, and Jude laughed at them
both, pulling up the layers of his England shirt and training jersey to
wipe against the clammy sweat of his long slim face.

`And,' Trent continued in a singsong tone, `you can teach him a few
more things when you join us in training back home, yeh?' Now the West
Derby 24-year-old winked at him, making Jude blink and frown only briefly
in slight confusion, before bursting into a nervous low chuckle, as his
national squad buddy nudged him playfully in the shoulder.

Ever the sensible and responsible leader, Hendo made a loud `Tsk' sound
at Trent's brazen remark, shaking his head with panto disapproval.
`Really, son,' the older Sunderland man sighed gravely, `you should
save that sort of chat until we are in the Semis at least, nah?' But he
was bursting into laughter too before he'd got to the end of the
sentence, and Jude just grinned tightly to himself, picking up on the
serious undertones beneath the banter and chuckling.

`Oh, by the Semi-Final, he'll have read his new contract,'
Alexander-Arnold sang thoughtfully, picking up the pace and moving
slightly ahead, through the big open double-doors into one of the
stadium's large square changing rooms, where other England players were
chanting and bopping about in celebration of their tournament progress.
Trent smirked back behind him before launching forward and throwing
himself into a messy hug with nearby Jack Grealish, whilst Henderson gave
his young assister a heavy grasp about the shoulder and leaned in to make
a final nudging remark: `But seriously, kid, keep an open mind when
January rolls around, won't ya?' A slightly ambiguous grin from the
older bloke, making Jude grin with more open delight and appreciation,
before the 32-year-old was yanked aside into a hearty hug from the
manager himself, wanting to celebrate one of his three key goal-scorers.

This left Jude, the newly celebrated 19-year-old who was quickly becoming
so central to the World Cup campaign, swaggering alone into the party,
his broadening chest puffed out under his shirts and his cheeks colouring
slightly with the hint of seriousness in the Liverpool captain's last
comment.


Hot from the shower, the 19-year-old England prodigy paused to reflect on
the exchange with his two friends: the negotiations between his
representative and his Bundesliga club were already underway this winter,
and it was no given that Bellingham would see out the 22-23 season at
Borussia Dortmund. He did have a certain amount of loyalty to his
temporary German home, having upped sticks to try his luck there after
rising through the youth ranks of his native Birmingham City... and he'd
watched the disappointing trajectory of his former teammate Jadon Sancho
upon returning to the English top-flight, so Jude was not reckless or
casual about crash-landing back in his home country's famous
Premiership. But he WAS open-minded and speculative, and the little jokes
and digs from Hendo and Trent were not without an audience in the
Stourbridge youth.

Of course, there was another element to the exchange which lingered with
the excited 19-year-old at a different level, but that was not one his
thoughts could comfortably process just yet; the excitement of finding
these powerful older lads and blokes so happy with him and so eager to
include him as one of their own - some in more definite and transgressive
ways than others.

The thought was pushed a little out of the background of Bellingham's
feverish thoughts as another of tonight's successes strode past him: the
stalwart No.1 of Southgate's battle plans, clutching a towel at his
waist as he crossed the changing room and dallied in front of Jude, who
was similarly wet and towel-wrapped as he sat down in the small alcove of
his changing spot, his long powerful legs jutting out ahead of him.

`Quality again tonight,' Jordan Pickford told him simply, in a very
similar Wearside growl to the Liverpool captain, and Bellingham turned
upwards to smile politely at the England keeper, then pausing oddly,
seeing the 28-year-old on a certain light.

`Just cos you didn't get a goal of your own,' the older bloke was
telling him sagely, `doesn't mean you weren't absolutely key out
there, yeh?' He looked serious and a little pompous, and the tall
19-year-old nodded appreciatively at him, in a slight heat daze right
now, and finding some mildly uncomfortable de ja vu in the glossy sheen
of the goalkeeper's face and slicked-back hair.

`It's all about the team and the result,' was Bellingham's quietly
confident and humble response, patting his hands against the towel over
his thighs, and trying to figure out the expression on Pickford's
red-cheeked face; the 28-year-old England No.1 was looking at him very
thoughtfully, and the teenager couldn't help but wonder if the thoughts
were about his midfield form, or... something else.

`That's the spirit,' Pickford told him, though there was something a
little hesitant or cynical in his tone and expression. `Don't suppose
you fancy wasting your time at Everton for a season and showing a few of
our lads that attitude, do ya...?' The over-seriousness of the
goalkeeper's face was gone and he was cackling at his own joke, more
typical, before heading on towards the other corner, past the wall of
muscular defenders who were in various stages of tugging fresh England
leisure-wear down against their bodies.

Jude glanced after him, but only briefly, his mind wandering back to that
London hotel and the manic version of Jordan who he'd encountered after
all those drinks, up there with Emile and the bigger guys. A heady
half-remembered explosion of testosterone, he reflected, though that
night last week in the hotel pool-room was... sharper.


