Date: Fri, 15 Mar 2024 06:04:42 +0000
From: writer guy <premiershiplads@outlook.com>
Subject: Premiership Lads, Part 395

Part 395: Beaten (Off) at the Last Minute

The quiet bar of a mid-range but conveniently located hotel, its windows
overlooked the motorway out of the south coast town - commercial radio
droned in the background and few customers remained to sup beer or wine
in its dated decor, rendered gloomy by the heavy rainfall on the misty
windows. But one figure was propped up at the bar on his own, elbows to
the counter in hunched posture on his stool, pint nursed between his
resting hands; the single barman on duty tonight had given up his
attempts to strike up conversation with the football manager who had
lingered on here after dismissing the rest of his cohort with a curfew.

Now that barman was instead turning his half-interested attention to a
different strapping athletic guest who was sauntering hesitantly into the
bar area and approaching one end of the same bar - the shift worker
wasn't interested enough in his hotel's relatively famous occupants
tonight to note that the tracksuit-clad bloke strutting up to him and
ordering a pint should actually be away in his suite as per said curfew.
He was interested in pouring the pint, taking payment, and accepting the
Scouse-accented man's generous tip, and then relaxing by the till and
texting his girlfriend.

If he'd looked up, he might have noticed the alarmed awkwardness on the
6ft2 footballer's face, realising that he'd just bought his contraband
pint and was now stood a few stools away from the hunched gloom of his
Luton Town manager; he might have noticed a similar look of faint
embarrassed guilt on the silver-edged features of the club manager as he
looked up from the dregs of his pint and acknowledged the arrival of the
other sportsman at this small dated bar.

Ignored by their barman, the player and manager gave each other knowing
nods that spoke volumes about how neither of them should still be up,
though it was clear that the manager held the power over this state of
affairs - but 41-year-old Rob Edwards looked slightly too dejected and
fatigued to offer any criticism of seeing Ross Barkley out of bed and
sneaking into the bar at ten to midnight, given that the players had been
dismissed over an hour ago by their beloved gaffer.

`Can I join ya?' the 30-year-old midfielder asked simply, hovering
close to the next stool, pint in one hand, and other shoved into the taut
pocket of his Luton tracksuit pants.

A simple wordless nod from the handsome young manager of their
Hertfordshire club, gesturing at the stool as if to acknowledge it was a
`free country', then turning quite gloomily back to his pint; with a
little gesturing wave, he also caught the attention of the barman, not
without some difficulty, and motioned that he was ready for another. The
hulking Liverpudlian shifted until comfortable on the next stool and
stared down at his drink with a similarly heavy manner to the Luton
gaffer, who drained the last of his and awaited its replacement.

`Some night,' Ross offered quietly.

`You're telling me,' Rob agreed grimly.

It was being touted as a great Premiership comeback by their Bournemouth
hosts, since the Luton visitors had been 3-0 up - Ross himself smashing
the third into the back of the net - before a stellar performance
bringing Bournemouth first level, 3-3, and then stealing all the points,
somehow ending 4-3 after all; insane. But a closer onlooker might have
begun to suspect that there was a little more on the minds of Edwards and
Barkley, the two broad-shouldered footballing men who now sat elbow to
elbow, nursing pints with the manner of mid-afternoon alcoholics in a
local Wetherspoons.

`Still,' the retired centre-back now said in the same low growl of
dismay, `some fight from you lads. Cheers to that, or something like
it-' And he raised his glass to Barkley's, the plastic pints clanking
blandly together for a moment, and making both men smile ironically at
the low-rate accommodation their newly promoted club could manage this
year, certainly compared to what the gaffer supposed his midfield signing
might once upon a time have been used to at Chelsea or Everton. And with
a little shared look of resigned grumpiness and what-the-hell acceptance,
the two men raised glasses to their lips and took another swig of
intoxicating lager.


