Date: Mon, 13 Mar 2023 22:20:09 +0000 From: writer guy Subject: Premiership Lads, Part 351 Part 351: The Curious Case of Benjamin Chilwell Saturday was match-day, even when he was ruled out with an abdominal strain, and was watching the build-up to Chelsea's latest match from a giant screen in a comfortable family residence positioned halfway between West London and his family's Portsmouth roots. A sensible low-alcohol beer in one hand and a fistful of broken pretzels in the other hand, the 24-year-old drifted from room to room, coming to check the time on screen and to see how long his travelling colleagues had before kick-off at the Walkers Stadium. On screen, Sky pundits were talking up the game as if it was a local derby or a knockout cup match, placing lots of hype on Chelsea's need for improvement and Leicester FC's own poor form in comparison to recent years, and Mason Mount could only tolerate so much of it. The eager young lad didn't need to hear about how crucial a game was when he couldn't be part of the fight, as much as he would tune in and root for his fellow players from halfway across the country. Luckily for Mase, the sound of his family piled into the sprawling lounge largely drowned out the opinions of this Saturday's suited experts, and the lightly injured midfielder could drift cheerfully between entertaining nephews and perching his perky arse on the arm of a sofa whilst listening in to the conversation of his mum and sisters, and then nip to and from the kitchen to courteously replace drinks for other family members - this house wasn't even really his, but the fact he'd blown so much money on it for his beloved family members pushed him into the role of host nonetheless. The Portsmouth boy's attention was taken back to the game by some close-up footage of the Chelsea lads marching out in their bland waxy-coloured away kit, and the odd sensation of watching his own sporting life from such a position of detachment, the curse of the injured spectator. Mason smiled almost unconsciously at the passing expressions of each Chelsea squad member, glad yet amused at the various facial evidence of gritty determination and almost irritable nervousness as they stepped out against the Foxes. It was when the camera lingered for a moment over one of his best mates on the team that Mount really had to pause for thought, in the middle of filching more pretzels from a dish on the low coffee table, then flopping himself into a free seat at the corner. As always, Ben Chilwell had his dark hair slicked back pre-game, none of its usual coiffured Prince Charming style, and his defensive teammate had his sharp jaw set in the same look of steely defiance as so many on the starting line-up. Handsome fucker, Mase told himself playfully, the thought laced with attraction and cheeky resentment; it was a dangerous thought, though, given that his closeness to the other England international had once been very problematic. That didn't change the truth of it though, taking in the camera's slow appraisal of Ben's good looks and his quick flurry of warm-up rituals as the Chelsea players found their spots and readied for kick-off. He WAS a handsome fucker, all being said and done, and it was a thought that buzzed repetitively at Mount's consciousness whenever he trained or played with or just plain hung out with the 26-year-old home counties lad. It had particularly struck him just a couple of days ago, when he and Ben had been doing arm day in the Chelsea training gym together, and he'd playfully compared their developing biceps as an excuse to feel Chilwell's up through his long-sleeved top, making them both giggle stupidly and play-fight their way across the fitness suite, until the slightly older footballer was squirting his water bottle at his head and telling him to go take a cold shower as soon as possible. Jokes aside, Chelsea's home-grown midfielder had been like a dog in heat that midweek afternoon, and he'd found himself unable to take Ben's hint; back close to the other lad, snatching the water bottle from him to steal a few glugs, and wondering loudly whether Chilly was doing lots of extra exercise sets at his London townhouse to get into such pumped physical condition lately, watching the slight humble blush form on those chiselled cheeks. `Relax,' the 24-year-old murmured, coming up close beside his teammate at the set of weights machines they were about to move onto, and draping one of his own bare arms across those strong lean shoulders, sweaty skin on his training jersey. `You want to learn how to take a good compliment, Chilly boy, that's your problem - no wonder you're still single, if every flirty comment makes you blush like this.' `Oh,' muttered Ben a little distantly, `so you ARE flirting, then - I did wonder.' Mason tutted and giggled and squeezed his shoulder. `Not sure i'm ever NOT flirting?' he laughed self-deprecatingly, then turned his squeeze into a stroke, running his hand back along the shoulder and letting his fingertips tickle sensuously at the base of the other lad's neck. `Wasn't my grabbing your big hench arms enough to...?' Chilly wriggled slightly away, chuckling but looking uncomfortable. `Okay, either flirting or just outright mocking me, fucker,' he said in a low voice, seeming distracted and uncomfortable now. `Never can tell with your sense of humour, Money Mase.' He hugged aforementioned arms about his chest now as if quite self-conscious about his muscle gain, and making Mason just wanna give him a reassuring hug, if not a reassuring blowie. And the gym was entirely empty, other than them two. He grinned and leaned in closer. `Not in the mood for jokes,' the young star said coquettishly. `No?' Ben murmured back. `Follow me into that cupboard and let me show you.' `Mate...' `Just a quickie,' Mason found himself giggling insistently, running a hand slowly down the back of Ben's jersey, leaning in so that their faces were almost close enough to kiss. `I'll show you that I'm not joking about what a fucking stud you look right now-' `Mate,' Chilly repeated, sounding cross. His handsome face was marred by a grumpy frown as he pulled back, the flecks of ginger in his thick stubble catching the gym lights. `Declan,' he said pointedly. `Watch what you're doing. Ahem.' And he took a step back, adjusting the front of his baggy shorts, then coughing - enough physical discomfort there to titillate and interest Mason further, suspecting that his tender touch was having the right effect on something other than Ben's sensible brain. `Declan?' he mused quietly. `He's not here, is he?' `You know what I mean...' `Things aren't like that any more,' Mount insisted, semi-truthfully. `Those troubles were a long while ago, buddy.' He licked his lips and nodded away to the left, to the half-open supply cupboard at one end of the gym. `Come on - give me ten mins and-' But Chilwell was barging past him, abandoning the weights machines, bumping shoulders and arms with him on the way past, shaking his head so that a