Trent's and Pickford's comments lingered with him on the journey back
from stadium to hotel, when he was bundled into the same air-conditioned
coach as everyone else, his head nodding a little wearily to the
vibrations of the vehicle; but he was in the midst of another footy
conversation, this time with Newcastle's Kieran Trippier at his side,
and a recruitment pitch that was at once more subtle and more earnest:

`Honestly, you've never met fans like them - it's like a fucking
religion in that city, mate, and if you play it well, you can be treated
like a little god, haha. I've never felt so respected or loved by the
crowds, let me tell ya, not at any of my old clubs.' Ostensibly, the
32-year-old Manc fella was making comments about the season restart once
the international fracas was over, spiralling out from a passing comment
Jude had made to politely ask the married guy about his Christmas plans;
but Trippier was now on a lengthy monologue about how glad he was that
he'd ignored his critics and chosen Tyneside for the final act of his
senior career, and how other younger players should be looking that way
if they want to be winning titles and trophies in a few years' time.
`It'll be Champions League in no time,' Trips continued, grinning
quite intensely this way, one of his bulky shoulders pushing in against
his side; there was an impassioned glint in the man's beady eyes,
showing his seriousness and commitment, but it was also vaguely
off-putting.

Jude smiled politely at him and nodded slowly, riding the wave of his own
exhaustion; it was the price for such stamina and adrenaline-fuelled
fight in the game itself, absolutely determined to cement his place in
the team. Bellingham didn't want to be a flash-in-the-pan and just
remembered for this tournament, whatever it's outcome; he knew that this
winter stage could be the foundation for a huge career in his sport, and
he needed to leave the sport in no doubt that he meant business.

With that in mind, the Birmingham teen had no intention of courting the
attention of the Magpies. Sure, their ridiculous cash injection had
vaulted them beyond their recent track record, but they were a club in
the process of rebuilding, and Bellingham needed a mission statement in
his next transfer. He needed to show the world that he was in demand with
the existing top dogs, not the blood money social climbers.

`Is that the sales pitch over, then?' Jude asked quite sweetly, his
weariness adding to the lethargic tones of his Brum accent. He grinned at
Kieran as he asked it, but he saw a little alarm and consternation on the
rugged face of the stocky older guy.

`What?' Trippier asked, a bit unconvincingly. `What d'you mean, kid?
Just chattin', ain't I.' He smiled, but it was awkward and glassy.
`Dunno what you mean, lad.'

Jude smiled, but Kieran looked almost grumpy. `Ignore me,' the teen
yawned. `Was just a joke.' He was amused by the caught-in-the-act
awkwardness of the defender at his side, but he daren't laugh at him or
push it further - he was pretty sure that the de facto Newcastle captain
had been encouraged to make overtures in his direction, though he knew it
was a bit arrogant to assume that... still, this was the third recruitment
attempt of the Sunday night, even if Hendo and Trent and Pickers had been
mainly joking...!

Next to him, the Magpie made a grunting little laugh, lounging back in
his seat, as if now his subtlety had failed, he could relax a bit more.
`You could have a lot of fun in a city like that, anyway,' Trippier
informed him. `The Toon, I mean, but the footy club too, ha.' He turned
back this way and there was a different glint in his eye, one that caught
the teenager's interest a little more than his rehearsed lines before.

`Dortmund's a decent city,' Jude said blandly, holding himself
hesitantly back from the uncertain body language of the burly little
right-back. He stared inquisitively at him, feeling the increased
intensity of Kieran's eyes. `And Birmingham'll always be home for me
in the UK, you know.'

A little scoff from Trips. `Sure, right enough, I feel like that about
Manchester, obviously. But still.' He chuckled and folded thick arms
over the chest of his blue England t-shirt. `I just mean... it's a party
city, ain't it, and you can feel that in the squad, if you know what I
mean.' His smirk felt loaded with narrative. Jude wasn't 100% sure if
he did know what he meant, but he had his ideas; the skin on his bare
forearms and long neck tingled a little in the cool air-con of the coach,
waking him up.

`How's that?' was the teen's vague, weary answer, despite the prickle
of interest that journeyed down his spine, making him sit upright in his
chair, rocking gently with the motion of the coach.

`If you have to ask,' sighed Trips, `then you don't get what I'm
sayin'. But that's okay. You're young. Plenty of time to learn. I
mean, I was a bit clueless back in my younger years - before I went off
to Spain, that is.' The former Atletico Madrid player seemed to stare
nostalgically into the headrest in front of them, and then turn to Jude
and wink. `Ignore me, just an old dad banging on about his wilder years,
that's all - as if I get out partying on the famous Quayside, haha, I'm
past it.' He turned away, and it was as if the searchlight of his
curious attention was switched off, and Jude could relax somewhat - but
he was alive with uncertainty and questions now, wondering if he was
jumping to sordid conclusions, or if Agent Trips was selling him a good
time on Tyneside.


Bellingham processed modestly through the fuss made by the hotel staff,
marginally embarrassed by the excitement and adulation of these low-paid
workers. He couldn't bring himself to bask in it like others, watching
Mason Mount and Declan Rice pose with one of the bell-boys, whilst Jack
Grealish mimicked the dancing of other staff and dragged Kalvin Phillips
into joining him. The 19-year-old moved quickly through into the inner
sanctum of the hotel, dumping his bag in the area by the stairs and
rubbing at his tired eyes.

