Date: Wed, 15 Mar 2023 18:08:13 +0000
From: writer guy <premiershiplads@outlook.com>
Subject: Premiership Lads, PArt 352

Part 352: Return From Injury


He lifted the under-vest up about both wrists and then wriggled it down
his arms, over his head and shoulders and then dragging its clingy fit
across the lean olive-toned muscle of his upper body. Over it went the
Barcelona training shirt, layering up his lithe body and tucked neatly
into his baggy shorts. A moment at the mirror confirmed that his
almost-black hair was neatly in place and the light dusting of stubble
looked good about his sharp jawline and mature young features, then Pedri
was joining the others in jogging outdoors, getting out of the
air-conditioned changing facilities and onto the cool bright pitch for
the day's work. Just a standard day of training, really, except that it
was the 20-year-old Tenerifian's first session back in amongst the guys,
returning to full first team training after his minor injury. Minor, but
a few weeks out of action, pretty much the first and only interruption to
the Spanish prodigy's consistent career action since coming of age.

The March sun was vivid and low in the sky, and would already be bringing
fierce spring heat come midday, hence the early starting hours of
Barcelona from this point in the year onwards; long shadows added drama
to the training ground as the men hopped and stamped and got their feet
comfortable in stiff studded boots, and young Pedri breathed in the
excitement and opportunity of returning to his beloved team.

It had been frustrating and difficult for the young star to watch from
afar, especially given some of the results in his absence, and today he
knew he would be torn between desperation to prove his readiness, and the
sensible caution of his physio team who said he still needed to take it a
little easier. He was not a typical 20-year-old and the committed
professional in him was likely to side with that caution, rather than to
throw himself around and push himself to catch the manager's eye - as
young as he was, Pedro Lopez was hardly someone who needed to prove
himself to the footballing world any more.

Ambitious but thoughtful and cautious, that was Pedri's way; unlike some
other young talents of the diminished La Liga giants...

The 20-year-old smiled knowingly across the ground at the team's
18-year-old firebrand, watching as the other Spanish youth engaged in
some furtive passes with Ansu Fati and Jules Kounde; he was playing
pretty casually just now, warming himself up for the day's first formal
skills session, but even now he had that almost comical expression of
outrage on his boyish face, as if about to start a fight with the ball
itself. Pedri smiled, but it was a smile not without concern, and he'd
been one of many who pulled the boy aside this week to call him stupid
for risking head injury in that tackle last game - images of Gavi's
headfirst plunge into the boots of another player had gone viral
instantly, and affectionate banter at the teenager's dedication and
ferocity had sizzled through the team breakfast and changing room
conversation this morning. Pedri was torn, of course: as a teammate, he
certainly admired the other central midfielder's aggression and
boldness, and could almost join in with the half-admiring jokes of the
other guys... but as someone who loved Pablo Gavira, and not just
`Gavi', he had hated to hear from one pundit on TV how the foolhardy
dive could have been a career-ending mistake at the tender age of 18.

And... well, the pictures of Gavi trying to head-butt someone in the studs
wasn't the only moment from that fixture that had blown up the internet
this week, or scored brash blokey banter between the Barca players on
Pedri's first day back in the gang. GIFs and memes of Gavi almost losing
his golden shorts had flooded the player group chats and in a little over
twenty-four hours, the brief incident had exploded into a major joke
across the training ground, so much so that Torres had started calling
the teen `Pablo Booti' and Araujo had been chanting at him to do some
twerking while he was in the middle of changing into his kit fifteen
minutes ago.

Thinking about these twin images of a fiery upstart trying too hard to
make an impact on La Liga, Pedri could only roll his eyes and shake his
head as if he was much older and wiser than his own 20 years; he'd
probably been a bit severe when he rang Gavi up about the head-first
thing, but then the kid had to learn...!

With ease, Barca's 20-year-old star-boy manoeuvred himself closer to his
fellow midfielder before the training session got up and going for real.
The young besties were inevitably placed together in almost every drill,
but it was still good to make sure by sticking close to him, and maybe
Pedri had a little bit to make up for, after shouting at him so
protectively, and with the moody teenager facing so many jibes and jests
from across the squad.

