Part 134: Return to St James' Park (Home)
Looking out at the view from the glassy square of the pundits' box, it was very hard not to reminisce: the towering empty stands and sharp green pitch, every inch of St James' Park felt familiar even all these years later, and sent him down a memory lane of his own FA Cup almost-was with the team, 15 years ago. That, and many more of the happiest moments of his footballing career.
Alan Shearer cast a nostalgic smile over the view of Newcastle's majestic stadium then pulled away from the big windows looking out from their corner, and back at the carefully distanced desks and seating they would occupy for this first BBC footy broadcast in quite some time. He was still in a loose-fitting long-sleeved black top, yet to spruce up in the suit his wife had picked out for him; the other two were in similarly casual outfits as they strolled in to join him.
Gary Lineker, that smug-grinned silver fox, made his usual minor jibes about Alan's FA Cup history, whilst young Micah Richards was much more polite and respectful, leaning in for a handshake before remembering they'd been advised against it. Alan grinned patiently at the likeable pair, his co-hosts for the broadcast, and shuffled the notes he'd prepared and laid out at his corner of their tables.
He was doubly excited: an experienced broadcaster very ready to start appearing more regularly on such panels, getting to analyse and argue over the sport that dominated his life; but he was also a fan, daring to hope that the Toon might upset the Cup and thwart Guardiola's talented troupe. Just a little candle of hope, somewhere in his breast, but hope nonetheless. After all, Newcastle had been playing surprisingly well since returning from the break, bringing a fair bit of joy into his viewing pleasure in the past week and a bit.
The 49-year-old ex-striker shook off Gary's harmless banter, always pleased to share time with the other retired legend and encouraged Richards in his almost apologetic praise of his own former team. But before long, he excused himself from the small gathering; after all, they'd be spending a couple of hours together in here, serious-faced and picking apart the action unfolding below, so he was keen to take a bit of a nostalgic stroll beforehand.
And besides, there was someone he was hoping to catch for a chat.
Andy Carroll pulled the thin training jersey over his striped Newcastle shirt, kitting himself out like everyone else for the impending warm-up in the Home changing rooms of his beloved football ground. He was excited to make a proper start this evening, no first-half bench-warming before getting a run out; his mind was fixed sharply on a prospect of an FA Cup goal to celebrate the contract extension he'd penned this week, a thank you to the club and the fans and a solid confirmation that he had a place back here in his boyhood club.
The other men moved distantly around him, everyone still rather cautious with each other -- though such distance and worry were often abandoned as soon as they had their boots on and were out on the turf. He moved alone to the mirrors and ran his fingers through the thick dark locks, tying it neatly back into its ponytail, and smirking playfully at his latest facial hair efforts.
Carroll was in a good mood; really, he had been all the way through the lockdown. Obviously, he had so much empathy for the many ways other people were suffering, but he'd guiltily enjoyed his own experience to the full; rebuilding trust with his wife, getting to really enrich time with the kids, solidly working on his football fitness. Actually, 2020 had been a good year for Carroll, he could privately admit, and he felt strong about the club's string of closing matches, including today's chance to break past the Cup quarter-finals. City were NOT unbeatable.
Amongst these reasons to be happy, his healing marriage seemed paramount. To think that he'd risked it on that daft affair back down in London, and that things had been so fractious for all those months after the move here -- now, looking back, he marvelled at the tensions that had existed between he and Billi in the winter, and the lows it had driven him too. Now, playing happy families and posting it almost daily on social media out of bursting pride, he could barely give a thought to that fraught period. He was glad, obviously, that Dummo had been such a good fucking mate, but he didn't like to dwell for too long on quite what form that friendly support had taken.
In a way, he would guiltily tell himself, it was good that Paul had been injured and out of action for a lot of the year, as it meant less little moments where he was forced to look at his grinning, soft-bearded chum and remember how helpful and important the sweet guy had been during a dark moment in Andy's life.
No need for any of that nonsense now, though. Things were good. Really good.
Carroll wandered out into the hallway, checking clocks on the walls and figuring out there was still no rush before they needed to be out there for the scheduled warm-up. Keen as buttons, a couple of the others burst past him, down the tunnel on their way out: cheeky grinning Almiron, effervescing with energy as always, and big looming Saint-Maximin, loping after him down towards the sunny evening light. The skipper himself jogged out of the changing room doors, swinging his thick arms from side to side and flashing a friendly grin his way. `You ready?' Lascelles asked brightly. Another improvement: the burly Newcastle captain finally seemed to have dropped a period of awkwardness after him after THAT particular moment... of experimenting.
