Date: Thu, 12 Jan 2023 21:22:30 +0000
From: writer guy <premiershiplads@outlook.com>
Subject: Premiership Lads, PArt 340

Part 340: That Night In December


The first goal, in the 82nd minute, took him by surprise; the win over
Montpelier had looked pretty certain when he was substituted in by the
new manager for the final quarter of the league match, and he'd thought
the team might become slow and cautious, with little attacking
opportunity against their desperate opposition. But the assist from
Bouanani had come his way whilst both teams were still reacting to Delort
making it 4-0, and Ross Barkley now pushing that tally to 5. When he
found himself booting goal number 6 in only three minutes later, the
English midfielder was astonished and electrified, punching the air as he
leapt off the ground and was immediately encircled by his Nice
colleagues.

As superfluous as his brace had actually been, the 29-year-old footballer
ended the home game feeling like he'd just single-handedly won Ligue 1
for the lads, totally on fire with the adrenaline rush of scoring twice,
and delighted to experience such support and appreciation from his
largely French teammates - it had been a slow and laborious mission to
integrate himself into the football club as their surprise free transfer,
and this mild January night at the Allianz Riviera was the first time
he'd really felt one of them.

The close of the game and the ensuing celebrations were hyper and
frenzied for the whole squad and staff, excited to have reached their
highest scoreline in a significant period, and to have really blossomed
under the new stewardship of Didier Digard - but for Ross himself, it was
the joy and thrill of a return to the past, a sensation of confidence and
victory that had eluded him since his earliest outings at Chelsea and,
more honestly, his Everton youth. It had been a long time since Barkley
had truly felt like a winner on a football pitch, but grabbed and hugged
by player after player on the field and then coach after coach at the
sidelines, he felt good.

Almost every member of the Nice squad grabbed him in a big tight hug,
arms about his broad shoulders and mixed French and English compliments
paid to him in breathy voices; but one coat-clad player on the fringe of
the celebrations just grabbed his hand for a moment in a handshake and
gave him a tight-lipped nod of appreciation, and then was off to speak to
someone else, and there was a short moment where his big chest felt
winded and he didn't know how he should be feeling, but a chant was
starting and he was being steered into the mouth of the tunnel with the
other goal-scorers of the night, and that momentary snub had to be
dismissed after all - the winning feeling needed to take over.

And so it did: beers were cracked open as if the team had just won a
tournament, and the men were slow to peel off the sweaty red-and-black
shirts of the night, taking their time in the home changing rooms of the
stadium, singing out their happiness and heaping lots of praise on the
new boss.

Despite his status as one of the night's heroes, Ross found himself
quickly distanced from the main buzz of the celebrations, because his
language skills weren't up to the quick and broken French slang, and his
natural shyness was only intensified by the sense of alienation that came
with playing in a foreign league. Happy nonetheless, the sweaty Scouser
grinned and laughed and pulled his footy shirt away, the skin-tight black
lycra of his under-shirt still sticking to his torso and arms. He was
just about to pull this top up and away from the aching muscle of his
body when he was grabbed about one arm and found the overdressed figure
of the club's assistant manager leaning urgently over at him. `An
interview,' the fifty-something man said smoothly, `they want you for
an interview. For a moment of true horror, Barkley just stared at the
man, pausing with his fingers about the hem of his lycra shirt, sweat
trickling down either side of his rugged face.

`In English,' the football boss said to him in a lower voice, clearly
reading his expression. `It's in English. There'll be a translator.
Come on.' Ross felt his entire body sag with relief as the prospect of
attempting his rudimental French in front of mics and cameras ebbed away,
and he nodded eagerly at the coach. `Get your shirt back on, and come
with me.'

By the time the Liverpudlian midfielder was back in the locker-room with
everybody else, the lads had made mixed progress. Many were getting on
with their showers and glistening bodies emerged from the showers at
either end, towels tied about their waists, but others were still in
muddy kits and dancing about on benches, spilling beer over themselves;
there was talk of hitting a particular nightclub on the seafront and
booking out the VIP area, and several men were quick to grab and invite
Ross as he made his way back to his things, with an eagerness and
friendliness that hadn't always been there in the last four months.

Ross began to pull away his footy shirt and the lycra beneath it yet
again, wrestling clumsily with the sleeves and getting it over his head,
then bunching the sweaty sports material in both hands and tossing it
down between his big socked feet, when a warm damp hand slapped against
one of his shoulders. With a now-strained look of happy pride on his
face, having mumbled and grinned his way through the awkwardly translated
interview, Barkley turned to see which of his Nice teammates was adding
to the congratulations, and started slightly at the tall broad figure
steaming next to him, fresh out of the showers and running fingers
through his dark blonde hair.

`You coming to this party later, then?' growled the clearer English of
his Danish colleague, Kasper Schmeichel smoothing down his wet beard and
leaning in close where he stood, a towering 6ft3.

`Oh - er, yeh - is everyone?' He smiled weakly at the other Premiership
transplant, pausing with his arms hanging uselessly in front of him,
hesitant to start peeling off his long socks or dropping his black
shorts. `It does sound like fun.'

Big and bulky and wearing only a towel, the Dane shrugged, lowering both
hands to the knotted front of the white wrap. Steam still rose from his
broad chest and huge shoulders, and he had a cheeky grin cracking his
handsome tanned face. `Could be, could be,' he agreed, more quietly,
before pushing one fist of a hand against Ross's bare sides, and letting
out a low chuckle. `Though we could always have a more private party if
you fancied, Scouser, haha - eh?'

