Part 102: Hole in One
The freshly tended grass sprawled ahead in undulating folds and the light breeze wrought tinsel patterns of green and gold. Alan Shearer squinted his eyes into the bright May sunshine and let a grin spread over his features, deeply pleased to be back here with a club in one hand and 18 holes of quiet pleasure stretching ahead of him.
Golf,' he sighed. If a younger me could see me so fuckin' chuffed right now, he'd laugh.' He turned from the bright green glow of the course to nod warmly at his companion for this Sunday afternoon, who was lugging their things out across the patio and seeming just as pleased and quietly excited to be here. Alan watched the younger guy approach, faintly admiring the bloke's tall broad physique and the way it filled out his dark purple polo shirt and golfing trousers so amply, a thickset wall of a man who Shearer had built a slow and steady respect for in recent years.
Maybe,' chuckled the footballer as he joined him, taking a similar look out across the green, but a younger me would just laugh to think I've made it this far in life, about to tap some golf balls with Alan bloody Shearer. Thanks for the call, chief, I do appreciate it.'
Shearer smiled warmly at him and grabbed onto his own caddy, ready to pull it along behind him as the two men set out on their suitably distanced tour of the holes. It was a little surreal being here, this little oasis of masculine leisure that had been amongst the first things to reopen at the gradual easing of lockdown. Things were still so severe that many of Alan's more typical golfing pals were still indisposed, keeping to their large Northumberland homes and avoiding even the minor exposure of a stroll about a golf course; many of Alan's close friends around here were older than himself and compromised by health. Not that his partner for today was a last-ditch invite or unsuitable company.
Don't judge me too harshly,' Jamaal Lascelles told him with an almost nervous chuckle to his voice, I'm bound to be rusty and I'm only an occasional player these days, anyway. I'm sure you'll wipe the grass with me, Big Al.'
Shearer just laughed indulgently at the Newcastle United skipper and shrugged his less bulging muscular shoulders, leading the way. I doubt either of us will be impressing anyone with our performance,' he said fairmindedly, but isn't this fantastic? Fresh air, bit of company, bit of sport. It's been too long.'
Befriending the slow march of NUFC captains was one of the many ways in which Shearer still took a close interest in the club he loved, and few had charmed him more with their loyalty, work ethic and resilient passion than Lascelles. Though hailing from Derby, the muscular bloke had quickly impressed him as a player and impressed him far more as a footballing leader. He wasn't sure at what point in the last few years he'd begun occasionally meeting with young Jamaal for a drink or a meal, but he enjoyed the easy dynamic of their casual friendship, and allowed himself the vanity of believing that Jamaal held him in high regard and really appreciated his rugged wisdom. Never before had the two men golfed together, though, not even in a bigger group.
Shearer quickly found out it was not false modesty: though the burly footballer had all the gear, he had no idea. His posture and technique was all wrong and he seemed to be so self-conscious about this first-time contest in their easy-going relationship that he fumbled several easy swings at the first few holes. Shearer, used to playing with big egos, comfortably smiled his patience and issued platitudes about bad luck; he wanted to intervene and support the younger guy, but he feared sounding patronising or conceited. Besides, his own skills were blunted to the point of embarrassment and, against another opponent, he might have worried.
Regardless, it was great to be out here. Alan liked the sporadic and superfluous conversation of golf, so removed from the protracted chitchat of lockdown life with wife and offspring. He liked the warming sun on his bald head and bare forearms. He enjoyed the patient calculation of angles and wind speed and the slow-motion intensity of watching for that hopeful hole-in-one. This was a delicious taste of normality after long weeks of home imprisonment and online life, interviews and catch-ups, nostalgia and speculation. Yesterday he had even been able to watch football, flicking between the Bundesliga comeback and an online stream of his triumphant 8-0 1999 game against Sheff Weds. If you let yourself, you could forget the madness for moments at a time.
