Date: Sun, 15 Dec 2019 22:49:22 +0000 From: writer guy Subject: Premiership Lads PArt 5 Part five: Tottenham RED HOT Spurs Last week had been the greatest weekend of Troy Parrott's young life, the most glorious Sunday of his 17 and a half years. Making his first-team Premiership debut for Tottenham had been absolutely epic, everything he had hoped for in the years of hard work battling through youth teams. That they had absolutely destroyed the opposition 5-0, leaving Burnley fans hanging their heads, had been almost irrelevant, but it really could not have been a better debut for the young Irishman on English soil. Yes, it was almost all down to hard work – long training sessions before and after high school back home, lots of fighting his parents' wishes, staying out of trouble with the other lads, all of that... So much hard work to get where he was now. But... there was another story to Troy's big debut last week that would have to remain very, very secret. It had started... Well, in a way, it had started earlier this year when he'd signed his contract with the London team and moved over from Ireland, with all the excitement and stress entailed. His contact with first-team players had been limited to begin with, but two had immediately stood out: the club's famed and much-loved captain, Harry Kane, and the more boisterous defender Eric Dier. Both guys had been really friendly to him as a young reserve, and Troy had a lot of admiration for both blokes. Big powerhouses who were the backbone of the club, the sort of Premiership troops he really aspired to be in 5 or 6 years' time. Troy especially admired Harry, who was so calm and in control, but he enjoyed Eric's banter and efforts to include him in jokes and chat when they were on the training ground together or out and about at the club's expensive new stadium. And so it started, but it really started about two weeks ago, at a point when the novelty and triumph of singing for Spurs had momentarily worn thin: Troy had been hit by some pangs of homesickness and, in all honesty, was getting a bit sick of second-team and youth squad football, tantalisingly on the edge of the big time. His life here was a gritty slog of trying to impress the management team, boarding with the tediously strict family of a fellow youth player, long phone calls to his high school sweetheart girlfriend in Dublin, and disappointments each week when his name didn't make the call-up for the squad. To be fair, his competition was Harry fucking Kane. The fateful day was a real pisser. The rain was chucking down on the training ground with force, a real miserable pathetic fallacy for the unusually sombre Troy as he made his way out there to try, once more, to impress the right coach. His Spurs training kit of skinny-fit tracksuit bottoms and long sleeve footy shirt were almost immediately soaked, like everyone else's, but he did his best to ignore it. He was Irish, he was fucking used to rain. But the weather definitely made things worse, it was even harder to stand out and really show his talents as they went through a series of drills and exercises as always. Often, training would diverge by team status or position but a lot of today's work was whole-team, so that was a positive: getting to see some of his heroic teammates in action a bit more, and perhaps also more chance of impressing the right person, maybe? He tried to study Kane at work, to see what he could learn. Troy knew his youth made him unlikely to reach the sort of authority or icy calm that made Harry so formidable, but he also had a good eye for the technical, so he watched closely throughout the miserably wet morning session. And that was how it REALLY started. This was all pretty mundane, pissing wet but dully typical... and then young Troy Parrott ended up seeing something pretty odd. Among the footballing lads, people could definitely be pretty tactile – a lot of hugs and grabs and touches. But through rain-misted eyes in the midst of this intensive training routine, Troy's eyes caught a surprising sight. Kane was leading the way with some target practice, of course, and had just absolutely nailed an insane shot to the bullseye of some props to show the less experienced strikers why he was alpha fucking male around here – Troy was obviously watching as intently as the terrible weather allowed, really studying the powerful man's legs, footwork, approach – but he was also watching as Kane humbly saluted his crew and jogged back around the side of the group, settling in the slushy grass beside his good mate, Dier. There was some quiet conversation between them for a moment, though Troy couldn't hear a word – in the heavy rainfall, he'd barely been able to here coach's instructions, never mind the quiet banter of his senior colleagues. But