Date: Sun, 22 Jan 2023 11:49:06 +0000
From: writer guy <premiershiplads@outlook.com>
Subject: Premiership Lads, Part 343

Part 343: DILF-to-be


Someone had knocked some music on, via a low-powered portable speaker,
but the tinny tunes were drowned out by the voices of the football
players in the home changing room, whether they were doing a bad job of
singing along, or just chatting loudly in the glow of their Saturday
victory over the visitors; he didn't really have the energy to get up
and join the cringe dancing of the lads at the other side of the
locker-room, so he just swigged some more of the lukewarm beer he'd been
given, and relaxed where he was, towel draped over bare shoulders and
fresh BoohooMan boxer briefs pulled snugly up about his crotch and
backside, the tracky bottoms left lazily at his knees as if he couldn't
be arsed to finish dragging them up to his waist.

Jarrod Bowen guzzled as much of the beer in one mouthful as he could,
really keen now to just be rid of it - whose idea were these unpleasantly
warm cheap beers anyway? He couldn't remember who'd sneaked the crate
of contraband from their locker and started cracking them open, but when
the gaffer had noticed and laughed along, the 26-year-old player had
gladly accepted one and started on it once he was fresh out of the
shower, but in his head he needed something iced and stronger to round
off a fucking great night.

Everything was a team effort, of course, but Bowen's own brace of goals
in the first half had secured the much-needed win over Lampard's Everton
boys, and so he felt like he should be drowning in champagne and carried
aloft on the shoulders of his fellow West Ham lads, rather than supping
sour warm Bud and feeling too tired to finish getting dressed, ha.

He put the dregs of the bottle aside and yanked the tracksuit pants right
up his chunky legs, hopping up from his arse to his feet, and looking
about for the clean socks to pull over his bare feet. Desirous of a
wilder party as he was, Jarrod felt a real warm buzz, especially as he
checked his phone again and saw the shared images of his
pregnant-with-a-football celebration, promised to the missus as a
follow-up to breaking the news of their unborn twins; JB himself didn't
care so much for social media and public attention, but Dani had been
insistent, and now he was just embracing it. They were booked in for a
massive photoshoot with a glossy magazine later in the week, not the
kinda thing that Jarrod would seek out for himself, but he felt oddly
excited, maybe just because her enthusiasm for showing off their happy
news was so infectious. He felt proud that he'd bagged a pair of goals
for the two incoming kids, and announced his father-to-be status to the
world in the best way possible for a footballer.

His messaging app and social media was abuzz with tagged and shared
images and messages of congratulations, but he locked the device to save
them for later, grinning happily to himself and dragging the towel
through the soft damp of his blonde hair, then searching through his
personal items for a comb.

`JB!' cooed a very familiar voice, and suddenly his friend and captain
was at his side, gripping him by one shoulder then pulling in for a quick
manly embrace, bare chest to bare chest as towels slid away. But Declan
Rice was fresher from the communal shower, and hot steam rose from
blotchy pale skin, the 24-year-old England star breaming proudly at him
and fussing with the folded towel that was slung over one broad shoulder.

`Rice Rice Baby,' Bowen trilled happily back, and the two close
teammates exchanged a half-arsed secret handshake of grabs and fist
bumps, before he turned to snatch up the located comb and run it through
his dark blonde fuzz.

`Less of that, Bow-Bow Baby now,' chuckled the tall defensive
midfielder, who was just in a pair of stretchy white CK boxers as he
stood there with the towel over one shoulder and his cheeks pink with the
heat of the shower. `Right, where are we going to celebrate?!'

It was like Deccers could read his mind, really, since the 26-year-old
expecting father had just been wondering if this warm beer was all he
could toast the big win with - and yet, he had to give a slightly awkward
half-smile back to the bright-eyed younger skipper, hesitating in the act
of combing his hair and then dropping it back into his toilet bag.
`What? Tonight? Oh, er-' he began, and Declan nodded enthusiastically
in front of him, clapping hands together in front of his chest and
bouncing from foot to foot, whilst a change in music track elicited a
ragged cheer from the other side of the room.

`Loads of the lads are up for it,' Rice said quickly. `Some mate of
Antonio's has just opened up a new club in Bethnal Green but thinks he
can get us into their VIP section from about midnight - and even Zouma
and Paqueta are up for a bevvy, for fuck's sake, it could be a really
fucking good one-' And the other Premier League man paused, apparently
starting to read the conflicted expression on Bowen's boy-next-door
features.

`Look,' Jarrod said, `that sounds fucking brilliant, but...'

`Maaaate-'

`It's just I promised,' he pleaded, finding and unfolding the plain
white t-shirt that he'd pull over his muscular upper half, backing an
inch or two from the almost violent enthusiasm of his friend. `Look,
she's a bit vulnerable at the minute, we're still kinda getting used to
the idea that it's twins, and- Mate, I don't think it'll go down if I
ring her now and say I'm-'

`Buddy,' moaned Dec loudly, disappointment oozing from every pore; and
he wasn't alone in this reaction, because a towel-clad Johnson was just
passing them by and joined in with a `boo' that was picked up by a
couple of other nearby guys, making Jarrod squirm and hide his face in
the process of pulling on the tee.

