Date: Mon, 12 Dec 2022 22:17:53 +0000
From: writer guy <premiershiplads@outlook.com>
Subject: Premiership Lads, Part 336

Part 336: Licking Their Wounds


It was tempting to punch the wall, but the 27-year-old football lad had
done that many times before in his Villa days, and he knew that the
grazes and bruises on your knuckles weren't really worth it; instead, he
kicked aimlessly at a standing lamp by the door, and then lurched
stupidly across to catch and correct it as its tall stem threatened to go
crashing over on the tiled floor of the air-conditioned hotel room.

Jack Grealish stared balefully at the stupid Qatari lamp as if it was
somehow responsible for tonight's defeat and the end of their dreamy
World Cup experience, his second major tournament wearing the Three Lions
on his chest. He briefly visualised the lofty light feature as the
low-grade referee from the unsuccessful France fixture and prepared to
kick it over properly with one muscular leg, but then chided himself and
dragged his feet across the bedroom instead, the few doleful beers by the
pool sloshing through his system and doing nothing but depress his mood
further.

This was a crashing low like the football stud had experienced only a few
times on professional terms, much more dull and numbing than the climax
of losing in a final at the Euros, or any of his club endeavours for
Aston Villa or Man City. This felt absurd and wrong, as if he could blink
enough times and England would be back in the competition again, and
progressing to a Semi Final against plucky underdogs Morocco. Despite the
bitter defeat against the French and the hours that had passed since in
stadium and transit and hotel, none of it felt real, a dull anti-climax
that left all of the men quiet and sombre, unable to do much more than
share snatches of bitter conversation and slide into soulless platitudes,
or try and force some jollity by discussing their plans for Christmas
once back on British soil. Maybe he SHOULD punch a wall after all?

Jack went into their adjoining bathroom and took a long piss, frowning
aimlessly down at his weighty cock as he did, and then at his own grave
reflection as he slowly washed his hands and ran damp fingers through the
disturbed fluffiness of his loose hair. He took a moment to grimace
critically at the beginnings of crows' feet and a few unwanted lines on
his handsomely tanned and freckles features, then moved back into the
main suite, where his roommate was occupied with the sensible chore of
starting to tidy and pack his things for tomorrow's unwanted departure.

He watched Phil: he could see the same sense of defeat and injustice in
the younger lad's sharp features, his frowning eyes and tight lips, the
jerky stop-start motion of his fussing over personal belongings and the
excess of England merch always foisted on them at St George's Park. But
he also watched Phil Foden more closely: he could see the pert swell of
the young midfielder's strong lean butt in the black tracksuit pants he
wore, and the slim but defined strength of his pale arms as he shoved a
few things into a case, the rough boyish handsomeness of his quiet face.

Never a man to have his desires or instincts dulled by sport, as horny in
disaster as triumph, Grealish found himself stroking loosely at his
tummy, one hand under the blue England t-shirt, the other stroking
briefly at the soft hair of his chin. Then, quietly, he proceeded to
approach Phil's bed and throw himself on it sideways, sprawling
alongside the neat organisation of the Stockport lad's belongings, head
propped on one hand, and Lil Philippa's dark eyes flickering
questioningly at him as he frowned over his open suitcase.

`You don't need to do that tonight,' Jack commented morosely, but he
wondered if maybe everybody else was doing the same - nobody had been
keen to hang around for long in the bar area below, after the coaches
dropped them off here at their base-camp. Maybe every room in the hotel
was full of quietly unhappy young men folding sportswear away into their
luggage in the same downbeat meditation of Foden here.

`Better tonight than the mornin,' was Phil's sensible yet sulky
response.

Jack made a non-committal noise and pulled about his hair, then ran the
same hand down the front of his t-shirt and shoved it idly into the front
of his grey sweat-shorts in the casual crotch-fixation of sporty jocks
everywhere. `Fair play,' he mumbled. `But you can leave it for now.'
He nodded at the bed underneath him. `Relax a minute, will ya?'

The 22-year-old paused and gave him a heavy look, in the middle of
folding up a chunky hoodie for his cabin bag, and then he shrugged one
shoulder stiffly, and pushed some of the stuff aside so that he could sit
his arse down on the bedding next to Jack, who smiled weakly as he did.
`Giz a hug, will ya?' the Brummie footballer demanded more softly,
lifting one open arm invitingly, and tilting his head; full pout and
puppy dog eyes for his Man City little bro, who hesitated but leaned in
and scooped an arm at his side to join the embrace. Jack breathed in his
mixed scents of oddly cheap aftershave and soap, closing a strong arm
quite firmly about the slighter lad, and tugging him in until he was down
on the bed next to him too, in a better position to cuddle at and pin.
Jack moaned a little as he did, lifting up one heavy thigh to plant over
the side of Phil's leg, beginning to bury his mouth in the crook of
Phil's skinny neck, not quite kissing him there but letting his nose and
lips brush on the warm pink skin, until-

`Enough,' muttered Foden sourly. He yanked away, almost kicking his own
suitcase off the bed in the effort of disentangling from Grealish. Jack,
surprised by the sudden pull of this, blinked lazily and gave him an
irritated look, then reached for one of his arms - he was stunned when
Phil batted the paw away and jerked his body right off the bed and back
onto his feet. Back to him, he cleared his throat and immediately set
about reorganising the things he'd knocked about from his organised
little system. Jack stared at him, already semi in the front of his
loaded shorts, and the brief warm hug lingering on his chest and arm.

`What?' the City winger demanded in a sharp yelp.

`Can't have it both ways,' Phil muttered ominously, setting the case
back up on the bed and prodding Jack's leg with one corner of it in an
uncomfortable manner that said `get off my bed'. Jack, never the
quickest on the uptake, stared impatiently at the younger lad, and he
knocked the case shut with one hand just as Phil was about to start
piling things into it. `What?' he asked again, more firmly. `What's
this about? Was just a hug...'

Foden nodded, something bitter in his eyes. `Right, yeh.'

`What's that mean?'

Foden's nostrils flared in one huffy breath, then he glared right at
him, and there was a little hurt in the grey of his eyes. `I thought
we'd cooled off all that stuff. That's what you said, mate. Nowt
changes just cos you're feeling a bit low.' He spoke with difficult
composure, as if he'd been wanting to get something off his chest for a
while, but he wasn't quite managing it right now. He zipped his lips and
concentrated on his packing, and Jack just stared at him with soulful
eyes, unable to stop himself from pushing and pulling a bit at the bulge
in his shorts, his body and hormones thrown by the lack of reciprocation.

`Come on, relax,' the Brummie guy muttered. `It's not that deep-'

`When I tried to give you a cuddle the other day it was,' his roomie
pointed out quietly but fiercely. `So what's different now, mate?'
Phil shot him another dark and vaguely vulnerable look, and then turned
away to sort through the things on his bedside table. `I think you were
right - we should keep it profesh, mate.'