A welcome burst of familiarity and enjoyment after some strained recent weeks, he reflected. He and his wife, usually so comfortable and peaceful together, had bickered terribly, and he had found himself clashing unnecessarily with both daughter and son. There were a lot of easy reasons why, he knew, but he also knew that in the dark of night or alone on a long run around Gosforth, there were more specific and personal anxieties that these quiet weeks had allowed to fester and bubble up.
He thought about that oddly aggravating text message from David Beckham not long ago, after wishing the iconic younger guy well on his 45th birthday; why had those faint memories of captaining that whippersnapper slowly risen in his mind this year anyway? He hadn't meant to prod at them, when he messaged David, he'd only meant to lean on their old-time connection, invoke a little nostalgia for both of them -- few English players had valued their work wearing a Three Lions shirt as much as he and Beckham, he knew that. The tattooed family guy's reply had been affectionate and ambiguous. Shearer knew his own response had been too specific, had revealed more thought than ever intended. `That night,' he'd written, not knowing how direct he was being. He'd heard nothing back since then, but that was not odd or worrying; the two ex-players only crossed paths occasionally, had never been close, never moved in the same circles. What they did have was a strong mutual respect and many shared passions; and, as he'd inadvertently stressed, a particularly hazy memory from their first meeting, away in Moldova.
What do you think?' interrupted Jamaal's voice. Am I getting better -- or worse?'
Shearer shook these thoughts away, uncomfortable with the idea that the simple memories of that encounter had affected his mood and interactions so much over a vague period of two weeks. He flashed an encouraging smile at Jamaal and shrugged again. `It's just a bit of fun,' he said, before stepping up to take his own thwack at a golf ball and showing just how seriously he unconsciously took it. He noted the self-conscious discomfort of his playful rival here and deliberately threw it; bringing the head of the club at a poor angle and thumping the ball at a difficult trajectory when he could easily have made this hole in two hits. He turned back to Lascelles with a defeated sigh and saw a flash of relief in those big brown eyes. Gullible enough, bless his bulging biceps.
On they played. Shearer fluffed a few more times, heightening his own score to draw less attention to Lascelles' ineptitude, though after a couple more moments like this, he could see the doubtful frown and thought his younger opponent perhaps suspected he was not giving his all.
The 49-year-old allowed himself some satisfaction in besting a man almost half his age, especially a 6ft2 hulk of a centre-back like Lascelles. But he had no wish to humiliate the genial Toon captain and he continued to alternate between trying his best and deliberately ruining his own performance, making easy chat with the 26-year-old as they stomped from hole to hole. There were a few other guys out on the course but spaced out at cautious intervals, and the sweeping roads that flanked the golf course bore little traffic. There was a glorious peace in the sunny Newcastle air as the afternoon wore on. Alan found himself looking wistfully towards the `19th hole', sad that things were not yet normal enough for the golf club bar to be open for a couple of jars before he drove home to a family dinner. Still, you had to be grateful for what you did get.
Conversation turned naturally to the impending but ambiguous return of training for the Newcastle players -- they steered around the awkward politics of the Premiership returning, neither quite sure what they thought about it, and instead discussed the latest from some of Lascelles' teammates.
I hope Andy gets his fitness together,' Shearer mused with a fond thought for the prodigal Geordie who had barely played since moving back from West Ham. He's a good lad, he really is.' He thought about his brief encounter with the tall topknotted striker earlier this year and brushed away the memory of the slightly awkward events that had taken place in Oxford that night.
`I'm sure he will,' Jamaal said a little distantly.
He loves the club,' Alan remarked gruffly. He's a fighter. I hope he gets his chance.'
He looked curiously at the vague nod from Lascelles and paused. In the past, he'd heard Lascelles speak quite enthusiastically about Carroll and his return. But now he sensed some poorly disguised tension or uncertainty, unless the big guy was just falling into a bad mood because of his crappy golf skills. He watched him expectantly and saw Jamaal's eyes flick up to meet his. Yeh,' he said quickly then, hiding his moment's grimace, he is that, you're right, Al. Think he's just having a lush time with his fam in isolation though, to be honest, don't think he's too worried...!'