`Mate, trust me, I'd love a few drinks,' Bowen insisted, wriggling
comfortably into it and then grabbing up the bunched socks that he'd
lost before. `But I seriously promised, straight home to the bird. Look
- scrap tonight, say, and we'll do a Sunday session in the afternoon
tomorrow after recovery, or summat? You reckon anyone'll be up for
that...?'

But Rice was barely listening to this suggestion of compromise, backing
away and joining in a fleshy hug with passing Flynn Downes, then pulling
back this way and offering him the most hangdog expression of pouting
lips and wide babyish eyes. `Come on,' pleaded the young Premiership
captain. His voice lowered as he added, `Mase is out of town with the
Chels, isn't he, up in Scouser-land - so I'm off the leash, so to
speak, and I fancy getting wasted and pulling out some Vanilla Ice moves
on a sticky dancefloor, so-'

`I'm a man of my word,' Jarrod grunted at him with an air of finality,
half-turning from him because he knew that Declan's pleading and playful
banter would convince him if he gave it half a chance. He frowned to
himself and ignored another moan of protest from his friend, lifting one
leg at a time to yank the socks over his large feet, then shuffling away
to go through his things and find his jumper. He thought that Rice might
go on, trying to coax and guilt him, but then was almost disappointed
when the West Ham skipper moved on almost instantly, leaving him with
just a light pat to the back - he was straight on to one of the
50-something fitness coaches by the door, shouting at him that he should
come out and show the young lads how to drink like a real bloke.

It was the mention of Mason Mount, he supposed, that brought him a little
discomfort and uncertainty, pausing in the act of unrolling his
sweatshirt and staring thoughtfully through the melee of football blokes
to watch Rice in action, gregarious and attentive to every guy around
him, the consummate team leader and club representative - and yet, Jarrod
thought, pretty much nobody here knew the truth about him, knew that he
was shacked up with his `best friend' in West London, living in a
relationship more happy and functional than most straight marriages
Jarrod had observed in their world of big money and flashy lifestyles...
He'd often suggested double dates to Rice, but the 24-year-old didn't
like the idea of Bowen's celeb girlfriend being in on the secret, and
got very nervous if he suspected that she already knew. She didn't, of
course, because Jarrod was fiercely loyal to his West Ham bestie, and had
guarded the secrets of the England camp even once he was snubbed from
this winter's World Cup drama.

After all... it was hardly just Declan's secret that needed to be kept,
was it? He cringed to think of his own dabbles, and gulped down the very
last of the sickly beer, chucking the bottle into a recycling bin and
sitting down to pull on his trainers. As he tackled the laces, he pushed
aside hazy memories of St George's Park and the risks he'd taken, and
thought instead of the wholesome picture that awaited him on the Essex
border, home to his pregnant girlfriend and whatever rom-com she'd
chosen for them to watch in bed - he didn't need some messy laddish
night out in East London to feel happy with the goals and win, not with
such domestic bliss at the other end of the drive...!

`You giving it a miss too, mate?'

Bowen paused, sitting up from lacing the second trainer, and finding
another squad member positioned next to him; the bigger bloke had dumped
a backpack heavily down on the slatted bench next to him to riffle
through it distractedly, and his casual remark had cut into some
conflicted thoughts where Jarod's mind's eye had flickered between a
cosy cuddle with Dani and an image of himself marching authoritatively
into that bathroom stall with none other than the England captain, Harry
Kane reduced to his knees and opening his mouth wide to initiate him into
the national squad.

`Huh - oh, this night out? Is everyone actually going into Bethnal
Green? Well, I just promised the girlfriend, y'know, and we only just
got this big news, and-'

`Sure, sure,' grunted the London club's latest acquisition without
looking from his bag, clearly a bit concerned about the whereabouts of
something in there. He paused in this task and shot a knowing smile this
way, before quietly adding, `They get like that when they're up the
duff, fella, so get ready for a lot less freedom from now until forever,
ha - but fair play to ya, bagging a Love Islander and bit of East London
royalty, and knocking her up with twins. Must be some fucking crazy
swimmers in ya.' He was being a bit crude, but his smile and eyes
brimmed with warmth and comradeship, and Jarrod couldn't help but let
out a muffled laugh at this ambiguous compliment.

`Thanks, Danny,' he said a little uncertainly, resting his hands on his
knees, and then glancing uncertainly over the room - Rice, already a bit
more fully dressed, was doing his best to rouse a party crew and the
crowd in the home changing rooms was already thinning out, someone
somewhere shouting about ordering taxis - before leaning over and patting
the older bloke on the arm. `Fucking solid debut there, buddy, it's
great to have you with us. Look forward to many assists between us, big
man, yeh?'

A gruff laugh from the 30-year-old transfer, and then one large rough
hand was pushed out for a shake, which Bowen gladly grabbed, though he
had to hide a slight wince of surprise as Danny Ings gripped it a little
too enthusiastically as if he had a point to prove. In his heart of
hearts, Jarrod had been a bit wary about the purchase of the Aston Villa
spare, because everyone knew what Ings could be capable of at full
fitness, and Bowen wasn't desperate for competition on the front line of
the West Ham squad - but he'd been pleased by how humble and
team-spirited the seasoned striker was, and how neatly he'd fitted into
their team dynamics during the past few days of training. He seemed a
really sound bloke, a good addition to the gang.