Barkley did his best to look unperturbed by this remark, pulling an inch
or two away from the brushing contact of Schmeichel's knuckles, and
scratching at his own short dense curls of hair, then clearing his
throat. `I've never been to that nightclub,' he said, ignoring the
idea of `a private party', and avoiding clear eye contact with the
sharp blues of the handsome Dane. `And it'll be good to celebrate as a
team.' He said it awkwardly and loudly, as if trying to draw some
attention to their chat, and to shut up the former Leicester City
captain.

`Ah, yeh,' sighed Kasper, still smirking straight at him. `And we need
to celebrate YOU, mate, and talk about what Chelsea lost out on, huh.'
Grabbing again, his hands big warm paws, taking one of Barkley's
shoulders and giving him a bit of a shake. Without saying anything, Ross
pushed the hand away, but didn't stop smiling - he tried to communicate
warningly with just his eyes, feeling every reason to be cold and distant
from their burly goalkeeper, but uncomfortably aware of the busy room
about them, and his own need to shower off.

`Relax,' Schmeichel murmured through his grin, letting go of him and
backing away, gripping the knot of his towel more firmly. `But don't
skip the party, I owe you a few drinks, okay?' And as he turned away, he
loosened the knot and Ross was, very briefly, treated to the rear view,
the blotchy pink heat of his broad back sinking down to the gold-fuzzed
mounds of his big arse cheeks and the tree-trunk legs below, walking away
and bursting into loud French banter with another guy as he did.

Barkley averted his eyes from the goalkeeper's muscles and scowled,
lifting each heavy leg to strip the socks from his sore calves. Fuck that
big bastard, he thought irritably, placing plenty of blame on him, and
resenting the last time that Schmeichel had tried getting close to him
again.


Late December, London: Ross had hardly been in the best of moods when his
club made their mildly surprising journey over the Channel for a slightly
random friendly against a Premier League stalwart. In a way, it had been
better that nobody had mentioned Tottenham Hotspur to him until almost
the day before the flight, as for the week leading up to the fixture
he'd only heard people refer to a `London' team, and been too
embarrassed to admit that he couldn't understand the French accents that
had explained the little trip to the lads one damp chilly afternoon at
the training ground.

A return to England... It should have been quite fun and invigorating, the
pre-Christmas friendly now that the World Cup was settled, but the whole
experience was fraught with significance for Ross, for obvious reasons.
Even without the sudden revelation of their North London hosts, the
flight back into the English capital was one that buzzed him with
difficult memories, having humiliated himself on his last stay in the
city; not Chelsea, although the way things had ended there was pretty
shit, but more specifically his night at Joe Bryan's apartment. The
other English squad member at Nice had barely spoken a word to him since
that weekend, never inviting him on the beach walks or sea swims that the
two friends had begun to bond over, nor the film nights at his condo.
Arriving in a drizzly London and being driven towards the Tottenham
Hotspur Stadium triggered embarrassing flashbacks to that moody weekend
and how Ross had drunk way too much and made an ill-advised move on Joe,
leading to a tense separation in the shadows of his bedroom.

But really... the Joe Bryan problem was small fry. All the way up to their
arrival at the stadium, Ross spun from hoping Eric Dier was still resting
from England duty, to daring to think that this was the perfect
opportunity to get a real conversation out of him. And by the time Kasper
Schmeichel crashed across his path, he was very much set on the latter:
he was strolling through the corridors of the stadium in sweatpants and a
hoody, wondering who he could ask to direct him to the relaxation lounge
of the host players, when Kasper's voice hollered after him and the big
goalkeeper was suddenly at his side, hand on his shoulder and breath
tickling his ear.

`Oh, hey,' Barkley grumbled disinterestedly, as Schmeichel demanded to
know where he was going. The team were being given some time to relax and
adjust, not even kitted up for a warm-up session on the pitch yet, where
they'd be doing some media work for their socials; Ross thought he'd
slipped quite discreetly away from the squad gathering, but he supposed
that Kasper had similar issues of isolation than him, even with multiple
European languages at his disposal.

`Just havin' a walk,' he told the older bloke, trying to shrug away
the hand on the shoulder of his hooded top, and realising that he really
had no idea where he was going; this irritating knowledge brought him to
an awkward stop, made all the more awkward by the other man's gurning
smile at his side, standing over him and tilting his head quizzically.
`It doesn't matter,' Ross muttered, unsure what to think of Kasper's
curious expression. Even back in December, he was still wary of the
goalie, overly conscious of how close they'd come to an intimate fumble
on that bored autumn afternoon of hangover; he'd pulled back from the
married Dane's apparent bi side then, and been cautious about ending up
alone with him since... until now.

Schmeichel's hand landed back on his shoulder, except this time it was a
lot closer to his neck, and this time he didn't have the heart to shrug
it away. He scowled at his own daft optimism, thinking that he might find
and talk to Dier here in the stadium - that he might get some answers out
of him, or... well, yeh, in all honesty, he'd dared to entertain images
of them falling into each others strong arms and making up, dismissing it
all as a stupid misunderstanding. But Ross, he told himself, he got
ENGAGED.

`What is it?' his teammate asked, and his voice was a soft consoling
purr. The hand on his shoulder was on the back of his neck, and thick
strong fingertips were pressing into the skin there below the light fuzz
of his fade cut, and Ross couldn't help but sigh at the touch, standing
awkwardly there with the slightly taller figure leaning against his side.
`What's up, matey?' murmured the Copenhagen Mancunian. `What're you
lookin' for here...?'