Jack stared crossly at him, picking up on the passive aggression and
slight flavour of resentment or vengeance in Phil's tart mood. He made a
scoffing sound and rolled the other way, springing from his friend and
playmate's bed and giving his own bulge a good feel once on his feet,
hoping to catch Foden's eye with the intimate touching, but nope. He
scoffed again and then rolled his shoulders. `Whatever, kid,' he
muttered dismissively, trying quickly to cover up his surprise and
distress at such a cold shoulder from the little bro who normally
worshipped him and jumped at his slightest hint of mischief. When did
that change?

An inner voice raised a hand and tried to point out the many times he'd
tried the same cold shoulder in reverse, suppressing Phil's interest and
giving the younger lad some tough love and indifference... but ego and bad
mood drowned out the self-awareness and Grealish just scowled unhappily
at his roommate, then snatched a hooded jacket off the back of a chair
and stomped his socks-in-sliders feet across the suite. `Whatever,' he
repeated. `Enjoy yer packing, saddo.' He slammed the door behind him
like he was half his age, and swore to himself on the way down the
passage: `Stuck-up little fuckin' chav.'


Jack Grealish wasn't the only England player having his quiet advances
snubbed at that very moment, only a few rooms away and up one floor:
though if the City winger felt low and disappointed by tonight's
outcome, this was nothing compared to the slouched figure of his captain,
standing in the doorway to his room's ensuite, and watching the
nocturnal ablutions of his roommate and fellow Spurs man.

As captain alone, Harry Kane had to carry a greater weight of
responsibility than the average England lad on the squad, but as the top
striker and the man whose penalty failure had cost them a chance of extra
time and further contest... well, his breakdown on the pitch for a few
minutes had said it all, and the 29-year-old Londoner had really
struggled through the rest of the night, barely able to raise a weak
smile for his crushed team, or for the encouragement and approval of his
coaches. Even the comfort and support of his loved ones in the stands had
been difficult to accept.

But... there were other kinds of comfort, different to the wholesome
kindness and understanding of his missus and his family. As Kane had
found before, beginning in the throes of his LAST World Cup campaign,
there were different comforts, ones that a man like him could get really
properly lost in, and forget about all his professionalism and duty, and
just... lose himself, give himself up to something, to someone else. Times
when he could let another man be the alpha, the leader, the fighter.

Eric Dier caught his eye in the mirror, in the middle of smoothing some
thin white moisturiser onto his face, shirtless at the sink of their
shared bathroom area. Harry stared soulfully at his Tottenham colleague
via the mirror, leaning his own tall form against the doorframe, and
rubbing a couple of fingers over the golden-brown hair of his beard. The
two men, the two former lovers, held each other's gaze in the reflection
for a long and significant moment, and then Eric was busying himself with
his process, wiping excess cream from his handsome features and then
squeezing toothpaste out onto his brush.

Kane lingered there in his t-shirt and shorts, as if lounging in the main
room on his own was too lonesome and depressing, whilst Dier quietly
readied himself for bed in here. But his eyes left the mirror, and moved
instead over Eric's big shoulders and powerful back, and to the way his
bed-shorts hung against the curve of his sturdy backside and on the soft
golden fur of his thighs. When their eyes met again in the mirror, there
was something not unlike a smirk on the bearded good looks of the
slightly younger player, one that lit a full grin on Harry's own face,
the first such expression he'd worn since his penalty flew way over the
French crossbar.

`You okay there?' gurgled the 28-year-old hunk through a mouthful of
toothbrush.

Kane nodded his head, his brief grin fading somewhat. `I will be,' he
said with vague optimism, reassurance for himself more than his close
footballing friend, once so much more. He pulled at the neck of his
t-shirt and stared with open longing at the other bloke, who stooped now
to gargle and swill water and spit it out in the sink. The posture just
defined his back and arm muscles more and made the shorts cling that bit
more invitingly to the rear of his strong legs. Unable to do anything
else, the England captain inched forwards into the bathroom and its dark
tiles, making the space feel immediately cramped as he approached the
other over-6ft bloke.

As soon as Eric was straightening up and wiping his mouth on the back of
a hand, Harry's touch was on his lower back, feeling the downy hair
there at the base of his spine, and sliding slowly upwards in a tender
movement. He lowered his mouth to kiss the bulge of muscle atop Eric's
left shoulder, and left his mouth there, letting his beard hair tickle on
the smooth tanned skin. A sigh of sorts came from Dier, who froze in his
position, alloiwng him to nuzzle his shoulder and stroke up his broad
back, but then, `Harry...' His voice was heavy and loaded, and Kane knew
the tone well.

His hand had reached near the top of Dier's spine now, and he reached to
grip and squeeze his other shoulder, whilst his lips roamed further in,
moving to kiss against the side of Eric's neck; but the defensive player
twisted carefully away, firm but not rough as he pushed decisively back.
For a stupid second, Eric's little moaning sigh replaying in his ear,
Harry resisted it - tried to reach more properly for the shirtless stud,
tried to take a hold of him and pull in for the longed-for kiss, but this
was stupid and Eric was no pushover. One of his big hands planted against
Kane's chest and pressed back, and their bodies parted - he saw the look
of disapproval and awkwardness on the other man's face and he replayed
his own imperative movement, pushy and unwanted, and he cringed. Colour
flooded his face and the night's crushing lows returned in full force,
only briefly held at bay by the stirring in his shorts: the desire for
his ex.

`No,' Eric said, his voice firm but quiet. `I've told you.' And he
had - enough times, surely, even before they were roomed together here in
Doha. Harry had made similar overtures in September, and had his answer
then - that intimacy lay in the distant past, and their renewed
friendship was far more important. He knew that, agreed with that, but
tonight... he just needed comfort, and this looked like 6ft2 of it, behind
that gorgeous but now angry face. He hated to be looked at like this by
Dier, that mix of anger and pity, and he shrank back, rubbing a hand over
his face and slurring his apology.

The other footballer sprang past him, silent and perhaps really offended,
and Kane paused in the doorway with both hands on his face, silently
cursing his own lack of discipline, his own neediness. He turned around
and moved back into the room, expecting to face down his friend, and
apologise properly for pushing it a bit there - but as it turned out,
Eric was pulling a long-sleeved top over his bare body and shoving his
feet into his trainers, ready to leave the room. He was halfway to the
door before Harry could gather his wits and bark out a `Sorry, mate,
Eric...' The other Tottenham player shot him an odd look from the door,
one that was mainly pity, but not without an ounce of... what, blame? For
this, or for more? For losing them the game...?

And then his roomie was gone, and Kane was alone at last, with nobody to
distract him from replaying that penalty against his own club teammate,
veering away from target and letting down his team and country.


But in other rooms, comfort was more readily available. They had climbed
straight into bed upon coming up here, pulling shirts off but leaving
shorts on, and wrapping the comforting duvet over their bodies as if
there was any chill to protect against in the Qatari night. Little had
been said between the two Liverpool allies since leaving the stadium, but
what was there to say?