`Ah, cheers,' chuckled the more experienced footballer, going back to
the frowning search through his backpack; he was all tracksuit-ed up and
looking like he was ready for the off, as if he too had things to hurry
home for. Bowen hesitated to ask, because a little part of him was still
wondering if he could give Dani a quick ring and suggest to her that he
join the lads for `one drink' a bit later on; there was an excited buzz
in the changing rooms and guys were getting dressed in a real hurry.
Michail Antonio was always a reliable one for good social plans, and if
he was hooking them all up with some VIP shit, then-

`Damn it,' Ings was muttering to himself. `Could swear I put them in
here.'

Jarrod scratched at the thin sprinkle of blond stubble on his jaws, and
turned back to the hunched bloke next to him, while more lads exited the
changing rooms, including a happily cheering Declan. Again, he thought a
little grumpily that his good friend might have made a BIT more effort to
convince him to come out, and pushed him a bit further - he was the star
of the game, after all!

`What's that?' he asked Danny distractedly.

`Car keys,' the Winchester-born football ace mumbled. He let go of the
bag and started packing at the pockets of his coat and tracksuit,
frowning through his thin dark beard, and then staring down at the lino
floor as if he might have dropped them here. Jarrod frowned and followed
his frantic gaze from floor to bag, making a sympathetic `hmm' and the
generic pantomime effort of trying to help find them, though his mind was
elsewhere - really, he DESERVED a night out, after those two goals, and
he hadn't had a proper drink in WEEKS, not since before New Year, so-

`Fuck knows,' Ings muttered. `I swear I put them in here but I'd lose
my head if it weren't attached to my shoulders, haha. Fucking hell.' He
rolled his eyes and gave the various pockets of his winter coat another
going-through, whilst Jarrod got to his feet and began packing his
personal things together, whilst tossing his dirty kit into the nearby
laundry bin to be dealt with.

Jarrod shoved all the stuff into his own kit bag and stood by it, looking
over thoughtfully at the far end of the room: Antonio was on the phone to
someone, presumably the mate with the new nightclub, cackling along
happily and estimating numbers and arrival times in a jovial voice. Then
he was heading out, bag slung over one shoulder, and a couple of others
were following him. Right, Jarrod thought, perhaps if he got home quick
enough and dropped a few hints of FOMO to the missus, then SHE might
actually be the one to suggest that he needed to see the lads and miss
movie night...? After all, the details would all be in the squad group
chat, or a quick call to Rice, or...

`Taxi for me, then,' came a weary laugh from the newbie behind him,
reminding him that Ings was still there in his predicament. But the
bearded 30-year-old was zipping up his bag now with a perplexed
expression on his slightly lined face, though he seemed more amused than
distressed by the situation. `They'll be about somewhere, some bugger
will find them cleaning up, or tomorrow... and I'll just head back in
after the recovery sessions, and...' He smiled quite optimistically.
`Should I take this as a bad omen for my time at West Ham, eh?'

Jarrod suddenly had the strong sense that he was being a bit rude to his
newest colleague, distracted as he was by his own indecision. He smiled
encouragingly at the other man and then had another aimless look about
their corner of the room, as if the dropped keys might suddenly turn up -
`Nah,' he told him firmly, `this is just you getting old, Ings mate.
Haha - taxi, you said? Nah, nah - you want a lift? Whereabouts are you
staying at the moment? I'm sure I can drop you before I drive out into
the burbs.'

`Oh - well, if you're sure, fella, that would be nice. Just renting a
place in one of the wharfs, for now, til I figure out a more permanent
plan. You sure you don't mind?'

Bowen shrugged. `Nah, no worries buddy, can't take long - you sure we
shouldn't look about a bit more for your key though? You not a bit
worried?'

A hefty shrug from the striker in his winter layers. `It'll turn up.
Car will be fine here overnight, right.'


On the way out of the stadium's underground car park, he must have
looked a bit too longingly at the sight of several teammates piling into
Rice's Land Rover together, seemingly off to his flat for pre-drinks. He
wouldn't have realised how obvious his indecision was if Danny Ings
hadn't laughed at him and told him that he would be missing a lot more
nights out once he was a daddy, and he should just treat tonight was a
warm-up for the boring domestic life ahead - it was a harsh comment, but
said with a smile and a laugh, and Jarrod just sighed and shook his head
with a nervous laugh, steering them out into the secured roads that
zipped them out of the Olympic park area and into normal traffic of East
London, the apartment address already punched into the navigation app.

`Is this the voice of experience, then?' the 26-year-old goalscorer
asked at a red light, looking wryly at the comfortably slouched figure in
the passenger seat. `How many kids you got, Danny boy?'

`What? Oh, no - not me. Well, not officially,' he chuckled. `I think
there might be a few little lads about the south of England with my ears
and playboy eyes, but it ain't my name on the birth certificates.' He
smirked, and Jarrod laughed at him before steering them out onto a more
free-flowing route down towards the Thames. `No, childless here, but got
hitched last year in Barbados - tamed beast, you might say.' A gold band
was flashed on one hairy hand, and Jarrod tried to think of something
politely interested to ask about the wedding, but Danny went on: `I'm
just talking about all the mates I've lost to boring fatherhood over my
20s, that's all, you know how it is.'