few droplets of sweat flicked from the shaggy damp curtains over his brow. `Let's not go there,' the former Leicester player protested quietly but firmly. `I'm driving home before you get any sillier, bud.' He turned and frowned very seriously at him. `You need to stop this,' Chilly informed him with a kind of prudish approbation that irritated but excited Mase. He pouted sulkily at his friend and took a couple of steps after him. `Oh, matey, don't be like that,' he murmured, apologetic but not entirely un-seductive. `I'm just offering a little help to a lonely friend in need...' `Who says I'm lonely?' Ben demanded. `Anyone with eyes?' Mason offered, and he knew it was a bit blunt or rude, and he saw the flash of panic or discomfort on Ben's princely features. `Sorry, that was-' `See you tomorrow,' Chilwell told him, backing away, grabbing up a fee of his things from the shelf by the water cooler - for a moment he seemed to hold them at his crotch as if there was something specific to hide there, but then pulled them up to his chest in a hug and Mason was mildly disappointed that the bouncing bulge in his blue shorts was only as floppy and prominent as normal, not an extra hint of stiffness for him. Mount didn't shout after him, feeling a bit silly on his own in the gym, and still feeling a little bit daft as he mulled over it over a week later in his family's TV room. A bit daft, but also indistinctly horny, the TV camera panning past Ben again in the opening minutes of the clash; idly, Mase pulled at the crotch of his loose-fitting jeans and then pushed himself up off the chair, busying himself with grabbing a couple of empty glasses and cans from the nearby table. In the kitchen, dropping these on the counter by the sink, he found himself alone with his other half for the first time this afternoon. Here he was, slinking away from the oven and rubbing his large hands together against an already-grubby tea towel, and glancing furtively side to side to check they were alone before leaning in for the peck, a kiss that Mason so gladly returned and wanted to take further. Declan hovered in front of him, standing over him, smelling richly of the roast dinner he was cooking; Mason didn't really know what any of his fam REALLY thought about his `best mate' coming down here with him for the day, nor the fact Rice was so willing to watch his boyhood rejection club and now rivals, before he headed back to London to prepare for a West Ham outing of his own. But really, nowadays, Mason didn't particularly care - he liked to assume that they'd all guessed the nature of his closeness with the big stud, but he hadn't yet brought himself to open up. With an air of tense caution, Declan pecked him on the lips again, a cute expression of deviant boldness on his long face once he'd done it, and then a slow tender stroke of one large hand up the sleeve of Mason's jumper. `What's up?' the West Ham captain whispered. `My cock, if you touch me any more,' Mase joked back, resisting the urge to grab that hand and pull it down to the front of his jeans, and just pulling briefly on the fabric of his boyfriend's cooking apron for a moment instead. `All good, just thought I'd check on you...' `Nah, don't worry,' Dec insisted. `The game must have started. You enjoy that and I'll get things sorted in here. You checked that everybody likes Yorkshire puddings, right...?' `Declan,' he sighed, `what sort of fucking freak doesn't like Yorkshire puddings...?' `Okay, okay, I'll make loads.' A tight-lipped smile behind the wispy goatee of his features, framed by his new shorter cut that made him look all the more rugged and charismatic in Mount's eyes. `You're sure you're all good?' his lover and best friend asked sensitively, pausing in front of him for a moment more. `Just wondering why I got mugged off by the lad I cheated on you with' wasn't exactly a kosher response, so Mason just smiled and shrugged and backed off, knowing better than to reach for another kiss when one of his nephews could roar into the kitchen at a moment's notice pretending to be an inconvenient T-Rex. And yet... his comments to Chilly that afternoon weren't full bullshit, because he and his Declan had moved miles and miles since the difficult positions they'd been in before, gripped by Rice's insecure jealousy and his own mercurial desires. The couple who'd swapped bodies with Maguire and Shaw over a cheeky round of volley-ball in the pool were not the same lads who'd fought over the distracting good looks of Chilwell in the past - just as Ben himself was a more serious and grown-up fella than the troublemaker who'd disrupted their bond. Still, Mason knew that there were limits to the fun they could or should get up to, and he knew that in particular he should leave Ben alone; he and Chilly were close pals and Rice seemed to totally respect that. Best not to complicate it, even if Dec himself had made the odd cheeky joke about inviting Bulging Ben back to their London pad after a few too many shandies or vodkas - best to leave Ben to it, even if his self-imposed celibacy was an odd mystery to someone as promiscuous and mischievous as Mason Mount. Mount wasn't the only Chelsea teammate giving that mystery a little thought - another 24-year-old midfield player was watching Ben right now, albeit from a closer vantage point than the New Forest. That said, the view from the Chelsea subs bench was a little less vivid and HD than the Sky Sports camera-work on the Mounts' plasma screen, and Christian Pulisic wasn't just fixated on the close fit of Ben's away kit as he bounded about the pitch and built up inevitably to claiming his 11th minute goal that got things going for the Walkers Stadium visitors. No, the young American was thinking a little more about last night and this morning, and the nature of his close friendship with the left-back. Chelsea's Pennsylvania transplant sat forward, chin on knuckles, and pictured the comfortable banter on the chartered jet that brought the squad from Heathrow to East Midlands airport last night, he and Chilly squashed together on the same back row as Kai Havertz and Cucurella, posing for a rare selfie. On their side of the aisle, Christian and Ben had played a number of games on the embarrassingly short flight, and continued that into the almost-equally-long coach journey to their Leicester hotel. `It's good to get roomed together,' the American athlete chanced to say quite casually when they were playing a different card game together in the hotel suite about an hour later, and then fell quiet to try and catch Chilwell's full reaction to this. Pulisic felt a little silly in the pause that followed, because despite his laconic delivery, it was a very sentimental and un-English thing to say to a teammate, and perhaps his card game opponent was reading something into it right now, not quite looking up from his hand of cards. `Sure,' came Ben's vague and distracted reply, still not actually looking at him. The American 24-year-old nodded and tried to lose