For Edwards at least, the problem had begun shortly before the match even
begun, and the 3-0 lead at half-time might have done little to soothe his
worry. After all, it had been a really embarrassing scene that the Luton
manager had created, and he supposed what really bothered him now was the
silence, the uncertainty, the hovering threat of what might be said and
done as consequences to his slip of judgement.

The former Wales international had left his team to warm-up under the
instruction of his vice, keen to be part of the hospitality going on
elsewhere in Bournemouth's stadium: it was a special evening, Luton's
out-of-action captain returning to the scene of his health crisis to pay
his thanks to the medical staff who had essentially saved his life. A
heavy jacket over his quarter-zip sweater, Rob had found and shadowed Tom
Lockyer upstairs in part of the stadium's events space; Rob wanted to
support his favoured centre-back on what might be an emotionally charged
night, as well as making his own thankyou gestures to the Bournemouth
staff who had intervened so effectively that day.

But survivor Lockyer and the medics themselves were the stars and so
Edwards kept fairly quiet, a strong but silent presence, and the
recovering football pro gave him plenty of grateful looks as he remained
close by and interrupted only when it seemed right - Rob was someone who
took his duty of care to his men very seriously, it was a big part of his
managing ethos, and nothing had proven that to himself or others quite
like the experience of Tom's cardiac arrest, surgery, and recovery. By
the time the meet and greet and photoshoot were over, he felt as
emotional himself as if it was back at that previous away fixture and the
turmoil that followed - he actually felt himself tear up in one eye as he
and the 29-year-old Welshman descended some stairs. Tom could have
bundled off towards the hospitality box where his family were waiting for
him to watch the game, but of course he wanted to come down and mingle
with the preparing players, as dedicated as ever to the team - Rob felt a
fresh surge of affection and admiration for his chosen captain, and he
threw a sturdy arm about the younger man's shoulders as they rounded
another landing.

The pair of them tried to chat lightly, but both found themselves choking
up, and the 41-year-old quickly apologised for his own emotions, feeling
silly compared to the trauma that the football player had experienced
first-hand - but Tom dismissed that as stupid and began to thank him
profusely for his constant support since the event, trying to capture in
words just how present his manager had been for him and his family in a
difficult time... and of course this just set them both off, and soon both
masculine athletes were shiny-cheeked with cheers and, after a minute,
laughing embarrassedly at themselves as they hugged and patted one
another's backs on the landing.

`God, the things we go through,' huffed the Cardiff-born defender.

`Together, though,' Rob assured him, squeezing him tight about the
shoulders and briefly cupping the back of his head in one affectionate
hand, and lingering in this intimate hold of manly friendship - `always
together,' he pressed, really urging Lockyer to lean on him and the
others, and wanting to reassure him that the support wasn't going
anywhere. And the 29-year-old smiled back at him with shiny eyes,
remaining close in that hold, his own puffy-sleeved arm draped about
Rob's waist.

Looking back on it tonight, halfway down his third pint, Edwards really
couldn't understand what had come over him - perhaps he was just so
unused to holding another man so intimately to him for a moment too long,
perhaps he'd acted on some stupid autopilot or instinct that had been
triggered by confusion and emotion. Sure enough, like some lost madman,
he'd leaned in closer to the hug, and really held tightly onto the
recovering player, and angled his face in towards his - the two 6ft1
athletes so close together that their breath mingled on their lips - had
Rob even known he was going in for a kiss before that breathy
near-contact and the sharp intake on Tom's part?

Suddenly Lockyer was yanking away from him, his face a thunderous frown,
glossy eyes blinking rapidly, lips parting in a question that he didn't
know how to phrase; an the gaffer jus stared at him, open-mouthed too,
hunched forward in that embracing posture, but no longer holding anyone -
he slurred his words as he began to say, `What was that?', but
Lokcyer's angry accusation slapped him across his reddening face: `Did
you try to kiss me, boss?' Tom continued to blink and frown furiously
and stare harshly at him, squaring up and taking another step back,
whilst Rob just stared confusedly at him and rubbed a clammy hand across
his own bristly face - `Er, what?'

