Date: Wed, 28 Feb 2024 21:03:05 +0000
From: writer guy <premiershiplads@outlook.com>
Subject: Premiership Lads, Part 392

Part 392: Carabao Hangover


He was woke up by the pounding in the sides of his head, but this throb
of pain was quickly joined by the parchment-dry feel of his lips, a sour
burn at the back of his throat, and a deep unsteadiness somewhere in his
guts that made him emit a faint strangled moan of dismay - oh bugger,
here's the hangover.

Still, the 19-year-old football player remained quite still, eyes firmly
shut, allowing his half-conscious brain and exhausted body slowly
orientate themselves, clammy against the folds of bedding that covered
much of his lean 5ft10 form; as his lashes fluttered open and the youth
accepted the sickly after-effects of morning, the room seemed to spin,
and he couldn't quite orientate himself in the bed or in relation to the
bright glare of the windows - there was nothing familiar or reassuring
about the furniture or the decor of this space, and Bobby Clark shut his
eyes again, as if a few more moments' dozing might reset reality and he
would in fact be waking up in the flat his parents had bought him near
the docks.

Nope, opening one and then both eyes again, he was definitely here in
this strange room, a fact that seemed to highlight some fuzzy gaps in the
teen's perception of last night: he could picture much of the
celebratory action after being part of a trophy-winning triumph, but he
was a bit baffled about his current whereabouts or how he had got here.
More baffling, the up-and-coming midfielder slowly realised, that not all
of his body felt irritated by the rustling of starchy new bedsheets - he
realised that at least part of one leg was chafing slightly against the
warmth and softness of someone else's skin, and it occurred very
gradually to Bobby that he was not in the bed alone. For a dizzy moment,
his temples throbbing, the son of the more famous Clark footballer
flinched but tremored with excitement, and he thought he must have
managed to pull a bird when they made it out to the underground nightclub
that someone's cousin owned - but twisting his prone body and lifting
slightly onto one elbow, the teen almost spluttered with laughter. Next
to him, squashed in between the jumble of pillows, could be seen a
half-profile of a familiar face, that of his teammate James McConnell,
squashed in between the pillows with his face twisted by the angle and
his lips contorted by his slow snoring breaths.

With a quiet `hah' of exasperation or disappointment, Bobby pulled his
leg apart, and slid gently away from the heat of the bed's other
occupant, up onto his feet on the soft beige carpet of somebody's guest
room. On the floor he recognised his own skinny jeans, t-shirt,
over-shirt, the tumble of his socks and trainers, and a quick glance up
and down himself confirmed to the Geordie youth that he was just in his
pants, low rise black boxer briefs that were a bit twisted in their fit
by the writhing of fitful sleep.

Clark laughed quietly to himself and swayed on bare heels, his head
spinning, and he tugged and writhed at the fit of his underpants,
blinking at the strength of light that burned in through the room's
single large window - apparently they hadn't thought to shut the
curtains of this guest room they'd been ushered into at the end of last
night's partying, piling clumsily into one shared bed because their host
was out of space. The 19-year-old tittered faintly and, partly out of
kindness to sleeping James, yanked shut the curtains to diminish the
bright spring sunshine that was pouring in, reducing the guest room to a
dull mirk that matched the musty smell of laddish hangover sweat.

`Fuck,' the young Liverpool player groaned, his headache worsening,
`how much did we drink...?'


Obviously last night in London had been a huge one for Bobby, just as it
had for the other young players who had been called up to perform in the
absence of bigger stars, and eventually beating Pochettino's `billion
dollar bottle jobs' at the end of extra time - a historic silverware win
for the club and a momentous career launch for Bobby and other Academy
graduates who were slowly breaking their way into the Anfield first team.
It was still hard for the 19-year-old to believe he had been subbed on in
a Wembley final and then helped to bring about that victory in front of
their travelling fans, fucking hell. He'd come on for his buddy Bradley
in the 72nd minute and his snoring pal McConnell had joined him about 10
mins later, two 19-year-old midfielders helping to push the action
forward and buy the big win over Chelsea.

