Part 101: The Bundesliga
Jadon,' the silky international English of his football agent said down the phone line, this is going to be such a key moment for you.'
I know,' Sancho agreed with a hesitant edge to his voice, letting the car door fall shut behind him and looking up at the severe rise of Borussia Dortmund's expensive new training ground beyond the line of trees. I know it is big man, it's just...'
The Bundesliga is pretty much the only top football league in the country ready to run,' the Swiss man on the line continued in his clipped English and careful enthusiasm. You know how many people will follow these first few games back in the German league? Think about it, Jadon -- millions of eyes on Germany, and who will they be talking about? You.'
Yeh, yeh,' the 20-year-old lad muttered, walking up the smooth tiling towards the entrance. I know that bruv, just-`
Your market value will never be higher.' His agent's voice sounded almost exasperated with him. If we're going to strike a deal in the Premiership, it is not going to come better than this; let me tell you, the calls and emails I have been getting this last six months... Jadon, it is about to blow up.'
`Maybe...'
`No maybe about it. The Bundesliga kicks off tomorrow and all eyes will be on it. Bored, frustrated, worried eyes. You are about to be a more famous footballer than you ever knew. You think you are hotly tipped now? You think you are an exciting prospect now? The world is going to wake up on Jadon Sancho this month.'
He liked to hear it, as nervous as the man's gently building hype made him feel somewhere deep down. He looked distractedly at the other arriving players and the nervously distanced staff members around the entrance and foyer of the training ground. He needed to be out of this call, he had work to do. The voice of the slick hyper-successful European agent who had brought him this far in a handful of years chattered on, talking big about the various messages he'd been receiving lately; the long-murmured interest from all sorts of massive clubs back home in the UK, and elsewhere.
`Can we talk about this later?' Jadon asked irritably.
We need to get this in gear,' snapped the older man down the phone, a little impatiently. Jadon, why so hot and cold? We need to be able to put a price out there and-`
I'm about to go into training,' Jadon snapped back. You know, for the big game you're banging on about, chief.' He cooled his tone, too full of respect and gratitude for this cunning businessman who had guided him here. `Please, let me call you back, man.'
`Say you'll think more about it.'
Man, I think about it all the time, bruv. Just -- I love it here, ya know? Dortmund have invested. They been good to me. YOU been good to me.' He sighed. We'll talk later, bud. Promise.' He hung up before more slick protestation could come from the Swiss agent, whose eyes he knew would be afire with big money possibilities and the future they always talked about, the shelves of Ballon d'Or and England captaincy that he could rhapsodize about whenever Jadon doubted his potential.
Sancho slid the iPhone into the pocket of his loose-fitting Adidas hoody and pulled up the gentle face mask that dangled about his fluffy chin, fixing it over nose and mouth before nearing the guys around the entrance. He gave jerky nods and light waves of glad greeting to the familiar staff faces and the other few Dortmund players arriving at the same time, then followed them in.
`Little Sancho,' barked the voice of one more native teammate, slowing his stride at the automatic doors and lifting a big hand in greeting.
Can Can,' quipped Sancho, returning the wave but keeping his distance as they steered across the lobby together, good to see you big man. How's it going?'
Emre Can rolled his dark eyes beneath thick full brows and shrugged his broad shoulders. Ready for a big last training session,' the tall defender growled eagerly. Ready to push myself. No more taking it easy, huh?'
Jadon fell into step with him, smiling and waving at a couple more familiar faces as they turned off down one of the broad, well-lit corridors of the multi-million euro complex. He thought about the other player's words carefully. Taking it easy,' he asked, is that what we've been doing so far...?'
Emre Can shrugged his thick upper body again. `A little. That is what they say. We must be ready for tomorrow -- full fitness. No half effort, you know?'
Sancho mulled further on this, thinking about his efforts over the past 10 days. `What, who's saying that...? Who doesn't think we're ready...?' He scratched at his arms idly and followed Can further down the hall and through more double doors into the meeting room where the other men of the Borussia Dortmund first team were carefully spaced out around two long tables, ready for a pep talk before the afternoon's training sessions began.
`Nothing, nobody,' Can muttered dismissively, breaking away from him and waving across at some of the other native Germans on the side, while Sancho fell behind and drifted to a spare seat between two other younger squad members.
Lockdown had not been easy for the 20-year-old Camberwell lad. Sure, Sancho had a luxury pad in the nicest suburbs of the south German city, but he was a young lad in a foreign country with a limited support network, watching news reports of things get steadily worse in his homeland. Between worrying for friends and family in London and the building frustration of missing his day-to-day footballing life, the weeks of social isolation had ached and dragged for Jadon; the carefully managed return to training at the end of last week, and the giddy prospect of tomorrow's proper competitive Bundesliga game against Schalke... it wasn't just a light at the end of the tunnel, it was a fucking bulldozer smashing right through the tunnel midway.