Bowen smiled awkwardly and thought about this for a moment, then laughed
it off. `We'll see what happens with you and the new Mrs Ings, then,
eh?'

Both men laughed easily and fell quiet, moving slowly through the
Saturday night traffic, following the navigator down into one of the
slick riverside wharfs where Danny's apartment block rose among its
neighbouring towers. They chatted some more, Jarrod asking a few polite
questions about where Danny and his missus might settle properly,
recommending his own suburb and a few other patches of the Essex
hinterland where a football wage could buy a veritable palace or two.
Caught up in a bit of friendly talk with the new signing, Bowen actually
lost sight of his FOMO - he'd stopped thinking enviously about huge
vodka bottles and buxom barmaids in a swish VIP section, and was set to
reprogram the navigation to carry him right out into the quiet suburban
peace where Dani awaited him. Until, that was, his calmly chatty patient
made a last remark on the matter.

`We won't miss out on much,' Ings announced, apropos of nothing, as
Bowen pulled up on the kerb near the foot of an almost brand-new looking
apartment block in one corner of the wharf. `I mean, you know the drill
with footy lad nights out, don't you? Everyone will have a good laugh
for about an hour and then five blokes will pass out from too much drink,
another five will get kicked out for starting fights, and another five
will ruin their marriages by shagging the wrong cunt in the club toilets.
Am I right, or am I right?' And he smiled broadly, dimples forming in
his bearded cheeks.

Jarrod, taken slightly aback by the return to that topic, paused with
both hands on the wheel, laughing as he thought through this prognosis.
`Okay - you've got me there. Sounds fair. But if I don't go out, I
don't get to find out which of those fives includes me...!' And again,
both players laughed heartily, and Jarrod only half-regretted a joke
about the idea of cheating on his beloved, the mother-to-be of his first
kids.

`Oh,' chuckled Ings in the passenger seat, seemingly in no hurry to get
out and let him on his way into Essex, `I think we both know which
category you'd be in, JB.' The initials were a bit over-familiar, he
might have thought, though Danny would have heard everyone call him that
on the training field all week, so it was fair enough. Still, his
curiosity was oddly piqued, and he stared across at this guy who didn't
know the first thing about him.

`Which?' he demanded, a little more loudly than he meant to. As Danny
began to suppress another laugh, he scowled jokily at him and tutted.
`I'm not the kind of guy that pukes after three drinks and ruins a
night out, for fuck's sake - I know I've got a boyish face, but-'

`Haha, that is NOT the category I was thinking...!'

`Oh, er, right, I just-'

`And you don't look like you go starting fights,' Ings told him
simply, giving him a light push across the front of the car, `so it must
be the third. Come on, you must be a bit of a shagger. Big heavy bollocks
on you, getting your missus preggo with TWINS, for fuck's sake.
DILF-to-be of West Ham, haha.' As Jarrod paused quietly and digested
this slightly odd appraisal, Danny went on, `And we both know you'd do
something you regret if you went out on that team drinks in Shoreditch or
wherever it was, fella...!'

This made him stop, pressing his thumbs in against the top of the wheel,
and a hesitant little frown colour his country-boy looks. The thought had
crossed his mind before, but not quite in the way that this West Ham
newbie probably meant. It had been in the car park, looking across at
buoyant and sociable Declan, beckoning Fornals and Soucek into his motor;
a jarring little imagining that he refused to label an urge or desire,
more a speculation. He'd wondered if he might get so drunk that he
couldn't face the journey from the city to his place, and if he'd have
to crash at Rice's flat instead, and if maybe- Nah, nah, don't think
about it, that shit can stay in the England camp, where it apparently
belongs...!

`What?' asked Danny warmly. `Offend you, did I?'

`Huh, nah, nah - just - just you've got me wrong there, mate, I'm well
happy with my girl, I'm not the kind to go around-'

`Ohhh, I was just messing,' he was told. `Don't take it to heart,
boss. Right, I should let you get away - or do you wanna see the view
from the flat?' Danny seemed to thoughtfully stop himself, and then pat
one of those hairy hands on the top of Jarrod's arm where it still
clutched the wheel. `Tell you what, why don't you have a COLD beer in
mine, and ring the missus, and figure out your plan for the night,
instead of huffing and puffing over it like you're an old married
bore?' His eyes twinkled, and though his voice had a lightly mocking
edge, the offer felt sincere and helpful. `Just a quick drink up in the
apartment while you weigh it up, and then you can either ditch your motor
here and join the lads, or bugger off into Pleasantville or wherever you
two are shacked up. Sound like a plan?' Jarrod looked at him and nodded
vaguely, carried along by the firm warmth of the new player's confident
voice, and realising that he genuinely couldn't decide what to do.


It was a decent flat, big and airy, but very bland and corporate-looking,
not Bowen's kinda pad at all. Ings seemed very excited about the views
over the Thames, and he was right, with Tower Bridge the nearest landmark
in the sprawl of nocturnal colour that stretched ahead. Up here, Jarrod
held back from sitting himself down on any of the stiff-looking new
leather furniture, unsure he wanted to be here more than five minutes,
because he could feel his decision on a knife-edge, and he hadn't even
texted his girlfriend, never mind called her to float the idea of his
night out.