And from that late goal onwards, Tsimikas and Van Dijk breaking the
deadlock, Cark and the others' world had just set on fire with
excitement. The on-pitch celebrations had been like nothing Bobby had
experienced yet in his career, and the mad atmosphere had continued on
into the Wembley changing rooms; he'd loved posing with the other young
guns from the Liverpool Academy, including the supportive friendship of
big brotherly Trent Alexander-Arnold in his injury leg brace; even more,
he'd loved being hoisted aloft by a host of senior players in the tunnel
and dressing room and eventually chucked into the recovery pool with the
rest of the wild-eyed youngsters who had been so crucial in winning the
Carabao Cup.

Now, the rest of the night flashed through his dehydrated head - he could
picture the many rushed chats and meaningful hugs in the Wembley
accommodation, and the hurried journeys to City Airport, the chartered
jet back into John Lennon - he could picture the quick `official'
drinks on the flight, toasting each other and the gaffer - he could
picture the seriousness with which the bosses told them to get home to
bed and informed them contradictorily of their morning off before
assembling at the training ground for `Recovery' late this afternoon.
And then he could picture the feverish excitement with which a solid
portion of the squad had totally ignored this and bundled into taxis to
first a lock-in at a ropey bar near the airport and then, diminishing in
numbers, on to said exclusive club, opened up especially for them due to
somebody's family connection. After that, things became less vivid, but
it was slowly returning as he crept out of the room and onto the landing.

This place, he realised, was actually Andy Robertson's place, the older
Scotsman one of the few first team regulars who had joined them at the
sweaty bunker of a nightclub, drinking any 19-year-old under the table in
true Scottish style - Bobby could picture the brash Glaswegian player
racing an injured Ben Doak to down pints at the bar, and then he also
remembered the moment that Robbo demanded they come to his for
`Afters', though in fact the squad of them had been so drunk and wiped
out that they'd probably enjoyed one drink downstairs before crashing
out in various guest accommodation.

Quietly, Bobby slipped out of their guest room, careful not to make noise
that would disturb the deeper sleep of James; it hadn't occurred to the
youth to pull on the clothes from last night's adventure, and his
near-naked body shivered out on the draughtier cool of the landing
balcony, feeling exposed in just his minimal black underpants... but then
the house felt asleep and quiet, and he tiptoed gently across the
carpeted landing, down a short flight, and into what seemed to be a
bathroom door. Inside, the 19-year-old footballer had to pause, and then
stifle another laugh: there was the host himself, Andy Robertson having
fallen asleep right over the bowl of a toilet, the seat of which was now
his pillow. Bobby again regretted being just in his keks, but this time
more so that he wanted his phone to take a compromising pic of the
semi-naked Scotsman hunched over the loo, presumably banished from his
marital bedroom after returning steaming drunk and dragging a cluster of
equally wasted younger lads into the house.

He retreated from this bathroom, shaking his head, and passed by a couple
of other doors on the landing - vague snores sounded from each of them,
and he wondered exactly how many teammates Robbo had gathered back here
at the end of the night, or the early hours of the morning, summoning
them here for an after-party that barely happened.

Being on his feet was simultaneously making Bobby feel more conscious and
alert, but also making his headache and guts worse, and he wandered a
little aimlessly through the upstairs of the Robertson home - surely
there were a couple of other bathrooms or loos up here, but the vague
snores and dim memories made him loathe to open more doors, having
already walked in on the slumped repose of their host. He didn't know
whose rooms he might go stumbling into in his undies like some random
weirdo, and he was starting to wonder if he should just go back to that
guest room and piss out of the window - but the parched youth really
needed water too.

With some reluctance, Clark crept downstairs, clutching the bannister the
whole way as if his hangover head might make him stumble, and he shivered
again in the hallway below, though his bare skin was hot to touch with
the feverish after-effects of so much drinking. A clock on the wall told
him that it was barely gone 6am and that in fact he could only have
grasped a couple of hours' sleep in that shared bed with McConnell
anyway - fuck's sake.

Downstairs, the 19-year-old moved quite daintily on his toes, trying not
to cause a noise or fuss, especially as he passed the open double-doors
into the rear lounge where they'd piled in to drink Andy's scotch at
3am, and found it like the den of sleeping lions. On one low sofa he
could see the slung figure of last night's goalie, his friend Caoimhin
Kelleher, flashes of pale skin visible beneath the ill-fitting blanket
that was tugged around his foetal position; across from him on another
similar low couch, Conor Bradley lay on his back, no attempt at covering
himself with a blanket, and his body just settled into a contorted
posture across several cushions, his shirt off and his jeans open at the
front to show some of the bulging grey underpants below - Bobby might
have judged himself for noticing, but it was the way the jeans were
tugged down or up, and the ostentatious way the Northern Irish right-back
lay there snoring at the ceiling.