Training, though, had brought its own challenges: as much as he'd kept to a strict workout at his pad, shared with two other young Dortmund players, it had hardly been the same. A load of nice stretches in their sunny garden, bouts of playful boxing on the lawn, some flashy weights regimen in their basement -- his six-pack had never looked so pronounced, perfect for social media, but his actual match fitness was lower than he'd known it in the three years since moving here.
Jadon Sancho, one of the most promising English footballers in his generation, had worked incredibly hard to cement himself as a Dortmund player since exiting Manchester City's youth line-up in 2017 -- he'd come out here full of the knowledge that British players just did not cut it in foreign leagues, full of the damp squibs that preceded him in Premiership history. Against the odds, a 17-year-old Sancho had gritted his teeth and dug in his heels, and made a name for himself. He was a first-team regular for Borussia Dortmund and, when visiting home, a highly regarded prospect on England's national team. He'd made it past the early hurdles of his career, often guided by the wild visions of his agent, and he felt good and confident about his position here. He loved to hear his manager and coach, and pundits and commentators, make the comparisons: more goals and assists at 20 than even Leo Messi.
But this past week, he'd felt distinctly average. His speed and skills had been sloppy in every drill. He wasn't alone in this; the Dortmund players burned with a pent-up energy from their weeks in lockdown, but many of them were decidedly below par after such a break. So up until now, Jadon had tried not to worry about it. It was inevitable, it was natural, it was level; or was it?
Were other guys more disciplined and focused? He thought about life in his shared villa: three hot-blooded young footballers between 19 and 22. Yeah, they'd put some work in on their fitness, but... They'd also indulged in overpriced takeaway buffets, long binges of video gaming, more weed and booze than they'd ever dare touch during normal season weeks. Arriving to training that day, irked by his agent's persistence and Emre Can's passing comment, Jadon felt lardy and sluggish, weak and out of touch. Ugh.
But he was no quitter.
Jadon threw himself into each stage of the afternoon with renewed efforts. Maybe, he thought, hearing Emre's little jibe, paranoid or not, was just what he needed. Perhaps he'd let his standards down a bit this week in their training sessions, perhaps he was holding back. Not today!
This was their last training before tomorrow's comeback game against Schalke, the much-anticipated return of the Bundesliga. It was unusual for a late-in-the-day set of drills like this just twenty-four hours before the game, perhaps a testament to the general fitness concerns -- Jadon should have clocked this and felt less worried about his own performance, but he was young and eager to please, and rendered self-conscious by the hype of his own agent. He felt very aware of the attention he would receive this weekend, English football-lovers turning their focus to Germany in anticipation of their own league's doubtful return. Jadon loved playing in Germany, but he also wanted to be seen as a big star in England. Transfer or no transfer, he could see the importance of these next few games in the long-term.
So he threw himself into the afternoon with fierce relish. He left Can, Gotze and Witsel for dust in a series of speedy midfielder challenges, then put in every shot he was offered in some set-piece training, provoking laughter and teasing from Hitz and Hupe, two of their goalkeepers. The team's No.1 keeper, Burki, slapped him on the shoulder and insisted he take it easy on him, but Sancho booted in several more neat goals and moved on to the next stage of his training. He didn't realise quite how shagged out he was by it until the captain, Marco Reus, put a hand to his shoulder in the line-up for some dribbling drills, and asked if he was okay. Jadon grinned and laughed and wiped sweat from his forehead. `All good,' he reassured Reus, then again in his own clumsy German.
It was a hot afternoon and his thin black-and-yellow training shirt was soon soaked through against his lean young body. He rested for barely a moment between drills, hands to his hips stretching out his chest and shoulders. He thought about the phone conversation, only the latest chapter in an ongoing struggle. His agent, delighted with his recent form at Dortmund, was adamant that a homecoming to the Premiership was vital this year. Both in terms of pay and glory, he argued, it was where the young Englishman needed to be. Supposedly, the same names kept popping up in his inbox and on the grapevine: Manchester United, his former club City, Chelsea and Spurs, even Liverpool. The interest was there. But Jadon felt conflicted both in loyalty to Dortmund, where he had blossomed from boy to man, but also a certain fear of the pressure and scrutiny in the English league, a culture he'd moved away from in the clean, honest world of German football.
`You should take it easy,' panted Leonardo Balerdi, one of his housemates, the 21-year-old defender jogging up to him as they joined the scramble of defensive and midfielder players lapping the training pitch for some cardio.
`Take it easy, with tomorrow's game?' Sancho responded challengingly, letting his thick legs pound the grass below.
Exactly,' the Argentinian laughed at him, save something for the game, friend!'
Jadon grinned his way, shook his head. `Easy for you to say, South America, I've got shit to prove,' Sancho told him bluntly, and left him behind; it was meant to be more of a jog than a run, but he put on an extra spurt of speed and wove through the gaggle of teammates until he was at the front and neck and neck with the assistant coach leading this part of the day.
