Date: Wed, 5 Feb 2020 22:22:46 +0000 From: writer guy Subject: Premiership Lads part 44: Manhood Part forty-four: Manhood The whistle blew and the game began. Huddled alongside the other Tottenham Hotspur substitutes, a newly 18-year-old Troy Parrott pulled the zip of his overcoat further up and watched on as the squad's starting line-up launched into action against Southampton. At his side, Sanchez and Gazzaniga were discussing, in broken English, how easy the FA cup game was going to be, how sure they were that Spurs could punch through into the next round undefeated. Troy stared idly at the two older subs on the bench with him, and thought how odd it was to find himself largely disinterested in the outcome. Okay, not disinterested, or apathetic, but... ambivalent. Yeah, he wanted to see Spurs triumph, of course he did. This team had quickly become home to him, and the youthful opportunity it was giving him, his Premier League debut already, and here on the bench again... ready to step on and contribute his talents. But at the same time... his eyes scanned the pitch ahead, and not just his white-clad teammates, but the line of charcoal-grey and gold of the Southampton away kit. Tumbling rapidly forwards at the head of their pack was the Irish champion, Shane Long. Troy watched closely as his fellow countryman sped over the pitch in search of the ball. Troy huffed out a misty breath and sat back in his seat, tearing his eyes off the sight of his... friend. He turned back to the Colombian at his side, Davinson Sanchez, who had asked him something. He just blinked at him silently, waiting for the other lad's words to register with him, but immediately distracted by him. Past Sanchez and Gazzaniga was another of the benchwarmers: Dele Alli. As Troy's narrowed eyes slid up the bench to his senior teammate, Alli looked immediately up, and his shifty eyes met Troy's. There was a tense moment of silence between them before Sanchez interrupted by repeating his question. `Parrott,' the 23-year-old called loudly at him, `are you ready to score a birthday goal? Haha.' Troy flickered his gaze to his immediate neighbour, let out a vague chuckle, and nodded his head. The Colombian began wildly speculating about the match to Gazzaniga, and Troy looked back again at Dele, who turned uncomfortably away. Perhaps he was speculating what Parrott knew, or had heard. And Troy had heard more than enough to see him as a problem. He turned his attention back to the game, blowing out another little cloud of his condensing breath, and watching the Spurs lads take the attack into the other half. Among them, he could see Dier already working up a sweat, pounding the pitch at the centre of the formation. And not far from him, Shane in action. Two footballers who Troy knew more intimately than any other men in his life... The day before had been Troy's 18th birthday, and it had been fucking great. A load of his Irish family had been over since the weekend, AND his girlfriend. It had been a day of London sightseeing, of a big expensive lunch, of newly legal afternoon drinks (though only one pint, still banned by his professional commitments the next day) with his dad and brothers, and of a night of intimacy in the hotel room his visiting girlfriend was staying in, paid for him by him. It had made Troy feel a real big-bollocks, far more-so than the gorgeous car his folks had bought him: retiring to his hotel suite with his beautiful sweetheart, spoiling her with champagne that he couldn't touch himself, and making love for only the second time. On the tube `home', back to his lodgings with his host family, he'd sat and cycled through his many birthday greetings, starting with the social media tags from pals and teammates, then the group chat banter about his becoming a man, then the more personal direct text messages... Among them was one from Eric Dier, of course: `Happy birthday Trojan... you're finally old enough to carry that weapon of urs... lol x' What an outrageous flirt he was! Troy blushed but chuckled to himself on the rattling tube carriage. He'd heard more from Eric lately, of course, since the... split, was that the best word for it? He hadn't quite got the full story, but he'd pieced enough together. He could tell Dier was more upset than he was letting on, had seen his expression when no-one else was looking, witnessed his aggression on the training ground... As young as he was, Troy was mature enough to see when a bloke was really hurting, even if the hurt had been pretty self-inflicted. Ironically, the next message down his inbox was from Harry Kane: `Hey... happy 18th kid... thanx 4 everything, again...' And then a follow-up message, sent about five minutes later: `Will spk 2 JM asap – u shld get