Trent stared across the room, at the half-open drapes on their French
window, through which he could make out some slight glow of city lights,
but mostly a pale reflection of the interior of the room - the shared
room that the pair of them would need to bid goodbye to in the morning,
like everyone else. The shared room, he thought, where he had paraded in
his CKs and given his sexy captain a private show of his designer
underwear campaign, only to waste time falling out with each other for
half of the international session. Now that it was over, the 24-year-old
Scouser could sigh and roll his eyes at his own overreactions, and wish
he'd been a little more chilled and focused on enjoyment in this his
first World Cup - though he was more level-headed than most, and already
privately turning his thoughts to the next, where he hoped to be a more
established defender in the national line-up, and not just a benched
contender.

The thought of a brighter future was one comfort for the Scouse lad, but
the other was the muscular body heat of his skipper at his side, and he
ran his fingers over Jordan Henderson's chest, letting one digit circle
a hairy nipple, and then find and rub softly over the other. The older
man didn't react properly to this wandering touch, his face leaning back
into the pillows and staring out towards their balcony windows in the
same way that Trent just had. After a minute admiring his handsome
profile, Trent nudged at the other man's resting body, and mouthed
question. `What's on yer mind, skip?'

Hendo turned his head back this way, half-smiling at the affectionate
respect, and then blinked a few times before murmuring his honest answer.
`You think Jude;s okay?' the Liverpool and England midfielder asked in
a worried undertone.

Lounged there on his side, Trent raised both eyebrows slightly in
surprise at the question, though he wouldn't be able to say what he
would have guessed was on the 32-year-old sportsman's brain. He played
his fingers gently over Jordan's pecs some more, and made a thoughtful
noise. `Yeh,' he murmured eventually. `He will be. He's
19-going-on-44, for a start...'

A soft half-laugh from Hendo. `I know, he's so mature, but - got to be
had for the younger lads to take, this kinda disappointment, even against
a team like France... I just wondered, that's all, and...'

Trent, rubbing one knee against Jordan's leg, couldn't help himself.
`What do I have to do to hold yer attention, eh?' he drawled in his
Merseyside accent, pinching one of Hendo's nipples with a bit of force.
`Here I am, rubbing up against ya, and you're thinking about another
younger lad all over again...'

The 32-year-old Sunderland man's face was all panic and anxiety in a
second, turning sharply this way and frowning worriedly at him. The
memory of their bickering and distance was too fresh for Jordan, it
seemed, and Trent immediately regretted the soft jibe, seeing the fear
and worry in his handsome captain's eyes. `It's not like that,' the
Mackem man grunted hoarsely. `I'm just looking out for him, that's
all. You know he needs that, and you're his friend too, so I just- It
was YOU who suggested I take him out for breakfast the other day, that
was YOUR idea, so-'

Trent laughed hesitantly and stroked more softly over Jordan's chest,
until he could cup a hand against his beard and pull him in, quieting him
with a kiss. `Calm down, calm down,' the Scouser insisted. `I was only
messing, wasn't I? I know all that, Jord, skipper. I wasn't - what are
you like, old man?' He kissed him again and left their faces close on
the pillow. `It was a joke, alright? I know I've been a jealous prick,
but... this is okay.'

Looking unsettled by the joke and the apology, Hendo just frowned at him
across the pillow, and gently reciprocated his touch, rubbing one strong
hand over Trent's thick upper arm and leaving it there. `Good,' was
all the older bloke had to say, still looking troubled, perhaps now by
the double worry of his protective instincts for the 19-year-old, and for
the turbulence his love affair kept flying through. But Trent smiled
encouragingly at him and blinked his heavy-lashed eyes slowly and
contentedly, feeling a million miles away from World Cup disaster with
Jordan's body next to his.

`Maybe,' the 24-year-old teased quietly, `we should have MADE SURE
he's okay and invited him to chill with us for a bit, in here...' He
sniggered uncertainly, trying to get a good impression of Hendo's mood,
watching the flickering lines of his frown and the hesitant smirk through
his beard. `What do you say about that, old man...?'

Jordan made a little scoff of laughter. `I don't think Bellingham would
want in on this hug, do you...?'

`You never know,' was Alexander-Arnold's quietly speculative answer,
and he meant it: he really didn't know. Who could guess what any man was
into, or up for, or open to...? Life had thrown many surprises his way
since his first nervous dabble with Joe Gomez at their 2020 party, out on
the fire escape with him and young Harvey Elliott.

Hendo scoffed again, but the nervousness of his laugher betrayed some
seed of interest or mulling it over, and it made Trent smirk. He rubbed
at his older man's broad chest and then kissed softly above one nipple.
`But again, joking,' he chuckled. `Reckon Jude's been through enough
coming-of-age experience this tournament without seeing a beast like you
in private, he he - that sorta shit can wait until he signs for
Liverpool...?' He held back his giggles and watched Jordan's briefly
earnest thoughtful face, then both of the men were laughing, and kissing,
and stroking keenly at one another's muscles, legs locking under the
covers, and short-clad crotches beginning to rub.


Harry Kane was thinking about Jude too. Specifically, he was staring at
his grinning profile photo on the messenger app, waving at a camera in
the black-and-yellow of his Dortmund kit. The chat thread between them
was, of course, empty - Kane was wise enough to delete the exchange
they'd shared the other night, and one-sidedly since, but now he was
staring at the blank app screen and letting his thumb hover back and
forwards over the touch-keys, not able to form the words of the message
but also not able to switch the device off and shove it into the pile of
his things on the floor by his bed.

He was alone in the room now, and it was a good twenty-five minutes since
Eric Dier had seemingly stormed out. He'd tried putting on the telly and
flicking through the international channels, but it had irritated him
when he came across sporting reports in several languages about both
England and Portugal crashing out of the Cup. He'd almost thrown the
remote at the big screen when footage was replayed of smug young Kylian
Mbappe laughing outrageously as his second penalty missed the mark, the
froggy cunt.

So instead he was just lying on top of his covers and holding his phone
in both hands, and failing to send the quietly curious message to the
19-year-old breakout star of the Three Lions campaign. It wouldn't even
be hard, would it? He was captain, and it made sense for him to reach out
to the side's most junior member after tonight's difficulty and dismay,
it would be perfectly natural and obvious. He didn't have to be too
weird or cunning about it, he could just send off any old `hey u ok'
message to the teenager and see what he got back... and there had been
plenty of signs that Bellingham was keen enough on a repeat performance
of the night by the swimming pool, so he didn't find it hard to imagine
that simple enquiries might quickly lead to very specific suggestions.
Kane was craving comfort, sure, but he also knew his capacity to offer
it.

So, what was stopping him?