Just as he neared him, he felt the twinge in his thigh. The hint of cramp pain jabbing at his pale brown muscle beneath the black training shorts. For a moment, Jadon slowed his run, a little imbalanced by the sensation. Skipping past him, Reus looked his way again with the almost paternal concern of team captain. `You sure you're okay?' he asked in smooth German, and Jadon instantly laughed and waved and picked up his speed. But for the rest of the laps around the pitch, he felt more twinges of pain in left leg. By the time their runs were over, he had gradually slipped back through the line-up of joggers, his burst of speed over; a few of the older players, including the giant Mats Hummels, gave him patronising little smirks of acknowledgement.
Slow down, young gun,' called the 6ft4 defender mockingly as Jadon fell in place behind him, don't burn out too soon...!'
After the runs, Jadon and the other wingers were taken aside for some passing drills. Each kick, he realised, brought fresh twinges of muscle pain, all down his left leg by now. He gritted his teeth and fought to hide the winces, but got funny looks from the nearest couple of players and the assistant coach they were working with. Sancho waved away the odd question or look of worry, smiling and laughing and running his fingers through his bushy afro hair. He pulled his soaked training top up to wipe at his clammy face and received a few jokey compliments about his abs.
By the time the whistle blew on this short intense afternoon of training, though, he was in agony. He came to a halt in his slow run and squatted on his haunches for a moment, lowering his face so nobody could see the pain in his expression. He rubbed at his eyes with sweaty fingers and told himself it would be sorted out by a hot shower. Still, he lingered there for a while, squatting on the thick trunks of his legs and feeling sweat course down his neck and limbs and the small of his back. He lifted his head and watched the majority of the guys already filing in doors; if he took his time, nobody needed to see the gentle limp that would be required to get him off the grass.
Fucking hell, he thought, watch me miss the game tomorrow injured. What would his agent say then?!
When the crowd had thinned, Jadon loped as comfortably as he could off the pitch and back in through the wide open doors towards the training ground's extensive changing rooms. Shuffling from the grass to the red tarmac, he saw one of the junior coaches glance his way with a look of consternation. Fuck, fuck, he thought, straightening up his body and ignoring the stabbing sensations in his left thigh. He twitched his grin in the thirtysomething guy's direction.
Everything feeling okay, Sancho?' asked the man in a low voice, a kinda you can tell me' voice. Yeah, Jadon thought, I fucking tell you then the whole coaching team are talking about my injury risk and then boom, I'm on the bench tomorrow, or worse, completely rested! No way...
`Ausgezeichnet,' Jadon lied with bright eyes. Excellent.
Inside, he took ages at the water fountain, hydrating himself to delay entering the changing rooms proper and having anyone notice or comment on his limp or facial grimaces. He rested his arse against a bench and slugged back cup after cup of icy water. Only once he'd seen the first couple of guys on their way out, damp hair slicked back and fresh polo shirts on, did he lifted himself from the bench and pour a last half-cup of cool water over his own sweaty face and hair. To his silent horror, the ten minute sit here had only made his leg feel worse, and he had to walk in a really slow and awkward fashion to get down the passage and through the door into the steamy warmth of the changing rooms, all white towel and bare flesh and echoing manly German laughter.
Reaching the far side of the room where his things were, he gloomily realised he would need another sit down. He peeled his soaked bumblebee kit up and off and hung it on a peg then sank into the wooden bench below, biting back a little gasp of discomfort and wedging his sore legs into a comfortable position before resting his back to the cool metal grid behind him. How bad could this be? Just some cramp. It would go soon. Or in the shower. He'd be fine. Match fit. Ready to impress. Yes.
`I hope I did not offend you earlier, friend.'
He looked up and across; just to his left and opposite, Emre can was in the middle of checking through some things in his locker. Like Jadon, the 6ft defensive midfielder had shed his shirt and was stood in just close-fitting black shorts, yards of tanned muscle on show along his back and front. He turned and gave a flashy white-tooth smile across at him, creasing his brow. Aha,' he said in his low purring German accent, I see I did.'
`What? No, not at all...'
I did not mean you,' Can intoned, I simply meant...' He shrugged his broad bare shoulders. `We are none of us at our BEST, after such break, eh...?'
`It's fine,' Jadon muttered, aware that his pained voice and expression were probably making him look far more annoyed than he really felt. He should have known better than to read too much into Can's casual commentary on their way in, but he realised now it had been burning a hole in his head for the past couple of hours and now he'd probably pushed himself far too hard. Ignoring Emre, he leaned forward to start rolling down his socks and undoing his laces but flinched as the tension struck a sore nerve or whatever in his left thigh. Emre was immediately moving closer, highlighting to Jadon how obvious his comfort must be.
`What's wrong?' the tall German Turk asked, looming over him.
`Nothing, nothing,' Jadon grumbled back, waving him away with one hand and dragging socks down with the other. He kicked at his trainers then relaxed his legs, socks hanging off around his ankles, his chest and abs tensed with his own distress, hands gripping the edge of the bench. His German teammate stood over him, his dark tanned features fixed with concern.