to play 2moro'. Troy sniggered uncertainly at this, not sure if it was a bit of a joke or not. Was it just a reference back to Kane's influence on his debut all those weeks ago...? Or was the big striker actually going to put some pressure on to get him on the starting line-up in tomorrow's FA cup game against the Saints...? Kane too had been visibly different since whatever went on. Troy didn't have much rapport with Harry, who had seemed nothing but resentful of the shared secret. But from any distance, the big man's heartbreak had been palpable. Of course everyone else put it down to his latest injury, and his distance from the action, but... Knowing what he knew, Troy could see there was much more going on than just a footballer's inactive frustrations. He tried to dismiss Kane's message as a bit of a jest, not wanting to get too excited for the chance of some first-team football tomorrow, even if he had sacrificed his birthday drinks for the prospect! Next up... Troy felt a little flutter of surprised excitement at the next name on his phone. For him, a Dublin teenager at the outset of his football career, a birthday text from Shane Long was utterly surreal, the blessings of a total idol, like Elvis or a Beatle stepping out of the mists to say hello. `Howdy laddie! Big day – 18! Sweet. U wanna meet 4 coffee tomorrow before we are enemies lol? X' Troy stared idly at the kiss, laughed to himself, and started thumbing a hasty reply. Obviously he'd known Long and co would be coming up to North London tomorrow for the game, but it hadn't occurred to him he might see anything of his fellow Irishman other than on the pitch and perhaps in passing afterwards, regardless of result. `Thx man... sure! As long as no brothels involved... lol' Troy hesitated, his thumb on the touchscreen keyboard, then he punched in the `xx' and hit send. He laughed at his own silly indecision, noticed his flushed cheeks reflected in the opposite window, and went back to his inbox to see what his old Dublin schoolmates had been texting him. 34 minutes in, and there it was: Shane Long scoring the equaliser, and the Southampton away fans going wild in their stand. After the team's embarrassing own goal putting them behind, the Irishman's strike was a much-needed balancer and confidence boost. The Spurs fans were booing, and the team were pacing about edgily, waiting for Long and his lads to finish their extravagant celebrations for their loyal following. On the subs bench, Troy watched intently, and chewed on his fingernails. 1-1, he mused, and I'm not totally sure which side I want to see score next... Meeting up had been easy enough. The Saints had travelled up from the south coast early enough to check into their Hilton hotel near the flashy new Tottenham grounds, and since Parrott wasn't expected to report to the team meeting until early evening, he was free to make his way to the café opposite the hotel and see Shane Long for a quick coffee, or whatever. The vague `whatever' was what he'd added to his text as they'd planned the meet, and he was worried his forced casualness had sounded rude or disinterested. He was even more worried, mind, that he was bloody overthinking the message so much! Troy padded up to the café entrance and peered in through its misty windows to see if his older pal was already in there, but no sight of him, or in fact many customers at all. Shivering a bit in the breezy afternoon, he turned and loitered outside the entrance, looking up the road at the sleek glassy edifice of the local Hilton hotel. He wondered what floor was taken up by the visiting Southampton squad, and longed himself for a good away game, the thrill and camaraderie of the trip. For the dozenth time that day, he thought of injured Kane's mysterious message and wondered if he would arrive at the team meeting to good or bad news. The bench would be exciting enough, but had he impressed enough in yesterday morning's training, or had he been too excited by the birthday plans after? Here they came. Not just Long, as it happened, but another bloke with him... Ings. Troy suppressed a pang of disappointment. He'd enjoyed Danny's company and banter on their drunken night out (or what he remembered of it) but he'd got some territorial vibes from the big tattooed forward. And sure enough, there was something of a surly look on Ings' face as the two Saints approached, and Troy gave them an awkward wave of one gloved hand. `Hey,' Long called excitedly, stepping up and throwing an arm about him in a loose hug, `the birthday boy... How's it feelin' to be 18th?' he asked in his strong Irish accent. Troy grinned back at him then glanced at Danny's odd scowl. `Yeah,' Ings added, `happy birthday, kid. Nice one.' Shane, ignoring this