himself in scanning his own fanned-out hand of cards. `I mean - it's a shame Mase isn't out here with us this weekend, but - I like it when you and me get roomed together. Always a bit more of a laugh than some of the options, y'know?' Sat opposite him on the same double bed, dressed down for curfew just like him, Ben seemed to chew on this comment. `I'd have thought you'd have a better laugh with loads of the team,' he said fairly. `I know I'm not exactly the banter king, hah.' A little self-conscious smile split his face and his eyes twinkled briefly. `But yeah, I mean, we like a lot of the same things, don't we?' `We do,' Christian agreed, perhaps a little too quickly, his eyes following the sharp lines of Ben's face and the soft brown halo of his dishevelled hair. `I mean, considering we grew up on different sides of the Atlantic, and all that.' He grinned thoughtfully at the defender, forgetting all about the card game until Ben yelped triumphantly and laid down his next card, edging the game towards its dull conclusion. `I mean, sometimes it's like we're two halves of the same person,' some bold corner of the American's lovesick heart thought out loud, and then he backtracked desperately - `I mean, that sounds cringe, but I just mean I'm so glad to have friends like you - and, er Mason and Kai - out here so far from all my old school pals in Hershey, you see.' Ben gave him one of those earnest glances of his, seeming to be so clear and perceptive that surely he could see through these lame overtures of repressed romance. But he just smiled blandly and said, `Yeah, we're like brothers, the gang of us - I'm really glad to have a crew like this after leaving Leicester behind that season, when I thought it was going to be my team forever.' He laughed critically at himself. `I realise Pennsylvania is a bit further away than the East Midlands from London, though...' Pulisic, laying down a card and accepting defeat, was still smarting at the reality contained in the words `like brothers'. Tidying the cards away, he got up from his bed, dressed in loose long basketball shorts and a thick Penn State sweatshirt gifted by one of said high school buddies - and, he thought, another of his frequent crushes, a jock whose underwear he'd sniffed at every occasion, and still been cry-wanking over when he first moved to Germany to the continent where `soccer' really mattered. Pulisic had enough self-awareness to chart how quickly his crushes developed, he wasn't a total goofball idiot. At Chelsea alone he could count them off, could remember his almost slavish devotion to the ill-fated Ross Barkley, and then his greedy fixation on another departed colleague, Timo Werner, and that was just two of them. He'd been a bit TOO keen on Mase himself at a couple of intervals, he was fairly sure, and now... Well, he could hardly blame himself, just look at how handsome the English git was. Ben was still sitting on his bed where he'd left him, zip hoodie falling open halfway down his lightly hairy chest, and gym shorts riding up his pale muscular thighs, accentuated by the slouching position he'd adopted there, seeming to meditate on something now that the last night of the game was over. Christian stood still and studied him like an artist about to approach a portrait, now thinking about how Chilwell could be the handsome muse to any such painter. The 26-year-old on the bed seemed not to notice, and that felt typical; Ben seemed to be completely oblivious to the strength of Christian's feelings towards him in the last six months or so, and Pulisic had none of Mount's mischief or boldness. Compliments over card games was the American's idea of making a move, unfortunately. `Oh,' Chilly said suddenly, looking up and stretching out his posture. `You're waiting to get into bed - let me get out of the bloody way!' And up he went, clambering off the bed in a flash of chest and thigh, and then skipping lightly towards the other big double bed of their shared suite; and Christian just stood there between them, getting a little waft of Ben's aftershave as they crossed paths. At least Chilwell had misinterpreted his lingering stare, he supposed, wondering why he was so reluctant to just do something forward and voice the extent of his affection for the English left-back. He was about to say a muted thank you when a surge of such forwardness caught him at the right moment, maybe fuelled by the sweet Dior scent in his nostrils. `You could have stayed put,' the American said hollowly, `and just lined up for a spooning session.' It was as risque and seductive as he was getting. Just out of his eyesight, Chilwell was chuckling easily, taking it for a late joke. `Chance would be a fine thing, having someone to cuddle up with,' came the bittersweet laugh of another lonely single, and Pulisic burned with the impotent urge to shout out that he'd happily be that' someone', like literally RIGHT NOW. But instead of calling Ben out on this, he just climbed quietly into bed without looking across the room at him, his cock a little chunky in his shorts from having sat so close to those exposed legs for the last thirty minutes. He cursed himself as he lay down on the pillow, and was still cursing himself as he sat there in his substitute tracksuit in the first half of the Leicester game, celebrating Ben's surprise goal - he was absolutely convinced that the good-looking left-back was well out of his league, and THAT was the reason he wasn't going to put himself out there for rejection and humiliation, he knew it with grim self-awareness. Safe in the bubble of team spirit, the American cheered and yelled for his current crush as if he was hollering for his own special someone, rushing forward to hug and squeeze the goal-scorer on the touchline when Ben passed their way. In another league, the Pennsylvanian told himself unfairly, scratching at his own short dark curls of hair, and playing with the zip of his tracksuit top - yet another silly crush. And it will pass like the others, the winger urged himself hopefully, but hesitantly - because he didn't really want it to pass, not really, the sensation he got when he was in Chilly's company, basking in the handsome lad's quiet charms. He'd suffer his unrequited love for as long as he could stomach it, he admitted to himself, cheering the team on and hoping for a 2-0 lead soon, but unable to watch any player but Ben himself. `Fuckin' hell - you're filling those shorts up well, lad.' Other horny bastards might have just thought it, but Jamie Vardy saw no reason why he shouldn't come out and say it, although he'd have had some explaining to do if his muttered appraisal had been picked up by any pitchside microphone. As it was, such risks were mitigated by the fact the loyal home crowd at the Leicester ground were cruelly booing their former favourite, chanting about the Chelsea sell-out whose arse and bulge were giving Vardy plenty to visually enjoy. It was 2-1 now to the visitors, and Jamie was skulking as far forward as he