premiership-lads-110

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Subject: Premiership Lads part 110: 5-1 Part 110: 5-1 A hot bank holiday Monday on the training ground of Aston Villa. The club’s assistant manager strode over the shimmering grass, feeling the prickle of the sun on the back of his neck. He flashed an optimistic grin at his boss, Dean Smith, seeing the big chief taking over control of one of the sub-groups their squad had split into for the training. His own designated pack of players lay just ahead, warming up with a series of well-disciplined stretches, compression vests tight over their training shirts and a variety of determined expressions on their faces. John Terry barked out for their attention, calling time on the stretches and clapping assertively for the five players’ attention: four of the strongest players on the Villa roster, and one problematic lad grouped with them for some good influence. Terry eyed him up, pleased with the expression of calm work ethic on Danny Drinkwater’s face, considering he was only just returning to squad training after breaking into a needless fight before the lockdown closure: though he didn’t actually know what Drinkwater and Jota had fought over, he believed it was something trivial, and it was another worrying scandal for their Chelsea loan player. Everyone here knew that Drinkwater was on his last fragment of a chance here, and many already thought he should be cut loose and sent back to his disinterested London club; Terry felt a little more open-minded, knowing a thing or two about daft scandals getting in the way of your football. Those same scandals had more or less led him here, to this very role. He’d weathered a few storms in his own Chelsea days (perhaps another reason he had a soft spot for the big dumb Manc who couldn’t keep himself out of trouble), but eventually one too many `away’ games had pissed his long-suffering wife off too much. A move to the midlands to spend the twilight years of his career playing for Villa had been much cheaper than a bad divorce, and it had led seamlessly into his new coaching role, working his way to assistant manager. He felt like a changed man without the many, erm, distractions of London life: he was really making progress with his coaching badges and his position as a manager, spending much more time being a family man, completely avoiding the string of badly-chosen affairs that had burned him in the past. He was sure he was still almost as known for fucking Wayne Bridges’ missus as he was for being an unbeatable centre-back. And those were just the affairs that got exposed… He gritted his teeth at thought, watching the men around him get to work, silky passes of the ball that he could pretend to be studying critically while he really took a moment to touch that awkward memory. His wife had been sure he was fucking another WAG, again, when things started to fall apart at Chelsea — jesus, if she’d known the truth! He never heard a thing from Eden Hazard nowadays, a silence he’d worked hard to keep at first, and a conceited part of him wondered if the Belgian’s move to Spain was in some way connected… though of course, it had been a couple of seasons later that Hazard finally quit Chelsea. He shouted more impatient instructions to the lads in front of him, positioning some cones for dribbling, shouting a little rudely at the younger junior coach who had sidled up to help him out. He’d walked onto the training ground in high spirits, ready for this afternoon’s latest group training session and confident in the plan he and Smith had been piecing together — now he just felt oddly stirred that he was wasting any time digging up THOSE memories. What had happened with Hazard had been madness, nothing more. On-off madness… admittedly, over the course of five years. Before that, he’d never before given a bloke a second look, and not since. He’d always chased women, had gotten through several fairly extended extra-marital relationships even within those five years, and still… It bothered him when these thoughts drifted up out of nowhere, after weeks or months of comfortably forgetting that cheeky-faced little player and what had developed between them. Hazard had perhaps been a wake-up call, he reasoned bitterly. When you find yourself so cock-driven and desperate for hole that you fuck a guy, surely you’ve gone too far…? In his final season at Chelsea, even before things had got fractious with his wife Toni, he’d began to really look at his behaviour, even started seeing a therapist. The phrase `sex addict’ had been bandied about in their sessions and his worried thoughts, an alarming new idea to the confident 39-year-old. So here he was: the stern and responsible assistant manager trying to keep a newly promoted Birmingham club in the Premiership league by day, and enjoying safe, comfortable, boring fucks with one woman by night. Welcome to middle-age, he thought sourly, then chided himself for this gloomy perspective. He slapped himself about the jowls to snap out of it, getting his head back in the game, bursting into a stress-relieving tirade as he saw Jack Grealish fumble a terrible one-to-one with another of the guys… A hot bank holiday Monday on the training ground of Aston Villa. Grealish was loving being back on a pitch and surrounded by his team, but not just because it was the thing he loved most in the world: the final few weeks of lockdown had gone incredibly slowly. He’d felt under pressure to keep a low profile and redeem his early slip on the rules, berated by friends, family and colleagues for weeks after that drunken transgression. It had leant a penitent atmosphere to his lonely weeks at his flat, eventually exchanged for joining his big family in the Birmingham mansion he’d bought them; this had brought some distractions, yes, but also the interfering and mithering that he’d initially tried to avoid. His dad trying to give him career advice and his mother stressing that he wasn’t engaged yet to some beautiful Catholic girl. Weeks of pestering, repetition and lingering guilt, and top of everything else… no chance of seeing Ben. Jack had never felt so conflicted as he did about his friendship with Chilwell. When he thought about what had actually gone on, his drunken journey into Leicestershire, his pathetic action towards Chilly, the way they had… Well, it didn’t bear thinking about. He felt a little bit sick when he considered himself in the third person. And yet the two of them spoke for at least half an hour on the phone every day since. Long, intimate conversations that danced around ever confronting what had happened between them, but slowly building an infuriating dependence: the only thing Jack Grealish wanted more than a return of the Premier League was an opportunity to hang out with his treasured buddy. He was aware of the contradiction in his own thoughts — the unswerving craving to see and be around this other young footballer, and the grim nausea that prodded him when he considered anything that he’d indulged in with the Leicester star — and it was making him rash and clumsy. He was turning over last night’s chat with Chilwell when he tried to take the pass from his lofty teammate Mings, stumbling as he went for it and falling straight past the ball and into a cone. He hit the ground and tumbled, ready to laugh it off and turn the bad manoeuvre into a jokey performance for the lads around him, but he stared up into red-faced fury from their erratic but much-respected assistant manager, JT. Terry was fuming at him, demanding to know what the hell he’d been drinking at lunch time; the Villa captain gave a frown of apology and reached out for Ty’s helpful hand up, glad his scruffy lockdown beard hid some of his awkward blush. A hot bank holiday Monday on the training ground of Aston Villa. Blinking in the fierce mid-afternoon sun, Tyrone Mings shoved out a large paw to help out his untypically clumsy teammate and captain. He flinched a little at the unnecessary rant from Terry, seeing the flash of boyish panic in Jack’s eyes as he was dragged upright. He tried to mitigate the awkwardness with a throaty laugh and clapped a hand to Jack’s shoulder. `You oaf,’ he teased, `get your head in the game, skip!’ Training resumed for the group of five players, old John Terry frowning very severely as he outlined the next drill to them. Large hands on his slim hips, the 6ft4 defender watched his heroic assistant manager, a defender he had so much fucking respect for, and wondered what had bitten him to ruin his mood. Terry had been all jokes and positivity over the distanced group lunch and as the tasks for the afternoon were explained by Smith — now he looked ready to pick a fight over anything, tense and red-faced as he circled their exercise in the same training shirt and shorts as them. Mings shrugged the thought of, deciding that 1) it was none of his business and 2) JT was so reserved and uncommunicative off the pitch that he’d probably never know. The legendary centre-back, his idol at one point early in his career, had such a reputation as a gregarious bloke and the life and soul of any party; the muttered private opinion in the Villa squad was that this must be bullshit, because their club had inherited a very withdrawn and serious figure, a bit frightening with his erratic shifts of mood and attitude. Well, we’re all a bit weird and complicated, he reminded himself, with a guilty look towards Grealish, loping into a run to follow him and the others at Terry’s instruction. It was good seeing captain Jack again, after so many weeks apart, but it was also faintly troubling being grouped with him and those other two — taking him vaguely back to that `initiation’, and the fraught relationship he’d shared with Grealish since. The incident after the Cup Final had made quite a mark on him, and made him admire and like Grealish more than ever, but it had also made him… what was the right word? Curious? During lockdown, it had been easier to forget about: head down, work hard, prioritise fitness, prioritise family, banter over webcam, etc. etc. etc. But back here, sweating in the sun, Jack’s stupidly small shorts, JT’s aggression reminding him of that bully Kyle Walker… the truth was that a horrible bit of Tyrone was just so fascinated by what they’d been involved in, fascinated by the fluidity of a guy’s sexual activity… He was struggling to accept it, but he’d thought a lot about how good those blowjobs were, from Jack at Wembley, and months back, from John McGinn… A hot bank holiday Monday on the training ground of Aston Villa. So much to focus on, under Terry’s severe instruction, and so much excitement in the air with a Premiership restart date expected to be announced very soon… So why was the main thing occupying John McGinn’s mind the peachy round backside bouncing in front of him, as captain Jack Grealish led them on a rapid lap of the training ground, bypassing other groups of Villa players and assigned coaches, and sweeping back around towards where Terry waited impatiently, arms folded and face weirdly scowling. What was his problem? The Scotch midfielder pulled his eyes off Jack’s undersized playing shorts and flopping blond-tipped mane of hair. The general Villa consensus had been open mockery of their captain’s look, fond teasing of his shaggy mousy beard and the length his floppy style had stretched to behind its alice band; McGinn had fought the instinct to strenuously defend it, admiring the rugged and wolfish handsomeness of the local lad. The run was over and Jack was turning around, hopping keenly up to the assistant manager, perhaps still trying to make up for his earlier clumsiness. McGinn was relieved to be denied his view of Jack’s backside: two pert grapefruits held together in almost skin-tight dark blue shorts (John preferred seeing it in white, where the curves and underwear-line were even more obvious) that he just couldn’t stop consuming with his eyes. However, his relief was always short-lived, since Jack’s swinging stretches to warm up for their next training drill meant the full bulge of his shorts bounced and settled between his thick hairy thighs, and that was a view even more irresistible to McGinn. Training with Jack this week had been a little difficult for the midfielder. What had he expected, really…? He wasn’t a lovesick puppy, he wasn’t completely naïve. But when your close mate and football captain pulls you into a toilet cubicle and fucks you dominantly on the last training date for months, you’re not mad to expect maybe a conversation about it… From a distance, under lockdown rules, the silence had made sense to John. They both needed to think, they needed space, it was a lot to process. But now they were back here on the training ground, seeing a lot of each other day after day, and still Grealish hardly acknowledged him, never mind pulled him aside for a deep and meaningful chat about what had happened. What HAD really happened? Matt Targett hopped to it, a little confused by Terry’s impatience and unusually vague instructions, but keen to work on his defensive instincts and pair up with lanky Mings. The two of them were heading in front of the goalposts, with Terry himself pitching in, 3 on 3 as the skilled midfielders set out to get a ball past them at close quarters. The 24-year-old defender found himself staring curiously between Grealish and McGinn as the two fellow footballers bounced the ball between them and tried to bedazzle the defensive threesome with their ball skills. Targett, who had only joined the club back at the start of this season from Southampton, had quickly grown to like this cheeky pair more than anyone else here — their humour, their back-and-forth, their keenness to bring newbies into the fold and get the whole team socialising… There was a lot to admire about Grealish’s passion and captaining skills, and nobody could make the lads laugh more than the grinning Scotsman who never seemed to leave his side. Though there was still some question of whether Villa could remain in the Prem, Matt was enjoying himself here, and definitely Jack and John were a big part of that, two guys he loved training and playing with, respected and admired, and then… Even now, Targett wasn’t sure what he’d seen and heard. It had been the last day of training, when things were already going strange and the country was grinding to a panicked halt. He’d been slow that day, distracted by some evaluation meeting with old Dean Smith, lingering about the changing rooms long after he’d planned to… The rooms had seemed empty when he got there, of course, but then he’d seen scraps of kit lying around, heard the grunts and rattles. He’d approached the row of toilets in a kind of nervous terror, and when he heard the voices and saw the flash of booted feet below the door, well… He had fled. As quietly as he could, he’d exited the training centre and driven the fuck home, and showered there in anxious isolation. He stared at them now, watching them recover from an over-ambitious attempt to volley the ball in; McGinn looking with wide-eyed disappointment at the heroic captain, who was rubbing at his shaggy hair and groaning disappointedly. They were joined then by Drinkwater, dashing between them and slapping them both on the back before taking control of the ball, ready to get another movement going. A hot bank holiday Monday on the training ground of Aston Villa. Ahead of him, John Terry bounced from foot to foot and seemed to commit himself as much to the action as either young defender at his side, either leading by example or secretly missing his playing days now he was a bigshot coach. Targett and Mings actually looked a bit wiped out by the rest of the session, a lazy slur to their movements and a good sheen of sweat on their focused faces. Danny sped forward and tapped the ball to his left, straight into the nimble feet of McGinn, then burst forward with some force, putting himself in a strong position just behind Terry; tired out and losing their cool, the other two defenders had separated somewhat and a clear path ran from Danny’s strong legs to the goalposts. McGinn, obviously, passed to Grealish, but captain Jack saw the opportunity, and tapped it over; Danny rested it for a second beneath his foot, centring himself, then booted it hard into the sliver of opportunity. It crashed against the back of the net and he whooped with celebration as if they were back in the Cup Final, not in a bank holiday training session with no idea when their next match was. Danny gratefully accepted the little cheers and pats from McGinn and Grealish, and the loyal claps from Mings and Targett, but looked earnestly towards their coach for some more formal approval. John Terry wasn’t even looking his way though, he’d jogged aside and took his phone out — perhaps he was consulting some important strategy notes, but it kinda looked like he was just scanning his messages. Drinkwater sighed disappointedly and rested for a moment with his hands on his clammy thighs, annoyed that his little moment of talent wasn’t getting more recognition from the assistant manager. Terry was