Date: Fri, 24 Apr 2020 08:16:55 +0000
From: writer guy <premiershiplads@outlook.com>
Subject: Premiership Lads part 85: Best Man

 Part eighty-five: Best Man


 Out here in the sunshine, it was easy being the wholesome family
man. Jamie Vardy had a watering hose in one hand, a thick rubber glove on
the other, and Gucci sliders worth some people's average salary on his
blistered feet. He was tending to one of the many patches of the family's
massive garden dedicated to growing stuff, though he forgot what was
actually in the neat rows of pots in front of him, he tended to led Rebekah
worry about such dull details and just strut about enjoying feeling like
lord of the fucking manor.

 About him were the vague summery noise of the family relaxing; the kids
playing, his elderly parents laughing over their first white wine of the
afternoon, his wife topping up their glasses and strolling this way.

 Yes, there were days when behaving and being a good boy were worth it,
Jamie told himself with a smirk and a chuckle, looking up as his attractive
wife sauntered his way.

 `Glass of vino babes?' she offered with a little pout that promising a
blowjob tonight; Jamie knew the look well and he'd been hoping for oral for
days. He went down on her about five times for every suck-job she resigned
herself to and whilst normally he didn't object to the imbalance, god did
his dick need sucking. He'd woken up wishing James fucking Maddison was in
bed with him yesterday, the need was getting so bad, and that lad was shite
at it.

 He gladly accepted the offer of a drink and abandoned his smug
middle-class gardening for now. Gloves peeled off, sunglasses tilted to his
forehead, duties shrugged away. He prowled across the garden and rested his
hands on his hips, surveying the palatial home his Leicester salary had
bought a few years back.

 `Here ya go darling,' came his wife's voice, and he took the glass gladly.

 `Cheers.' A little cuddle and kiss, muted by the wholesome publicness of
the garden, but with the faint scratching promise of action to come. He
nibbled at her chin and let his stubble tickle her neck; she stroked a hand
`accidentally' close to where his package fell in the plain blue cotton
shorts he'd worn out into the sun. They both suppressed little chuckles of
desire.

 `You know what's next month, babe,' she said, their glasses clinking.

 `Hmm?'

 `Don't tell me you've fuckin' forgotten, hehe...'

 Jamie smirked again and read her expression for a moment. `Oh, how could I
forget?'

 `What the hell are we gonna do for our wedding anniversary while we're
trapped here, eh...?'

 `Don't worry,' he promised her and, since nobody was looking, cupped her
lower left breast for a second then kissed her on the lips, `we'll have a
special night, baby. Don't you worry.' Another kiss. `Just remind
me... what day in May is it again...?'

 She snorted laughter and pushed him in the chest. `You pillock. Stop
messing.' She stroked her fingers lightly against the front of his shorts
then instantly backed off. `Come sit.' Off she strolled, her hips
oscillating and her arse beautiful in tight denim shorts. Jamie bit his lip
and held back the desire to reach and grab it.

 A wedding anniversary on lockdown, well, he'd have to really go all out in
making her squeal that night, wouldn't he? Might have to be a special
one. He suppressed his filthy smirk and tried to regain the neutral
confidence of the landed gent he'd been feeling just minutes before, poking
at seedlings and spraying his precious crop. Huh, from spraying the tits of
groupie sluts to spraying the growth in his vegetable garden... c'est la
vie. Still, he'd always have the memories of the wild times.

 It had all been on a path to the straight and narrow since 2016 and the
big wedding to Rebekah; okay, okay, he'd not been like 100% faithful in
these four years, granted, but he'd really cut back on everything. The
vodka, the Charlie, the party. Shit, though, would it really soon be four
years since that big day when he'd...?

 Fuck, he thought with a smile, it was just like he'd said to her: how
could he forget?



