Welcome to the North

A soap opera by Bard Boy [bard_boy(at)protonmail(dot)com]

Disclaimer:

This is a soap opera about a season in the life of an Under-13 youth team of a professional football side in a counterfactual modern Norse Greenland. It is, quite clearly, a work of fiction. Boys a bit like this have existed and still exist, but this story is not based on any real people.

If it’s illegal for you to be reading this because of factors such as your location or age, it isn’t my fault if old Tayyip, big Vlad, your mother, or any other disapproving party finds out. Your responsibility. Use it wisely.

This story is the property of the other. Do not repost it elsewhere without prior consent.

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Episode One


“Substitution for Grimcaster Town; replacing number twelve, Mark Brightcastle…?”

Whoooo?

“Number twenty-six, Karl Lockyer…?”

Whoooo? Who are ya?! Who are ya?!

“Aaand, substitution for Brumley Albion! Replacing number three, Adam Hancock!”

The crowd cheered and applauded. Adam applauded them above his head as he jogged off, lowering his arm only to hi-five Anders as he passed him on the touchline in front of the dugouts.

“Number twenty-nine, Aaaanders DAAAAHL!”

The crowd greeted their new man with rapturous applause and cheering. Anders jogged on determinedly, focus straight ahead. The stadium might only have been half full for this League Cup Second Round tie, but he was acutely aware that everyone back home in Herjolfsnes would be watching. Leifsbúðir too. There was no question he wanted to put in a good performance tonight.

“A change for both sides, and both introducing new signings,” said the commentator on the live broadcast. “Karl Lockyer has recently joined Grimcaster on a free transfer from non-league Penistone Academicals, previously playing his football in the Northern Premier League. He can play centre back, but it looks as if he’s slotting in at right back tonight. It’ll be interesting to see how he steps up his game against stronger opposition as the visitors from League Two look to cling on. Brumley bring on Anders Dahl, a Greenlandic wing back who can play on either side. He’s joined the home side on a loan deal with an option for permanent transfer, from the FK Viking club of Leifsbúðir in Vínland, and will be hoping to make an impact as Brumley look to make a push for promotion from the Championship this season.”

“He’s come on at left wing back,” offered a co-summariser with a Scottish accent. “It’ll be a fascinating battle between the young lad and Lockyer on the right for Grimcaster.”

Later, on the stretcher, Anders glided in and out of consciousness like he was propelled by longshore drift. For some reason there was a mask over his face. Paramedics wobbled above him, inflatables from car dealership frontages, arms waving in the breeze. He tried to move, but he couldn’t. The bits of his body he could feel stung with pins and needles.

Fékki Eg at spila?” he croaked, but realised he was speaking Greenlandic, and nobody would understand even if they could hear him.

There was banging. Anders could see the stadium floodlights, but there was a deadly hush all around. He could just about make out the sound of the crowd murmuring. He saw parked cars left and right. He was being lifted through a door.

“Did I get to play?” Anders tried again. The paramedic to his left stared down at him, wide-eyed. She nervously pushed her hair behind her ears.

“Yes, Mr Dahl,” she said. “You played well.”

 


 

Anders had the run of the sports hall at the B22 training ground for his first session with the boys. It was February after all. They could hardly be expected to begin their preseason outside. He’d arranged for them to do some cardio work; lots of running back and forth around the hall, jumping and climbing, stretches in between everything. After that, some light ball control, so it still felt like football training to them, and a small-sided training match, just to get an idea of what everyone could do.

We’re trusting you with this responsibility, the head coach had told him. We have some players of excellent potential in this age cohort. The coach wasn’t wrong. Anders was already impressed with some of what he saw in the training match. It was unpolished, for sure, but it was nonetheless promising.

Anders blew his whistle. “Okay, well done boys!” he called out. “Grab your drinks and everybody sit in a semicircle in front of me.”

The boys trotted away to collect drinks bottles, forming little pairs and groups to discuss aspects of the training match, or crack silly jokes. The air was thick with the smell of young boys in sports clothes, combined with a hint of sweat from lads just on their hormonal cusp.

