Date: Mon, 13 Nov 2023 15:24:58 +0000
From: writer guy <premiershiplads@outlook.com>
Subject: Premiership Lads, Part 375

Part 375: The Equaliser


The first message came when he wasn't even yet out of his Chelsea kit:
he had his smartphone clutched loosely in one mucky paw, having been
dragged away from the home changing rooms almost as soon as his boots
were off. The interview was over now but the 21-year-old was still a
little starstruck, tottering back towards the hustle and bustle of the
locker-room after mumbling his way through one of his first major Sky
interviews. Cole Palmer's penalty success in the 95th minute hadn't
quite won the match for his new London club, but it had brought Chelsea
level with their imposing visitors, managing a 4-4 draw with Palmer's
own former team - even so, the gangly youth had been somewhat surprised
to be pulled away for media duty, given how many stars had contributed to
the 8-goal drama on a damp Sunday evening.

Cole's phone had been going crazy with notifications from family and
friends as he pulled it out of his personal bag in the home locker-room,
merely skimmed before being whisked into the long puffer jacket he wore
over his damp grimy home kit, and here was another buzz of notification
against his palm. This time, quite instinctively, the attacking
midfielder brought the device up to read properly, taking slow sore steps
down towards the steamy entrance to the Chelsea changing rooms.

Bright on his phone-screen, more prominent now than the other messages
and group chats that had already lit up in the minutes since the final
whistle, was a surprising name - one of his former teammates, and
therefore someone who must be only yards away in the changing facilities
for visiting opponents. For a moment, the 6ft2 youngster paused at the
door to join his own team, quite amused at his own conflicted loyalty
when thinking about his Manchester City colleagues being assembled so
close by; and Cole opened up the WhatsApp message at speed with a skim of
thumb, seeing how long it had been since he'd been in contact with the
older guy, and then reading with a bark of laughter the block capitals
message that had arrived: `YOU DIRTY FUCKING TURNCOAT TRAITOR!' The
shouty text message would feel like rather exuberant abuse if not for the
trio of emojis that followed: winky face, weeping, and then a flame to
represent his own talent. Palmer stopped for just a few seconds more,
looking to his left and further down the stadium tunnel, seeing the
half-open door that must lead to the accommodation of the thwarted
visitors - and the youth laughed again, before deftly hitting a thumbs-up
Like react to the message from Kyle Walker, deciding this random
cross-tunnel message was typical of the old club joker. He locked his
phone and strolled on into join his NEW teammates, trying his best to put
the Man City wistfulness in the past where it belonged.


The messages continued over the next half hour or so, though they were
read by Cole only sporadically - he was welcomed with a roar by the other
Chelsea players in the changing rooms, practically hoisted aloft by a few
of them, including defensive captain Reece James and World Cup winner
Enzo Fernandez. The draw was being celebrated like a win, given the
status of the opponents, and the patchy record of the West London club
this season, and penalty-taker Palmer was being feted as the weekend's
big hero.

With a mix of genuine modesty and a desire to ingratiate himself, Cole
was sure to heap praise on the OTHER goal-scorers, applauding Thiago
Silva and Nicolas Jackson, and going in for a big sweaty hug with the
shirtless physique of Raheem Sterling, a winger whose defection from Blue
to Blue had preceded his own by one season. The 21-year-old grinned and
laughed and shrugged off great praise, undressing his Chelsea shirt and
tight long-sleeved thermals below, then sitting down on the bench and
pausing to check his phone again - he was mildly surprised and amused to
see `3 new messages from Kyle Walker' on the screen, but then the
notification was replaced by a fresh message from his Palmer family group
chat, and lost in the social media overload of the device, which he put
back down inside his bag and fished about for a towel.

Cole had already experienced some highs and lows in this dressing room,
but this dark November afternoon had to be the best moment of his Chelsea
career so far. The youngster had been far from naive in his expectations
when he moved down here, but he'd also focused on positivity and
ambition. It was hard to keep a full secret that he would have rather
kept going in his home city with his boyhood club, but Cole's counsel
had been clear from inside and outside of City: he would remain an
under-used spare there in that magnificent roster, and he needed to fly
the nest to get his big break. So here the Manc youth was, adjusting to
London life and a very different club culture, trying to fit in with new
lads and to prove himself to the bigwigs at the top. The penalty against
his old team felt like the first really big statement to back all that
up, and he grew more comfortable and accepting of the attention,
certainly more interested in that than whatever banter from Walks was
waiting for him on his phone.

