Part 119: Troubled Teens
Look,' the Egyptian football icon said patiently, hoisting the heavy shopping bags up from the trolley and into the boot of his Jeep, it is simple, Harvey -- a week, maybe two weeks, and they will find you new accommodation, perhaps even allow you back there.' He leaned into the spacious rear of the vehicle for a moment, carefully adjusting the squashed in bags of groceries. `You just need to stay straight. Impress Klopp. Head down, work hard. Yeah? It will be fine.' He turned back into the damp morning gloom of the car park and flashed his broad white grin at the teenager skulking behind the shopping trolley, buried beneath a voluminous grey-green hoodie.
Mo Salah reached over and grabbed the last two full bags from the trolley and swung them aside into the boot; he was about to reach for the last stuff, the heavy bottles at the far end of the rickety trolley, but as he turned they were thrust by him in a helpful gesture by Harvey Elliott, lugging the weighty beverages into the little remaining space with a little grunt of effort. Mo waited for him to step back then pulled the boot smoothly shut, and smiled again at his young assistant for the morning. There was a thoughtful look on Elliott's face, the teen seeming to turn over his kind words. He'd tried his best not to lecture, as they strolled around the quiet supermarket this morning, but he felt obligated to dish out some advice, some guidance -- after all, wasn't that the point of this?
Harvey had been with the Salah household for three days now, fresh from eviction at the family who had housed him for much of his youth stint here on Merseyside; Salah had been surprised but a little honoured when he got the call from Liverpool's management team. He'd checked with his wife before agreeing, of course, but there had been no hesitation. This was, after all, the right thing to do. Harvey Elliott was an exceptional young talent and an eager member of Liverpool's fierce young squad, he simply needed the right mentoring and encouragement to keep him out of any more trouble!
So far, it had been fine, but quiet; Harvey seemed almost terrified by the Salah's young children, not interested in playing fun uncle Harvs, and a little dumbstruck too by Mohamed's wife Magi. In fact, the best word to describe Elliott's opening days with them was one long `sulk', Mo decided, but without bitterness. He could see the simmering anger and he was wise enough to know none of it was really at him. He'd held off addressing any of this, or trying to talk some sense into the rebel without a cause, for the first few days at least; but here, with Harvey conscripted into the weekly shop for family supplies, he'd felt an almost fatherly urge to have this talk.
`Yeah,' came Harvey's monosyllabic response. Well, it could be worse.
`You must think I am boring old twit,' Salah chuckled pleasantly, taking a few long steps away from the car to shove the trolley into its tangled brethren beneath a rickety plastic shelter. He unlocked the other car doors with a simple beep at the plastic keyring in his jogger bottoms pocket, and watched as the 17-year-old winger rushed straight into the passenger seat without another word. But when Mo had padded around to his side of the vehicle and let himself in, the teen spoke.
`I don't think that,' Harvey said begrudgingly, not looking his way, just squinting out of the window back at the queues in front of the supermarket.
`You must, a little,' Salah laughed. He was pleased by even this tentative answer. At training, he'd noted, Harvey woke up from this sullen mode. He was fiercely communicative with coaches and other players, and Salah himself, but in an impersonal and businesslike way. There was a lot of youthful aggression always just below the surface, regardless. But he was a young lad, making his first steps into a pressurised career, far from home; Salah had a lot of sympathy. He had been a good few years older than Elliott when he exited Egypt for his European career, yet he'd still struggled with the demands and realities of it.
No, not at all,' Harvey argued, finally looking his way. I have mad respect for you, man.'
Salah raised a thick eyebrow at this confession and just nodded. Well, thank you, but-
Like, seriously!' Harvey pressed, shrugging his broad young shoulders beneath the droop of hoodie. I mean, more maybe than anyone else at Liverpool, you know...' Mo smiled modestly at him and focused on starting up the car, trying to shrug off these compliments. Seriously -- you know back when Madrid were interested in me...?' He enjoyed the casualness with which Harvey referenced such interest from a massive Spanish club. Well, I told them where to fuckin' stick it, as you know, but you know what I said to them, man, I says -- well, they said I could meet Sergio fuckin' Ramos, but I was like -- ha ha -- I seen what he done to my man Mo Salah on the pitch and I haven't a fuckin' scooby doo why I would wanna meet the cunt.' The young English player grinned wickedly across the front seats, proud of his anecdote.
Mo, faintly amused by the rough language, nodded again. There was something endearing in the aggressive little narrative, he had to admit. He was no egotist, but he was touched by the idea that Harvey thought this would be a bonding admission. Loyal to your club,' Salah said simply. It is why I respect you and speak up for you.' He paused, realising that his phrasing might reveal that his support was not... unanimous. `You will get a bad rep at Liverpool if there are more... incidents.'