And so Clark junior moved on past this entrance, wondering how many
teammates were passed out in there, and found his way into a quiet dark
kitchen instead - no sweaty snoring lads in here, but it took him a while
to find a clean glass and fill it at the sink. He emptied it twice in
deep guzzles, refilling it each time; then, in a moment of thoughtful
kindness, he found and filled a second glass, thinking of James, and then
his bladder reminded him of other needs. Putting the glasses down on the
bottom spot, he found a downstairs loo under the stairs and pushed down
the front of his undies, taking a sweaty cock in hand and pissing heavily
- the gurgly echo of his ablutions sounded like it might echo wakefully
through the entire house, but it was probably in his pounding head. Piss
done, he rocked on his heels and cradled his limp privates in a daze,
feeling all the usual `never again' sentiments of a hungover teenager,
before briefly washing his mitts and exiting the small hall toilet to
journey back upstairs in relative relief.

Feeling nauseous, the 5ft10 Espom-born Geordie made his way upstairs,
clutching the two pint glasses and rubbing his achey face against the
back of one arm, a quiet stumbling gait in search of the room where he'd
woken up; it was only on the dim morning light of the landing that Bobby
became unsure which door he'd actually emerged from, and which corner of
the Robertson house he and James had been bundled into when they could no
longer drink any more vintage whiskey. In a soft quite huff, the teen
laughed at his own predicament, and stood their indecisively in his
underpants - it occurred to him that he could just muscle into the
bathroom and wake up Andy himself to get a pointer, but a 29-year-old
Glaswegian who'd fallen asleep with his head in the bog didn't seem
like the kinda guy worth waking up prematurely, nope.

Instead, he moved in the right general direction, counting how many
different doors branched off across the side of the upstairs, and peering
ahead to the furthest one, which he thought might be theirs - but he
didn't recognise that big framed photo of the Scottish highlands or that
full-height pot plant, so... he hesitated, counted two back from the last
door, and approached it with mustered confidence. Hands full, he leaned
and used an elbow instead to push down on the handle and inch the door
inwards, and- Stopped, abruptly, half-crouching, leaning into the
white-painted door, as an even richer sweaty musk hit him from the dark
room within, milliseconds before the sounds connected with his ears: a
rapid low grunting rhythm of breath, and a faint almost nasal whine of
response, noises which took a long moment to register with the teen's
hungover brain. He'd just walked in on someone having a shag! It was
dark, although his awkward opening of the door must have let in a shaft
of disturbing light, but it didn't sound like it had interrupted the
furtive action; he pulled instinctively back, clutching the two pint
glasses in his clammy hands, and then stared dimly at the doorhandle
which he would be unable to pull shut with his hands full - and so the
lean young Geordie just hovered there at the doorway, a step back, the
door only open by a couple of inches, but the grunts and whines sounding
still through this crack of darkness - though he couldn't see a thing, a
growling voice told him what he needed to know. `Take it,' the muffled
grunting voice sounded in the darkness, `take my big cock...' Bobby's
eyes bulged and he smirked, yet again resisting the urge to crack out
laughing in the hungover sleepiness of the house, instead taking slow
backwards steps over the carpeted landing, and staring decisively at
another door which must surely be the one he'd emerged from, it was open
a crack as he'd left it.

Beginning to snigger stupidly to himself, Bobby used his bare arm and
shoulder to push it inwards and slipped into the room, relieved when it
seemed familiar, and thinking with admiration - fucking hell, good for
big Joe Gomez, the team's London stud, managing to pull on the way back
here and give her a hangover fucking in Andy Robertson's guest room! Big
dirty bastard, haha, what a legend!