“Everybody listening?” said Anders, looking at the sixteen boys sat on the floor before him. There were a couple of nods. Others took swigs from their drinks or wiped sweat from their faces. “Right. That was good, boys! I’m already impressed. I hope you enjoyed our first training session with me as your coach.”

Yes, Anders, replied some of the boys, robotically, still programmed to respond this way to an adult from their recent experience of primary school.

“Obviously this is just the beginning, and there’s still lots of work we have to do. You’re Under-13s this year, remember. What’s important about being at Under-13s?”

A little redheaded boy’s hand shot up. Stef, Anders thought – one of the full backs – but he was still trying to get his head around all the new names.

“Yes – is it Stef?”

“Yes, Anders,” he smiled. “Under-13s is eleven-a-side.”

“That’s right, Stef,” said Anders. “Well done. So, what’s different about that?”

Another boy put his hand up this time. A slight boy of more-or-less average height, with light brown hair and blue eyes. Anders couldn’t place the name.

“Sorry, you’re going to have to remind me of your name. I’m still learning.”

“It’s Jón,” the boy blushed.

“Go on, Jón,” encouraged Anders.

“Erm… playing eleven-a-side means we have to cover a bigger pitch and play longer, so we have to pay more attention to our fitness and keeping our tactical shape and stuff.”

“Excellent, Jón!” said Anders. “Well done!”

Jón smiled sheepishly. Anders could tell he was proud of himself. He wouldn’t forget Jón’s name again.

“So, we’ll be working hard before the season starts on making sure our fitness is up to scratch, and our tactical awareness is where it needs to be,” said Anders. “But also, playing Under-13s means you might come up against some big lads. You’re at an age where some of you might still be small, but others will have grown quite fast already. Don’t worry, those of you who are smaller will catch up eventually, but for now, you need to make sure to look out for each other as a team. Is that understood?”

There were lots of nods, as well as murmurs of yes, Anders, and yes, coach.

“Alright. Who is thirteen already? Hands up.”

Three boys raised their hands. One was a round-faced boy with brown hair, blue eyes, and freckles across his nose. Anders remembered him as Teitur, since he was the half-Canadian boy whose dad was called Joel. Teitur Jóelsson, in its Norsified form. He didn’t seem particularly big for being nearly a year older than some of the other boys, but he raised his arm straight and smiled proudly.

Another with his fat hand raised was a tall, stocky boy, with white-blond hair cropped short to his head, a nose that looked as if it had been broken more than once, and a silky blond moustache coming in. Anders wanted to say Barty; Bárður. The kid looked as thick as a brick and twice as hard. Maybe looking to the thirteen-year-olds for leadership wasn’t going to be the best plan.

The final boy with his hand up was a boy with floppy blond hair and olive skin; spindly fingers and almond-shaped brown eyes. He also wasn’t tall, but he looked athletic, and had bossed the midfield in the training match. Anders believed his name was Kristian. The boy must have an Asian or Inuit parent. Most likely Inuit, but Anders didn’t want to make racist assumptions. Perhaps here was a captain in the making.

“I’m going to be looking to you older boys to set the tone for everyone else. This will be a big season for all of us, so we need to be focused, determined, and mature. Does that sound right?”

Yes, Anders! They were a louder collective this time. Good stuff. There was definitely potential here, and they didn’t seem to be challenging kids. Anders allowed himself to consider that he may have fallen on his feet, but he quickly pushed the thought away. No room for complacency. One step at a time.

“Okay, boys. Well done again for today. I’ll see you again on Sunday and Tuesday for our next sessions. No training next Friday as we’ll have our preseason tournament next weekend. Enjoy this weekend until I see you next!”

Stef joined Kolbeinn and Teitur to collect their bags. They’d left them together against the nearside wall of the sports hall, closest to the door. Kolbeinn pulled his phone from the front pocket of his pale Hype schoolbag, covered in blue and purple splotches as if his pen had exploded in a very artistic manner.

“My mum’s outside,” he said. “Hopefully she’s still going to get us pizza on the way home.”

Teitur slapped Kolbeinn’s behind as he bent over the bags. “Move your ass, Kol,” he laughed. “We can’t go anywhere until I get to my bag!”