`Aye, gimme five,' the Gateshead-born striker chirped at his captain, a respectful salute.
The heavyset defender nodded and turned away to follow the other two's echoing voices, and Andy paused where he was at the top of the tunnel steps, dawdling. What was he waiting for? He moved up the broad corridor in the wrong direction, seeking some fresh inspiration from the big wall decorations of Toon history and legends, big artworks and framed photographs of the seemingly long-lost days when the Tyneside club actually won things. Andy was happy and confident, but a seed of doubt for the confrontation ahead was making him delay the step out to join the lads and get ready for it. It was partly the big empty stands, he thought, they were just eerie and wrong; as a lifelong supporter who had grown up on those terraces, kicking a ball on that sacred grass was just NOT the same in an empty venue.
Just beyond him was the parallel entrance, the way into the Away changing rooms, where their quarter-finals rivals would be just arriving and starting to get settled in. Don't be intimidated, he told himself, Pep's boys aren't even league winners, they're just another squad, they can be defeated... he could hear the dull echo of their voices emerging from the broad archway, but against that, two slightly more distinct voices as he went further down the tunnel and reached its junction with two stairways and another passage. Just around the corner were two of the Manchester City blokes, kitted out in identical hoodies and facing each other in what appeared to be an argument of some kind.
`Alreet,' Carroll said with polite announcement of his presence, rounding the corner and giving a stiff nod of respect to the two opponents, who turned sharply his way and stopped saying whatever they were saying; they seemed to look at him in annoyed suspicion that he'd been listening in, but in these echoey corridors, he'd barely recognised their voices.
`Oh, hey,' grunted the taller of the two, proper northern lad John Stones. Opposite him, back against the wall, Kyle Walker just flared his nostrils and nodded, not saying a word. Andy returned their almost hostile looks with his own determined eyes, knowing these pre-match hours were no place for small talk or banter, not in this context.
Since it was obvious he was not about to hurry on and spare them his presence, the two fellas seemed to move apart a little, alerting Andy momentarily to how close they'd stood, then make for the wide tunnel back towards their team's base in the Away rooms; Stones moved first, long strides and another brief friendly glance Andy's way, a pause in the deep frown furrowing his brow. Kyle stomped after him without any more acknowledge of the Geordie lad's presence, marching on and into the tunnel, his moody stance enough to make Andy turn and look over his shoulder at their exit. Fuck's sake,' he heard Walker mouth grumpily, we need to talk about this...' And then they were gone, disappearing through another archway to the side and re-joining the City squad where they were supposed to be.
We need to talk about this... talk about what? Andy wasn't overly interested; he had too much on his mind today in making sure he played his best and did the city proud. He was not a curious or nosy bloke by nature, and it only crossed his mind for a moment to even debate what might have those two England squad cronies muttering at each other in corridors an hour or so before a big club game like this. Beyond their disappearing profiles, he could see a couple more Newcastle tracksuit tops and shorts emerging and pattering down the stairs with faintly echoing conversation.
Carroll turned away from this view, knowing he ought to move, but wanting to look up at the big framed photo of Newcastle's 2005 squad engaged in an FA cup battle of their own, Shearer approaching the end of his playing days but still putting in a shift and leading the men into battle. He looked up admiringly at the man he'd called his hero for as long as he could remember, and when he heard his voice, it was almost like some cheesy pre-climax vision scene from a Disney narrative: `This could be your year for it, lad.'
Andy looked the other way and saw Alan descending the steps, hands folded at the front of his casual black top, that restrained grin on his handsomely aged features, always making him look as if he was chuckling along at a joke nobody else had spotted just yet. `Oh... Al, mate...' He was immediately brightened to see him, and he couldn't stop himself breaking the rules a minute; he staggered for the bottom of the steps and threw a brief hug about the older guy, who reciprocated with a gentle laugh then pushed him away a little bit.
`You'll have me sacked by the BBC,' Shearer remarked dryly.
Sorry,' laughed Carroll. Great to see you, chief.'