Due to the delay of his interview, he was sweaty and behind the crowd,
whilst slippery wet muscles emerged from the shower and slid by him with
or without towels. Still, Cole felt no rush, and he went to open that
message from his family, who he knew would be absolutely buzzing for him
- instead, stood in just boxer briefs and footy socks, the 21-year-old
found `4 new messages from Kyle Walker' instead, he couldn't help but
feel curious. Tilting his device with a degree more privacy - it
wouldn't be a great idea to give anyone reason to doubt his loyalties
this weekend! - he opened them up, interested to see what other banter
the 33-year-old right-back had for him.

`Seriously, what a fucking traitor - or should I say, legend???' read
the first message, followed by several laughing emojis; `Oi, ignorant
prick!' came the 2nd, closely followed by a 3rd, `OHHH, TOO GOOD FOR US
NOW, I GET IT'. The 4th, the one that had interrupted his intention to
commune with his fam, was a picture message, and there was something
funny and ridiculous about it coming from the parallel dressing room so
close by: it was an awkwardly angled selfie with several frowning and
pouting faces crushing to be in shot, babyish poses of sadness from not
just Walker himself, but the tanned faces of Rodri and Silva, whilst the
emotive features of Grealish were forcing their way in from the side. The
caption was just a single crying emoticon, and Cole laughed to himself -
dafties! He hit a laughing emoji react to the pic and locked his phone
again, forgetting about the rest of his notifications, and deciding he
needed to get scrubbed clean.

Only removing the modesty of a draped towel as he entered the thick
steam, Cole hung it to the side and enjoyed the appreciative wet slaps on
the back from passing Broja and and Gusto, then the echoey chant of
Mudryk and Cucurella from the far wall; an impossibly smug smile split
Palmer's face as he showered in the freer space of one side, soaping up
his tall slim body and washing damp mud-stains from his long legs. Jeez,
imagine if his penalty success had actually scored the full 3 points,
he'd be feeling like a Chelsea legend already, haha. Somehow the
excitement levels at his contribution to a draw made the youth all the
more conscious of how troubled this behemoth club was at the moment, but
he just had to take the personal win - he was at a crucial turning point
in his young career, and he had to focus on THAT.


When the towel was back around his slim hips and he was strutting across
the square dressing room floor, a lot of his teammates were already near
fully-dressed. Somebody was shouting out about team drinks, and various
venues were being called out, ranging from players' own mansions to a
couple of club-connected drinking establishments - Palmer was in happy
daze and he didn't get involved in this debate, though he nodded
enthusiastically when he was grabbed by the wet shoulder and insistently
invited to be part of the Sunday night festivities. He didn't yet feel
like a big presence in this room, though today would help, and he tended
to keep quiet and hold his tongue - there were a lot of egos in the
overpriced squad, much odder and more complex dynamics than he was used
to at City, where the cult of Guardiola tended to iron out the heroics of
world-class individuals. Bit by bit, Cole thought, he could become part
of a NEW dynamic here, something a bit more streamlined and cohesive,
and-

He caught sight of the notifications on his phone screen. Still wrapped
in his towel, the naked young footballer sat his wet arse down on the
bench and he picked up the device, noting how popular he was with friends
he hadn't spoken to in ages, but also thumbing open the screen and
finding himself back at the WhatsApp dialogue with his ex-teammate.

`Ignoring us, Chelsea big shot' was the message from Kyle that had
followed the sweaty-faced group selfie, and then more provocatively,
`Too busy with a big Chelsea circle-jerk, eh?' He could just imagine
the comical Sheffield accent of his former right-back making these gruff
jokey accusations at him, and tousling his mousy blond hair, and the
youngster laughed stupidly before tapping in a reply.

`Looks more like a City wank-fest in that pic you sent,' he bantered
back.

`Wanking over how much we miss YOU' came Kyle's almost instant reply.

`Jesus - I'm blocking your number lol'.