James had drank just as many pints as his Academy bestie, downed just as
many shot glasses of vodka and tequila; he woke up with the same stab of
discomfort and sense of confusion, and then the same blurry montage of
Cup victory streaming back over him as he rolled onto his front and then
his back, thrashing out at the weighty bedding that covered his
feverishly hot body. He was unaware that the tiptoeing steps of another
and the creak of the door had broken his slumber, and only slowly
conscious of the door reopening and the figure that pranced across the
room - until, squinting one eye, the 19-year-old Northumbrian lad saw a
single sweating pint glass clinked down on a bedside table close to him,
and then was blinking briefly up at the smirking goateed face of his
friend and teammate - `Bobby?' the hungover Geordie teen grumbled.

As James shifted in the bedding and reached desperately for the glass of
refreshing h2O, the other figure in the dimly lit room moved about and
then sprang quite animatedly onto the bed, making the other
booze-sweating youth pull aside to make room, frowning resentfully and
fighting over his share of the duvet as the other slender midfielder
scrambled into bed with him. For a second, the hungover lad felt
territorial and irritable and he wanted to kick out at his best pal, his
former rival from their earlier days in the Newcastle and Sunderland
youth squads, but it dawned on him that, not for the first time, the two
of them had shared the bed after all, and he'd been slumbering right
next to the other lad until he went to get them water - this realisation
made him grumble gratefully and slurp more water, spilling some down his
fuzzy chin and then rubbing a clammy paw across his greasy face.

`Ergh. Where are we?'

`Mate,' Bobby hissed, `you'll never guess what I just saw.'

`Are we at someone's gaff?' he groaned disinterestedly.

`Well, not quite SAW, but-'

`Shurrup,' McConnell complained quietly, closing his eyes and pushing
his head back down at the pillow; close together, he felt the cooler skin
of Clark's arm and thigh against his and he slid aside, realising how
little space either of their strapping young figures had in here. `What
you on about?' James murmured with the embers of curiosity, blinking
furiously and cradling his head. He put the glass back on the bedside
table delicately as if he might slip in focus and send the large
decorative lamp crashing to the floor. Then, careful to maintain his own
space on this half of the bed, he rolled over and squinted sleepily at
the manic grin on Bobby's face. `What you saying, man?'

Their faces were turned close to face each other's against the squish of
pillows, and the 19-year-old Morpeth lad could taste his friend's beery
breath mingle with his own. He was coming to now properly, and he was
curious in Bobby's excitement, in spite of his surly frown and his
throbbing headache. `Well,' hissed Clark's voice, close by, `you'll
never guess who is banging some bird a couple of rooms away in another of
Robbo's spare rooms, haha...'

James laughed hesitantly at this and knuckled at his dry eyes, absorbing
first the confirmation of their location - oh yeah, he could picture a
roaring Braveheart Robbo leading them out of the nightclub like a small
army, the gushing host as he poured them measures and tried to get them
singing Liverpool chants downstairs - and then the news of mischief going
on. He recognised that electric glee in Bobby's eyes, knowing how
playful and extroverted the other Geordie youth could be about these
matters, far more confident than himself - `Shurrup,' he grumbled
again, feigning disinterest, and pushing Bobby's hand away as it came
pushing in at his bare smooth chest.

`Gomez,' the other lad hissed, apparently not waiting for his guess.

`Joe?' he grumbled vaguely back.

`Well duh, haha, yes mate - could hear it on way past, big Joe going at
it, fucking hell - she'll be sore when he's finished!'

`Ergh.' James glared at him judgmentally and wrinkled his face in
disgust. `Dunno if I needed to know about that, buddy...'

`Oh,' Bobby was insisting, seeming more awake and fresh than him - how
didn't he feel like the room was spinning?! - and keen to talk. `You
shoulda heard it, man, the grunts and whines, she had a deep kinda voice,
but-'

`Spying on him, were ya?' James cut in, gathering the conscious energy
to banter, and giving his pal a shove in the side as they shifted
positions to get comfortable; he tried, and failed, to turn further away
from the growing body heat of the other boy, the double bed feeling
impossibly narrow with two 5ft10 footy lads in it. He brought both hands
up to drag across his face and lay on his back, letting his dizziness
settle.

`Hardly spying - you could hear it loud and clear on the landing.'

`Perv.'

`Oh yeh, for sure, you know me, always spying on fellas, aye...'

`Well, wouldn't surprise me...'

