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Subject: Premiership Lads part 181: Defending the Title Part 181: Defending the Title `No fucking way,’ he told his good pal, staring across at him as the pair of young footballers swaggered along the edges of the pitch, one eye on the developing warm-ups that they were pointedly excluded from today, failing to make the squad selection for the club’s opening game. `I refuse to believe it,’ he continued, turning back to his friend and narrowing his eyes at him to scrutinise his honest pout and embarrassed brown eyes. `It’s mad. You and…? Nah, not…’ He stifled a laugh of disbelief, leaning closer his hands tucked into the pockets of his tight black jeans, not even kitted out in team gear today since they would be enjoying the game from the stands rather than on the touchline. `Shush,’ the other player muttered back at him. `You got noshed off by Ryan fucking Giggs?’ Harvey Elliott demanded hotly, smirking with slow appreciation at the taller, slightly older teenage athlete, enjoying the little honest squirm of regret from the big handsome Welsh lad. `Like, for real, bruv?! I mean…! What the f…?’ `Not so loud,’ Neco Williams grunted at him, frowning for a moment, tugging aimlessly at the collar of his polo shirt, tall and lean and red-cheeked as the players prowled about the periphery of the Liverpool match warm-up. `Jesus, why did I tell you…’ `Huh,’ Harvey grumbled back at him, his brain flashing with half-formed mental images and a newfound admiration for the gangly Wrexham lad who he’d spent so long housed with before fucking it all up; the handsome big lad whose nob was the first he’d ever really dared to touch. `And you’re definitely NOT kidding, chief…?’ `Fucks sake,’ the young Wales player grumbled, looking away, clearly regretful. `Oh my boy,’ Harvey sniggered out, reaching over to slap him on the back. `What a lad! Niiiice. God, when you hinted you’d had a busy time with the national duty, I had my suspicions, but… god, why am I only finding out about this NOW? Eh? God! Neco blud, you are…’ `Fuck, shut up about it,’ mumbled Williams, but half-laughing. `It was just… I mean, it just kind happened, y’know, and — well, I went and scored my debut didn’t I, so… er, was a good investment from the boss, haha…’ There was a clear glimmer of pride and achievement in his awkward features and body language as they swung off the green and through a narrow gate onto the sweeping concrete steps, making their way up to the empty slopes of the stadium where they could freely watch their team begin to defend their Premieship title. Harvey took his seat, still smirking and sniggering, unable to stop shooting admiring and curious glasses at the other lad. `You dirty fecker,’ he giggled. `What a coup…’ `Ah, I dunno, just mad shit,’ Neco mumbled more shyly. `Bit too much whiskey? I mean, he’s a married bloke, isn’t he? Or, at least, erm… Fuck, you’re gonna go on about this forever, aren’t you?’ A pause, a gathering of bravado, then, `Just cos I got one over you and your dirty deeds, I guess…!’ Harvey sat a bit upright, pausing in the middle of another sleazy chuckle, catching the laddish challenge in Neco’s mumbled banter. He made a loud scoffing noise and reached up to fiddle with the tight strands of his mousy hair, braided tightly back against his head and into its swelling bun. He’d promised to chop it all off at his first proper league goal for the squad and sometimes he couldn’t wait to lose the weight off his head. `Pfft, we keep scoring?’ he chuckled at his pal. `Well, guess you’re right. I ain’t bedded no DILFs like that, no footy managers… fuck, you gonna be sleeping with Jurgen soon, are ya? Guaranteed starts in big games like this, haha…’ He sniggered at the dark blush of Neco’s cheek and his horror at this suggestion about their beloved middle-aged boss. `Well, who knows, after you went and got head off fucking GIGGSY… man, that is MAD…’ `Mate,’ pleaded Williams, `keep your voice down and stop-` `Oh, nobody can hear up here,’ Harvey told him dismissively, sprawling out in his chair and manspreading with his skinny jeans clad legs far apart. He spread his arms a bit to the side, stretching his shoulders thoughtfully, addressing the sudden shock of thinking that big nervous Neco had perhaps gone further or bolder in his same-sex adventure than Harvey himself. Nah, he thought, surely not — he’d been much naughtier in his escapades, hadn’t he? He looked sharply at the 19-year-old winger and considered the shocking circumstances: an actual Premier League legend and a national hero for Wales… fucking hell! I mean, everyone knows Giggs is a dirty bugger, a cheat and a liar, but… well, sucking off his own young players…? He looked covetously down on the pitch where proceedings were finally beginning to get set up for the club’s league opener, Liverpool v Leeds. There was a lot to play for here, the Premiership reigning champs versus the newly promoted underdogs. It could be a walk in the park or an absolute massacre. But Harvey looked down on the Anfield pitch without football on his mind: he was mentally undressing Klopp for a moment then thinking that nah, he was a bit too old and eccentric, not exciting enough, nothing like that silver daddy Ryan Giggs. He couldn’t imagine himself getting excited over their gaffer, and… well, it was impossible to imagine married daddy Klopp being at all susceptible to erm, temptations… `Harvs,’ murmured Williams, `you better keep this under your hat, eh?’ `Bro code,’ he replied instantly. `I told you all about what I got up to at Arsenal, didn’t I? We got trust. Pinky promise.’ He winked over at the Welsh lad, then blew him a jokey kiss. `Hey, we don’t actually HAVE to watch the game, bruv, if you’d rather…’ He leered suggestively, but Neco stared back quite coolly and dismissively. `I told you,’ he insisted, `I’m not… into it. It just… happened. You promised you wouldn’t try anything, buddy, you said…’ `I know, I know,’ Harvey sighed. `We’re just good mates, I know. Dunno why you’re so obsessed with labels, mate. You enjoyed yourself when-` `Mate,’ Neco hissed. `Leave it, please. I shouldn’t have told you about Giggs, dunno what I was thinking. I’m not into that stuff, honest, it just… just happened, yeah…’ Harvey watched him writhe and fidget, nodding slowly and cynically. `We’re fuckin’ great mates,’ the older player said sternly, `let’s not risk ruining that, yeh?’ `Sure,’ Harvey said, less sceptically. That was fair. He respected Neco so much and enjoyed the fact that the other lad knew his recent tastes without much major judgment or disapproval, he didn’t want to lose that confidence. And for all his naughty instincts, he didn’t want to push or irritate the sweet 19-year-old fella, could see his discomfort whenever he alluded to those gentle weed-soaked nocturnal experiments in the attic of a suburban semi-detached. He looked back at the men on the pitch and their preparations for kick-off, his eyes seeking out the most mature and manly bloke his cheeky appetite had led him to, though his new haircut made him look slicker and younger somehow. He stared thoughtfully at Liverpool’s Egyptian striker with a little smirk, thinking that perhaps he did have his own handsome sturdy DILF to play with when he really needed to… hmm… Aside from his vicarious enjoyment, the sudden little revelation from Neco Williams had stung him too with a little bit of ego and rivalry; he was the bold and naughty one of the two, not Neco! And it seemed for a moment as if the other footballer had scored a more entertaining and risqué little encounter than his own, and now he needed to… defend his title. In the second half of the match, the score ratcheting up closely between the Championship and Premiership winners, Neco descended the steps and left Harvey’s teasing behind, making a quick move to speak to their captain as Jordan Henderson was subbed off by the gaffer, looking pretty exhausted under the weekend heat. `Good work skip,’ Neco said brightly, shuffling his way down the side-lines to bump a fist gently into the hand of the Liverpool leader, cutting him off as he grabbed up a towel to drag over his sweaty face, panting heavily from his hard work at the centre of the action. `Williams,’ wheezed Hendo, seeming glad to see him, but desperate to sit down and recover. But a roar of excitement made the both of them turn around and other men tense up, the subs leaping up out of their seats in surprise; Leeds had just clinched a 3rd goal and equalised yet again in the battle of attrition. Liverpool would need a fourth in the final twenty-odd minutes to seal an important win here and start the season off right. `Fuck,’ Neco gasped. `Fuck indeed!’ murmured Hendo. He turned away from the action with a slightly grim expression, making for the empty seat vacated by his replacement, but not sinking into it, moving beyond it instead, planting his sweaty arse down on the bottom concrete step instead so that there was some room for Williams to follow and join him. Honoured, he moved past to sit a short distance away on the step, passing his captain one of the water bottles he had grabbed from the supplies, watching as Jordan pulled an arm over his sweaty fringe and squirted some of the bottle’s cool contents against his reddened face. `Jeez, what a game,’ the 30-year-old captain breathed. `Aren’t we meant to be easily winning this one? Bloody hell. You can see why they got promoted, huh?’ `Sure,’ Neco agreed, looking anxiously back out onto the field and the ongoing play. `But you fought hard out there, chief. Holding it together, obviously. Well done. The lads need you.’ Hendo shrugged, still panting. `Could have done with you out there too, the way you were playing for Wales, mate,’ he said with quiet and half-hearted mutiny, never keen to speak against a decision of their manager, but clear and warm in his regard for Neco, who grinned instantly. `Shame you were stuck out here and not even on the subs line-up, pal.’ The captain shrugged at his own vocal thoughts, sucking on the teat of the water bottle and intensely watching their teammates hard at it. It was the 88th minute before the 4th and winning goal came for the Scousers. Consequenly, Mo Salah left the pitch in even more legendary esteem than ever amongst his teammates and the coaching staff, beaming delightedly as they poured indoors, dripping with sweat and deeply satisfied by the hard-fought victory over the Premiership’s newest contenders. Harvey was quickly among them, clapping with his usual supportive fervor, a short wiry figure amongst the tracksuited and kitted men sweeping down the tunnel and into the home changing rooms and their distanced positions. He grinned excitedly, enjoying the tense closing minutes of the game and the three points that they could now take away from this clash with Leeds. The room was full of admiring chatter for the beaten opposition; the magnanimous praise of relieved winners who could safely appreciate the strengths of their new rivals. Harvey kept his eyes on Mohamed, though. He’d been watching him in the final burst of the game, leaning forward in his seat in the stands, rubbing his knuckles and enjoying the ferocious strength of the Egyptian bloke; he’d been watching his play carefully and been unsurprised when the penalty was won and then booted so gracefully in. Salah seemed unstoppable today, his hat-trick an almost inevitable achievement to kickstart his latest Premiership season. And besides that… he looked hot as fuck. The wet sweaty gleam of his tanned brown legs and the sudden exposure of his craggy six-pack as he wriggled out of his kit, still grinning with childish glee at his own talent and the fruit it had yielded for his team, accepting praise and back-slaps from player after player as the changing room filled up. Harvey looked covetously at him and remembered the way he had teased and provoked him as his temporary house-guest, drunk on the power of what he’d once overseen — and then how he had skilfully manipulated that knowledge until he got a taste of it himself, crawling into that silky marital bed and taking such risk…! And the three consecutive nights he’d lured him out into the darkness in Austria and… mmm. He could feel himself almost getting hard in his jeans now! Salah was leaving the room, moving deeper in the suite home changing facilities, shaking off some more lavish praise from a coach, throwing his damp shirt over his shoulder and stalking ahead towards the toilets. Harvey followed quietly a few paces behind, slipping unnoticed and unacknowledged through the gathering of their colleagues, stalking the Egyptian through into the quieter segment, towards the row of toilet cubicles and the other recovery facilities beyond… away from the echoey chat and laughter and excitement of the winning squad. `Hey, Neeks,’ the captain called to him as he hovered on the edge of the celebratory locker-room banter, not feeling quite so included since he wasn’t even in Liverpool branded clothes and just skulking about the edge in long denim shorts and a loose green polo shirt, wondering if he ought to leave the guys to it and see where Harvey had actually vanished to. He responded to the warm North Eastern tones of the skipper and shifted over his way, nodding attentively as he wove between the guys to join Henderson where he stood, his shirt and shorts off now so he was just stood there, chest heaving gently, in a pair of tight pale grey compression shorts that hugged his upper thighs and dug tightly into his waist. `What’s up?’ he asked quietly, hugging his long arms awkwardly over his chest. The Sunderland-born midfielder slapped a hand down on his shoulder for a moment. `Hey, just a thought, but do you want to swing by mine for dinner tonight?’ he asked. `It’s just — the wife is cooking up a little celebratory dinner for me and she was asking after you the other day — says she misses having an extra mouth to food after all, haha…!’ Neco stared at him in surprise at the offer, feeling something strangely intimate about their quiet friendly chat at the centre of this busy changing space where men were hurtling out of their soiled kits and swaggering over towards the shower entrance either with towels about their waists or brazenly naked, muscular buttocks bouncing to and fro with each step. Neco pulled his alarmed eyes back to the gentle uncertain smile on the captain’s face. `Oh, er, yeah, that’d be cool,’ he said after a moment’s pause. `Are you sure?’ Jordan asked in the same warm quiet voice. `I tried to tell her — he’s 19, luv, he don’t need to be coming for dinner with a pair of boring 30 year olds on a Saturday night, haha, especially not at this time… but…’ `Oh, nah, I don’t have any plans,’ he rattled quickly. `I mean, what I mean to say is, yeah, that’d be so nice, I’d love to come over, erm…’ `Yeah? Well, it’d be great to have you. You sure? I know it’s late notice. I’ll mersin escort drive obviously.’ Neco nodded his head then felt like he was doing it a little too keenly, stopped himself, smiled oddly back at the pleasant casual expression of the undressed football captain, taking a single step back from him. Jordan slapped him gently on the shoulder again and hooked his thumbs into the Puma branded waistband of his tight under shorts. `That’s good,’ he said. `If you don’t mind hanging around for me to shower and speak to the boss for a quick minute?’ Neco nodded again with the same goofy pleasure at the agreed plan, backing off another step, mumbling something about waiting outside, then turning away just as his 30-year-old senior tugged down on the tight compression pants to fully undress for his shower. `You,’ Liverpool’s prolific forward exclaimed, turning round to look over his shoulder through the half-open cubicle door as he finished his piss. The smile faded from his lips and his dark eyes became hard in their evaluative stare. Harvey hovered in the doorway and grinned optimistically at him, resting one hand on the door where it hovered between open and shut, watching as Mohamed shook and put himself away and then turned around, his bared muscular torso shining under a harsh bulb for a moment then pressing forward into him, shoulders rubbed as he barged past and crossed the space to the sinks. The 17-year-old winger grinned dirtily to himself then spun around where he leaned on the frame, digging his hands back into his tight pockets and taking two steps after the mature 28-year-old, glancing cautiously to his right back down the twisted passage, a sliver of the main locker-room just about visible from here: all bared flesh and flashing white towels, men moving in and out of showers. He sidled up to Salah, pressing his hip and one hand into the counter of sinks, watching as Mohamed thoroughly washed both hands and looked anywhere but at him. Their eyes connected eventually in the dim silver-grey of the small square mirror, and the striker glared indirectly at him through the reflective glass. `What?’ Salah demanded in a quiet voice that dripped with irritation. `Nowt,’ Harvey murmured, still looking at his round dark eyes in the mirror. `You followed me,’ the striker said, accusingly. `Did I?’ He grinned more widely and bared his perfect white teeth a little, leaning more of his weight onto the counter top, pressing into one pale arm and tugging gently at the front of his loose designer tshirt, watching Mo shake off his wet hands and turned properly to face him. `I told you. This has stopped. It stayed in Austria.’ The handsome austere Egyptian stared hard at him now, face-to-face, hands clenching into soft fists as he squared up his broadly muscular 5ft9 build and met Harvey’s louche posture and unspoken challenge. `You are playing with fire, my friend. I made mistakes, but I am a good Muslim husband, and-` `Come on,’ Harvey purred, knowing how potentially irresistible his toothy grin and gentle posture might be, sidling forward and sliding his hand across the smooth white porcelain of the sinks, lifting and guiding it slowly towards where the older man’s hand hung limp at his side, reaching for those knuckles which tightened in response and pulled instantly away. `Mohamed… let’s just…’ Salah moved quickly and sharply in response to the second attempt at physical touch, at the gently suggestive whine on the edge of Elliott’s voice. He lunged forward and snatched roughly at the chest of the teenager’s tshirt, driving him backwards. There was a small jut of tiled wall beside the row of sinks, forming the arched passage back through towards the main changing rooms, a discreet corner unseen from other angles. And now Harvey was pressed firmly into it, his back slamming roughly into the wall as the sturdy forward gripped him and shoved him there, bringing their faces very close for a moment, nostrils flaring widely. `Don’t push me, boy,’ Mo said in a voice much unlike his usual cheery tone. `I have made mistakes but I learn from them. I do not know what you think I am but — this stops HERE — you understand?’ He shook him a bit and Harvey just stared back at him for a moment before nodding, so stunned by the near-violent reaction that he couldn’t work out how to react at all. He hung there, slung into the wall and held in place by two vicelike hands, blinking stupidly into the tanned brown shapes of the 28-year-old goal-scorer’s face. `Er… sure… erm…’ `You need to back off,’ growled the Egyptian. `Stop pushing me. Stop teasing. It is over. It never started. Forget it. Now. Or you will regret it. Understood?’ It was odd to hear such vague threatening speech from someone as affable and humble as Mo Salah and yet his voice was icy and powerful, his certainty ineffable. He held the moment, tugging slightly at the crumpled front of the tshirt, really digging his knuckles into Harvey’s chest and really pressing him back into the hard cool force of the wall — then pulling sharply away and shaking down his muscular arms, a long snorting breath. `You have problems, boy,’ he said coldly, and quickly moved on, darting away and around the corner back towards the other in a ripple of toned bare upper body. For a few moments, the 17-year-old stayed there, tingling with an awkward mix of shocked embarrassment and mildly arousing fear. Salah’s rejection had been as exciting and perversely attractive as it was sudden and disappointing; in the Austrian Alps, this holier-than-thou Muslim hero had been quite easily lured away from the safety of his cabin, pressed back against rough tree trunks and quietly slurped into orgasm out of sight or sound of other players… but yeah, apparently that phase of experimentation was now firmly called off. Harvey could remember the anger and horror with which Mo had looked at him when he first tried to make his move on him in his own home, a cheeky intruder in the peace and wholesomeness of his domestic bubble. Huh. It took a while for Harvey to fully calm himself down, splashing cool water on his cheeks and waiting for the semi in his tight black jeans to subside and disappear from potential view, then shuffling his way back through into the changing rooms where men were towelling down and standing around with steam rising off their bared skin. He caught glimpses of two more past `conquests’ — Joe Gomez looming near the shower entrance in the middle of tugging a towel over his crotch and slinging jokey insults at a teammate on the other side of the room, and lean young Trent Alexander-Arnold with his back to the room, the slight tan lines of his peachy bottom clear for all to see as he dried his chest and face — but he felt a sudden crisis of confidence for Mohamed’s rejection. He moved onwards and out into the tunnel, waiting for his cheeks to cool and his mood to settle. After a moment, he glanced about and focused on the fact he hadn’t seen a hint of Neco Williams since coming back through this way, where was his buddy at? The scent of the Liverpool captain’s soap and moisturiser seemed to fill the BMW’s interior, a cloud of faintly tropical and masculine scent that tickled Neco’s nostrils as he drummed fingers distractedly on the denim of his thighs and stared out at the suburban Liverpool road they cruised down away from the club grounds and the evening’s Premiership excitement. Jordan was, hands on the wheel and eyes on the road, excitedly reliving some of the key moments of the night’s epic match, flashing between respectful praise of the Leeds men, and loyal commentary on the resilience and fortitude of their own squad. As always, the captain’s passion for the game and for the club was infectious and hypnotic, Neco lolling in the passenger seat and making quick ready grins and nods of agreement as the Mackem bloke talked on. `It’ll be so nice having you over,’ Hendo said, when apparently all post-match reflection was exhausted, shooting a kind smile over the front of the car and turning them off the main road onto the quieter winding lanes of suburban Merseyside. `You were good company for us when you stayed, you know, we were well up for having you longer.’ Neco, a little dazed from listening to his senior’s rapid chatter, nodded again, pulling at the taut fabric of his top and shifting his elbow across the rolled-down window to feel the balmy evening air on his arm. `Ah, that’s very kind, skip,’ he murmured, `but you didn’t need me getting in the way, not really…! But I was so grateful to you both, honest.’ `Always a pleasure, never a chore…’ `I mean, I was in a right spot of bother,’ Neco said reminiscently. `After the Harvey stuff. Dumb lad. Love him to bits but he almost got us both in real hot water, so…’ `Everyone knows it was him more than you,’ Jordan muttered confidentially. `But still, just glad you’ve found your feet. Your new place is going okay, right?’ `Sure,’ Neco told him ambiguously, experiencing an odd realisation that a large part of him rather missed the spare bedroom of the Henderson mansion, that the minor family comforts of lodging with the youngish couple and their three young kids was a very appealing little phase of the year, even compared to the fun and freedom of his new pad. `Cool apartment, couple of my mates from Wrexham sharing with me, it’s going well, it really is. It’s sweet,’ he said, over-egging it a little bit in surprise at his own craving for the Henderson household. He found himself unable to say much more about it, unsure if Hendo would want to hear about beer pong nights and complex PS4 tournaments in the slick penthouse they’d moved into in the middle of summer. `Well,’ his captain said a little more softly, `you know there’s always a bed for you with me and Bec if you need it, mate. Seriously, kid. Never be afraid to ask for help or support where I’m concerned, okay?’ He spoke with such firm sincerity and a warm look over the gearstick that Neco felt almost awkward as he looked his way, nodding quietly at the strong offer. In fact, he felt so touched by the warmth and earnestness of the 30-year-old that, the car winding through a series of similar developments and estates for the mega-rich, he felt an irresistible urge to mutter an apology that he’d been on the verge of for months. `Hey captain,’ he mumbled, `I’m so sorry about that time at yours when I…’ He paused, scratched fingers across the thin stubble of his chin and then stroked at the fine dark curls of his fringe. `Well, I made a bit of a tit of myself, y’know, I just…’ He stared guiltily at Jordan, the car slowing and pulling them into the gated estate where Henderson and his family were tucked away; he thought about another warm summery night, out behind that tasteful modern mansion, supping a single bottled beer on the decking, making a confused touch at the captain’s leg. `When I… confided in you,’ he added after an awkward silence, `and explained what really happened with Harv, and then…’ The car had stopped now, joining several other expensive models on the driveway. Jordan hadn’t said anything for a minute, just sat there with his hands on the wheel. `You’ve nothing to be sorry for,’ he said at last, his voice composed but edged with discomfort. `Nah, I was out of order,’ Neco mumbled, unable to look at him. `But I was so confused, y’know? I’d… well, I’d been led to try something odd and you were just so… erm, understanding, y’know?’ He grimaced at his own reflection in the wing mirror. `I was a daft lad and I kinda touched you in a weird way and I’m so sorry.’ Another long pause. `Thanks for not being fucking weirder with me afterwards or since or anything, skipper.’ The quiet that settled in the car, both of them looking ahead to the house, still faintly silhouetted against pale summer night in spite of the late hour, felt itchy and uncomfortable to Williams, and the Welsh teen quickly regretted ever bringing it up. Oh fuck, he thought, tonight was gonna be awkward- why did I even remind him of that stupid late evening and my clumsy little grab at him, confused about what the hell counted as `normal’ after Harvey’s big talk…? To his shock, he felt one of Jordan’s hands reach over and squeeze against his right shoulder through the fabric of the polo shirt. He met the soft bearded features of that long slim face and the faint smile on his lips. `Like I told you then,’ Henderson said simply, `you’re all good. No such thing as normal, right? It’s all good.’ Another soft squeeze then the hand was pulled away. `If you’d upset me, would I be bringing you here for dinner, marra…?’ Neco gave him a dimpled grin back. `Guess not,’ he admitted. Another car, another road, the same warm Saturday night: Harvey scratched at his goatee and looked appreciatively at the older Liverpool player beside him, both disappointed at the way his post-match evening had gone and relieved that someone had been kind enough to drive him back to his place, even if it was this straitlaced old bugger. At 34, the well-built versatile Liverpool player was aged in football terms, and a dinosaur to a 17-year-old newbie like Elliott. `This your gaff?’ his driver demanded in a soft grunt, his voice laced with the heavy accent of his native Leeds. `Yup,’ he told him, `it is these days. Since I got kicked out of my last two…’ The older Yorkshireman chuckled lightly, switching off the engine for a moment. `Well, if you will carry on like a seventeen-year-old… oh, wait…’ A broad grin of his dry humour crossed his rugged features and Harvey grinned back at him, both amused and riled by the fair remark. James Milner was a hulking presence, only a little taller than Harvey but so broad and heavily muscled that he seemed to fill too much space in the front of even his spacious Chevrolet. He’d been the only guy to acknowledge a skulking and lonely Harvey on the way out of Anfield tonight, with Neco Williams bizarrely vanished away despite their vague plans to travel home together and maybe share a drink somewhere on the way. Like everyone on the team, he enjoyed Milner’s sarcasm and self-deprecating banter, and respected the experienced workhorse player who was the captain whenever Henderson wasn’t on the field. But the mild chitchat of the 34-year-old on the slow drive here was hardly what he’d wanted when he stalked Salah through the changing rooms earlier, the hot night now making him itch under his skinny jeans and really crave the dirty distraction that had occupied him since Neco’s confession. Fucking Neco, he thought again, gangly goofy nervous Neco, getting up to fun away with Wales…! He paused, realising that James was still staring at him, the engine off. He looked at him and then out of the windows across to the big house ahead of them, owned by a business exec at the club. `It’s this granny flat on the side that’s mine,’ he said, since his kindly driver seemed to demand more info now they were here. He nodded vaguely at it. `It’s escort mersin quite cool, feels like I’ve got my own place for real, sometimes. Which I will do, as