A light buffet had been set out for them in the dining room that opened
out onto the pool area, and he drifted through it without much appetite,
picking at a few snacks and fetching himself a cup of sweet tea before
taking a seat out on the terrace, where blue light played against the
walls and palm trees, reflecting from the chlorinated water. On the other
side of said swimming pool were the windows of the hotel's fitness
centre, and the dappled light of another rectangular pool: Jude stared
thoughtfully across it, his sharp eyes picking out the half-obscured view
of the changing areas down one side, where he had strutted anxiously with
his captain.

His attention was returned to the present by the sound of the foyer party
spilling through into the dining room behind him, and he turned to grin
welcomingly back as other players skittered between the tables of late
snacks and drink options, most of them grabbing a beer or two. He
couldn't help but watch the Liverpool two as they moved along the room
together, seeming to bicker playfully over the food options, and then
stare quite warily at Pickford, who was holding court with the two junior
goalkeepers and boasting about his clean sheet against Senegal, as if it
had been single-handed. And just beyond them, he spotted their captain,
roaming into the room with a slightly dazed look on his face, seeming to
be as worn out by the action as Jude himself felt. He took a few
indecisive sips of his tea before pulling out of his basket chair and
sidling across the room until he was joining Harry Kane by the table of
small sweet pastries.

`Hey,' the Brummie lad murmured, knocking elbows with the striker.

`Oh, hi,' mumbled the tall Londoner. `These look alright, don't they?
I wonder if I can eat one without feeling flabby in the Quarter-Final...'

Jude smirked. `I think you'll be okay, old man.'

`Cheers, junior school. Here, do you want one too?'

`Hm - dunno. I definitely need a sweet treat tonight, though.'

`Well, there's some baklava there and I think that's- Oh.' Harry
picked up on the fairly nervous tilt of his smile, and the intimate look
in his wide brown eyes. `Ahem. I think I get your point, mate.'

Standing there beside him, the 6ft1 youth scratched at the back of his
head and shrugged one shoulder. It had taken quite a bit of guts to make
even that obscure hint in here, several days after what had happened
between the two of them. It wasn't so much any awe or uncertainty around
the persona of his skipper, more his own shaky boundaries; he didn't
like how hard he was in the early mornings, thinking about what it had
been like to stand before the captain in the silent night like that.

Jude laughed awkwardly. `Yeah, I think you do, hah.'

`Naughty lad.' Kane had lowered his voice and he sounded almost
irritated, though there was a knowing smirk on his features as he piled a
couple of flaky pastries onto the small plate in his hands. `Watch what
you say, will ya...?'

Jude sniggered again, pushing his hands into the large loose pockets of
his blue sweat-shorts, the same as worn by everyone else. `Obviously I
haven't said a peep to anyone, mate,' he said quite earnestly. `I
wouldn't dare, would I?' He rocked on the heels of his trainers,
loitering next to the striker, and feeling his large young cock twitch
lazily in his shorts and undies, thinking about the way he'd so
recklessly summoned Kane down in the night, and acted on those simmering
suspicions from autumn.

Kane was giving him a thoughtful look, presumably weighing up the risk of
it all, or whether he believed in Bellingham's discretion. But, to
Jude's growing disappointment, he didn't look particularly excited or
sure of anything, like he had that night by the pool, with Jude dripping
wet and full of demand. The look that Harry gave him now was... almost
patronising, indulging his idea more than anything else. It made the teen
falter and worry, and he played awkwardly with the neckline of his
t-shirt, and the waist of his shorts. `Just a thought,' he blurted out
in a worried snigger.

Kane gave him another odd look, one either full of heavy indecision, or a
slightly critical disapproval, it was hard to say - but the England
captain was being called away, Southgate's second-in-command hollering
his name from the doorway. Jude felt like he'd either been robbed or
rescued once the other tall lean footballer was away from him, carrying
his plate of sweet goods on the way to join the coaches back in the
foyer; it left the Dortmund midfielder lingering stupidly by the
pastries, hands pushing back into his pockets and cheeks colouring with a
little pink. Had he just been given the brush-off by the guy who'd
slobbered over his cock last week?

`Hope he wasn't giving you the big talk about Tottenham's midfield
plans,' came a gruffer voice, and a hand patted him lightly across the
back. It was Kane's teammate and seeming best mate, appearing next to
him and reaching over to snatch a pastry, bringing him very close so that
his woody perfume filled the teenager's senses. And then the taller
broader bulk of Eric Dier was straightened up at his side, pushing the
sweet into his mouth and getting flaky crumbs in his short beard.

`What's that?' Jude said distractedly, eyeing up the other Hotspur.