Harvey seemed about to shrug and pout and launch into a rant, but stopped himself. Salah started up the car and cruised them out onto the road with a gentle bump. He watched Harvey's conflicted expression in the mirror, considered saying more, getting a bit more explicit than the hinted wisdom and cautions he'd delivered in his supermarket sermon. Harvey spoke first: Incident,' he echoed, a little moodily, but also regretfully. It was no biggy. They overreacted.'
It was their home,' Mo pointed out fairly. Their rules.'
Yeah, but...' Harvey sighed, and he sounded a touch more vulnerable. Incident,' he repeated gloomily, and stared out of the window as they rolled through suburban Liverpool. Mo smiled faintly and focused back on the wheel and the road; he could hear the hints of remorse in the teenager's muttering, the self-awareness that he'd fucked up. Harvey was a good kid, he thought, and he'd mature quickly, with the right influences. He was not going to let the lad ruin his chances on a daft `incident'!
Do we have to talk about it?' Neco Williams asked, pushing at buttons to slow his pace a little; beneath his trainered feet, the rapid growl of the treadmill weakened and allowed his long hairy legs to recover and recharge. He panted heavily, feeling the bounce and tickle of his dark curls at his forehead and ears, sweat itching at his nipples and pits. The... incident, as you called it...!'
To his right, Liverpool's majestic captain kept up their fast pace without the same need to lower the setting, pushing himself. Jordan Henderson's feet struck the treadmill noisily and his breathing was a rhythmic grunt. His arms, bare and gleaming, swung sharply at his sides as he maintained pace and posture on the next running machine of this, his home gym at the back of his Cheshire mansion. Without breaking from the pace or power of his stride, he looked over at Neco and smiled a little patronisingly. `Well, what would you rather I called it, eh? Your... drugs bust?' He laughed a little, his voice raspy with the Sunderland accent.
Neco scoffed a laugh back at this and nodded, working his legs slowly and staring glumly at the control panel, knowing he should push the pace back up and join Hendo in a more forceful run for the last few minutes of the session. Of all the quirks of temporarily living with the skipper, the intensity of the extra training sessions had surprised and exhausted him the most, though it did mean he was enjoying Mrs Henderson's cooking and his comfortable guest bedroom even more, worn out by both Klopp and Hendo's schedules!
Drugs bust,' he repeated wearily. Hah! It was just... ugh.'
I know, I know,' Jordan panted, sprinting parallel to him. I am NOT judging you for a little bit of grass at your age, Wills. Trust me. But -- you know -- it only takes a couple of scandals and you're marked out as a troublemaker, at only 19. Think about your future. Wales captain one day, right? Besides...' He paused, his quick shallow breaths filling the space, `I think we both know you were not really the troublemaker anyway, right?'
Williams started at this, pausing with his finger just over the speed dial, wearily ready to try and rejoin his captain's fast efforts on the treadmills in the stuffy warm air of the home gym, dinner cooking a few rooms away and another chilled family evening with the Hendersons beckoning. `Sorry?' the Welsh right-back asked after a few moments.
Just like that, Henderson lifted and planted his feet against the side-bars, leaving the sweeping motion of the tread behind and holding the front-bars tightly while he caught his breath. He turned his chiselled, redenned features back this way, grinning beneath the overgrown and lightly curling nest of his mousy hair. `You know what I'm saying,' Hendo told him quietly, then turned off his machine and hopped lightly off it.
Neco gladly switched off his own machine and stepped off, following the 29-year-old midfielder across the centre of the square room. Jordan had pulled up a small towel to dab at his sweaty neck and face, stretching out his sturdy legs. Neco mirrored his stretches slowly, unsure what he should and shouldn't admit here.
Well, were they your drugs that were found?' Henderson demanded in a fair and reasonable voice. Was it really you nipping out during lockdown to buy a bag of weed...?' He heaved a long sigh and dangled the sweat towel at his side, 6ft of lean muscle in his Adidas training gear, head tilted a little one side as he looked Williams up and down. `We both know what kind of lad Harvey Elliott is, bless his angry socks. He's been in bother with the chiefs before, Neco.'
Neco Williams knew the lads' code on these matters, had no desire to be a grass', but he also felt how obvious the situation was. He mentally compared his and Harvey's reps amongst the first-team lads, their behaviours and attitudes; he supposed everyone was probably thinking the same thing. So he bought it, but I had my share,' he admitted bluntly. `I've already been through all this with the gaffer, Jord, do we have to...?'
This isn't an interrogation. This ain't a... lecture.' The Mackem footballer stepped a foot closer and reached out, leaning a hand calmly on his shoulder. All I want to say is... he's a good lad, we all like him, he'll go far. But he's... unpredictable. Don't let him... pull you off course. Don't let him turn your head or give you... funny ideas.' The phrases stung at Neco's thoughts here, stood like a naughty schoolboy in his new host's home. He tried not to look too fazed, nodding slowly. `All I'm saying, Wills, is look after yourself. You're 19; you aren't in the same position as him, you're allowed to live where you want, this stay is just a contractual... blip. They want me to keep an eye on you. That's all.'