“Stop flirting, you two!” Stef smiled, then lowered his voice to mutter between the two boys’ heads: “Save it til we get back to Kol’s room!”

Kolbeinn grinned wickedly and motored his eyebrows. “Mum says we have to take a shower before we can start the sleepover, but I bet she doesn’t check whether we all go together!”

“Shh… back to the car!” giggled Teitur. “Before someone hears us!”

Kolbeinn’s mum was waiting in the car park in her beat-up Volvo estate, with all its blocky angles. She had dark hair and eyes, but ghostly pale skin, just like her son. The only difference was that Kolbeinn’s mum’s hair was long and flowing, while he wore his short and messy; a constant bedhead.

“How was training?” she asked, brightly, as Kolbeinn clambered into the front seat, Stef and Teitur in the back. “How was the new manager?”

“Fun,” said Kolbeinn. “And the new coach is nice.”

“That’s good,” said Kolbeinn’s mum. “He was very famous, you know.”

“Yeah, we know mum,” said Kolbeinn derisively, turning around to shake his head at the other two boys in the back seat. “It was only two seasons ago. We remember.”

“Alright, alright,” sighed Kolbeinn’s mum. “I’m just saying it’s nice that he’s down-to-earth.”

“Okay mum,” said Kolbeinn, fiddling with the radio dial. “Are we still getting pizza for me, Stef and Ty?”

“Yes,” replied Kolbeinn’s mum, slapping his hand away from the radio. “But I’m going to order it in rather than get it on the way home. I don’t want the three of you starting your little party until you’ve had a shower. You’re growing up now. You know the rules.”

“Fine, mum,” said Kolbeinn, putting on a heavy sigh, but grinning to himself internally.

 


 

“So, what do you think of the new coach, really?” said Teitur, yanking his still slightly damp football shirt over his head in the middle of Kolbeinn’s locked bathroom. Kolbeinn’s family were hardly rich, but he was an only child, and they lived in a well-to-do area of Brattahlíð. Stef’s dad always wrinkled his nose when he picked them up, calling it ‘Eiríksdrengur territory’ after the rival local team. What it meant was that Kolbeinn practically had his own little annexe, above the garage, with its own en suite bathroom. His mother only ever seemed to come in during the weekdays, when he was out at school, and then only to collect dirty towels, socks, and underpants.

“Didn’t he have his leg snapped like, totally in half?” said Kolbeinn, sat on the toilet grappling with his football socks with some difficulty. “I heard it was just hanging on by the skin.”

“That’s disgusting,” said Stef. “It wasn’t really like that. Some, like, shithouse bloke just two footed him through the middle of his shin and broke both the bones. I was watching it on TV.”

“Yeah, and what happens when you break both your leg bones?” said Kolbeinn, pulling successfully at his second sock, but sparing an arm to let it dangle limply at the elbow to make his point.

“That’s really harsh,” said Teitur, shimmying his shorts and boxers down together. “Imagine going to England only to get played in the cup on your first game and get permanently injured by some shit lower league team.”

“Yeah,” said Stef, also naked but for his socks, which he was sat on the floor, legs akimbo, trying to haul off. “It’s actually really sad. He must’ve been gutted. He could’ve been playing in the Premier League.”

“No he couldn’t,” said Kolbeinn, now stark naked on the toilet. “Brumley never got promoted.”

“You know what Stef means,” said Teitur, kicking his pile of football kit to a corner of the bathroom and absentmindedly fondling his balls. “He was in England. He might have got signed by a Premier League team.”

“I might need a shit before I get in the shower,” said Kolbeinn, grinning and plopping himself down on the toilet seat proper, having lifted the lid. He withdrew the skin on his willy and pointed the glistening purple head at the bowl, releasing a stream of urine and vocally straining to release his bowels.

“Euuurgh!” wailed Stef, laughing. “You’re fucking sick, Kol.”

Eeeewwww!” added Teitur, holding his nose and breaking into exaggerated Canadian English, making the other two boys giggle all the more. “Totally gross, eh!