`You gonna take it easy today?' the 5ft9 central midfielder teased
quietly, nudging arms with the slightly shorter player.

Gavi paused, his resting frown switching to a gentle smile at turning to
look at Pedri - the way his face, and his eyes especially, lit up to see
him, well... it was pure magic to Pedri, and could make him fall for his
friend all over again several times in a day.

`Sorry, isn't that what YOUR doctor said?' quipped the increasingly
confident 18-year-old, puffing out his chest and shoulders. `I hope
you'll be taking it easy on that leg of yours, old man,' muttered the
youth through a bitchy snigger. `Since you turned 20, you're just
starting to fall apart...'

Pedri sniggered pleasantly along with him, pulling his sleeves down over
his bunched fists, and spinning a little on the spot to stretch out his
hips and abdomen. `Oh, alright - give it a rest, kiddo.'

Gavi started talking cheerily about the team's next fixture and Pedri
decided, to his relief, that there was no resentment or unease from his
lover over how severe he'd been with him about risk and common sense
when it came to head injuries; things were as comfortable and right
between the two of them as ever, even if Pedri's own injury setback had
meant a little less time in each other's pockets than usual in the last
three weeks or so.

`Ah,' he sighed, half to himself. `It is good to be back.' He flexed
one arm and then the other, and then added, `Back in the team, and back
here to keep an eye on you - to keep you out of mischief and trouble, you
dirty rascal!' He turned his broad, winsome grin towards the other young
football player, and paused in surprise - rather than smiling loyally
back in that charming way that seemed reserved entirely for Pedri,
Gavi's face had blanched and his mouth hung slightly open, eyes looking
widely at him for a second.

Almost on autopilot, Pedri laughed. `What's wrong? I just meant the
head thing - not - I mean, it wasn't a joke about your attempted
striptease, buddy, it was...' His awkward tinkling voice trailed off and
he paused, hands clapped awkwardly together, studying the oddly grave
expression on Gavi's young face; there was no other word to describe
that look in his eyes than guilt, and the articulation of the thought
made Pedri's blood run cold.

`What?' he demanded, getting no answer from the grimacing teen.
`What?!'

`Nothing,' Gavi half-said, but his voice was dull and his face looked
almost tortured; instinctively, Pedri reached a hand for his arm, a
reassuring touch that became a more insistent grab. `What happened?' he
asked, thinking about how quiet and off the 18-year-old had been on their
last date, a few nights back - `just tired', supposedly, but what if...?

And still the other Spanish boy was just staring grimly at him, a player
without the slightest of poker faces, every emotion always flashing on
his almost cartoonish good looks. Gavi opened and shut his mouth. A
whistle was blown somewhere and all around them, players were breaking
into motion, moving out of the shadows and into the early morning sun;
but the two young men stayed where they were at the edge of the pitch,
even when a second impatient whistle sounded several yards away.

`What is it?' Pedri demanded in a fierce whisper.

`Oh god,' Gavi groaned. `I'm so so sorry.'


It had been after the Copa del Rey semi, where they defeated Real Madrid
1-0, and Pedro Lopez had been stuck at home after the assessment of his
leg injury. A pretty rowdy night of celebration in the Madrid hotel, by
the fairly reserved standards of the Barca circle anyway, and definitely
a few more cervezas than average for a triumphant young Pablo. Gavi had
started and played a full 90 minutes in the decisive win, and was being
widely applauded in the squad for the yellow card he'd earned fending
off their rivals' attempted attacks.

Having only turned 18 last summer, the diminutive midfield warrior was
still working his way into the inner clique of the high-profile squad,
despite the plaudits that came his way, especially since the winter World
Cup. And when it came to team celebration, Gavi was still pretty fresh to
being offered alcoholic drinks, and clearly couldn't yet handle it the
way some of his older pals could.

Midnight had seen the teenager with a glossy and glassy face, cheeks
shiny with sweat and eyes glazed over with the steady buzz of the free
beers. He was propped on a bench at one side of the hotel's bar, barely
able to offer anything to the loose group conversation of the players
around him other than inane laughs or a few shouty approvals when
somebody else said something funny or interesting.