`Harvey isn't gonna lead me astray,' Williams muttered, scratching at his wispy chin and feeling weirdly childish and scolded; he was as tall and almost as broad as the 29-year-old in front of him, a sturdy defender and much-praised young player, he shouldn't feel so belittled or intimidated, but he did. He just had so much love and respect for the team's great skipper, after all. He was a little embarrassed by the idea that he was so impressionable he could be influenced by an erratic teen like Harvs; more embarrassed, though, to think what exactly the other player HAD led him into doing...
Trust me, you have to make yourself the priority,' Jordan advised him quietly. Keep yourself true to you, only do shit that's right for you. Keep it... authentic.' He was gibbering in platitudes but his North Eastern voice was confident and soothing. He squeezed Neco's shoulder. `Even when you're not forced to bed here, mate, you can talk to me, your captain and your pal, alreet?'
Neco nodded, trusting this truth. But with limits. He couldn't really confide in Hendo, could he? Tell him what other shit he and his fellow Liverpool teen starlet had got up to in those attic rooms of that family's house...? Williams was half-surprised they hadn't been caught at THAT instead, and kicked out for a different set of conservative values; but nope, bloody Harvey had been careless with his stash and his sneaky joints, and out they were, for fuck's sake...
What is it?' the Liverpool captain asked him calmly. You seem heavy, mate. What is it you wanna talk through, eh?' The hand patted his shoulder and retreated. Neco just shrugged, shook his head, forced a smile; he was about to dismiss the conversation, but thank Hendo for his support, when the voice of Jordan's wife drifted in through the doorway, announcing that dinner was almost ready. Jordan grinned, nodded confidently. `Shower time, then. Go get cleaned up, kid.'
Salah watched the vague ripples of his dense, muscular torso in the bedroom mirror, smudging the one towel across his damp chest and shoulders. He was proud of his physique, especially now, though not with the superficial vanity of some Premiership egos; he was just really committed to being his best, happy to be a powerhouse on the pitch and keep smashing in those goals for a team he adored. Seeing his short stocky figure bulge with sandy-coloured muscle and shadowy ridges between them made him proud and ambitious.
Still, for all his faith and professionalism, he was no saint; he knew how they excited and pleased his dear wife, when they were alone together. She loved to run her manicured nails over his chest and the mountain range of his six-pack, loved that he waxed off the fur now and let them gleam smooth and kissable. He found himself tensing the pecs a little and squeezing his abdominals, hunching his thick upper arms at the side, and-
A wolf-whistle, followed by a gritty chuckle.
Mohamed paused, looking from the mirror across the big master bedroom the door, which was customarily ajar because they were always having to keep one ear out for a problem with the kids. But in it now leaned their houseguest, young Harvey with his hands in his shorts pockets, freshly showered too with his damp hair up in a bun and that old look of mischief back in his eyes; the sulk was over.
Salah was embarrassed to be caught flexing at his own reflection but he had no intention of admitting it and entering into any discussion. He laughed, turned away from the door, finished drying his chest and hairy pits, careful not to look too closely at his handsome reflection. He got a little shock when his eyes darted up and caught Harvey's image there with him, having walked (crept?) over the soft bedroom carpet to join him. He was mildly freaked out by this, the comfort with which the guest had entered this more private space and joined him, but then... his toweled nudity was nothing, was it? Not given their jobs and their lives together at the club, so...
Man, I defo wanna be as ripped as you,' Elliott said with quiet eagerness. He was reaching out to squeeze one of Mo's rock-hard biceps as he spoke. I'm working hard on it, you know, but... phew, I dunno if I got your genes, bruv!'
Salah pulled his arm away with a self-conscious chuckle, shaking his head. I am no machine, I am not Cristiano...! All is achievable, Elliott, all is achievable...' He shook out the towel in his hands, seeing Harvey's reaching hand again, coming up to the side of his shoulder. Their two short, thickset bodies reflected in the mirror, but his so much more on show. He brushed his arm away from the stroking hand again, his laugh dying a bit. Can I help you with something?' he asked with unusual bluntness, suddenly really quite unsure why Harvey thought it was okay to be in here, okay to squeeze his arm like that...!
The 17-year-old, pulling his other hand from the pocket and folding both arms at the front of his colourful print tshirt, made a thoughtful whistle noise, then sniggered. When he spoke, his voice was quiet and confiding, and he was reaching a hand again -- this time to brush his knuckles at the mid-ridge of Salah's bulging abs, make him pull back sharply. Actually, chief,' Harvey muttered, I was kinda thinking I might help you with summat...?' The Egyptian striker stared hard at him, unsure of the meaningful expression on his face, the grey wolfish eyes and curling grin. He felt so very aware of his own nudity beneath the tight towel, the exposure of his gym-hardened body, just a couple of inches taller than this youth.