It seemed like only hearing it worded by Tom was enough to make him
appreciate what he'd instinctively begun to do, but he shook his head
and stopped mumbling, staring down at the ground and shifting foot to
foot - he tried to speak again but Tom's voice cut angrily across his,
`What the fuck, boss?'

`Tom,' he began, and then more firmly, `Lockyer!' - but the
out-of-action centre-back was spinning on his heel and heading back up
the flight of stairs, hands thrust into pockets, leaving his manager
stood embarrassedly on the landing, dry-mouthed and damp-eyed, and trying
to understand what the hell had just happened.


For Ross, on the other hand, the bother had begun last week - or was just
the latest in a series of unfortunate events in another sense, given his
hard work to reclaim his spot in the Premier League and restore his lost
reputation as a powerful up-and-coming player when leaving Everton for
Chelsea - but it was not entirely disconnected from the plight of the
handsome young Luton manager.

The interview had taken place at Luton's training ground early last
week, and Barkley had assumed it was largely triggered by some good stats
and the idle chat that he might finally get a fresh call-up back to the
Southgate club at St George's Park - and to begin with, it had been just
that, generic but positive questioning about his career highs and lows,
and what his gradual comeback at Luton had meant to him as he turned 30
and entered his supposed `prime' as an attacking midfield threat.

The Scouser had begun to feel more comfortable in these scenarios lately,
especially when pre-recorded rather than on live telly, though he was
still not the most articulate or self-assured of media personalities in
his sport - he still tried the anxiety management techniques that Eric's
therapy self-books had taught him whilst lounging on his boyfriend's
couch, but they only worked half the time.

He sat there, man-spreading his hefty thighs on a small chair, socked
feet tucked into comfy sliders, training tracksuit clinging to his taut
body, and did his best to answer in detail, and attempt something
approaching charm and humour with the interviewer from the sports media
channel; that was until one of the interviewer's questions really caught
him off-guard and made him stare awkwardly back at him, reduced to a
monosyllabic reluctance that felt like regressing several years to his
later Chelsea years.

`I just felt like I had a lot to prove,' he continued to the man on the
next seat, resting his arms on his thighs, the baby-blue training top
tight against his arms and shoulders. `I've not played that much over
the last few years...' And he'd been the one to mention the manager, he
supposed, and his supportive style being an attractive quality as he
considered a move to Luton Town; but then the comment from the interview
was such a curveball! `Well, speaking of the manager...' Ross had leant
in - fair enough - ready to talk about the gaffer, before the reporter
guy suddenly remarked, `He's constantly being told he's a very
good-looking lad - how does that feel to play for a manager who's always
being called so handsome, haha...?'

It took Ross a few long moments to answer, his face going subtly red,
leaning across the chairs and staring uncomfortably at the visiting
reporter - Ross's first thoughts were to question what the nosy fucker
knew or thought he knew, and who'd been saying what about him - but
those anxious thoughts were pushed back enough for him to force a laugh
and remark, `Yeh... he's a charmer, isn't he...?' He mumbled something
else about the staff saying Edwards was `the best-looking manager in the
league', rubbing a fist across his clammy red face, and then forcing
another heavy laugh.

It wasn't a big deal, really, just a momentary confusion and
embarrassment - such an odd thing for a footy reporter to ask about! -
and the interview concluded soon afterwards with several other slightly
random questions about current controversies of the league, and then
Barkley found himself dismissed and able to the rest of the afternoon's
training circuit. He quickly forgot about the whole conversation and his
discomfort at being grilled on his gaffer's good looks by that TV loon.

Until a couple of days when clips of the interview circulated on social
media and caught the attention of his teammates. Big brash Carlton Morris
had been most vocal about it, always trying to set himself up as the
squad joker, cooing over Barkley and his `crush' on the boss, but
others joined in, from Townsend to Kaminski, from Doughty to Hashioka;
like the interview itself, it didn't need to be a big deal, but Ross
still had many hang-ups about his recent years of bi-curiosity and then
full-on gay romance (and heartbreak), so being associated with the
ongoing banter of `handsome' Rob Edwards was hardly what was needed for
his peace of mind...!