Well, the same thing that had stopped him every day since, when he MIGHT
have picked up on his new little bond with the midfield youth. He'd like
to pretend he was focusing on honour and dignity, and not wanting to lead
an open-minded young starlet astray, though there really was something
incredibly senior and mature about the 19-year-old Bundesliga pro. More
cynically, more honestly, it was self-preservation. He didn't need young
Jude to become the next Emile Smith-Rowe, after all; one minute he was
indulging a slight bit of fellatio for the cocky Arsenal lad, ironically
in the same hotel where he'd once watched Jude noshed off by their
goalkeeper, and the next he'd been locked in a kind of fatal attraction
fever pitch with the Croydon-born upstart. For a large part of the last
year, Kane had been meeting ESR in secret and swallowing his loads,
pretty much addicted to servicing the cocky youngster, and increasingly
turned on by the boasting, aggro and North London trash talk: `Lick up
my jizz, you trophy-less cunt', Emile might purr at him in the backseat
of his BMW, down some Barnet side-road, after spunking on his tongue, or:
`Been telling everyone at my squad about the Tottenham bitch who
services my tool, y'know, should I start telling them it's you, you big
dirty bastard?'

Kane felt that Smith-Rowe was harmless enough, for all his bravado, but
he was trying to shake off the slutty dynamic that he'd found with his
young rival, and the experience had made him shy of young Jude - though
not shy enough to resist him that night, when the Dortmund star had
cornered him in the pool room, and called him out on their St George's
run-in of a couple of months ago. Again, Kane should be more cautious and
disciplined, having been clearly overheard by Bellingham getting up to no
good then too!

But, the football captain thought, the lad was beautiful and
intoxicating, and his cock had tasted so good...

Lost in a reverie of North London sleaze, Kane had allowed his phone to
slip into dark screensaver, and lost interest in the blank message
screen; but it buzzed into life now in his hand, and snapped him out of a
blurred image of kneeling down for Emile in an alleyway near the Arsenal
training ground, merged with the memories of peeling down Jude's wet
undies in the changing booth. On the brightened screen in front of him
was the message from Jude, and he stared dully at it for a moment before
reminding himself that he'd wiped their interaction and the screen
should be blank. He frowned in excited surprise and squinted at the new
message that had buzzed into the thread even as he held back from sending
his own tenuous hint:

`U up? Pool room in 10 - c u there, captain'

Kane shivered with fresh excitement, gloriously distracted from the
France game.


John Stones shifted the covers aside, and looked down at the slight
swelling that remained about his ankle and lower leg; the medical staff
had not seemed overly concerned, and expected him to be right as rain
before the Premier League ground back into action at Christmas-time, but
for tonight the England centre-back was still in a bit of pain and
needing to keep the foot elevated on a couple of pillows at the foot of
the bed, his long muscular frame stretched out and his briefs bulging
monstrously between his tattooed thighs. Fortunately, his bed-rest was
made easier by the equally bulging figure in trunks who was strutting
about the room fetching him his nightcap of whiskey and ice, crotch and
arse cheeks gloriously displayed by the tight fit of his Armani
underpants.

`Here,' growled Kyle Walker, the older defender passing the small
tumbler of Scotch into his receiving hand; in his underpants and bare
bulky body, the Yorkshire stud made a pretty acceptable
butler-in-the-buff for the mildly injured John, although his service
skills needed work - the broad bugger was glued to his phone as he handed
over the drink and retreated down the side of the bed, turning around so
that Stonesy could swap a view of his massive bulge for the
hammock-of-melons that was his rump.

`Hmm, 6/10,' the 28-year-old City player reviewed quietly, taking a
good sip from the fiery liquid, and shifting his position slightly among
the nest of pillows behind his bare shoulders. He grinned and watched
Walker fail to immediately react to that score, stood side on with his
face concentrated on his phone screen, a big bare hunk in the dim
lamplight of their hotel suite. `Great drink, but lack of eye contact or
banter from the waiter,' John called a bit more loudly, taking a second
sip and then placing the cool iced glass against his cheek.

Kyle looked up from what he was doing on his phone screen, seeming to
register the comment at some delay, and then he he scratched idly at the
sagging front of his dark grey undies with one free hand. `Cheeky
bastard,' the Sheffield man returned quietly, and he pulled a bit at the
outline of his limp nob. `Do you wanna adopt this fucking cat or not,
mate? I'm still doing the paperwork they sent us.'

Stones took another slow pull of the drink and he smiled, mollified a
little by this explanation. He watched with quiet admiration - not, for
once, of the tattooed bulk of the right-back's body, not for his
bristling macho energy, or the treasures in those Armani trunks, but for
the effort Walker was now going into to make their joking fantasy
reality, and to have Dave the Cat escorted safely to UK life via
international quarantine protocols. There was nothing sexier about the
32-year-old right now than the look of stupid concentration on his face,
or the speed with which his thumbs punched the phone screen, seeing him
go through the bureaucracy of rescuing a random stray feline from the
streets of Doha, and arranging for the veterinary necessaries that might
get him allowed his pet passport. It was funny, the 28-year-old Barnsley
lad reflected, what could make your cock go hard.

When Kyle was apparently done, or fed up of the form, he tossed his phone
towards the other bed and moved over this way, scratching his bulge and
his chest, and mumbling a `Sorry, mate' as he began to climb into bed
on the side of his unharmed leg.

`No need,' John sighed quietly, twisting his body and staring lovingly
at the shorter thick-set hunk who was clambering in next to him, warm
muscles rubbing together - Kyle was sexy too in the care he took knock to
knock or disturb John's relaxing legs, especially the raised one, the
same special kinda sexy that lay with his cat adoption efforts. Catching
his eye, the older man gave him an odd and suspicious look, as if he
didn't understand what he was smirking at, and felt somehow mocked or
derided.

`Hmm?'

`I said there's no need,' Stonesy repeated, shifting his upper body a
little to make more space, but feeling one of Walker's hands stop him at
the waist, the other muscled defender twisting over to fit around his
side and leave him with the majority of the bed. Those same inked hands
then began pulling up the covers over him protectively and then coming
down over his six-pack in a tender stroke. John stared devotedly at him
and saw another little frown of uncertainty from the burly bloke.
`You're fuckin' amazing,' he told him softly.

Kyle looked briefly unsure how to take this compliment, before the usual
brash bravado kicked in: `Course I am, you daft prick, I just bossed
Mbappe for 90 minutes, it was you lot who let the goals in, hey?' He
grinned and winked, and leaned in for a kiss - but John stopped him,
holding their faces slightly apart.

`I mean it,' he whispered. `You're fucking amazin'. I love you,
man.'

Despite their long-time closeness, Walker still looked slightly taken
aback by this earnestness, and he lowered his voice to a deep chuckle as
he asked, `What painkillers did they give you, soft lad...?' He pulled
in for that kiss and John met his lips gladly, then stared longingly at
him as they both sank back against the pillows. They went quiet, John
just staring thoughtfully up at the ceiling, and imagining how they would
share custody of Dave once their adopted cat was allowed entry to
England.