soon as it’s my 18th and the club isn’t handling me like a child on a school trip…’ Another light throaty laugh from the thickset Yorkshireman. `Well, if you go a few months without getting into trouble,’ he said, gripping the wheel in both hands and sighing in a very parental manner, `maybe you can shake that bad boy label, kid…’ Harvey rolled his eyes at the vaguely patronising tone of the older bloke’s comment again, bored by the constant insinuations that he `needed to be more careful’ and `should think of his future’ — he heard it from junior coaches at training, he heard it in friendly half-jokes from the skipper, from the gaffer, on the phone from his parents, even sometimes from bloody Neco, who was 19-going-on-55 sometimes. But from big mature and manly Milner it felt both provoking and sensible and he wasn’t in the mood for sensible, just provoking. He paused to look at him, the hulking presence of his shoulders and arms, the thickness of the neck that emerged from his light glossy Liverpool training shirt. God, the man was built like a TANK. `Well, thanks for the lift,’ Harvey said idly, pulling his eyes away from one swollen bicep of the rugged athlete’s left arm. `Any time,’ Milner barked swiftly. Harvey hesitated in opening the passenger door and undoing his belt. `You want the grand tour?’ he offered uncertainly, eyeing up the stuffy married bloke who’d taken pity on him as he malingered at the stadium, bored and lonely. `Is it grand?’ Milner demanded with gentle mockery. `Everything’s grand to your fuckin’ Leeds blokes,’ Harvey jibed, climbing out of the vehicle and waiting to see if the older guy would respond to his invite. Sure enough, both car doors clapped shut and Milner was out with him on the side of the street, looking up at the long dark bulk of the home. Lights twinkled in the windows of the main building, but the annexe that Harvey had been assigned darkly awaited his arrival. He gave Milner a curious and suspicious look, watching the versatile player flex and relax his sturdy body in his training shirt and tracksuit bottoms, twitching with energy; like Harvey and Neco, James had actually failed to set foot on the pitch tonight, though at least he’d made the bench. Harvey led him on up the neat lawns and onto the thin wooden staircase up the side of the building, punching buttons on a security panel and letting him into the small but smartly furnished teen pad he lived in, immediately opening the balcony doors to let in some air and gesturing vaguely at furniture that didn’t belong to him and art that he’d never have chosen. Milner looked around with an appreciative eye that reminded Harvey of the big gap in their ages and how virtually ancient the 34-year-old was to him, murmuring about interior décor and home improvements he and his wife were in the middle of as he strolled through the open plan space and inspected the few other rooms through their doorways. Elliott stifled a little yawn and frowned disappointedly. He wished this was malleable Salah, whose moral convictions had been as easy to lubricate as his thick North African prick. Until now, apparently. He touched sore spots on his shoulders and chest idly, thinking about the way the Liverpool striker had thrown him against the wall and claimed nothing more would ever happen. Did he mean it? Fuckin’ spoilsport. Milner was staring into his bedroom now, leaning on the doorframe and muttering something about `good quality bed’ and `oh, do you know who did the built-in wardrobes?’ Harvey found himself staring idly at the impressive breadth of the man’s back and shoulders, muscles oddly prominent even in the loose dark olive of the club kit, one arm tensing up as it rested his weight onto the doorframe; below this view, the trackies hugging his sturdy backside, a slight wedgie just about visible. Boring old Milner, Harvey thought, but I bet his wife hurts in the morning… Now the older guy was making a move through into the bedroom itself and Harvey followed, feeling a little tension in himself. It had been too long since he had any proper fun, really, he’d been too much of a good boy in the summer break, and even Austria had been disappointingly chaste, nocturnal tastes of Mohamed aside… he’d spent too much time with pals like Bobby Duncan, too awkward to be a good wingman in the Liverpool bars, and surely too uptight and traditional to dabble in a bit of marijuana mischief like his friend Neco once had, and… Milner was looking over a thick shoulder at him. `Walk-in wardrobe too?’ he said. `What a diva.’ `Start as you mean to go on,’ the 17-year-old footballer laughed back, drifting after him into the thin anteroom off the bedroom, which was dominated by one long rack of expensive designer tracksuits, and even more so by the shoe rack of his barely touched favourite trainers, his biggest and daftest vice. He fumbled for a light switch but it was a very pale bulb in here, didn’t really do very much; Milner looked even more bulging and hunky in the half-light, 5ft9 of heavy muscle as he stood in front of Harvey and inspected the dimensions of the closet in a frustratingly businesslike manner, as if taking mental notes for his own home improvements. God, you sexy boring fucker, he thought. Harvey moved closer to him, a sense of danger welling up in him, a frustrated urge to try. He reached over to pick up one pair of trainers and deliberately let his wrist brush James’ hip, dropping the shoes deliberately and then fumbling aside a little, letting his hand rub now down the front of those loose grey-green trackies, not quite grabbing or touching anything properly, but doing enough to suggest… Milner’s strong body tautened in the gloom beside him and the older man made a simple grunt of disapproval. `Oops, clumsy, just wanted to show you these,’ Harvey sniggered, reaching forward and squatting a little to grab the perfect white sneakers off the clean carpet — but while he was down there, leaning his left hand instead on one of James’ shoes, feeling his foot through it, sliding his hand back onto his ankle so that he toyed with the hem of his trackies, then slid over his shin a little as he rose back up with the trainers gripped both in his right hand. His groping touch ran with a little shiver past the knee and against James’ thick strong thigh, then back towards… `Nah,’ Milner murmured, brushing his hand away in the dark. Elliott stood there, intoxicated by how calm and conscious the older bloke seemed to be of his cheeky intentions. He gripped the favourite pair of shoes still in his right hand and rubbed the soft knuckles of his left hand once again at the hip and thigh of the other bloke’s right leg, then felt James push at his arm again, moving him away. `Don’t,’ the Leeds man said warningly. `Don’t what?’ teased Harvey quietly, placing the trainers back onto the top shelf of the rack, moving forward to do so but then shifting to the left, so that his own leg and its tight dark denim rubbed against Milner’s, bringing them closer together in the walk-in closet, faking innocence as he bent a little forward to tidy the trainers, pressing his left buttock briefly into the waistline of the other sportsman, then rustling around in a tight circle to face him, seeing his tense rugged face and narrowed eyes… bringing his right hand gently in and grazing his knuckles against the hint of bulge somewhere below, persistent and… `Stop it,’ hissed Milner now. `You keep that hand to yourself, kid.’ `Oh?’ He very slowly shifted and moved his fingers until he could feel it, the soft bulgey shape in the nylon, the mound of a sturdy man’s privates somewhere in there, warm and hidden, slowly closed in his fingers, smirking at James’ face in these close quarters, wondering how far he could push this… if he could seduce pious Mohamed and get a taste of plucky Trent, then why couldn’t he just… `You don’t wanna do that,’ Milner grunted at him. `You don’t wanna push my buttons, Harvey.’ `Hmm, don’t I?’ he said in a slow growl, rubbing his thumb against the bulge and bringing his fingers up towards the waistline. `Why’s that, old man, eh…?’ Suddenly the 34-year-old’s strong hand was over his, gripping his wrist like a vice. His eyes bulged and he stared into the broad craggy face of the experienced footballer’s face, which was a deep lined frown of impatience. `Cos you shouldn’t start things,’ Milner barked at him, `that you aren’t willing to finish.’ With that, he squeezed tightly on the wrist, and brought his other hand up flat against Harvey’s chest, thrusting him into the wall and clattering part of the shoe-rack aside as he did, thumping into the plasterwork. Full of fresh-cooked pasta and a couple of big glasses of red wine, Neco was talkative and expressive at the low dining table in the big rear kitchen of Henderson’s house, making the captain and his wife laugh with his take on international football and how crazy his trips to Finland and Cardiff had been last week; of course, it was a carefully censored narrative of his debut national service, but it turned out there were plenty of funny moments with Gareth Bale and Dan James and the others, no need to even mention mysterious old Ryan Giggs and their… erm, intimacy. But even as he talked on to them, glad to amuse and entertain his hosts, he felt twitchy and weird; in front of him, Henderson’s quiet reserved wife leaned wearily into the captain’s body, resting her head on his shoulder so he played a little with her hair and paused now and then to plant soft little kisses on her brow, never breaking eye contact with Williams’ storytelling. He cradled her to him as he chortled at Neco’s little impression of Bale’s gruff South Wales accent and his stories about poorly translated Welsh in the Cardiff hotel they’d occupied. It had been such a nice evening — brief but warm and chatty and with a really delicious meal that reminded him of cosy summer evenings here when he’d been their forced lodger in the downstairs guest room. He loved feeling like a proper adult bloke with his current flat, loved an opportunity to live with a couple of pals he’d known since he was in primary school — but they didn’t eat this well and things weren’t quite so comfortable or relaxed in the evenings as this, sitting around the table finishing the last of the merlot and being encouraged so warmly by Jordan and Rebecca. And yet… why was it so irritating to watch them cuddle and caress? Neco’s chat died with his dazed mood — the wine was really hitting him now and he felt tired, which was silly since he hadn’t even played a game tonight, and Jordan himself seemed sparky with energy as he tidied up the bowls and refuse to let his wife take care of it since she’d slaved over the oven for them for so long. With Hendo carrying stuff through into the kitchen, that left Neco sat opposite the woman, who smiled appreciatively at him, and asked him more questions about his summer holidays, his family, his hopes for the season. For some reason, he suddenly felt a bit choked up and inarticulate and he tried and failed to detach himself form the conversation to help Jordan instead, stuck instead with the friendly grilling of a woman who had insisted on mothering him throughout his stay, even with her own three young children to fuss with. `Hey,’ called the Liverpool skipper stepping back in across the broad room, rubbing a tea towel between both hands, `d’you just wanna stay over tonight, Neco…? I didn’t realise how much wine we’d all had, and…’ `Oh, yes,’ Rebecca agreed rapidly, reaching over the table to squeeze his hand, `you’d be so welcome. You two don’t have training tomorrow, do you? We were thinking of a run out into Cheshire, you could come and help with the kids, it’d be lovely to have you, and…’ `Yeah, it’s no bother,’ Jordan went on in a slightly drunken slur, `we can get the guest room set up in no time and actually I could probably go for another glass of wine if anyone wants me to open a bottle, haha, so…’ `No,’ Neco said quite loudly and suddenly, unsure what came over him as he forced out the negative response, pushing his seat back a little from the wooden table with both hands. `No,’ he repeated, less needlessly harsh, `no thanks, that is… I should, er, get back to mine, so…’ `Of course,’ Jordan’s wife said pleasantly, `you probably have big weekend plans of your own tomorrow with the lads, no doubt…!’ She grinned almost enviously at him, leaning back in her own chair and folding her arms. `I did tell Jordan we shouldn’t be kidnapping a fun young thing for our entertainment on a Saturday night…! What does a 19-year-old want with quiet dinner parties, huh…?’ She chuckled at herself and suddenly Jordan was beside and behind her, stroking her shoulders and laughing too, grinning rosy-cheeked across at Neco, who felt a sudden urge to twist out of his seat and up onto his feet, pulling his phone from a pocket. `I’ll just order an Uber,’ he said, turning away form them with redenning cheeks of his own, feeling a little light-headed. `It won’t take long.’ Harvey barely had time to react as he was turned clumsily around, the rack rattling away beside him as he brought his forearms up to catch himself and press himself more firmly against the hard painted wall, James’ strong imperious hands ragging up at his tshirt, dragging it up his sides to expose his lean muscular midriff. He made a little yelp of surprise as the same hands found the button fly of his jeans and wrenched at it. Not a word was said. In the moment, Milner was transformed. No more the quiet bookish old man of the squad. He was just a force of muscle and heavy breaths, tugging and pushing at the clothes on Harvey’s excitedly trembling body. Still he pulled and wrestled at Harvey’s tshirt until the teen had to stretch his arms forward and upright and angle his neck so that the garment could go rippling up and off them, his thin taut biceps then grabbed in each of Milner’s big paws and thrust forward into the wall to bring his body forward. He let out a loud gasp of strange alarm and then felt the hands drag roughly back down his sides to the loosened jeans, shoving heavily down on them from each hip, bringing his spotty blue and yellow boxer shorts down at the same time, making him yelp and gasp more. `Mate,’ he gasped, but the noise that came back was an unambiguous `Shush!’ The hands ran over him. One grabbed and pushed and squeezed at his shoulders and the top of his spine, the other spread across his downy lower back and found one of his plump lightly haired cheeks, squeezing and grasping at it and making him wriggle in wild surprise. What the fuck?! Unused to being so firmly manhandled, Harvey wriggled and half-turned, pulling one arm down and starting to reach behind him, excited and curious — but his wrist was mersin escort bayan grabbed again so firmly it almost hurt, pushed forward and pressed back into the wall. Oh, wow, it was like that then…! More grabbing and squeezing of his arse, exciting when it had received so very little attention… the feel of one dry finger running down his crack made him giggle and buckle and press harder into the wall. He’d been so curious about his own arse back when he first shared a spliff with Neco and encouraged him to reach down there into his `pussy’, but all he’d really done since then was perfect his cocksucking, one discreet opportunity at a time… Oh! Firmly and commandingly, James found and pushed at his hole, still grabbing and squeezing and now slapping his right buttock with the other hand, then shaking and pushing at his upper body. Reaching down now and pulling and pushing his jeans and undies further down his chunky young thighs, past his knees, then pushing and twisting at his confused body, getting him into the right position against the wall… Harvey gasped and muttered and felt overwhelmed by the speed and urgency of it all unfolding. `James,’ he mumbled a little more hopefully, as he felt two fingers rubbing and pushing down the downy furrow of his butt-crack now, `I’ve never actually…’ Again, loud and near his ear, `Just shush, you started this…’ The sound of spitting, the sudden wetness of those thick pushy fingers. Harvey pushed his arms and hands against the wall to support himself, feeling his dick springing up hard, totally overwhelmed and excited. Part of him wanted to slow things down, twist around, drop to his knees, get a look at Milner’s cock — he’d seen the thick short thing swing between those mighty muscled legs in the shower, of course, but he wanted to see it hard, taste it, get it between his lips…! A bigger and older DILF than Salah, surely… hah, he thought bitterly, wait til Neco heard about this…! `You slut,’ muttered Milner, finally vocal, grabbing roughly at him. `You little slut…’ `Yes,’ Harvey whispered, going with it, `yes, if that’s what you want, daddy…’ `Shut that up,’ snapped Milner dismissively, `don’t fuckin’ call me that.’ `Yes, erm, sir?’ `Shut up!’ `Oh, fuck!’ One of Milner’s thick fingers was in him now, pushing into his hole with force and depth, making him twist and gasp and scrabble at the wall, knocking more of his trainer collection from their perch as he slipped about for a comfy position, one of Milner’s hands reaching up and taking firm hold of his man bun to control and centre him as he slid his finger in to the knuckle then back, then the same thing over and over, lubed only by spit… `Oh man,’ Elliott groaned into the gloomy cramped tunnel of his walk-in closet, `oh bruv, that’s…’ `Shut yer mouth, slut,’ Milner moaned, pushing the finger in deeper then trying to insert a second, wrapping one of those tight muscled arms about his chest as he did so, holding him fully, gripping and squeezing him and exploring his virginal backside in a way that made him writhe and giggle and make pained little yelps. So much more than he’d bargained for. Neco blinked sleepily in the leafy dark in front of the Hendersons’ driveway, watching the taxi approach down the quiet winding road into the estate, warm despite the late hour, red wine seeming to ebb and flow in his body and mind. He wrinkled his nose and scratched his chin and then glanced over at Jordan, who had insisted on following him out here and been a bit perplexed that the taxi wasn’t actually here yet, despite Neco’s repeated insistence. Now the two Liverpool men stood quietly at the edge of the driveway, between the row of cars. `I am sorry I can’t drive you,’ Hendo said somewhere to his left and behind him, breaking the rustling quiet of the night, the approaching hiss of a solitary car and the vague woodland noises of the leafy suburban community beyond the glow of a single security lamp above their heads. `You’ve had way too much,’ Neco reminded him, forcing a breezy chuckle. `But thanks.’ `Yeah, should have thought ahead,’ Jordan mumbled, something regretful and sorry in his voice. `Not to worry,’ he assured him. `Thanks so much for dinner. It was so nice.’ `You sure?’ `Yeah, yeah — delicious as always. You sure she doesn’t want to become a food influencer on Instagram haha?’ He skipped from foot to foot and fiddled with the strap of his belt, watching the headlights disappear and reappear around a tree-lined corner and then draw much closer, the car’s thrumming radio now joining the soundscape between them. `You’re sure you enjoyed tonight?’ the captain asked quite quietly, his voice almost lost in that mix of noise. Neco paused and tensed and repeated: `Yeah, yeah! Why wouldn’t I?’ He felt the host draw a little closer to him and stand inches from him, the same hands-in-pockets stance of male awkwardness now as Neco finally turned to look at him, to flash one of his big white smiles of laddish excitement. Jordan tilted his head a little and studied him. `You just don’t seem yourself,’ he remarked, arching his brows. `All good?’ Neco nodded fervently. `It’s been a great night, I just need to get home,’ he said. `Really, skip… thanks for having me.’ He felt the futility of his grateful words, his inability to sensibly express just how nice it was to spend time here again after his spell as a resident. He thought about how quiet and dead the flat would be when he got back, one of the boys probably passed out in front of an old movie in the lounge and the other out at his girlfriend’s no doubt. He thought of his own room, his stuff still barely unpacked after almost two months of rent. `You’re sure everything is good?’ Hendo asked him. `We didn’t do something to upset you?’ His voice was laced with worry and embarrassment at even asking this, hunching his shoulders somewhat and leaning in. The taxi was here now, parked a few feet in front of them, its noisy pop radio blaring in the midnight streets of the snooty community. The two footballers looked at each other and smirked at this noisy intrusion, then Neco turned gratefully away, and shuffled towards the car, reaching for the handle, giving a light wave to the captain, then clambering in to his getaway vehicle, ready to carry him away into the night. But… away from what, exactly? Harvey reached forward to grab the poles of the hanging rack, squeezing his hands around one and then pushing the heel of his other hand into the wall, his face and shoulders pressing forward into the dangling threads of his hanging garments as… as… wow… Behind him, Milner was pushing in, gripping him just above the waist and pushing his meat inside. He’d been fingering him for a good fifteen minutes, really taking his time after the initial rush and push — working one then two fingers in and out, then spitting some more into his hand, slicking it up and down the crack and about the curves of his chubby young buttocks, then digging fingers deeply back in, working and loosening his unfucked ring, and now… Sweat sprung up and prickled Harvey’s pale skin and he pressed and grabbed harder to steady himself, feeling the dull throb of stretch, the huge presence of manhood entering him for the first time, so much heavier and more invasive than he might have dared to imagine when drunk or high or exceptionally curious. As before, nothing was said, he didn’t waste his time appealing to the older bloke to slow down or go careful, didn’t risk being shushed or dismissed or — much worse — breaking the heady magic of this filth, risking the straitlaced married Yorkshireman stomping out of his bedroom and apartment and leaving him teased and unfucked. No, he kept his mouth shut, pressed his face forward into the rippling