Jokes about their gaffer being a footy heartthrob were from new on the
Luton training ground, but Ross being the butt of them was an unpleasant
twist; and nobody seemed ready to point out that the same interviewer had
asked two other lads on the team the same question that day. Perhaps it
was just cos Barkley was such a hulking beast of a Scouser, looking like
a much more aggressive yob than he ever lived up to, a scally accent that
the other Luton players loved to impersonate - or perhaps it was just
because he got so visibly uncomfortable when the joke was raised,
especially once they began barking it at Edwards himself, players taking
turns to show the gaffer the clip on their phones. Rob Edwards was
predictably cool and dismissive about it, but Barkley suddenly found he
could hardly make eye contact with his own head coach, even though he
knew he was entirely overreacting to the little gaff.

And it might have faded away like any other bit of club banter, he
supposed, if some shitty tabloid rag hadn't published that stupid poll
yesterday - some clever sod smuggling numerous copies of it onto the team
bus as they travelled down from Luton to Bournemouth for tonight's
rescheduled match. `You're Fit & You Know You Are!' read the
chant-based pun of the headline, with a dimpled-smiling Edwards in the
centre of the photo-spread - the apparent No.1 winner of a tabloid poll
on the sexiest managers in the Premier League, `beating off' all the
competition as loud cocky Morris put it when he stated passing the
newspapers up the aisle of their moving coach.

Ostensibly, it was a bit of affectionate banter for their boss - Edwards
seemed unfazed and even uninterested, the jokes like water off a duck-s
back - but it didn't take long to segue into a few jokes about Ross
himself voting in the poll, and his pre-match mindset made the
30-year-old Merseysider even less inclined to laugh along with it. He sat
and sulked heavily on his own and must have radiated annoyance, enough to
stop the banter, but also to ostracise him as a grumpy loner, and by the
time they were warming up in the Bournemouth stadium, he just felt
ridiculous - he was supposed to be making pals here and settling in for a
good few seasons of establishing Luton in the top flight - not making
enemies and behaving so pompously over a bit of banter...!


It was Rob who suggested a couple more drinks, although he knew it
wasn't the most sensible idea - but the hotel bar was closing and he was
enjoying the chance to talk more socially with one of the squad's most
introverted Englishmen. At first, he thought Ross was just embarrassed or
even offended by the invitation, because he was slow to answer, but then
he was nodding heavily and rapping his knuckles idly on the bartop,
slurring a `Yes, gaffer!' with some vaguely sincere enthusiasm.

And so they'd left the empty bar behind, the barman looking bored and
impatient, and Edwards had led Barkley up one floor to where his own
suite awaited - he was pretty much the only member of the travelling away
entourage who had a suite to himself, and it was an aspect of football
management that Rob found vaguely difficult. He missed the camaraderie
and banter of room-sharing when he'd been an active centre-back, a
chequered career roaming between various Northwest and Midlands footy
clubs.

He said as much to Ross as he removed first a pair of frosty beer bottles
from the mini-bar, and then a couple of vodka miniatures which he poured
like shots into glass tumblers - he explained to his midfield player that
management could be a bit lonely at times, and then he laughed off his
own self-pity and apologised to the younger guy for becoming maudlin.
He'd already explained to Ross how he'd got a bit over-emotional later
on over the Lockyer scenes, but with one crucial detail missing from the
anecdote. Ross, he was pleased to find, was an open-hearted and
understanding listener, although this was helped by the fact that both
men were a little bit pissed now.

`Think your room is bigger than our shared ones,' the 30-year-old
pointed out to him as he kicked and scuffed his way about the suite,
unzipping his training jersey and letting it hang open over the taut
white t-shirt below.

`Well, lonely with perks,' Rob chuckled back, standing at the other
side of the large room and playing with the TV remote to see what
channels he had access to it - Ross had been less forthcoming in sharing
his woes over their pints, and yet Rob had stumbled across it without
trying, telling him that the silly jokes about that `Sexy Manager' poll
would die away in no time at all - `bloody stupid nonsense', he called
it, and he loudly chastised the more vocal players who had been trying to
wind them both up on the coach.