At 18, Gavi was of a generation largely too cool and poised for excessive
drinking, too social media savvy to make fools of themself in public -
and there was nothing like the early professionalism of their youthful
sport to kill the teenage rebellion in a boy. He was far from an
experienced drinker, and he had already pushed past his usual limit,
giddy and insensible from the amount he'd thrown back.

Somehow, half an hour or so later, this had resulted in the loss of his
room key, and Gavi padding the pockets of his sweatpants in the corridor,
trying to work out if his roommate Marc Casado was asleep or still out
enjoying a drink. This left the 5ft8 midfielder tutting and swearing to
himself, repeatedly exploring the zip pockets of his sweats, and then
patting uselessly up and down his chest and tummy, through the thin grey
t-shirt that fitted close to his lightly tanned skin.

That's how the other player found him, he supposed, looking absolutely
fucking clueless at the door, and apparently unwilling to take the easy
step of walking back down to the bar to see if he'd dropped the
key-card. Instead, he just swayed on his feet and stared expectantly at
the centre-back giant who'd joined him, expecting 24-year-old Ronald
Araujo to magic a solution out of thin air for him - that, or to simply
kick the hotel room door down with one of his powerful legs, mainly on
show since the guy was still wearing skimpy gym shorts below a baggy
designer hoodie.

`Come crash in mine,' Araujo offered after a few moments, a helpful
grin on his lean face. The 6ft3 defender strutted away down the corridor
with the same casualness with which he'd approached, and Gavi went
scampering after him, struggling a bit to walk in a straight line and
certainly to patch the tall South American's relaxed pace.

So that's how he ended up in the other bedroom, a couple of corridors
away from his own shared suite with (presumably snoring) Casado. He
wasn't sure where Araujo's own roommate had been, or who the big man
was even sharing with on that away trip. It was just the two of them, and
that was what had become significant. Dazed and losing his buzz, Gavi had
flopped into a loose sitting position on one of the beds, and Ronald had
disappeared into the adjoining bathroom, humming along to some music that
he'd switched on to a portable speaker at the side of the room. When he
returned and reappeared in Gavi's hazy line of vision, the hooded top
was gone, and the 6ft3 Uruguayan was in just those skimpy thigh-revealing
gym shorts, coming to pause in front of him - a tower of caramel-brown
muscle, including one of the most intensely defined six-packs Gavi had
ever seen in his life. He must have stared quite meditatively at it all,
taking in the mountainous figure of the defender who loomed over him,
until he was looking right up at him, into the man's lean grinning
features, cocky and pleased beneath his crown of bleached afro hair.

Honestly, Gavi didn't know how it started: had he made the move,
reaching out to stroke one of those golden-brown thighs and then working
his hand up inside the tight-fitting black shorts? Or had it been Araujo
himself, reaching down and gently moving his head forward until his face
was dangerously close to the loaded front of the shorts, and then... Well,
it didn't REALLY matter, did it, how the shorts had ended up down at his
knees, and the grey-and-blue striped briefs below, until that big brown
cock was out and hard, and wet with Gavi's spittle - in fact, his memory
of all of it was hazy from then on, other than a few key things. One, the
depth and vigour of Araujo's groans; two, the way he'd been made to gag
and choke on it, a hand on the back of his head; three, the taste of
guilt that overpowered the salty tang of the Uruguay man's jizz.

Still, the Barca teen had slouched there in a satisfied daze, gripping
his pre-cum-leaking cock in his sweatpants, whilst Ronald rang down to
the hotel staff and secured assistance to get him back into his room;
even on the staggering walk back to his own room, where a
suspicious-looking hotel employee opened it up and let him join the other
young player's snoring... It was only in the morning, waking up with a
banging dehydrated headache and the urge to throw up in bed, that the
real guilty knowledge thwacked into him, and he understood what he'd
gone and done... cheated on his boyfriend.


Pedri shoved his foot against the pedal and drove on in silence.