`Why? Is your new Chelsea right-back sexier than ME?'

Seated against the wall in the increasingly sparse home locker-room, Cole
tittered stupidly to himself, feeling that Kyle's banter was a fair part
of his enjoyment here, just a pleasant accompaniment to being so lauded
at Chelsea - but also feeling pangs of homesickness for the life he'd
grown used to in Manchester, easing his way into a senior squad of
international stars, and daring to think he could follow in Foden's
footsteps. With a surly need to assert that he'd moved on, he pushed in
his response to Walker's stupid question: `Every Chelsea player is
sexier than YOU, you ugly Yorkshire prick'. He wasn't sure if he'd
gone too far there, it wasn't really his kind of banter, but it was
answering bullish Kyle in kind, and he wasn't just some dweeby kid on
the fringe of the City squad now, he had to start acting like the
first-team Premiership man he was. No instant reply from KW though, which
made him vaguely uneasy, and he put the phone aside, getting up to dry
his crotch and thighs, then yanking it up to run through his glossy hair
and about his broad lean shoulders.

`Bro,' called Reece James, `it's the Duke's Head, okay?'

`Sure, sure,' Palmer shouted back as the team's young captain,
recently back from injury, headed out, and he leaned forward slightly to
check for a reply from the City camp, somewhat disappointed that the
strain of banter had died already. He stepped his bare feet and naked
legs into a fresh pair of black boxer briefs and yanked them up about
himself, then kicked his way into stiffly ironed designer jeans, almost
toppling one way as he heard the buzz of notification and glanced down to
see that Kyle had replied after all.

It was, again, a picture notification, though this time not a selfie, nor
even of the right-back himself: it was an odd picture, momentarily
alarming Cole until he remembered his own joke, and it made him gawk at
his own phone without picking it up. It was a side-on view of Jack
Grealish, presumably next to Walker in the locker-room, but bare-arse
naked! If it wasn't for the furriness of the thighs that led up to it,
the big solid curve of Jack's rump might have looked like the booty on
some top female pornstar, but Cole laughed heartily and sent a row of
green vomit-face reacts to his former colleague. `Fucking perv!' he
accused in a quick follow-up message, standing with the phone in one hand
and doing up his button-fly with the other; a couple of other players
were hollering at him from the door, reminding him which riverside pub
the Chelsea clique would be taking over.

`Aw, thought you would like that,' was Walker's next message.
`Thought everybody fancied our Jack, whatever their prefs lol.'

It wasn't exactly unfamiliar banter to Palmer, who had been there when
the Grealish mania arrived at City, and he'd heard many a pretty-boy
joke thrown Jack's way. But still, there was something about the candid
photo that had soured the tone of this messaging, and sent an
uncomfortable tingle across the bare skin of Cole's arms and torso and
the fluffy back of his neck, standing tall and uncertain the
near-deserted warmth of the Chelsea home rooms. He hesitated before
replying with a couple of laughing emojis; he was just tucking the
smartphone into one denim pocket when a quick buzz of reply made him pull
it back out and continue to text with Kyle.

`What about this?' It was a pic of a different player this time, making
him both frown and laugh, whilst he replied `Fuck off lol' to the photo
of a bewildered-looking Julian Alvarez stood in his tighty-whities
against a backdrop of other semi-naked City men - why the hell was Walker
wasting his time breaking all protocol with this backstage photography,
and trying to... what, tease him into missing them? The gangly youth
blinked, flustered, and chuckled awkwardly as he responded: `That room
will get sexier when a Chelsea star like me pops over for a hug!' The
idea developed only as he typed it, thinking that it made sense to nip
over the tunnel and pay his respect to the visitors, less formally than
he had in the tunnel pre-match, or after various physical clashes on the
pitch.

Walker's response was slow to come, and so the 21-year-old Manc lad
pulled a plain black tee over his slim upper body, followed by a dressy
shirt and sweater, and then a quick spray of fine fragrance against his
long necks and where his wrists left the cuffs. He wanted to look and
smell like a big deal as he sauntered into enemy territory and
congratulated whichever City players were available, perhaps even a
respectful handshake from his former manager, the legend himself; but he
also wanted to be able to swagger into the Thames pub to join his new
teammates and maybe propose a toast at the bar, starting to become more
confident and vocal in the Chelsea ranks. The idea that enough of them
were assembling in a bar after a game felt momentous enough in improving
that team spirit.