`Pardon?' Salah asked. Harvey just sniggered in response, playing two knuckles against his naval until Mo moved his body away more firmly and frowned defensively. Just then, the voice of his wife, in their own language, calling dinnertime across the house. A petulant smirk on Elliott's face as he took two steps backwards. He made a quiet tut and went to leave the room, hands back in his pockets so the thin jogger shorts pulled tightly about his hips and thighs, pronouncing the curve of his bottom. Then he was gone from the room, and Magi was shouting again, and Mo realised he was breathing very heavily. He caught his own eye in the mirror, frowned more, and got dressed in a hurry.
`Have you ever gotten a bit too close to another player, then?'
Neco heard his own voice tremble a bit at the question. It had hung about in his mind all day and in his throat for half an hour, so it was quite a relief to spit it out into the middle of their quiet, intimate chat; partly a relief, but very quickly a regret. He could hear the loaded meaning of the euphemistic `too close', feel the rift it created in what had been some light-hearted reminiscing from Henderson about his earlier playing days.
They were outside, taking some fresh air whilst Jordan's partner bathed the kids. It had been raining all evening but the air was moistly warm. Neco sat on a low wall at the edge of the sheltered patio, his mostly bare legs stretched out in front of him and his back against a wooden beam, the small beer bottled cradled on his lap in both hands, nearly empty. This one drink was their allotted treat for putting in an extra hour's fitness before dinner. So, Neco thought, this is what disciplined professionalism feels like at 29!
How's that?' Hendo asked. It had taken him a while to answer. What do you mean?' When Neco didn't explain or ask more, he laughed to himself, sat a few feet away on one of the stiff wooden chairs, tapping his bottleneck against the edge of an outdoor table. `I mean, me and Ads are at bromance level 500, but... what do you mean by... close?'
Neco looked at him, taking in his perplexed but kindly face, then looked away across the house's sprawling gardens. Fuck. He shouldn't have blurted this out, not like that. But Hendo had been urging him to talk all day, trying to build his trust and be the perfect captain. He realised his quiet was speaking volumes and quickly tried to paper over the crack. `I just mean -- yeah, like you and Adam, I guess, or -- well, like daft stuff, when you were younger, or...' He picked up and finished his beer, feeling how dry his mouth suddenly was.
Jordan had got up from his seat and walked closer to the wall. They were both 6ft but in this position, the proxemics made the hierarchy clear. The captain, 10 years his senior, stood over him with a calmly expectant look on his face, waiting for clarity. He looked less bewildered, though. Could he guess what Neco meant?
It was him,' he huffed suddenly, seizing on the direction of their earlier talk. Well, it wasn't a lie. It was all Harvey,' the Wrexham footballer said in a quick mutter. I mean, it takes two to tango, but... It wasn't just the weed, you see. Lad had some funny ideas, yeah?' He stared pleadingly up at Jordan, holding the empty bottle tightly in both hands. He said it was...'
Are you saying what I think you're saying?' Hendo asked, his voice dropping even lower. He even looked back across the patio with an odd urgency, as if terrified they would be overheard. Are you saying you and Harvey Elliot did... stuff?'
Neco frowned dismally at his skipper. So,' he mumbled, you're saying you've never...? Fuck.' Looking away again, blinking nervously at the garden. He made out like it was... normal. Like a lot of players... Ugh.' He pulled his legs up, bringing his knees towards him so the long baggy shorts fell back a little. The early night suddenly felt chillier against his bare arms and hairy shins. But Henderson took a step nearer, passing his beer from hand to hand. There was a thoughtful and hope-inspiring look on his face, as if on the edge of confession. What?' Williams asked him quickly.
`I'm totally straight,' Hendo insisted.
`What? Me too! I didn't say I... it wasn't like... Fuck, man, I...'
Hey, hey... I didn't call you anything. No labels, kid. All I'm saying is, I'm... you know, I'm sort of... AWARE that things do... happen, as you put it, and like...' He scratched at his thin beard briefly and pulled back at his curling hair. Well, there are games and...' There was a slightly distant look in his eyes, as if remembering some particular incident. It cooled but also excited Neco, this chance that maybe he wasn't alone, and even the Liverpool leader had... experimented...
Harvey told me,' he began hesitantly, well, he told me he saw some... some crazy shit go on at work, you know...' He saw the sharp interest on the captain's face. He felt like a traitor repeating this but he needed Hendo to understand. `He said he saw some things happening in the gym, you know...? Like, a couple of guys in there too late, and...'
`I know what I saw,' Harvey said with a calm smile, circling the tea towel across the large flat plate in his hands, positioned close by the older man's side, up against the big industrial-looking sink of the square rear kitchen.