`Harry there,' mouthed Eric as he chomped on his snack. `Was he trying
to tell you how much our bosses would kill to sign you over to North
London come summer...? I mean, not me so much, cos I have enough a fight
keeping my place in the midfield haha, but...' The big muscular bloke
gave him another pat on the back, fingers lingering momentarily against
the side of his neck. `Kane keeps saying how you're just the kinda lad
we need to take us up to the next level, you know, he thinks a LOT of
you. I mean, we all do, but he won't fucking shut up about it,
especially after your big performance the other day. That next morning he
was practically writing a sonnet, haha.'

Jude, momentarily overwhelmed by the mixed emotions of his interaction
with the captain and the enthusiastic company of the defensive
midfielder, blinked stupidly at the older bloke, and then forced a
sneering laugh and risked some banter. `What, he's learned to write?'
he tested, unsure if he'd get much enjoyment from Dier - but thankfully
the Tottenham man was chortling at the dig and spilling more crumbs onto
the chest of his t-shirt. `Don't let him hear you make that joke, you
cocky little prick,' Eric advised him through his smirk, brushing crumbs
away and backing off. `Or he'll stop messaging he gaffer and telling
him Spurs need to break the bank.' Eric shrugged in retreat, an
impressively built figure even in this room of athletes, and Jude turned
uncertainly away, connecting the claims to his more intimate experience
of Harry Kane's interest in him, but also fighting to avoid his head
becoming so swollen that he couldn't get upstairs to bed: was there a
team in the Prem that wasn't talking about his likelihood of quitting
the Bundesliga...?


He didn't stay long for the half-hearted party, which had nothing on the
drunken night that had marked the end of the group stage qualification;
he dragged himself upstairs and collapsed into bed still fully clothed,
drained but somehow restless. His roommate was already asleep and
snoring, having quit the victory drinks even more rapidly; it was Bukayo
Saka who was emitting the little trills and growls of sleepy breathing in
the next bed, since their initial room-share had been restored in the
past few days. Whatever division had separated Trent from his Liverpool
captain was apparently over, and Jude played with the idea that it could
be anything remotely scandalous: nahhhh, he assured himself with a silent
laugh, that was bollocks, just look at captain sensible from Sunderland,
and his easy-going Scouse pal. He could hardly envision the slightest
drama between the Liverpool teammates, even if Trent had been a moody git
for those few nights in the same suite, and he was sure it must have been
something pretty random and specific. Come on mate, Jude thought, you
can't go around thinking every bloke in this bloody squad is fancying
you in a gay way, can you...?!

In a blur, he pictured Pickford's towel-clad pose in the changing room,
but also the hesitant grin on Kane's mug - and then Eric's big
shrugging shoulders, and Kieran's beady eyes, and the side-by-side
posturing of Trent and Hendo as they repeated that locked-horns
celebration from the stadium lights. He thought of the pair of them,
bickering by the buffet, and laughed at himself and his overactive
imagination.

Jude pawed through the messages and voice-notes on his phone, and
lingered over the communication from his absent buddy, the friend who'd
joined him on his nervous first foray into international play. `Bell-End
the Lej-End' read the first of many WhatsApp messages of Jadon Sancho,
the former Dortmund player showering him with stupid in-jokes and playful
GIFs, before turning a little more serious: `Get your arse over here to
Manchester, Judy Judy, and we'll light shit up. Old Trafford
boiiiiiiis?????' There was a time-gap in the messages from the United
winger there, and then his final text of the night: `Hope you've got a
chill room-mate who doesn't stress you out by playing with his bum-hole
hahahaha' followed by a singular devil emoji and a slew of blushing
grins and face-covering monkeys of shame. Jude laughed once and shook his
head before hitting a crying-with-laughter react on the final message,
but not bothering to text any words back to the other lad, just locking
the screen and tossing it aside.

Yep, he thought indulgently, the Red Devils were after him too; it felt
as though he would have his pick of the top-flight clubs in January or
July, whenever he was ready to draw a line under his German
apprenticeship.

Dammit - he'd come all the way up here because his brain felt wiped out
and tired, but now his mind was running into overdrive, speculating on
whether the right offer could be brokered in the New Year for a
mid-season switch, or whether he'd be better off leaving it until the
summer months and letting the demand build up. But if he waited like
that, would he risk missing out on the buzz generated by his presence
here in Qatar...? Jude had already talked these issues out with his agent
back in Germany, and their colleague in London, and yet the decisions and
calculations all poured over him afresh, getting up from his bed and
pacing the room to the windows, which overlooked the central courtyard
and the outdoor fringe of the dying party below.

Tired and restless - it wasn't exactly an unusual contradictory
sensation for the night of a late game, especially a fierce and crucial
win, but the heat of Doha, or the intensity of the event, something about
it felt even more itchy and urgent to the 19-year-old now, listening to
Saka's snores behind him and the muffled voices and music below. He sat
sideways on the sill, arms wrapped about his bare knees, and peered over
the edge, past the sloping tiles and down into the twinkly lights of the
courtyard: he could see Grealish and Maddison playing some clumsy
kickabout over the pool water, and he could make out Mount and Rice
nearby, hugging in their pally fashion whilst they cheered on the other
two; he could make out what he thought might be Ramsdale and Phillips,
seated to the other side of the pool, looking deep in conversation, and
he could see others drift in and out of view: Coady with a bottle in
hand, Dier following him and on the phone, and a glimpse of Walker and
Foden play-fighting like the overgrown toddlers they clearly were.