`You're in pain,' Can said simply.
`Ain't nothing major,' Sancho told him with another dismissive wave.
But Emre, instead of heading off for his overdue shower, moved closer and slid down into a sitting position right beside him, hands to the bench in parallel, hunching his shoulders and giving him a searching look with his deep dark eyes. There was something faintly intimidating about the tall dark Turkish man, Jadon felt, though he liked the energy he'd brought to the side since arriving on loan in January from Juventus. He brought with him a touch of borrowed glamour, even if he was something of a spare part at the legendary Italian team, returning to Germany without making much impact down there. He was a brash and confident guy who'd carved a place for himself in Dortmund in a short few months before the lockdown, clearly glad to be back amongst his countrymen. Like Jadon, he supposed, he had a lot to prove; perhaps he was angling for a permanent transfer.
`Tomorrow will be strange,' Emre said slowly, still looking at him thoughtfully.
`Strange how?' Jadon asked, unable to hide a certain impatience. He wanted the big defender to fuck off away from him and get his shower, he didn't need no witnesses when he tried to get up from this bench and skip his way down the room. His leg was really throbbing with every twitch of his body now; the changing rooms were clearing but there were still a few other witnesses, men emerging from the showers and pulling on clean clothes.
A lot of attention,' Emre continued. So few leagues in action.'
`Oh... yeh...'
`I guess especially for you, Englishman.'
Sancho lifted his eyebrows and glanced in surprise at the big guy's perceptive comment. Maybe,' he said vaguely. English people are desperate for some footy now, ya know, bruv.'
Bruv,' echoed the Frankfurt-born footballer with a hollow laugh. Yes. All of London be watching you play tomorrow,' he said in a gentle chuckle. `That is... if you play.'
Jadon frowned defensively at him. I'll play,' he said sharply. I'm not in pain. I'm fine. I'll be on that pitch, big man, just you-`
Stand up then,' challenged the Turk. Let me see you stand up.'
I'm having a sit,' Sancho grunted. Taking a moment. Go shower. You stink.'
`Of what?'
Of mind-your-fucking-business,' the young Londoner quipped back. Seriously...' softening his voice, `I'm fine, thanks for asking, just...'
You should see the physio,' Emre told him, respectfully keeping his voice quiet, again seeming to sense Jadon's private worries and voice them helpfully. Although... I suppose...'
Not allowed, is it?' Sancho muttered back, a new jab of pain making his voice tense and almost aggressive, though he appreciated the 26-year-old's patient worry. Not really social distancing, is it, a fucking massage?' He grimaced and rubbed his tufty bearded chin then pulled away from Emre a little, trying to stretch and part his usually powerful legs. He had to grip the wood of the bench tighter to distract himself from the jabs of pain up and down his left leg, and the headache of worry it was bringing to his temples. Again, he wished Can would just fuck off so he could sulk in peace and wait for the muscle pains to subside. He just needed to get into the shower, blast with hot water, and...
He glanced sharply to his left and frown. Emre had just picked up one long heavy arm of tanned flesh and dropped it around his knees, pressing his big flat palm just above it and resting thick thumb and fingers against his brown skin. Eh?' Jadon questioned quickly. What the fuck are you doing, pal?' he asked with the nervous homophobia of any young athlete who's never quite got used to the touch of a male physio.
I'm no professional, but I know what I'm doing,' the 6ft player grunted with a soft half-laugh. We are hardly risk to each other, Jadon. Not after hours of training this week, no?' He squeezed the flat of his big hand on Jadon's lower thigh, and the 20-year-old gawped irritably at him. He looked from the big hand and the gentle expression on Emre's dark features to the rest of the room, emptying but not empty. A few other players were dressing at the other end and he had a sudden sense of how dodgy this little contact between two blokes might look to a guy glancing their way, and...
`Leave it, will ya,' Sancho blurted, pushing his hand against Can's and forcing it off his left leg then getting up to stand. As he did, the muscles seemed to spasm and fuck him over and he lurched awkwardly forward, trampling his own discarded trainers and staggering weakly across the space of grimy floor until he had to reach his hands head of him and catch his fall against the greasy metal of the locker wall. Instantly, Emre was on his feet too and at his side, just an inch taller but feeling like a big reassuring presence as he clapped a hand to his upper back and balanced him.
You're in pain,' Emre said again, stating the obvious, how bad is it?'
Jadon pressed his weight into his arms and rested against the lockers, squeezing his eyes shut and recovering from the stabbing sensation. He turned his head weakly and looked at Emre's big face of brotherly worry, then pouted sulkily. It feels like shit,' he admitted. I overdid it, big man. Fucked it.' He shifted back and allowed Emre's hand on his shoulder-blades to take some of his weight, then sank back down towards the bench again in the same awkward sitting position, legs parted and stretched.