Man’s gotta shit, yeah?” replied Kolbeinn, also in English but trying to sound like a London grime rapper, but for the thick Greenlandic accent. There was a heavy plop of something dropping into the toilet bowl, making the three boys squeal with inflated giggles again.

“Ugh, c’mon Stef; let’s get in the shower before we’re gassed out,” said Teitur, pushing the small, twelve-year-old redhead into the large shower cubicle by his bare shoulders. Stef turned the knob and the water beat down on them, cold at first, driving more shrieks.

“I’ll wash yours if you wash mine,” said Stef, trying to pull his willy from its hiding place, having been shocked into retreat by the freezing water. He was already acutely aware that it was a bit smaller than the other two boys’, without any added help from the elements.

“That sounds like a good deal,” grunted Teitur, in a low voice that he thought quite seductive, and pushed Stef from behind to manoeuvre them back under the water flow, now pleasantly warm. Stef felt slippery hardness in the small of his back; Teitur was excited and pushing him as much with his plump four-incher as with his hands on Stef’s shoulders. Stef sighed a sigh of satisfaction and reached for Kolbeinn’s Axe shower gel. He soaped up his hands and slipped them behind himself, one gripping Teitur’s cock in a tight jerking action, the other massaging the bigger boy’s balls. Teitur wrapped his arms around Stef and returned the favour, his dominant left thumb and forefinger finding Stef’s smaller, slimmer erection, the head hidden behind a long tail of foreskin that barely withdrew. Stef pushed his redhead back against Teitur’s cheek, lightly pecked with the hidden beginnings of teenage spots. They grunted in tandem.

Teitur leaned in to nuzzle the back of Stef’s head. As he turned his head slightly to the right, he saw the muffled outline of Kolbeinn through the foggy glass of the shower cubicle, one foot mounted on the toilet rim, bending deep to open his hole as he wiped himself clean. For a second, he wondered what Kol’s mum would think if she knew they showered and wanked and sucked together. Then he pushed the thought away. What did it matter? If she did know or suspect it, she hadn’t said anything. Don’t look a gift horse in the mouth. Especially when your right full back has your dick in his soapy hand and is bringing you quickly to the brink. He wondered if he’d squirt before the anchor man was done on the toilet, but he realised he didn’t care.

 


 

“Hey, Chigs,” said Stef, spotting the taller boy standing around outside the sports hall at the training ground. Stef raised his hand to wave but caught himself and ended up giving a little salute instead.

“Hey, Stef!”

“Did you come straight from school?”

It was a silly question, Stef realised, but an easy way to make conversation. Chigs was dressed in the black-blazered uniform of his Catholic boys’ school, as well as black woollen gloves, a black snood, and his woolly club hat. His schoolbag was in one hand, a large kit bag slung across his back. Stef always found it odd that Chigs had to wear a uniform. The way his black school trousers hung just above his ankle only served to emphasise the immense length of his legs.

“Yeah,” said Chigs. “My mum was at work, then had to take my little sisters to ballet. It was easier just to hang around school and do my homework, then come straight here on the bus.”

Chigs’ breath was visible as he spoke, shimmering in the light from the streetlamps in front of the hall, illuminated against the dark of the sky.

“Can we go in?” said Stef. “It’s nearly five, and it’s really fucking cold!”

“Yeah,” smiled Chigs. “I just didn’t want to be the first one in on my own.”

They headed for the changing room together. Chigs towered over Stef; head and shoulders taller. Neither seemed particularly bothered. They chatted idly, about school, and Fifa 20, and English football. Chigs followed Arsenal. Stef didn’t need to change; he’d come from home ready in his training kit. He just needed to take off his jacket and peel off his bottoms to reveal his football shorts. Still, it was better to sit and chat with Chigs and wait for others to arrive than to head into the hall by himself. Plus, there was the curiosity of seeing a much taller boy change his clothes. Stef found himself feeling half-disappointed that Chigs didn’t have to strip out of his baggy boxer shorts to get into his training kit.

“…and Lacazette is fucking filth, man. That goal he scored against Villa? Whoof… Hello? Stef, you there?”

Chigs waved his hand in front of Stef’s face. Stef started, and snapped his head up to meet Chigs’ gaze as quickly as he could. He felt his cheeks beginning to burn.