 The wedding had been in a castle, for fuck's sake, though Vardy himself
had spent the night beforehand in a mid-rate roadside hotel three miles
away. Traditions were traditions: his princess and her entourage were
nestled in their expensive venue, and he was down the road, lashing back
whiskey and a few discreet lines with his brethren in a hotel bar. The stag
night had been a big do, though crushingly tame compared to some of his
more youthful adventures; Jamie had the vague sense that he was owed this
badly timed blow-out before he stepped up tomorrow and said his vows,
slipped a ring on his finger, tucked his tail between his legs.

 Tonight, he would enjoy himself.

 They were riotous in the hotel bar, but he'd paid triple the going rate
for the cluster of shared rooms already, sweetening the manager and
enabling this messy pre-wedding fun. Bottle after bottle of amber nectar
was drained at the bar, way after their usual closing time, and the couple
of obvious complaints (seething weary-eyed businessmen loitering at the
door with a shift manager) were paid off or bullishly ignored; one whinging
bugger whose wife couldn't sleep was even coerced into joining Jamie's
uncle at the bar doing shots. Things dissolved into a mess fairly quickly.

 Somewhere near midnight, Vardy returned to the bar from a visit to the
bathroom, sniffing and shaking himself. This had to be the last buzz of the
night, he told himself, or there'd be no fucking sleep before the big
event. He stretched his body out and let the electric fizz whip through his
nervous system, surveying the wilting energy of this second stag-do. His
coke buddy for the night slipped by him and Jamie squeezed his shoulder for
a moment, thanking the old teammate from his Fleetwood days and feeling a
rush of gratitude at the older bloke's discretion.

 Then there was a hand on his own shoulder, and he turned his head, eyes
wide with the buzz of white powder, a grin of manic affection on his
lips. `Aha,' he exclaimed, `there he is, the man of the fuckin' hour.'

 `I think,' his best man said in a slightly slurred voice, `it's my job to
tell you when this shindig needs to wind down. You know I hate to be a
party pooper, but...' David Nugent gave a tight-lipped grin, brought his
half-finished pint up in a gesture of support. `We do have places to be in
the morning, Mr Rebekah Vardy. And that woman would flay me if you're
puking your way down the aisle.'

 Their eyes met and both men laughed at the image. Jamie looked back across
the bar: a few blokes had already quit one by one and those that remained
looked exhausted, near asleep with the drink. The only ones even faintly
alert were a couple of his younger cousins and one eager Leicester player
who was hitting on a barmaid. Well, the night couldn't go on forever.

 `Aye,' Jamie told his trusted pal, `you might be right there, Nugs.'

 The 30-year-old Scouser beside him nodded more firmly, lifted his pint and
drained the glass. Then he threw a supportive arm about Jamie's shoulders,
pulled him into a half-hug, and placed his pint glass down on a nearby
table so hard it almost shattered. `Come on,' he grunted at Vardy, `let's
get you to the groomsmen suit, hah. Don't vom on me in the lift.'

 Vardy found himself staring gratefully at the other striker as they headed
up in the elevator, which did make him feel bilious from the booze he'd
consumed, his head still pinging with the fresh rush of a line, disturbed
by the jarring electric lights over their heads. He blinked and focused his
attention on the tall broad profile of his best man: he missed playing with
Nugent, though it had only been a couple of seasons, and it was fucking
great to steal him back from Middlesbrough to be his chosen aide in this
life-changing ceremony.

 `What's that look for?' Nugent demanded in his scratchy Liverpudlian
voice.

 `Ah, nothing,' Jamie cooed. `Just thinking what a cunt you are.'

 `Ah, lovely. You too, babes.' David winked.

 In the room, Jamie helped himself to a beer bottle from the mini-bar and
ignored half-hearted protests from his roomie. He whipped off his polo
shirt and strutted in front of the open windows, dubious motorway view
glittering below, necking mouthfuls of cold Italian beer and mentally
counting the hours before he had to be fresh as a daisy. His and David's
suits hung from the doors of a nearby wardrobe, spectral figures of
tomorrow's formality and pomp. Vardy had splashed out on some quality
tailoring but he knew he'd still feel a dickhead when he got all spruced up
in it; he glanced bitterly at David, who was a little taller and
sharper-looking and who would probably look like some fucking prince in his
best man get-up, the cunt.