Maybe,' Shearer said vaguely. You've something against him?'
`What? No...'
In fact, Shearer supposed he'd never once heard Lascelles really badmouth anyone at the club. He was fiercely loyal to his men. His reputation as a tough captain was notorious in the region and the league, Shearer had heard many tales of that, but in their occasional private conversation, he'd never witnessed the steadfast skipper say anything remotely critical or negative of the guys he played with, Carroll included. But something hung between the lines here, he could tell.
`You're not convinced by his injuries?' Shearer guessed quietly.
What? Oh, god, no, he's been unlucky,' Lascelles responded, hoisting up his club and tugging on his caddy, leading the way around a swooping bunker and squinting into the lowering sun. I've not a thing against him, great bloke, great having him up here, really is.'
Right,' Alan said slowly, now sure that there was some unmentioned conflict between the men, but at a loss to guess what it was. He decided against asking further questions, though. He could see something was making the young captain uncomfortable, so he swerved their conversation away from big Andy -- I was just texting young Dummett the other day as well,' he said idly, `checking in on him, another nice Geordie lad, y'know, so...' There it was again. Just ahead of him, Jamaal was stepping into place, bending down to place his ball on the tee, his dark grey golf pants pulling tightly against his thick thighs and glutes. But even at that angle, Shearer caught the grimace and frown on his big honest face.
Yeh, Dummo,' Jamaal said vaguely, I think he's well...'
`He speaks very highly of you.'
`Hmm.'
Lascelles had to take his swing four times before his club made contact with the glittering white ball. Shearer watched him closely but said no more. He stepped over when it was his turn and, a little distracted by this growing nugget of curiosity, forgot to take it easy on the inexperienced 26-year-old. Hole in one,' Jamaal cooed admiringly, rubbing at the short rough beard clinging to his thick square jaw. Well done, chief.'
Let me help you out, at the next one,' Alan offered warmly, tired of pretending not to notice that the taller lad hadn't a fucking clue what he was doing. He patted him on the elbow and they strolled onwards, lugging their kits. Let me just show you a thing or two.' Lascelles laughed self-consciously but gave him a grateful little grin and nodded his head.
At the next hole, Shearer tugged at the collar of his worn old black polo shirt and sized up the challenge ahead, then poked invasively about the contents of his friend's caddy. He selected the best club and pushed it into one of Jamaal's big hands, then nodded briskly at the tee and took up position, signalling a kind of impatient pressure to ease any embarrassment or sense of superiority. Grateful but embarrassed, the taller and broader man stood in front of him and allowed Alan to reach around a little, resting his hands just above his sturdy wrists. In response to this physical intervention, the big centre-back went almost limp in posture and control, less sure than ever of his movements or position. Alan grunted disapprovingly and stepped closer, running the heels of his hands further down over those bony wrists and resting palms to the back of Jamaal's hands. He muttered a few helpful instructions and pulled in closer, his chin jutting against one of the big midlander's impossibly thick shoulders.
`Now bend forward just a little,' Shearer grunted.
Lascelles did so. Because he was a bit bigger than him, though, the problem of this was that his backside went pushing in at Shearer's waist and below, riding against the point where his worn old top was tucked into the belt of his chinos. Naturally, Shearer pulled back with his own hips, but that just dragged his chin across the back of the other man's neck until, for a moment, they were stood in a kind of vertical spooning position.
Surprised at the physical intimacy he'd initiated, Shearer let out a little sharp puff of breath that must have tickled at the nape of the other bloke's neck, just above the curled purple collar of his shirt. He felt the thick strong arms shift against his own so that he had to press in a little to keep his guiding grip on the back of those hands, edging the club slowly into place; another awkward wriggle from Jamaal, clearly aware of this sudden and unintended closeness, and as a result, his backside wiggled more and pressed down in a slow drag across the front of Alan's chinos. He felt firm muscular buttocks push across the vague bulge of his crotch and he pulled back in a mixture of unwanted arousal and muted alarm.