All the way through dinner, he'd been sweetness and light. Engaging the Salah's eldest child in quick chat about schoolwork, complimenting Mo's wife on every detail of the meal and dessert -- even some of the décor in the dining room, a little teenage design expert all of a sudden. He'd done it all with a cherub's grin, meeting Salah's eyes now and then as they spoke, noting his tense silence and the unspoken rage at their brief exchange upstairs. Now, they were alone in the kitchen, away from the ears of Mrs Salah, and he was seizing his chance for aggressive honesty.
You and Gomez,' he hissed, placing the plate down on a marble worktop with a heavy clink, and reaching out to grab the next wet dish from Mohamed's shaking wet fingers. You know what I mean, I can tell from ya face, mate!'
`Keep your voice down,' Salah grunted. Each word seemed its own burst of controlled anger now. The handsome and usually smiling figure of Liverpool's goal machine stood tense and alert, soap suds dripping from his palms and scattered up his dark-haired forearms. Even under his long-sleeved tshirt and baggy trousers, the bulges of his physique were obvious, though Harvey felt they were exaggerated by his recent voyeurism in the master bedroom upstairs. But far more than the knowledge of what lay beneath those clothes, he was enjoying the tension he wilfully created here, the whimsical mischief of the night.
Oh, okay,' he teased quietly, doesn't she know...? Right...'
`Harvey,' the Egyptian muttered warningly.
You and Gomez,' Harvey mused. In front of him, the 27-year-old turned back to the sink, sponging aggressively at the last plate, making a splash on his tshirt as he did; Harvey suppressed a giggle of enjoyment and leaned a little closer, the tea towel in both hands. And not JUST you two, you see but... well, was it the Ox getting up off his knees, a bit sweaty in there, and...'
I have no idea,' growled Salah -- he was so much more exciting and appealing in this quiet rage! -- and bringing the plate up from the filled sink, dripping and gleaming and clutched in both tense hands, what you are talking about, boy, and...'
Oh don't you?' Harvey asked. Maybe I should pop to my knees now and remind you?'
Salah's anger broke; so did the plate. It cracked apart between his whitened knuckles and then was dropping to the floor between their bare feet with a clatter and an echoing snap, shattering on the hard stone tiles. Both men looked quickly down at the mess then back at each other. Mo's features had quickly transformed from barely contained aggression to wild, wide-eyed panic, an appealing vulnerability against his rugged masculinity. Harvey narrowed his eyes and smirked questioningly, then flinched at the footsteps and shouting.
What on earth, boys...?! What have you broken...? Oh, Mo...!' In flounced the wife, the interruptor, the rival, Harvey thought with playful ambition. He didn't take his eyes off Salah's worried frown, but took a step back and then spoke loudly with forced worry. Oh bugger...! Sorry for swearing, Mrs S, oh no... it's all my fault, I just... oh dear...!' He grinned at Mohamed while she fussed between them and, coming upright, squeezed one of his strong young arms. Don't you worry,' she said rapidly, poor boy... Mo, Mo, fetch a brush, come on... what's wrong with you? Oh, poor Harvey...' The striker stared hard at him, blinked once, and separated from the scene with a slow release of his tense white knuckles and knotted shoulders.
Mo Salah?' repeated Henderson, now leaning one knee against the top of the wall right by Neco's legs, leaning in close to him so they could speak in intimate murmurs, the quiet house feeling miles away from their conversation. No -- you're havin' a laugh, kid. Mo Salah? I mean...' He barked out a laugh, shook his head for a fourth time, waved his empty beer bottle in the air like a defensive lawyer. Mo, and... Joe Gomez? Alex Oxlade-fucking-Chamberlain? This is...' He rubbed his forehead with his wrist. This is nonsense, Neco. That lad is filling your head with...'
I'm sure he meant it,' Williams insisted. He sat up a little, pulling his back from the wooden beam, moving his torso closer to where his captain stood. Though he regretted entering into this messy conversation, Henderson's physical closeness was comforting and strong. I know it sounds mad, right, but... Oh, Jordan, mate, I just... I dunno what you think of me right now, but it just... It just happened, and he made it sound so normal, and...'
He could see Hendo was stressed. Whatever minor reminiscence the Mackem bloke had been on the verge of sharing with him, it had not been anything like this. But how could he have explained without sharing what Harvey Elliott told him? It had sounded like fiction to him then too, but he thought he believed it now; he could really picture it. Harvey had told him it in more detail on another late-night episode in his bed, after quietly sucking on his balls til he blew his wad against the duvet. He was sweating now, thinking of that, and thinking of the alleged other experimental players, and feeling Henderson's body heat and confused phobic panic beside him. Neco reached out instinctively, placed a hand on the top of the knee in front of him, where it rested on the wall. Maybe it is bullshit, I dunno,' he murmured, but just tell me I'm normal, captain...?'