 `You're trashed,' Nugent commented.

 Vardy turned and laughed. `I am, but in the morning I'll be sober, whereas
you will still be a right fuckin' bell-end, David lad!'

 `Hmm. Are you quoting Churchill at me? Prick.'

 Nugent had flopped himself onto his bed, still in a half-open black casual
shirt and slim-fit jeans, busying himself kicking off his suede shoes so he
could relax properly. He'd refused a drink and poured himself a water;
captain fucking boring. Vardy swaggered to the foot of his bed, finishing
off his beer bottle, and let out a violent belch.

 `Delightful.'

 `You know me. Class act.'

 `Oh yes. Class act indeed.'

 `You bloody love it, mate.'

 `You know I do,' sighed David, then a throaty laugh. `Look, I ain't being
boring -- I just have a job to do. I need to see you in BED fucking ASLEEP
before the next hour is up, OKAY? Otherwise...' He gestured the crotch of
his jeans. `Pretty sure you missus is gonna castrate me.'

 Jamie laughed and grabbed his own package in the front of his pale slack
denim. `Pretty sure she's gonna whop my bollocks off as part of the
ceremony too anyway, so that'll be both of us... eunuchs. Heh.' He tossed
his bottle aside, faintly disappointed by its glassy thud on carpet rather
than shattering dramatically on a wall. He stretched his arms and patted
his tight abs. `Two dickless wonders going into our 30s, big man.'

 `I'm already there!' David protested. `Don't worry. You don't turn into an
old man overnight.'

 `I dunno,' Jamie teased, `you seem to have. You wouldn't even have a
single sniff.'

 `Buddy... chill out. I don't need white stuff to have a good
night. Especially not when I'm catching up with a best mate I don't see
often enough. Fuck's sake. Here. Have some water.'

 Jamie refused the offered glass and paced the room, glaring occasionally
at the accusing glimmer of his hanging suit. He struggled out of his
trainers and socks and then undid the belt of his jeans. Getting out of
them almost sent him head-first into the doorway, and he stood in his pale
grey boxer briefs laughing hysterically at himself. `I really am trashed,'
he confirmed, wandering back towards the two double beds.

 `Yep. Hot mess.'

 `That's me.'

 Jamie sat on the edge of his bed and grinned across at the lazing figure
of his best man. David smiled vaguely back, then pushed the glass of water
across a coffee table between them. The Leicester champion shrugged,
scoffed, downed it. He belched again and lifted his strong lean legs to
kick idly at the side of his mate's body, pestering him until he shuffled
further across the bed.

 `Stop that you dick,' David grumbled cheerily.

 `I'm getting married in the morning,' Jamie sang. `I can do what the fuck
I like.'

 `Yeh, if you want a black eye in your wedding photos...'

 `AND I'm a Premiership fucking winner,' Vardy added, `so I can do ANYTHING
I like...'

 Nugent scoffed, a hint of envy behind his humour. `Yup, soon as I leave,
up the club soars, yeh... Bloody typical. One conversation different with
my agent and I could be...'

 `What, rivalling Aguero for Premiership goals? Don't flatter yourself.'
Vardy shot an arrogant wink his way and flexed his wiry muscles. `You ain't
got my gifts, Nugs. You're small fry now, up in Boro. Enjoy yourself
haha. No more Premiership partying for you, old man...'

 `And no more partying for you full stop,' returned his best man. `Not once
you lose your bollocks at the altar tomorrow. It's about time you calmed
down anyway, to be fair! Way I remember it,' he added in a meaningful tone,
`you were getting... out of hand!'

 Jamie raised a single eyebrow and smirked at him. `What's that meant to
imply, Scouser?'