`I don't really care,' Barkley told him, but it was obvious he was
lying.

`It's a load of shit anyway,' the 41-year-old groaned, giving up on
the TV and picking up his beer; he followed Ross towards the open windows
and looked down on the blurred headlights of the still-active motorway
lanes. `I mean, sexy, me? Haha. For fuck's sake, not even my missus
thinks that...' He wasn't fishing for compliments, not knowingly, he was
just sick of trying to look cool with the bizarre line of chat whenever
he had to deal with the less football-focused avenues of the British
media - and as a younger man he'd never seemed to generate much fuss as
anything other than perfectly average. `Load of bollocks,' he declared,
`I dunno what they're on about.'

`Oh, I dunno,' slurred the slightly taller lad at his side by the
windows, looking thoughtfully out at the wet night - `You're definitely
up there.' He sounded sincere but half-interested, rather than
affectionately jokey, and Rob immediately turned his way to frown
curiously at his approval - Ross caught his eye and glanced back, looking
rueful, and then forcing out a familiar throaty laugh as when pinned by
that interviewer - Rob had seen the clip several times, of course,
because almost everyone he knew on social media shared it with him with a
slew of laughing-crying emojis.

`Well, thanks,' he laughed.

`You know what I mean,' Barkley insisted, less casually.

`I really don't,' the football coach insisted, `but-'

`You're a good-looking guy,' Ross told him, almost snappish, `I just
dunno why that bastard felt the need to ask ME about it...'

`Well, probably cos you're a bit of a looker yourself, mate,' Rob
chuckled back, nudging him at the elbow - he was trying to diffuse any
embarrassment, but he also meant it, and he found himself pausing to
study the Scouse lad's looks in the reflection on the glass, and then in
the flesh at his side - he WAS a good-looking guy, in a more rough-hewn
style than his own soft friendly manner, and he was certainly an
impressive muscular build. Rob shook off his own inner monologue of
appraisal and clinked their bottles. `Here's to two sexy bastards,
eh?' And then they were both laughing more openly, brief tension gone,
both quite drunk and relaxed compared to the moping moods that had
connected them at the bar an hour ago.

As Edwards downed more of his beer and moved about the room, he felt less
of a grip on himself or the night, idly considering how unprofessional it
was for him to have one of his squad up here sharing a drink -
favouritism or hypocrisy, he wasn't sure of his crime, but he wondered
about Barkley's roommate and the fact that he'd been so sour in
refusing to let the lads stay up and drown their sorrows together,
insisting on the need for an early journey tomorrow and a solid recovery
day before prep for their next crucial fixture. But it was hard for Rob
to give much worry to the transgression of cheeky drinks with a key
player - when his addled thoughts became organised enough for worry, they
kept trying to turn to that accusing glare on Tom Lockyer's face.

A second pair of beers were noisily opened, and he dismissed Ross
suggesting that he ought to find his way back to his own room and try not
to wake up Townsend; he pressed the fresh icy Peroni into the other
man's hand and then threw himself into a lounging posture on the bed,
turning the telly back on and flicking through the channels. Warm, he
peeled off the grey cashmere of his sweater, just lounging their in
camel-coloured chinos and a marl grey t-shirt that hung loosely from his
solid upper body, riding up enough to expose a strip of midriff as he
stroked absently at the soft curls of hair about his belly button.

Half-noticed by the increasingly drunk manager, Ross seemed to dawdle
about the room and try a couple of seats - the stiff armchair by the
windows, and the simpler study chair at the bureau - before flopping down
onto the bed a short distance from him, also stripped down to t-shirt, so
that his arm muscles bulged as they folded over his chest. Rob looked at
them admiringly, vaguely studying the artwork of tattoos, and then the
swell of a developed chest, and the sharp features of a serious
thoughtful face.