For just a moment, the teenager considered quitting the room and
sauntering down to join them, but he didn't feel much pull that way. He
hadn't touched a drop of booze tonight and he could hear from his
vantage point that the men staying up were more than a bit tipsy by now.
Jude felt vaguely that he'd just get irritated if he moved among the
fellas down there, sober as a judge, and in his current restless mood;
instead, he began to think about who was seemingly absent. He couldn't
stop himself.

Bellingham crossed the room again and weighed his phone in his hand.
Mentally, he composed the message to his captain, but mentally deleted it
again, and didn't even unlock the device that he tossed from palm to
palm then replaced on the table by his pillows. Nah, don't be a beg. He
cringed at himself. Don't be like that. But...

The 19-year-old huffed moodily into the warm air, and glanced enviously
at the peaceful sleep of his Arsenal roommate, then made a nameless
decision and marched away. Het let himself out of the room, dropping the
key aimlessly into his pocket, and he strolled through the air corridors
of the first floor. He hesitated at the balcony rim of the stairwell,
leaning his elbows on the broad stone bannister, and questioning his
reluctance to go and kick a ball about with Grealish and co. Some
egotistical part of him imagined himself getting a lot of comments from
the four of them on behalf of their respective Premiership clubs, and he
laughed out loud, then straightened up, and stared thoughtfully down the
few broad corridors that branched off from this junction at the top of
the stairway.

The 19-year-old had a vague sense of where most of his teammates were
based, from the slow drift of them all to and from mealtimes and training
meets, and he looked thoughtfully down the two main routes that forked
from the other side of this balcony area, with the passage behind him
leading away to his own shared suite. He could picture Trent wandering
out from the nearest of those corners, coming to meet him before
breakfast and high-fiving him, laughing off a little dig about his CK
posing; and he could also see Kane wandering away down the following one,
could picture the tall strong frame of the famed striker disappearing off
to his bedroom at his slow gait, watched idly with lingering flashbacks
to what had taken place. Thinking now about different demands and
interests than the matter of his future career, the 6ft1 lad moved slowly
along the bannister edge, rolling his hand gently over its smooth stone
top, and staring from one corridor mouth to another, biting sharply at a
plump corner of his lips.

Jude's attention was drawn quickly aside by raised voices below, making
him both draw back from the edge of the balcony, and angle his neck so
that he could peer over that same edge and see who was passing through
the foyer. It was just Rashford and Gallagher, he noted, and he felt some
strange flush of relief in his chest - what had he been worried about?
Who had been hoping for or dreading? He paused where he was, hand on the
stone rail, and mind racing in tight little circles. He glanced again at
the two portals that branched off, and he wondered if Trent and Hendo had
really retired for the night - maybe, he thought, those two Liverpool
lads would still be up and sharing a beer or two before bed, just a bit
tired of the noise and banter downstairs? He could give them a knock and
hang out, couldn't he, since they were two such sound fellas. He'd
already become fast friends with Alexander-Arnold, and he now felt he had
some connection with the more seasoned midfielder, who he saw as more of
a team leader than... His eyes shifted to the other corridor, his feet
leading him between them on autopilot: Kane was definitely not
downstairs, but his roomie Dier definitely was. Swallowing loudly,
Bellingham felt himself pass by the archway that would lead him politely
to the door of the Liverpool guys, and moving instead down the corridor
where he thought Kane was lodging. He knew what part of his body was
making the semi-conscious decision.

But the quiet hallway just sprawled blankly ahead of him, ending in a
potted palm and an arched window with heavy curtains over it. Half a
dozen doors ranged down either side of the passage and other than the
golden numbers that were emblazoned next to them, there was nothing
between them, nothing to mark out which one might be occupied by the
squad's two Tottenham Hotspurs. Moving with sluggish steps, Jude felt
foolish and a bit lost, but he moved pointlessly on, staring at each
impassive doorway, and finally reaching the showy indoor plant at its
end.

Just as the teenager was about to quit his spot and sneak back through
the upstairs to his room after all, there was a click and a creak from
the nearest door on the right - his sense of narrative causality flared
and he thought that coincidence must win after all, making his dick
twitch in his boxer briefs. But nope, it wasn't cock-sucking Kane who
leaned out of the gently opening door, but a very different young man:
the wiry dark-haired figure hung to the door as he leaned out, his other
hand tossing a pair of worn-out looking sneakers down onto the tiled
floor of the corridor, making a vague grunt of dislike, and then using
one socked foot to nudge the two Nike trainers further away from the
doorway. And then, with a start, the other young Englander turned this
way, catching sight of him and making a faint gulp of surprise as he did
so.