“You okay?”

“Yeah, sorry,” flustered Stef. “Just zoned out a bit.”

“Yeah, whatever,” grinned Chigs, and pulled his shirt over his head. Stef’s legs were warm jelly. Chigs had caught him staring at his abs!

 


 

Tuesday training had been underway for around ten minutes when Kristian turned up, sweaty and in the kit of his fancy international school’s handball team. Anders was less than impressed.

“Kristian, get changed, quickly,” he said, curtly, before returning his attention to the rest of the squad.

“Can’t I play like this?” Kristian whined.

“We’re not playing handball, Kristian. Go and get your football kit on. Now.”

Kolbeinn turned to whisper to Stef as Anders started to get back on with his explanation of the session. “Fucking rich prick.”

Chigs heard and turned and grinned. There was a ripple of sniggers throughout the squad.

“Something funny?” snapped Anders. “No? Can we get on with training, then?”

It was actually a very fun session. Anders explained the basics of how he wanted the boys to play, moving magnets around a tactics board and adding lines and arrows with a dry-wipe marker. Just as some of the boys were beginning to switch off, he showed some videos of teams playing a high-pressing 4-3-3 well. England beating Spain 3-2 in the 2018-19 UEFA Nations League. Liverpool beating Barcelona 4-0 in the Champions League semi-final, from the same year. B46 of Austerhavn spanking the B22 senior team 5-1 in last year’s Toppur Deildin. Then they were stood up in position, as if they were on the pitch. Anders had a ‘pitch’ area marked out with little cones. Eleven of them lined up in a 4-3-3, the five extras were directed by Anders to take up different opposing positions. He would put himself on the ball in an area and tell the team to adjust their positions to react to where he was and the other players had spread out to, offering gentle advice when things weren’t quite right. The eleven in shape and the five opponents rotated in and out. Sometimes Anders rolled the ball to the player closest to him and asked where they were going to put the ball to break away, based on the spread of players ahead of them. The boys took to it; things were looking positive.

To cap things off, Anders roped in the Under-12s, who were coming in for their training session halfway through his. He arranged them in different shapes up against his 4-3-3, so the players could see what it might be like 11 v 11. He moved the ball around different zones; asked both sets of players to react; rotated players in and out. The boys had never had a session anything like this before; it was almost a fun version of human chess rather than football. Even the Under-12s were loving it.

Ingi, a left-sided defender or defensive winger, and Oli, a half-American forward with strawberry-blond hair, were closest to Anders as he called time and the boys trudged off to drink and collect their things.

“Thanks, Anders!” chirped Oli. “I never had a session like that before. I feel like I understand the tactics, like, a hundred times better now!”

“Yeah,” added Ingi. “Hans never used to do anything like that with us.”

“Thanks, boys,” grinned Anders, internally buoyed. “I’m glad you liked it and found it useful. I was worried it would be boring!”

“Learning from a top professional could never be boring,” nodded Oli.

“Okay, lads. Go and get your things before you cause my head to pop. See you on Saturday for the tournament.”

“Bye, coach!” the boys sang in tandem.

Great. Something to make Anders feel positive and vindicated, before he had to deal with a negative.

“Kristian,” he called, spying the half-Inuit boy making a beeline for the changing room, “could you come and help me clear up these cones, please?”

Kristian huffed back over, his blond hair sticking to his head with accumulated sweat. He looked exhausted.

“Kristian,” said Anders softly, bending down alongside him to pick up the first of the cones, “I don’t mind you playing other sports; in fact, I think it’s great.”

“Okay…” said Kristian, sounding moody and uncertain.

“However, I can’t have you playing other sports on the same day and compromising your football, whether it’s training or a match.”

“Yes, coach,” sighed Kristian. There was clearly no point in arguing.

“I expect your football to come first. Especially as I was thinking of making you team captain this season.”

Kristian looked up, surprised. A smirk broke across his face. “Thanks, coach.”

“It won’t happen if I don’t think you’re committed,” said Anders, looking at Kristian sternly. “In fact, if I suspect that’s the case, you might not stay on the team at all.”