funny attitude, just ruffled his fingers in Troy's short dark hair and swung a small gift bag from his other hand. `Got you a wee gift, kiddo,' he said almost bashfully. `Aye, he's been going on about giving it to you all week,' Danny remarked dryly. `Not that he shuts up about you most weeks, mind.' `Oh fuck off, Dan,' Shane chuckled, though Troy thought he looked a little self-conscious as he said it, rolling his eyes when he looked back Troy's way. `He's just jealous of your big dick, kid, he's never recovered from that night at the brothel!' Parrott sniggered, although he felt a tiny bit embarrassed by the subject being brought up out on the street where anyone could hear. He rubbed his neck embarrassedly and stared curiously at the little gift bag, wondering what Shane had actually bought him, then looked back at Danny's sour expression. `Well, you're the one who brought up his dick size,' grunted the Southampton goalscorer in a quite sour turn, then smirking a bit, he said more cheerily, `I don't know why you brought a gift bag with you, it sounded like you were gonna give him a suck-job as his gift.' He cackled, a mean-sounding laugh that Troy remembered from their night out, and then slapped Shane heavily on the back. `I'll leave you two lovebirds at it then,' he quipped, chewing some gum, and striding off down the street. Troy watched him go, a little bit unnerved by the other bloke's attitude to him. He wasn't entirely sure what he'd done to piss Danny Ings off when they first met, other than be 18, good-looking and relatively successful. Apparently that was enough. `Don't mind him,' Shane grumbled. He nodded at the café door. `Shall we?' Troy nudged aside his coffee cup and plate of brunch, and handled the little jewellery box carefully, glancing hesitantly up at the face of his fellow Irish national player. `Go on,' Long nudged with a broad grin, stroking his thin beard and looking eager. The 33-year-old Tipperary lad looked almost like a kid at Christmas just watching young Troy handle the gift. Troy returned his smile, and flipped open the box, and examined its contents. `It's nothing much,' Shane said, `just a wee trinket, so...' `It's cool,' Troy said honestly, pulling the bracelet up over his fingers. It was quite fine, but chunky enough to still look masculine, and a single charm was fixed to it, a little silvery Irish clover. It was sorta naff, the kind of thing his old nana would buy him, but it was something he might wear, and it had a lot of homesick meaning to it. `Put it on?' Long suggested. He did so and jangled it about his slender wrist with a little laugh. `Aw, cheers, man,' he said, a bit unsure what else to say, how to express his gratitude. He hadn't expected a gift whatsoever from this bloke he'd only met a couple of times, and the first few times hadn't even hardly acknowledge him, a weedy youth player turning up to the same Irish training sessions. `It's just a token,' Shane said again, more forcefully. `I mean... I know where you're at, kid. Being over here. Missing the green grass of home and all that.' `Yeah, of course... it's cool, buddy, it really is...' `You don't have to wear it much,' Shane added hurriedly, and he did seem embarrassed. Troy couldn't tell if he wasn't being convincingly grateful enough, or if the older married lad was having second thoughts about giving a random gift to a younger footballer like this. It occurred to him that Danny Ings, that miserable jealous cunt, might have pissed on the parade a bit with his attitude and banter outside, and the doubts must have shown in his expression, because Shane, sitting opposite him at their little window table in the café, frowned too. `You don't pay no mind to that bell-cheese,' the Southampton striker told him quickly in a lower voice. `I dunno what his problem is today.' `I'm not sure he liked me when we met last time,' Troy said carefully. He thought about that messy night and how it had... climaxed. `He certainly wasn't as, er, keen on me as you other mates, erm.' Shane, a bit oblivious, shrugged and grumbled and sipped his green tea. `Well, no. Charlie boy said you were a really cool kid, was glad to meet ya. But Austin is like that. A real sociable bloke, you know? Very quick to make friends, very hands-on.' Troy almost spluttered coffee on the table between them, caught in a swift hazy flashback to those grotty brothel rooms, face-to-face with Charlie Austin. He looked at Shane's expression and saw no irony, so just a coincidental play on words rather than deliberate innuendo... `But anyway,' Shane continued, idly spinning his cup about and almost spilling some of its contents, `just ignore him. He's a moody bugger.' `He seems it,' Troy admitted, not wanting to go further and