could, ready to try and salvage a point at least by securing a second goal for the hosts. And in doing so, the 36-year-old striker was finding himself closely marked by the wearied figure of the Chelsea left-back, treating him to a close-up view of just how snug those pale gold shorts were on the curved backside of the younger lad, and how much there was to bounce about at the front whenever the goal-scoring defender burst into motion. `Bulging Ben, that's what some of the lads used to call you, hey?' Vardy leered across at him, making a short movement to try and claim a pass before slowing down as he saw it blocked and directed elsewhere. He slowed and turned his lewd grin towards the Chelsea player, shifting from jog to a casual hop and then pausing, hands on hips, to stare expectantly down the pitch at the midfield melee. `Shut up,' returned Chilly from a few yards away, a pant and a hint of laughter in his voice; he sounded businesslike and unamused, but not necessarily agitated. The daft cunt probably did just think it was mind games, or something like that, and that fresh Vardy off the bench was trying to put him off his stride whilst he anticipated getting the equaliser in the final ten minutes of the game. `You know me,' Jamie called discreetly to the man-marker, `I just calls it like I see it, boyo.' `Leave it out,' came Ben's dry chuckle close by, tracing his movements as Jamie zigzagged closer to the centre of the pitch and circled the action like the calculating predator he was. The older player glanced repeatedly over his shoulder to smirk and grin at his former young pal, former teammate, former... playmate. Jamie liked seeing him like this: older, stronger, a little more sure of himself, and making a reputation for himself at a high-status club, even one in such strange and self-destructive times as Chelsea seemed to face. He'd always genuinely liked Chilly, and had never expected the talented defender to stick about at Leicester, although he'd have marked him more for one of the Manchesters or Merseyside, like Big Slabhead. He was proud of the 26-year-old, in all honesty, and he'd even felt a contradictory flare of pleasure at seeing his goal from the bench, though it had set the tone for his own side's probably defeat. But it wasn't all wholesome affection or altruistic admiration, nah. He also just found the younger lad sexy as hell, always had. Amongst all of the conquests, and there had been so many since his first drunken and coke-fuelled fumbles in the lower leagues, Party Vardy would always hold a special place for those couple of memories of leading curious Ben astray several years ago: luring him into a shared wank and then, before the beautiful dope knew what was happening, sticking his tongue in his arse for a taste, licking the lad out like a slut's cunt on a Saturday night in Sheffield. Eventually, of course, he'd claimed that hole as his own and deflowered the stud, but it was rimming his peach that really got Jamie hot under the collar when he thought back to those days, back before he'd even bottomed himself for the first time, so his admiration for Ben's weighty equipment had never extended beyond giving it a dismissive stroke. He'd barely even bothered to try sucking off the gorgeous youngster, because back then Jamie had been exclusively a filthy top... except, maybe, for his penchant for eating arse. THAT'S what flared in his mind now, that Saturday afternoon, keeping one eye on the motion of the football, and the other on Ben's physique and deft movement, wanting an excuse to launch into a physical tackle with his former colleague, just to feel that strong young body against his own lean ripped one. So fucking what that Jamie had his own new playthings in the Leicester fold, from doe-eyed ginger Barnes to old faithful Madders - having Chilly back in this stadium made him want to tear down those ugly shorts and part those perfect cheeks for a sweaty lick. The striker played on with a heavy semi in his briefs and blue shorts, but then that was nothing new, the cut-and-thrust of the sport pretty much always got him randy and he rarely left the pitch without a slight swelling down there. But rarely was he as close to just grasping an opponent and shoving a hand inside his keks than when the ripples of action brought him closer and closer to Chilwell - so much so that his heart sank when the younger guy was eventually subbed off by Potter and discarded to the bench, and Vardy simply had to behave like a professional and concentrate on trying (and failing) to level the score. At the end of the match, the senior striker had to give a bitter laugh to himself, grabbing Ben's paw for a shake as the losing hosts stalked indoors to lick their wound. He smirked at Ben as if the younger lad was party to his own thoughts, joking earlier that his dirty comments might be misread for mind games as he tried to put Chilly off - in reality, he supposed, it had gone the other way, his own sharp focus blunted by a strong sexual magnetism towards the dark-haired pretty boy. In the moment's sweaty handshake, Chilwell seemed to read his lewd expression and realise that the comments were meant in all seriousness; he was already flushed red in the face, swaddled under a huge puffy coat over his kit, but Jamie could see the familiar shy panic in his bright eyes and tight smile. He smirked and pulled away, wanting to drag the Chelsea ace off to the locker rooms for a seeing to, but knowing that his sly social media messages later tonight would be ignored - Bulging Ben had moved on a long way from the perky curious bastard who'd bent over in a Leicester flat to let Jamie's tongue down his crack and against his virgin hole. Vardy licked his lips on the way in, the studs of his boots clicking and clacking on a tiled floor. Barnes fell into step next to him and the striker gave his panting redhead a sharp smack on the rump, loud enough to draw the vague and curious attention of every player near to them - young Harvey gave him a nervous but eager glance, and Jamie nodded simply. The ginger lad would be getting creamed as soon as they could break away from the crowd, and Jamie would be imagining a different young stud, indulging the memory. The away changing rooms of the Walkers Stadium were, as on many Saturdays and Sundays of the Premier League, a haze of steam, anti-perspirant spray, and raging testosterone. The London side occupying these changing and shower facilities in the aftermath of the day's fixture were ecstatic in their 3-1 victory, as happy as many other clubs in the lead to mark any positive result as a turning point. Though a flight back to West London lay ahead, there was no rush to the way the players peeled off their damp kits or traipsed in and out of the communal showers, some of them just lounging about in various states of undress rather than rushing to get cleaned down or dressed in fresh gear for the return journey south. One young member of the Chelsea crew was especially excited, though he'd