Emre remained standing, folding his arms, again seeming so tall and broad. `You idiot,' he said in a jarringly kind voice.
I'll be fine tomorrow,' Jadon told him, uncertainty in every syllable. Hot bath, or whatever.'
The tall Turkish man breathed a sigh and ran one set of fingers through the greasy parting of his black hair, then rubbed at his blocky stubbled chin, then sighed again. You idiot,' he muttered, but this time added, here, I help you.' Jadon thought he meant that he'd help him up, and braced himself for the humiliation of trying to stand on the leg again, with this big lad's support, but no; Emre was sliding back down into sitting position next to him, both just in their dark sweaty shorts, and laying that same hand in the same position on the throbbing flesh of his lower thigh. Jadon glared at the invasive hand and then at the big dark eyes. He flashed his gaze across the room and noticed how empty it was now; he saw the double doors swing a bit as they closed after the last man departing.
Like I say,' grunted the German accent next to him, I am no physio, but -- we all know what needs doing with our muscles, eh?' And he began, very cautiously, kneading thick fingertips against the lower muscles above Jadon's knee, initially sending little jolts of irritating pain up and down the leg, then a duller throb and, after a few moments, a kind of surprising satisfaction. The strength and confidence of the man's touch was unexpectedly soothing against the cramp and tension of his aching leg.
Jadon just stared from the unwanted hand to the concentrating expression then let out a half-laugh himself and brought both hands up to rub his face and pull back his tight curls of dark hair. Bruv,' he groaned, what are you playing at...? You thinking of a career change...?'
Oh yes,' joked Emre, running his fingertips back around the knee joint before pulling the flat of his hand further up the thigh again, I make so much more money as star physio, eh... maybe Juventus finally find work for me in that job, hah...!' He lifted and patted his strong hand against Jadon's leg and, feeling more spasms of ache, the English youngster supposed this experimental little massage was over, just a gesture or an abortive attempt to amuse him out of his pain.
Sit back,' the German Turk instructed suddenly in a low, friendly voice, patting his knee again, sit back and spread leg a bit, let me touch easy...'
Jadon stared at him and blinked, his mouth dropping open a bit. The words queued up in his mouth to speak, to say `Er, no mate, I don't think so', or something more sarcastic, but... he winced at a fresh spasm of pain and then stared down at the traitor of his left leg, stupid muscly bastard of pain that was ruining his Friday. Emre was very right: in normal circumstances he'd be straight to the physio to consult and hopefully get this ironed out. But there was no rubdown or treatment available other than the match-days, they'd been told, to reduce contact and risk, so...
Go on,' Emre said, open your legs a bit, yeh...?'
So Jadon did. He let out a very quiet nervous laugh at himself and parted his footballer's thighs a bit more, pushing his arse back over the bench and leaning his spine into the railings. His dark shorts, damp with sweat, rode up both legs a little and exposed more fluffy thigh, strong-looking upper leg that was currently twitching and throbbing with the most excruciating sensations. He watched as Emre's big hand slid up a little, then those big firm knuckles tensed as long thick fingers brushed and rubbed and dug at his muscles. Again, initial pain, strange dulling, then a deeply physical satisfaction. To his great surprise, the Juventus loan player really did seem to know a thing or two about massage, or at least just had the strength and pressure of a physio's touch about right!
How that?' Can asked in his flat broken English. Feel okay, less hurtful?'
Er, yeh,' Sancho said begrudgingly, it doesn't feel so bad, nah...'
`Here, let me bring leg up. Trust me. I know what to do.' And without waiting for answer, both of Emre's hands were around his knee, hosting the offending left leg up; it was draped over Emre's own knees, so he could feel their cooling hard muscle beneath his calf and thigh, his own foot sticking ridiculously in the air with a bunched up black sock hanging off his ankle. Jadon twisted his body a little to the left for this ungainly angle and watched as, that look of odd concentration on his long handsome face, Emre Can pressed both hands to his legs and massaged up and down in slow curving motions, one hand on his shin and calf, the other exploring the thigh.
Jadon looked up again and found his beady young eyes meeting the strong silent gaze of the older German man. Emre's eyes were very dark and intense beneath the high rise of his brows, parted by the long imperious ridge of his nose. He always had the look of some Middle Eastern or ancient Shah to Jadon, something dominant and regal in his aloof manner. Now his big hands were all over his leg and Sancho felt ridiculously vulnerable and submissive, angled against his lap like this. He had to hold onto a panicked little yelp as Emre's right hand, with more intimate force, dragged right up his thigh and pushed at the leg of his shorts, bunching it up towards his hip and crotch to really kneed at the flesh of his inner thigh muscle, which... yep, he had to admit, felt really fucking positive, melting some of that cramp tension and throbbing pain. The left hand, at the same time, was sliding down his thinner calf and brushing at his hairy shin and then, almost forcing another little `hey!' of alarm, sliding about the knotted muscle of his ankle and onto his foot. Jadon pressed his back and shoulders more into the wall, relaxed into it, surprised but satisfied by the unwinding sensation and fading pain of his left leg.