`You're the one who clocks everyone's dick size,' retorted Bobby now,
and James scowled resentfully - it was not a joke that got any less
chafing over time, but he knew he'd walked straight into it, that time
when the two young friends were bantering about Alexis Mac Allister
getting dirty texts after training, and Bobby had made some quip about
his `tiny dick' as the Argentinian rushed home to his bird. James had
stumbled clumsily into the humiliation of pointing out that their World
Cup winner teammate wasn't quite `tiny', and Bobby had now brought it
up two dozen times since - he was sniggering stupidly now and reaching
across as if to tickle him, making James slap irritably at him under the
covers and kick him clumsily across the shins. `Pair of dirty voyeurs,
ain't we?' Bobby cackled into his pillow.

`Speak for yourself,' James muttered, but he couldn't help it - his
hungover imagination wandering sleepily to this gossip, wondering if he
concentrated whether he'd be able to hear what his friend had heard -
was their big strapping colleague really going at it at this time in the
morning in another spare room of Robbo's house? He found himself almost
picturing the dirty deed for some reason and then, riled by Bobby's
banter, even picturing a soapy snapshot of Mac Allister showering next to
them after last night's game, as cackly and dorky as always in his joy.

`Lucky bastard,' Clark moaned, next to him. `I get so horny when I'm
hanging.'

`TMI,' James slurred lazily, but he knew what the other lad meant - the
heat and frustration of the morning after could go straight to a man's
crotch, even after a pretty standard night out, never mind after as
exciting event as that Wembley win and flight home. Almost on cue, it was
like his balls were fuzzy tingling in his keks, and he wished he had a
bed to himself - how much would a taxi home to his flat-share cost?

`You know what I mean,' the other 19-year-old continued regardless,
`just that buzz and tingle and all hot and bothered and... pfft, y'know,
it's just knowing that big Joe is getting his end away, that's all, and
feelin' proper jel...'

`Well you ain't knocking one out in here,' James hissed, and he
regretted his bluntness immediately, because Bobby went quiet, making him
lean and slide that way and peer at him over the pillows. `You're not
seriously thinking about it, for fuck's sake...'

`Well,' his friend complained, `I don't really see why not, man.'

`Why no? Cos I'm fucking here, that's why not-'

`Yeah, but like, I bet you're feeling it too, J, so-'

`Maaaate...'

`Just saying, just saying...!'

Awkward silence.

`You telling me you aren't horny as fuck like, man?'

James ignored this pushy question and lay there, ignoring the sensation
in the crotch of his CK white trunks, staring at the ceiling. Again, his
thoughts were turning awkwardly to the thought of Joe Gomez, that
towering London bloke who he found rather aloof and mysterious compared
to some of their other more senior teammates, and... He blinked the
thought away and tensed up, sensing the movement. `You fucking
aren't,' he accused quietly into the sweaty mirk of the shared bed.

`Oh come on,' complained Bobby's voice. James looked across at the
sweaty lean face of the handsome blond lad and his obnoxiously tracklined
eyebrow, grinning charmingly at him with arms disappearing under the
covers. James could feel every twitch and rustle of the heavy duvet,
knowing that Bobby's hands must be- `Maaate,' he groaned again, but
Bobby just sniggered and elbowed him.

`Relax,' he was told by the other young midfielder, `and give yourself
a stroke.'

McConnell found himself lying there frozen with indecision, as he often
did when dragged along by the overt naughtiness of the other North East
teen who had joined the Liverpool academy at roughly the same time as him
and quickly became his closest ally, two Geordies on Merseyside, now two
young Cup winners sweating and recovering in this shared bed. He thought
of the cool water his friend had brought him and his irritation softened,
but he was still outraged - moreso when Bobby suddenly let out a little
moan.

`Are you wanking?' he asked sharply in a pained whisper.

`Aye - course I am! I told ya. Go on, just do the same.'

Bobby flared his nostrils and made a huffy noise but, in spite of
instincts, he did the same - he reached a hand down the flat tense
muscles of his midriff and felt the front of his white CKs, feeling how
hard he already was, with some trepidation. Gently, he stroked himself
through the material, slowly and hesitantly, and then risked looking to
his right: seeing Bobby's head rest back comfortably, that wicked young
expression one of solitary enjoyment, lips slightly parted, lashes
fluttering, hair mussy with sleep and fidgeting... and shoulder muscles
twitching as one arm did some work under the sheets, fuck.

