Date: Wed, 11 Jan 2023 22:41:52 +0000
From: writer guy <premiershiplads@outlook.com>
Subject: Premiership Lads, Part 339

Part 339: Getting a Semi


It was strange to be here, he thought - or more accurately, to be here
purely for pleasure, with a drink in hand and so many of his friends
about him. A mix of former work friends in the football world who he had
remained close to, and some mates who went even further back in the
Gosforth hero's life, before he was Tyneside's beloved striker. It
wasn't a large crew, but the dozen or so middle-aged men were certainly
drinking dry the hospitality box he'd been gifted here at St James'
Park, and another expensive bottle of red was being opened by one of the
fellas nearby, and another bloke was receiving a tray of open beer
bottles from a tight-smiled young lady at the door, not without a bit of
flirty banter that hung somewhere between creepy and comical from a man
nearing 60.

Alan Shearer took the top-up to his wine glass gladly and clinked it with
the guy who was doing the pouring, a long-time close friend whose
football career had never taken off as fully as his own; and then he, and
most of the others, returned his attention out across the terraces and
onto the pitch, the jagged rectangle of vivid green that was so sacred to
the 52-year-old man. They were well into the second half now, and a long
period of goalless dominance for the Magpies had finally erupted into two
well-placed goals from Burn and Joelinton - there was less than fifteen
minutes left of the League Cup Quarter Final, and Alan felt the win was
now inevitable. It was a perfect antidote to the Toon's embarrassing FA
Cup defeat at the weekend, a thought that flashed across Shearer's mind
as regularly as that of any other fan in the stadium.

And here he was, just for pleasure: not commentating rabidly along with
the action for TV or radio, nor dragged away to some studio for
post-match analysis. He was here simply as a guest of the club, glad to
share the hospitality with a random cluster of his friends. He'd drank a
bit more than he'd expected, starting well before the late kick-off, and
he was more than a little bit tipsy. As so often comes with that, he was
more than a little bit horny, and Newcastle United were not the only ones
in the stadium who could feel a semi coming on. His fat cock twitched and
stirred in the front of his tight checked boxer shorts and chafing at the
front of his blue-wash jeans. Instinctively, the middle-aged former
footballer pulled and adjusted at the front of the denim, but that hand
contact only made it worse, coaxing his wine-drunk semi and making him
more irritated that his wife was away on holiday.

His decision to exit the private box and take advantage of his legendary
status at the club was not entirely unrelated to these stirrings, though
he didn't head down the beloved corridors and stairwells with any
particular plans in mind - after all, he wasn't stupid or reckless, and
even after all these years, he managed to remain mostly faithful to his
darling wife. Mostly.

Shearer was halfway down to the inner sanctum of St James' Park when the
phone in his jeans pocket buzzed sensuously against his upper thigh and
he was jarringly reminded that faithful wasn't the most accurate
description of his role in his marriage. `Are you there???' read the
text across the touchscreen, and then when he slid it open to the
messaging app, was followed by `Fckin gr8 game!!!!' and `Lol have i
pissed u off?'

The messages were, of course, from another notable Geordie, one now based
way south on a regular commute between Essex and Reading. And before them
were a string of recent contacts from the 30-something forward, his once
presumed heir to be the next big champion of Newcastle, now slightly
washed-up workman of the Championship: Andy Carroll. The recent ignored
messages were mainly pretty innocent, random bits of communication from
the younger Geordie man, though not all - a couple, around New Year's
Eve, were either hinting for action (`U about at all this week when I
visit...?') and sometimes pretty blunt: `miss ur cock, big al'. As
usual, he pushed his thumb against that green text strip and wiped it
from the chat, surprised at himself for leaving the crude text message
there on his phone for so long... Sloppy, he told himself, just cos the
wifey is away.

There had been a lot more of the latter kind of message during November
and December, and those had been particularly tough for the older
Newcastle man. After all, he'd been in the rousing heat of Qatar, and
surrounded by football royalty, so he'd been so easily aroused anyway if
he let his laser-focus wander, and the last thing he'd needed was
thirsty WhatsApp messaging from the young stud who'd become his
on-and-off fuck-toy in the last couple of years, much to his own shock.
It was a loose and mutually satisfying arrangement for the two blokey
footballers, but in the past six months, he'd become a bit alarmed by
just how keen and persistent Andy was becoming... he'd begun the slow
process of cooling off and resisting the regular opportunities when his
work led him to London and surrounds, and tried to put a stop to the
once-regular hotel fucks that had allowed him to let off steam and keep
his urges under control. Towards the end of 2022, he'd spent less and
less time with his cock buried in Carroll's powerful glutes, tugging on
a ponytail and making the rough-bearded Gateshead lad gasp his name - and
in 2023, he'd not once even responded to a single message from the
Reading FC striker.

Alan paused on his way into the back of the tunnel, drunk enough to feel
sentimental, and felt he could hardly ignore Andy forever. He thumbed in
a perfunctory response to confirm he was having a great time at the
match, knowing Andy would be watching it on TV in his Essex mansion, and
then accidentally (or subconsciously?) whacking a big X on the end of the
message, which earned an almost immediate smiley from his tall younger
friend, and an `Andy C is typing...' message across the top. Instantly,
he locked the device and shut down the potential conversation. Carroll
was becoming a bit too attached, a bit too needy; this wasn't what
Shearer had wanted when he first pushed his finger into the younger
man's hairy hole and claimed him. Dammit.

Phone in pocket, knuckles brushing the bulge of his semi. He marched down
the broad well-lit corridor that led towards the dugout, passing security
personnel with just a nod and a smile; Shearer had an unwritten free pass
around every corner of this stadium nowadays, even when he wasn't
actually an invited guest, and so it was easy enough for him to
discretely make his way out into the shadows of the home side's presence
at the dugout, pulling a hooded jacket on over his blue zip-neck jumper
to hide his familiarly shiny bald head from the roving cameras.