Now alone in the locker-room but for the member of site-staff who'd just
shyly entered to begin tidying, Palmer opened up his phone and reacted
with dull disappointment to the slow reply from KW: `I'm already on the
coach, Chelski boi!!! But Jack might have left his dirty pants in there
if you wanna go for a sniff?' and then, `Enjoy your pretendy win,
Chelsea loser!' Oh. The visitors weren't hanging around then, which
made sense, given their journey north - north, he thought, back to his
own hometown. Right, well. It would have been weird to try and briefly
catch-up with old friends now, he told himself, and it would just make it
harder to feel connected to Chelsea and his future. Right?


And yet, between a quick debrief meeting with Pochettino and the process
of checking out of the stadium, Palmer's messaging convo with the City
defender didn't stop; even as the attacking midfielder stepped into the
hire car that would take him 5 minutes to the pub, he was responding with
emoji laughter to Kyle's petty banter and complaints, which swung from
more mockery of him as a Chelsea sell-out (`Compared to City money????'
he responded) and obnoxious remarks about the vibe on the bus (`You just
wish I was there lol' he suggested). Though the tone of some of the
older fella's messages, and his swift disappearance from the stadium,
had jibed at Palmer's excitement, he couldn't seem to ignore the
messages and leave his ex-teammate on read.

Stepping out of the car and walking a short distance in the rain to the
looming security personnel on the pub door, Cole received the last few
messages from Kyle that would really complicate his mood and make him
feel weird. `Which overpaid twat is gonna give you a thank you handjob
for that penalty?' the City defender texted him just before he got out
of the cab.

`Lol, what is wrong with you tonight???'

`Nah, maybe not handjob - I bet Sterling gives blowjobs out like party
favours.'

`Fucking hell buddy!!!'

`You telling me you haven't had one yet?'

He could only reply to that with a vomit face and more laughing/crying
pictographs.

`Biggest slut I've ever fucked,' Kyle messaged, but it still wasn't
that which really pushed Cole into new confusion and doubt, meeting that
ridiculous message with just a stupid heart react, and wondering how much
beer had already been consumed by the departing City players; `Show him
this and see what he says' was the next message from the 33-year-old,
Palmer just standing still under the downpour for a minute, right in
front of the hard-faced security, and then the flickering pixels of the
attached picture message, loading in 4k on his screen, its clarity
disturbed only by the raindrops that splashed against the touchscreen.
For a moment Cole hesitated further, gawping at it, and then the door-men
were barking at him in Eastern European accents and asking for his ID, as
if they had no idea he was a senior player, and Palmer's attention was
dragged away from the most ridiculous message yet, the one that had him
really questioning his former colleague.

Drunk or excitable as he was, certified club joker and alpha male, all of
that... but why the fuck was the Yorkshireman sending him a big fat dick
pic from the lap of his seat on a coach out of London?!?!?!


The slew of messages left the Manchester-born football player in a
strange mood, one that made him impossible to get involved with the
surprisingly hearty celebrations in the old-fashioned London pub. As he
might have expected, his entrance was met with a roar of approval, and
drinks were repeatedly pushed into Cole's hands without him even asking,
by members of the coaching staff as well as his fellow players.
Homesickness and what-ifs about life at Man City were, for now, far away,
but that didn't leave the 21-year-old in a good position to enjoy the
moment; instead, he just felt alternatingly angry and embarrassed about
the dick pic on his phone, and the strange turn in Kyle Walker's banter.

Sterling was, predictably, at the centre of the party atmosphere, doling
out rows of shot glasses at one of the glossy mahogany bars. Palmer
stared intensely at him across the pub from an elevated area by the
windows, overlooking the river: 28-year-old Raheem was a man
reinvigorated by his London move last summer. He'd heard it and then
seen it for himself. The Jamaican England hero was one of the most
reliable performers in this squad of egos and disappointments, and a
leading figure in all outings, not to mention the hardest working heart
of every training session; that same energy was here in the Duke's Head,
marshalling the drinking of several international players who were
normally far less sociable. The Londoner's long braids bobbed with the
quick lithe movements from guy to guy, passing out drinks and calling
others over. His baggy streetwear belied the dense rippling muscle of the
dark body that Cole had hugged in congratulation an hour ago, and he
cringed at that comparison - why was he even thinking of the winger's
muscular little body?! God, Kyle had really put him off, really ruined
his buzz.