`So,' he called through into the white brightness of the kitchen area,
`how come you aren't rushing out to party with all your new teammates,
mate?'

He'd been a bit surprised by the absence of Danny's wife, who was still
at their Birmingham residence, having vaguely assumed that a similar
situation might be holding Ings back from getting out on the lash with
Rice and Antonio, especially after his debut appearance as a Hammer. The
new Hammer himself came strutting back through to him, his coat and
jersey off, just a tight black t-shirt left, and the tattoo sleeves of
his muscular arms on show as he passed a schooner glass of lager this
way.

`Honest? Just can't be bothered. Been a crazy week. And - well, I'll
be frank - I can't see myself turning up to a team recovery session
green with hangover, puking in the ice bath, and making a shitty
impression on all my new coaches. Know what I mean? Don't get me
wrong,' Ings continued, supping from his own drink, `I'm always the
first to the bar, but I know when to keep a low profile. I need to let my
goals do the talking for the next few months, rather than trying to be
banter king.' They clinked glasses. `Once you pass 30 in this league,
you've got to make sure you're in a good position, and West Ham might
be my last club, JB - I need to do things right here.'

Bowen nodded slowly at this logic, and looked back at the view for a
while, pretty comfortable with Ings' explanation, but unsure about his
own. He felt guiltily at the outline of his phone in the pocket of his
tracksuit pants, knowing he should give her a ring and hint at the
dilemma, or... Or, he told himself, just accept the inevitable and get on
the road home, like he'd promised! It's not as if Rice or anyone else
was bombarding him with messages to try and convince him that he was
missing out, or would be missed. Even though, a bitter little voice
pointed out, it would have been a draw or worse without his goals, huh.

`Seriously though,' interrupted Danny's voice, `congrats on the
family news, you know I'm only messing with ya. It'll be great for you
both. Just because I've not given in to the dad life yet, don't let me
put you off.' Smiling, he'd sat down in the centre of the white sofa,
and Jarrod decided that to stay standing would look rude. He nodded
gratefully at this comment and perched on the matching armchair, finding
it as stiffly new and unyielding as it looked, and not quite able to make
himself comfortable.

`And like I say, you must be super-fertile or something,' Ings
chuckled. It struck Bowen as a bit odd that this was already the third
comment of this kind that his new teammate had made tonight, but he
laughed hesitantly anyway, and murmured his bland agreement. `Yeah,
crazy spunk in those big balls,' the striker told him in the same amused
mutter. `That's why I had you for a bit of a shagger on a night out, is
all, no judgement of your relationship with that Love Island babe. I
mean, when you've got too much spunk, it has to go somewhere.' He made
it sound so simple and matter-of-fact, and obviously Bowen had grown up
on any number of teams loaded with crude laddish banter, but there was
still something odd here, and he shifted against the stiff white leather,
not laughing any more.

`Give it a rest,' he said a little quietly, but trying to keep his
voice bright and breezy.

`Again, just thinking of other mates I've played with, that's all!'
was the 30-year-old's cheery chuckle of response, and he slid down the
sofa to one end, closer to Jarrod. `Maybe you're a way more controlled
bloke than all that. Different generation, you and me.'

Jarrod scoffed at this, scratching his light stubble again. `Hardly,
you're only like 30 or whatever, so... I turned 26 last month,' he
added, as if he somehow had to assert that he was a man and not a boy.

`Aye,' said Danny in that odd voice that could be mockery or genuine
support, `a big alpha bloke now, even if you look like some farm-boy
who's barely had his first beer or shag at the barn dance, haha. Sorry,
sorry - god, can't say the right thing, can I? Keep making you do that
frown, JB. Ignore me, I'm a prick.'

Bowen didn't know what to say to literally any of this and he just drank
from his glass, the beer tasting so much better and colder than the
bottle in the changing rooms. He wondered if the taste and buzz of it
would push him to crave the sweaty excitement of the nightclub, but he
found himself ambivalent. But then Ings had already offered his parking
spot below the apartment block, so he could leave it safely here and even
catch the Overground nearby, and... Hmm. He realised that Danny was
looking at him expectantly, and had maybe said something else, probably
another daft inappropriate comment. He paused, unsure what to say, and
Danny just laughed.

`I said, is she letting you shag her or is she one of those nervous-bump
people?'

At this bluntness, Bowen could only pause and blink and take a long sip
of beer, but before he could say anything to dismiss the nosy question,
Ings was chuckling to himself and going on. `That's where it must get
tough, if you're a billy big bollocks heavy cummer like you, mate, and
you can't even get the goodies at home, cos she's scared about the
bump, or whatever - that's where a bloke could get desperate and
ANYTHING could happen, you know? Next thing you know, you've fucked
things up and you're shagging someone from a different Love Island scene
in the bathroom of-'

At that, the 26-year-old was up on his feet, and the glass of beer was
smashing on the faux wood floor. Danny rose instantly to meet his
aggressive stance, and Jarrod squared quickly up to him, a switch
clicked. `You need to stop chatting shit,' he told the other player
firmly, pointing a warning finger close to his face. `I don't like the
things you're trying to say about me or my missus, so just watch it,
alright?'