 David coloured and laughed and sat up to finish unbuttoning his
shirt. `Nothing much,' he grunted, `but you know it's time for the party to
cool off. Generally, and tonight. You need to wind down, chief,
otherwise... Tomorrow gonna be shite.' Nugent hopped off his bed as he
undid his shirt and belt, and Vardy watched him through hooded eyes, the
rush of the coke cooling and the nausea of alcohol returning. He studied
the tension in Nugent's sharp jawline and beady eyes, then examined the
bared torso of stockier muscle and faintly hairy chest.

 `I know what you're getting at,' he announced darkly.

 `I wasn't getting at anything,' David snapped, shooting him a glare, then
relaxing. He disappeared into the bathroom, and Jamie got up from the bed,
crossing to the doorway in his pants.

 `No daft young newbies at Boro who can be boozed into noshing you off,
then?' he demanded in a performance of casual half-interest, leaning in the
doorway and watching his friend wash his handsome face then meet his eyes
in the mirror. There was always something rugged and foxy about Nugent's
features, more-so now than ever; he looked like an animal in headlights.

 `That,' the Liverpudlian snapped firmly, shaking moisture of his hands,
`was always more YOUR game than mine, Jamie Vardy.' He turned away to dry
his hands.

 `Yeh but...' The groom-to-be drifted into the small warm space of the
hotel bathroom, arms folded. `You took your share of the fun when it was
offered.' He stared into David's beady eyes and grinned wickedly. `I
remember your first time. You were bricking it. Barely spoke to me for a
week after. What, just cos you spunked in a room full of blokes...? Ha...'

 Nugent almost snarled. His eyes flashed with warning and fury. `Leave it
pal,' he hissed. He pushed past Vardy and back into the main room. Left
alone, the Leicester goal-scorer cackled to himself, pulled his dick out
and took a long, echoing piss. When he followed back into the main suite,
Nugent was down to tight black boxer briefs and standing by his bed,
thumbing moodily at his iPhone and refusing to look up and engage.

 `Hey,' Jamie quipped, `maybe if I ring down to reception, there'll be a
spare bell-boy we can face fuck into oblivion, or...'

 `Shut up Vardy,' warned the other man. He finally looked up. `I don't
wanna have this chat.'

 Jamie huffed out his annoyance. He cupped his gentle bulge of semi-aroused
meat, scratched an armpit with the other hand, and belched again. He was
drunk and high and horny. He thought back to the handful of risqué
moments he'd led (misled?) the other striker into those seasons together;
the secretive exploits he'd managed with and without Nugent since
re-embracing his bi-curious side at Leicester City. If you knew where to
look, there was always a willing mouth.

 Nugent gave him a withering look and there was a tense silence.

 `I was just messing,' Vardy said testily.

 `I know.' Something immediately relaxed in Nugent's body
language. `Seriously, get to bed. Big day. Breakfast at 8am sharp. You're
gonna be hanging.'



 The problem with hangovers, in Jamie Vardy's world, was that they made him
even more horny than the drink or drugs. He felt gross, sitting at his
hotel fry-up with some of his closest friends and family, but more than
anything, he felt turned on. Perhaps it was his own musty smell of sweat
and excess, or waking up in the morning to the sight of David padding about
the hotel room in his black pants; perhaps it was the anticipation of
consummating things tonight in a castle turret after a four-week
fiancée sex ban in readiness for the church service.

 Bloodshot eyes and chapped lips, he suffered his way through the
breakfast. At one point, he speared a well-cooked local sausage on his
fork, brought half of it up to his lips, then caught Nugent's eye
diagonally across the table. He smirked, held the length of meat near his
lips, and winked at the 5ft11 forward. David's eyes flashed with
recognition of the joke, a weak smile played on his mouth, he became
immediately fascinated by a fried mushroom in the corner of his
plate. Vardy laughed heartily to himself but his mania was dismissed by the
others as hungover mumbling.