`Nothing,' Barkley mumbled evasively at him, but he couldn't find it
in him to pull away from the other man, who was massaging the back of the
neck and taking hold of his bicep, leaning in so close that he could feel
Schemichel's breath brush his jawline.

`After we smash these losers, you got any plans?' the goalkeeper was
asking him. `I just got a text from a mate who's visiting London,
y'see, and he might be having a bit of a party later on tonight if we
can sort it, so-'

`What?' Ross murmured disinterestedly at him, thinking about what the
chances were that Eric was even on the team-sheet for the Spurs friendly
- had England players even returned to club training yet after flying out
of Qatar...? And if Eric WASN'T on the squad for the match, would he
bother to attend it and support his mates? Would he... want to be here,
and... see Ross, and... He grimaced, not sure he'd like the answer to
this. The break-up had been so cold and sudden, even after their fiery
little rows during the long-distance chapter of the relationship, and
now...

`I think you'll know him,' Kasper chuckled, kneading fingers against
his bicep through the sleeve of his top. `I haven't mentioned your name
to him, or anything, but he defo said I could bring a friend along... in
fact, that I SHOULD bring a friend, haha, you see he's quite into-'

`What are you on about?' Ross snapped at him, only half-hearing what he
had to say, thinking that he WAS here after all, and if he could shake
off this big bugger, then he could find some helpful member of staff and
explain that he really needed to catch up with a couple of old pals at
Tottenham that he missed from his Prem days, and-

`Vardy,' grunted Schmeichel with a mysterious expression on his creased
and bearded face, blue eyes sparkling with eagerness. `Vardy, mate,
he's the friend, and-'

`What about him?' Barkley asked, about to try and pull away when the
fingers on the back of his neck hit a sweet spot that almost made him
groan, and he became very aware of how tenderly he was being held by the
6ft3 goalie, how oddly tender his touch was, and- more pressing than
these realisations, the fact that someone was walking towards them down
the corridor, having appeared about the family.

It all happened so fast, and yet also in slow-motion: Eric Dier, hands
shoved into the pockets of a loose denim jacket, marching down the
corridor and past them with merely a nod and a `Welcome home, lads'
before stomping off on his route. The look he gave them both. Of course,
big Kasper moved quickly, letting go of his arm, and sliding the hand
from his neck and back to his shoulder, but Eric's eyes said it all;
he'd seen, and he'd read what he wanted to read into it. Ross had
opened and closed his mouth repeatedly, turning awkwardly after him and
watching him walk coldly on without even stopping to chat, and ignoring
the little chuckle and whispered `Oops' from Schmeichel next to him. In
a moment, the Viking footballer was murmuring at him about a `Vardy
party' again, and Ross just wasn't listening, he was awash with a mix
of grief and anger, realising just how disinterested Eric was towards him
- and if he wasn't already, now he would think that... One of the
goalkeeper's hands had crept down his back and was inching onto the big
swell of his mighty arse, pushing up against the soft fabric of his
sweats; Ross jerked away from him and shoved an elbow sharply into his
upper ribs, then glared at him.

`Watch it, mate,' he barked, pulling swiftly away from him. For a
second, he'd thought of hurrying down the corridor and around that
corner after Dier - but what was the point? He'd seen the cool distance
in that face, and he knew where things stood between them. Eric was
marrying a woman, and whatever they'd had was over. That night in
London, when they shared the pitch for about ten minutes between
substitutions, seemed to confirm it, and neither man looked the other in
the eye as they skipped past each other in the drizzle of the 1-1 draw...
but Ross watched him intensely from the bench, glad that the rain hid a
tear, and nobody bothered to talk to him as he mourned.


Except... Ross wasn't the only one who thought back to that night in the
run-up to Christmas, with mixed and painful feelings. And it was
occurring to Eric too right now, standing at the sink in his kitchen,
rinsing off a couple of plates before putting them down, and he wasn't
even sure why it had come back to him - maybe it was the wintry rain on
the windows, or something similar about how his day had played out at
Tottenham training, or maybe it was the little notification his phone had
provided that Nice were playing Montpelier tonight, the kind of thing
that happens when you google the same football team one too many times.
He hadn't checked the score yet, he couldn't face it.

The 28-year-old footballer, days away from his next birthday, stared
briefly at his own faint reflection in the dark window beyond the sink,
thinking back to how odd it had been to find out that of all the teams in
the world, France's Nice would be arriving in London for a very random
friendly four days before Christmas, and that Ross Barkley, his Ross, was
up front in the team line-up for the opposition. Eric had been given the
option of avoiding the friendly fixture altogether, since he'd only just
rejoined training after his rest days from England's unsuccessful World
Cup bid... and he'd seriously considered it, since the thought of it all
left him dazed and anxious.

But the messages of his absence felt far too powerful and damning, and so
he'd asked if he could at least sit on the bench, and there he was. It
had taken a lot for him to summon up the courage to seek Ross out before
the game, marching awkwardly about the stadium and trying to figure out
where the visitors were being housed before the warm-up. He'd been
rehearsing the conversation in his head, though he knew he'd lose
composure once he got himself alone with that sexy Scouse man - and then
he was walking towards them, watching the oddly possessive embrace of a
very familiar former opponent, Schmeichel all over Barkley as if he was
his... his... fuck knows. Eric's hands had flexed and tightened into fists
and he'd had to get a tight grip of himself not to go flying at the smug
face of the ex-Leicester keeper, who was grinning through his beard and
eyeing him up as he passed, whilst Ross himself just gawped guiltily,
and...