He wouldn't dream of strolling forward and distracting the Toon boss
Howe at all, nor any nearby player in action, but he folded his arms and
grinned excitedly out into the floodlit space - he was keen to be down
here and be among the first to congratulate the gaffer and players on
progression into a rare tournament semi-final, even if just the League
Cup. But he was quickly noticed by some of the kitted men at the rear of
the huddle, slumped in various poses on seating still spaced out for 2020
social distancing.

Back-up goalkeeper Karl Darlow spotted him and rose to his feet to grab a
handshake, quickly joined by a sweaty benched Callum Wilson; beyond them,
he couldn't help but smirk to see young substitute Elliot Anderson blink
in excitement and nudge the lad next to him, filled with local adulation
to be visited down here by one of his idols. Shearer could laugh at his
own big-headedness there, but it was a safe assumption for a North
Shields talent, and he gladly shook hands and grabbed brief hugs with
each of the men, gesturing at them not to make too much fuss or distract
the coaches - less than ten minutes to go now, and everybody was
anticipating the 2-0 lead growing fuller.

Shearer kept one eye on the action whilst sidling into place alongside
the mix of resting players and unused subs, always taking real pleasure
from being this close to the action, instead of tucked away in commentary
box or television studio, even with the many good mates he had in front
of the camera, from Gary to Micah.

He hadn't really thought the idea through before he said it, but the
nearest couple of substitutes were making quiet excited comments to him
about the club's path to Wembley for some silverware, and growing
awkward when they realised they didn't have much to say to such a big
figure in their city. Smiling broadly, Alan reached over and raised his
voice a little, announcing the party he hadn't realised he was hosting.
`A few of my pals will be back at mine after for drinks,' he called,
the plan becoming a reality as soon as he vocalised - he knew at least
half of the guys up in the box would be raring for a few nightcaps after
the stadium emptied out and the Semi-Final was sure. `Nothing fancy, but
I've got a lot of drink in and it's just up the road really - be great
to have any of you lads over who are up for it, when you're out of here
and free. What d'you say?' He beamed genially at the array of sweaty
hot and pink-cheeked chilly faces of those who had and hadn't got
minutes in the tank.

There was a chorus of nods and yeses and Shearer felt a superficial
thrill at being the generous host, though it was hard to say how many of
the lads next to him would actually make the short journey into Gosforth
to his big place - even if many of them lived a short distance away at
that posh end of the North East city. `Spread the word,' he suggested
lightly, patting Darlow on the shoulder and giving a meaningful friendly
nod to a still-starstruck Anderson. `Invite anyone on the team or staff,
it'd be an honour to have any of you Magpies in my place, aye?'

A missed chance from Isak and Saint-Maximin brought attention back to the
game, and Alan nodded his head slowly to himself - yep, this was a good
idea, it felt like the night for a party, Tuesday or not. He'd have to
head back up and make the suggestion to the blokes in their box, though
he was anticipating quite a cheer of support, given how much they'd all
knocked back - and besides, thought the bulge in his jeans, having a
bunch of match-weary footballers in his place was an oddly exciting
proposition tonight, even if he knew he shouldn't be entertaining that
thought at all. For a moment, he caught the eye of dormant captain Jamaal
Lascelles, languishing at the far end of the subs bench as usual, and
smiled weakly... but the Derby-born defensive giant looked sharply away
and scowled, and Shearer thought vaguely of the string of intimate
encounters he'd once shared with the big beefcake before really
experimenting properly with Andy Carroll. Huh, that had been ill-advised,
and Lascelles had barely spoken a word to him since spilling several
loads on the dashboard of his Jaguar. Never mind.

Don't shit on your doorstep, a cautious voice at the back of his head
told him, thinking of the predicament he'd found himself in with young
Andy; but another voice, one located in the sweaty crotch of his blue
jeans, told him to stare out over the pitch instead, and to wonder which
players would accept the invite.



Fucking hell, he thought, a party at Alan fucking Shearer's house. He'd
already sent a picture of the driveway and glowing windows to several
different group chats with his Whitley Bay and youth academy mates, and
now the 20-year-old midfielder was crunching up the gravel drive in his
baggy tracksuit, wiping sweaty palms down the thighs. The messages from
Big Al, forwarded to him by some of the senior players who were
apparently on closer terms with the icon, made it clear that there was no
dress code for the impromptu party, since the footy lads were coming
basically straight from the stadium - but still, the youngster felt
self-conscious in his NUFC-branded gear as he waited on the doorstep with
two others from his taxi, Joe Willock and Jacob Murphy.

After clacking the heavy knocker on the painted door, they were greeted
not by the legend himself, but by some half-recognised tubby older bloke
who they'd seen at club events, and ushered into the understated sprawl
of the suburban home. Open beers were thrust into their hands and the
grateful young men were led through into the back half of the house,
where a large beige lounge spilled open into a spacious conservatory
extension, and a surprisingly busy crowd was loudly enjoying themselves.
It was an odd patchwork of the smart-casual attire of Shearer's network
of pals who'd been at the game, punctuated by the mix-and-match
tracksuit attire of various players and club staff who had picked up on
the invite and made their way here for however many drinks.

Anderson took a long slug of beer as he digested the idea that he was
here for a party in the home of a guy who'd been worshipped by his dad
and grandad before him, and he shook himself and laughed. Mental. Here I
am, I've made it.