He coughed loudly, pulled back with his hips, creating some distance between them at waist height, then grunted a few tips about swing and balance and aim, then let go of his friend's wrists and backed off. In front of him, Jamaal's upper arms trembled a little and he shifted uneasily from foot to foot, then took a swing. Unsurprisingly, it was a terrible strike at the ball, which went well off-target. He turned and gave an apologetic frown and Shearer, realising he was a little flushed from the moment's contact, just threw up one hand ambiguously and rubbed his thick stubbled cheek with the other.
The moment of intimacy lay awkwardly in their speech as they continued on the last few holes. The easy silences and bursts of superficial catch-up felt strained and uneasy for the final half hour of play -- there was a sense of some relief for them both as Lascelles finally got his ball into the last hole whilst Shearer totted up their scores and made some little grunts and whistles of frustration at how his performance compared to his usual handicap.
`A pint to round it off?' he asked, patting the captain's broad upper back gently.
Lascelles gave him a brief look of genuine confusion. `But...'
A joke out of habit,' Alan chuckled. Such a shame. I could murder a cold one.' They both laughed, put away gloves and clubs and balls, and dragged their caddies down the narrow path back toward the clubhouse, some tension eased. There was no discussion of scores or hole-by-hole analysis, as there might be with some of Alan's more experienced and competitive golfing buddies, just as a faint appreciation of the open space they'd traversed and a vague relief to separate and head back to the gilded cages of their footballers' mansions.
`A drink would be good,' Jamaal admitted with a gentle laugh. The wheels of their caddies ground noisily on gravel as they cornered the clubhouse and entered the near-empty car park. They both looked longingly at the French windows that ran along this side of the sandstone building, the darkened interior of the bar just out of reach; tables and chairs stacked with ominous finality.
It does end the play nicely,' Alan sighed. Next time, big lad. Next time.'
This was where they would part; was a handshake kosher in these strange times? It was certainly unsportsmanlike to forego the tiny physical ritual without comment. Their big expensive cars awaited them, gravel crunching quietly beneath their gold shoes. Big tall Jamaal seemed to shift from foot to foot with the same discomfort as when Alan had pulled up behind him in his misguided attempt at a little coaching; the ex-Newcastle legend looked up at him thoughtfully, for a second thinking he was still flinching at that minor embarrassment, but then...
It was just a daft little thing that happened,' Lascelles said, very quietly but very suddenly. I ain't got nothing against either lad, not really. Two quality blokes.'
Shearer had been about to launch into some vague, generic goodbye. He paused, scratched his blunt chin, rolled his shoulders a little. Well? He waited for some follow-up to this vague admission but the current Toon player just frowned anxiously at him and glanced about the silent car park for at least a minute. Then he turned back, hunching his own shoulders, and letting go of his gold caddy so it tilted back with a clink against the side of his Land Rover.
Just a daft thing,' he repeated, and I sometimes feel like maybe the lads respect me less now, but...' He had that look as if he'd decided he'd already said too much, and pursed his lips tightly and nodded his head in silent goodbye. Shearer looked hesitantly at him before answering.
If you want to talk about it,' he offered, I think there's actually some cans in the back of my motor.' He looked down the car park a little with a slight wave of one hand. They won't be the coldest, but...' A general shrug at the countryside beyond the golf course. We could pull up and sink a can each in a quiet spot, if you liked.'
The look that the tall handsome defender gave him was almost haunted, and his nosy curiosity gave way to friendly concern. Another slightly worried gaze about them, confirming the aloneness of their position right now. Yeh,' he said a little hastily then, yeh, that would be... grand, Alan. If you don't mind.' He rubbed a hand to his nose and lifted his brows. `You're always the best person to speak to about, erm, captain issues.'
The ale was lukewarm and sour and neither man sipped their can with any relish. They were parked up ten minutes away from the suburban golf course, two big cars lined up on what was usually a popular picnic spot on the edge of the Northumberland countryside. Ahead of them, the main road was still faintly visible through the overgrown shrubs and trees, that strange wildness of land temporarily left alone by humans.