Eric had felt sick during the whole of the match, even when he was
called. ESPECIALLY when he was called on, and he was briefly playing
against his ex, for the first time in forever. When it was all over, he
didn't even shower with the team; he just slipped away without goodbyes
and drove home, almost getting into a traffic accident because he was so
distracted. Now he stared at his worried face in the reflective glass,
and then turned away from the dirty dishes, trying to shake himself out
of it.

`Can you get me another beer, bro?' called the voice of his guest, and
Dier did just that, shuffling through the large kitchen of his townhouse
as if he was briefly a zombie, his mind occupied and his generally good
mood ruined; back in the TV room, he passed the drink to the occupant of
one of the sofas, and slumped down into the other, across from him,
staring quietly across at classic 90s movie playing on the wall-mounted
screen, but no longer interested in it at all.

`You alright?' barked the voice of the room's other occupant, and he
turned his head, scratching at his beard, to face the lounging footballer
on the other furniture; they'd been chatting and bantering after
training when he invited Matt Doherty over to chill at his place tonight,
and it was nothing unusual for the two of them, increasingly close
buddies on the Spurs defensive line.

`All good,' Eric told him dully, then looked back at the screen,
blinking slowly at it, and pushing away the regretful thoughts of that
night in December - well, not just of that night, he supposed, but of
everything he'd done leading up to it. The way he'd handled things. His
martyrdom, his silence, the arguments that preceded it. He should have
fought for what he wanted, shouldn't he? But instead, you put a ring on
her finger, and...

`This movie isn't anywhere near as good as I remembered,' muttered the
strong Irish voice of the lounging right-back, and Dier nodded vaguely in
his direction. `I'm not sure I can even be arsed to watch the end,'
Doherty chuckled, tossing a remote control this way, and shifting
position on the sofa, looking like he was debating whether to catch a
tube back to his place and get out of here. Dier suddenly felt like an
empty house was the last thing he could face, and he bit his lip.

`Me neither,' he admitted severely, but then added, `Fancy shooting a
few hoops out back?'

`Mate,' Matt chuckled, `it's about 9pm and it's black as tar out
there.'

`I've got lighting,' Eric rebutted a bit too firmly. `I just need to
blow off some steam, that's all. No worries if not - I'll hit the
exercise bike, or-'

`Maaate,' the Irish footballer groaned. `The gaffer works us
double-hard getting ready for an Arsenal game that's four days away, and
you've got energy that you need to work off? Fucking hell, Viking, what
a trooper...'

`Don't call me that,' Dier grumbled sharply, and he flinched at the
odd concerned look that the other lad, sitting upright now, gave him. He
brushed past the nickname and his overreaction, and got up to his feet.
`Come on, let's see if I can keep my record alive, just a few out in
the garden. Then I'll release you from the Wednesday night kidnap and
you can go back to your girlfriend, haha, okay? Thanks for keeping me
company while mine's away on a shoot, yeh...' He dropped the TV remote
and reached over to high-five Dohery on his way past, heading for the
French doors at the far end of the room, and unlocking their exit onto
the paved rear of the London house. Matt skipped lazily after him,
apparently not very concerned by his restlessness or his tiny outburst -
a good friend, Eric reflected, and the kind who was always there for him
in these difficult times.


In a French nightclub, Ross was in need of that kind of friend, and he
couldn't help but hate on himself for driving away the only one that had
materialised in his new life on the Riviera. He didn't precisely know
where Joe was tonight, but the Bristolian left-back had been left out of
the squad selection for Montpelier and hadn't shown his face since the
game ended; Ross thought there was some vague talk that it was to do with
Joe needing to get back to London, and negotiating his return to Fulham,
but again he hadn't fully understood the accented conversation and been
too awkward to ask for clarification. He might curiously text Bryan to
find out more, but the two English footballers weren't exactly on
speaking terms so far this year.

He'd come along to the VIP party because it felt like the right thing to
do, and after an hour here he felt as sweaty as he had in the football
stadium, way overdressed for the hot club in his layered jumper and
skinny jeans, and feeling like he hadn't quite cooled down from the
minute that first goal went in. Here he was at the bar, requesting a
bottle of water rather than booze, and wondering if he might make a
Scouse exit.

He didn't feel overly surprised when Kasper Schmeichel joined him there,
leaning forward and pressing elbows into the sticky bartop, grinning at
him with rosy cheeks that showed he was a little drunker than Barkley had
managed. Ross smiled awkwardly back at him, and waited to be handed his
rather embarrassing beverage, which Kasper clocked and smirked at, then
let out a slow chuckle before straightening up and nudging arm to arm
with him. `I thought you were a wilder beast than that, Barks,' the
Dane admitted, raising his voice over the thump of music behind them.

He shrugged. `I'm too hot.'

`Hah. Sure you are.'

Ross sipped the icy water and stared at him, unsure of the tone of this,
since their voices were largely drowned out by the speakers. He smiled
warily at the other player, feeling alert and edgy around him, but not
exactly unexcited. When he looked at him, he largely thought with
irritation about the missed chance for reunion in Tottenham; but he also
thought about strong fingers on his neck, and the muscular hold of the
big goalkeeper at his side, smelling so sweetly. Everything came with
contradictions.

`You wanna get out of here?' he was asked pretty bluntly.