This, he thought, probably wasn't the best idea - he was exhausted from
exhausted from playing a full 90 minutes in defence and keeping a clean
sheet against Leicester City's best efforts, and he knew his wife would
hardly be impressed when he returned home even later than planned. But he
was here, beer in hand, and he ought to make the most of it. It had
seemed like an invite that couldn't be ignored, really, from the big
chief himself; Shearer had been very vocal and generous in his support
for Trippier, the first Newcastle purchase of their embarrassing new
wealth, when others were doubting him and calling it a lazy transfer for
a man on his way to retirement. The 32-year-old defender respected Alan
as much as most English footballers, but he was very grateful to this
Newcastle royalty for having his back, and being the first to praise him
as he made his mark on Tyneside.

Plus, the semi-official new captain mused, this was good for the lads,
and he was pleased to see so many of his teammates here, when they'd all
looked a bit uncertain in the locker-room, and some might only stay for
one; to be fair, a lot of them were those off the bench, who hadn't put
in full shifts like himself, or not even pulled their boots on at all,
and they probably had a lot more energy to drink and socialise. I'll
have just this one, Kieran Trippier advised himself from his corner of
the conservatory extension, a glassy smile on his blocky features, and a
weary glint in his eyes - and then I'll call a taxi to get me across the
suburbs to my own bed, and a likely lecture from the missus. Every muscle
of his stocky form ached from the battle in the stadium, although this
strong beer was helping.

Hmm, he thought, maybe he'd stay for a couple, and just see how things
went...?



It was a good party, he was pretty sure. The older lads seemed to love
having a smattering of current Newcastle faces among them, revitalising
the party atmosphere of their long evening of wine and beer, and though
the majority of the actual players only stayed for one or two, others
were more party-spirited: big Dan Burn, whose surprise goal had really
made the difference for the Magpies tonight, recreated his stupid
changing room dance over and over and got so drunk he had to be carried
by two others into his taxi; energetic Brazilian Bruno Guimaraes was
chatty and effusive and briefly the centre of attention, before an
impatient phone call summoned him home to his partner and newborn; unused
subs Matt Ritchie and gigantic Chris Wood were full of beans and the
first to suggest rounds of shots being downed, causing a sticky mess on
the low central table of the cream-carpeted lounge area. Any less drunk,
and Shearer might have panicked over the mess being made, but he just
laughed along and stared dimly at specks of red wine staining the carpet.

But now things were quieting down, and the party spirit was waning. Fair
enough. It was late, and the gather men were either getting on in age or
just knackered from the pressures of professional sport. And it was a
Tuesday night...!

He'd been stupid, he told himself, to start getting a bit frisky, semi
bulging in his jeans and adrenaline pumping through his ageing body.
Yeah, it was an exciting night of football victory and all that, but he
was so well-behaved these days, and he wasn't even going to open and
look at the string of follow-up messages from Carroll at the other end of
the country. He'd been daft to think he might get a bit of taboo action
tonight out of one of the younger lads, he told himself, as he tidied a
few empties from a coffee table at one window and then grinned warmly as
he helped to see out another fragment of the gathering, following the men
out onto the driveway and seeing them into their waiting taxi.

Alan didn't stay out long at the front of the big house, chilly now with
his jumper shed and his pale blue oxford shirt unbuttoned partway down
his hairy chest, though the cold Newcastle night was a brief relief after
the gradual heat of inside, and the amount of wine and then whiskey he'd
consumed. Inside, he tossed the bottles into the recycling and tried to
figure out who was actually left in his place: not many now, he surmised,
hugging goodbyes to another couple who were passing him by in the kitchen
and central hallway, and then moving through back into the lounge again
to find it actually empty. He blinked and laughed and rubbed a hand
across his warm face, then retreated into the kitchen and wondered if he
was finally alone as it actually seemed - god, he should drink some water
before he crashed into the big lonely bed upstairs, or he was going to
feel like death in the morning. At 52, the hangovers really brought their
friends along for the scrap.

He moved through the big farmhouse kitchen that had been refurbished a
dozen times since he bought the place, but he always thought looked the
same, and he plucked a clean pint glass from a cupboard to fill at the
sink - he was just sloshing fresh water into the glass when he glanced to
the right and found that he wasn't actually alone in the kitchen after
all, but a tracksuit figure was slumped at the wall on one side of the
big double-fridge, scrutinising his phone with a screwed-up expression on
his acne-scarred face.

`Oh,' the ex-footballer chuckled. `Alreet there, kid...?'

The young lad blinked slowly and cleared his throat, staring this way in
a dazed and glassy way for a moment, then suppressing a little groan.
`Er, hiya, yeah just - er, had a few too many, haha, y'kna... er...' A
lopsided grin fell across the face of the junior midfielder, apparently
the last of the Toon players left in Shearer's place, though he'd kinda
thought the kid had made an exit ages ago.

Alan laughed and passed the pint of water that way, then began to pour
another. `Here, down this, man. You look a state.' He grinned
encouragingly at the tracksuit youth and supped from his own tall glass
of water, looking the rugged figure of Elliot Anderson up and down, those
stupid thoughts resurfacing for a moment, and the presence of Andy's
unread messages burning a hole in the pocket of his jeans. `God, don't
you young players party any more or what?' the 52-year-old called
challengingly, as Anderson steadied himself on the kitchen worktop and
moved a few steps closer to the sink, his pint already half-emptied.

Anderson hid a belch behind one hand of grazed knuckles and he grinned
stupidly, lolling there a few feet away. `Sure we do,' the local lad
insisted. `Love being a football star,' he continued stupidly.
`Straight past any queue in the Toon, man.' A big open smile spit his
ruggedly handsome face and Shearer laughed at him.

`Aye, I remember that, just about,' the ex-striker teased gently,
reaching out to pat one warm muscular shoulder through the slim-fitting
black training t-shirt, and then turning a tap to let Elliot refill his
pint glass. `But seems like you can't really handle ya drink, kid, how
much have you even had...?' He smiled uncertainly at the swaying figure
next to him, trying to gauge just how insensible the midfield player was,
and whether he was going to have to direct him to one of the guest rooms,
or get him into a taxi back to the coast.