Henderson stopped and stared at him, tense there with his arms lifted up and his head sliding gently down the sides of his head, as if in some mime of tearing his overgrown hair out. The almost 30-year-old skipper and midfielder stopped and started a few times without saying anything. Neco, worried and a little excited, squeezed more at the edge of his hairy thigh, below the hem of the shorts he wore, feeling the thick strong leg lean more heavily into the wall as he did, the other guy's body language and posture shifting gently. `What the hell is normal?' Hendo demanded, and his shaky little question sounded like all the comfort and approval Neco needed right now. Interpreting it as he wanted, he slid his hand up a little, over the warm furry skin of Jordan's thigh, just edging his fingertips past the edge of those shorts.
Exactly,' he mumbled, normal is really like 20th century, so...' He sat forward more and gently reached his other hand over to grab gently at the bottom of Jordan's white tshirt, pulling down softly on the fabric so his knuckles grazed the firm muscle beneath it, just above the waist; his other hand creeping up that thigh ever so slightly. His eyes tried to meet Jordan's but the Liverpool leader was staring confusedly out into the darkness of the garden. Neco's questing fingers found the edge of a soft bulge within the leg of those shorts, the heavy edge of a contained package; so warm and soft and very much THERE at his fingertips...
Kid,' the Mackem footballer barked abruptly. Neco's eyes snapped back up to his face and saw the tight, furious frown on his features. What... the... fuck...?' For a moment, Williams left his shaky hands where they were, one up a shorts leg and one just above his hip, pulling at his tshirt, both feeling his intense body heat and reassuring strength. Then, like electrocuted, he pulled his hands back to himself and shut his mouth with a grate of his jaws. It looked for a moment like his beloved captain was going to thump in fury at this transgression.
Skipper, I'm sor- he began, but Jordan was already backing off, square-jawed and mortified, adjusting his shorts aggressively and picking up both of their beer bottles. He stormed on inside and Neco Williams sat awkwardly on the thin wall, his Welsh cock twitching his baggy shorts and his heart beating out operas in his chest.
Mo Salah lay awake in bed. His ears seemed to pound and throb with imaginary replays of that hissed conversation at the sink, mingling with the gentle breaths of his wife, sprawled at the other side of the big bed. The sheets were barely on his body, both because of her customary nocturnal greed for them, and because the air felt prickly and uncomfortable against his skin. As always, all he wore to bed was a thin pair of silk boxer shorts, but even that felt too much tonight. Was it so humid, or was that in his head? It was like being back in Egypt in the height of summer, except with no access to air conditioning! He would have peeled the jade-green silk boxers away from his body if he thought it would help whatsoever.
Mo stared at the ceiling, closing his eyes for up to a minute in some desperate invocation of sleep, then opening them again. For a little while, he had prayed silently, but it felt so wrong; how could he profane a holy message over the acts he'd allowed that day in the training gym? Subconsciously, he began to slip once more into prayer but stopped himself. He tried shutting his eyes again, but no, sleep was not miraculously arriving.
When he opened them, something was different. It took him moments to recognise. Out of the corner of his eye, a shadowy de ja vu; the bedroom door, habitually ajar, was once more occupied by the vague silhouette of those broad young shoulders and that rising topknot. Harvey Elliott was standing there in the shadows of the landing space, looking into the master bedroom.
Salah lay very still, just lifting his head a little from the bed to stare at his intrusive guest. When the lad began to take slow, quiet steps in off the landing and into the long gossamer shadows of the bedroom, Mo blinked his eyes to check he wasn't hallucinating from dehydration or something; nope, the 17-year-old hoodlum was approaching the bed with slow confident steps. Salah looked at his wife, lying on her front, her head in a halo of disturbed dark hair, buried between two pillows, deeply asleep and oblivious...
Harvey was by the bed now, more visible in the thin shafts of moonlight that crept between their patterned curtains. The teen was in his boxer shorts and a loose-fitting white vest. Bedclothes. He was grinning, Mo could see that much, just like in the kitchen. I should get up, he thought, I should take him by the ear and drag him out of here. I should shout at him, I should... He lay there, paralysed by sheer confusion and the building pressure of what this alarming youth claimed to know. When Harvey reached a hand out to stroke his bare left shin, he just held his breath. The lad's hand crept up that hairy shin, ducking beneath a corner of bedding to cross his knee, and then it was on his thigh; it bypassed the triangle of material and was visible again, just at the bottoms of his silk boxers. Mo let out his breath in a shivering sigh. `What are you doing?' he mouthed silently.