He hesitated to answer. `I wasn't thinking of staying long,' he said,
and he could hear the submission in his neutrality; he was smiling weakly
at the 6ft3 man and doing none of the usual evasion that he had for weeks
and weeks since they got close in a physio room at the training camp and
began to touch each other curiously. But still he was wary. `I'll
probably head home,' he said. `I'm pretty tired out, in all honesty.'

Kasper leaned ever so slightly closer along the front of the bar,
spreading his big hands out across its surface, then pulling them into
stern fists. `Don't rush off,' he mouthed, lip-reading the only option
as his voice disappeared into the background noise, and then he was
leaning in much closer, a hand on Barkley's shoulder yet again, his
mouth close enough for his voice to be heard: `Meet me out behind the
club, mate, and I'll thank you for those two goals, yeah? Good man.'
Ross gulped and nodded, and gave in.


They'd been friends for a while, and he'd always kept his hands to
himself. After all, how many friendships had weathered the storm of a bit
of physical fun? Matt wasn't like that, Eric reckoned, was a bit more
straightforward, or just... straight, anyway. He was full of brash Irish
humour and they had grown very close, and Eric half-knew that Matt
half-knew a few truths about his own love life, though the two men had
never openly discussed it; Doherty understood enough to quietly ask him
if he was sure and happy when he announced his engagement, and to ask if
there was definitely nobody else on the scene that might cause
complications. And Eric had just smiled away this concern and hugged his
pal, glad that the two of them didn't always need to put things into
words - there was a very strong brotherly understanding between he and
the right-back, that made them firm friends at the club, as close in many
ways as he was to his complicated striker and England skipper.

But tonight...

They were both of them working up a sweat, even though the January night
was cold, layers stripped away and sweat patches appearing in their
t-shirts. Dier wasn't sure that Doherty was even wearing underwear
beneath his baggy sweats, or was it just his own pervy eyes that kept
seeking out the movement and shapes in the front of the grey material,
whilst the Irish footballer made agile leaps and dunked the ball in the
net point-for-point with his own efforts, all toothy grins and light
banter.

Eric told himself that he was just restless and agitated, and he needed
to calm himself down. His fiancee would be back tomorrow from her trip,
for god's sake, just chill and wait until you have her back in your bed.
Something had put him in this funny mood and he didn't want it to be as
stupid or simple as a notification that told him Barkley's team were
playing a game; that was ridiculous.

He caught a pass from his visiting friend and bounced the ball idly on
the spot, trying not to look too directly as Matt Doherty pushed both
hands into the front of his sweatpants in the crude manner of sporty lads
everywhere, edging this way with those glaring sweat pants in the pale
green of his tee. `Steam blown off, mucker?' the Swords-born player
demanded quite cheerily, swaggering by him and back through the open
French windows in an easy manner. Eric lifted the ball and sent it
hurtling back up to the wall-mounted net they had been firing into, but
missed and watched it deflect out of the lighting and away into the
shadows of his garden in a series of disappointing bounces.

`Kinda,' he said, half to himself, turning back indoors.

In the centre of this room, in front of the paused TV, the 6ft1 defender
had pulled the sweaty t-shirt off and bundled it between his hands, then
using it to wipe down his face. Eric paused, looking the ripped muscular
torso of his friend up and down for a moment, his hands behind him on the
handles of the closing French windows.

`What?' Doherty demanded simply.

Dier collected himself. `This a striptease for me or summat, bro?'

Matt threw it this way and he caught the damp garment. `I can use your
shower, yeh?' the visitor said with the simple ease of buddies who hang
out at each other's every week. `I'm not going home to the woman
smelling like this, Eric.' Shirtless, the Irishman strolled out of the
room and Eric followed in a slow daze, for some reason still holding his
friend's discarded top, until he was at the foot of the stairs, and
dropping it for him. `Sure,' he murmured, `you're always at home
here, Doh. Er - use the en suite in mine though, I think. Here. Let me
show you.'

It was Matt's fault for mentioning how much he stank, Eric thought,
following him up the stairs - it was like his nostrils were full up of
the other man's fresh testosterone scent, like he'd been hotboxing a
joint and now it was hitting him hard. On the landing he paused and let
the sweatpants stud get a few steps away from him, and Dier rested a hand
on the bannister, questioning why he was being such a creep; Doherty was
one of his best mates, and not like THAT, and he ought to be just cooling
himself down, and...

`This one?' Matt was calling, disappearing through one of the doorways,
and Eric followed, clearing his throat, and pulling at the chest of his
own sweaty tshirt. He overtook his friend and moved across the wooden
floorboards of his minimalist bedroom, disappearing into the adjoining
bathroom, and moving towards the entrance to the wetroom area - he
reached in to switch on the water, laughing awkwardly at himself as he
thought about how easy it was and how unnecessary it had been to
accompany the other Spurs player up here.

Doherty was next to him, patting both hands across his six-pack, and his
dark-bearded face all thoughtful smile as he took his place next to him.
`What?' he asked again, something thoughtful and uncertain in his tone
and his expression, and Dier just looked silently back at him, caught
between him and the door of the shower cubicle. Behind him, the water
hissed and picked up heat, but there was plenty of heat here, his own
pale grey t-shirt glued to his pecs and tummy with sweat. He took in and
released a long slow breath, conscious of how close he was standing to
his friend; too close.

`I think I know how to shower,' Matt pointed out in a gentle chuckle.

`Who knows, with you,' Eric said back faintly. `Your hygiene is always
dubious.'