`You're amazing too,' came Kyle's slightly hesitant voice from beside
him, one of the man's thick strong hands finding his between their
bodies. `I nearly cracked the skull of that French prick who brought you
down tonight,' he added in a more robust and blokey way, and John
laughed warmly at the claim, even as he smiled and thrilled more at the
mumbled first comment, and the fact that whatever the England result,
they so definitely had one another.


Just like he had on one of the team's first nights in Doha, Harry Kane
hurried through the reception areas of the hotel and through several
double-doors into the cool blue lighting of the seemingly deserted
pool-house. Except that night he had been somewhat panicked and naive,
thinking Jude Bellingham was in real crisis, and hurrying down through
their hotel with a strong sense of his captainly duty for his younger
teammate - tonight, he charged through those doors with a much more open
acknowledgement of his base desires.

In his boxers and shorts, his cock throbbed expectantly, and his whole
tall muscular fame was restless and energetic, even though it had been
sore and exhausted not long ago. His trainers squeaked slightly at his
feet as he crossed the room towards the pool, his eyes darting from side
to side as he tried to catch sight of the new teen midfielder whose
message had summoned him down here, surely to repeat their last midnight
encounter.

At first, though, there was no sight of the Brummie youth.

Kane marched bluntly into the centre of the room and then stood there
with his arms hanging at his sides and his heart thundering in his strong
chest. A few paranoid thoughts crept into his tired mind there: had he
misread the message? Had it been more of a joke or a dare than a serious
invitation to fun? Had he invented the whole communication in the fever
of his dismay and defeat?!

But then he was caught by slight footsteps down at the far end of the
pool, and he caught sight of the 19-year-old, lit with ripples of
electric blue by the gently heated water between them. Jude looked
suitably shifty and discreet, and it made Harry smile a bit to himself,
recognising the awkward mix of self-confidence and trepidation that had
marked the 6ft1 stud when he lured him down here last time, ready to
claim his `prize'.

He was a confident young fucker, Kane thought, but he was very different
to Emile Smith-Rowe: there was something more genuinely authoritative and
settled in Bellingham, even now, and his place here in the England squad
had been very different to the Arsenal lad's over-excited call-ups in
past years. He looked at him in his tight-fitting vest and swimming
trunks, and the intense expression on his long thin face. In a few
strides, captain Harry moved down the side of the pool, then rounded the
corner, and approached his young national teammate.

`I got your message,' the striker said simply, and Jude nodded. Harry
nodded behind them back down the pool towards the wall of changing
alcoves, one of which had held their bodies before as he worshipped the
youth's prime cock. But Jude simply shook his head and nodded the other
way.

Briefly, Harry followed his gaze. At first, he was just a little irked -
the changing booth had worked perfectly well last time and he was keen to
exactly recreate the ultra excitement of kneeling down there on a spare
towel and sucking off this masterful young guy. But now his eye caught
the faint glow of light that crept through another doorway in the
direction that Jude had nodded, and he frowned with a kind of nervous
interest. He looked back at Jude's wide-eyed expression, and then the
younger lad's hand was shakily taking his.

`Come on,' the Brummie lad said a bit nervously, the slightest
suggestion of a stammer to his fiercely spat words. He pulled back,
moving towards that corner, and Kane couldn't help but follow, taking a
tighter grip of Jude's mit in his own. He moved with tense uncertainty,
holding himself close to the tall young lad, following him about the
corner and facing up against the door of smoked glass that now faced
them, and the orangey glow beyond it - aha, this sexy bugger had somehow
got the sauna going for them, and wanted to mess about in that extra
sweaty discretion, niiiice...

Kane lurched forward after him, more than happy to take a mouthful of
cock in this safer spot, rather than out in the blue-lit edges of the
pool - thinking about it, it had been insanely risky to go down on
Bellingham out there, with all those huge windows facing the courtyard...!
This was much, much better. He gripped tightly at Jude's hand and
followed him as the sauna door was yanked open and the teenager slid
ahead, already wriggling out of his vest on his way into the sudden heat
of the wood-panelled room within - and as Harry dashed in with him,
through that smoke glass door, he could only blink in surprise at the
fact he couldn't see so much as expected of the dark wooden panels, but
far more bare manly flesh instead, the tight little sauna lined with the
bodies of several teammates.


Another Harry was emerging from steamy heat, rather than striding into
it; the hot vapours of his late shower parted from his bare body as he
passed through the bathroom and back into the suite, then pausing
awkwardly as he saw that his Luke was still inspecting the broken
headboard in a serious-faced fashion, similarly towel-clad to himself.
Maguire frowned worriedly and pawed at the knotted wrap of his white
towel, watching as Shaw surveyed the unreported damage to their bed; when
they failed to mention it to the hotel staff this morning, it had been
under the confident assumption that this suite would be home for another
week, until they were checking out as World Cup winners. Oops.

Luke, shimmering wet in his towel, straightened up and turned his
unusually dimmed grin this way. `It looks fine,' sighed the other Man
Utd defender, a little steam rising from his bare muscles too, and then a
nervous half-laugh leaving the 27-year-old. Harry moved slowly over
towards them and took up position right behind him, leaning a heavy chin
on one of his shoulders and wrapping his might arms about his waist. `It
looks fucked,' he contradicted quietly, staring at the damage he'd done
when breaking out of the handcuffs of their bondage fun, and bringing
last night's fuckery to a climax.

In the throes of passion, and in the sweat-dripping intimacy of
afterwards, the broken bed had seemed funny, and something easily covered
by a lie. It's just that in all the busy prep and action of today and
tonight, neither man had come up with that lie, or said anything to their
hosts; it was unclear whether any cleaning staff had been in the room at
all, Harry thought, but he was pretty sure they would have noticed the
broken cuffs, blindfold and riding crop that were scattered in the space
between the two beds. Hmm.

`Come on,' Luke sighed to him, pushing back against his warm damp
chest. `Let's just use the other bed, shall we?'

Maguire grunted his agreement but stared still at the broken wood, until
he was steered more forcefully across the room and pulled down into the
fresher bedding, his towel unknotted for him so that the pair of the,
tall muscular defensive players, were folding down naked on the clean
white sheets, fresh and hot from the shared shower where slow handjobs
had dulled the night's misery and brought gentle comfort to both
disappointed men. Harry had taken much longer than usual to cum, grunting
and huffing for ages against the sides of the shower whilst Luke's fist
pumped at his crotch, kissing his neck and whispering sweet nothings in
his ear; eventually, Luke's love had won out against the tension and
unease of tonight's defeat, and jizz had been trickling down the
plughole between their big wet feet, washed away like their World Cup
dream.