Bobby lay there still again, hand resting on his undies, and his sleepy
eyes fixed on this profile of Bobby's face, his soft curls of
honey-blond hair stuck slightly to his brow, and his pink lips pursing
over his white teeth, then another jarring little moan... But then Clark
was opening his eyes and looking this way, meeting his, and seeming to
pause. James swallowed hard and felt a knot of discomfort in his chest -
had he been staring really badly at his friend there?

`Lighten up,' Bobby told him, almost snappish, `it's just a tug. Let
me enjoy myself. I won't get any on you.' He sniggered, and James
laughed too, flustered but relieved, thinking that his stare hadn't been
so odd or intense after all - and he pushed a hand into the front of his
CKs and felt how hot and hard his Northumbrian cock was.

`Wish we had some slag in here,' Bobby hissed very quietly, `that we
could share.'

`Share?' James protested in a low whisper. `Dunno about that.'

`Oh, come on - we're senior players now, not kids, this is the shit
they get up to.'

`Oh right, in soaps and that maybe,' James told him, but uncertainly,
nervously removing his long heavy tool from his undies and letting the
tight waistband rest under the crease of his ballsack. He stroked slowly
on his cock and felt the sensitive tip rub against the duvet, making him
moan a little - when he heard himself, they both went silent for a
moment, and then sniggered in unison. `Sorry,' he laughed.

`Don't be,' Bobby chided. `It was... kinda hot?'

`Oh, fuck off, man...!'

But James glanced sidelong at his bedfellow, unsure - that had to have
been a joke from Clarky, didn't it? He held his cock about the shaft and
felt almost too tense to play with himself, this was too edgy for him,
but he could tell that Bobby was going for it, tugging himself off out of
sight and licking his lips as he did, then glancing this way too -
`Mate, I have an idea,' said the voice of a true troublemaker, and
James blinked dopily back at him, parched and dizzy - `We could, just,
y'know, like, er-'

`What?' McConnell insisted dimly, listening to the slurred confusion of
the other young Geordie, and then frowning quizzically as Clarky made a
nervous laugh and seemed to slide slightly closer to him in this narrow
confines.

`We could just, like, give each other a hand,' Bobby whispered in a
rush, and then shutting his mouth and looking uncharacteristically shy
and embarrassed, regret obvious in his bright eyes; James just stared at
him with his dry mouth hanging slightly open, and he made a slow `Errr'
noise of bewilderment back. `Daft,' Bobby grunted. `Daft idea, daft
idea, I just thought- I dunno, I thought if- Oh, fuck, I was just joking,
so...'

`That'd be weird,' McConnell thought aloud in a breathy whisper.

`Yeh,' the other 19-year-old agreed, `really weird.'

`I don't think we should.'

`Nah,' Bobby confirmed. `Defo a bit much.'

`But...'

`Yeh?'

`Erm - guess it would just feel like we were...' James began,
thoughtful, stopping and starting, `well - it would - I mean - it might
feel like-'

`Yeh?' Bobby breathed again, sounding eager. `It'd feel like we're
just getting wanked off by some slag, right? What d'you think, man?'
That thin blond face was intense and close and James found himself
nodding slowly, staring back across the pillows at his buddy - he was
surprised by the nervous energy of the usually-confident Clark, and the
calm acceptance of his own murmured, `Why not?'

And so, shifting against the bedding, Bobby's intricately tattooed left
arm came this way; James felt it against his heated chest, and tummy, and
then he could feel his hand pushing against his own. Unseen by either of
them, his cock was taken in a light grip by Bobby's hand, and he pulled
his own sweaty palms away, pushed flat against his hips; he glanced once
more at Bobby's nervous face, and the other midfield player mouthed at
him, `Well, gan on, mate, you too.' And he did - he lifted his right
hand and crossed it awkwardly past his friend's arm, reaching blindly
down under the bedding - he felt the hard ridges of muscle that must be
Bobby's tight six-pack, and then he felt the light fuzz of pubes, and
suddenly the firm muscular heat of another lad's cock on his sweaty
fingers - a surge of electric excitement ran through him, the two of them
lying there, taking each other in hand. It was weird, a little creepy -
Bobby felt bigger than his own, but he wasn't sure how true that was, he
certainly felt veiner, and... Bobby seemed to be circumcised he realised,
unlike himself, as his nervous fingers brushed against the ridge of the
helmet.