Now,' breathed Emre in husky accented English, how is that, friend...?'
Jadon grunted before speaking. `It er, yeh it, er, kinda does the trick...'
`Hah, you see, you should not doubt me...'
`Er, nah, haha, guess not, big man...'
It just cramp. Your leg will be fine, totally fine, no hurt.' Jadon looked at him, a little lost for a moment in the dark wells of his eyes. You need to just go easy -- lockdown difficult time for all of us, Sancho. That is all.'
Jadon nodded distractedly, studying the majestic architecture of the Turkish man's face and the fine dark stubble across his sharp jawline, so much more established and manly than his own little chinstrap attempt at a beard. He found himself looking idly at the fulness and redness of Emre's bottom lip, the way it hung a little with that expression of intense concentration, his neck twisting at an angle as he reached both hands down for more long massaging strokes of the sore but recovering leg.
Yeh,' Jadon said dimly, tough lockdown.'
`Very tough, if single young guy, hah,' Emre was saying.
`Guess so...'
You not so lucky as me,' chuckled the older man distantly, housing with my girlfriend, hah... you so alone, I guess, so... well -- no surprise you are...' Another soft throaty chuckle from the bigger, more muscular midfield player, and Jadon paused at his expression, the mischievous twinkle in his dark eyes, the curl of a smile on that red lip, and -- slowly, he shifted his own neck and head and looked down his bare torso to the dark shorts he wore, and Emre's right hand lingering at their hem very high up his left thigh. Black was a good colour for making shorts less revealing or embarrassing, but even still. Jadon Sancho stared in complete alarm at the curving rise that leant left in the close-fitting training shorts, a banana-like twist of flesh stretching the fabric very visibly.
It okay,' Emre's deep German voice murmured, close to him, it happen easy...' As he spoke, and as Jadon smoke in absolute shame at the obvious near-erection in his shorts, he felt Emre's other hand slide back down his lower calf again and then it was on his foot, rubbing a thumb in his ankle and dragging three fingers across his aching sole with the most soothing of strokes. The other hand, idle the mouth of his crotch, pushed up a little and tugged playfully at the folds of black fabric, pulling them down a little so they stretched even more over what lay between his parted legs.
Mate,' Jadon squeaked in mortification, I dunno how that happened, I just...'
Is okay,' Emre repeated gently. Long lockdown, huh?'
Jadon hardly knew what to say. He couldn't stop staring at the embarrassing bulge of his unexpected arousal, almost completely oblivious to the fact he'd barely touched himself since returning to training last week, his energy sapped and diverted. Weeks of lonely masturbation had been interrupted without him realising it, and here it was, his youthful excitement mounding up in the black shorts, an inch from where the tips of Emre's almost manicured looking fingers rested. He let his embarrassed eyes slide up from his crotch to the other man's face; still a little spark of mischief in his eyes and a definite smirk on his lips now. He seemed about to burst into mocking laughter at any second and Sancho winced in shame rather than physical pain.
They say that English men have tiny cocks,' Emre said, even more surprisingly, but that seem to be rubbish myth, eh?'
Jadon let out a short, nervous laugh. He blinked hard and gulped. `Bruv, I'll just...'
Emre's hands pressed down a little firmly on his leg. His forearm and elbow rubbed against the tight muscle of Jadon's abs as he did so. His lips curled into a fuller smile and he laughed himself. Relax,' he encouraged warmly, you think I going to scream and cry because you got the, how you say, the wood?'
This has never happened before,' Sancho told him in a quick, confidential whisper. I get massages all the time here, bruv, but I never-`
Just my touch then,' joked Emre. It must be a joke. Hah. Very funny. Interesting, huh.'
My leg feels better, though,' the young lad added weakly. Erm...'
`I'm very glad, friend.'
`Erm, yeh...'
Then it happened. Emre's hand was moving from its awkwardly intimate position at the top of his inner thigh, and landing with the same calm inevitability on the front of his shorts, over the rising curve of his now fully hard prick. Not holding it or really touching it, just resting over it, flat and calm and warm. His eyes were fixed on Jadon's, dark and mysterious and powerful and intoxicating and- What the fuck? No...
Jadon pulled away, wincing a little at a tiny dull throb of pain, but more or less recovered for the brief firm massaging he'd received. He dragged his legs away from Emre's and rose unsteadily to his feet, glad when he didn't immediately feel like a knife was stabbing him above the knee. He staggered a step away, knowing his cheeks were colouring, and turned his back on the big Turkish guy, staring around the changing rooms to check they were truly empty. Behind him, he sensed and heard the other bloke get up to and move away, heard the awkward little cough and clearing of throat.