`Whoa, whoa,' protested Ings, without backing off from him, just
holding up both hands innocently, `I warned you I'm a prick, it's just
my sense of humour - you're alright mate, no need to get so feisty,
okay?'

`Well just stop it,' Bowen grunted awkwardly, feeling a bit silly as
the flash of anger receded, but still wagging the warning finger in the
older man's face and stepping up closer to him, unfazed that his host
was a good inch taller and a lot broader. `You've been muttering the
wrong things since you chatted at me in the changing room and I'm not
sure I like it, mate, so watch that mouth or you won't be making such a
great start at West Ham, old man, just like you feared, okay?' They
stood there, close to each other, and he felt like the wrong quip or push
from Danny might earn the balding fucker a punch in the face, never mind
his big tatted arms and pub bouncer demanour - Jarrod wasn't scared to
get physical when needed, he'd learned a scrappy and fearless style in
his seasons at this club.

But Danny Ings didn't say a thing to push the wrong buttons, other than
the rather infuriatingly cheery smile that still lit his bearded features
as he lowered his protesting hands and relaxed his posture in front of
him. No. Instead, he did something else, something that might still have
earned him a knuckle-print on his cheek or nose, except that Jarrod Bowen
didn't quite know how to react, and so he just stood there, fists at his
sides, and mouth set into a grim frown. He let out a long deep breath and
tried to understand what the hand on his crotch currently meant, paired
with that leering grin on Danny's face.

`Just like I thought,' breathed Ings quietly. `Fucking huge low
hangers, by the feel of it.'

`Fuck's sake, mate,' Bowen grunted awkwardly back, alarmed.

`And a whopper cock - how big's that hard?'

`Shit - none of yer business, mate!'

`Bet she loves it-'

`I've warned you, Ings.'

`Are they full right now? They feel it.'

`Mate, you can push me too far, and I'll...'

`You'll what?' sneered Ings. `Throw me down and treat me rough? I'll
let you in on a secret, big boy.' The 5ft10 striker was leaning in so
close that their faces brushed, his mouth coming in close to the ear as
he whispered. `That's just how I like it, daddy.'

Jarrod's world spun, and for a moment, all he could really concentrate
was the knowing hand on his bulge, and the breath on his ear and his
cheek. It was hardly the point, but Danny was 100% correct, because he
and his missus hadn't fucked since the morning she did the positive
pregnancy test. And between that and the Premiership schedule, he'd
barely had time to let loose with a quick tug. His cock was rising
stiffly against this unexpected touch, and his fertile balls were every
bit as big and full as this lewd cunt kept muttering. He stood still like
a statue, fists clenching tighter, and still kinda wanting to swing one
at the other man's infuriating expression. But... this... felt... good...
so...

`I'm gonna get it out,' Ings informed him in a quiet voice, `and I'm
gonna taste it. We good, Mr Fisticuffs?' He didn't answer this
question, just stood there, and even closed his eyes distantly, freezing
himself up as he felt Danny's hands settle on his tense arms and stroke
downwards. Soon it wasn't a hand rubbing the bulge in his tracksuit, but
a mouth. He could feel the club's new striker nuzzling his privates
through the nylon, and he shivered uncomfortably, but excitedly, and the
weight of his ignored mobile phone in one pocket throbbed paranoidly
against his thigh - she would be texting soon and asking about the
traffic, asking when to expect him home. He wanted to be out, enjoying
himself, getting drunk in the VIP, and... and... just like Danny said,
fucking some hot new thing in the bathroom, pushing into a tight new
pussy, but he never cheated, NEVER - he was 100% faithful, to all his
girlfriends, well unless you counted... er, Harry Kane, Three Lions icon,
noshing him off in that quiet toilet stall, or... He reopened his eyes,
and tried to relax the aggro fists at his sides, and he looked down: the
elastic waist of his West Ham trackies was being pulled away, and with it
the black BooHooMan-branded logo too, and there were the short wiry
pubes, and then... out was his hard-on, short but fat and glossy at the
tip where the foreskin rolled back, and then his balls too, full and
heavy and hairy.

Danny Ings licked his lips and went to work, and the father-to-be
shuddered.


He dragged him through into the bedroom, his body on fire. His t-shirt
and sweater were off, piled on the faux wood floor between the white
leather furniture, but he still had his tracksuit bottoms on, though his
cock and ball bounced over the stretched waistband and glistened with
spittle. In they went, Jarrod dragging the 5ft10 muscle by the arms,
panting as he did so, and mouthing `Shut up' at Danny's crude
comments. `Slap me,' hissed the striker, like he had from his knees
when he paused in the sloppy blowjob. `Slap me or thump me, you fucking
stud, show me who's boss.'

`Shut up, shut up-'

`Throw me where you want,' groaned Ings, `and call me anything you
like.'

`Leave it out,' growled Bowen, unwilling to enter into this dirty talk,
but tossing him at the bed all the same, pushing him down into a seated
position and then cupping his head in both hands so he could lower it to
his cock and hold it while he fucked his short thick meat in and out of
that surprisingly talented gob, rough in a way that he never was with
Dani. Never, he thought, with anyone really, except his national captain,
that dark moment of temptation and curiosity, desperate to understand his
best mate's gay activity.