Or, he supposed glumly, maybe it was his own fault - maybe his own
comebacks had been too crass and pushy, too much, provoking Kyle's
stupid humour. He questioned himself starkly, was he really looking
questioningly at Raheem Sterling and wondering if the national hero was
some bisexual slut who had been fucked about by big Walker?! It was
absolutely insane. And yet, it was a question he was asking himself, and
a distraction that left him like a moody teenager on the periphery of the
event, sour and quiet even when he was called over to do shots with
Sterling and James, or when he was pulled aside by the injured defender
Ben Chilwell for a pep talk, or stuck in the corner listening to a
drunken monologue from the penalty-taking coach about how he'd delivered
a masterclass in the London rain.

It was a good 90 minutes on, a whole football match later, when a
solution occurred to the transplanted Mancunian. The tall slim lad
slipped quietly away from the noise and excitement of the wood-panelled
rooms, disappearing up a flight of stairs to the mens' loos, and then
past a couple of pissing silhouettes at the urinals - into a tight
separate cubicle, which he locked, before opening up his photo gallery
and firmly deleting the pics that had come through from Walker's phone.
He did it quickly, and yet his eyes still found a moment to widen in
alarm at the intimacy of the dick pic, the big fat brown shape nestled in
Kyle's lap, flopped out of his clothes to be snapped, in a way so
obnoxiously vivid that surely whoever he was sat next to had to be in on
the joke!

But then that was gone, and the dressing room snaps and selfie with it -
gone was Walker's big cock, gone was the curve of Grealish, gone was the
shy alarm on Alvarez's face. But somehow that deletion wasn't enough.
Furious with the old git, Cole opened up the messaging app and the
conversation, staring bitterly at the single unread message - `Sorry,
was that an overshare??' - before clicking a few icons and blocking the
right-back's number, ending the banter full stop.

Only then did Palmer realise just how heavy his breathing was, how tense
his tall slim body was, and how overheated the cubicle felt. Fuck, he
needed to chill. Pushing the device away into his jeans pocket, he
unlocked the door and emerged into the main gents, going straight to the
sink to splash cold water in his hands and over his blotchy pink face. A
little stooped under the low ceiling of the olde-world pub, Cole stared
hotly at himself in the mirror over the sink, nostrils flaring, and he
resolved to get back down those stairs and enjoy himself.

A soft whistling sound from the lad next to him, who had been pissing in
the urinal when he stomped through a moment ago. Cole's eyes flickered
and he acknowledged the other Chelsea player via the mirrors, running his
hands under the cool water again. `Hey,' he grunted dismissively,
before remembering himself and asking with a warmer voice, `Don't mind
me.'

Stood at the next white porcelain basin, another young English member of
the Chelsea line-up shifted from his whistled interest to a low, friendly
voice. `Everything good, lanky?' asked Conor Gallagher pleasantly,
remaining close to his right, so that Cole couldn't help but look away
from his pink-faced reflection and meet the other midfielder's
expression of mild curiosity and easy friendship. Here was someone who
certainly DID feel at home at Chelsea, whatever turbulence the club went
through, having joined it as young as Cole had been when he signed his
first City contract; and the other Englishman had been a steady companion
for him upon his transfer to the Big Smoke, having played together on
England youth teams on several occasions.

Cole blinked, still flustered. `I'm fine.'

`You don't look fine.' It was a soft accusation, a slight lopsided
smile on Conor's calmer features.

`Just done some shots,' he muttered back.

`Thought you'd been doing lines in there, or something.' A vague
chuckle. `Does tequila always make you go rashy like that?'