`Fuck off. We shower together every day.' He had his hands tucked in at
the hips of his pants, and he nodded past him. `You joining me then,
haha?' And down went the grey sweats, and with them the slinky black
undies beneath; in a flash of nudity, the visiting right-back was
brushing past him and into the wetroom, and Eric turned slowly to stare
at him, his hand on the sliding door that would give his friend privacy
and force him to retreat through the house and calm the fuck down.

Matt had grabbed at a hanging shower gel and was now working up a lather
over his chest and shoulders, but still glancing this way; his short dark
hair let a cascade of hot water gush down his lean face to his dark
goatee. Without thinking, Eric stepped over the threshold into the
wetroom with him, and to his surprise the defender didn't really react;
nor did he do or say anything when Dier reached out one tense hand and
pressed it against the long heavy softness of the other man's cock.
Right, then - this was happening.


It wasn't quite an alleyway. The buildings here weren't close together.
It was just a space between them, with a neatly framed view of the
night-time sea at one end, and the other end partly screened by a parked
van. Ross walked into it with his heart beating like crazy and his cock
rapidly stiffening inside the tight crotch of his dark grey skinny jeans;
in front of him, Kasper Schmeichel walked with a certain confident
swagger, one Barkley couldn't help but be attracted to.

`We really doing this?' Barkley asked, and his voice was a strained
laugh.

Schmeichel led him further into the space between the buildings, and
turned on him, that same filthy grin lighting up his face. His shirt was
already unbuttoned halfway down his torso, loosely open beneath the
jacket that layered over it. And he was feeling up his crotch in the
front of his loose-fit trousers, and smirking and licking his lips. He
was a big handsome bastard, Ross had realised that quickly, but now he
wasn't going to try and resist - he needed this. He... deserved this.

He moved closer and he reached out to get a good grab of that bulge
instead, pushing Kasper's hand out of the way to let him, and pulling in
very close to the 6ft3 hunk, so close that he could smell his sweat and
aftershave, and he willed himself to stop shaking nervously as if this
was his first time. But then Kasper was pushing hard on his shoulders and
pressing him back into the breezeblock wall, with Ross still fondling his
bulge, and their faces were close not kissing, both chuckling and letting
out wheezing breaths of excitement, anticipating what they might do here.

`Fuck, you're a sexy cunt,' growled the Dane. `You know that,
Scouser?'

`I've been told,' he couldn't help but murmur back, horny for this.
He squeezed on the full contents of the man's pants and allowed himself
to be pressed back into the cool hardness of the wall, relaxing his leg
muscles to descend, letting the back of his jumper scrape and catch
against the rough bricks- but stopped by Kasper's hands on his
shoulders, and the man's assertive grin. `What? No - you scored the
goals,' Schmeichel laughed quietly in his ear. `I barely had to do
anything at my end. Here - this is gonna be your treat.' And with a
darting lick of his lips, the big man pressed him into the wall and began
to sink down - Ross was shocked and thrilled, not having expected this
exactly.

The hunky midfielder was pressed back against the wall just above the
waist, and then the front of his jeans was unzipped and wrenched open,
and the tight dark denim was tugged about his sides and over the sizable
obstacle of his buttocks, left midway down his thighs. He propped himself
back against the wall, spreading his arms, as the front of his tight
white boxer briefs was yanked down and his hard-on was released - taken
immediately into the soft warmth of a man's mouth. Kasper was a
surprising mouth on his cock, and he didn't feel like the most
experienced or confident sucker, but... his lips were amazing and the
tickle of his soft blonde facial hair was so arousing, and the feel of
his powerful hands pushing under Ross's jumper and t-shirt and feeling
the bottom of his six-pack, wow.

It felt good, and much-needed. He'd been having quite the dry spell now
he was single and awkward in a foreign country. Wow, Kasper didn't quite
know what he was doing, and YET... oh fuck, it felt good to have lips
around his shaft and a tongue on his head, and hands roughing against his
bare hips, reaching about to squeeze and hold the mighty glutes, giving
them a good feel. `Turn around,' came Kasper's hoarse voice, as the
hot wet attention to his erection paused. Ross was surprised by the
breathy command, but in no position to resist, not with those
goalkeeper's hands pushing firmly at his hips - he flipped about and
pushed his hands against the wall, careful not to let his face rub on the
rough brickwork.

`Two goals,' chuckled Kasper's voice, a bit higher up and nuzzling the
top of his spine, but his hands low down and lifting the back of
Barkley's jumper, `equals two fingers, hey?' He heard the wet pop of
the Danish man sucking on the advertised two digits, and then he felt
them, pressing between his strong cheeks, and he let out a delighted gasp
of surprise.


Eric's t-shirt and combat pants were soaked, but he ignored that,
standing tight against the bare body of his friend, looking down at the
work of his hand, pulling furiously on the long hard erection of the
Irishman's rather impressive endowment. Matt was resting gently back
against the tiled wall and sighing with every movement of the hand, not
saying a word since it began, just sighing his approval and rubbing
vaguely at Dier's wet shoulders through his drenched t-shirt and now -
excitingly - reaching that same hand up the side of his face until it was
atop his head, rubbing against his short crop and pressing gently
downwards.

The 28-year-old Spurs player obliged.

Down to his knees, kneeling down on the wet tiles, submerging himself
between the hot spray of the wetroom shower, and positioning himself
right in front of Doherty's reclining body, faced with the lazy rise of
that long stiff member, framed between the dark hair of the Irishman's
thighs. Dier pressed a hand each to these strong upper leg muscles and he
leant in, parting his lips and kissing the side of the dick, his first
since noshing off Conor Coady in the Qatari heat. Still, the only noise
Doherty made was a gentle sighing sound, a kind of relaxed acceptance, no
real worry or conflict in him at all - it was as if the Irish stud had
long been contemplating something happening like this, and was just
pleased and relieved to let it happen. For the hundredth time, Eric
questioned what his friend understood about him - but what did it matter?