Barkley looked this way, seeming to catch him staring - but Edwards just
smiled limply at his player, slumped there almost shoulder-to-shoulder
with him. He didn't feel the emotional intensity of staring into poor
Tom Lockyer's face earlier, and he was drunk enough to start forgetting
the way he'd held him and leaned in, following some instinct that had
lain buried for longer than he could explain.

Rob blinked, and realised he was still staring at the lad. `Sorry,' he
mumbled.

`S'alright,' slurred the Scouser, sounding as wasted and exhausted as
he felt.

`Sexiest manager,' Edwards blurted suddenly, a hollow laugh, `what a
load of shit.'

`Ah, shurrup...'

`My wife doesn't even agree!' the 41-year-old complained again. He
rubbed a hand across his hot face. `I mean, if she did, maybe she'd
give me a fucking blowjob once in a while, right?' Another strained
laugh. `Shit, what am I on about...'

`Haha, I'll pretend I didn't hear that one, gaffer... Here, gimme that
remote.'

`Ugh. Ignore me. Talking rubbish. Sexiest fucking manager? Biggest
bloody idiot.'

`Shurrup - I thought none of it fazed you, boss?'

`Well, I can hardly ignore it, I just have too much else to focus on...'

`Of course, of course...'

`And where are all these people who find me so-called sexy, eh?' he
groaned. `Not that I'd ever cheat on the wife, you understand, but... it
might be nice to feel like that could ever be an option, ha...!'

`Oh, whatever,' drawled the lad at his side, flicking through the
channels. `You must get offers all the time.'

`Nah,' Rob insisted. `Not a fucking flutter. But - like I said, I'd
NEVER cheat - never touch another lass, not really - I love her, I just -
I mean...' He was talking too much, and he was at that special wired
stage of drunkenness where he wasn't 100% sure what he was saying aloud
and what he was just thinking - he could barely concentrate on the
late-night football review that Ross had landed upon, where a couple of
cunts in suits were discussing their loss against Bournemouth. He barked
`Get this off' but Ross had already changed the channel, and both drunk
men were laughing so heavily that the headboard shook behind their strong
shoulders. Rob reached clumsily to the side and rested a hand on the warm
bare skin of the lad's forearm. `No more about footy,' he groaned.
`Let's forget about that fucking match until the team talk on Friday.'

`Agreed,' Ross replied, in what sounded like a yawn - and Rob left his
hand gently on top of the lad's arm, feeling the soft warmth of his
skin, the thin tickle of hair growth, and just beyond his reach, the
resting density of his muscular torso. But then he could feel a closer
brush of their arms and it took a few tingling moments of drunken
numbness to register that it wasn't his own hand now resting on the
upper thigh of his chinos.

`I'd never cheat,' he slurred vaguely. `I'd just like to meet these
people who think I'm shexy, y'know...?'

`Sure, gaffer...'

He felt the hand creep slowly inwards across the plateau of his thick
covered thigh, and he shifted his blinking eyes down to look at it - it
was momentarily disembodied, an Addams Family creation, a remote hand
connecting with the bulging front of his sensible middle-aged chinos -
but then it was connected to that strong arm, and he was glancing across
at the intense younger face which stared at him across the mounded
pillows. Rob lay there, his chest rising and falling gently, and he made
a vague purring of alarm as the fingers rubbed between his legs. `Hmm.'

He was drunk, but he was not totally out of it - he definitely had enough
consciousness to grab and remove that exploratory hand, or even land a
smack on the cheeky face of the slouching Scouser at his hand. He could
throw off this unexpected physical attention, he could kick the drunk lad
out of his suite, send him back to his shared room where he belonged on
another floor - he could do any of these things if he wanted. He just had
to want to. He looked back down at the hand, watched its slow massaging
motion, and he made another uncertain `Hmm' sound. It was not fully a
conscious choice though, all of these things that he now didn't do - it
was autopilot and instinct again, just like before the game, holding that
fragile young man to him and letting his emotions guide him. And here and
now, drunk in bed, he didn't even have to let those emotions guide
anything - he just had to lie still and let it happen, and so that's
what he did.