`Oh,' said Phil Foden self-consciously. `Er - it's Jack's trainers,
y'know, they fucking stink, and he keeps ditching them on MY side of the
room. Hah. Erm.' It seemed that the 5ft7 Man City player was a lot more
concerned with being caught in this trivial act than why another
footballer was loitering near his door at this time of night. The short
slim midfielder yawned a little, rubbing a hand over his face, and giving
him a smile. `Better the stink is out here than in there while I'm
trying to get some kip, hey?'

Jude recovered quickly. `Sounds fair enough to me, yeh.' A pause, in
which the other midfield player lingered with his hand on the
door-handle, and Jude rocked on his heels and kept his fists dug into the
pockets of his baggy shorts. `You get bored of the supposed party too,
then...?'

Phil, who had swapped his England-branded t-shirt for a thinner white
t-shirt and the shorts for his pyjama bottoms, shrugged and laughed.
`Just so bloody tired,' he admitted, and Jude nodded eager agreement.
`But yeh - everyone was getting on my nerves a bit and I needed my own
space, I guess. Bit anti-social, but...'

`What are we like?' Bellingham asked, taking a step on down the
corridor and coming directly in front of the half-open door and the
bed-ready other payer. `Two of the youngest and we're skulking off
rather than enjoying the shindig. Hah. Plonkers, right?'

`Something like that,' chuckled Foden softly in agreement, leaning his
slim weight against the propped door, and looking this way with sleepy
but thoughtful eyes. In front of him, Bellingham couldn't help himself;
he lifted one hand up behind his head in a vague sleepy gesture, flexing
a bicep as he did, and letting his England t-shirt pull up a few inches
over his lower tummy as a result. He saw the tiny flickering movement of
Phil's eyes, the slight lift of his defined and striped eyebrows.
`Er,' mouthed the City starlet quietly, `could just knock back one
beer if you fancied?' He blinked almost shyly and Jude felt an
unconscious smirk emerge on his lips, the same ones that had been pursed
nervously on his own just a few moments ago.

`Yeah?' he said, his voice a low curious purr.

`If you want,' Phil returned. `I'm on my own up here. Jack's still
down there telling everyone how many goals he could have got if he had
been on for 90 mins, I think.' A critical little smirk on the City
lad's face, and Jude took two steps closer; Phil pulled away a little,
into the doorway, pushing on the door to keep it hoisted open. Jude
caught it and gripped the edge, stepping in close so that his 6ft1 frame
was more pronounced in front of the short and wiry Stockport lad, who
smiled intently at him and locked eyes, perhaps sensing the taboo
appetite that had brought Borussia Dortmund's coveted expat prowling
down to this side of the hotel, as if his pheromones broadcast
everything.

Letting the door shut gently behind him, Bellingham played his gambit.

`Not sure I need a beer, to be honest,' he said quietly. He let a hand
slide down the front of his t-shirt and halfway into the front of his
shirts - not obnoxiously, just enough to seem like it could be the casual
crotch-touching habit of an urban teenager. Again, he saw Phil's eyes
flicker, and he let his smile broaden more assertively. `You?'

`I'm easy,' murmured Pep Guardiola's Golden Boy, the last English
teenager to get as much fuss and attention in their sport as Bellingham
was now starting to experience. An uneasy smirk played on the sharp
features of the scally lad, who was resting his hands on his hips, and
very gently licking his bottom lip. `If you don't want a beer, then...'
he began in a brittle tone of suggestion.

There was a sliding doors moment of decision where Jude could see a more
cautious and professional version of himself: asking for a little vodka
miniature from the mini-bar and throwing himself into the seat by the
windows, sharing a little heart-to-heart with the hyped-up `generational
talent' of his teammate, asking him for advice on dealing with the hype
and pressure and staying focused on his own progress rather than external
noise... just a little drink between young talents who would no doubt be
sharing this international jersey for many tournaments to come. Yep, that
version definitely happened in some parallel dimension, one where he
didn't suddenly feel ridiculously horny and entitled, fuelled by all of
those little conversations tonight with other players who wanted him at
their clubs, for whatever reason.

But in THIS reality...

`I want you to get on your knees and suck my fat cock,' the
self-assured teen said in a low voice, pushing the hand further inside
the front of his shorts, and taking a couple of decisive steps closer to
the other player, looming over him by a good six inches. In front of him,
Foden tensed up but let his arms hang at his sides, and stared almost
confrontationally up at him, his face briefly unreadable, as if his
reaction to this proposition could go either way; it was the same steely
firmness that came over the 22-year-old in the midst of a game, so far
from his coy cheerfulness in training. But then he was smirking and
licking his lips quite fully, and nodding his head, and Jude let out a
little laugh of sexual excitement.

`Go on, then.'

Down Phil went. He settled quickly onto his knees and Jude felt his hands
in the pockets of his shorts, pulling them neatly down at either side.
Next went his tight boxer briefs, plain pale grey against the soft brown
of his waist and legs. He heard a little gasp of appreciation from the
Stockport Iniesta, and then he felt warm breath on his semi, then... `Ah
yeh,' he gurned, the moist lips taking his prick in between them,
rolling against his chubby shaft, making it swell and stretch and harden.