 Upstairs, he enjoyed his shower. The scorching water burned away his
headache. He found a freshly opened bottle of mineral water waiting by the
sink for him, clearly left by David, and glugged it greedily whilst he
stood naked and drip-dried onto the tiled floor. He looked at his slim,
well-muscled figure in the mirror; he knew he wasn't winning any awards for
the most handsome or hunky footballer in the country, but he felt pretty
fucking champion. What a season it had been, 2015-16.

 When he went back through into the room, his fresh white towel slung over
one shoulder rather than tied about his waist, he was full of that thought:
his own prowess, the way he'd risen from nowhere to stick a middle finger
up to the footballing elite. He felt invincible, world-class. And about to
marry the most beautiful woman he'd ever slipped his cock inside. He
couldn't stop grinning as he swaggered into the hotel room, damp and nude
and a little flushed from the heat of the shower.

 David was fussing around with their suits, a video tutorial on pocket
squares playing loudly on his phone, hair all tufty and disturbed from
sleep still. He was down to his boxers again, a folded towel waiting beside
him. He glanced up, seemed to note Jamie's nudity, choose to ignore it; he
got up and reached for his towel, clearly glad it was his turn to wash up
and prepare for the day ahead.

 `Nah,' Jamie said.

 `Huh?'

 `Nah,' the Leicester goal machine grunted. `Not yet. I don't want you
washed.'

 Nugent shook himself, blinked, stared. `What are you on about?'

 Vardy crossed the room and entered the passage between the two beds. He
dropped his unused towel behind him and shoved the folded one out of his
mate's hand then squared up to him, an inch shorter and a lot leaner, but
tensed with energy and force. He reached a wet hand forward and cupped the
bulge in the front of his best man's black underpants. `I don't want you
washed,' he repeated in a low growl, `I want you dirty.'

 David stood still. `Mate. We ain't got ages. We need you showered and
dressed and-`

 `Fuck off, it's my wedding and I want this.' As he said it, Vardy rubbed
the bulge in his fingers, feeling the fat outline of the other striker's
bigger piece, warm and musty against his clean fresh fingertips. He didn't
take his eyes off Nugent's for a second. `And what I want today, buddy of
mine, I fucking get. Yeh?'

 A shuddering uncertainty passed over the Middlesbrough player's face. He
looked conflicted and angry, but he also looked... pleasured. He stood
there, near-naked, arms dangling, while his floppy bulge was pushed and
stroked and tugged. The two men eventually broke the stare and David let
out a long sigh.

 `Mate,' he breathed stubbornly. `Don't...'

 `I normally hate sucking dick,' Vardy snapped, `but... I miss seeing
yours.'

 `Pal, just...'

 `Shut it. Stand there.'

 Jamie went down on his knees. He'd tried it before, sure he had, he wasn't
stupid. When you knew how good it felt to stick your nob inside a mouth,
you inevitably wondered how it felt to give that pleasure; he'd
experimented only on a couple of his sporadic lovers, lads he knew would be
too scared to mention it. He was more careless about whose gob he shoved
his own dick into, but he was terrified anyone should learn that he'd tried
the other way...

 Today, though, he nuzzled the front of his best man's undies and groaned
with pent-up desire. He DID miss this bloke. He breathed in the piss and
sweat and manliness of the other man's crotch and rubbed his nose and lips
up and down the bulge. His hands stroked the fabric and pulled faintly on
the waistband. He listened to the gentle sigh and groan building in David's
throat and laughed when it was choked back in protest. Nah, he knew the big
Scouse bloke liked this, he'd seen his face while a smooth young lad
gobbled his cock. Vardy found it hard to believe the handsome fucker wasn't
doing exactly the same on Teesside, in all honesty.

 There was a grunt of defeat from Nugent, and Vardy looked up; their eyes
met again.

 `You're about to get married,' David warned him.

 `All the more reason to... play.'