Now, big Slabhead Harry pulled up against Shaw, and he hugged onto the
gently damp physique of the other man, finding himself in a natural big
spoon position against the big-bottomed curve of Luke's posture, but
much of his body a little less cuddly now that he was so intensely ripped
and defined. Not that Harry would even hint at complaining, this man in
his arms was perfection. He nuzzled quietly in against him and kissed
softly at the back of his neck, making his lover sigh pleasantly. `I'm
gutted this is over,' the 29-year-old whispered in his ear. `I mean...
I'm gutted for us as a team, of course, but... y'know.' He squeezed him
properly, pulling their muscular forms even more tightly together. `I
don't wanna leave this room, and the fucks we've had here.' Luke
didn't answer, just moaned softly and pushed back into hi, his agreement
physically obvious - and the pair of them took comfort in the big
physical presence of the other, safe and interlocked and going back to
Manchester, together.


The sauna was full of them, the wooden pews down either side almost
entirely occupied by bodies; only one slim space on the right was free,
and after dropping his swimming trunks in one deft move, Jude Bellingham
proceeded to fill it, sitting himself down at the right of the narrow hot
space, wide eyes still fixed invitingly on Kane himself, who could only
stand there, hunched forward slightly, staring between them, and taking
in the sight of it.

On the left, it was Jordan Pickford nearest to him, seated comfortably
back with a dirty grin on his face; the England goalie gave him a wink as
soon as he caught his eye, a light sheen of sweat gleaming on his cheeks
and brow. The Mackem Everton player was puffing his smooth chest out to
accentuate his arm and shoulder muscles as he sat there, thighs parted
and hands draped between them, just about obscuring view of his bare
crotch - and just beyond him, his own thickly muscled arms folded about
his chest, was Kieran Trippier, another burly rock at the back of the
England squad, all tattoo and tight-lipped smirk. Harry gawped at the
pair of them, suddenly very conscious of how supportive they'd been in
crowding him on the pitch whilst he recovered, apparently fending off
intrusive cameramen who wanted to capture his loser's tears - and now
the pair of them were sat brazenly naked in front of him with beads of
sweat running past their temples and over their exposed muscles, eyes
fixed on him.

Past these two was, to his surprise and delight, Trippier's teammate:
Callum Wilson looked a lot less comfortable than the first two butt-naked
blokes, the tall striker pushing his broad shoulders back against the
wooden wall, and a certain defiant coolness about his broad handsome
features. His tattooed bulk pressed against his neighbouring Newcastle
player, but loomed over him, notably taller than the defender. And just
beyond where Callum stiffly sat, the far left corner was occupied by a
more immediately familiar naked sight, sat at an angle with one leg up on
the pew, so that his strong body and bared crotch were more immediately
obvious, frankly displayed. Eric Dier had one hand resting on his raised
knee and the other on his low inner thighs, guiding attention to rather
than obscuring the way his long thick schlong hung from his neatly
trimmed bush. On his face, the Tottenham defender wore an eager grin, one
that communicated a full understanding to an otherwise bewildered Harry
Kane: no, not something intimate and private, not some false relapse back
to what they'd had in the past... but THIS, this was different, and
okay...

And then there was the right hand side, where Bellingham had slotted in
beside the sauna's three other occupants: beyond where the Brummie lad
had dropped his tall naked frame against the wooden slats, Kane was
surprised to see another past exploit grinning knowingly at him from the
far right corner, seated comfortably opposite Dier himself, with one long
leg raised and reached across to rest his toes on the wooden pew next to
Eric's thigh. It was Conor Coady, folded comfortably back into the
wooden corner, his slim toned body as shiny with prickling sweat as the
more tanned muscle of Eric's, and the new Everton player was giving him
an encouraging salute of welcome before draping one arm about Jude's
bare brown shoulders. Jude himself, Harry thought, looked uncomfortable
but excited, perhaps as excited to just be here and one of the blokes, as
for any specifics of what they had planned; and god how handsome the
19-year-old looked as he turned his head this way and fixed Kane with one
of his steely mature glares.

And then closer than those two, completing this row on the right: Jack
Grealish first, trying to ostentatiously spread his mighty thighs,
jutting the glistening hair of those fine legs out into the narrow cabin
to advertise his ripped body to the room, and head lolling gently back
against the wooden slats of the wall. He looked tipsy and confident, his
hair falling in sleek curtains at either side of his grinning face,
angled this way whilst he stretched his arms out on either side, falling
over Conor's arm and grappling about Jude's broad shoulders, making the
younger lad shift a bit uncomfortably, but also reaching for the sauna's
last occupant, the nearest guy on his right - someone who turned this way
with a dimpled smile that looked way too chilled and pleasant for the
sweaty scene, but seemed to be all that final handsome face could offer.
There was something very hunched and uncomfortable about the broad
Yorkshire lad who rounded off these eight waiting studs in the sauna, as
if his City teammate had totally twisted his arm to get him here at this
late hour when they were meant to be lights out in their separate
bedrooms: but Kalvin Phillips still shot a broad anxious grin at him and
nodded his head once, trying to settle comfortably back against
Grealish's outstretched arm that enclosed his thick shoulders.

`Hey there, captain,' trilled Jack first, his Brummie accent singsong.

`Shut the door,' Eric spoke over him in a deeper voice, then, `and get
your kit off, mate, we're all pals here.' Harry stared past the
exciting ensemble and back at his ex-boyfriend, who had seemed to spurn
him in private but now this... oh yes, he thought, there it is, there's
the comfort I'm after. He pushed forward and peeled his t-shirt up and
away from his body, then began to buckle forward, letting his knees go
down against the linoleum floor, stooping down into the thick giddy heat
of the sauna cabin, the men huddled at either side of him, parting their
strong footballers' legs as much as they could, and beginning to
advertise their sweaty wares.

`Here,' gurgled Grealish again, boisterous and over-stimulated. `Start
with a taste of Birmingham's finest.' But the charismatic City winger
wasn't gesturing at himself, just tightening the arm about Jude's
shoulders, and giving him a poke in the chest with a finger, pimping the
rival Birmingham graduate proudly. And Jude stared intensely down at him,
his whole face already shiny with sweat, and his astonishingly powerful
legs tensing and parting some more to open up a path to his soft brown
cock - Harry heard the ripple of macho laughter from the other men, and
he lurched that way, taking up Jack's proxy invitation, ready to suck
his first cock of the night.


Declan didn't often spend quite so long sucking dick, but tonight he was
happy to take forever with it, lying down here as he was with Mason's
meaty legs about his shoulders, his face buried between them and his lips
curled about the beautiful shaft of his boyfriend's tool, bobbing back
and forward with as much rhythm as he could muster. Stretched up the bed
with his arms folded behind his head and his own mouth wide open, the
Chelsea star groaned and purred and called his name, excited breathy
`Deccers' into the sterile air-conditioning of the room.