played a short chunk of the 90 minutes and contributed little directly to the win; he was just pleased to have got some minutes in the tank and to be part of an increasingly rare win for the beleaguered Premiership giants. And, that aside, there was something special about this laddish atmosphere that always got the 23-year-old going, always had and always would, since he was an awe-struck teen, but not fading now. The sheer force of manly enthusiasm that hung in the air, that mix of sweat and aftershave, of soapy steam with the collective body heat of a full squad... a special kind of excitement, and one that made the blond-haired young midfielder grin from ear to ear as he stripped off and looked about him with bright curious eyes. Close by, Havertz and Kovacic were in particularly noisy celebration, repeatedly congratulating one another for their goals in the latter half of the game; they were joined by the club's latest expensive investment, World Cup winner Enzo Fernandez, and Conor Gallagher couldn't help but look thoughtfully at all three of them, the two goal-scorers still grimy and half-naked in the remains of their kit, whilst the young Argentinian gleamed and shone, fresh out of the shower with steam climbing off his compact tattoo-marked body. For a moment, Conor's bright eyes travelled between each of the three footballers, that thoughtful little wandering of the mind that he'd found harder and harder to suppress in the years since his academy days here at Chelsea. But as it so often did, the wandering of eyes brought with it a giddy little sensation in the pit of his stomach, and Gallagher found himself moving on, furtive and quick - his clingy, sweat-soaked white underpants tugged away down his legs and replaced with a hastily tied towel at his waste. Conor often found it hard not to study and examine the masculinity around him, a trait that seemed to have got worse in his loan seasons among the rugged fierceness of the Crystal Palace ranks, but come back with him on his return to his parent club - and if anything was getting worse in the latter half of the season! But he judged himself and worried about it and found himself sweating profusely at the danger of staring for too long at another bloke. The young Epsom lad had experimented somewhat, although... never sober, to be fair, and as a result his memories and understanding of his entangling with other feisty young lads were tinged with doubt and the air of a distant fantasy, rather than real physical experiences that the 23-year-old confidently identify and appreciate. He tentatively thought of himself as bi-curious but he wasn't sure if this was a proper label for his furtive interest in the athletic bodies around him, or if he was just really excited by team spirit and the highs and lows of competitive sport - maybe, he thought, all footballer lads felt this same crotch-centred buzz when they were in such steamy changing rooms...! Maybe. Into the showers he went, chuckling awkwardly to himself, and using his free hand, the one not gripping the knot in his towel, to pull back the greasy mane of blond hair over his head, ambiguously glad at the thick steamy air of the shower block that rendered the other naked players just vague muscular outlines. It might help him to keep his interests under control, hah, fat chance... Vague, muscular outlines, at least to begin with; as the strong-muscled 6ft lad soaped down his smooth well-defined chest and let his tingling soft cock jiggle between soft-haired thighs, he glanced to the left and found the form of his neighbour begin to clarify - the other athletic body was paler than his own olive skin, and it was a sweep of darker hair that the lad was pulling away from his eyes and forehead, running fingers back through the soapy mass of hair, whilst trickles of this same foam ran out onto their arms and - as Conor's eyes adjusted in the thinning steam - down a broad chest. Ben's blinking eyes met his and Conor could just gurn stupidly at the lad under the next shower, and give him a generic nod. `Here is,' Gallagher chimed against the rushing water sound. `The lad who kicked off the goal-fest, haha - big bollocks Benny!' He hadn't meant to comment on their shared nudity so much with the naff laddish nickname, at least not consciously - but even as he let out a throaty laugh, one of Chilwell's hands was down at his crotch, cupping and covering what Gallagher's eyes had yet to seek out in the steam... but let's be honest, what he'd noticed several times before. There were many blessed men on this team, fair enough, but few were quite so... unlikely as the slim-built nice-guy with the toothpaste advert smile. `Not sure what my bollocks have got to do with it,' was Chilly's murmured comeback, one hand wiping shampoo out of his eyes and the other still hovering between his legs, steam curling lovingly about his shiny naked form at the next showerhead - the left-back elbowed a nob that powered this back into action, its hot spray drenching him in a glossy curtain that drew Conor's thoughtful eyes from his squinting face down his defined torso towards the surprising hairy thickness of his thighs, and- yep, up went that hand to finish rinsing his hair, and the 23-year-old midfielder was, for a glorious moment, staring at the long thick snake that hung from Chilly's surprisingly full brunette bush. Jeez, everyone knew the lad was single, but wasn't he keeping things trim down there...? `Pfft, bollocks the size of yours,' Conor thought cheekily aloud, `they get involved in EVERYthing...' And the Chelsea spare cackled happily to himself, spunking shampoo onto his palms and setting about his own greasy hair, if only to extend his shower and the time he got to spend in close proximity to this particularly handsome lad. His mind was spinning, he couldn't help himself - and he hadn't even done a line or popped a pill. `What the hell are you on about?' chided Chilwell amiably. `Just messing, big boy,' Gallagher assured him through his laughter. `But serious, bro - careful where you swing that thing or I'll be tripping the fuck over, hey?' He dropped his voice to a naughty snigger as he added this, leaning in slightly in Ben's direction - they were looking at one another again, and the former Leicester defender was frowning a bit, looking shy and concerned - but the heady atmosphere of the changing rooms had emboldened curious Conor, and there was nobody else at this end of the showers. `Fuck, look at it,' he hissed under his breath, but clear enough for his intended to hear it. `That's a fucking python you've got there, Benjamin...' Ben turned away from him, facing the wall and the spray of the shower, and obscuring his view of the Chilwell family jewels. `Fuck's sake,' the left-back muttered to himself and Conor was both mortified and thrilled, his own dick throbbing and his balls tightening. He smeared a soapy hand over his privates with some caution, unsure if he'd be able to stop himself springing a thick curved little hard-on. He