he saw with strange clarity the slipping of a thick knuckled hand of Eric's down Harry's wet back to his sturdy behind and give it a good firm grab through soaked shorts. Troy blinked, but the hand was very much still there, squeezing deeply, and then just like that it was over. The shouting of a coach interrupted Parrott's watchful reverie: his turn to shoot for target. He stepped up but, distracted by the oddly intimate moment he had just espied, he fucked up and totally missed. There was a mix of joking celebration and empathetic cries, including a really supportive call from his newfound role model, Kane: `Don't worry Irish, next time it's yours!' Troy flashed him a vague smile of gratitude, disappeared among the ranks, and scanned the gathering for Dier, but the meaty defender was nowhere near their captain now, and it was as if the strange moment of arse-squeezing at been completely imagined. Today, it was Troy's turn to take charge of a lot of kit – chores like this got divided up between young and new players like him, character-building delegation from the team structure. By the time the 6'1 well-developed young player was dragging a sack of footballs and a carefully balanced collection of flags under one arm, he wasn't giving much thought to what he may or may not have seen go on between the two 6'2 icons. Troy was utterly soaked now, his floppy fringe of dark hair really getting in his eyes and his cheeks blazing hot pink against otherwise blue-white freezing cold skin. He was the last in, unsurprisingly, and the corridors of the training facility were pretty quiet as he dragged the heavy bag down a passage and shoved them into one of the big equipment cupboards, shoving the collected flags in next to them and shaking his damp chilly hands to get some feeling back into the fingers. Fucking hell. His pals back in Dublin all thought he was really living it up out here, glamorous London playboy: if only they could see him. As he left the kit rooms, he peeled his long-sleeve top up and off – the tight white vest he had on underneath was just as wet though, translucently clinging to his toned body, russet nipples showing faintly. He shivered a bit, keen to get into the training rooms and to get a hot shower and then race to the team lunch and – Troy stopped, hearing a noise back down another passage. That was odd, everyone else should be changing or finished by now, was one of the other youth team lads still struggling with their chores? Troy sighed but he was too kind-hearted and team-spirited to fuck off and leave one of the others with too much to do, so he nipped down this narrow passage to the other storerooms. This was odd though, he realised, as they hadn't actually taken any kit from this part, now he thought about it, so... Ahead of Troy was a row of half open sliding doors into the storerooms, and from the last one came a bit more noise, just the clatter of disturbed items or the soft thud of feet, or was there even a slightly lowered voice. He tensed a bit and approached more carefully, dreading either an intruder or fucking rats or whatnot, just a bit perplexed by the scenario more than anything. He was cold and wet and getting a bit irritated. `Harry, no,' came a breathy Southern accent, familiar but low... Eric?? Troy paused and took a few more steps down the passage, crossing two or three other half-open shuttered entranceways to the last storeroom: his wet trainers squelched a little but not enough to disturb whoever was in there. Even so, he took care to approach more stealthily, pricking his ears to pick up the conversation... `Why not?' came another low, deep, male voice, more clearly London-accented. `Don't do that... he he...' The shutters of this room were pulled almost completely closed, but there were a couple of inches spare where someone had not quite finished the task, rushing clearly, leaving a narrow spy-gap for the prying teenage eyes of Troy Parrott as he leaned across to see what the hell was going on. `Come on,' urged a moaning voice that was now unmistakeably that of captain Harry – Troy could see his back, bare and shirtless, dew-dropped with rain moisture across the muscular space. And then he twisted about and the other man become visible... yep, Eric Dier... his top half pulled off, up to the nipples, his chunky abdomen briefly visible as Harry tussled with him into an embrace and then. Fuck. Were they kissing? Yep, they were definitely kissing. Troy's eyes bulged at the shock of it, straining to see properly in the narrow gap available, trying to understand what he was witnessing: Harry's strong bare arms grabbing at Eric's waist, one tugging upwards on the man's wet jersey, the other pushing down on his dark blue shorts – holy shit – whilst another hand shot into view as another