You must have seen some weird horseplay in your time,' Jamaal was saying hesitantly, perched awkwardly in the passenger seat of Shearer's own car, clutching the undesirable beer can in one hand and drumming the fingers of the other on his door-handle. Like, I'm not naïve, I know some odd stuff goes on here and there -- it's not that, y'know?'
`When you say horseplay...' Alan said in a slow, patient voice. He watched Jamaal's twitching expression and flexing knuckles in the rear-view mirror, not wishing to make him squirm more by turning to face him properly. He sipped from his own can and screwed up his face at the taste of it so warm, then ditched it to the cup-holder between them.
`Well, a bit of an -- erm -- a group wank situation, you know?' the Toon player muttered.
Right,' Alan said in the same slow, neutral tone. Well, yeah... I guess... that kinda thing happens.'
It does, doesn't it?' Jamaal said a touch desperately. Like, when I was back at Forest as a teenager, erm, and...' He was blushing a bit, blotches of pink against his mocha cheeks. Alan turned to look at him properly, curious and sympathetic. And a few lads at Toon when I was a younger lad here,' he murmured, I remember Mitrovic, he'd always be touching himself up, hah, and -- erm, Dan Gosling, he used to do these pranks sometimes, you know -- and bloody Perez, he liked some attention, so...!' Flustered, he paused.
I know the kinda thing you mean,' Shearer told him in gruff confidence, shrugging his shoulders and shuffling through some papers on the dashboard distractedly. It happens. Testosterone spilling over -- and other stuff. So what, you had a wank with Andy and Paul sometime, is that it?' Even as he asked the blunt question, meant to diffuse the awkwardness, he felt a tremor of jealous excitement; he remembered the nostalgic envy he'd felt in Oxford commentating on that Newcastle game, the desperation for his youth that had led him to that silly pill and the need to... well, resort to Andy's mad advice!
`Kinda. I mean, it wasn't just them two.'
Oh...' He tried to keep his voice casual and disinterested, surprised at his own desire to picture the scene more fully. Who else?'
The big captain, more like a rugby prop than a footballer, shifted in his seat and cleared his throat. `Well, Yedders was there, good lad, and erm -- Schar was there, and big Dubravka. Little Matt Ritchie too, and erm, yeah I think that was it. Was just a dull afternoon after training that's all, and...'
So you were all wanking off together?' Shearer asked and he coughed abruptly as he realised how curious and intrigued his soft Geordie accent sounded there. He put both hands on the inactive wheel and cricked his neck. Dirty lads,' he added with a laddish chuckle, then gave Jamaal a reassuring grin, `but like you said... it happens. You know, powerful sportsmen with all that energy, all that competition, young guys' hormones, it's bound to...'
You're not explaining this to him, you're explaining it to yourself, he thought irritably. For the past few weeks he had been trying to justify his own distant memories to himself, the contact he'd allowed between himself and that young David Beckham on the eve of his England debut. He'd thought long and hard about both his own and David's lives, their long strong marriages, their big families, and a surplus of sporting testosterone was the only explanation he could muster...
`It's not the wanking that's got me stressing,' Jamaal said gloomily.
Shearer pricked up and turned back his way, one hand resting on the wheel and the other coming up to rub curiously at his stubble and lips. This vague comment had knocked aside his own guilty memories and long-winded self-justifications.
Oh god, why am I telling you any of this? I ain't told a soul!' groaned the 26-year-old, a large hand covering both his eyes now. Can we just forget I...?'
Jamaal,' Alan said in a kindly voice, and reached over to rest his hand on the man's thick strong forearm, just tell me what happened. What have these two got over you that's making you worry...? I'm less easily shocked than you might think, hah.'
Jamaal lifted the hand on his eyes and glanced at him uneasily. Well... Shearer, mate, have you ever... I dunno how to phrase it. It was such a mad chat that broke out that day, y'know, think we were all a bit mental with exhaustion, or summat, and...' Shearer frowned impatiently and the hint was taken. Alan,' the young footballer said carefully, `have you ever played with your arse...?' A regretful gulp followed the ominous question.