`I'm just a bit warm,' he complained defensively, but he wasn't
offended or annoyed - he liked the calm and mildness of the other lad
next to him, feeling brought back to earth by the casualness with which
Gallagher lingered at his side. The 23-year-old patted him on the back of
his sweater and leaned in. `Maybe you SHOULD do a line,' the
Surrey-born footballer suggested to him quietly, linking one crystalline
blue eye; Palmer was laughing weakly at this when he saw the hard edge to
Gallagher's expression, the fixedness of that friendly grin. `Err,'
was all the young player could manage, his friend's hand still resting
on his upper back, and his own distracted thoughts fixing on some new
opportunity to detox the weirdness of that dialogue with Walker.

Conor was furtive now, the calm just illusive, as he glanced at the low
wooden door back onto the stairwell, and then nodded back to the same
blue-painted entrance into the single cubicle; he fished into the breast
pocket of the smart white shirt he wore, revealing a glimpse of
translucent plastic, and then was sliding past - Cole stared at his own
uncomfortable face in the mirror before following, seizing the
opportunity. He didn't really question what he was doing, but he needed
to snap out of one mood and into another, and maybe this was the way. The
cubicle that had felt small for one felt tiny for two, door yanked shut
and locked behind them, and Conor just chuckling very quietly under his
breath.

`Thought you might be squeaky clean,' the 6ft teammate murmured.

`You should see where I grew up in Manc,' Palmer muttered.

`Fair.' Now the 6ft player was squatting down low so that he could dump
the white powder on the wooden toilet lid, cutting it expertly with his
credit card. With nervous fingers, Cole was passing him the £50 to roll
and rapidly inhale one line. With some difficulty in the confined space,
the 6ft2 goal-scorer stooped to copy this, his first sniff of the magic
stuff since signing his first senior contract. He blinked and cleared his
throat and waited for the fireworks to die down. One warm hand from his
friend was rubbing his upper arm, and he heard the snorting sound of
Conor taking another line. `Come on,' Gallagher told him, `let's just
use it up.'

Which they did - the pair of them staggering out of the bathroom with
synapses on fire, giggling conspiratorially on the steep staircase back
into the bar, and Cole turning to look for reassurance in the blocky
features of his older friend's face - another quick wink of an icy blue
eye, and then a squeeze of his shoulder. `Let's have some fun,' the
23-year-old whispered hotly to him, and he nodded eagerly - now he could
really get into the celebrations!


Sticking almost side-by-side with his close contemporary, Cole re-entered
the drinks with a fresh dose of confidence. He happily took up several
conversations that he shied away from, boasting about how he should take
all of Chelsea's penalties for the rest of the season, making bold
predictions about how many goals he might get over the Christmas season,
even offering mindset advice to lads a decade older than him. This, he
remembered, was the cocaine bravado, and one he was happy to share with
winking Conor Gallagher, who he had equally assumed to be `squeaky
clean', a mild-mannered professional who rarely voiced his opinions and
just got on with his duties at the club. In the hyper blur of it, Palmer
found himself staring again at Sterling, and laughing - of all the lads
Kyle Walker could have chosen to make that joke about, their fast-paced
forward was the least believable of all!

At some point, the stop-start Sunday night of fun moved from the
riverside pub to a less antique setting, the upstairs VIP of a West End
nightclub - the Chelsea entourage thinned and morphed, tall slim glamour
girls interspersing the multicultural football men. At some other point,
Conor disappeared to `pick up', and then there were more lines in
bathroom cubicles, security staff paid to shut up and ignore, and there
was a jagged frenzy of not-quite-dancing on the floor, and Cole felt like
he was at one of the raves he'd been to before he had to knuckle down
and focus on impressing Guardiola.

Somewhere in this fun, briefly alone, Palmer got his phone out, and
really searched through the reams of positive messages from his mates and
relatives, and then he opened up the grey-shaded dead end of the convo
with Walker. Scoffing, Cole dismissed his earlier anxiety, and unblocked
his older friend, not wanting to ruin any contacts back to the champion
team that he could see himself eventually rejoining in greater
prominence. Cole's confidence levels were wild with the blow and the
direction of the night. He stared at the messages that popped up then,
unseen during the block, but now slotting into the message thread at
last, under the fuzzy space of the deleted dick pic; it was hard now for
the youth to focus, but he read them with furrowed brows, turning words
and sentences into meaning in spite of the fire in his brain.