insult his friend's friend. `He's obviously just jealous of how much we get on, hah.' He admired the bracelet on his wrist for a second and let himself wonder if it had cost much money, not that that mattered... `He was out of order there,' Shane said, a bit more crossly. `I mean, saying I was gonna...' `Oh don't mind him,' Troy said quickly, shifting a bit in his seat at the memory of that particular joke, not so much out of discomfort for Ings' petty envy, but at the reality of his own experience. He imagined Shane finding out he HAD been noshed off by a bloke before, and... Hmm, it was hardly something to be shared with most pals! `I mean, I dunno why I mentioned your fucking nob out there, anyway,' Shane muttered quietly, again looking vaguely uneasy but hard to read. `Stupid comment to make, I just...' `I don't mind,' Troy said, and he realised how much he meant it. In fact, he had quite enjoyed the vague references to his own endowment. Now he was realising quite how well-proportioned he actually was, it was quite funny to think of other guys coveting or resenting it, as they clearly seemed to! Again, he pictured that hungry look on Eric Dier's face in the sauna, then that memory was supplanted by an image of gloomy, jealous Harry Kane... `It's not like we stand about in Southampton discussing the penis lengths of Premier League teenagers!' huffed Shane, a little red in the cheek. He shook his head. `Why am I still talking about this?! Do you want another drink or anythin', kiddo?' `I'm good,' Troy said politely, unsure if he really should have let the other guy buy him this brunch even as it was, he hadn't seen the present yet when he gave in to that kindness. He glanced at his watch, aware he wouldn't have much longer before he needed to start making his way to the grounds to check in and find out the team-sheet. `You got long?' his companion asked him mildly. Troy smirked. `Long enough for that blowie,' he quipped, and immediately saw that he'd misjudged his tension-easing humour, as Shane squirmed back in his seat blushing, and Troy felt himself droop under the cloud Danny Ings had thrown on their blossoming friendship. `Sorry, Shane, I...' `No, no – it was funny. I just...' `You shouldn't let that twat bother you. Sorry, I mean, I know he's your mate, but...' `He's a good guy really. Just... I dunno. Territorial.' `Maybe HE wants you to suck him off,' Troy joked, again pushing things, but trying to dispel the awkwardness that was growing between them. `Oh, I'm just kidding, man. Stop looking so worried.' He poked his pal in the arm and gave him a cheering grin. `I love the gift, man. I really do. It's really kind of you. Thanks.' Shane nodded, squaring his shoulders and sitting forward again a little. `Yeah, cool. Erm, that invite still stands by the way – we'd love to have you down ours for dinner sometime. Proper Irish evening, it'd be. Any time you fancy.' `I'd like that.' Troy smiled thoughtfully at the much older footballer, opposite ends of their striking careers. Unspoken between them perhaps was the thought of their bonding antics on the short flight from Eire to UK. Sure, Troy had been much closer in his fumbles with Dier and Austin, but... He tried to shake off the warm sense of intimacy with this handsome Irishman, in many ways his older parallel, and looked at his watch again. Shane's time. `What, we running out of time for sucky-sucky?' `Hah... I dunno, probably still manage a quickie.' `A quickie?' jibed Shane. `How skilled you think I am?' `Ah, those lips could do wonders,' Troy returned playfully. `And a tweeny like you probably takes seconds anyway,' rebutted Long. `Owch,' Troy said, smirking, glad the tension had eased. This was more like the easy banter they'd enjoyed before when meeting. But jokes like this had a habit of spiralling, and he couldn't help himself pushing it further. `It would be quick, mind, if I had to look at such a handsome fucking mug while we were at it, hey!' A bit more blushing on Shane's face as he laughed along with this. `You charming prick,' he muttered. The 33-year-old leaned heavily forward, pushing aimlessly at spare cutlery on the tabletop with his fingertips. `You really think that gimp Ings wants a noshing, do ya? I won't lie, I do find him a bit... possessive of me.' Nervous laugh. `But I'm pretty sure he's as straight as an arrow, ya know?' Troy shrugged with forced ease, tumbling into the spiral of the joke. `Does that matter?' he asked in a murmur. `People do funny things when the mood takes them.' He realised how intently he was looking at the other bloke. `Or on special occasions,' he added in a light, teasing voice. `What, like birthdays?' mused Shane with a slight roll of the eyes and a slow laugh, letting his