the key, he knew it. The 30-year-old midfielder could feel mersin escort his chances at Villa slipping away — his loan deal would expire at the end of June and no matter when the Premiership eventually got going again, his window of opportunity was narrow to impress, earn an extension or permanent deal, achieve his agreed bonus for `significant contribution’. He’d hardly attracted much praise earlier in the season and his little bust-up with Jota was fresh in everyone’s memories. If Danny wasn’t careful, he’d be sent back to Chelsea with his tail between his legs — and it wasn’t that he wouldn’t fucking love to be at Chelsea properly, be one of Frank’s lads, but he knew there was no place for him there. There just wasn’t room in the squad. He’d languish on a reserve team until another loan opportunity came up, and that was if he was lucky. So John Terry was the key — for one thing, because of the Chelsea connection, and for another, because everybody knew what a controversial career the defender-turned-coach had experienced. If anyone could overlook his blow-ups and his police trouble, it was JT, surely — and the older bloke did seem to make time for him, or had done in the past. Today, he was moody and on edge, by the look of it, but still… Drinkwater resolved that after the session ended, he was going to try and speak to him about it: if Terry could just put in a good word for him with Smith, get him on the starting line-up for that comeback game, then maybe, just maybe… Mings lofted the stacks of cones and other training props in his long arms, all lean dark muscle and glossy sweat, hoisting them into the supplies cupboard at the corner of the training complex. He grunted with mild effort at a heavy sack of balls and dragged that into the shady cupboard space, clapping dust from his large palms as he stepped back out into the sunshine. `Mate,’ exclaimed Targett, jogging unexpectedly towards him. Tyrone had assumed all the other lads were indoors and showering by now, since it was his and Drinkwater’s turn to tidy up, and there was no sign of Danny here. He eyed up the approaching player with a curious smile, unsure of the rather worried expression on his big honest face. `Mate,’ repeated the 6ft fellow defender, slowing down at his side, `have you got a minute?’ Tyrone gave a playful huff of uncertainty, making a show of looking at his casio, then grinned. `What’s up, Matty?’ he asked patiently. `You finally gonna admit that I’m the bedrock of this entire team’s defence, or what…?’ He punched him playfully in the shoulder, then paused, seeing the edge of anxiety on his face, the nervous twitching of his knuckles. `Huh, yeh,’ Matt said dismissively, but hurried on. `Look, mate, this is gonna sound weird, but there’s just summat I need to talk about, alright…?’ Ty looked him up and down but nodded and folded his arms, gesturing his readiness to listen. `What is it, pal?’ he asked. `Relax, buddy, no need to look so nervous talkin’ to old me, eh! What’s got you thinking? I can see how much it’s hurting your brain…’ `Aw mate, it’s so awkward,’ Targett rambled. Mings gave him a slightly impatient smile, trying to convey without saying it that it would be even more `awkward’ if he didn’t just spit it out. `It’s something I overheard before training stopped, you know. Back in March, right.’ Targett scratched his thin stubble and pressed his hands to his hips. `You’re gonna take the piss out of me, big man. You’re gonna really laugh when I tell you this.’ Mings stared levelly at him, unsure where this was going. `Try me.’ `I swear I overheard skipper and John-boy in the loos,’ Targett said in a nervous rush, `like… making noises, and that, and-` He stopped, struggling to piece it together and then looking really closely up at him, mouth opening and shutting a few times. He seemed to study Tyrone’s slow, thoughtful reaction, waiting for… `You ain’t laughing,’ Targett said suspiciously. `Mate…?’ `That was pretty good, wasn’t it? That shot, I mean, towards the end. Like, I know it was just a kickabout, but I really had a good reading of everyone’s positions, and — you know when you just see those moments, like, and can visualise it going in, so you-` He padded along after John Terry in the quiet corridor, faint voices and laughter echoing along after them. He’d broken away from the other guys on the way into the showers, spotting a chance to weasel in and make conversation with the other ex-Chelsea player. His shirt was draped about his shoulders and he was bare to the waist, boots hanging from the fingers of one hand and the other rubbing worriedly back and forth over his short dark crop of hair, slowly returning after a charity shave last month. John turned and gave him an odd look, a mixture of impatience and indulgence. `Yes, I did see,’ the assistant manager pointed out in his usual blunter manner, `so why are you here telling me this and not getting cleaned up with everyone else?’ Danny sniffed idly and scratched his chin. `Well, just saying, is all,’ he responded slowly and clumsily. `Look, boss, it’s just- Well, you know I’m not exactly golden boy around here, or…’ He sighed. `For that matter, anywhere. Terry, mate, I just thought…’ `Dean will pick who he picks, Dan, when things get going,’ John told him in a slow and not unsympathetic voice. He turned from his task of checking through the trays of equipment that would need to be disinfected before tomorrow’s training, and his stern expression of the last hour seemed to fade and soften. His eyes flicked for a second up and down and he let out a dismissive sort of chuckle. `At least it looks like you’ve been keeping yourself, er, in great shape, these last couple of months, kid…’ For a moment, Danny felt deflated, both at how transparent his arse-licking attempt to get Terry’s support clearly was, and also at the patronising sympathy (`kid’! he was 30 for fuck’s sake) that spelled obvious defeat. It occurred to him that the likely reason JT wasn’t paying much attention to his strenuous training ground efforts was that his card was already marked: troublemaker, bad deal, not worth it. But then, as Terry went on to make a couple of innocuous comments about how he wished some of the other players had worked out as assiduously as Drinkwater, a different thought flashed through his mind. There was just something about the way the older bloke had looked at him then — not entirely the look of professional assessment or acknowledgment, but something else, maybe? Danny second-guessed himself and dismissed this idea, remembering the way he’d tried to ease captain Jack into championing him, the price he’d paid for THAT support… Terry, in the middle of ticking something on a clipboard, gave him a more thoughtful look — again, there was a tantalising sympathy and understanding there, enough to give the younger man a faint sense that something here might be helpful to him… `What was the scrap even about?’ the coach asked sharply, narrowing his eyes a little. `Why the fuck did you headbutt another player after training…? I missed the incident myself, you see…’ Danny scowled a little, defensively, and pulled on the rolled up footy shirt that hung about his shoulders, tensing his arms a little as he did. Again, just for a second, he saw Terry’s gaze dip, take in the ripped musculature of his torso, hard-won by long days training in the garden gym. `It’s daft,’ he said vaguely. `You wouldn’t wanna know.’ Terry half-smiled. `Go on. Tell me, mate.’ `Ah, it’s just — well, it’s daft, really, but…’ He moved a step closer, noting Terry’s brief gulp and his beady eyes swivelling up to meet his. `It’s Jota, he says some real homophobic shit on the pitch sometimes, that’s all. And I know some guys are okay with that, but not me.’ `Oh.’ Terry seemed really surprised — and just a little bit uncomfortable. `You know how it is, some of these European guys — different cultures. Less accepting.’ Danny shrugged his broad bare shoulders and rolled his thick neck a little. He took another step forward, edging closer to John in the quiet corner passage, moving away from the dim noise of the other Villa lads coming and going. `Thing about me, boss,’ Danny said in a slow meaningful voice, `is I’m just an open-minded kinda guy, you know? I don’t judge or talk shit about what people choose to get up to in their own time.’ What the fuck was he playing at? He could hear the loaded, almost flirty, tone of his own voice, feel the way he gentle leant forward and tensed his abs a bit, the way he was pulling on his own sweaty shirt to enhance the bulge of his biceps. He was only a step away from the assistant manager now, who stood stiffly with an odd look on his face and the clipboard swaying a little in his loose fingers. His eyes darted from Danny’s intense expression to the bold rise of his pecs. What the fuck, he asked himself again — this is John Terry, ultimate womaniser, probably the most hetero fucker to move through the ranks of Chelsea, and… `Open-minded is good,’ Terry said in a slightly choky voice, not quite the neutral agreement of an LGBT ally. There was a shiftiness around the eyes and a little scowl to his thin lips. His knuckles whitened, gripping the clipboard. Danny stared at him, weighing up the risk of this. What if he was totally misreading the signals? What if there were no signals whatsoever? But the truth was: he’d sucked dick to secure Grealish as an ally, and now… if it came to it, was he ready to do it again? He let out a long sweaty breath, dropped one hand down his side, and very slowly and deliberately took hold of the bulging front of his shorts, eye to eye with John Terry. Jack stomped his way down the empty meeting room, swinging his loose shirt from one hand and using the other to pull his blonde-highlighted fringe of overgrown hair out of his eyes. He was thinking quickly, weighing up tactics and clichés and excuses. He let go of his damp hair and rubbed his forehead wearily, sick of this conversation before it had begun; he just wanted to get in his car and fuck off out of here, he just needed to… speak to Ben. `I’m just confused,’ John McGinn said, standing a little way from him, arms folded and an almost sulky frown on his rounded face. He was staring earnestly at Jack and gripping the side of the conference table behind him, an almost fight-or-flight tension over him. He’d looked shit-scared as he summoned Jack away form the changing rooms and explained that they needed to talk, alone. Jack had been half-expecting this dialogue since before training even resumed. `Mate, I told you then, it were just a bit of a laugh,’ the Villa captain said quickly and quietly. `I told you that, mate. I didn’t make no promises or say- Look, John, buddy, I do love you as a friend so much, it’s just…’ `It’s just that you’re straight,’ McGinn spat, and his nervous hero worship suddenly sounded full of resentment and annoyance, his Scottish accent raspy and harsh. `Well, me too, for fuck’s sake, I don’t go chasing after boys, you know — just… just… just YOU.’ He moved back, sitting a little against the table now, his shorts pulling tighter over his thighs and crotch. He still had his top on but it had been so hot outside that it was damp and clingy over his toned young body. `John, pal,’ Jack said in droning Brummie, crossing the room towards him, but keeping a safe metre or so away, holding his hands up peacefully, `you’re right that we need to talk, but please don’t make this… look, man, it’s just…’ `You started it,’ McGinn said. `You started what happened that day, Jack.’ He nodded fairly, moving just a tiny bit closer, wanting to hug his friend but aware that would hardly improve this new awkwardness they were facing. `I know I did, pal — but I was in a weird mood that day and…’ `You were pretty fucking nasty to me, actually-` `Yeah well, you fuckin’ liked it, didn’t you?’ Jack snapped back. He couldn’t help himself. It wasn’t John’s fault; he’d been rehearsing the confrontation in his head for over two months! He saw the mixed emotions on his mate’s face, both of them short and wiry footballers in the quiet seclusion of this downstairs meeting room, where the afternoon had begun with a team talk from the manager. Jack was thinking back to that last confrontation, in the changing rooms, and then the toilets, and… Yeh, he HAD initiated it, and he HAD been nasty, really fucking nasty, but… `Look,’ John said, rising up to his feet and bringing their bodies subtly closer, `all I want is some kinda… I dunno… I wanna –` He seemed to gather his courage, really stepping up to his captain, an inch taller than Jack but no stockier or heavier. `I wanna know if anything mad like that is ever gonna happen again, that’s all…!’ Their faces were inches apart, chests rising and falling, the ripe smell of their sweaty kits filling the air around them. John’s paler Glaswegian complexion had reddened and he was biting into his lip so hard it might draw blood. Jack flared his nostrils over and over, feeling his sweat-slicked hair falling into his brow and tickling at the bridge of his nose. Overcome with a sudden sense of the heat that lingered between them, he slapped up a hand and grabbed the side of John’s neck intensely. `It can’t,’ he said seriously, `it’s too confusing, I ain’t-` John’s hand grabbed his bare side, squeezing at the tight muscle. `But…’ The door burst open then, and John sprang back to break the intimate pose, but was pinned in place by the heavy meeting table, so his arse slid back on it and his legs parted a little; one hand remained clinging to Jack’s six pack to steady himself while the other hand slid back over the laminated wood. Both of them stared in shock as the door pushed further open and two figures lumbered rapidly in… `I’m telling you, there is NOTHING going on between Jack fucking Grealish and J-` It was big Tyrone Mings, still in full training kit, marching into the presumed empty room, waving wildly with both hands, a serious frown on his face. He stopped as soon as he saw them, hands mid-gesture, eyes opening wide. Behind him stumbled the younger defender, Matt Targett, grabbing at the sleeve of his training shirt, then seeing them beyond his target, stopping in his tracks. Jack’s brain played Ty’s odd comment in slow-mo and he saw the suspicious horror on Targett’s face. He stepped back suddenly from John, coming to his senses in a way he couldn’t immediately, feeling John’s sweaty fingers slide from his adonis belt. He opened his mouth to speak then stopped, eyes flicking from Targett to Mings to Targett… `What the fuck?’ Matt burst out immediately. `I knew it…!’ Next to him, Ty, who’d clearly been in the middle of denying whatever their teammate suspected, looked embarrassed and gutted and angry all at once. Jack forced a grin onto his face and burst out laughing in their faces, then turned back to John for a second to encourage him to join in… `Haha, what’s up?’ Grealish said in a loud, strained voice. `McGinny and I were just…’ `What the fuck?’ Matt asked again, and he waved one hand wildly past them towards the table. `He’s as hard as a rock in his fucking shorts, the perv…’ Jack paused again at this and turned properly, looking at McGinn sprawled anxiously back against the table — he hadn’t realised this before, though it couldn’t have happened in the last ten seconds, so… the dark shorts were rustled and stretched against an obvious excitement in the front, the outline of John’s slender boner. Targett was stomping the few metres up to them, followed by a still overwhelmed looking Tyrone. Jack just gawped from a terrified John to an outraged Matt and, lastly, to the apologetic panic of big Ty, coming to a halt right beside him. And then, just as Jack’s quick mind sought out the funniest and most convincing explanation for everything, the same door pushed open again, and all four men turned sharply to look that way — in strolled a shirtless, almost swaggering, Danny Drinkwater, scratching beads of sweat from his smooth pecs and leering in an odd fashion. Then, behind him, furtive and frowning, their coach John Terry, pushing the meeting room door firmly shut behind him and clicking a lock. He stopped in the middle of this task, staring across the room at the gathering he’d interrupted. Well, thought Grealish, the whole group is reunited… Targett, looking more exasperated than anyone else in the room, waved one hand dramatically at John, who was scrabbling off the table and holding both hands over the crotch of his shorts, and turned earnestly to the Villa coach. `Terry, mate,’ he barked, `this guy’s got a fucking boner over our captain… I dunno what the fuck’s going on here, but…’ Terry, Jack thought, recovered quickly from his surprise, striding forward towards them, straight past Danny. He rolled his shoulders and swung his arms a little, an imposing 6ft figure as always. He paused halfway toward them, a strange grin on his face. `This true, McGinn?’ he asked in a shockingly jovial tone, hands dropping to his hips. His grin turned from mortified McGinn to Jack and Ty and then escort mersin back to Danny, who’d come in with him — the question of what the hell Terry and Drinkwater were even up to hit Jack like a bullet. `Oh, McGinn,’ Danny put in suddenly in a playful voice, `you silly muppet. What’s got you excited this time?’ The black sheep loanee was grinning wickedly, hovering at Terry’s side and drifting forward a few steps. `Was it Captain Jack again…?’ Grealish blushed furiously, annoyed at Drinkwater’s comment and then confused by its openness. He felt a surge of protective worry for the mate he’d been so angry at a few minutes ago, and he stepped back closer to the 25-year-old Glaswegian, grabbing his arm. `We were just having a private conversation,’ he snapped, looking fiercely from man to man. `I dunno what the rest of you fuckers are doing in here, but McGinn and I-` `What, so you were gonna keep him to yourself, were you?’ demanded JT. His voice was loud and authoritative and its leering tone registered slowly with the footballers in the room, one by one. Terry took another two steps forward, tall and aggressive in his posture. That same severity and bossiness that the lads all recognised was there, but something else — the sorta wildness and hedonism they’d all heard rumours of in the past. Jack blinked confusedly at him then looked at McGinn beside him, beetroot in the cheek. `What?’ exclaimed Targett suddenly, bewildered by their coach’s strange comment. Everybody looked confused, but the South Coast defender looked utterly baffled. He glared at McGinn and then at Grealish, his blue eyes full of accusation. `What the hell is going on here, lads? Are you two a pair of…?’ Grealish grimaced and McGinn trembled, but the pause was broken by Terry’s voice again, brash and also mocking. `Don’t think there’s any need for fucking labels, is there?’ the Londoner called, suddenly grabbing and squeezing Targett by the shoulder in a dismissive dominant gesture. He pulled Matt along beside him as he approached the two 24-year-olds at the table. Danny drifted over to join Mings next to them, folding his sturdy arms and still smirking with a sense that he understood the situation just a little more than everyone else did. `I don’t get this,’ Mings burst out in his deep voice, standing taller than the others. `I don’t get what’s going on…’ There was a hint of denial in his voice and in his expression, an understandable desire to distance himself from it all immediately; Jack glanced sympathetically at him but also resented it, knowing the moments they’d shared together. `What’s going on,’ John Terry announced in an almost snarling chuckle, `is that Glasgow here is gonna get on his knees right now, huh? That’s okay, innit, McGinn…? That’s what was gonna happen in here before we all showed up, nah…?’ Jack stared at him, unable to tell if the 39-year-old retired centre-back was just taking the piss, turning nasty bully, but… no, he could see Terry’s hand slipping down and grasping the front of his own shorts. He was taking another step forward as if pulled along by that really prominent bulge. Jack blinked in a daze and looked at his pal John’s quivering red face — almost on autopilot, the Scottish 25-year-old was sinking forward and down, his bare knees brushing the rough grey carpet of the training complex’s meeting room, his mouth hanging open a little. `McGinn, you don’t have to do anything,’ Jack said, and then realised that actually he didn’t say anything, he was struck dumb with shock. He’d barely mouthed it. He looked at his kneeling friend, trying to read the situation, but… well, all he saw there was the same almost hypnotised lust that he’d recognised all too well when he and John were last alone, when he’d… dominated him entirely. At once he felt guilty and incredibly turned on. `Take my shorts down then,’ Terry instructed, still brash and loud, `and get to work, McGinn.’ Jack watched as one John reached tremblingly out to grab the glossy shorts of the other, bigger John; behind this tableau, Targett looked infuriated. To Jack’s right, Ty and Danny seemed to pull in closer, as if craning their heads round to watch; Danny, in fact, was fondling the front of his own baggy shorts, a lewd grin on his pouting lips. Ty looked fascinated but still afraid. Grealish felt a little pang of excitement in his tight shorts, his heart going crazy in his barrel chest. `Terry, what the fuck?’ asked Targett dumbly, as the coach’s shorts were dragged down his legs, exposing the tight white boxer briefs beneath, a fat hanging bulge at the front. McGinn breathed deeply as he reached up for those and pulled on the fabric. Targett looked ready to back off and flee the room but Terry’s arm was wrapped about his shoulders and he held him in place, letting out a low sleazy chuckle. Grealish stared at the well-hung old bloke and his complacent smirk, realising how quickly Terry had sized up the room, taken control of the situation, imposed his authority… `Go on, John lad,’ Danny Drinkwater muttered encouragingly. His voice was full of odd enthusiasm and nervous edge; Grealish stared across at him and thought about the way the 30-year-old bloke had swaggered in ahead of their boss, top off and six-pack glistening… if he didn’t know better, it sounded like Danny was just glad McGinn was taking over a duty that might have been his… And now John Terry’s cock was out, and Jack couldn’t help but stare, seeing the thick veiny semi flopping into McGinn’s face, where he leant in and licked it. Targett gasped loudly but nobody else reacted very strongly, including Terry, who just chuckled and ruffled McGinn’s short dark hair with his free hand. `Hey,’ he barked suddenly, `you’ve got two hands as well… I think Matty T here needs a bit of help relaxing…’ On his knees, John McGinn nosed and licked hesitantly at the flopping weight of JT’s prick, reaching his left hand to stroke the front of Targett’s shorts (`What the fuck…?’), then reached his right hand for Drinkwater’s package, the Manc lad stepping quickly in next to the coach. Jack and Tyrone watched on, then glanced sharply at each other, and silently agreed: if you can’t beat them, join them. Grealish stepped in close to his kneeling friend, resting a supportive hand on the back of his neck, and gently gripping his own bulge with the other. He glared cautiously into the muddle of blokes and met Terry’s gaze, seeing the wicked pleasure there. The men’s breaths were quick and ragged and their mingled sweaty scent was powerful. Targett, the one most likely to break this circle, rested awkwardly at the coach’s side, loosely pinned by his arm, just staring down between them all where McGinn’s hand fondled and cupped at his fat package. `Is this for real?’ the 24-year-old lad asked and, despite his incredulity, he kinda spoke for them all. `The door’s locked, this is just a meeting,’ Terry announced. `Right, lads?’ There was a mumbled echo of `right’, including from McGinn, who then ran his tongue down the heavy length of the coach’s cock, and took its tip in between his lips. Finally, the assistant manager acknowledged the furtive blowjob, and let out a low, raspy groan, rolling his head back, then laughing again. `Oh yes, that feels GOOD…’ From there, things spiralled rapidly. It all seemed to happen in a bit of a blur for Grealish, who felt hot and uncomfortable in the pressure of it all. It took him a moment to notice Mings was stroking his neck a little, and then a moment more to feel the hand on his bulge — not Tyrone there, but McGinn, who had let go of Danny. Too much to keep track of! Too confusing. Grealish let out a purring groan of his own and closed his eyes, standing shakily as his neck and shoulder were massaged, and his mate’s hand fished up the tight shorts leg to pull at his briefs aimlessly. His cock twitched and swelled. He felt Ty’s hand on his shoulder swapped for his mouth, a hot surprising kiss on his own smooth skin, tickled by the bigger man’s goatee. Someone gasped, maybe Targett, and then someone else, probably Drinkwater… The next thing he knew, Grealish was being pushed gently back, so his own round bottom hit the edge of the table, then he was folding back onto it, his bare sweaty back arching over the plasticky surface. He stared down his tanned torso and watched his tight shorts get pulled roughly down; Ty Mings was leaning in over him, tall and kinda imposing, but his face gentle and weirdly pleading. Jack could see that this was something his big mate had been thinking about for a while… well, it wasn’t long ago that they’d faced up to the City defenders at Wembley… Jack’s shorts were about his knees now and Mings was pulling and grabbing at the bulge of his blue