As soon as he'd got him up to the room, Rice had just wanted to spoil
and indulge the other 23-year-old. The sight of him on the pitch earlier
tonight had almost broken the West Ham captain's heart, staring across
at the abject misery of the substituted midfielder once the game ended
2-1 to France. Hugging him on the pitch, Declan had been barely able to
hide the tenderness and intimacy of the embrace, wrapping strong arms
about the smaller lad and holding him to his chest as tightly as he
could, hugging out their joint disappointment and frustration at such an
unlucky end to their run of success.

But more than that... in the stadium changing rooms and on the coach back
to the hotel, Declan had never seen his Mase so flat and devoid of
energy, so vulnerable and heartbroken-looking. He'd took him by the arm
and steered him away from the general gathering of other dejected players
as soon as he politely could, telling him that they both needed their
kip, but then squeezing his bottom on the stairs and giving him a
discreet kiss on the neck as they vanished up to their floor. Once in the
room, he'd held and snogged him for as long as he could, then gone down
on him there and then in the middle of the room, peeling down his
tracksuit bottoms and briefs and taking his dick in his mouth. He'd
sucked him there, he'd sucked him on the armchair by the window, he'd
even sucked him sprawled across the floor among the mess of their
scattered luggage, and now he sucked him in the shared double bed, not
caring that it might take forever to muster an orgasm from the weary and
depressed heart-throb.

Rice paused his oral task only to plant kisses up and down each of
Mount's thighs, or across his waist and against his six-pack, or on his
inner arms or against the palms and backs of his hands, stroking and
patting and massaging as he did. Mount's moans were distant and soft,
but constant, and the 23-year-old defensive midfielder just carried on
mouthing at his boy's cock, focusing on this one guaranteed therapy that
he could bring to the defeated weakness of the other young Englander.

Eventually, the Chelsea starlet even tried to tell him to stop: `I
don't think I can cum, babe, I don't feel up to it...' and `Look, let
me suck you for a bit...?' But Rice ignored this and pinned him back
against the bed, taking another pause to kiss up his midriff and reach
stroking hands up his chest. Then he wrapped his hand about the
spit-lubed prick and wanked it while holding his face closer to Mason's,
and told him firmly: `Just relax and let me. Just let me finish you,
just cum for me. Everything's gonna be okay, baby.' And back down to
suck him off, desperate to lighten his load and relax him - all he could
think about was the shine of suppressed tears in Mason's eyes as he
approached him for that hug in the stadium, and how much he'd wanted to
publicly kiss him under the world's cameras.

When Mount eventually came, Rice took in every drop, swallowing it in and
listening to the music of his boyfriend's sighs, before slowing climbing
up his body and settling down side by side, rolling against him and
spooning into his shivering naked form in a tight comforting hold, the
taste of spunk still on his palate. He shushed and soothed at the gentle
private tears of the World Cup knockout, and told him that in four
years' time, the Cup would be THEIRS; he more or less believed what he
was saying, but he wasn't thinking as an ambitious young footballer
right now, so much as a loyal and devoted boyfriend. All he cared about
was cuddling into his precious Mase and making him feel better - what did
a stupid trophy matter next to that...?


It's not that Harry Kane would make the same comparison - it was simply
that there was no room for thinking about stadiums and golden prizes and
penalties scored or missed, not when he was lurching from man to man,
cock to cock, and getting his mouth stuffed with manly meat over and
again, all of it one sweaty head-rush in the sweltering conditions of the
sauna. After he'd taken a sufficient mouthful of Jude's instant teen
hard-on, he was on his second Brummie mouthful, taking a delicious suck
on a cock he'd craved for years, and rubbing at the thick hairy muscles
of Jack's mighty legs - but then over to the other side, and trying a
mouthful of Kieran Trippier's Manc sausage. In a way, the cocks started
to all become one mighty inseparable dick, though their sizes and shapes
and colours were so varied in the hot haze. One minute he was ambitiously
choking on the long thick monster that rose from Callum's striker
thighs, and the next he was slurping on the shorter stubbier prick and
low chubby bollocks of his loyal goalkeeper pal - but it was all one
intense experience, his hands constantly grasping for more muscle and
meat, whilst the hands of others rubbed and patted across his back,
shoulders, or stroked at the wispy dark blonde of his dampened hair.

What he did pay particular attention to was finally grasping hold of
Eric's cock and bowing down at the crotch of the man who'd woken up
these desires in him in a hot Russian summer, appearing at his bedroom
door with mischief in his eyes, and first leading him down this path of
secret pleasure. He made intense eye contact with Dier, knowing that the
beautiful stud had somehow arranged all of this for him, and wanting to
thank him for it with every delicate suck of his majestic tool - he could
almost picture it, a stressed-out Eric descending through the hotel and
finding these odds and ends of the squad lingering in the bar, or
whatever, and rousing them into action to comfort their fallen captain.
There was no end to how much Kane could romanticise the idea of it, where
Dier was concerned, his hero once and always, even if he'd never
appreciated what he had.

The action got rougher, with the men taking hold of his head and really
thrusting their big dicks into his wide open mouth, and he loved it -
loved the loss of control, the surrender of his masculine power to these
other alpha males, and the incredible distance it brought him from Qatar
`22 and the way it had ended with his penalty. He just licked at every
cock like a lion licking its wounds, finding absolute solace in the mad
heat and madder passion of this cramped little space, face-fucked by a
rasping Conor Coady and then having Jack Grealish's huge whopper slapped
against one of his cheeks. Soon he was sucking on a nervously gasping
Kalvin, whilst his hands worked like a skier's, jacking off Pickford to
one side and Bellingham to the other, or so he though from the size and
feel of their dicks, but the dicks shifted places so often that it was
hard to tell.

He groaned and slurred and gurgled for it, less articulate than ever,
just groping with hands and mouth for every bit of dick or bollock or
muscular leg and tummy he could, passed between the eight studs at the
centre of their sweaty wank circle. He could feel the sweat coursing down
every inch of his body, his shorts now off so that someone, he wasn't
sure who (Eric's? Pickford's?), could reach down to spank at his bare
bottom and poke a single finger into his hole, teasing him there whilst
another pair of hands dragged his face down into the sweatiest crotch and
held it there whilst a huge black dick (Jude's? Callum's?) bumped the
back of his throat.

And he wanked himself in a furious speed, jerking his own meat between
his squatting thighs, and letting his body spin and wobble as he took
each mouthful of prick in turn. He knew what he wanted, and eventually he
got his first taste of it - it was Jack, he realised, groaning so loudly
and really aggressively pushing his cock in the way to press between his
trembling lips, having only just paused in noshing off Coady's Scouse
rod. But now he was getting a sticky faceful of Jack's Brummie spunk,
lashings of it on his tongue and his lips and up his cheeks, the first of
eight bukkake deliveries that proceeded to spew over his sweaty physique
in the centre of the sauna.