This was different, he thought, to getting blown by Kane, but again... it
didn't feel like it was something new to the City player, who gobbled up
his prick quickly and hungrily, with a more furtive and silent manner
than the team captain. Jude groaned out loudly at the enjoyment he felt
wash over his tall strong body, mingling with the satisfied
muscle-tiredness of the 3-0 game. He reached down and placed his hands
quite gently against the short dark hair of Foden's head, holding it
slightly in place, but holding back from the rougher handling that he
felt drawn to... not yet, not yet, this just felt so good, and it was so
incredible that he'd accidentally stumbled into exactly what he needed
tonight. This service, he thought, was what he needed to curl up and
sleep with the same peace as his roomie, and he wasn't about to question
that desire - it was just part of the testosterone madness of their World
Cup campaign, wasn't it?

Like with the captain, he swung from letting his head loll back with his
eyes closed, and then staring intently down the front of his body,
watching as tongue and lips roved the curved length of his thick brown
shaft, and took their time at the dark pink head where his foreskin
retreated behind the prominent weighty Bell-End of his occasional
nickname. But this time, sober as he was, the watching took more
prominence than the gasping blindness, and he muttered more dirty
encouragement: `Suck on that, you bitch,' he hissed. `Get your lips
round it and eat my dick, you City cunt.' He wasn't quite sure where it
came from, but he said it, and the older World Cup debutant sucked all
the harder and more completely when he did. Fuck, yes.

There was a slight element of revenge as he began to push forward a bit
and gag the smaller lad on his big meat. Not revenge against Phil, his
playmate of sheer nocturnal coincidence; revenge against Harry Kane, he
thought, for his apparent indifference or reluctance, and revenge against
the frustrating veiled hints of those other lads, who probably weren't
interested in him like this after all, but just thinking about their club
squads once the Qatari Cup was finished.

Bellingham held his hands about the sides of Foden's face and pushed his
cock in and out his circled lips in a few long rough strokes, treating
the guy's mouth like a pussy, and muttering more eager filth at him:
`Take my cock like a girl, that's it, yehhhh-!'

If greedy little Phil was at all surprised by his roughness now, then it
was Jude himself who would reel in shock at what he did next, pulling
back and slapping his cock sideways against each pinched cheek of the
lad's angular face, then pushing back on the crown of his head so that
he slid off his haunches and staggered into the side of the bed,
clutching for the edges of the duvet. `Up against the wall,' Bellingham
barked, and he clutched his throbbing hard-on in his left hand as he
followed Foden swiftly to the strip of wall between the beds. In front of
him, moving quickly, the City player was pushing down the rear of his
chequered PJ pants, exposing the pert white of his butt cheeks; Jude felt
like he was watching himself in disbelief, sticking two fingers into his
own mouth for some saliva lubricant, then coming firmly up against the
rear of the smaller football player.

Foden gave a long fierce yelp as Bellingham shoved the two damp fingers
in between those tight peachy cheeks, and he felt the tight ring there -
he thought about Jadon Sancho, giggling on the bed at St George's Park
hotel, urging him to help him out and try the stupid little toy that the
other Dortmund player had brought along on that trip, when Jude was a
younger teen, full of wide-eyed admiration and loyalty for the
dirty-minded other player. But Jude had fled the room that night, after
briefly helping Jadon in his anal experiment, and their friendship had
always been a little reticent after that, right up until Sancho's exit
for Manchester - it would have blown the Brummie lad's mind if he'd
known that the lad in front of him had once explored that very bumhole.

Wanking himself furiously, the 19-year-old pushed one and then two
fingers into the impossibly tight ring of Foden's bottom, growling at
him as he did. `That's it, bitch,' he huffed loudly. `Feel my fingers
in ya pussy, girl, like my cock in yer mouth, bet you love that!!!' He
had no idea what he was doing, but the low restlessness of the night was
exploding through every muscle in his arms, pumping his meat relentlessly
and jabbing his two digits into Foden's back passage, making the City
lad whimper and shudder against the wall, begging for it: `Yes yes
yesss, make me your bitch!'

Later, sweating in his bed, Bellingham would question just how far he
MIGHT have gone if he didn't finish in a minute more; would he have put
anything else between the blush pink of Foden's clenched cheeks...? He
didn't get to find out. In just a minute or two of frigging his pal with
his fingers, he was spurting cum messily against the side of Phil's
t-shirt and pants, spurting little stripes of glossy seed on the white
and check fabrics, emptying his balls and heaving out wordless breaths of
satisfaction. It had all happened so rapidly, and now it was over, and
the post-nut clarity was giddying.

Panting, he took one step back, and Phil turned to face him. His cheeks
and brow were a little shiny with sweat, and when Jude glanced down a
little, he could see the swelling in the front of those loose-fitting
pyjama bottoms, which made him uncomfortable. He hadn't been poking the
lad's tight arse to turn him on, he thought, he'd been doing it to...
what? Show him who was boss? To assert himself as the most important
young midfielder in the England gang? To make the scally lad whimper his
name and look at him now with those hungry dark eyes, another new
devotee...?