Kinda,' Alan said after a long pause, a few dots joining up in his head. He pictured himself, drug-enhanced ridiculous boner in hand, trapped in a toilet cubicle in a football stadium, big dumb Andy Carroll stood unseen a few foot away, telling him what he should try... Here and now, in the car, he let out a relaxed laugh and just smiled. No sin, is it, to try something new?' He squeezed his hand where it rested on Jamaal's forearm. `Is that all?'
A deep breath from the captain, then he looked away. `It wasn't my finger.'
Alan echoed the little frustrated gasp himself and took a moment too long for his answer to be convincing. Well, yeah, I guess those things happen to,' he said carefully, not sure he was quite ready to admit his own experience, but... I mean... for real, Andy Carroll slipped you the finger, and...?'
Not Carroll,' mumbled the skipper. Dummo. It was Paul who...'
`I see.'
`Don't look at me like that,' muttered Lascelles dismally.
`Like what? I'm just thinking. I'm not shocked or horrified. These things happen, man.'
`They... do?'
Out loud, trying to be wise and comforting to his young friend, Alan felt more conviction in his words than when he'd tried these explanations on himself in the middle of the night, lying awake next to his peaceful spouse. Why should they matter? We're all just horny blokes with too much energy going on, hah!' he said loudly and brashly. I shouldn't let it get to you. Has either lad said or done anything weird since that happened? Anyone else at the club know you let him...?' A tight shake of the head. `Grand, then -- no harm done. Well, unless it hurt. Did it hurt?'
A deeper blush from the big lad. `Not really.'
The next question couldn't hide its raspy eagerness. `Did it feel good?'
Lascelles didn't answer properly, he just grimaced and rubbed his face and shifted his legs in the passenger seat, putting his own unwanted can of ale down in the cup-holder next to Alan's. Shearer let out a sympathetic laugh and the younger bloke joined hesitantly in. They both looked each other and Jamaal smiled weakly, relieved at his unburdening and the experienced legend's blunt dismissal. They sat in friendly silence for at least a minute.
`You really don't think I should worry about it?' Lascelles asked softly.
`Not one bit, lad -- it's been a long time since there was a captain at Newcastle United who held respect like you do. Whatever happens with the, ahem, new owners, if that happens, well... you're a rock at that club, Jamaal. Don't worry that you got a bit horny one time and let things go... a bit far. It's only natural. Perhaps don't tell you girlfriend, eh? Hah...'
`Fuck no, haha...'
I mean it just doesn't matter at all,' Shearer theorised loudly, not even a bit. What happens between blokes like us, stays between blokes like us! Aye? I mean, if I shoved a finger in you now, who would fuckin' know, eh kid?' He turned his smirking senior grin on the worried young player and saw the flash of surprise in his eyes. I mean,' he added, thinking of their accidental contact at the tee-off, it ain't like you haven't got a great big arse on ya, lad...' He burst out laughing and Jamaal joined in, hearty and cheerful. Both men turned their eyes out through the windscreen to the abandoned scrub ahead and the dim view of the quiet B-road.
`Guess not,' mumbled Lascelles, then he giggled again to himself a bit.
Alan hesitated before he did it, but it felt inevitable now. He lifted his right hand from the lad's arm and ran it up to pat the thick round muscle of his shoulder, then slide it round a little bit to the centre of his back, resting between the coarse fabric and the warm leather of the seat. He didn't turn to look at his passenger, eyes still on the screened road, while his firm hand ran down that broad muscled back and sank into the warmer crevice at the waist of his golf pants. His fingers tickled at the waistband of whatever undies lay beneath them, lifting the material of the polo shirt a little, rubbing smooth warm muscle.
`You're gonna need to lift up a bit, lad,' Shearer muttered casually.
`What if...?'
`We can see the road, can't we?' the ex-player snapped back a little impatiently.