Ross paused, his own breathing heavy and intense, and then he brought his
other hand over. While one remained lightly clutching at the crotch of
the chinos, the other gently undid the belt buckle. He let out a
shivering breath and then relaxed his posture again, just the one hand at
work: slowly but surely, it pulled open the flies of the trousers, and
slid in for a warmer and closer grip of the older man's package. He
watched as Rob closed his eyes and let out a longer and more purring
`Hmmm...'

Barkley was pissed, but he knew he was a little less drunk than the
41-year-old - he too thought about what he COULD do, how he could pull
back his hand and laugh this off as a near-miss, an almost-mistake, a
drunken misunderstanding that needn't ever be mentioned again. He could
climb off the bed and let the drunken bloke start to snore, he could
creep back through the hotel and find his way into his own cool bed,
start to sleep off the beer and vodka, face the inevitable hangover and
get over the Bournemouth defeat in another way.

Yep, he thought dimly, that was all an option. But god, the softly
stirring mass of an older man's cock, fat and warm beneath the cotton,
felt so good in his clammy palm, and the latest gasping `Hmmm?' of
Rob's breathy voice sounded curious and encouraging; so the 6ft2
Evertonian slid and shuffled his heavy body just a little closer on the
kingsize, and he gave Rob's crotch a good firm squeeze, then began to
push back at the obstructing boxer shorts and took the fleshy length in
hand for real.

He lay there, almost forgetting to breath, and worked his hand slowly,
pulling gently on the fat sausage until it got thicker and harder - and
with his other hand he reached inside his tracky pants and inside his
black trunks, and began to stroke his own chunky monster. He
half-expected that any second Edwards would fully realise what was
happening and pull away, or lash out, or ask him what the hell he thought
he was doing. But Ross Barkley was beginning to understand why he'd
become so flustered when the TV fella asked him that daft question: it
wasn't just paranoid fear about his past, about that risk of blackmail
exposure that Eric Dier had supposedly rescued him from before dumping
him and marrying that floozy; he really had developed a crush on the
strong and sensitive leader of his new football team, and he'd wanted to
grab his big cock for ages.

So he lay there side-by-side with his manager and played with his cock,
finding it hard and excitable, and soon he yanked his own member out of
his pants, wanking them both in rhythm. The noises that escaped Edwards'
pursed lips were encouraging, but more physical approval came when he
stretched his right arm out and hooked it about the back of Barkley's
shoulders to hold him there, tight and authoritative, manly and
affectionate - and Ross took this as permission to spit heavily in his
palm and wank his gaffer off with a bit more furious energy, matching
that rhythm with the right hand that now slid up and down his own veiny
pole. He jerked them both and let out a series of excited gasps as he did
so, enjoying the syncopation and the sight of both meaty weapons standing
to wet-tipped attention - and he enjoyed the heat and tremor of his
manager's body at his side, the slow slurring `Mmmm' noises, the deep
surprised exhalations.

`Fuck,' panted Edwards, more consciously.

`Yes,' Barkley growled.

`That feels... mmm, good...'

`Yeah? Yeah? Mmm...'

`Don't stop...'

`I ain't stoppin', boss...'

`Oh, fuck...'

`Sexiest manager,' the 30-year-old footballer purred affectionately, an
ironic lilt to his groaned compliment - he thought of that stupid
newspaper sheet being passed around the coach, and he pictured the faces
of the other mature men who made up the poll results - and for a brief
moment he thought of a missing face that might have joined the line-up if
the bastard wasn't unemployed. For a moment, in anticipation of regret,
Ross's hand became slow and awkward on the fat heavy prick of the former
Wales defender - he was thinking of how history repeats, and of how close
he'd become with his illustrious manager during his doomed Chelsea era.
Would this too become something of shame and regret for him, as his kinky
little power struggle with Frank Lampard once had been...?