`All good,' the current Newcastle footballer slurred at him, then
seemed to straighten up his posture a bit and clear his throat again,
trying to be presentable or mimic sobriety, which just made Shearer laugh
some more, and down the rest of his own much-needed water. He was hardly
anything but pissed himself, but he was upright and in control, and there
was something very endearing about the 20-year-old attempting to kid them
both that he wasn't four sheets to the wind.

`Sure,' Alan chuckled. `You look alreet, for sure.'

`Am not some lightweight,' Elliot grunted at him, still blinking
slowly, and then seeming to steady himself a bit. His cheeks had gone red
and he looked a little less like he might pass out on the kitchen floor.
`Ugh, what was even in those shots?' They both laughed now, and
Anderson let out a more honest groan. `I've been hiding in here in case
someone made me down another. Where did you get that shite?'

Alan shrugged and threw a hairy arm about the broad shoulders of the
5ft10 lad for a moment. `You know, you pick up that random crap on
holiday and bring it home, and... haha, knocked you for six, has it...?
Shit - the Magpies nights out mustn't be half as mad as they were in my
day, like. Look at the state of you...'

Anderson bristled vaguely at this teasing comment, whether seriously or
jokingly, and shrugged his arm away with a movement of his shoulder
muscles, pawing uncomfortably at his dopey face and finding his feet at
last. `You'd be surprised,' the player grumbled in a deep voice.
`Things can get bit crazy, now and then, like you would never think,
ha-'

Like when suggesting the party in the first place, Shearer spoke without
thinking, his ideas expressing themselves before his usually mature
senses could filter them. `What, in the showers and that?' he muttered
thoughtfully at the shorter man, staring him down and patting one firm
warm hand against the shoulder of his dark top - and then immediately
noting the widening of those innocent eyes, the little tremor of panic on
the lad's lips, and the certainty that he'd stumbled into some truth.
The two of them stopped, Alan's half-joke tingling awkwardly in the air
between them, and Elliot averted his eyes, seeming to shrink a little in
stature, and regret saying anything.

Alan's attention was quickly diverted - and the younger man jolted in
nervous surprise - by the slam of a door, and steps in the hall beyond
one of the kitchen doors. A loud Manc voice complained bitterly through
the doorway: `Fuck's sake, I'm hardly too pissed to get in a car, am
I? Do I look like I'm gonna vomit?' And Trippier came bursting through
the half-open door, a scowl on his tight features, and a drunken swagger
to his movement that made it easy to see why a taxi driver had been
cynical about carrying him into Northumberland.

Hand still resting on Anderson's shoulder, Shearer turned with an almost
guilty expression towards the other player, as if something had been
interrupted, and flashed a welcoming smile across the island at the de
facto skipper of his precious team. `You're still here?' he barked at
Kieran. `Fucking hell, I thought the party was over, but here I am with
you two dodgy bastards still, haha - what are we doing drinking just
water...?'

At this, Elliot groaned dismally, but Kieran made his way about the
kitchen and slapped a hand against Alan's upper arm. `That's the
spirit,' the Mancunian fella barked. `I mean, once upon a time I was
staying for just the one beer, but...' And they all laughed, even a
slightly hazy looking Anderson, who slumped his rear against the worktop
and folded his arms over his chest, whilst Shearer moved past him and
yanked open the fridge, raiding a bottom drawer that was still stacked
with cooled bottles.

`Here,' he insisted, pushing one towards Elliot, then turning and
grinning eagerly at Kieran. `We need to toast to the big win, lads.'

`Don't jinx it, we've got a Semi to go before anything gets big,'
Trippier mused, whilst Anderson just made a hesitant groaning noise and
stared at the beer like it might explode in his hand. King of the dad
jokes, Shearer turned a thoughtful grin at the defensive player and
raised one eyebrow. `That's what she said,' he quipped, thinking of
the semi that had plagued his own cock since midway through the match,
and letting out a throaty laugh that must have expressed more meaning
than consciously intended.

Trippier smirked at him as their beer bottles clinked, and one of his
long tracksuit sleeves went gripping roughly about Anderson's shoulders,
whilst he let out a dirty chuckle and took his next sip of beer. `Don't
talk dirty to me old man, it's that time of night!' the right-back
exclaimed, giving his young teammate a shake, and not breaking gaze when
Alan's thoughtful old eyes met his. `A bit of silverware at St James'
is enough to give anyone at least a semi, ain't it?' the former Madrid
defender exclaimed a little less cheekily, still trying to pull the
youngster into a headlock, whilst Alan found his eyes automatically
clocking the tight fit of Trippier's Newcastle gear, and thinking
thoughts that would end his marriage. In his pocket, the silenced phone
throbbed heavily with messages unsent, and the long absence since he'd
last thrown Carroll down on a hotel bed.

`Just a semi?' the Premiership muttered quietly at them with a dirty
smile.

`Full mast, then,' sniggered the right-back.

`I think I came in my pants when we won, ha,' threw in Anderson,
seeming to relax and smirk, and finally take a drink from the bottle he
held like a grenade. `Haha,' he added awkwardly, seeming unsure if he
had really got the joke.

Standing in front of them, with his back to the fridge, Alan first rubbed
his beer-cooled fingers across the rough silvery stubble of his chin, and
then moved his hand across the open collar of his shirt, and down the
line of buttons. Once it was below the waist, he grabbed loosely at the
bulge of his jeans, his eyes flicking from Kieran's face to Elliot's,
and his smile unchanging. `Glad it's not just me then,' he said in a
low voice, and put his lips around the neck of the bottle, tipping it
back and swallowing the malty nectar.