He'd had to wait half of the day to get any real explanation out of his
boy, but shortly before the communal lunch, Gavi had spilled, and been
disarmingly honest, telling him what seemed like every detail he could
remember from the drunken transgression - and then Pedri had just had to
get on with work, trundling through the afternoon's three indoor
sessions, and at one point teaming up with Araujo himself as if nothing
was wrong, but wanting to kick the giant centre-back in the balls and set
about him with a goalpost as a weapon. And by the end of the day, when
Gavira had tried to talk to him again in a quiet corner outside the
changing rooms, he'd simply refused, unsure he could stomach hearing any
more. When Gavi immediately suggested that he would find other transport
home from the training campus, Pedri had found himself snapping at the
younger player - `Why the fuck would you do that?'

So here they were - in the car together as usual, hounded and
photographed by Barca fans at the car park gates, but now whistling along
the faster roads on the fringes of the city, seated parallel in the same
moody silence with which they'd exited the training ground.

Layered up now in dark brown tracksuit of his own, the 20-year-old
didn't even glance across into the passenger seat of his motor, whizzing
the expensive boy racer vehicle out of Barcelona and towards the suburban
settlements in the outlying hills, one of which contained his apartment
block and the nearby family home where Gavi still lived with his mom and
sisters.

But when Pedri reached the turn-off for that particular neighbourhood, he
ignored the sign and drove on. Next to him, a quiet but pronounced
`Huh?' from the otherwise silent and awkward passenger. Half a minute
passed in silence, and then, `Ped, I think you missed the...' Pedri
didn't actively cut him off, but something in his icy silence did so.

Another possible turning came up on the right, another route which would
get them quite swiftly back into the luxury streets that they both called
home. Again, Pedri ignored it, his thick dark brows knitted as he stared
intensely ahead on the road, both hands on the wheel, upping the speed
unnecessarily.

`We've missed the turning,' Gavi said stupidly after another minute.
Pedri didn't look at him yet, but he could imagine the frowning worry on
that face, the deep brown eyes wide in confusion, the pouting lips that
exuded innocent pleasure.

No, Pedri didn't say a thing, not until they were on an empty stretch of
road well beyond all of the suburban turn-offs into the rich satellite
towns on this side of the Catalan city. And then, still without saying a
word, he pulled over onto a dusty space at the side of the road, the kind
that should be occupied by a rogue food fan or something, and found a
narrow dirt road branching off it into the grey-green woodland of the
hillside. Still at some speed, Pedri pushed the car a dozen yards onto
the dirt track before jolting it to a halt and sitting there in the same
brutal silence, listening to the nervous pants coming from his right.

`Where are we?' he heard his boyfriend ask in a thin voice, but he
spoke over him: `Just get out of the car.'

He didn't know what the other Barca youth was thinking or worrying,
though later he would feel bad about the ominous nature of it all, and
he'd struggle to shake the image out of his mind: Gavi on the other side
of the car to him, his face as white with worry as the guilty moment when
he'd been unable to hear himself called a `dirty rascal' without
needing to confess everything. The two young men stood there on different
sides of the motor, but Pedri looked at him in that moment with pure
focus and purpose, no wasteful pathos or hesitation.

He moved quickly in front of the car, the hot spring sun filtering down
on them through the olive-coloured foliage overhead - seeing the
commanding look in his deep dark eyes, Gavi did the same, stumbling
around to meet him. There was something combative in the 5ft8 lad's
stance, as if he thought he was going to have to defend himself - but
Pedri just reached for him at the sides, still saying nothing and
twisting him towards the bonnet of the car so quickly that he fell back
against it, exactly where Pedri wanted him.

He stood facing his own car for a moment, Gavi sprawled awkwardly back
over its front, his light shirt hanging open over white tee, and baggy
khaki pants tangled a bit at each of his bent legs. He looked horrified
and full of dread, splayed against the vehicle with his limbs spread, a
look of real fear on his youthful face - what the hell was he actually
expecting?