fingers drum the tabletop a few centimetres from where Troy's own hand rested against the side of his cup, the bracelet dangling from it against the surface of the table, Irish charm on show. They both stared at it for a couple of moments. Drum, drum, drum. And then two of Shane's fingertips were resting very gently against the side of Troy's hand. A jolt of taboo thrill lanced up his arm and right to his dick. `Yeah,' he mumbled, `like birthdays.' Shane made a dry, awkward laugh. `How long you got then, kiddo?' On the pitch, the Southampton players were going mad, and lapping up the noise of their crowd. At the heart of the celebrations ran Danny Ings, arms outstretched like an eagle taking flight, a sturdy expression of smug delight on his square-jawed face. The other men flocked affectionately to him and, Troy noted with a burst of silly jealousy, Shane was leaping up over his shoulders in a tight hug, kissing at his sweaty crown and shouting something into his ear. On the subs bench next to him, the other guys hunched anxiously forward, urging their on-pitch colleagues to fight on. Spurs needed an equaliser. The hotel room shared by Long and Ings was on the hotel's fifth floor, and it had a pretty good view. Dry-mouthed and unsure of himself, Troy crossed the room in his jeans and hoody, and checked out what London landmarks he could make out on the spreading skyline, then looked over at the two beds, half-unpacked kit bags at the foot of each. He could immediately tell which was Shane's of the two, from the Ireland insignia on the bag, and the iPad screen by the pillows, with a family portrait of his wife and two daughters on it as a wallpaper. Behind him, the Irish stud coughed a bit, and let the door fall shut after them. Troy turned slowly and gave him a searching look. Shane looked deeply uncomfortable and had done since they had quietly walked out of the café five minutes ago and crossed the road. In fact, nothing had been said since his last curious question. Long had just put down some cash (too much), got up and steered Parrott out of the café and onto the crossing. In the hotel reception, he'd looked especially nervous, sneaking a footballing enemy into the hotel. In the lift, neither had looked at the other, and Shane had actually hummed an Irish folk song to himself. And now they were here. Troy took a purposeful step closer to the 33-year-old, and rested a hand on his elbow. `Where was Ings?' he asked softly. He'd been wondering this for a while, but now it seemed quite an essential question. `He was going to get some gift for his kid,' Shane said in a vague, detached voice, seeming suddenly intent on staring at a random spot on Troy's shoulder, rather than meeting his eyes, stood at the same an inch or so shorter than the youngster. `Right,' Troy said, stroking his hand on the man's elbow, through the glossy nylon of his Southampton training jersey. `I really liked my birthday gift, you know,' he added, now that practicality had been addressed – they were not going to be disturbed too quickly. `There's no need for any more treats, really. Not unless you really want to.' He was speaking in a controlled voice, though he was fluttering with his own nervous desires. `Sure,' Shane replied in a dry, gruff voice. He ran his tongue a little against his top lip, and suddenly Troy had never wanted somebody so badly in his life. The 18-year-old slid his hand down Shane's forearm, took his hand, and pulled it in against the front of his skinny jeans, taking control despite being almost half the married bloke's age. He had the relative confidence of his earlier experiments, after all. Encouraged, Shane let his fingers play against the bulge, gently then more firmly, then finally he looked up properly and met Troy's gaze. `Fuck it,' he said, business-like and determined, and he went down on his knees. Suddenly, Troy didn't need to be the guiding hand; Shane was shoving him firmly back, so that he tottered to the foot of the man's bed, and down onto his arse, with Shane shuffling forward on his knees in front of him. Speed and urgency seemed to be the answer to the married footballer's nerves and doubts. Troy drooped back, propping himself on his elbows, and looked down the baggy hoody over his torso, seeing the strangely focused expression on Shane's handsome face as hands were run up and down Troy's thighs, then to the button fly of his jeans. He let out a couple of suppressed sighs of excitement, not wanting to put Long off his experimental stride. The man was clumsy but powerful with his fingers, undoing the skinny jeans and pulling them about the knees, then tugging the pale blue boxer briefs the same way, until Parrott's big semi was flopping about beneath his freshly trimmed