Anderson's head was clearing slightly, and he was surprised that this
latest beer was going down so well, since he'd felt like he was
absolutely ruined after the last few shots he'd been pestered into
downing about half an hour ago; he relaxed a bit as he followed the other
through two, but then realised just how pissed he was when he suddenly
noticed that they weren't even drinking in the same big lounge area that
had held the impromptu party; nah, they were in a smaller and more
moodily lit space, a kind of snug room with very deep comfy sofas, and
music was playing quietly from a speaker that Shearer kept barking
ineptly at and then getting annoyed when it couldn't process a Geordie
accent.

The 20-year-old tittered stupidly at this entertainment, relaxing back
into the dark brown leather, and hugging the cool bottle against his
chest; Trippier was occupying the other half of this deep couch in a very
relaxed posed, his socked feet up on the leather and one arm hugged about
one knee. Shearer was over on a recliner to the side of them, still
frowning at the speaker system, and then breaking into wheezy
self-conscious laughter as Trippier called him an `old fart' and asked
him if they really needed any music on for what they were gonna do.

`And what are we gonna do?' chuckled Alan's heavy mature voice, the
former player leaning back into his armchair and pawing at the top few
buttons of his shirt, his face all Qatari tan and his forehead gleaming
with sweat.

`Oh I dunno,' came Kieran's slow musing voice, `but I thought we were
all a bit excited about the result tonight, nah...?'

Elliot laughed vaguely at them both and sipped more beer, rubbing the
back of one forearm across his sweaty brow, and then shuffling his chunky
arse against the slippery brown leather of the sofa. He suppressed a burp
and cast his eyes loosely from one older man to the other, feeling very
cosy and relaxed in this smaller lounge, and pretty glad to have
outstayed everyone else, intimate guests at his hero's house - fuck,
it'd be so cool to tell his mates this, that he was up all night
chatting shit with Big Al, and drinking way more than all the other
fuckers who'd come to celebrate the win.

`You sure he's alright?' Alan was asking, though the question
struggled to register sensibly in Elliot's fuzzy thoughts.

`He's alright,' muttered Kieran. `He knows what's what. He's had a
bit of fun, at least.'

`Huh, right,' murmured the ex-player. `He looks pretty green.'

`We all were once,' was Trippier's nostalgic response. Anderson
stopped staring thoughtfully at a big print of the Tyne Bridge on one
wall, and looked from Kieran's tight grin and flickering tongue-tip, to
Alan's broad leer and the way one of his hands kept rubbing up and down
a thigh, and the drunk Geordie lad's thoughts began to find some order...



Kieran wasn't sure how he'd ended up here at this hour, but it was a
total lack of self-awareness that had seen him work through his first
beer and inevitably give in to the fun atmosphere and the constant ego
boost of the company, all of whom seemed to think he was as much the
saviour of Newcastle as Eddie Howe or any Saudi investor. And now,
specifically, HERE: getting as hard as a rock in his tracky bottoms, and
smirking across the narrow space at Alan Shearer, whilst he rubbed gently
at the outline in the black nylon, and then grinned the other way at the
dopey expression on Elliot Anderson's pocked young face.

With a cheeky laugh, the 32-year-old took the hand off the outline of his
hardened prick, and pushed it down the front of his trackies instead,
giving it a good feel under the grip of his boxer briefs, stroking the
thick shaft and pulling back on the tight foreskin, and flicking his
mischievous eyes from the retired legend to the gawping youngster.

`Come on fellas,' Newcastle's acting captain chuckled, pulling on
himself under the confines of his underpants and tracksuit bottoms, and
really pushing his tired shoulders back against the leather. `We're all
feeling it, but I'm the only one doing owt about it.'

`Nah,' disagreed Shearer quietly, and he saw a hand on denim, really
rubbing at the delightfully full mound of denim between those spread
thighs, and he couldn't help but grin with gleeful interest - this had
certainly not been where he thought tonight was going, and he knew there
might be some dollop of regret in his hangover, but right now he was as
horny as fuck and up for literally anything. It never took much to tip
Trippier over the edge nowadays, as Lascelles had found out in a pub
toilet, and so many of his teammates had vaguely discovered as he was
ringleader of a few steamy shower wanks before the interruption of the
World Cup left them all awkward and uncertain. Who'd known Ryan Fraser
would be such a willing cock-slut for his teammates? Shame they were
probably selling the gruff little Scot bastard...

Kieran nudged his right elbow against Elliot's arm. `You horny too,
kid?'

`Fucking hell,' was Anderson's vague murmur of non-answer.

`It's been a long night,' purred Alan's more distinguished Tyneside
accent, and Kieran looked back his way, finding something profoundly sexy
in the older man and his hairy knuckles rubbing back and forth over his
crotch. Hmm, no Fraser here to do the honours and get spunk in his beard
- Trippier could see he was gonna have to be the one getting down and
dirty tonight, and he knew he was up to the challenge. He smirked at his
Match of the Day supporter, and gently licked his lips.


Drunk and excited, Shearer unbuckled his belt and watched as Trips slid
off the sofa and moved even closer, his face taken by a dirty eagerness.
He tugged open the button fly and then began to fully unbutton his shirt;
the burly 5ft10 NUFC player was down on his knees on the rug, and moving
between his open legs, and then pausing to peel his long-sleeved top up
and off, a white vest coming with it, until he was shirtless in the
lamplight, ink-decorated chest and arms on show, and thin lips glistening
wet as they parted. Well well well, it had been worth singing this
resilient defender's praises all along, here was the payback.

Alan leaned back even more, pushing open his jeans, and feeling Kieran's
hands run up past his knees... he sighed, his shirt falling open and away
from his still fairly toned upper body, though without so much wine and
whiskey, he might have remembered to feel self-conscious about it next to
the tightly muscled peak fitness of the 32-year-old. As it was, he could
think only about his urgent hard-on, and the fact that one Newcastle
legend in the making was about to help him out with it.