`No eye contact,' was the last thing Clark mumbled at him, and
McConnell took a moment to understand the urgency of this measure, before
agreeing and shifting his head back to stare upwards - all the while,
beginning to slowly slide his hand up and down the length of a cock,
whilst feeling an almost rhythmic match in his own throbbing hangover
erection, their arms brushing and banging slightly as they worked in
secret hidden tandem - neither lad seemed comfortable and easy with it at
first, but they kept shifting their weight, their postures, never looking
across at each other, and soon James felt like he had a better grip, a
better rhythm, a real control as he tugged and tugged. Bobby stopped,
making him feel nervous and embarrassed - this was too much, wasn't it,
and Bobby was about to say so? - but he just heard his friend spit loudly
in his hand and get back to it, and so he did the same, his palm and
fingers slick with spit as he picked up the pace and wanked Bobby off
more firmly under the duvet. Both lads breathed heavily, clearly
suppressing the little half-moans that escaped their lips, and James'
head swam with the giddy sensations of his hangover, wondering if he was
actually too dehydrated to shoot.

`God,' Bobby moaned, after many minutes of this, `she feels good.'

James, slow on the uptake, opened his mouth to speak and stopped himself.
He thought about it, and then with a playful chuckle to his voice, he
moaned, `God, her hand feels amazing,' and they both tittered stupidly,
a sense of saucy oneupmanship entering their hoarse whispers - `She's
got the softest hands,' Bobby was purring, and so James said, `Feels
like she's sitting on my big Geordie dick,' and both erupted into
breathy giggles of stupidity - paused when Bobby stopped to spit more in
his hand, and James accordingly did the same, really going for it now.

It took him a minute or so to realise that the pleasure of his own cock
had lessened, slowed, stopped - he was tugging so energetically on the
rigid mast of Bobby's arousal, really desperate to pull it to
completion, as if it was his own. He wanked and wanked and realised that
Bobby's arm had gone limp against him. Looking over, he saw the ecstatic
look on Bobby's lean pretty face, the fluttering of his blond lashes,
the `O' of his open mouth, and the fresh sweat beading on his brow and
cheeks - `Mate,' whimpered Clark's voice, but McConnell already knew,
didn't need to hear it, but... `She's gonna make me cum,' the
ex-Magpie gasped into the half-light, and then let out a long controlled
moan, and James found his hand slipping and sliding in its motion, wetter
now, not with his own spit, but with warm gelatinous liquid on his palm,
his fingers - his friend's cum, hot and sticky to his touch, making him
falter and pant and stop.

He wiped his hand instinctively on the bed between them but in doing so
seemed to get it on his hip and Bobby's and he tried to rub his hand on
something else, but it was the side of Bobby's undies; he felt the
floppy weight of a spent cock rub and graze at his hand and he pulled it
awkwardly back, his heart hammering. Next to him, his mate was still
gasping quietly, but then he felt strength return to the limp hand and
Bobby was stroking across his flat tummy, tickling the little dark growth
between his navel and his pubes - `Sorry, I shouldn't have stopped,'
his friend breathed, but James felt himself protesting - he wasn't sure
why, but he was pushing down, pushing Bobby's hand away with his own
sticky paw, shivering with terrified excitement. `It's okay,' James
insisted, `you don't have to.'

There seemed to be an awkwardness between them now, a long moment's
quiet, as Bobby tried to reach dutifully for him, clearly intent on
fulfilling an obligation of returning a favour, but James felt
embarrassed now it was less mutual and synchronised, and also a little
freaked out by the salty smell emerging from each disturbed ruffle of the
bedding; he pushed the questing hand away and gripped at his own erection
with the soiled hand, holding it tight, and just listening to his own and
his friend's breathing. Bobby stopped trying and just lay next to him,
silent and perhaps embarrassed and James wanked himself without saying a
thing or letting a single panting moan escape his lip; soon he too had
spent his load, a messy slick against the underside of the duvet, his
cock flopping back against his tummy, and his chest heaving with each
awkward breath. He tried to speak, but he didn't know what he could say,
he felt completely lost.