leaned his body slightly closer to his neighbour and began again, `Sorry bud, just pointing out the obvious...' `It's only obvious if you're looking, mate.' `Well who isn't looking at THAT?' He knew he was already on thin ice, but this had been on his mind. `Shit, the way we were reading Valentine's poems to each other for that shitty video content the other week, you had me charmed enough to-' `Mate...' `The way you read out that sonnet or whatever, haha - god, Kai looked as hook line and sinker as I was feeling, haha, you're the Casanova of Stamford Bridge for sure, so-' `What the heck...?' `Could have got on me knees and noshed you off by the end of that little filming sesh, haha-' He heard his own boundaries exploding in the air as he joked it, and there it was, that nausea, that shame, that uncertainty - what was he saying? He'd never actually sucked a dick, never actually would, would he? He thought about the way he'd grabbed at cocks of his mates while high - that time with jumpy stutterer Curtis Jones the Scouser, for one thing - and wondered if he'd really go as far as to- `What was that?' Ben demanded, perhaps lying to cover his embarrassment. `What are you on about, mate?' And then just as Conor was about to reply, a third voice cut between them, and a looming form wreathed in steam was between their paler bodies. A long muscular arm reached forward to lean on a rail between them, and Conor found himself looking up into the large impassive face of another key player of the afternoon. `Think Con here was just gonna go dry off and calm down,' came Loftus-Cheek's deep smooth voice, the tone of a man who wasn't easily intimated or made uncomfortable - and one with a little bit of command to his quite confidence. Shuddering at his own curiosity and boldness, Gallagher whipped away, rubbing his wet face, and willing his growing hard-on to relax before he had to drip his way across the changing room. Next to him, the 6ft3 physique of big Londoner Ruben loomed and dominated, and he shuffled aside to let the Lewisham midfielder in under his shower - stepping gingerly to the other wall to snatch his towel off a hook. Ruben must have heard him, he thought, to interrupt like that, and send him backing off with such quick clarity. Cheeks burning and heart thumping, Gallagher whipped his towel about his waist and moved away from them, mortified by the things he'd admitted - it had hardly been a joke, that was the problem, he'd sat through that Valentine's Day content with a solid erection in his sweatpants, whilst he and Ben and Kai followed a series of ridiculous prompts to amuse the online Chelsea faithful. The 23-year-old hurried away to dry himself and pull on layers of clothing over his chubby semi; he was shocked by the way he'd suggested his own cock-sucking to the likes of Ben Chilwell, whose indifference was confusing and intriguing, but kinda irrelevant. Conor was more worried about himself, and what he did or didn't want, drugs or no drugs. This was getting out of hand. Trudging across the airstrip under the light rainfall, he reached across and bumped his fist into the arm of the more average-heighted twentysomething. `Hey,' Ruben called gently to his yawning teammate, catching up with him one long stride as, in a long trail of their teammates, they made to board the jet that would whip them south to the outskirts of the capital, and then home to their different corners of London or Surrey. Ben Chilwell slowed and blinked back at him, his cute face partly obscured by a low-pulled baseball cap and the lifted collar of his overcoat. Loftus-Cheek rested one large hand on his shoulder as he kept pace with the 5ft11 guy, taller and broader than him as with most of the lads the sport paired him with. `Don't give that gimp any thought,' the 27-year-old Londoner advised his colleague as they walked through the accelerating winds of the airfield. `Hmm?' `Con, I mean - before, back in the showers?' `Oh, that...' `He was talking shite,' Ruben thought aloud, `and obviously just trying to wind you up. Dunno why some lads get like that.' Next to him, the goal-scoring left-back just shrugged and hugged onto his travel bag a bit more tightly, staring at his feet in an almost mopey fashion; the queue ahead was tightening up as the lads reached the stairs and fell into step to slowly ascend their flight. Only one lad at a time seemed to be allowed onto the stepway, leaving Ruben and Ben at the foot of the prop for a moment, and with the next players in line trailing behind them on the rain-soaked tarmac. `Little dick, I guess,' Ruben mused. `Wha'? Oh, Conor...? Erm-' `I mean, lads like us get it all the time, don't we?' `Lads like- us? Huh?' The tall midfielder chuckled deeply and nudged elbows with the Milton Keynes gent. `I mean, lads born like us,' he said in a confidential voice. `Tends to intimidate, doesn't it - tends to ruffle feathers, and get people talking, out of jealousy or fear or...' Ben stared at him quite dimly for a moment, just a bit slow on the uptake, and then blinked and looked a bit scandalised by the intimation. `Oh, sorry - did you think people hadn't generally noticed, mate...?' He grinned warmly, trying to be confidential and light-hearted but without any of the creepy suggestion and confrontation of what he'd overheard from Gallagher before - everyone knew that the Surrey lad was a little erratic. Chilwell, about to board the steps, one gloved hand to the rail, gave him an odd weary look, and shook his head. `It's been a funny day,' he admitted vaguely, not really responding to the indirect discussion of his endowment. `I've had a lot of funny comments.' `Oh, right,' Ruben said quietly, left alone then as Ben bounced his way up the steps, allowing the tall black Londoner to briefly meditate on how close the fit of those Chelsea track-pants was on the smaller-bodied football player, and how the lighting out here on the airfield didn't give the best of views to well-packaged muscular arses on their way up a staircase. But then he was being given the signal and making his own way up, bag slung over shoulder, and the 26-year-old was still hovering in the vestibule whilst a minor luggage pile-up was sorted out on the way into the cabin. Ben glanced back as Ruben joined him here, and the midfielder gave him another reserved smile. `I hope that wasn't out of order,' he said quickly and quietly. Chilly shrugged. `Sorry. Tired out. Like I said, odd day, and...' `Forget I said it - I just thought I'd help you out earlier, cos Conor seemed to be chatting shite, and you didn't look comfortable, so...' `Oh, yeah... er, thanks for that, actually, Lofty, it was cool of you, so...' `What are you doing when we get back into London?' `Hmm?' `I mean, any plans tonight, or...?' Ben blinked sleepily. `It'll be kinda late.' Ruben, a confident and easygoing playboy of the city's South East, smiled patiently at this and shrugged his huge shoulders. `But Saturday night, with tomorrow off... a friend of mine is DJing at a chilled