bush, over his sagging young balls, framed against two very hairy thighs. And then Shane's face, snuffling down between these thighs, pressing lips to that fat dong, and seeming unsure what to do next. Troy let out a louder sigh of enjoyment to reassure him, and spread his legs a little more, invitingly. Shane couldn't seem to meet his eyes again, but he got on with it, opening his lips more, and kissing at the swelling length a bit, then moving his lips gently to Troy's bollocks for a few moments. It took seconds more for Troy's dick to be standing to attention, the half-conscious desires having been welling up in him since the second Shane texted him last night. `Oh, buddy,' Troy breathed. `Is this okay?' Shane asked heavily. `It's fine, just take your time...' `But you need to...' `I don't care,' Troy said, firmly. `Take your time.' And Shane did. He mouthed curiously at the length and curve of Troy's shaft, and then licked really tenderly at the tip, exploring the shape of the bell end and the pull of the foreskin. It was a while before he dared take much of the cock into his gob, and even then, he seemed unsure of himself. Troy didn't interfere or push him, just letting him try it out. His dick was aching with excitement, even though he'd only had a shag last night. This was very bad form, on the afternoon before an evening game, but he felt unlikely to make the team anyway! Fuck it... `That's it, Shane,' he moaned, `that's it...' Shane began to slide his open mouth up and down Troy's meat, though its girth and length seemed a bit too much for him. Troy watched the nervous, intent face of the older married lad, utterly enthralled. He felt so much more alert and interested than when he'd succumbed to Eric that day, though that would remain a special memory, the first time another person had made him cum at all, a virgin at the time... He reached one hand down his thigh and cupped the side of Shane's face, stroking his smooth cheek and the wispy line of his beard. `Oh, yes... oh mate...' And then Shane was wanking him with one hand, purposefully and fast, and lapping his big tongue over the head of Troy's cock, picking up a stronger rhythm, seeming way more in control of the situation, though with that same detached, steely look to him. Troy rolled his head and let out louder groans, and pushed his hips down into the mattress, tensing his long, toned body and building up to... `Oh MATE, oh YES...' He watched, wide-eyed, as his cum burst from the thick head of his dick, and splashed up Shane's flickering tongue and upper lips, and slicked into his beard. And for a long minute, Shane ran his tongue in a circle around Troy's bell-end, then rested his face to one thick thigh, and gasped a few times. Troy lay there in bliss. But time really was short. Both for him to get to the club, and before Danny got back from his little shopping excursion. He pushed himself to sit upright, at the foot of the bed, and stroked Shane's head where it rested in his lap, the chunky muscular man trembling at his feet as what he'd just done really sank in. Troy stroked his hair a bit soothingly and rubbed at one of his tensed shoulders. `Thank you,' he said, because he wasn't sure what else would be appropriate. Shane sat up a bit, pulling his face away, cum still damp on his lips and chin. His eyes looked a bit watery like he might burst into tears. Troy felt a little lurch in his tummy at the sight of that possible regret or disgust. Perhaps he should get out of here quickly before things got nasty. He began to pull at his boxers and the waist of his jeans, the magic of the encounter slowly dying for him. `I need to go,' he muttered. Shane got up and drifted from him, wiping a sleeve over his mouth and looking anywhere but at Troy. `I love my wife,' he said, apparently to himself. After pacing about a bit, he said it again. `I love my fucking wife,' he grunted. `Yeah, right, cool,' Troy said faintly, doing up the buttons of his jeans. He stepped up to Shane, and they looked awkwardly at one another. And then the older guy grabbed him, and he flinched expecting aggression, but just got a tight, warm hug. He lingered in the older man's embrace for a moment before tugging away. `I need to go,' he repeated, still uneasy. `The game...' Shane nodded, and blinked a few times. `Aye. Aye. Go... Yeah. Cool. Happy, erm, birthday, again.' `Yeah. And thanks again for the... um, gifts.' `Yeah. Bye.' `Right, yeah. See ya.' The equaliser from Tottenham did come, and then not long later, a 3rd and winning goal. Southampton were defeated, and Danny Ings did not look so smug any more. On the contrary, he glowered with resentment and bitterness as the defeated Saints left the pitch to their visiting fans' muted applause. The