Down Pedri went, pushing his knees into the brittle and scratchy surface
of the track - so much for taking it easy on his recovering leg. Down on
his knees in front of the car, in front of Gavi. He grabbed the outer
side of the boy's thighs, taking the khaki material in tight bunches,
and yanking down. Some difficulty. Up went his hands, finding and undoing
the knot of white drawstring. Now the pants came down more easily,
sliding down chunky pale thighs, past blotchy red knees, down into folded
bunches at the ankles over his fresh sneakers.

Next, Pedri dealt with the underpants, taking those broad white boxer
briefs down and down in one fluid motion, much more easy and twanging
than the pants. Undies and khakis about the ankles, legs spread, sitting
back on the bonnet of the car at an awkward ankle. Gavi's wide eyes
stared down at him, and Pedri stared intensely and silently back at him,
and then took his cock in one hand, pulling on it in slow firm tugs, and
gently moistening his dark pink lips in several full licks. Quickly,
Gavi's small floppy meat was growing and stretching against his fingers,
rising up form the shaven pubes and the tight large balls below.

`Well,' Pedri snapped, quite resentfully. `It's what you wanted,
isn't it?'

He took a deep breath before putting it in his mouth, taking Gavi's cock
in between his wet lips before it was even quite hard - though in seconds
of his amateurish sucking, it was rock hard and strangely hot against his
tongue and the insides of his cheeks. Eyes closed, hands resting just
above the lad's knees, Pedri tried his best and gave cock-sucking a go,
finally returning the one-sided favour to the gasping fascination of his
petrified boyfriend.

It took many minutes for Gavi to seem to relax - and in this time, the
older of the two starlets felt flashes of panic and insecurity. He must
be terrible at this, on his first go, when Gavi had blown him dozens and
dozens of times over the beautiful months of their intimacy, since those
first fumbles last summer. Pedri's mouth was probably awkward and
difficult and he wasn't sure how best to use his fierce tongue, as
oversized as it was, once he had a stiff mouthful of meat, which
overwhelmed and freaked him out a bit, his boundaries falling away as he
equalised the nature of their antics.

But Gavi DID relax, and his nervous breaths turned into appreciative
moans, and Pedri felt soft fingertips rub down one side of his face and
play with the short dark fuzz of his hair. He heard his name, gasped out
in between moans, and he knew that he'd stunned his apologetic cheat
with this response. But it was only right, wasn't it? Pedri had been
lazy and selfish with him, when he'd known what Pablo wanted from him
for months, so of course the beautiful boy would stray if he didn't get
treated right - sucking him off like this, as weird and uncomfortable as
it felt for Pedri's awkward mouth, was the right thing to do.

Still, he gave up on it, breathless and unsure if he'd been doing it
right, and just wanked the thick cock instead, pulling on it and kissing
the inside of Gavi's thighs, his knees digging in painfully against the
rough track. The car made a few tenuous creaks as the 18-year-old shifted
his weight and spread his legs more, lifting up off the ground and making
the bonnet dip with his muscular weight. Still Pedri wanked him, and
moved his kisses in, planting smooches on each tight bollock, and then
pushing past them to lick at the fuzzy gooch - okay, this was where he
knew what to do.

Pedri hooked hands under the heavy thighs and lifted up, moving aside so
that he could get under and between those legs - and he pushed his face
right in, the angle of it not perfect, but able to squash his nose into
the balls and dart his tongue underneath, at the edges of the boy's
crack, close to his hole, not the best rimming he'd ever given him, but
a flickering service from his powerful tongue, until- `Oh god, Ped, I'm
gonna cum-' and Pedri knew what to do. He knew he had to. Back up,
planted between those open thighs, and wrapping his open lips bout the
wet head of it, taking as many inches of his boy's cock into his mouth
as he could, even as he heard Gavi's panicky breath and gurgle and then,
ohhhh - well, it didn't taste as bad as he'd expected, but it WAS kinda
bitter. And fuck, there was so much of it, such a mouthful!

Fucking yes, he thought as he turned to the side and spat the cum out in
the dirt without a trace of dignity; fuck yes, I bet Araujo wouldn't do
that for you, the big ugly bastard!