club night at-' `It'll be kinda late,' Ben reiterated in a slow voice, scratching at his ginger-tinged stubble. `Sorry man, I'm not sure I'll be up for...' `No, no, that's cool, no worries,' the 6ft3 bruiser told him rapidly, thumbing at the shoulder-strap of his bag and feeling suddenly foolish - he wasn't even sure he'd make it to the event himself, had already eased his way towards cancelling on the invite before setting off today, and yet here he was, suggesting it to a pal on the team who he'd never really socialised with before beyond team-building banter. It had just felt... the right thing to do, for some reason, and now the big tall athlete was standing here feeling something of a pillock, with the other player's sleepy eyes watching him almost suspiciously. `Another time,' Loftus-Cheek said quietly. `Yeah maybe,' was Chilly's evasive reply. And then, to his own surprise, the Lewisham giant was making another impromptu suggestion, thinking about stepping up next to the handsome white lad in the showers, his attention drawn downstairs by Gallagher's comments. `I think there's a spare seat up front next to me if you want a more quiet, chilled journey back...' He left the invitation hanging warmly between them, leaning his bulky physique into the doorframe that led through into the cabin - in that same sleepy, quiet way, the left-back stared up at him, nodded slowly, but then informed him, `I think Yankee is saving me a space at the back still, thanks.' And off he trotted, marching quite primly down the aisle of their jet, and leaving Ruben to smile oddly at his own little befriending efforts, quite blandly snubbed tonight. That lad, he thought, was a bit of a mystery to him - what was up with him, really? As soon as he'd sent the message, he locked his phone and pushed it back into the front pouch of his big bulky hoodie. He was nestled on one large sofa in his lounge, a visiting friend snoring in the parallel one, and the closing scenes of a streaming movie wrapping up on a wall-mounted screen. Missing the away game through minor illness had at least given way to a pretty chilled recovery weekend for the East Londoner, and he was looking forward to rejoining the lads on Monday in training, and benefitting from the big mood which the Leicester win would no doubt generate. Reece James had watched the game on screen, of course, but like Mason Mount, he found it strange and difficult to support his boys from that kind of distance, and wished it had been a home game so he could perhaps at least show face at Stamford Bridge and show proper support for the lads in blue. The stocky 23-year-old right-back yawned widely and rubbed a balled fist across each of his tired eyes, glancing over to confirm that his old school pal was fast asleep on the other couch, swathed in blankets and the wrappers of the chocolate treats he'd been eating during the first half of their chosen thriller movie. A moment passed, and then James slid into a different position, sitting more upright, and dragged his phone back out from the pouch pocket. Thumb-print unlock, a quick few taps, and he was in his messaging thread with his close friend and teammate, staring dimly at the latest sent message to Chilly: `Congrats again boi, such a quality performance - just wish i'd been there to join in and get 2 goals myself lol. Miss you m8 - hope we're back rooming together next away team lol, could do with 1 of those sessions lmao' A thick thumb hovered over the screen and this sent message, unread it seemed by the other Chelsea player, who would at this time perhaps be landing already from the trip, and collecting his car to drive back into the city. With a moment's awkward decisiveness, Reece pushed his thumb in against the message and chose `delete for everyone', cutting the communication out of their chat before Ben might switch airplane mode off and receive his latest incoming messages. Stupid, Reece told himself, as the message dissipated from his view and from their online footprint. Stupid message - why'd he written that? `One of those sessions', he scowled at himself, even with the attempted mitigation of `laugh my arse off' next to it! But he genuinely didn't know what to call it, other than a `session', no other euphemism seemed to do the job - the nights in shared rooms with chilled out Chilwell, he thought, since they'd roomed together on that pre-World Cup England camp, and... Lying in their parallel beds, two hot-blooded young footballers, noisily satisfying themselves under the covers! Reece had never done anything like that in the same room as another lad, and he'd been surprised when Ben suggested it again in a couple of different hotels over the last few months, up and down the country and once abroad in Europe. It was just one of those things, a stupid little away-trip ritual, a light in-joke - neither of the young defenders had felt the need to mention it in daylight, away from the comfort of separate beds in discreet corporate hotel suites. Just one of those things, letting off steam, releasing some tension, and... The young right-back cringed at himself, thinking of how he'd stupidly referenced it in that message to Ben, deeply glad that he'd wiped it before it was read. God, he didn't need Ben to think he was weird about it, or too keen, or...! Reece groaned uncomfortably and rubbed again at his face, wondering if he should ditch his friend down here without waking him, and go wandering off to his own master bedroom of the Wandsworth bachelor pad. He lingered a while longer on the sofa, staring at his phone, and the credits rolled on the screen above. Just wanking in the next bed to a mate, he thought, the kind of thing horny teens might do on a first footy tour, or whatever; they were both active lads with a lot to burn off, he supposed, and he was glad at how cool and relaxed his mate Ben was, suggesting and allowing it. I mean, Chilly by name, chill by nature, but... not entirely, Reece supposed, because his friend could be quite distant and deep-thinking at times, and nobody ever seemed to know what was going on with him, exactly. He was a curious lad, Ben Chilwell, and when Reece heard other guys at the footy club say that, he would go blank and awkward - he could hardly admit to other blokes that he and his left-back were occasional wank buddies, tossing one off in adjacent beds and occasionally laughing stupidly at the groans and gasps made by the other in the dark. Wanks aside... he cared a lot for Ben, and he did hope the older defender was okay, that he wasn't as sulky or lonely as the gossips on the extensive Chelsea squad liked to make out. Reece stared contemplatively at their chat window, taking a while to decide against replacing the deleted message with some other kind words to his defender buddy, and just locking the screen again before heading to bed, mulling over the curious case of Ben Chilwell. Inside the townhouse, the 26-year-old didn't bother to turn any lights on before heading upstairs, totally wiped out