`You can't talk shit with a cock in your mouth,' he snarled at Ings,
unwittingly falling right into the rough-and-nasty talk that the shocking
guy was into - it was genuine anger and frustration from the winger, not
some sleazy performance. `Fucking choke on it,' he told him simply,
leaning into this aggression and authority, behaving in a way that he
would never dare with the daughter of the East End's favourite hard man
caricature. `That's it, slobber on my cock, you slut-'

`Yes sir,' drawled Danny in a moment of gasping freedom whilst Jarrod
pulled back and wanked himself, but then the cock was shoved back in and
only muffled gagging noises could sound from the slut on his bed. Jarrod
reached aggressively over him, scratching fingertips over his bald patch
and across his bearded jawline, then down at his thick neck and those
bulging shoulder muscles, liking how thick and strong this fella was who
was serving him, wanting to rip that black t-shirt away to see just how
bullky his bitch was. He paused to do that, helping Danny out of the
garment, and then spitting directly onto his face, shocked when it was
caught in the mouth and Ings began to tweak his own bullet nipples, those
tattooed biceps bulging as he did. `Fuck my mouth,' slurred the
30-year-old, `fuck my mouth like her pussy...'

Jarrod, unable to stop himself, slapped the side of the man's face
before shoving his cock into the gaping mouth. `You don't mention her,
okay, you shut the fuck up about my girl, you dirty little bitch!'

When next Danny's mouth was not being slammed into, and he was just
gasping and slobbering against Jarrod's six-pack instead, he grunted,
`You gonna fuck my man-pussy, daddy? You gonna breed me like you bred
her?' And Jarrod pushed at his head roughly, slapping his cock against
his cheeks angrily, but the idea struck something in him all the same,
even as the striker slurred on, `You gonna breed me and fill me with all
that spunk like you did your other dirty Dani, eh? Cum in me, daddy-'

`Shut up,' Bowen snapped at him for the hundredth time.

`Fuck me good,' begged Ings. `Stick it in me and breed me!'

If there had been a single rational thought left in the young
footballer's head, he'd have known that he was giving this rough
bastard exactly what he wanted, but he was all testosterone and
desperation, and so much spunk. Onto the bed they went, grabbing and
tussling with Danny's heavy physique, until he was being pushed
face-first into his own mass of new pillows, his arse up in the air, the
waists of his tracksuit and undies sliding down a bit like on a fat
builder, exposing the top of his hairy cheeks. With rough grasping hands,
Danny helped them on their way, pushing them down to expose the big round
buttocks, covered in dark hair, and spitting clumsily at them whilst
gripping his dick in hand. This was madness, but he was lost in it.

`That's it,' came Danny's growl, `fuck me like your girlfriend, just
another Danny-'

`SHUT UP!' And he pushed the man's face down more roughly into the
pillows, almost smothering him, whilst he parted the cheeks with another
hand and gobbed once into the crack. Then, without much ceremony, he
pushed the fat tip of his cock between the cheeks and tried to enter him,
shocked by the feel of a muscular arse against his neglected cock. It
took him a good few shoves and rubs, but the hole gave way and he was in
him, pushing into him quite violently, and shocked that he was doing it
and that Danny was taking it, but just needing to punish this cocky
bastard - and needing, more than anything, to empty his swollen daddy
balls.

After holding Ings' face down into the smothering pillows for a little
too long, he released his grip, and found that he actually wanted to hear
that quivering gruff voice after all: `Fuck yes, that feels good - fuck
fuck, fuck me hard, HARDER, god yes!' And smut to that effect. He loved
to hear it, though he slapped aggressively at the muscular back, and
pushed roughly on the back of the man's head, and slammed his thick meat
into him harder with every thrust, shagging him (him!) into the bed with
an energy that he usually restrained and controlled, finally fucking with
the same gusto and battle spirit that he brought to West Ham's tough
league fixtures. `Yes daddy,' the man called him, despite being four
years his senior, and when he kept saying `Breed me like your Dani',
Jarrod had to shove his face deeper into the pillows again to shut him
up, slamming and pounding his hairy bottom with such force and speed that
he knew he couldn't last for long.

It was a matter of minutes before this slutty man was getting just what
he'd asked for, just what he'd muttered about all night: the emptied
contents of Bowen's bollocks, a huge dirty load fired inside his hairy
arse, with the more established West Ham player panting and grunting over
him with his eyes squeezed shut, and his hands pressed tightly just above
the hips. For a few more thrusts he shoved into him, wheezing
breathlessly and feeling his whole face sticky with sweat. The red mist
in his head cooling, because now Danny Ings was just letting out gasps
and sighs and moans, not giving him dirty chat or making crude remarks
about his missus. Danny. Dani. Danny. Dani. He'd been fucking her, in
his head, he told himself, as his hands found the hairy curve of the
man's arse, and he shuddered at the knowledge of the line he'd crossed.
He'd been fucking this lump of muscle as if it was his beautiful woman,
he told himself, because she was pregnant now and wouldn't let him in
her, and... and... and... Oh, god.