`Sorry,' Kyle was texting, or had been at some point tonight from his
journey north; `I probs went too far lol - no offence meant, kid' - and
`Hope you didn't actually show that to Raz, lmao, I think he's trying
to behave himself in London town actually' and `Did you block me or
something, lad?' And last of all, accompanied by some sad-face emojis,
`Sorry Cole mate, just messing about - hope you're enjoying yourself
somehow'. In the magnanimity of drink and drugs, Cole rushed to respond
belatedly, punching in his reply: `LOL, no worries, can't offend me
with that tiny chipolata, big man!!!' and then a row of aubergines and
laughing emojis to consolidate his casual approval. And then, just for
good measure, `City til I die, lol', which he partly knew he would
regret writing tomorrow.

`Tsk...!' He had been joined on the soft sinking corner couch by one of
his fellow party-goers, and it was Conor again. Slow, distracted,
unfocused, he notice the alertness on Gallagher's face, noticed the
other lad staring over his phone and reading the screen, leaning in close
and breathing against him, going tense and serious - and of course Cole
entirely misread the source of his friend's intensity. After all, how
could he know what had gone on in the toilet hotels on the 23-year-old's
last England outing...? `I were joking,' the Manc lad began to say about
his `City til I die' statement, blinking furiously and wondering why
the room around them seemed to be spinning. He failed to resist as Conor
seized the phone from him to read more of the conversation. Slurring
dumbly, Cole pressed against the other midfielder on the comfortable
seating of the VIP bar, fumbling at the phone in his hands. `You got any
more blow?' he demanded greedily. `It's been such a great fuckin'
night, hasn't it?'

`Yeah,' the Chelsea academy graduate breathed next to him in a tone of
revelation, one that passed Palmer by - `Yeh, it sure has' - and Conor
was smirking fiercely now, his eyes aflame with blue light. Cole smiled
dopily at him and squeezed at his firm muscular form, letting out a
stupid cackle, and beginning to dimly remember the nature of the banter
his friend might be seeing on the WhatsApp thread - clumsy, he made a
better grab for his phone, and this time Conor relented, sliding it back
to him, but staring fixedly at him. `What was that?' breathed the
southerner. `You wanted some more... blow?'

And the 21-year-old nodded his head very firmly - he was on top of the
world right now, the great equaliser who had robbed points from City and
kept Chelsea's dignity somewhat intact! He deserved this fun, even if
they were pushing it, and risking some embarrassing tabloid headlines by
sniffing the white stuff in a nightclub packed with Z-list celebs. He
followed the firm nod of his friend's face and let himself be grabbed by
the hand, led from the couch and onto his feet. He felt as lanky as
Crouch or a giraffe, walking as if on stilts to traverse the bar and the
edges of the dancefloor - he giggled as he saw Conor push the notes into
the fist of the wary security fella, and then there was just the two of
them, back in the same roomy disabled loo in which they'd shoved so much
up their itchy noses.

6ft2 and slim, the young attacking midfielder was looking vaguely at
himself in the large mirror, wondering if he could pile a bit more muscle
on this year and start to fill out his frame; he flexed one skinny arm,
bared to the plain black tee now, unsure where his shirt or jumper had
been discarded in the night. He stared down and realised that actually
his tight CK jeans were open at the front, perhaps had been for a while,
and pulled an inch or so down to expose the waistband of his black boxer
briefs; his eyes, fizzing with the effects of too much coke, also took in
that Conor was down on his knees next to him, as if stooping there to
prep the next few lines of magic dust. But- there was no dust, no magic,
and in fact Conor was just pulling and pawing at his jeans, and looking
up at him. Cole swung his chaotic eyes from the mirror and he looked down
the length of his body, confused to see his own cock out, that and his
heavy balls and tufty pubes flopping over the waistband of his undies. He
stared uncomprehendingly at his dick, and at the sweaty sheen on Conor's
face. But then the two were one, and he blinked in confusion - was he
imagining this? It had been an odd night. No, this was happening. There
was Conor's face, pulling in closer and pulling away, and fireworks like
cocaine were running up and down his body - he could feel his foreskin
pull back, could feel a wet strong rub against the sensitive tip of his
dick, could feel gentle fingertips caress his bollocks - and he turned to
look in the mirror as if for confirmation of reality. He could see
himself standing tall and slim, and the more muscular 6ft lad crouching
before him, hair greased back away from his face, which was bobbing back
and forth, its rhythm matching the heavy physical sensations that both
pleased and confused him. He realised that the loud gasping moans were
his own. Oh.