`I need to shower,' Jadon blurted, unwilling to say more or even look at Can. He snatched a towel from the nearby rack and walked quickly away, down the aisle of lockers and round the corner, marching for the communal showers. Once near, he threw the towel over his bare sweaty shoulder and shoved his shorts and briefs down in one move, ragging them past the obstacle of his thick young boner and stepping out of them. It slapped against his left thigh and he grimaced at the humiliation of his excitement on the way into the cover of the still-steamy showers.
He practically threw his towel at the rail of pegs then moved over to the furthest wall and punched life into the controls, blasting himself with hot shower water. He couldn't stop himself from staring down his naked body and seeing the rising rod of his own meat, hot water trickling past his bushy pubes and dripping off the swollen tip. He snatched soap up in his hands and rubbed it to his chest, closing his eyes and lifting his face to the spray.
He sensed rather than heard the other man join him in here. Some weird shift in atmosphere before the damp quiet footsteps, the rustle of towel on towel perhaps at the wall of pegs. He waited for the metallic noise and watery roar of another shower going on, but it didn't happen. It didn't come. He just felt and heard Emre's presence grow closer and closer, until he knew he was right behind him. He stood still, facing the wall, staring up into the showerhead even as its timed burst of hot water died and dried and left him standing dripping with soap suds. Then he felt hot gentle breath on the back of his neck.
`Bruv,' the 20-year-old Londoner gasped almost silently into the steamy hair.
`Is okay,' was all Emre's low growling voice replied.
Jadon felt the big hand brush past his dangling wrist on its way round. He let his eyes sink downwards and watched as those long, tanned fingers closed about the short thick meat between his legs, holding it like a weapon. Something firm and warm, pec muscles maybe, rubbed gently at the back of his shoulders, more moist breath on his neck. He gulped loudly and watched the hand tighten and shift, tugging his eager cock with the same firm purpose as it had massaged his leg. His sigh was quiet and gentle but long and wistful. `Oh...'
Sancho closed his eyes, unable to watch any more, but he could see it against his eyelids; that big powerful hand closing around his nob, his nob that had gone untouched by any girl for the past two and a bit months, and now... oh god... he felt SO horny, electrified with it, he knew he'd only recently left his teenage years but it felt ages since he'd been quite this uncontrollably randy and... oh fucking hell, oh god... That tight firm hold sliding up and down his meat now, pulling on the base and grazing the wrinkled skin of his bollocks. He leant unconsciously backwards, resting on those flat strong pectorals, feeling that big nose graze the curls at the back of his afro. Oh shit.
`Is okay,' repeated Emre so softly that he couldn't decide if it was question or statement.
Jadon's answer was just a whispering sigh. He reached forward and planted both hands against the damp wall tiles to support himself, and to lift his body off the eerily calming strength of Emre's big body behind him. Jadon gulped again, his mouth feeling dry and his head swimming. The hand felt so good, but he felt completely terrified; what the hell was happening? How had he gone from sitting nursing a sore leg to being jerked off by this weirdo, and...? Oh... fresh waves of pleasure interrupted his burst of panic, and he let go of the walls, sliding back against the taller bloke's strong chest. The other arm, which he'd been vaguely aware of at his elbow, curled around and a second hand rested on his ripped six-pack, tracing the lines of muscle carefully. His whole body shuddered sensitively.
Relax,' purred Can, I bet you no think of sore leg no more...'
Jadon's giggle was strained and weak. `Er...'
The hold around his back tightened somewhat; he could feel the bigger body pressing into his and both arms curve more about him. Emre changed the angle of his handjob, getting a better grip and really tugging on his cock. Jadon whimpered uncontrollably and let his damp round arse fall back a bit until he could feel it pressing against something obnoxiously rigid. It took him a slow moment to realise what the fuck it as and when he did, his intake of breath was sharp and loud. Relax,' grunted Emre's soothing tones, I not gonna use it...'
The reassurance just put terrifying new images of possibility into Sancho's overactive imagination. Still, he couldn't seem to do what instinct told him was necessary: pull away, slap or grab at Emre's persistent hands, elbow this cocky Turkish cunt, shout for help, or... god no, all he could do was gasp and moan and relax his whole body against another man's strength, and just... oh fuck, no, he wasn't gonna... he couldn't... he couldn't let Emre make him... oh holy shit, here it is-
Jadon groaned wordlessly and blew his load. Over a week's unspent bollocks. His jizz splashed at the wall and dribbled to the floor. He looked down and saw a loose streak of it spunk lazily onto Emre's tanned fingers and he grimaced guiltily as if that was his fault, more embarrassment for him, not the tactile defender. He leant back even more heavily into Can, a bit overcome, gulping in big breaths in a desperate panic of self-awareness.
It had just felt so good, he thought in a furious rush, so safe and strong...
He had a hideous image of what the lads back home would say if they knew, thought about being walked in on by another player, or trying to explain this to his boys in Camberwell. He felt nearly sick at it. He wriggled a bit and felt Emre back away from him; not looking over his shoulder, he reached forward and bashed the switch to erupt more hot water down on himself. There was a gentle chuckle somewhere behind his ear and he felt Emre Can back off.