 He pulled down the black undies, hunched naked on the hotel room floor,
and ran his fingers under the sweaty bollocks of the Boro footballer, then
lifted his meaty prick, teasing the foreskin. He enjoyed the dirty smell,
but he didn't want it in his mouth; his aversion to cock-sucking was
returning after a moment of horny temptation. It just didn't feel right to
him, he hated it. But he was excited and so so aroused. Going down on guys
was nasty, he'd concluded three years ago, but going down on girls
was... well, heaven. A sleazy thought pinged into existence at the back of
his mind.

 `Turn around,' he muttered.

 `Huh? Vardy, pal, I reckon-`

 `Turn around.' He stroked the bare legs. `Turn around, just a min. For
me.'

 `What the f...?' But a best man does what a groom asks. Around he went,
facing the wall, and Jamie no longer stared at his thick, twitching beast
of a dick; he was facing his meaty glutes and their halo of dark hair.

 Vardy squeezed one cheek with each hand, feeling the tension. He parted
them gently and looked into the dark-haired crack between. He brought his
face close and inhaled the strangely energising scent. His 30-year-old
friend stood stock still and he could imagine the absolute bewilderment on
Jamie's face; if he'd put a foot wrong at this stage and moved too fast, it
would have been over, and he would really be walking into his wedding with
a black eye. At least. So he took it slow.

 First, he parted the cheeks more, then he planted a single tingling kiss
at the base of the man's spine. Then, he lowered his mouth, and let out a
long sighing breath all the way down the butt-crack, letting his
whiskey-flavoured exhale tickle where his tongue ached to go. He reached
one hand around the front now and teased David's cock, which was getting
stiffer. At the same time, his other hand pulled the left buttock away a
bit, and he brought his mouth close enough. He let his long tongue snake
between the cheeks, tasting stale sweat.

 `Ohhh... what the fuck...?'

 What the fuck indeed. Vardy reached up on his knees, his own dick
straining hard between his legs, and manhandled Nugent around 90 degrees;
he stroked his hips and pushed at his lower back and soon had him bending
over the side of one bed, his big hairy arse in the air. He pulled those
cheeks open and licked between them like he'd licked so many pussies. He
heard instant cries of confused pleasure from the manly striker; this drove
him wild. He licked and poked with his long talented tongue and reached in
between the legs to stroke and tease Nugent's nob even more.

 `Fuck,' grunted the Boro man, `fucking hell... mate... stop it,
that's... oh GOD that feels good... oh mate... no... oh YES... jesus
Christ... oh FUCK...' Every word of it turned Vardy on more, made his cock
throb and strain and his mouth salivate. He spat at the man's virgin hole
and rubbed a thumb over it then licked it again. He bit and kissed at each
muscular cheek, but repeatedly returned to lapping the hairy crack.

 At what point did he decide he was actually gonna fuck him? It definitely
hadn't been in his mind when he grabbed his bulge, when he nuzzled it, even
when he first pulled open the cheeks. But now he was on his feet and taking
his cock in a spit-lubed hand. He pressed his tip against that quivering
ring and listened to the wordless moans from the macho striker bent in
front of him, the perfect target for his enjoyment. David wasn't even
forming swear words or empty exclamations now, just groaning deeply and
relaxing his backside second by second; in went Vardy's thin but rock hard
stiffy, into the fresh territory.

 `How's that?' he demanded.

 `Insane,' groaned his former teammate.

 `Can you take it?'

 `I don't know!'

 `Can I try?'

 A nervous whimper so unlike the usual gruff scratch of his voice. `Yes
mate...'

 So Jamie Vardy fucked a man for the first time, and David Nugent took his
first dick in rapturous shock. Jamie reached around and wanked his buddy
off from the first entry to the sticky retreat; he tugged back and forth on
the bigger nob, relaxing and pleasuring his inexperienced goal while edging
his prick slowly further in, then tugging back, then in, then back, then
in... soon he was pumping the muscular arse with almost the aggressive
force he used on prostitute pussy. He held back ever so slightly and he
paused now and then, amazed he was being allowed to do this. But as he got
closer to finishing, he lost that edge of caution, and he powered at
Nugent's backside with all his hungover frustration until, gritting his
teeth to quiet his scream, he unloaded inside the handsome Scouser, filling
him up like a cream bun.