Young Elliott shifted forward, one knee up on the edge of the mattress. No gentle, teasing stroke now; he reached for and grabbed the front of the silky boxers, finding the shape of Mo's gently reacting prick. His exposed six pack shuddered and tensed and his nipples stiffened from the pale caramel mounds of his pectorals. Harvey leaned into the mattress more with his knee and Mo feared the shifts in weight would disturb his wife. When he looked at her, though, she was entirely still and silent. When he looked back, Harvey's hands were at the waist of his boxers, pulling. Mo tensed his body and lifted his hairy buttocks -- to keep this quiet and simple, not to help! This was NOT on, he thought, this was NOT okay, this was...
The boxers slid down the thick hairy muscles of his thighs, looking even more forested against the neatly waxed outline of his upper body. And there lay his fat circumcised meat. Harvey's fingers stroking it gently, teasing from the base to the glans and over the bulbous pink tip. That lad's grin was pure filth. So confident, so sure. Mo struggled to hold in the little moan of aggressive surprise and pleasure as his dick was lifted from his balls, cradled and stroked and massaged... No,' he mouthed urgently. No...' The young footballer was leaning more onto the bed, pushing one hand down into the thick nest of duvet between husband wife, vest-clad torso looming over the knot of Mo's legs... and then the head was descending, lips parting. His eyes opened wide and met Mohamed's as, eerily visible in the dark, he lifted up that hardening dick and took it between his lips.
Neco lay naked on top of the neatly made sheets of the downstairs guest bedroom, the warm night air tickling irritatingly at every muscle of his youthful physique. He stared at the plain white of the ceiling and teased his cock between two fingers, then finger and thumb, then flat at his sweaty palm. He reached past it to cup and roll his fat bollocks, then back to the dick, pulling back on his foreskin and sliding his thumb across the sensitive bell-end.
Why did fucking Harvey have to go and get caught smoking a joint? The surge of resentment for his younger partner in crime welled up in his broad chest and powered his right arm as he stroked on his swelling, lengthening member. If he hadn't ruined their little set-up, the pair of them could still be cosy with that sweet, generous family... and enjoying private little moments of experimental touch in the night-time. Usually one-way, admittedly, but did Elliott seem to mind? His nimble hands down the front of Neco's pyjamas or trackies, and when he hinted enough, fingers swapped for lips...
He let out a private little groan to the ignorant night, squeezing his hard-on in one hand and letting the other run vainly up the compact muscles of his advanced six-pack. He bored into the ceiling with his eyes and switched thoughts; no, it was better to be here, away from Harvey's bad ideas and naughty inclinations. He had been getting too used to those little borrowed moments, his own fervent masturbation swapped for another teenager's hormonal reach. It had been all wrong, it wasn't his thing. He should never have allowed it to... But now he was picturing the other side of it, when he'd allowed himself to think Harvey's plump smooth rear was his way into a hot babe and he'd pushed a finger between those-
Upstairs, a creak. A slight noise, maybe more of a vibration than a noise. But something, definitely. A shift of bodies or furniture. There it was again. If he stopped pulling at his dick, he could almost hear a rhythmic tapping from directly above. Above. What was above this downstairs spare room that he had been allocated for the week...? He knew even as he asked himself the question. He strained his ears and played with his erection and felt pre-cum ooze at his clumsy fingers, picturing the scene above with a voyeuristic thrill...
It tasted good. They all seemed to taste different. Neco's was almost chalky in its fresh cleanliness, and it was so intensely rigid it could sometimes feel like a piece of wood against his tongue! Then there had been Ross, he reflected with a tremor, who had tasted like... well, to be frank, paradise. So thick. So sweaty. But this, this tasted good too...
No fool, Harvey kept one eye to the other side of the bed at all times. Even as he slid up and down and whirled his adventurous tongue around that fat circumcised head, he watched for hints of movement or the slightest noise from the other half of the marital bed. He spread his weight cautiously, one leg off the bed and toes brushing the carpet. One hand pressed firmly into the thick knot of bedding and the other resting on Salah's hipbone. This hand, he couldn't help it, slid up now and then to feel the impossibly dense ridges of Mo's six-pack, a tightness and bulge of muscle he hoped he could reach as he matured and filled out. He could feel the hairy firmness of the man's thigh against his elbows and one of his knees, and that was exciting. Why, he thought, did the cunt wax his chest? He'd seen Mo shirtless a while back and that broad powerful chest had been carpeted in the same thick dark hair as his legs and pits were now!
Even the sheer silkiness of the man's boxers was exciting and tactile where it brushed Harvey's own skin. They were sexy pants, he kinda wanted to take them away and wank into them himself when he was done here, but he wouldn't. He had to tread carefully. Though he held no illusions: the risk was about 50% of his own throbbing erection, and surely some of Salah's too!
He could see how much the powerful Muslim striker wanted to gasp or groan. The passions rippled at his expressive bearded face. His self-discipline here was impressive: not a sound. The wild and competitive streak in the young scally wanted to test this, wanted to hear the man scream for him, but he also didn't want to ACTUALLY destroy a marriage. So he held himself carefully and sucked like his life depended on it, and watched for hints of readiness in Salah's thick athletic body.