textures of his hanging clothes, grasped at the pole for support, trembled and tried his best to relax and open up as, inch by inch, he was mounted and filled and… ohhhh, fucked… From then it became quick and urgent again, was over quickly — he didn’t count the thrusts or the seconds but he knew it didn’t take long for Milner to be done with him. His body made ragdoll bounces there in the cramped closet, grabbed and held by the arms now as the hard thick tool was fully inside him, stretching him past his inexperienced limits, then wrenched back in forth in a series of hard strokes that stung and burned but also sent electric jolts of unbelievable pleasure through his whole body. He gasped loudly into the wall but his throaty voice was muffled by hanging denim jackets and neatly pressed designer shirts. Trainers and the broken segments of the shoe rack clattered about as Milner’s body moved and swung and a final few hard pushes entered and broke him, the pain finally winning out over the pleasure and resulting in a really agonised little yowl of distress — just as he thought he probably couldn’t take any more of this virginal impaling and he might have to yell for James to slow or stop, it was over. The long strangled groan above his head was obvious in meaning and he thought he could feel a sort of stickiness inside him. And then he was released, falling forwards, tumbling in against the wall and the carpet, too weak and surprised to prop himself up, just collapsing stupidly onto the carpet of his walk-in closet, gasping for breaths and feeling his cock twitch and shudder and leak pre-cum against his hairy thigh. Immediately, he scrabbled for purchase and pushed his body around, whirling round to look at James, but the big guy was backing already out of the closet and into the room. Harvey reached for the closet furniture and dragged himself up, his arse throbbing and his dick leaking. `Oh god,’ he moaned dimly, lurching through the door into his own bedroom, just in time to see Milner stand beside the bed, pick up a corner of the duvet, and wipe it over his short fat veiny cock to clean it of his arse. Harvey, jeans and boxers about his ankles, stood in the empty doorway, hands on the frame, staring awkwardly across at the bulky figure of the 34-year-old now cleaning his cock on his bedding, looking anywhere but at him. His bottom stung and burned and he wondered if a cold bath would help, staring needily at the DILF who’d broken him with so little ceremony or build-up. `You shouldn’t have made me do that,’ grunted James sourly. `Huh?’ `It’s been a long time,’ muttered Milner mysteriously. `You dirty fucker.’ `Erm…’ He laughed awkwardly, straightened up, winced in fresh pain from his tender rear, felt stupid about his own swinging hard-on, unattended and unimportant to his visitor. `Mate…’ He took some teetering steps into the bedroom of his annexe apartment, bending down and beginning to drag the undies and skinny jeans up his hairy footballer’s legs. `Erm, James, mate, that was mad, I’ve never…’ `I know,’ the other guy snapped, turning away as he pushed his wilting piece back into his tracksuit bottoms and snatched some deodorant off a dresser beneath the windows. `You felt as tight as anything, you dirty slut.’ Back to him, the man pulled at his tshirt and blasted anti-perspirant beneath his top then against his chest and crotch: spraying away the scents of sex and male lust. Harvey hovered foolishly behind him, struggling a bit with the pain but also just marvelling at the brutish rawness of the seemingly reserved man now filling his bedroom and, finally, turning to look at him. The same harsh craggy frown as in the dark of the closet. `That’ll stay between us,’ Milner snapped at him firmly. `Not a word, okay? You got it? Good. Now I’ll leave you to it.’ And he was stomping out, from room to room and out onto the stairway, letting the door slam behind him. Harvey Elliott stared after him and gawped, sweat trickling down his brow and about his cheeks and onto his hairy chin. Then he fell back against the bed in a stupor, willing the pain in his arse to recede and soften, and hoping google would have all the answers on how to recover…! Neco stepped out of the taxi and waved off the driver, begrudgingly grinning at the generic `holy fuck you play for Liverpool’ chatter that had occupied much of the journey back into the city. He lingered on the pavement for a minute, watching the car go, reluctant to climb the stairs indoors and let himself into the quiet laddish penthouse and the bedroom full of boxes and junk that he didn’t know how to make homely and chic or cosy like the house he’d just left. It had been a great night, he reminded himself. Good food, good wine, good company. It had been so kind of them to have him back there for dinner, especially late on a home match night when Jordan would be so wiped out from playing, so… He shrugged and shook himself and laughed into the silent city street, annoyed at his own up-and-down mood. You ungrateful jerk, he accused himself — why did you have to get all funny with Hendo when he was being so kind to you? Weird! Before he could head indoors, his phone buzzed and he opened up the message to read as he made his way indoors, letting himself into the block’s foyer and then onto the stairs that led up to their top floor place. He felt guilty at the accusing confusion of Harvey’s first message, unread from much earlier tonight: `Oi, Welshy! Where u @? Thought we were having pints, sadface’ But then, unlocking the door and letting himself into the apartment, he scrolled down to the next message and almost sniggered aloud, unsurprised but still so scandalised by his younger friend’s antics: `holy fuck, you won’t even believe the DILF who broke me tonight, buddy, whoa, ring u 2moro lol — think this 1 might beat ur Giggsy adventure u dirty dog hehe xx’ Williams rolled his eyes, pushing the door shut behind him. God, why had he ever told Harvs about what happened in Finland? He’d been starstruck and tipsy and the old guy himself had clearly been under the influence of too much whiskey too…! Giggsy had barely acknowledged him on the following days of the international duty, even when he scored his stunning debut in the second fixture; it had been clear that the middle-aged legend did not want to address their fumbling communion in the night, perhaps sorely regretted bending over and noshing off a lad…! And Neco certainly shared that, couldn’t believe he’d allowed himself to experiment once more, so sure that those smoked-up fumbles with his pal Harvey were a mad summer game never to be repeated. He just wanted his girlfriend, he reminded himself, even if she didn’t seem so interested lately and their dates were becoming tired and repetitive. Well, he wanted girls, he assured himself, sure of that and marvelling at the silly things he’d allowed himself to try out in the buzz and limelight of his blossoming football career. Not like that pervert Harvey, he thought with a smirk, who seemed to be after everything he could get! Well, he could officially take his title as bad boy and dirty dog back, the nasty fucker, after whatever he’d done tonight… Neco was not going to rush to challenge him for it! ‘Writer guy’ – Premiership Lads on Nifty fty//gay/celebrity/premiership-lads/ Amazon Wishlist here if you wanna say thanks LOL https://www.amazon.co.uk/hz/wishlist/ls/26BW3WSABBHNM?ref_=wl_share
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