`Keep going,' urged a tough growl from Rob's lips, his eyes closed but
fluttering, and Ross stopped thinking about that Chelsea legend and those
long-gone scenes - he returned to the moment and squeezed his slippery
grip up and down the older man's shaft, giving more effortful attention
to that than his own quivering prick, which felt like it might explode
with cum if he rubbed it any more - he wondered if the Telford man was as
close to spunking as he was, he couldn't tell from his fragmented gasps.

`That's it,' moaned the married man, squeezing him tightly about the
shoulders - and Ross leaned in a bit closer, finding a better angle to
beat him off, but also leaning his face in very close - not kissing, but
nuzzling in against the shoulder and cheek of the tensed older bloke,
bringing their bodies a bit closer, locking one of his own heavy
footballer legs over Rob's - and he pulled really rapidly on the taut
cock, sure he must be close, so close, any second now - and he licked his
lips as he stared at the glistening froth of pre-cum that drooled about
the curled foreskin of it, wanting to lean over and go further, use his
mouth as he'd learned to do in his years with beautiful Eric.

But too late - because Rob was trembling and spasming at his side, and
whilst most of the silvery-white cum shot in ugly streaks onto the
camel-coloured trousers, some of its slid glossy and sticky over his own
knuckles. With his right hand, he attended more aggressively to himself,
pulling his manhood towards climax; but with Rob still quivering and
gasping against him, he brought his shaky left hand up away from that
cock, lifting it up across his tummy and chest, and then... he lapped his
tongue across his knuckles and fingers, tasting that distinctive
saltiness for the first time in many months, and brought himself
shivering towards a peak of pleasure: he shot masses of Scouse jizz down
the thighs of his trackies and spilt some of it on the chinos too, and
rubbed the sticky stain of his knuckles down the chest of his white tee,
trembling and gasping.


Rob already had the beginnings of a hangover headache when he saw the
prime player out of his room, fumbling with the belt of his chinos as he
did; he mumbled and slurred goodbyes and a vague `thanks' to the
Scouser at the door and then rested his whole weight in against the back
of the door once it was shut and locked. He wasn't quite focused or
conscious enough to even ask `What the hell was that?', he just slumped
there with his face pushed into his folded arms, and his cock throbbing
vaguely against the stained inside of his boxer shorts, his chinos
threatening to droop form his waist and down his legs.

Pushing away from the door, the drunk and satisfied football manager
thought that a cold shower would do him good, but then found he didn't
have the energy to cross the room and fight against the unknown bathroom
- he kicked out of his trousers and then tumbled back into bed on his
front, burying his face in the ruffle pillows and remaining on top of the
covers in his paisley boxer shorts and saggy grey tee. He lay there, head
throbbing and world spinning, and thought about how good his cock and
balls felt - `Thanks Ross,' he slurred again to the quiet little world
of his hotel room, with no idea how awkward and regretful he was going to
feel in the morning when a sweet message from his wife would wake him
five minutes before his alarm.


And Ross drifted down the corridor, still adjusting the boxer briefs and
tracksuit pants, his cock still swollen and heavy in them, and the
armpits of his white t-shirt drenched in sweat. In his other hand he
clutched the bundle of his training jersey, which dangled from his grip
and trailed along the corridor carpet. He paused at the doors to the
elevator and stared warily at his own reflection in the mirror - the
Barkley that glared frostily back at him seemed like a ghost from his
Premiership past, not the new man who had found himself in a quiet artsy
romance with Dier, nor in the forlorn exile of Nice, not the more
enlightened or progressive version of the awkward Scouser who had stood
there and let Frank Lampard play with his nob in exchange for game
minutes.

History repeating, he thought bitterly - another frustrated older
manager, another strong secret power struggle, more transgressions that
weren't even knew or taboo to him any more. He wiped his cum-sticky paw
down his chest again and winced, nauseous and dizzy with too much drank
in a short period; his cock and balls ached wistfully for the pleasure
that had ended, and he grimaced ruefully as he stumbled into the lift,
punching randomly at buttons until it agreed to travel floors.

Fuck, he thought, now I've really messed up.




'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