When it came, it was delicious and creamy. Thicker than Neco's watery spurts, less overwhelmingly salty than Barkley's savoured seed. Harvey slowed down so he could enjoy it properly. He held his mouth around the tip of it and ran his tongue back and forward, dragging each drop of that fertile cream into his mouth, swallowing it. Wow, he thought, extra dessert! He heard the low, agonised gasp that Mohamed could not QUITE contain; risky, but he loved hearing it so much. It signalled an end to the dangerous mission though.
He pulled back, as deliberately and precisely as he'd approached. Leaving Mo's cock to flop back against his trimmed pubes, planting a single kiss on one of his hairy thighs, feeling the coarse fur against his spunky tongue. One knee of the bed, then the other. Both feet on the ground. Hands stroking against the clammy skin of Mo's shins then his ankles. Then standing by the bed, cum on his lips, looking down at the naked sprawl of Salah's gorgeous muscled body. Statuesque in the shards of moonlight. He was staring up at him, eyes wide, lips slightly parted. He was holding in another gasp, Harvey could tell.
The teenager gripped his own dick in his boxer shorts once, then backed away stealthily. Out of the master bedroom, onto the landing, quietly across to the spare room, into his borrowed privacy. He didn't even go to the bed. He stood there with the door pulled shut behind him, Mohamed's flavour still on his tongue, and jerked his dick inside his boxers until he spunked heavily into his hand; when he did this, he dragged it up to his face and licked his own white mess, wild in his hunger.
They both panted and grimaced with divine pleasure. Jordan always made sure she came before him, but he suspected that she'd reached her second orgasm almost simultaneously with his own creamy filling of her cunt. Their bodies parted with sweaty relief, a dry and weary kiss shared before he flopped aside onto his back and she let out her giggling happiness at the force with which he always shagged her.
Like Neco downstairs, Salah in a different master bedroom, Harvey climbing into his, the Liverpool captain lay there and stared up at the ceiling, shimmering with his own lusty sweat and smelling the odours of sex in the air around him.
Even as he'd given it to his gorgeous, much-loved wife, his spouse of many years now, his thoughts had turned endlessly over the conversation in the garden; poor young Neco's misguided stroke of his leg, as if something might happen! He felt terribly guilty at his reaction and departure, his failure to talk it through and let the confused 19-year-old gently. He would speak to him about it in the morning, he resolved, but he would also be on the phone to Klopp and the business managers and asking about how quickly a new home could be arranged. Williams was over 18, after all, he was nobody's legal responsibility like stupid Harvey and his spliffs were. Henderson might have spared a thought then for Salah and how he was getting on with his own troubled teen, but he had too much on his mind.
`Normal'. That word was carrying out laps in his head. What was normal, after all? As he had earlier, when Neco confronted him with these questions and truths, he thought about that day at Christmas, the game of soggy biscuit. As captain, he'd endorsed it; he could have ended Alex and Andy's silliness at any moment. But he'd gone for it, of course he had, he'd allowed it to happen, driven by amusement and maybe a hint of curiosity at whether any of the lads there that day would really... Well, he had, hadn't he? Alex. He'd done it. He'd taken his punishment, eaten that cookie, loaded with his mates' goo. Dirty bugger!
That, Jordan thought, was about as naughty as his interactions with teammates had ever been...! Even after the Champions League night of glory, when half the squad had been sharing prostitutes or fucking hotel staff in dubious corners, he'd been straight to his wife, conceiving their latest baby with a night of wild, bed-breaking enjoyment. A long sex ban consummated. She was all he ever wanted or needed, no other woman, never mind...
Neco's question bothered him, though. Have you ever gotten a bit too close to another player? A bit too close.
Beside him, the missus was still panting and sighing and coming down from her sexual high. Jordan rolled a little further from her, his tall body of lean muscle sliding over the sheets a bit. He picked up his phone, as if just checking the time, but opened up his messages. There it was, as always, his thread of messages with Adam Lallana. He re-read the last few. yeh lol my dinner was quite boring too' / yup see u at training buddy xx' / lol good point, can't wait' / night night skipppper! Xx' He blinked at them and then read his own messages in between, which were similar: concise, simple, mundane... affectionate. He locked the phone screen, vanishing its electric glow in the neat darkness of their bedroom. He felt a hand reaching for his sweaty back. `Cuddles?' whispered her satisfied voice in the shadows.
Jordan rolled back into the bed and embraced her silently, closing his eyes.
He'd never had a friend like Ads. Lallana had been there for him at Liverpool and on the England squad for years now. Teammates, and a team of their own. Roommates or neighbours on every excursion. A friendship like no other. Bromance, they often called it, laughing and rolling their eyes. Neco's question broke through this fond fuzz of thoughts: Have you ever gotten a bit too close to another player?
A bit too close...?