Without saying anything, he pulled out, barely breathing, and scrambled
slowly but desperately off the bed, his tracksuit pants still about his
shins and calves. Up he tugged them as he hobbled for the door, moving
slowly through the bland corporate apartment, finding his way into its
oversized bathroom, where he could run his hands under cold water and
then splash it on his face, his chest, his pits, his dirty cock. Oh, god.
He stood over the sink and mirror in a shaky comedown, and then drifted
back into the main living area and all its open-plan showhome grandeur.
On the floor between the sofa and chair was his dropped clothing, but
also the puddle and broken glass of his dropped beer. He picked his way
past this mess and retrieved the layers of clothing, tugging them onto
his tingling skin, covering up his chest and back and wiping the sleeves
against his feverish face.

Then, shaken, he sat back down in that stiff uncomfortable armchair, just
staring down into the slick of beer on the laminate boards, the little
sparkles of broken glass in it, as shattered as his discipline and
certainty. His cock tingled sensitively inside his pants, and he glanced
up as Danny emerged from the bedroom. He'd pulled a silky claret robe
around his body, showing just a V of hairy chest, and a flash of leg
before his socks.

`Right,' Ings said very casually, `are you going out with the lads or
driving home?'

Bowen stared sharply at him. `What?' he asked, genuinely lost.

`Tonight,' the other footballer grunted simply. `You came up here to
have a beer and make up your mind. And... well, the beer is as fucked as
my hole. So, what are you doing next?'

The 26-year-old just stared at him, somehow as shaken by his cool
indifference now as he had been by his lewd suggestions and nasty
provocations before. Danny looked chill and comfortable in his robe, and
he was moving through into the kitchen, apparently to find stuff to clean
up the beer and glass. Jarrod's eyes followed him, and he slowly got up
from his uncomfortable seat, wiping clammy palms on his knees.

`Home,' he muttered, half to himself.

`Probably for the best,' his host agreed quietly. `You don't look up
to a night out.' Danny didn't even look this way as he attacked the
mess with a mop, and Jarrod drifted away from him, picking up his jacket
from the back of another chair, and making his way to the door. He just
felt numb and a little bit frightened of himself. As he stopped in front
of the door, unsure what to say, Danny stopped in his mopping and waved
confidently this way, the robe slipping and showing a bit more chest
muscle. `Good to hang out,' Ings called, as if they'd just shared a
beer together and talked about footy. Bowen unlatched the door and
hurried out into the corridor, but just before he slammed the door behind
him, he heard the man's teasing voice follow him out: `Come again,
daddy.'

He practically sprinted to the lift, annoyed by how sensitive his cock
was bouncing in his clothes, and by the prickle of the sex sweat under
the layers, and he opened up his phone. He ignored the string of pleading
messages that seemed to have just arrived, an already-tipsy Declan Rice
begging him to join them at his flat and then on to the club, and he
dialled the number to call his girlfriend instead. `Traffic,' he told
her through his panting, full of apology, `but I will be back soon.
Promise.'


Alone in the apartment, Ings gave up on the mess, resting the mop and
strutting back through into his big master bedroom, all immaculate and
unlived in but for the creased outline of their heavy bodies where he'd
been ploughed into the bed. He wondered silently if he would need to
change the sheets for before Mrs Ings joined him here, but probably not,
it'd be fine.

He went to the desk in the corner, by another huge window with its river
view, and picked up the spare mobile phone there, his secret one that he
would never leave lying around whilst his wife was in residence. It
wasn't locked, and he smirked at the app on-screen, stopping the sound
recording that would have captured every filthy word and slap. Then he
went into the messaging app and fired it across the network, tapping in
his message of `For you to listen to tonight, sir'.

Soon, the reply came, and he hunched over the device like an excited teen
with their first crush, reading the `Good boy' and `Can't wait' that
came in rapid succession. His hole stinging from the speed and force of
Bowen's fucking, the practised submissive bottom smiled at the thought
of the Irish beast who'd tamed him, but now very rarely came to see him
in real life, even if he managed to dominate him from a distance in spite
of that. The thought of Shane Long, his Celtic king, made him weak at the
knees, and his cock strain against the silky robe.

`Think I'll have fun here,' he texted to his former Southampton
teammate.

`Just like Villa lol' came the response.

`Even more,' Danny typed in rapidly.

Another `Good boy', and then a picture message. An old one, one that
Danny might have thought or hoped was deleted by them both, a still of
him on his kitchen floor with a carrot up his arse, taken for his dom a
couple of years back, when he was much newer to serving hot football
daddies. He grinned and responded `Thank you sir' and then typed out
`Miss you' before wiping it away, knowing that he would be scolded for
such neediness. But then, just as he was about to lock the device and put
it down, the final message from old Shane slid into his inbox, and he
stared at it eagerly: `Maybe I'll have to cum visit lol', and he hit a
thumbs-up react as fast as he could, and he opened his robe to grab and
wank his cock, desperate to be reunited with the Irish striker who had
broken him in. Compared to him, Bowen was nothing but a boy, he needed
his original DILF back inside him, making him scream - and he wanked
himself to completion looking at just the messages, desperate for that
powerful man to come back and claim him for the first time in many long
months.




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

Amazon Wishlist here if you wanna say thanks LOL
  https://www.amazon.co.uk/hz/wishlist/ls/26BW3WSABBHNM?ref_=wl_share