James wasn't sure how long the two Liverpool midfielders lay there in
tense silence, or if Bobby even felt as tense and ridiculous as he did -
perhaps the other Geordie lad was genuinely asleep when he looked over at
his still face and shallow breaths - but after a while the darker-haired
youth scrambled out of bed and found each items of his clothing from the
floor of the tidy guest room, which stunk of sweat and spunk. He gulped
from the glass of water and stared guiltily at his clammy hands, one of
which must be stained with both his and his friend's jizz. He wiped them
self-consciously on the thighs of his cargo pants and pulled the tie-dyed
hoody over his t-shirt, covering his lean pale body in clothes to hide
its naked shame from the mutual handjob.

And then, with all of his usual easy charm, Bobby said `Get me a fucking
fry-up, Morpeth', and the two pals were sniggering and bantering with
their usual relaxed intimacy; once both dressed, the two teens left the
room and followed dim voices down to the house's kitchen, where
breakfast really was on the cards, their host Robbo offering out bacon
butties and fried mushrooms to everyone who wanted some, muttering on
about having haggis in the larder if anyone fancied it - the busy
downstairs of the house echoed with hungover laughter and matey banter,
various members of the Wembley squad seated on stools or kitchen surfaces
or chairs pulled from elsewhere, and McConnell and Clark sidling in
amongst them to join the gathering. The conversation shifted inevitably
to the awful states they would be in when they reconvened at the training
ground this afternoon, and the fact they had an FA Cup game tomorrow
night.

James felt happy but dazed, and the whole awkward episode in the bedroom
already felt like a glimpse of a surreal dream, not something he could
worry about in the light of day, or when he and his bestie were sat among
this company of older and more experienced players, listening to people
retell their involvements in the Chelsea win. But he did notice the way
his friend Bobby kept staring thoughtfully over at towering Joe Gomez,
who stood near the hob with Robbo, and supped from a big mug of coffee.

At some point in the slow dispersal of this breakfast club, James
overheard Bobby make a snide comment to 26-year-old defender, who was
pouring them coffees. `Sounded like you had fun,' the son of Lee Clark
whispered knowingly to the older man, nudging shoulder to shoulder with
the bigger fella as he took his coffee cup. Joe, his face weary and
dazed, just turned and gave him a blank look. `Eh?' he asked. James
listened inattentively, waiting for his own coffee, but he felt a stab of
awkwardness as his friend pushed quietly on, rather than dropping it. `I
heard you,' Bobby whispered confidentially, just loud enough for James
to hear, and then, `I heard you shagging her - who was she? Where'd she
go?'

Joe Gomez stared at Bobby and then, it seemed to James, at him too, his
face blank and expressionless, frozen in the act of pouring from the
cafetiere. A moody silence fell between them, the two teens and the big
defensive player, and James wanted to kick his friend in the ankle,
wanted to hiss at him to mind his own business and stop trying to be club
joker; but they were rescued by the ding-dong of a bell interrupting the
low chatter of the room, and one of the other players getting up to go
answer it - Kelleher, the goalie, but another lad got up from the seat
next to him, and announced his urgency to claim a seat in the first taxi.

`No sleep,' Darwin Nunez informed the room very loudly, wrapping his
inked arms across his lean chest, and then staring pointedly across the
kitchen table, this way - to James' left, not at Bobby, but at tall
brooding Joe. `No sleep,' the Urugayuan star repeated firmly, `not
sharing a bed with that snoring bastard!! Haha!' And then, downing the
last of his coffee, the injured forward who had not even played last
night was making an exit from the kitchen, following Kelleher and Bradley
into the hall, and Gomez and Robertson shifting after them... and James,
who had only half-paid attention to this, found himself glancing to his
left, and at the slapped confusion of Bobby's pretty features.

`What?' he hissed impatiently at his friend, too tired and hungover
himself to follow the logical implications. He reached past to snatch the
coffee, having had Gomez interrupted before it could be poured. But he
looked insistently at Clark, who was standing next to him with a face
like he'd just had a big shock, his mouth opening and closing quietly.
James waited, holding the hot cup in both hands - `What is it?'

Bobby averted his eyes and slowly moistened one lip with his tongue, then
shook his head. `Nothing,' he murmured evasively, but as he did, the
cogs in James' head did their turning, moving past the dehydrated ache -
and he thought back to that snatch of whispered gossip in the early hours
of their sweaty shared bed.

Oh.




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

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