As Kieran pulled away the jeans and got his mouth in against the fabric
of Alan's boxers, he looked over him and at the other sofa, where Elliot
was framed in the lamplight, and staring agog over this way - just as
Shearer had suspected, the youngster seemed to have no idea what was
going on, and might even freak out at this. They should have cleared him
off before getting down to business, he thought, but then there was
something very exciting about the Whitley Bay kid, whose muscles bulged
in the tight short sleeves of his top, and whose gormless interest was
very cute. And.. aha, no, he wasn't totally clueless, because he was
sticking a hand down the front of his pants, and maybe he had a bit more
about him then, like Trips had said - but Shearer's attention swung back
to the release of his cock, springing free from the elastic waistband,
and gently stroked in a man's hand, with Trippier's grinning face
desperately close to it. Fuck yes.

He would never have put the right-back down as a cocksucker, but away he
went, pulling his mouth about the head and shaft and going down on him
like a pro, making him moan deeply and clutch each hand at the thick
padded arms of the recliner. It felt so fucking good, and it must be the
first head he'd had since that last regrettable meet-up with Andy, where
Carroll had really begun to freak him out - lounging in bed with cum
sticky on his cheeks, murmuring things about how he'd been thinking of
confessing to his wife, and was wondering if she'd understand be okay
with it. Fucking idiot! Shearer had been straight out of there, red-faced
and furious, and he'd upped the stakes on his cold shoulder to the
Geordie giant from then on, in early November - despite all of those
frantic messages and voice-notes and missed calls from the man during the
World Cup, when the heat was making Alan ultra frisky, and he was putting
up with joint gym sessions with the likes of Rio and Micah, and moving
from stadium to stadium looking down on the world's fittest footballers.

To think, this eager cocksucker between his knees had been there in
Qatar, he thought now, wondering why he hadn't made more contact with
the called-up Newcastle star at the England camp: but he'd never ever
have imagined that the rugged tough guy at the back of the Toon squad
would be so open-minded and so... well, TALENTED, his tongue rolling
across the damp head of Alan's hard cock, then his mouth enveloping more
of it and taking it deep in a comfortable way that Andy had never
actually managed. Fuck, yessss.

`God, that's good,' the football icon groaned.

`That's it,' he added, licking his upper lip and nodding over at the
other sofa, where Anderson had slid closer, moving from one side to the
other, hand still stuck in his trackies. `Get yer cock out, aye, and
join in - fuck, did you know yer captain was a dirty slut...?' He gave a
wheezing laugh, stroking fingers through the short little curls of
Trippier's hair, patting him patronisingly on the head as he mocked him,
trying to also show his appreciation; he could see the wild light in
Elliot's eyes that suggested the young un didn't have a fucking clue
that his skipper would get on his knees like this, but also that he
wasn't offended by the prospect. Whatever the Whitley Bay lad had got up
to in the past, Shearer thought, he certainly hadn't been noshed off by
Trips... but he ought to be.

He pushed on Kieran's forehead, guiding his face away. `Think it's
Anderson's turn, aye?'

He'd always had something of a voyeuristic streak, he supposed, and he
revelled in it now, wanking one hand up and down the wet shaft of his big
heavy prick, whilst Elliot's tracksuit pants rolled down his densely
muscled calves, much of his powerful legs on show, and the skimpy black
sports briefs coming with them. He barely got a glance at the
youngster's hard cock and neatly trimmed pubes before Trippier was
bobbing up and down on it with a mouthful, stroking the thick thighs and
groaning through his second mouthful of Geordie cock, whilst Anderson's
face was glossy with sweat and his mouth formed a wide `O' of surprised
enjoyment.

Alan, excited and immediately envious that he wasn't still getting
blown, wanted to ask them more, to push them with questions - so, who
were the dirty cocksuckers on the Toon squad? If not normally Trips,
who'd had a cheeky grab or suck on Anderson's Geordie meat? Who else
does dirty Trippier mess about with? Was Jamaal Lascelles still a bit
curious and into having his ring tickled, or had that brief 2020 foray
been enough for the big burly defender who was clearly being pushed aside
now? Shearer's imagination spiralled in dirty directions that he
normally tried to control, burned by the intensity of his affair with
Carroll, and determined to find a way to stay faithful and well-behaved
after all.

But this was hardly the time for conversation, drunk and horny as they
all were. This was the time for action, and touch, and enjoyment. He
pulled himself up off the comfort of the armchair, one hand still wrapped
at the base of his cock, and he stood next to them, tugging slowly on it,
really enjoying himself, and watching as young Anderson sprawled back and
felt clumsily for Trippier's neck and shoulders, eyes squeezed shut,
whilst Trips devoured his unseen prick, gagging and gobbling on it, and
rubbing his hands all over the younger lad's bare muscular legs.

`Here,' their host growled at them, and the action shifted.

Kieran reeled about on his knees and Alan grabbed him about the back of
the head, and fed his big sweaty cock into that wide mouth, bigger than
it looked on the strong man's tight features. In it went, his big thick
meat, and again Trips took it so deep with apparent ease, and it felt SO
good; god, this was good, and he knew he wanted more, but he didn't know
how far to push it, tonight, as drunk as they all were. He pictured
himself fucking Andy senselessly into a headboard and slapping at the
sides of his face as he yanked on his ponytail, and he wondered if that
full shagging was where he'd really crossed the line and stoked trouble
- what if Carroll was actually stupid enough to tell his reality TV star
wife about what they were up to?! Surely not? It would be a disaster.
This was why Alan had always been more cautious as a younger man, as an
active player - he'd dabbled now and then, and heard a lot of rumours,
but he'd never gone all the way like he had with his long-haired
Gateshead lad, not like that. And now...