With slow dim recognition of the great blowie he was receiving, Cole
Palmer rubbed a couple of things over his thin moustache, catching the
dusty cocaine remnants there, and then fingering them in against his gums
optimistically. He stared hazily down and nodded in approval - yep, like
Kyle had suggested, this was exactly the gratitude he deserved. `I
thought it was gonna be Raheem,' he slurred stupidly to the world in
general.

`Apparently not,' gurgled Conor, who was kissing his balls and jerking
his wet cock.

`As if,' Cole laughed, more to himself than the lad on his knees.
`Sterling wouldn't-'

`Dunno,' Conor murmured, all hot breath and wet lips.

`Kyle doesn't show know shit.'

`I wouldn't be so sure,' the 23-year-old muttered, but the ominous
knowingness of his voice was lost on Palmer, who just rubbed a hand on
his flat tummy, lifting up his t-shirt a bit, and staring approvingly
down at the pouting lips that were back on his cock. The world span, but
his dick and balls felt good, and he thought of Kyle's bolshy messages,
thought even for a moment of his fat soft cock hanging out of his
trackies; sure, sure, this was what happened when you stepped up and took
charge! He thought too of that candid photo of Jack Grealish getting
changed, the big curve of his muscular backside, photographed in the away
changing rooms for him - reality confused for Cole Palmer, who was
simultaneously picking the Love Island reject who he'd been dancing with
ten minutes ago, and the alleged TV presenter who he'd been buying
cocktails for at the bar. For a long minute, he thought maybe he was in
here with one of them, that his pulling skills had improved massively
since his awkward outings in central Manchester - sure, sure, a quick
bathroom blowie in a nightclub, this was the new him, the Chelsea him!

He was loud as he came, hardly conscious of the bribed bouncer on the
other side of the door, who was probably asking himself some fairly major
questions about how else he could make money, but was deciding that
Gallagher's notes would do for now; Cole gasped and moaned really
loudly, unselfconscious, as he spurted his load and emptied his balls,
throwing his head back and grasping a disabled support rail by the mirror
as his body trembled with drug-enhanced pleasure. And then, coming to, he
stared in ambivalent wonder at the shiny mess around Conor's mouth and
chin, wondering what his friend had been eating to make that mess, and
then certain key facts joined up, and his brain found some order in the
chemical chaos. Oh, right, sure.

`Fuck,' he heard Gallagher gasp. `You taste almost as good as him.'

`Who?' he asked, as if from miles away, but the other lad just laughed
- he was getting up, going to the sink to wash, and Cole just swayed on
his heels, staring at his own veiny cock as if it belonged to someone
else. And then he saw Conor back on his knees, but at the toilet, cutting
the lines - and he stumbled to join him at the same time as pushing his
prick back into his jeans, confused but excited.


Lying in bed with the TV presenter, and blissfully unaware of how he'd
failed to get hard again after the bathroom blowjob, convinced that in
fact he'd fucked this showbiz wannabe good and hard... Lying there,
Cole's brain tried and failed to sort out the facts of the night, but
the only things that remained clear and vivid, other than his fantasy of
how virile he'd been for his 3am pull, were the slow-motion penalty
against his old team, and the dick pic vividly on his phone. When his
thoughts turned to Conor Gallagher, who thought vaguely about fun
cocaine, and about looking down at that messy face, but he couldn't
quite piece it all together, his body tingling with remembered pleasure.
In bed, he groaned and reached for the girl's body, and pulled her
close, his cock starting to get hard after all, even if his body was
about 80% asleep. `Oh,' he heard her coo in delight, `is it finally
working now? Come on, footballer, put it in me and make me your WAG!' Or
something to that effect - the next day, all of it was vague and unclear,
and Palmer knew only one thing for sure... he really really really liked
doing cocaine with Gallagher.




'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