forceful arse grab took place just like privately during the wet training session. What the fuck? There was no denying that Troy felt a rush of excitement, the voyeur's thrill – seeing what is meant to be hidden, regardless of the taboo, is always fun, and this one was just so fucking scandalous. He bit his lip to hold back the astonished gasp, focusing instead on the wet slap as Dier's shirt was tossed aside and hit the brickwork. In the tense silence, the moans and gasps of the full-bodied snogging were impossibly loud. It was as things developed, as two pairs of shorts were being roughly discarded, that Troy's curiosity took him too far, craning his head to see better and leaning forward on the sliding shutters with a little more weight than could be risked: there was a metallic creak and rattle as he tried to re-balance his weight and pull away from the narrow gap, but too late. Loud whispered swearing, quick footsteps behind the metal, and the door slid half-open right in front of him. Harry Kane squared up to him in the doorway, an imposing figure used to towering over others, but Troy was a very tall 17 year old. Over Harry's bare shoulder, Eric could be seen wide-mouthed in horror, shorts at his knees, hands held pointlessly over the crotch of his damp undies, doing nothing to mitigate the very vulnerable position he was caught in. Troy stared in silent amazement, no idea what to say. Kane grabbed him before he had a chance to make any decisions on this, yanking him quite forcibly by the front of his thin vest, stumbling into the claustrophobic space of the kit cupbard, and shoving the shutters as shut as possible behind him. Watery grey light leaked in from a thin strip of windows up by the ceiling. `Fuck, fuck, fuck,' Dier was mumbling, panicked. The heavy-set blond lad looked utterly mortified. `Shut up,' Harry hissed, giving him a glare, then releasing his grip on Troy's vest. `Right, you – what the fuck do you think you're doing spying on people?' `Spying?' protested Troy. His usually deep gruff voice came out as an embarrassing squeak right then. He stared from Harry's severe expression to Eric's terror, taking in their bared torsos and half-dropped shorts, their shrunken wet underwear from the stormy conditions. `I was not... spying,' he eventually forced out in a pathetic mumble. `Then what the fuck would you call it?' Harry demanded harshly, a bit louder than intended. `Harry,' pleaded Eric, suddenly right next to and then in between them. Then, turning to grab Troy's slim toned arm: `What the fuck did you see, kid? It isn't what it looks like.' Harry was grimacing and pushing his panicked `lover' aside a little bit now, wagging a finger Troy's way. `We fucking know what he SAW, baby, I mean – Eric.' He looked furious with himself at the slip of language and Troy might have laughed at the adorable madness of it if he wasn't a bit intimidated, a bit in shock, and a bit opportunistic. `Hey, hey,' he said in a quiet, consoling voice, lifting his hands. `I saw nothing, if that's what you wanted me to say...' Harry just glowered at him now, but Eric looked more hopeful. The two older footballers looked each other in the eyes, then back at him, and then finally both made feeble pulls at fixing their disturbed shorts, though all three men were damp, chilly and part undressed in the musty space of the storeroom. It was a surreal moment, but to Troy Parrott, it could be a lot more. He was a quick thinker, always had been. He was a hard worker too, but he knew that quick thinking could sometimes be more effective. `Lads, lads,' he whispered, `I ain't here to judge you... I was just tidying up when I... well, heard...' `You're always so LOUD,' Kane muttered darkly, shoving his 25 year old pal in the arm, and the big meat-headed defender looked visibly hurt by the accusation, his puppy dog eyes on his captain as Troy once more resisted a surreal laugh and put his sharp wits to action. `Guys,' he urged quietly but firmly, `I'm sorry to... to... disturb you like this, but...' `You can't tell anyone,' Dier hissed, desperation evident in every syllable as he reached again for Troy's arm with one of his strong paws. `Please, Troy, my buddy, if anyone knew about our... our...' `He isn't going to tell a soul,' Harry said more slowly, more firmly, and it sounded as much a threat as a promise. Troy met his eyes respectfully, nodded slowly, but proceeded with an idea. `Nobody needs to know a thing,' he replied in a measured tone. `I'm pretty sure I can manage to keep my young trap shut. Pretty sure, anyway.' Kane was a quick thinker too, though Dier looked confused. `Pretty sure,' Harry echoed quietly, patting one of Troy's broad but lean shoulders. `What might make you a bit more fucking sure, eh?' A pause. `Tell the gaffer I'm ready,' Troy