Hands clenching to the barrier between their seats and the edge of the passenger door, Jamaal Lascelles lifted himself a little from the seat and edged forward to make space; Shearer's fingers slid under that tight waistband, nudging the plump tops of each buttock and finding the moist crack between them. Finally, he turned his head and looked at him. He could see nervous excitement all over Lascelle's handsome young features; he grinned encouragingly at him and the skipper returned the smile nervously. Shearer danced his fingertip at the top of that crack and felt a rush of excitement when a nervous whimpering moan sounded from the lad's plump lips.
Jamaal,' he said quietly, and leaned over with his other hand; he picked up the hand that clutched the cup-holders and dragged it over, dropping it to the crotch of his own dark chinos, where he was already beginning to swell. He could see the alarm in the lad's eyes at this. It's only fair,' he said, `if I'm gonna stick my finger up ya, lad. Go on, give it a rub.'
Lascelles did, stiffly, running his palm and fingers across the bulge and gently lifting his arse forward more. Shearer pushed more forcibly down, struggling at the tight trousers; with his other hand, Lascelles quickly undid the button fly, and down they slipped, just a few inches, but enough. Shearer ran his hand against the firm curve of this big footballer's backside, thrilling at its chunky muscle, and pushed a single finger between them, just as he tried on himself at Andy Carroll's odd insistence. He tickled at the man's crack and heard more moans; like on the golf course, there was something peculiarly thrilling in bringing these noises from a lad as big and strong as Lascelles, as if it proved his own 49-year-old virility.
He shifted his hand, knuckle a little sore at the angle, but cupping it beneath Jamaal's big butt and pushing his one finger in against the tight hairy ring until it slid inside. He saw the tight O' of Jamaal's lips and grinned excitedly. The lad's hand tightened on his own hardening prick, and he helped him out by undoing the belt there and pushing the zip down a little -- Lascelles did the rest. With trembling touch, he let Shearer's thick stiff dick be pushed into his grip, whilst wriggling his backside on one invading finger. Watch the road,' Shearer insisted with caution and authority, `and just let me...' He pushed his finger up more. The musclebound centre-back gasped and moaned.
`Your dick is so hard,' murmured Lascelles ambivalently.
`You surprised? I'm not quite an old man yet,' Shearer chuckled.
`I didn't mean that, just... god, is this not a bit...?'
`How does it feel?'
A reluctant grunt. Your finger feels good,' he confirmed faintly. Don't stop...'
Shearer would have liked to slip a second digit in, but their seated position didn't allow for much exploration. His hand was going a little numb beneath the weight of the big lad's arse but he continued to poke and explore, rubbing his finger in and out. Then, with a certain amount of reluctance, he pulled his hand away and shook life back into it. Jamaal turned and gave him a needy kinda look, clearly disappointed not to be getting that intimate tickle. `Get your cock out,' Shearer told him firmly.
Unsurprisingly, the Derbyshire lad was generously equipped. Now wank it and wank me,' the retired man grunted commandingly. Go on. Good lad.'
Lascelles stared at him, seeming pretty bewildered, but he did as told. He took a firmer grip of Shearer's erection and pulled it in sync with his own chunky dark tool. Both men relaxed back in their seats, Jamaal's big cheeks squeaking a little against the leather. Shearer rested his right arm along those thick shoulders, feeling a certain ownership of this handsome young stud, a certain power that he hadn't felt since captaining successful teams himself.
That's it,' he encouraged in a quiet growl, wank us both, Jamaal, good lad, oh yeah...'
Yes boss,' said Lascelles with a playful laugh, getting into it, how's this...?'
`So so good... mmm...'
It was so clearly the burly defender's first time handling another guy like this, Shearer thought, but his strong palm felt so surprisingly good. Even the vague threat of discovery, the awkward publicness of the spot, seemed to enhance the middle-aged man's enjoyment of this unexpected handjob. He felt himself getting closer and closer to completion. He pushed up a little with his hips, fucking his strong cock into Jamaal's clumsy hand, signalling his readiness. Jamaal's dark eyes widened more and he seemed to slow strokes on his own bigger dick.