The 6ft retired ace fucked Trippier in the face and grinned down at
Anderson, nodding and gesturing at him until the 20-year-old got up to
join him, both of them standing over shirtless Kieran; Alan reached for
it and took a couple of good tugs on the big veiny thing that jutted from
above Anderson's thighs, pleased with the size and weighty feel of it,
but not surprised, it looked right on him. He was a sexy rough charva,
wasn't he?

Again, he passed Trips from his own dick to the lad's, and immediately
felt jealous as he had to settle for his own hand, wanking off and
panting out a series of growling little laughs. He felt drunker now than
before, more light-headed and out of control. It was the mounting
excitement, the tingling of his balls and the sense of debauchery that
they'd brought with them into the snug. Part of him wanted to drag both
muscular young lads up to his marriage bed, to have the pair of them in
there with them, and to line them up and slam his cock into their-

Kieran's lips were back about his prick and he moaned heavily, knowing
he was close. Good. He could empty his heavy balls and not take this too
far. He didn't need another Andy Carroll in his life, pestering him all
the time and making ridiculous claims about `confessing' to his
partner...! Fucking hell, he'd need to do something about that fool.

Instead, he pulled his cock out of Trippier's mouth and stood back, so
that neither of them were being sucked; the defender had pushed down his
own trackies and boxer briefs, and was wanking his own pretty thick
equipment where he knelt. But it was his chest that was Shearer's
target, the broad ugly tattoo that spread over his defined pecs. There
was a diamond at the centre of the brash artwork, and he aimed for that,
jerking furiously on his wet cock, and roughly rubbing his hand over the
short tight waves of Trips' hair again, manhandling him in a way that
was rough but affectionate. And then he was spilling his load, pumping
streaks of thick cream onto the tattooed skin, spilling lines of cum over
the daft illustration that covered the lad's muscular tits.

`Ugh,' he grunted, really emptying his balls, and giving Kieran a very
light slap on the cheek, before letting out another long throaty laugh.

He rocked on his heels, still fumbling with his sensitive cock, and
looking from Kieran's devilish eyes to the hunched awkwardness of Elliot
at his side; those strong muscled arms were working like mad as the lad,
barely out of his teens, wanked himself silly, hand pumping up and down
the glistening veins of his long thick meat. Fuck, he was probably more
well-hung than Alan himself, or kneeling Trips here, who was jerking off
too, teeth gritted and jaw set, and eyes wild with transgression.

`Go on,' the old Geordie growled at his young fan. `Shoot all over the
bastard.'

So he did - an explosion of jizz that didn't just hit Trippier in the
chest, but painted his grinning face, long silvery trials down his cheeks
and on his chin, making him laugh and lick his lips. Wow. He really was
an easygoing slut, this one, not at all the macho bugger he'd always
seemed to Shearer before - fucking hell, you never could tell. He really
wanted to know what else this dirty bastard got up to, and with whom, but
he couldn't bring himself to ask - post-orgasmic exhaustion was wracking
his middle-aged body and his brain was popping with little fireworks of
drunken fug.

`Jesus,' whined Anderson's voice awkwardly, in between pants.

`Good lad, good lad!' He slapped him on the back and almost knocked him
over.

Below, the Newcastle skipper groaned and yelped, pleasuring himself to
climax on his knees, dripping with their juices, and bowing close to
their swaying cocks. A long strangled yelp signalled the peak of
Trippier's selfless enjoyment, and then he was hanging his head back and
taking big gulps of air, and Shearer began to retreat, feeling soiled and
sweaty. He wanted to be up in the comfort of his bed, and to dismiss this
madness from his head until he could get some proper sleep - when his
wife rang in the morning, he would curse himself for this debauchery, but
it had been worth it, it had felt so fucking good.

`Well done, lads,' he said ambiguously to them as he shoved his cock
into his checked boxer briefs, buttoning up and buckling his belt over
the strong bulge that had troubled him at the football stadium for the
second half of the cup game. He smiled vaguely at the other lads, Kieran
clambering up from his knees with no shirt on, and Elliot flopping back
into the recliner, looking shaky - well, he'd got his fun with a couple
of younger players, just liked he'd dared to fantasise, and now he was
spent and shattered, and he needed bed.


Anderson woke early, and he felt nauseous. His face was stuck to the
leathery arm of the sofa with drool, and the once-cosy snug room felt
freezing cold in the dark. He shivered and shuddered and pulled his face
away from the brown leather, looking around and thinking that he had a
thicker top somewhere that could be pulled over his tight-fit training
t-shirt - and, oh, where had his tracksuit pants dropped, cos his big
muscular legs were bare and shivering?

The wasted 20-year-old had remained in the room alone and just fell
asleep there on the couch, after shifting uncomfortably from furniture to
furniture. His head ached violently and when he dared to sit upright, he
regretted it. He sat there, socked feet planted to the rug, and head
cradled in both shaky hands, waves of hangover nausea washing
uncomfortably against him for many long minutes in the small dark lounge.

Squinting through the shadows, the young midfielder spotted a rather cosy
blanket folded over the back of the recliner that he had tried to sleep
in first, and he made an awkward little lunge over the room to fetch it,
then pushed himself down into the couch and threw it around him as a thin
woollen quilt, glad of its relative comfort and warmth, but still feeling
as sick as a dog, and a bit confused about where he actually was.

Images of it came to him through the pain and discomfort of his early
hangover: the big smirk on Alan Shearer's face, stood next to him, and
then looking down into the impish smirk of Kieran Trippier, before
feeling that mouth against his swollen hard tool. Fuuuuuck. His legendary
hero, and his sort-of captain. Fuck. It was bonkers. He lay there,
swaddled in blanket and pulling his strong young body into the foetal
position, and just stared across the dark room, seeing it all as if it
had happened to someone else.