posed. Another long pause. Eric still looked a bit confused, and a bit more terrified – like he might make a swift exit out of the cupboard any second and catch a flight to Timbuktu. There was tension in the air but the power was all on the teenager in the room. He watched the cogs turn in his older friends' eyes. `I put in a good word, and the secret dies here,' Kane said, doing a good job of keeping his voice level. `You never give a second's fucking thought to what you saw in here.' Troy smiled a tight-lipped little smile, and upped the game. `You make sure I get my debut next week, and I'll do better than that,' he whispered, and he leaned forward a little bit, patting both big lads on the chest. `Promise between you to make it happen and... I'll stand watch while you... have your moment.' This time the pause was very long, and not one of the three guys really knew where to put their eyes. It was big, clumsy Eric who broke the pause, by reaching for a pat on Kane's buttocks, and in a trembling voice, he said what everyone was thinking. `This could work out for us all, couldn't it?' he murmured. `We could do with an ally, I guess...' He looked pleadingly at Kane, whose face was unreadable for another couple of moments. But Troy had heard and seen the desperation in the closeted men minutes ago: clearly they could snatch only rare minutes together in whatever tryst this was, and he knew he could play this to his advantage. They had both sounded utterly desperate for action, and so... `Alright,' Harry hissed. `I cannot make a guarantee but I can use all my influence to get you on that lineup, kid. Now get the fuck out, keep watch, and keep this passage clear. Get it?' He shoved Troy back a bit, defensive and resentful, and then grabbed Eric on the shoulder, almost territorially. Troy backed off, noting the grateful smile on Eric's face, and let himself out with a slide of metal. On the other side, pulling the door almost to but finding it jammed a little, hence the early spy-gap, he let out a long breath and tried to calm his thundering heart: he had played the calm negotiator just now, but he was bricking it. He'd half expected the two twentysomethings to just beat the shit out of him and send him packing. After all, who would even believe him if he HAD tried to rat them out as homos? Behind the shutters, there was a very short burst of semi-audible conversation, the unmistakeable sound of kissing, and the rustling of shorts. Right, right, I do NOT need to hear more, he thought decisively, and squeaked his damp trainers back down the shady little passage a bit, eyes flitting from the near-closed door to the main corridor and back. This should be easy, given that nobody would need to come back here, unless they were wondering where the hell he was – but it was such a shitty day that probably nobody would want to waste their time or really question his absence. He stood in the entrance to the passage, remembering just how fucking chilly and wet he still was, and pulled his hair back out of his eyes. Holy shit, was all this real? Harry fucking Kane, champion of England, and Eric meathead Dier, some sort of secret... affair? At least one of them was married to a bird, if not both? Hah! God, how odd to see them at it like that... Troy wasn't sure he'd ever really paid attention to the sight of men kissing, growing up in a strict Catholic world, but god it looked so intense and aggressive, bloody weird. His knowledge of homosexuality was pretty sparse for his generation, but he knew enough for one curious question to surface in his amusement: who was on top? Well, surely it was Harry, right? Captain, man's man, leader, a hair's breadth taller and broader... It must be. He was the, er, `top', as they said, which made Eric the... er, what was the word for that? And what did gay blokes REALLY get up to in a fucking storeroom on a wet Tuesday in December? A daring thought crossed Troy's mind, and another pang of thrill at the secrecy and scandal of it all: of course, he could settle this curious question pretty easily couldn't he. He looked over his shoulder. They were obviously keeping the noise down and being careful compared to earlier. If he really strained his ears, could he hear some voice or moan? He bit his lip indecisively, and then slid his wet heavy socks out of the training boots, and padded back down the short distance of the passage. The moans became a little clearer and more pronounced with each step: or his imagination got more vivid, at any rate. At the entrance to the storeroom, Troy nearly backed away again: what the hell was he doing? This was all such a weird rush, so removed from the world he thought he was in, and where was this burning curiosity fucking coming from? But also... knowledge was power, right? God, why