briefs. It felt good. He looked to his left: Terry had sat his bare arse down on the table next to him, his shirt rolled up around his armpits. McGinn’s head was in his crotch still, the bloke’s big cock deep in his gob. Again it reminded Grealish of his own heated domination of the Scotsman, the same mix of thrill and remorse, cock throbbing and heart pounding. Behind McGinn, he could see Targett stood looking dumbstruck, one hand down the front of his shorts; Drinkwater was at his side, playing with himself in the same way… `Ah come on, McGinn,’ growled Terry’s voice, `you came in here to suck your captain, right? You better have it… haha…’ And like that, the submissive Scottish lad was being passed on. Jack propped himself on his elbows, felt Mings pull away, saw McGinn shuffle over. He met his pal’s eyes, searching for confirmation he was okay: he got a nervous grin, raised eyebrows, the look of a man lost in a dream. Okay, then. All was good. And oh, fucking hell, McGinn’s oral talents were way more than just `good’… oh wow… The young Villa captain couldn’t hold in his groan, and he worried for a second how soundproof the room was. He loved the feel of John’s lips and tongue on his cock now, pulled from his sweaty briefs and buried deep in that mouth once again. He felt Ty to his right and reached out to stroke the man’s ridiculously defined abs, then reached another hand to his left… it brushed something else warm and firm, but a very different kind of muscle. He glanced hesitantly at Terry’s dirty grin before taking proper hold of the coach’s wet prick and tugging it very gently. `Now suck Targett,’ Terry was commanding, though it felt as though Jack’s cock had barely been sucked. McGinn was gone from his crotch but someone else’s hand was there now. He looked up and saw chiselled, wild-eyed Danny wanking him with one hand and pulling off Mings with the other, his face full of determination. But of course, Grealish thought, why else would he be in here? Someone’s trying to win favour, as usual… He rested there in this state of dreamy speculation. His left hand pulled up and down on Terry’s meat, earning rough groans from the older man; he pulled his right arm about Mings’ broad shoulders as their dicks slid and shivered against Drinkwater’s hands. Behind them, Targett was gasping loudly and they could all hear McGinn’s slurping. There was a confusing muddle of sweaty limbs, bodies shifting so that Grealish momentarily lost track of what was going on, a bit like on the beach in Dubai but with a lot more uncertainty and tension… he could feel that he wasn’t the only one in the room a little afraid of their coach here, but he knew his own status too. He was the respected captain of all these lads, right? He was standing now, wanking himself, pulling on his thick erection and feeling his shorts slide further down his shins. McGinn was on his knees close by and he was sucking Tyrone now, something he’d already done during that seedy initiation, a mad idea all Jack’s fault. God, he thought, what sort of sleazebag am I?! Mings, as tall as he was, towered over the cock-sucker, holding his head in both hands. Jack turned a little to his right, realising how close to him Danny was stood, jerking off and looking dartingly about the group. `This is mental,’ he mouthed, and Grealish couldn’t quite dignify it with an answer. He looked to the left and saw that Terry was standing too, his top fully off now, his cock out still, with young Matt’s hand on it. The coach was hugging Targett to him while this worried-looking defender, who had burst into the room full of homophobic ire, was stroking his boss’s dick in a daze. Then Terry pushed Matt’s hand aside. There was a subtle shift in the atmosphere. Terry guided Mings’ hands off the head of their pet sucker, tugging him back by the shoulders and almost lifting him off his knees. McGinn drooled from his lips as he parted with Tyron’s long slim prick, panting as he let himself be dragged back against the table… and turned round, so his torso flopped onto its front and his arse was lifted to the gathered men. JT grabbed the waist of both shorts and briefs and yanked them back, exposing the pale cheeks. Grealish felt a familiar hunger. He remembered how good and tight that man had felt. (He also, with a shudder, remembered Ben finding out just how tight HE felt, and he had to brush it aside; it felt so wrong to mix Ben with these sleazy guys, wrong to sully him with this scene…) Terry, grunting and chuckling, was slapping and grabbing McGinn’s arse. Then he was pushing a finger between the cheeks. Jack looked from this down to his own crotch and saw Danny’s hand on his dick. The Manc lad leaned over and whispered in his ear. `This is just like before lockdown, huh?’ he murmured sensually. `You’ll all remember this when they try to get rid of me…’ Grealish shook off his comment but didn’t move his hand from his cock, enjoying the touch. He blinked heavily and watched as Mings moved in to join the boss; Terry stepped aside a little and let the big defender take over. The guys huddled around McGinn’s kneeling form whilst Tyrone slid one long black finger inside that tight hole. `Ohhhh,’ whimpered the Scotsman breathlessly, `oh yes please sir…’ That submissive streak was sharper than ever. Suddenly, exerting more physical authority than so far, Mings was grabbing and pulling on McGinn’s body, hoisting him up fully onto the table on his back, legs in the air; it gave a better angle so the tall Somerset-born black lad could shove two fingers up his crack whilst holding on of his ankles up, laughing eagerly as he did… and suddenly Matty was on the other side of the table, where McGinn’s head and shoulders rested. Lying on his back, the horny Scottish midfielder was being fed Targett’s short thick cock at one end, and two bony fingers at the other. Holy shit. `I get to fuck him first,’ Terry announced, as if anyone had any doubt. He was spitting heavily into his palm and slicking it against his shaft, then elbowing Mings out of the way. Jack found himself staring intensely and trying to figure out if he or the manager had the bigger dong; he wasn’t sure if this was out of macho competition or anxiety for little John’s arsehole. But as Terry began to mount the Scottish bitch (his grunts and McGinn’s whines seeming to fill the meeting room), Grealish became distracted by hands and lips on his own body. Tyrone was pulling at his shoulders and leaning over to kiss them, his lips and goatee roving to the side of his neck, to his hairy cheek, so surprisingly tender. And other hands, Danny’s, were cupping his balls and feeling his abs, pushy and forceful. One of those hands slid down his lower back whilst the other went back to his dick; he felt Danny squeeze one of his cheeks and begin to push a finger into his crack. `No,’ he snapped irritably, pushing at the lad’s thick forearm. He glared at Drinkwater, realising how close that handsome lad had been to his arse in the past, regretting it now. He saw the determined look in those rich brown eyes; here was a man who’d do anything to save his career. `Suck my dick,’ Grealish panted at him forcefully. His handsome tanned features disappeared from view, he was going down on his knees. Jack stood unsteadily, feeling Danny’s thick lips curl around his nob, whilst he was hugged and pawed by Mings at the side. He reached his left hand down to clumsily fumble at Tyrone’s cock affectionately, then let his eyes focus on the scene at the table. Fleshy slaps sounded as John Terry ploughed his player. His tall lithe body slammed back and forth, tight backside clenching and unclenching. Other John’s legs stuck up at either side of him and across the table, he could still Targett pushing his thick cock down into that gasping mouth. Targett looked more shocked and anxious than the guy whose mouth he was roughly fucking. `Next!’ Terry was shouting, backing away from McGinn’s arsehole. `Jack, captain, you’re next…’ He let himself be pushed forward by Ty. He let his cock lead him hungrily to the prize, then felt big John’s rough hands on his neck and shoulders, his wheezy laugh in his ear. McGinn’s arse cheeks were as soft and smooth as he remembered. His dick pushed between them and he found the hole wet and twitching, already loosened a tiny bit by their boss. He pushed forward and found it that little bit easier than mersin escort bayan when he’d taken the lad’s cherry, though not much. It was still the tightest hole he’d ever been inside. Once he was in, and making gentle fucking motions, he could feel hands all over him so that he no longer knew whose they were. And opposite, on the other side of the table, it wasn’t Matt Targett, it was John Terry, pushing the cock into the other end of his bitch now. Grealish fucked in an almost numb trance, not quite feeling the tight grip of arse on his own meat, or sure whose hands squeezed at his buttocks or massaged up his spine or tousled with his shaggy hair. He didn’t know whose kiss turned almost to a bite at his neck or who pinched his nipple. He couldn’t tell whose voice was gasping `FUCK YES’ and then realised that, oh, it’s actually his own. He dimly heard Terry barking `Next!’ like an angry shopkeeper, but he was already pulling his numb cock from his friend’s backside when he understood the order. He backed off with a slight stumble, head spinning. It was Mings going in for the hole now, a look of real excitement on his face. Jack realised how much his friend had been craving more fun since what happened last time. He realised, with the same nauseous self-doubt as when he remembered Ben’s bedroom, that it was HE who had noshed off Mings and maybe led him into this, HIS mouth that the big Bath bloke had probably been craving… He leant on the table for support and watched as tall Tyrone mounted moaning McGinn. Ty’s cock would feel a little less thick and ominous after the last two, but… well, it was still gonna feel like a cock up your hole! Beyond this nervous first-time fuck, he could see Targett lounging back over the table too, parallel, his top pulled off and his shorts about his ankle. Danny was over him, rubbing his thighs and kissing his prick, making performative moans. Grealish felt dizzied by the filthy fun of it all, his dick aching from those rough thrusts into his pal. Suddenly, there were hands on him again, that faintly sour breath by his face, John Terry rubbing him from behind. `Who the fuck knew you were into this mad shit?’ hissed Terry’s voice in his ear. `You dirty bugger, Captain Jack…’ `I’m… not… into…’ he began stammeringly. He felt one of John’s bare sweaty arms curl about his chest below the nipples, almost cuddling into him. The other arm was down his side, fingertips stroking on of his firm buttocks. `I just… this is all a bit… Ugh…’ Terry squeezed his arse cheek and his finger slid in between. Then Grealish felt something thicker than a finger, a little damp, brush the spot where his curving buttocks met the tops of his thighs, the narrow crevice between… He heard a low, dirty chuckle in his ear. `I wonder if you…’ `No,’ he exclaimed, pulling forward, loosening John’s arm over his chest. The finger was still there for a moment, resting between his tight cheeks, teasing the inexperienced crack, and he felt too many things at once. He looked over his shoulder and saw the accepting smirk on his manager’s face. `Not yet, anyway?’ sniggered Terry, then brushed straight past him. `Next lad — Danny mate, come on… get stuck into this tight pussy of John’s…’ Jack watched Drinkwater in the same sluggish daze; by now he was slumped in a chair, his legs parted and a man between them, sucking him off. He ran his fingers through the tight little dreadlocks on Mings’ head, only half-aware of who was noshing him, oblivious to it being the big lad’s very first time, the excited terror with which he was kissing and licking a prick for the first time. Jack’s eyes squinted up the table at the surprising doubt and hesitation on Danny’s handsome features; for all his sluttish willingness to please for advancement, Drinkwater looked very unsure about taking this next step. Terry and Targett were at his sides, patting and stroking his body, and McGinn himself, bent over on his front now, was making whimpering begging noises and comments. Danny was pushing between his cheeks at last and the heavy Scotch drawl of pleasure rang through the room. Jack’s head lolled over and he looked down, registering who was in the middle of sucking his dick. Their eyes met and he grinned appreciatively. `Cheers mate,’ he slurred at Tyrone. He felt drunk on the wildness of it all; probably it was just dehydration. `Oh shit,’ he heard Danny moan in a less smug and confident tone, `that feels… ohh!’ Jack stroked Ty’s cheek and fiddled with his dreads again, lulled back into fuller consciousness by the feel of that long tongue on his shaft. To think, he’d stormed into this room earlier on with needy McGinn desperately hoping to end all this; determined to stomp on the little nest of experimentation he’d triggered months ago. And now here he was, in the middle of a — was this an orgy? Was there a specific number of people for an orgy? Threesome, foursome, moresome… sixsome? 5-1, he scored jokily in his head, 5-1. Nearby, Danny was pulling out after his brief energetic fuck, manhandled by their coach, and it was the last of the five lads’ turns to pound McGinn. They were flipping the gasping Scotsman onto his back, sprawled over the tabletop, fumbling with his own cock, his whole body wracked with probably both pain and pleasure. Jack rose from his chair and pulled at one of Tyrone’s arms. They moved around the table to the other side, just as Targett was lining up with his thick member, looking down in mingled horror and hunger at the damp arse-crack he was being told to enter. John’s short legs stuck up in the air, one held by Terry, the other by Drinkwater. Grealish knelt for a second at the other side, squeezing John’s shoulders and planting a little kiss on his cheek. `You okay there, lad?’ he asked gently. But he saw the almost disappointed expression on his face, thought about that hot fuck in the toilet cubicle. `You ready for this, you slut?’ he corrected in a rougher tone, saw John’s eyes light up. He kissed his cheek again and stood up, slapped his wet boner against the cheek where he’d kissed it. Mings muscled in next to him and they both flopped their hard-ons against that hanging face, letting their dicks brush his cheeks and nose and lips, feeling his tongue quest upwards to taste their slick cocks. Matt made awkward gurgling noises of pleasure as he forced his cock into McGinn. His red face was fixed in determined anxiety and his toned smooth body jerked back and forth. At his sides, the other two men were visibly wanking off, big tools rubbing at John’s thighs as they did. One cock inside him and four more tossing and rubbing around him. The slutty Scotsman’s writhed in sordid paradise. But Terry didn’t let anyone have that hole for long. He was pulling Targett back and pushing in himself again; first and last, alpha and omega. `I’m gonna cum in him,’ he barked, `the rest of you just dump your loads on the slut, it’s what he wants…’ McGinn mumbled something that sounded like `yes please!’ The men huddled in around the table, every one of them looking as amazed as the next, except Terry, who looked almost angry in his ferocity as he muscled his cock back into his sub and began to fuck him aggressively. Grealish moved forward a few inches, letting McGinn’s tongue find his tight balls instead of his cock, flicking back and forth at them from beneath. He wanked himself furiously for a minute but then felt a bigger hand grabbing it, Tyrone. Hands-free, he stood back, hugging Mings’ lean torso with one arm, and gasped in delight. A tight fast handjob from the big defender and a tender licking of his ballsack from the lad on the table. Oh yes. Across from him, he could see Terry’s mask of furious energy as he ploughed a hole. On one side of him, Targett was wanking himself so hard every vein seemed to bulge in his skin. On the other, Danny was already cumming, mouth wide open and eyes screwed shut as he emptied his frothy white cum onto McGinn’s thigh and hip, spilling drop after drop on both him and the surface of the table. When Mings blew his load, it didn’t drop heavily on the lad’s face as perhaps expected, but jetted down his torso in long silvery streaks. Some of it seemed even to hit and settle on John’s broad chest and abdomen as he continued to thrust. Next to Jack, the tall Somerset lad groaned heavily and sagged, some of his weight leaning into Jack’s wiry short body. `OH FUCK,’ whimpered Targett, more shocked than anyone that he’d reached climax. `YES,’ growled Terry, `OH YES…’ He threw his head back in a way that told all of them he was filling up their fuck toy with his own signature seed. On the table, McGinn gasped and twisted his body. His head turned a little and his eyes looked wildly up at Grealish, who knew he was close. `Feed me,’ moaned the lad on the table, `feed me captain, please…’ Jack nodded almost painfully, feeling the heat of his friend’s desire. He lifted himself up and forward almost on his tiptoes and wanked his cock rapidly, lubed by spit and sweat. Around him, the other guys were satisfied; Ty had staggered back making low moans, Danny and Matt had slumped in chairs; JT fucked on even after his orgasm, slow clumsy thrusts as he panted and growled. McGinn himself was jerking his dick like mad, waiting for the final pleasure to send him over the edge. Grealish closed his eye and gave him what he wanted: he pushed his dick into that wide open mouth just as he completed, spewing his cum onto his mate’s tongue. `Oh yes,’ he breathed weakly, `oh buddy, yes…’ `Mmmm,’ groaned Terry’s powerful voice, `mmm yes… you fucking dirty pricks, the lot of you… Oh McGinn, you little beauty, you took that so well… Mmm… Now — the lot of ya — listen to me seriously here. If I ever catch any fucking one of you mentioning this fucking shitshow to a single fella at Aston Villa… I will personally tear up your contract and make sure you never play another game of football in your fuckin’ life. Do you hear me?’ He’d backed away from McGinn’s heaving body, his dick hanging between his legs, an almost finger-wagging stance of managerial authority. `None of this mad shit happened, you dirty cunts, and I’ll sack any fucker who says otherwise. You dirty little pussy boys. You’re all just dirty little fags and I’ll ruin any one of you who blabs. You fuckin’ understand me, pussies? Eh?’ Matt Targett stumbled down the corridor towards the changing rooms, adjusting the baggy training shorts and blinking sweat out of his eyes. He couldn’t believe any of it. He couldn’t believe what he’d walked in on, so blatant and risqué. He’d been fretting about this for weeks, no months, obsessing over what was or wasn’t happening between two of his pals. The truth, the sordid complicated truth, well it was so much more. He rushed into the changing rooms before the others could catch up, desperate to wash himself clean and soak away the dirt of it, though he felt like he might need three more showers when he got home. Had he really just fucked a lad’s arse?! Tyrone Mings stood in the corridor, shirt in both hands, torso bare and glistening, shorts pulled awkwardly up, fully at one side and exposing his briefs at the other. He paused in the junction of corridors, trying to let his breathing recover. Oh my god! When he’d dared to think about it, he’d imagined a circle-jerk happening, a little wanking between buddies, just like that first time. He’d dared to imagine pressing his cock between Jack’s pouting lips again, but with a sense of guilt at the way his pal had been so roughly handled by Walker and Stones back at Wembley. So this orgy of madness in the meeting room, wow… his cock ached in his pants and he could feel the damp streak on his thigh where some of his cum had leaked. He staggered on, following Targett’s rushed footsteps towards the changing rooms, in need of the head-clearing refreshment of a hot shower. He’d just fucked John McGinn, and boy had it felt good. Danny Drinkwater pulled his top roughly down over his broad shoulders, hurrying in a different direction through the training centre. He was giddy with the rush of his orgasm, but also deflated with a worried realisation: his attempt to seduce John Terry had failed, because he was not the one who’d really pleasured that filthy old pervert. If he’d just led him into a quiet cupboard, got on his knees and done what he knew needed to be done, then maybe he could have got what he’d wanted. But no, he’d led JT into a fucking shag-fest, introduced him to dirty buggers who would enact his sordid fantasy. Drinkwater hugged himself worriedly and hurried on down the corridor, aiming for the car park. He didn’t even want to shower here. He could feel it happening: his time at Aston Villa had failed, he was never going to impress Smith and secure a permanent deal. And to make it worse, he’d just crossed a line. He’d just fucked a lad. John Terry burst out of the meeting room, smearing one arm across his face to wipe the trickling sweat from his stubble. He looked sharply up and down the corridor, catching a glimpse of Drinkwater disappear around one corner and Mings the other. The door fell shut behind him and for a moment he was alone, digesting the scene he’d just controlled. Well, so much for reformation, he thought grimly. These years of good behaviour, of fidelity and honesty, of purely heterosexual adventure, monogamous and safe. Fuck that, then! Oh shit, would he be able to look his wife in the eye? He felt the surge of panic, but not of regret. His footsteps echoed heavily in the corridor as he made the way to his managerial office, an old swagger returning to his step, a kind of uber-machismo that he hadn’t felt since the last time he’d bummed Eden Hazard in a physio room at Stamford Bridge. And wow, had Hazard ever felt QUITE so tight as John McGinn…? For the first time in about four years, he’d fucked a lad, and he’d forgotten how great it really was! John McGinn crawled off the table, looking at the little smears and stains of cum and sweat on its shiny surface. He let out a nervous giggle at this and leant on a chair for support, his arse throbbing numbly and his legs wobbling a tiny bit beneath him. But like the fucking amazing friend he always was, Jack was there, propping and hugging him and planting a kiss on the side of his head. He turned and grinned feebly at his captain, glad of this support as he processed the utter submission he’d just enjoyed. He felt like there was still a cock inside him, it had been so rapid and insane. Jack was passing him his clothes from the floor, still half-naked and dripping in sweat himself. `Jack,’ he murmured faintly, `listen to me…’ He grabbed his wrist, stopping him as he pushed a pair of shorts at him. `Jack, I love you.’ Jack Grealish stared guiltily at him and sighed. `I love you too, mate, I really do,’ he admitted, `but as a friend.’ He saw the strained edge of the grin, the sadness in the eyes. `Nothing is gonna happen with us,’ he went on in a choking voice, pressing the shorts into McGinn’s hands and taking a nervous step back. `That was… Well, I hope you enjoyed that, I hope you’re okay. That was fucking mad, like I dunno what even just happened. You are okay, aren’t you?’ He took one more step back, pulling his hair out of his eyes and letting out a long sigh. McGinn nodded, dragging the shorts up his legs and and breathing just as heavily. Jack could see how shaken he was, though he didn’t doubt how intensely his submissive friend had enjoyed every degrading second of being fucked repeatedly on the table. He was struggling to understand it, but he had seen this side of McGinn so closely, watched him beg at his feet. Perhaps they could talk about it properly now, and he could really get what his mate was into. He considered going in for a hug but they were both so disgustingly sweaty, and… he thought it might push the other man to tears. `Jack,’ murmured McGinn. Oh god, he thought, he’s gonna declare his love for me again… But no. `Jack — is there somebody else?’ he asked in a whisper, bringing his shirt up to his chest, staring widely at him. Jack gulped hesitantly, beginning to shiver in the air-conditioned office. He looked distractedly about them for his own shirt, wherever that had ended up. He had his briefs on but his shorts still lay at his feet untouched. He felt like there were two battles: `yes’ and `no’ were fighting in his head, and then there was the battle about what he should and shouldn’t tell his lovestruck friend. But in the end, stepping closer and resting one hand to his shoulder, there was only one answer worth giving. In his head, he pictured the look on Ben Chilwell’s face when he turned up at his estate, wild and drunk and illegal. He nodded quietly at McGinn. `Yeah mate, sorry. I think actually there is. And I’m totally fucking lost. Fuck.’ McGinn pulled him in for the hug, and squeezed him. `Well he or she is a fucking lucky shite, I tell you that.’ Jack laughed weakly into his shoulder, arms about his bare back, shivering slightly and realising how quickly they needed to get dressed and out of here. He stared over John’s shoulder, and let his own answer sink in. Yeah, there was someone else. Someone he really fucking cared for and needed to see. Oh, Ben, what the hell have you done to me? *I THINK THIS WAS PROBABLY THE MADDEST AND WILDEST STORY YET – SO BE INTERESTING TO SEE WHAT YOU THINK!*

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