 When he pulled out, he paused and watched his own seed dribble a little
from the hole. David remained in position, legs shaking. Jamie took a
moment to himself before flipping the heavier man over onto his back, then
dropping to his knees, and finishing what he started. He held sturdy hairy
thighs and ran his tongue around and below the balls; not actually SUCKING
Nugent off, per se, but lapping his long wet weapon everywhere around the
base of that dick until, gripped in his right hand, it shot its load too,
making a mess of Jamie's bare shoulder.

 `You need to shower,' Jamie Vardy told him coolly, rising to his feet,
watching his friend gasp and writhe on the bed. `Get yourself cleaned up,
mate. You've got to get me married now.'

 In the church, he watched him limp slightly up the aisle and grinned
triumphantly before the altar.



 Vardy's cum emptied into his left hand and he rested against the wall of
the downstairs loo. Once he'd got thinking about the morning of his wedding
and the first time he mounted a bloke, he'd had to sneak away and pleasure
himself; the memory of David's bare bottom, hairy crack, agonised virginal
face, well it had just been to much to bear.

 He wiped his hand with a tissue, flushed, washed them
carefully. Phew. That was a good wank.

 It had been a great wedding and, really, pounding Nugent's arse-hole was
just one of many sweet memories from that weekend; but how could he deny
the feelings of victory and strength whenever he looked at his dashing
sidekick throughout the service or reception? The knowledge of his
supremacy over other men, a drug way better than cocaine.

 On the way back through the cool quiet downstairs of the house, returning
to the relaxed atmosphere of the garden and the waiting family, he heard
his phone. He'd left it on a side-table before sneaking into the toilet,
resisting the urge to look up photos of his old Leicester teammate back in
those heady days. He picked it up and was surprised to see who the call was
from; another rugged teammate who'd stalked the Premier League with him,
upsetting the status quo with the unexpected talent and courage of
Leicester City in the 21st century.

 `Harry fucking Maguire,' he chuckled, and hit `answer'. `Hello there,
stranger.'

 `Jamie. How you doing?'

 `I'm doing as well as any other well-paid sportsman locked down in his
happy mansion. You?'

 `Huh. Right.'

 `What do you want, Hazza?'

 `That's not very friendly.'

 `Neither were you, last time we met. You were... tasty, though.'

 `Shut it. Look. Mate. We go way back. We were real close once.'

 `We were. We were. You kinda ruined my play-thing though...'

 `Chilly ain't your plaything. He's a sound lad.'

 `I know he is. But I was having fun...'

 `You were taking advantage.'

 `Huh. Right. Well. What the fuck do you want, other than to lecture
me...?'

 Jamie stood at the French windows looking out into the garden, his
curiosity piqued. Any moment he would wander back out there and play Mr
Respectable, sip his wine and entertain the young ones. He would put behind
him the giddy memory of topping a Scouse scally footballer in a hotel room
in Cheshire then winking at him over the wedding breakfast and remembering
the taste of his hole. Here on the phone, listening to Harry's fellow
Sheffield growl, he felt invigorated again.

 `I need to ask a favour,' Maguire said slowly.

 `Well, that's interesting. What kind of favour?'

 He heard the heavy roll of Harry's breathing as he paused or worked up
courage.

 `Jesse Lingard,' the Manchester United captain said very slowly and
carefully. `You two go back a while, right? He was at Foxes when you first
signed, wasn't he...?'

 Now THIS was unexpected... Jamie pressed the phone to his ear, bit his
lip, cocked his head. He took his time answering. `Yeah,' he agreed
quietly, `that's all true. I know Jesse Lingard really well, now you
mention it...' He felt a little tingle go up and down his spine. `What was
it you wanted to know...?'