`Are you gonna...?'
`Yeah... oh fuck, yeah...'
Shearer's spunk hit the dashboard and wind screen in a pattern of thick white globs. He groaned powerfully and pushed his 6ft body back against the seat, rolling his shoulders into the leather and gripping his right hand to one of Jamaal's bulging shoulders as he surfed the wave of pleasure. He broke from groan to laughter, then out of the corner of his eye he saw the still-raging erection of his younger friend. Jamaal seemed to be just staring at where his hand hung limply about the base of Shearer's cock, a smear of spunk dribbling onto one finger.
`Go on, sort yourself out,' Shearer barked. He took his hand from the shoulder and ran it back down the lad's back, which now felt damp with a little sweat -- back past the loosened trouser waist and inside those black undies and down against the chunky glutes, pressing between them. He watched intently as Lascelles wanked himself off and lifted his butt a bit. No sooner had Shearer got his finger into that super-tight entrance than the lad was trembling and throbbing and making suppressed moans of excitement. Both men stared in shock at the mess that erupted, mingling with Shearer's cum on the speedometer and music control panels and Sat Nav screen. Jamaal looked mortified by his explosion of cum, panting and heaving with every muscle; in response, Shearer just burst out in deep, manly laughter.
`Well I guess you liked that!' he exclaimed, as if just talking about a meal he'd cooked for his friend.
Yeah,' breathed Lascelles hoarsely. I'm so sorry...'
Shearer slid his finger back and pulled his tingling hand away from that big mighty backside. He rested his hand instead against the moist warmth of the bloke's lower back, stroking it comfortingly. Was he comforting this nervous lump of muscle, or his own hammering heart and sudden paranoia? His eyes strained at the greenery ahead, the dangerously proximal road. Fucking hell: had he really just taken all these risks...?
Don't be sorry, it'll wipe down,' he said with a strained laugh. The air smelt of sex. But hey, look, we had a bit of fun and it doesn't fuckin' matter...' He squeezed the guy's back. `So don't be fuckin' worrying about Andy or Paul, the dirty buggers. Nowt wrong with a helping hand when you need it, is there? Eh?' He could hear the trace of uncertainty in his own questions, ones he'd asked himself so much back in 1996, and more or less forgotten until that recent flashback... nothing wrong with a helping hand from young Becks, nothing at all...
`I guess,' mumbled Lascelles, in the middle of adjusting his pants and fastening up his buttons.
`Your hand felt good,' Alan admitted, then slightly regretted the openness of the comment.
`Did it...? Oh, er... cool.'
A few minutes later, Shearer had finished using wet wipes to clean off the interior of his car, though surely some stain of his or the younger lad's spunk still lingered somewhere against the fabric or plastic or metal. He laughed at the madness of what had gone on; the intimacy of Jamaal's confession, the frankness of his own advice, the boldness of what he'd initiated. He would never have thought to try putting his finger in that big hunk if not for the bizarre suggestion that a sweet lad like Paul Dummett had tried it already... what the actual fuck? Had he really just wanted the handjob, wanted to see if it felt as good now as in a Moldovan hotel room 24 years ago...?
Behind him, in the rear-view, he could see frowning impatient Lascelles in the driver's seat of his own car, blocked in behind Shearer's. He gave him a nod in the reflection but the young footballer didn't respond. Shearer smiled grimly at this, fairly sure their friendship would be fine -- the big Derby beefcake was just shyly uncertain of what had passed. There was no mistaking how much he'd enjoyed having a digit up his jacksie again, that was for sure, what an orgasm... and yeah, his big soft hand really HAD felt pretty good... phew.
Shearer pushed the engine into action and rolled the car forward, leaving the semi-hidden spot and cruising out onto the road. Lascelles followed, but where Shearer swung right, the Newcastle captain swung left, and they drove their separate ways home.
Well, Alan thought, golf had been fun, but THAT had been even better.