Jack first, but Trippier soon after, standing squat over him and laughing
wildly as he pumped his cock in one tight fist; the Newcastle player was
hugging sideways at Wilson too, and encouraging the bigger tatted striker
to cum at the same time, and Kane just stared up adoringly at the pair of
the muscle-bound blokes, sticking out his tongue and awaiting more salty
mess on his face. It came almost in unison, or close enough to fool him
in his giddy headspace, Trips' and then Wilson's jizz painting his
mouth and his face, some of it lashing across his blinking eyes and
messing against his brows and fringe.

Pickford's cum hit him from the side, oozing down his cheek and neck and
over one shoulder, and he took Coady's against the back of his throat,
loving the taste of it and finding it very bizarre that the former Wolves
skipper was here in this melee - finding it hard to believe that he and
Dier were such pals these days, after what had gone on in the past! And a
few high-pitched cries of ecstasy behind him signalled another orgasm,
and he could feel the cum, Phillips', ooze over his back and down his
spine, so much cum and sweat coating his upper body as he pulled on
himself and worked towards his own climax.

Jude next, spilling drop after drop of his precious young seed onto
Harry's outstretched tongue, and Eric last but not least, pushed deep in
his mouth and emptying on his tongue, then slapped against each of his
cheeks and wanked over his face so that every dirty drop was milked onto
his dripping wet features, that Viking-like face gritted and fierce as it
stared purposefully down at him. Kane came against the lino floor in this
posture, everybody's spunk on him and him, and eyes locked up on every
detail of Dier's mighty torso and handsome face, lapping his tongue
against the bulbous head to make sure he'd eaten everything he could.

The new paranoia swept over him in the moments that followed, the heat of
the sauna getting too much and the post-nut clarity bringing a terrifying
new vision of life after Qatar: here he was on the floor, the squatting
bitch of all these other powerful men, most of them younger and with more
England duty ahead of them than his own stature. How could they respect
him now, when they'd stood over him and painted him with their cum?!
Were they really here to offer him sexual relief, or were they hear to
dominate and punish him, their useless skipper who'd failed when they
needed him the most? In a rush of overheating, Harry felt like he might
pass out and collapse in the crowded space, and all he could see was him
being forced to stand down as captain and then retire, snubbed and shamed
by all of the other England players!

But then strong arms were reaching down and hoisting him up, and somebody
was forcing the glass door back open so that cooler air sucked in against
the skin; and sweaty naked bodies were against his, supporting his dizzy
posture, and guiding him out into the fresher air of the passage to the
pool-room. He blinked furiously through sweaty eyes, and realised that
his arms were draped over the shoulders of Coady and Bellingham, and that
Trips was patting him on the chest and propping him up at the front.
`All good skip,' the Newcastle defender was cooing. `Just got a bit
hot in there, huh?'

Swiftly, he was being guided and supported to the cold showers down the
nearest wall, and icy tingles of moisture sprayed against his bare skin.
He was still briefly crowded by the bodies of the others, but they were
spreading out, a parade of masculine beauty, whilst he leant in against
the wall, soothed by the shower of coolness over him. `That's it, all
good,' he heard Grealish huff, giving him a pat on the back and pushing
the lever to restart the cold spray as it weakened. `Cool off, chief,
you'll be grand.'

Once he felt a bit more alert and alive, Kane turned his back against the
cool tiles of the wall and he let the spray of water die off over his
head and shoulders. Dier was stood close by with a towel spread wide open
in both hands, ready for him, and he stepped forward so that his roomie
could throw it about his body for him with a friendly laugh. As his head
cleared, Kane stepped away from him and felt his free hand grabbed one at
a time by Grealish and Phillips and then Pickford.

`Feeling better now, cap'n?'

`Hope you enjoyed that one, haha.'

`Fuckin' hell, you took a lot of loads there, you dirty bastard,'
Pickford was sniggering, and the laughter was infectious - it had the
nervous tinge of shame and transgression to it, but there was a
collective air of relief and enjoyment among the men who were slowly
dispersing. Towel about his waste, Kane leant on the wall again to catch
his breath and let his heart rate slow down, recovering from the mad heat
of the sauna.

`Night captain,' Jude said to him on the way past, grabbing and shaking
his hand. One by one, the guys were parting and going their own ways back
into the hotel, and Kane's explosion of earlier paranoia was falling
apart: from Jude to Jordan to Kalvin, he could see the respect and
approval that lay behind the nervous giggles and little dirty remarks.
For all the degradation on the sauna floor, he was still somehow being
looked up to as captain after all.

Trips and Wilson had gone now, and the City pair, and Bellingham and
Coady, and it was just Dier and Pickford left. The sniggering goalkeeper,
a pair of swimming trunks and an unzipped hoody pulled over his shiny
sweaty body, grabbed him and gave him a tight hug. `We'll always pull
through for our captain,' the Everton keeper chuckled in his ear, before
punning, `or pull off, whatever he wants.' And then he slapped a single
hand to Kane's arse through his towel and skipped off, and then it was
just the Tottenham two, and he glanced enquiringly at Dier's quiet smirk
and still bare upper body, sweat pouring down his pecs until it met the
tightly-knotted waist of his own towel.

`We should get back to the room,' the other Hotspur told him in a low
growl. `I only gave a small bribe to the cleaners to keep out of this
wing, so I don't think it'll be so deserted for long...' He laughed to
himself and rubbed both hands over his clammy shiny face and beard, and
then threw one muscle-bound arm about Harry's shaky shoulders. `You
feeling better for that, mate...?'


That night, the England captain slept like a log, not a single nightmare
about facing his own club goalkeeper and sending the penalty ball
shooting off into the stars; he still felt gutted when the reality of it
all hit him in the morning, remembering that he didn't need to be up and
ready for training today, but up and ready for a flight home instead. But
he also glanced across the room at the snoring outline of Eric Dier in
the next bed, and he thought about the dirty but manly communion of the
night before, and the strange respect he'd been shown by all of those
lads after they'd emptied their loads on him. The only shame, he thought
cheekily, was that all the loads had been on his face.

Throughout the morning's slow and sad processes, there were other
moments - grabbed in a joint hug by Walker and Stones at the queue for
breakfast; greeted by the scampering youthful energy of Rice and Mount in
the garden and shown some positive social media snippets with key pundits
defending his effort - that buoyed his mood and allowed him to hold his
head high on the way to the airport and ushering the whole squad and
personnel onto the chartered flight back to snowy Birmingham.

Alone in his seat on the flight, a bit dazed and half-asleep as it winged
across the Mediterranean and European mainland, he entertained futile
fantasies of reunion with Eric, knowing they were impossible, and also of
all the sexy teammates who'd come to his sexual rescue in the sauna -
and he thought optimistically that he could keep the captain's armband
for another two or four years, and still lead the Three Lions into their
next few battles, and suck as many cocks as opportunity allowed.




'Writer guy' - Premiership Lads on
Nifty https://www.nifty.org/nifty/gay/celebrity/premiership-lads/

Amazon Wishlist here if you wanna say thanks LOL
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