Spurs players, on the other hand, lingered on the pitch, basking in applause. Troy, who had never actually made it off the bench, got up and joined his teammates at the edge of the field, clapping for both them and the loyal Tottenham supporters in the towering stands. But watching the action, reflecting on the strange day (day? Weeks!) he'd had as an 18-year-old man, Troy Parrott had come to a couple of resolutions. He strolled forward in long strides, still fresh from sitting on the bench, past sweat-streaked players in both teams' jerseys. To his right, the Southampton strikers were walking by: first came Danny Ings, a surly look on his blockish face, muscling his way off the pitch in a decidedly teenage strop. `Ah well, turns out Tottenham dicks are much bigger, eh?' Troy said under his breath, and the big tattooed brute turned to glare fiercely at him on the way past. Troy just winked, and then reached out as the second striker made to pass, slipping a gentle hand against the front of Shane's Southampton jersey, and flashing him a friendly Irish grin. `Tough luck, buddy,' he said, in a defiantly friendly tone, seeing the flash of panic on Long's face. `But your goal was fucking great, buddy. You really are fucking great.' Troy met his eyes with a confident smirk, refusing to be cowed or awkward about what had happened between them. Shane stared back with an exhausted, uncertain expression, and then nodded. `Thanks, kiddo,' he said weakly, and then he scampered on, following Ings into the tunnel. Troy strode on, greeting a couple of the other Tottenham players who were still waving and gesturing at their fans, and hugging and slapping at each other and enjoying the sense of midweek achievement. Troy made his way over to Delle Alli, who had come on during the game, and given Troy another suspicious look on his way past at the time. The tall, shifty-eyed 23-year-old turned and gave Troy another funny look now, disturbed to see him coming over to congratulate him after their terse encounter on the bench. `Parrott, lad,' Alli began, but Troy hugged his shoulder and leaned in close to speak. `Fuck off, pal,' the young Irishman told him assertively. `You need to back off, okay? You're fucking around my friends, and it's upsetting them.' Dele stared at him and began to say something, but he went on, `Eric and Harry have something special, and it's nothing to do with you, okay? So piss off and find someone else to mess about with.' Dele looked furious. `I'm no queer,' he barked in a low voice, `I dunno what you've heard but...' `Not interested,' Troy said dismissively, giving him what would look like a playful slap to the cheek and hugging him again before pulling away. `But keep those blowjob lips to yourself and stop causing mischief, Alli, or I won't be the only one you have to deny things to.' He gave him a cheeky wink like he'd done to Ings and walked on, leaving the midfielder to fume, and strutted up to where Eric was walking in, clapping to the fans and huffing out great clouds of frosty breath. `Troy,' the chunky player gasped happily when he neared him. Troy threw his arms about him in a warming hug, pulling his overcoat over the exhausted attacking midfielder and his nearest confidante here. `Mate,' he whispered to him, `stop wasting your time with other pricks, eh?' Dier glowered at him, breaking the hug in slight confusion. `What's that, kid?' Troy gave him a serious look, their faces oddly defined in the long shadows of the floodlights. A few other players drifted by them as everyone starting heading indoors from the cold, the cheers and applause from above beginning to fade and soften. `Harry,' he said, calmly. `You love him, don't you? I've seen you lately, mate...' Eric gawped and frowned and then began to speak, and stopped a couple of times before finding the words. `Parrot, kid, what have you been drinking up there on the bench, just...' `Eric,' Troy said confidently, feeling suddenly very clear about things. `Stop kidding yourself. You know what you feel about the big lanky git. So stop being a bell-end, and playing about... Get your man back, mate.' He stared intensely at the other bloke, and then Eric seemed to droop his muscular posture, and lunge forward into a second hug. He clung tightly to Troy, made a strangled cry of a noise, and squeezed even more. Troy held onto him, patted his back, and then walked slowly with him towards the tunnel, after the others. So, Troy thought, this was what turning 18 and being a real man felt like... Well, he hadn't expected to feel like he'd age five years overnight, but things just looked a lot clearer to him now. He knew who he was, and how to get what he wanted, and how much others seemed to want him. He felt like a man now.