First it had been just Fraser, he thought, remembering that first time
after the small Scottish player drove him home, and it had been just
their secret - a few times Ryan had alluded to it or tried to get him
alone, but Elliot had staunchly avoided a repeat incident. But then
there'd been that chaotic morning in the training centre, and everyone
had seemed so chill about it... not just Trips here, but Schar and even
Joelinton, and... he could picture Bruno too, down on his knees, looking
up at him, but he sometimes doubted that memory, because the Brazilian
midfield ace seemed so innocent and wholesome the rest of the time, and
nobody had ever mentioned what happened that day in full.

And now... his captain, and his hero.

His head throbbed and his stomach churned, and he pulled the blanket more
tightly about himself, groaning in private misery.


Trippier woke in greater comfort; unhelped by their host, he'd found his
way into a guest bedroom and made himself at home. He woke early too,
plagued by the same inevitable self-inflicted pains, but he downed the
glass of water he'd poured on his way to bed, and got another hour of
sleep, and then gotten tougher with himself when he woke for the second
time. He found his phone in the heap of his clothing and scrolled through
the unsurprising missed calls from Mrs Trip.

Kieran chuckled to himself and shook his head as he pulled boxer shorts
up his legs and over his cock and arse, and then each other item of the
tracksuit until he was fully dressed. What a naughty night. He should
really have had that one and gone home, but... well, you couldn't regret
fun like that, could you? Life was for living, and several years ago, the
Manc lad had opened his mind and decided that was pleasure was pleasure;
he was going to take whatever life threw his way, spunk and all.

There was no sign of Shearer himself as he moved through the cold house.
He heard some loud snores from behind one door, clearly the master
bedroom, and he just grinned appreciatively as he disappeared downstairs,
going to the kitchen and pouring himself more water then, on second
thoughts, finding and filling a second glass. Into the snug room, which
took him a while to find between all the different doors, and he thrust
the second water into one of the young lad's hands, and gave him a pat
on the head. `Come on, I'll get us a taxi, kid,' he grumbled at the
sheepish hunched figure of his teammate.

Without bothering to disturb or wake their host, Trippier moved quietly
through the ground floor of the big Gosforth house. In the kitchen, he
leaned on the worktop by the sink, supping on cool water and thumbing at
his phone until the taxi app had summoned them a driver and he'd keyed
in a stop-off at the coast to deliver the kiddo to his folks before
zooming away to the town further out where he'd invested in a big
converted farmhouse for his own family.

The oafish young midfielder came trotting into the kitchen behind him,
the blanket about his shoulders and his thick legs still on show, only
loaded black briefs below the hem of his tracksuit top. Kieran looked him
up and down and gave him a lopsided smile. `Go find your kit, you
nobhead,' he chuckled. Elliot stared dimly at him for a moment before
exiting and clomping about the corridor in search of his trousers.

Soon, they were letting themselves out of the house, trainers crunching
over the gravel as they had on arrival. `I feel awful,' Anderson
groaned dismally at him on the walk down the driveway, not for the first
time this morning. At least the pale-faced youth was properly dressed
now, and not stumbling around in his bulging briefs, haha. Trippier
pictured that massive veiny cock and he smiled admiringly at the lad,
taking him about the shoulders and giving him a squeeze.

`Ask yer mum for a fry-up when you get in.'

`She'll just tell me to fuck off.'

`Okay, well remind her who bought the house, yup? Hah.'

Into the taxi they went, and Kieran made terse conversation with the
driver, an obvious Toon fan who wanted to talk about last night; Trips
did his best to communicate their tender state to the Geordie bloke,
intimating that they'd partied hard and just needed to get to their
respective homes in one piece. The guy failed to take the hint and
jabbered on in his singsong Tyneside accent, and Kieran just smiled
indulgently and watched as Elliot hunched anxiously over his phone next
to him. Well, at least the presence of the chatty driver meant no real
chance for awkwardness between them, since the younger lad was clearly a
bit conflicted about what had gone on at Shearer's behest.

You didn't look so sick or worried when I was slurping on your monster
cock, Trips thought idly, smiling across at the other 5ft10 footballer,
and then tuning back in to answer the driver's latest eager question.

In a quieter voice, he probed his teammate, whose face looked even paler
and grimmer, prodding him in the arm as he asked, `What now, kid?'

Anderson turned and shot him a wary look, his eyes a bit red. `It's the
gaffer, and my agent. I've got a meeting this morning up at the training
park, skipper.' Well, good to hear that respect still in his voice,
after the daft lad had emptied his balls on his captain's face about
five hours ago. Phew.

`Meeting?' Trippier grunted. `Ugh. Not in this state.'

`So much for the fry-up,' the lad grumbled. `It's about a loan
deal.' He sounded distraught.

`Ah.' Kieran reached over and gave him a little rub on the upper back.
`Well, you kinda knew that was coming, matey. Where are they sending
you...?'

`Dunno, doesn't say. Fuck. I can't turn up like this, I must stink of
booze.'

The Manc right-back took and released a long breath, leaving his hand
against the middle of the younger guy's broad firm back. Then he raised
his voice above the discreet whisper with which he'd questioned the kid,
and called to the driver, who was pretending not to listen in. `Hey,
chief - can we change the journey plan, actually? Turns out we got to pop
in to work for a bit - will you get us to the training ground instead,
mate? I'll whack in a great tip, if you don't mind.' He shared a
supportive smile with Anderson, who looked puzzled. `Home can wait -
we'll get to work and shower there, and there's a cafe round the
corner. We'll have you looking presentable enough to meet with Eddie and
your agent, yeh? Come on kid, it'll all be grand.' He patted him on the
back and enjoyed the oddly cute little smile of gratitude that the
Geordie boy gave him, and then turned his attention back to the driver,
who was dropping heavy hints about how much he'd like to visit the
training ground with his sons, rather than receiving some massive tip.
Kieran smiled awkwardly and humoured him, and hoped to god that Elliot
didn't vomit before they left the car.




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