by the overnight trip to the East Midlands. At the door to his bedroom, he dropped his coat and bag, and then discarded various items of tracksuit until he was in just clingy black boxer briefs and a thin stretchy gym top, clambering into his unmade bed and wrapping the covers over him; there was some issue with the hi-tech heating system of his West London pad, and so the whole place seemed to be freezing after his footballing trip away to Leicester. With a remote snatched from the bedside table, Ben Chilwell brought a modest TV on a table to life, and wriggled about there in search of a comfortable position whilst flicking through the late evening channels, settling on a sports round-up in the half-suppressed hopes of getting to watch a replay of his own goal; the handsome footballer pulled the covers up about him and dug his head and shoulders back into the pillows, getting comfy and squinting tired eyes at the screen. Dimly, it occurred to Ben that he must have missed the coverage of his own winning game, and that the 3-1 Chelsea triumph might have been one of the leading matches in the oddly amended Match of the Day. Still, he was a football fan like most of his fellow players, and he could keep his eyes on the latest league results whilst he relaxed down for the night, thinking vaguely about what he might do with his Sunday off to recover. It had been a long and odd day, he thought, shifting against the covers and thinking of how leering and suggestive Vardy had been on the pitch, never mind Gallagher in the showers; it was odd, because in different times, that kinda attention might have been more exciting and promising to him, back in his early 20s, when he was starting to discover himself. Now... Ben just felt a sort of detached impatience. Had daft Conor really been making some kind of move on him back then, or just making silly digs cos he was jealous about cock size, like big Lofty seemed to think...? `Lads like us', the midfielder had said, and Ben marvelled to think of himself as included next to that giant of a lad. But... well. Yeh. Ben wasn't exactly blind to what rested in the pouched front of his boxer briefs right now, was he, and it wasn't the first time a former Leicester teammate had referred to him as `Bulging Ben'. Vardy, Gallagher, Mount... fuck, it was as if he'd never been so attractive to other lads...! Weird, just as he was feeling like he never wanted anything like that to happen again. Next up, on screen, was the City game, against Palace. It occurred to Ben, as it had before, that maybe Guardiola's team were therefore still somewhere in the capital, although it was equally likely that Man City had flown or coached back home already after their away fixture, just like Chelsea. And yet he allowed his mind to wander, lying there in his match-weary stupor, picturing the ranks of the City squad in some high-end hotel of South London. He was doing his best to keep this imagining very generalised, until the footage on screen made it hard to do so: not even actual match footage of the City team smashing Palace 1-0, but just warm-up stuff, a brief montage of it, except... There he was. Calves as thick as some people's waists, out on show and darkly furred, rising up into thicker thighs, and the close-fitting white shorts that enclosed his muscular backside, exaggerated as he launched into a powerful kick and- Why were they even showing this? Showing so much warm-up shite when they could be skipping forward to the highlights of the game itself...? Ben frowned impatiently at the footage on screen, even as the hand not tapping the Tv remote began to creep down the chest of his slate-coloured gym top, and trace the bumps of his six-pack under its clingy fit, reaching down for the soft black cotton of his boxer briefs... The last thing he needed, Chilwell thought, stupid close-up of Jack Grealish and his famous fucking calves, or his imprisoned peach of an arse, the brief-lines so tantalisingly obvious through their child-size fit. The left-back grimaced to himself as his own hand closed about his lazy bulge, and he let out a huff of breath as he began to stroke it; his other hand tapped across the buttons of the Sky remote and found pause, then re-wind. Back to the warm-up. Back to the calves. The arse. The cocky facial expression as the shot went in, winking at the camera and whichever City arse-hole had made the pass to him. Fuck. Jack. Before he knew what he was doing, the screen paused on that wink, Chilwell had his cock in hand and was wanking it into life, until its sensitive tip was rubbing at the underside of his duvet, and the tight elastic waistband was hooked under his hairy balls, straining with a five-day load that had built up without him even noticing it. Intently, the football stud stared at the paused screen, and the tanned face of his ex - and he jerked his dick almost angrily, pumping it in one hand and liking the rough rub of it against the duvets, while his breath escaped in a series of gruff little blasts. Tired and still a little heartbroken, the Chelsea left-back fixated on the still image of his Jack, and pumped his cock until his balls were close to bursting - his mind was a supercut of other images of Grealish, spanning their long friendship even before that day in Birmingham, walking alongside the canals, and into the dimly lit peace of Jack's bedroom at the time... where Ben had wanted to show off what he'd learned from an anonymous older lover, actually Jamie Vardy. Prising apart Jack's big globes and putting a tongue in there, and setting off the chain of excitement and discovery between them - from rimming in the dark, to picnics and barns, and lockdown drama... discovering each other, one beautiful shag at a time, and finding so much intimacy and depth to their relationship. And then burning out, two fragile egos and insatiable cocks. It still astounded Ben to think that HE'D been the one to fuck it up, ultimately, and leave their love in tatters - him! When the other half of that equation was someone as chaotic and unreliable as Jack horny bastard Grealish...! Never meant to be, he would tell himself, even as he remembered that last time, when Jack had shown up here at the house, after a game in London, and slept in this bed, and fucked him silently in the kitchen downstairs first thing in the morning. God. Let him do that now - let him be in London, after beating Palace, and let him be in a taxi here now, from his hotel to my place! Ben closed his eyes, unable to squint at the screen any more, and he whimpered his prayer to the world, knowing that in truth Grealish was already back in Manchester - and his balls exploded, spraying his hot cum against the bedcovers above his pumping fist, a messy and quick-cooling slick over his knuckles and the fat head of his monster cock, and the sound of his panting sobs of breath. The curious case of Benjamin Chilwell was pretty simple: getting over Jack Grealish took a lifetime. '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