He opened his mouth wide and sucked off the defender, taking that long
cock into his mouth and massaging wet hands up the sides of Doherty's
legs, feeling the hot spray envelop them both, and just focusing on the
work of his lips and tongue, and the hot hard feel of a man's meat
inside his gob.


Ross couldn't stop letting out the loudest and most riotous groans,
pressing his chest and arms into the wall but jutting out the rest of his
body to allow Kasper more access - the other powerful man was plunging
two sturdy fingers in and out of his hole at a rapid pace, frigging him
assertively whilst his other hand clung to a fistful of jumper, holding
him in place and pressing him forward. As he fingered him, Kasper grunted
and cursed, calling him a sexy dirty cunt and a beautiful bitch, amongst
other things, but most of his energy seemingly focused on just stretching
and working that bumhole, thrusting the two digits deep into him with
only a bit of spit for lube.

Barkley released one arm from the wall and reached down his front until
he was holding his cock, still wet with Schmeichel's spit. He couldn't
help himself, though part of him wanted this anal pleasure to last
forever. He took hold of his fat heavy prick and jerked on it in slow
powerful strokes, still groaning out wordless enjoyment of this
unexpected attention, his huge cheeks parted and jiggling as that one
powerful hand jutted in and out and stretched him some more.

`You like that, bitch?' was the goalkeeper's repeated question, husky
and urgent.

Ross couldn't quite form a sensible `yes' or anything to that effect,
just wild moans of satisfaction, shocked at how much he needed this,
though at first the wet inexpert blowjob had seemed like everything.
Still he wanked his cock, pressing further back, pushing his arse against
the fingering hand, wanting to feel a third of Kasper's thick digits
inside his aching ring - and still he panted and gasped and whimpered,
and Schemichel just wheezed and chuckled and talked dirty to him.

Soon, he came, unable to stop himself - emptying his balls in several
heavy spurts, his cum spilling against the concrete floor but also over
the coloured suede of his casual shoes, and accompanied by the most
strained guttural noises from his throat, beyond control. They turned
into shallow pants and he clutched at the base of his shaft, letting the
last drops of spunk be milked from the tip of his dick, Kasper's fingers
still deep in his arse, and... ugh, that post-nut clarity, that strange
heady sense of reality. A sexy hunky blonde man behind him, working his
backside, and... who had he let himself believe it was, panting and
cursing at him, and shoving their fingers inside him so roughly? It was
Kasper Schmeichel, and there was something a little unlikeable about the
36-year-old's attitude and persona here in Nice - why was he getting
involved with him?

Kasper was pulling his fingers from him and giving one cheek a squeeze
and a slap, and laughing quietly. `Fuck, have you cum already?' he
grunted.

Ross turned around, collapsing back on the wall, letting his round bare
cheeks scratch against the bricks, his cock flopping loose and smearing a
little cum on the dark grey of his jeans before he began trying to push
it away. His face and neck were shiny with sweat and he let his mouth
hang open as he blearily faced the other man, who towered over him until
he dragged himself fully upright and squared awkwardly up to him.

Schmeichel was grabbing his hard-on through his dark trousers and
pressing forward, shirt hanging fully open now, and sweat gleaming in
patches on his chest. `Right,' he began to say, `now my turn...'
Reaching one hand up against Barkley's face, patting then stroking his
cheek and pulling down his bottom lip with his thumb - but Ross jerked
his head back and shook it and pulled to one side, still trying to fasten
the zip fly of his jeans. `No,' he said simply, and the keeper let out
a single confused bark of laughter.

`What?'

`I need to go,' Ross muttered, conscious of the unfairness, but feeling
a horrible clammy clarity about this - it wasn't a good idea, and though
the orgasm had been amazing, his arsehole stung and the alleyway felt
ridiculously dangerous. This was insane. This wasn't where he wanted to
be. (He pictured a chic white bedroom in a London townhouse, all bare
wooden floorboards and simple decor, and Eric in the doorway, holding two
cups of tea.)

`Wait,' grumbled Kasper. `What? Come on - it's just a bit of fun,
mate-' And he grabbed for Ross by the arm, leaning in against him, his
body heat overwhelming, but Barkley pressed a hand into the centre of his
bare chest and shoved him back.

`And what if I don't want that?' he spat at him, shocked himself at
the speed at which he'd gone from moaning participant to outraged
rejector. `What if I don't want just a bit of fun?' He wasn't REALLY
talking to Schmeichel as he yelled this, he was talking to half a dozen
other guys in the past few years of his life, but he felt every word as
he spat it. `What if I'm not after that, you fucking bell-end? What if
I want more? What you gonna do, leave your wife for me and we'll buy a
villa together here? You gonna propose to me or summat? Fuck off!' He
barged to the side, pulling away as the goalkeeper tried again to grasp
at his arm - but when he looked at Kasper's face, it wasn't full of the
cheeky lust that had led them here, and had driven the sexy man's
numerous attempts to initiate this. Instead, the 6ft3 beefcake looked a
bit freaked out, almost frightened, and Ross knew his rash silly words
had just panicked the bi-curious Viking.

`Hey,' grunted Kasper, but vaguely.