Kristian swallowed and furrowed his brow. He swiped up another cone and turned back to Anders again.

“Okay, coach. Football is my number one.”

“School is your number one,” chided Anders. “Football is your number one sport. Okay?”

“Okay,” grunted Kristian, his cheeks reddening from their usual deep olive. Maybe being coached by a recent professional wasn’t going to be so cool after all.

 


 

Kolbeinn sat bored on his bed. It was Friday night, and he’d wanted to have another sleepover with Stef and Ty and have a bit of fun after a long, dull week of school. But no, mum wouldn’t let him. You’ve got football tomorrow and you’ll all need an early night, mark my words. He’d been sent to bed at 21:30 and had spent the last half hour bumming around with just the reading lamp on, in case mum came in to check on him. Eventually, succumbing to boredom and temptation, he rolled his boxer shorts off, sitting naked on the bed. He pulled at the end of his dick; rolled the skin back to expose the fat, purple knob. He waved it around a bit and felt the thrill of the air touching a part of his body so used to being hidden under layers of fabric and skin. He pulled his pillow underneath him and humped it for a while, enjoying the sensations of the friction and the squashing of his little erection between his pubis and the firm squishiness of the pillow. Then he had a bright idea.

Teitur nearly jumped out of his skin when his phone started buzzing. It was gone ten, and he’d just got into bed. He’d be in big trouble if his parents thought he was playing with his phone. He saw the incoming facetime request and answered, flicking on his bedside lamp.

“Hey, Kol. What’s up?”

Kolbeinn was holding his phone camera to his face at an awkward angle, his topless chest and shoulders visible in the frame. Kolbeinn could see Teitur in return, sat up against his headboard in faded Bart Simpson pyjamas, flecks of brown hair sticking up where he’d been lain on it.

“Bored,” sighed Kolbeinn. “Mum sent me to bed at nine fucking thirty. On a Friday. What about you?”

“I just got into bed, too,” replied Teitur. “Looking forward to playing tomorrow.”

“I’m horny,” announced Kolbeinn, changing the subject breakneck fast. “Wanna wank off together?”

“Sure,” sniggered Teitur, under his breath. “How much you wanna see?”

“Take it all off,” said Kolbeinn. “I’m naked.” He panned the cam down to his erect dick, flexing it back and forth. A slim, pale member with a fat, purple head, balls beginning to plump out. Teitur felt himself growing in his pyjama bottoms too.

“Okay, give me a second,” he said. He placed the camera to one side of his bed, and Kolbeinn watched weirdly sideways on from beneath as Teitur threw his pyjama top over his head. “Still there?” Teitur grinned into the screen as Kolbeinn’s face was revealed, also grinning naughtily.

“Keep going,” he said, and returned the camera to his fist strangling his straining willy.

“This is the good bit,” breathed Teitur, holding the camera in place as he slipped out of his pyjama bottoms, awkwardly one handed, revealing a broadening ball sac and a slightly longer, girthier dick than his friend’s, garnished with a few downy blond and brown hairs around the base of his appendage and beginning to poke through the smooth, red skin of his scrotum. “You like that, don’t you?”

“Mmm…” responded Kolbeinn, pumping faster. Both boys’ phone screens were filled with the image of the other wanking furiously.

“Harder…” they encouraged each other, occasionally catching a glimpse of the other’s taut belly tightening, or the buttock-clenching lifting of their pelvises off the bed. Separated by a few kilometres across Brattahlíð, they jerked faster and faster, picking up each other’s rhythm. Eventually it was broken, first when Kolbeinn dribbled a few spots of clear cum all over his pelvic triangle, and then, soon after, when Teitur fired a couple of cloudy shots onto his bare belly, pooling in his innie.

“See you tomorrow then?” Teitur panted into the phone camera, showing his now reddened face again.

“Yeah,” panted Kolbeinn, revealing himself to be similarly flushed on his face and collar, the short sides of his hair dampened with sweat around his ears. “Laters.”




You can find a collection of my stories, some unpublished extras, and a full guide to Greenland-Vinland, its places, the club(s), and the players at my new anthology site here.