Jadon grabbed the soap again and rubbed it against himself in a rush, splashing its suds over his chest and shoulders and up his neck. Soft wet footsteps. He looked over to the right, where Emre had settled beneath the next showerhead. 6ft of deeply tanned flesh, fully naked too, lower legs flecked with the dark hair of his face and head, otherwise uncannily smooth and glistening under the soap and hot water. Those pink-red lips were curled into a knowing smile; one of those big hands, the ones that had massaged so neatly and effectively at Jadon's aching leg, ran over the broad plateau of his chest, which Jadon had rested against as he came... the hand dipped below these pecs and down the taut muscle of his abdomen, past the neatly shaved (or waxen?) bareness of his crotch and onto the thick long slab of muscle and vein that protruded. Emre took his big Turkish prick in a soap-lubed hand and stroked it.
Sancho stared. He'd never really seen a circumcised cock properly before, certainly not hard. It was just so fucking big and phallic and- fucking hell!
Jadon turned back sharply to the wall, ran wet hands over his face and shook his hair under the spray. Then, as quickly as his slippery feet could carry him, he backed away from the wall, still rubbing soapy dampness at his quivering semi and reaching desperately for the towel he'd hung at the wall.
`Jadon,' barked Emre's suddenly harsh, controlled voice.
He glanced nervously back across the steamy space at the big rippling figure of the defensive player, who was still smiling with secret triumph and fiery eyes. What?' Sancho demanded anxiously. What do you want?' What do you want me to do? That was the full terrified question in his mind. He again remembered the strange firmness of the other man's cock when it had pressed so briefly and worryingly against the chubby flesh of his buttock.
`That is my towel,' Can said simply, and grinned some more.
Jadon glowered at him, shoved the towel back on the peg, snatched his own. He whipped it rapidly about his slim waist and rushed from the showers, almost sliding into a fall as he did. His thigh ached gently but felt infinitely better than it had as he limped off the training field. He didn't dare look back into the showers, just hoping dearly that Emre took long hot showers when he needed to... For a second he was picturing the momentary revelation of that big Turkish profile fingering his Frankfurter, but blinked it away and rushed for his things, barely cleaned and totally bewildered.
Bruv,' he barked down the phone, holding it close to his ear as he hurried down the stone flagging away from the Borussia Dortmund training centre, towards the sanctuary of his car. Hey, is now good? Yeh yeh, just wanted to chat, man, so...'
The voice of his Swiss agent jabbered down the phone at him for a few moments, recounting some awkward conversation he'd just had with an unnamed other client. Jadon listened impatiently, blinking his eyes which stung a little from soapy water. He fished in his bag for the keys and unlocked the expensive car with a beep, dragging open the door and sliding into his seat. He closed his eyes for a moment and took deep breaths, still anxious as fuck at what had gone on.
Why had he let that happen? Why the fuck had he got hard in the first place?!
Bruv, can we speak?' he snapped, interrupting the man on the phone's uninteresting tangent. Look - buddy, I've been thinking, and...'
Again, he was cut off. There was a robotic beep, another call waiting on this busy agent's phone, maybe another client or a manager or chairman at some club somewhere. He frowned irritably and thought about hanging up. But as he sat there in the driver's seat of his Volkswagen and half-listened, he saw him: the hulking, darkly handsome figure of the Juventus loanee leaving the same glassy sliding doors he had, moving with easy grace into the car park. He subconsciously sank lower and further back in the pale leather of his seat, not wanting Can to spot him. He watched the man's almost lupine profile stalk past and towards the big sporty 4x4 he owned.
`What have you been thinking, kid?' came his agent's voice down the line.
`I want out,' Jadon almost barked. It had been all he could think as he hastily dried and pulled on clean clothes, aware he still stunk of training ground sweat. He would never have submitted to something like that back in England, not being the London lad he was, not the real bloke he'd been before he moved to Germany. Fuck this place and fuck these weird blokes. He needed to get away from it, needed not to be stuck on a team with HIM.
He listened to the sharp inhale of his excited representative. `Is that so...?'
You're right,' Jadon said quickly. Premier League, that's it for me. Big club, big money, big prize...'
`Oh... well, Jadon, that is...'
What was the offer you were trying to tell me about? What did you want to discuss when you rang at lunch?' He knew how rapid and desperate his voice sounded. Who's making the most noise, chief? Who wants me...?'
He could hear the smile and see the dollar signs in the voice that responded. Well,' his agent told him smoothly, I did just get the most fascinating phone call from... Manchester United...'
Anywhere,' Jadon pleaded, anywhere fucking normal.'
WELCOME BACK TO SOME FOOTBALL, SOMEWHERE! HOPEFULLY THE RUMOURS ABOUT JADON'S HOMECOMING TO THE PREMIERSHIP ARE TRUE...