And now Gavi was flopped back on the hood of the car, gasping and
moaning, with his pants still about his ankles, and his dick lying to one
side against his thigh, still oozing gum and shiny with Pedri's saliva.
But Pedri stood over him, panting, and wiping the sleeve of his brown
tracksuit top over his dirty mouth, rubbing flecks of jizz away from his
dark stubble, his intense eyes gazing down on the pleasured heap of his
teenager.

`Get up,' he said, his voice firm and authoritative - and not yet quite
affectionate. He was still too angry for that, even if he blamed himself.

Up Gavi got, but it was a slight struggle, sliding one way and then
almost tripping the other, needing to balance himself with a hand to
Pedri's firm chest. Once they were facing each o ther on their feet,
Pedri spun him around, stopping him as he tried to stoop to drag his
white undies up his legs. He held him from behind, bringing one hand up
against his upper chest over the thin tee, feeling his crucifix chain
through it and the thunder of his heartbeat. With the other, he reached
down his back and squeezed a pawful of that perfect ass.

`This is mine,' Pedri gasped in his ear, and Gavi instantly nodded. `I
mean, this is all mine - whatever you did with your mouth, I forgive it,
but this is MINE.' He was panting heavily as he spoke, only knowing what
he wanted as he put it out loud, and shocked to hear how frantic and
aggressive he was right now. `I mean it - ALL MINE.' Gavi nodded,
gasping out a `Si'.

`It was one thing,' heaved Pedri emotionally, `to hear you cheated -
with that big guy - when I was injured - fuck! That was one thing, and I
can cope with that, okay... But... but... Everybody out there,' he gasped,
`seeing your bottom, seeing it almost out on the pitch like that... those
pics, that video...!' He was stammering over it, almost ashamed to say
it. `I don't want everyone looking at it and joking about it - it's
MINE.'

`Yes,' gasped Gavi dutifully, pushing back in against his body for
support, but trembling as he did. `Yes it's yours.'

`All mine?'

`All yours!'

`I'm gonna make it mine,' the 20-year-old rising star groaned in his
boyfriend's ear, deep and meaningful. `You understand what I'm saying,
baby?' Gavi went quiet there, trembled hard against his passionate hold.
`Not now, not here - not like this,' he promised, his voice a lusty
groan, `but soon. I'm going to take your cherry, my Pablo.'

`Yes,' the 18-year-old agreed weakly, and he could imagine the tense
indecision on his face; but he kissed him on the side of the neck, behind
the ear, and then on the cheek, and then on the back of his neck, and
then... Gavi was spinning around and holding him and the two young
Spaniards were fully snogging, bodies rubbing through their clothes and
Pedri's own hard-on taut at his tracksuit bottoms, rubbing against the
soft spent swell of Gavi's own cock and balls, naked still. Gavi's hand
reached down into his pants and began to wank him, and Pedri wasn't
ashamed of how little it took to pull his trigger and make him empty
creamy white cum inside his boxer shorts, all over Gavi's bunched hand.
He barely groaned as he came, having felt close to the edge the whole
time he was on his knees, sucking and then teasing the crack of that
perfect white arse - it really did drive him mad with possessive lust to
know that its masterpiece image was all over the internet now.

`I love you,' Gavira whimpered quietly. `I'll never cheat again. I'm
so sorry.'

`It's my fault,' Pedri told him simply, letting his breathing and
heart rate recover after cumming in his pants ,and just wrapping his arms
tightly about the slightly smaller midfielder. `All my fault, I think.'
They kissed again, and he guided him gently back into the car before
taking the driver's seat and re-starting the engine - he felt exhausted
by his abrupt orgasm, and by the stress of breaking boundaries to repay
and reclaim his boy. But it had needed to be done, and it hadn't tasted
so bad. The engine growled and throbbed around them, and he looked
carefully over at the Barca boy before reversing them back up the track.

`I'm going to fuck you,' he told him simply, his voice low and
gravelly.

Gavi nodded, wide-eyed. `I want it,' he said even more quietly, a
tremor in his voice, of fear and desire and loyalty.




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