`I'm sorry,' Ross coughed at him, backing off. `I didn't mean to...'

`It's okay, erm-'

`We shouldn't have done that.'

`Mate, it's just...'

`I'm going. I gotta go. I'm sorry. Bye.' And he fled, arse still
stinging, knowing that he'd been a little unfair on the burly
Scandinavian, but totally unable to remain here and find enjoyment in
this; he felt a real sadness overcome, and he wanted to be in England, in
London, in one street in particular of St John's Wood. He rounded the
corner and reached down to finish fastening his jeans, becoming
self-conscious as his clumsy steps mingled with the crowd of smokers
outside the nightclub doors; he skirted around them, ignoring an
indistinct shout from some other member of the team, just hurrying on his
way. Away from here, and back to his apartment - even if what he really
wanted was the airport, and a flight to London.


Eric ate his cum, feeling the hot salty taste in his mouth, and enjoying
the pleasant gentle sigh of release from Matt above. Doherty had knocked
off the shower and without the hot water, the soaked clothing on his body
felt chilly and uncomfortable, but he stayed on his knees for a moment
longer, licking up and down the shaft and kissing the sensitive tip, then
releasing the sated cock and letting it flop against one hairy thigh.
Doherty was limp against the tiled wall, letting out just a quiet
chuckle, his eyes half-closed. Dier pulled himself up, back on his feet
and face to face with the dreamy still posture of his teammate, who
reached stroking hands for his arms, but touching him only loosely.

`Lovely,' the Irishman slurred, almost sleepily.

It was obvious to Eric that there would be no reciprocation here, and he
couldn't bring himself to mind. In fact, his own dick wasn't even hard
in his briefs, for some reason, and he just wanted to get rid of the
handsome bearded bloke in his shower so he could wash down himself and
then climb into bed - but Doherty looked in no hurry, naked and satisfied
and still sighing complacently.

Coughing awkwardly and wiping a hand across his sticky mouth, Eric turned
the hot water back on and then let Matt slink casually past him and out
onto the bathmat; beneath the spray, Dier peeled his t-shirt away and
pushed down his pants, stripping to wash himself, and only glancing out
slightly as the guest dried himself and left the bathroom. Wow, that was
odd.

Under the shower water, the Tottenham midfielder relaxed every muscle of
his 6ft2 body and he stared down at his crotch, at the limp dangle of his
meaty cock - he'd been semi just looking at Doherty before, but now he
found himself oddly numb, somewhat unsatisfied by the mouthful of cum and
the knowledge that he'd brought his straight Irish mate to climax in his
mouth. And now, he guessed, casual dreamy Matt would be drying off and
borrowing clothes and... when he walked out of his bathroom to join him,
would this ever have happened?

That's good, he told himself - he didn't need any more drama or
difficulty, not after the blackmail threat and the collapse of another
relationship. Fine, if he could play about with Matt now and then and it
be PURELY physical, and not even need to be discussed, then- He just felt
a bit empty and sad, and he knew what he was missing. Or who.

Dry and swaddled in bathrobe, he found Matt downstairs, on his way out.
`Cool evening,' Doherty told him, with just a mischievous smile on his
lips, pushing his feet into his trainers at the doorway, clad entirely in
clothes pilfered from Dier's wardrobe, though their style was so similar
that nobody else would notice. In a daze, Eric crossed the hallway
towards him and nodded, holding the robe tightly closed about his big
damp muscles. `Yeah,' he agreed quietly. `Get on your way, Doh-ball,
before your girlfriend gets too moody, ha. Hmm.' Matt flashed him a
smile, then bumped fists with him, and that was that - the right-back
strolling out onto the driveway and down the pavement, and Eric was alone
in the doorway of his home. Not for long, she'd be back tomorrow. And
then he'd be with his fiancee, not alone. But... he might still feel like
it.


Back in his flat, Barkley took a quick cold shower and then climbed naked
into bed, shivering slightly. He had a strong sense of regret, but it was
pretty general - did he regret going to the nightclub at all, and finding
himself feeling apart from the team after all, or did he just regret the
dirty fun out behind the club in particular? Did he regret giving in to
Kasper's advances, or being turned around and having his arse invaded by
two powerful fingers? Did he regret enjoying it and cumming all over his
shoes? Did he regret being so blunt and dismissive to the other man, and
giving nothing back? Huh. Or did his regrets go much further back, to the
first argument with Eric once they were doing long-distance? It felt like
a lot of regret, and he didn't want to follow the string.

Instead, the anxious Scouser slipped towards sleep whilst actively
turning his thoughts back to football, and the moments of success he'd
found in the closing part of the game. Two goals, so close together, and
so soon after scoring his Ligue 1 debut in a recent match; it was
amazing, and he dared to hope that some Premier League boss might have
caught sight of it on a sports round-up. France was lovely, but the UK
was home - his entire agenda here was to regain form and make an impact
and attract offers for a new Premiership club, that had been the plan
when he accepted the contract.

Sleep found him, and a more relaxed state than he'd been in when he
dashed back into the flat, his chunky cock uncomfortable in his skinny
jeans and his bumhole a bit sore. He snored into his pillow and hugged at
the covers, needing a body there to hold. And unseen by him, his phone
buzzed and lit up on a table by the window, and its screen reflected on
the dark glass with its sea view; 1 new message, from Joe B: `hey man -
hope you had fun celebrating tonight, sorry i didn't come. really great
goals, both of them. speak soon'. It lay there in wait for Barkley's
morning eyes, and his warm surprise.




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

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