Phil was giving him an almost dreamy look, his smile huge, and his
breathing as laboured as Jude's own. `Well...' murmured the
22-year-old, giving his PJs a little tug upwards, covering his bottom but
accentuating the outline of his growing excitement at the front. Jude
could still see the silvery streaks of dampness on the side of his
clothes where his cum had struck. He took another step back, still
panting.

`Needed that,' Bellingham grunted simply, unable to look the other
midfielder in the eyes any more, and wiping his clammy hands down the
sides of his blue t-shirt, the room feeling uncomfortably hot, just as
his own soon would when he got back there and lay sleeplessly on his
side, listening to Saka's snores. He moved further away from the other
lad, flapping at the folds of his t-shirt and then pulling it to wipe his
face on. He stooped to pull up his boxer briefs and then his shorts,
stuffing the drooping weight of his hard-on in amongst the material and
feeling his damp tip rub sensitively in there.

`Glad to help,' the other player was telling him in a dazed murmur, but
Jude didn't look at him, just focusing on arranging his parts in a way
that didn't bulge too obtusely in the sweat-shorts, and then starting at
a scrape and bump on the hotel room door. He glared in the door's
direction and then at Phil, staring furiously at the City lad as if he
was somehow setting him up for humiliation and exposure - but Foden
looked as alarmed and panicked as he was, pushing away from the wall and
fumbling at his PJs in the same way, giggling nervously at another bump
and creak of the door. It seemed, for a moment, like it might just be the
noise of a passing player, some drunk team member getting the wrong room
number - but no, a key turned in the lock and the door swung partly in,
allowing a distinctive figure to bundle energetically into the suite with
them and slam it behind him.

Jack Grealish paused there, pulling the curtains out of his eyes, and
blinking between them in a slow expressive turn of the head. Jude
breathed in sharply, annoyed, and then shot another warning glance at
Phil, before clearing his throat loudly. `Thanks for that beer,' he
grunted awkwardly at his suite host, rolling his shoulders and shuffling
his tall body, wondering how obvious his fading erection was in his
shorts, or in the breathlessness of his voice and the sweaty sheen of his
long face. He looked almost confrontationally at Grealo, who was taking a
few slow steps into the room, and then broke into a disarming smile,
walking past the charismatic winger and giving him a pat on the arm.

`Tell this one to give it a rest,' Bellingham chimed. `He's desperate
for me to sign for City and join you pricks up there in rainy Manchester,
can you believe that? No chance, mates, no chance.' He gave a hollow
laugh, passing a confused-looking Jack and making it to the door; he
turned back into the room and clocked the odd looks that passed between
Grealish and Foden... the almost guilty cheek of the cock-sucker's
angular features, smirking to the floor, and the frowning exasperation of
Jack's handsome face, swinging back to stare suspiciously at Jude, mouth
hanging open.

`You can tell Pep he needs to look elsewhere,' Bellingham called at
Foden with a bravura performance of casual mockery, even though his
shorts were tented slightly at the front where his hard-on still leaked
cum at the material of his boxer briefs. `Agent Phil has failed to
recruit me, ha ha. Night, lads.'

`Er, g'night,' Jack grunted at him in his dopey manner; `Well, it was
worth a try!' came Phil's strained but playful voice, coughing slightly
at the end, making Jude think about how hard he'd forced his cock in
between those tight thin lips. He closed the door on the pair of City
stars and reeled down the corridor in a head-rush, making a beeline for
his bedroom as quickly as he could.


He checked his messages once more before settling down, not opening up
all of the new WhatsApps that had landed there in his absence from the
suite. But the latest of them all, perhaps sent at the very moment he
climaxed in Phil's room, came from his England bestie, matched by a
grinning selfie of the Scouse lad next to the notification. He opened it
up, glancing at the smiling face framed by the thick locs of hair.

`Don't get your head turned by all the banter, J - but seriously, think
about Liverpool if you get a chance. Would be fucking boss to have a mate
like you join us there, defo. Night buddy xx'

Jude paused in his strange mix of sleepiness and exhilaration, staring at
the bright phone screen in the dark of the hotel suite, his clothes
discarded on the way to bed, including the cummy mess of his underpants.
He re-read the message, letting his eyes and brain turn uncertainly over
the friendly advice and the simple earnest suggestion, then the ambiguous
`us' (Trent and Jordan, or the whole LFC squad...?) and the couple of
chummy kisses at the end of the text. He checked himself and sighed his
amusement at his own runaway train of thought, blacking out the screen
and sliding it further from his bedside before turning over and pressing
his clammy face in against the pillow. So what, his new friends were
dropping heavy hints to recruit him to their club, who could blame
them...? Liverpool, he thought, would be just one of the many options
he'd chat through his reps when he left Qatar in the coming weeks, and
he couldn't be too swayed by one or two friendships, otherwise his
teenage self would never have taken the bold move to Germany from
Birmingham...!

Bellingham pressed his lean body sleeplessly into the bedding and let the
career and personal questions spiral on into the Qatari night, his cock
aching sensitively at the memory of yet another man's lips, the third
now to nosh him off; quite the habit.




'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