not just have a peek? Nothing wrong with that. He leant in, careful not to disturb or creak the metal this time, leaning his hand on the brick frame instead, and brought his eye to the peep-gap, and... oh, jesus. Well, he'd been wrong. There was Kane, getting down onto his knees on the rough grey concrete of the floor, presenting the toned smooth globes of his arse into the air a bit and burying his face into the skin of his folded arms, whilst Eric... whoa, an actual big hard cock, yikes... and he was going to put that in...? Oh god that must be so painful... what is he gonna lube it with? Oh... just spit? Shit, man... Troy realised how long he'd been holding in a breath and let it out in a long, slow sigh to keep it quiet, leaning in tightly and gripping the doorframe, trying to shift the angle of his head to get a slightly better view as Dier mounted their shared captain, a side on view of... fucking hell that MUST hurt... Harry was moaning and grunting into his arms and it only partly stifled the noise. The noise more than the sight sent a wild crackle over Troy's skin, making him shiver excitedly, but also flinch and wince at the thought of such presumably agonising treatment. No way could that feel good, surely? He found himself watching the tight tensing of Eric's thigh and buttock in this side profile as he entered the other man and rested his hands on Harry's back and begin to... well, do the deed. Troy let out another ragged breath, a tiny bit less careful, and – SHIT – Eric twisted his head to look this way. Immediately, or nearly immediately, Troy pulled back from the gap: but not quite immediately. For in the second or two that elapsed, he saw Dier really spot him, spying once again, making brief eye contact in the shadowy cupboard and... just a cheeky grin and a wink before the big muscular defender turned away and concentrated on the task of fucking Harry Kane like a bitch. Troy blinked and blinked as he staggered back along the passage, but that leering look on the man's face stayed with him: seeing the voyeur and loving it? Troy sank down onto a big box piled up at the entrance to the passage, sitting to catch his shaky breath, and tried to think about anything other than the sordid act he was hiding. Well, sordid was the wrong word. Poor guys, having to hide like this. Were they gay? Bi? Did anyone else at the team know? So many fucking questions. Troy half-closed his eyes, leaned against the wall and tried focus on a bigger priority: Harry's technical skills (not his bare, presented arse) and that amazing target practice... Eric's strength on pitch (and not his thick thighs as he ploughed a bloke). Jesus. Troy touched the crucifix about his neck in a moment of paranoid Catholicism, wondering if any of this was automatic entry to Hell. And then, having slipped into a nervous daydream, it was over. There was the rattle of a sliding shutter, a couple of awkward coughs, and the two senior players padded quietly past him. Harry paused, gave him a serious look, and nodded his head quite sternly, adjusting his training shirt before stomping off up the corridor. Lingering, Eric gave him a friendlier look, a glint of gratitude in his eyes and smile, and a knowingness that made the teenager tremble and blush and glance away. `You won't tell anyone,' Eric murmured, and it was hard to tell if it was a question or a statement. `No,' Troy said weakly. `Promise, buddy.' `You're a good kid,' Dier said. `A real good kid.' A few moments' silence between them, as Troy wished he'd hurry up and get the fuck on after his boyfriend or whatever he was. He flinched a bit under Eric's roving gaze, and scratched at a graze on his knee idly. `Aye,' he muttered, `I sure am. Thanks.' Eric gave him one last look. `Hope you enjoyed the show, anyway,' he said, very gently, and then walked on, following Kane up the corridor in the direction of the senior changing rooms. Left behind, Troy let out a strange little laugh, a small burst of hysteria at the surreal experience, and of slight panic at the risk of it all – but also, a following chuckle of celebration. He was absolutely going to make the first team now, he had every faith in those randy fuckers. And so he did. And what a game it was. 5 fucking nil. Brilliant. He loved every moment of it, and in the celebrations that followed, his eyes met first Harry's and then Eric's at several points: he saw the stern warning on Kane's face, the affectionate promise on Dier's. Oh yes. Troy Parrott had made the big time, and it was all because of those two lovebirds. *THANKS FOR READING! APOLOGIES FOR THE BREAK AWAY FROM OLD TRAFFORD, JUST EXPERIMENTING WITH OTHER CHARACTERS AND PLEASING SOME READER REQUESTS. BACK TO MANCHESTER FOR PART 6, WITH A 3rd PLAYER GETTING INVOLVED WITH MAGUIRE & SHAW...