And you. Not since...' A flicker to his benevolently smiling expression. Oxford, was it?'
Andy, oddly, had more or less erased that memory. `That's it,' he agreed vaguely.
I mean it,' Alan said, returning to his earlier comment, and nodding past him at the big framed photograph of a near-win. I really think you lads could swing it tonight, make City run for it, steal it away from them...' Andy grinned but something in his expression or posture must have revealed his doubts, because then the ex-pro was patting and squeezing his shoulder through his top. `Seriously. They have a lot to prove, what with Liverpool and all, and losing to Chelsea, so... they'll be aggressive. But they are entitled. They think they have this in the bag. THAT, Andy lad, is what you guys need to capitalise on...'
Carroll sighed into a laugh. 'You wanna come take over from Brucey's team talks...? They aren't half this motivating...'
Alan smiled kindly. Poor guy has a big job in front of him, and fuck all help from above -- does he even know if he has a job next season...?' He squeezed Andy's shoulder a bit more firmly. And we both know I've been there, tried that, fucked up. I think I'll settle for looking bald and sexy on a BBC panel, aye...'
Andy grinned at this false boast, torn between needing to back off and jog down the tunnel, and wanting to hear more helpful little remarks from the experienced Geordie man, whose posters and merchandise had covered his bedroom walls as a child in Gateshead. `Any more tips, Big Al...?'
`Not really. But I did have a bone to pick with ya, man.'
`Uh...?'
`Speaking of Oxford,' Shearer said pointedly.
Erm?' Andy thought embarrassedly of that cold night in the early weeks of the year. What do you mean...? Are you talking about...?'
Aye,' the old guy said heavily, I'm talking about you-know-what.' He prodded an almost accusing single finger in Andy's chest. That little, aha, trick you taught me...' Andy felt a hot blush rising in his high cheekbones, above the handlebar strips of his shaped beard, mentally returning to that chilly cup experience and the encounter they had shared behind the scenes -- really, he'd done his best to suppress that on the argument that it was probably so embarrassing and exposing for Alan, more than him, he'd thought boxing it away was the respectful thing to do, but now... That trick,' said Shearer, jabbing the finger against his pec, `you never told me the truth about it.'
`How you mean?' Andy mumbled back quickly, quietly.
`Well... you mad out it was summat between you and your good wife, right...'
`Well, erm... yeh... it is, man, it...'
`Not your mate Dummett?'
Andy froze at this. What the actual fuck? His face must be bright red, it felt so hot. He found himself looking left and right, checking the stairs and passages were empty of eavesdroppers, immediately mortified. `Alan, man,' he grumbled under his breath, but the former Newcastle striker had more to say.
Aye, I see it's true,' Shearer remarked. You dirty little fecker.'
Alan,' Andy murmured in a panic. He could see that dry smirk remain on Shearer's face, but he could also feel the accusation in his look, in the poking finger, in his almost aggressive stance in front of him, shorter and aged but still a powerful presence. Look, I need to-`
I just thought it would be grand to hear some truth from ya, lad,' his hero told him firmly. You had me playing dirty on some false ideas, ya know what I mean? All these months I've been wondering where you got that from, and now I hear...'
`I can explain...'
Carroll's mind raced. What the hell? How could Alan know anything about he and Paul's dabbling? Surely Dummo would not have told a soul? It was difficult to accept the notion. He stared hard at the 49-year-old legend but took a nervous step back, feeling like a tiny nervous kid like the first time he'd got his autograph, not a 6ft4 hulk of energetic muscle. He was saved, if that was the right word, by the voice of today's goalkeeper, his good mate Karl Darlow, somewhere behind him in the tunnel, shouting out something about the warm-up -- clearly not spotting Shearer, since Andy's reverence was universally shared by all the less local lads. At this brief interruption, something in Alan's demeanour relaxed, pulling his hand away from Andy's chest and backing into the stairs.
`I don't suppose Dummo is around this evening,' he asked or stated.
No,' Andy murmured. Injury leave, and all that...'
`Right. I see. Well -- it'll have to be you who tells me what went on, eh lad?'
But Andy didn't say anything back to this. Darlow's call for him was the excuse he needed. He took two steps back, staring worriedly at the man he admired so much, then turned on his heel and made to jog after Karl and the others, not risking a look back. How the fuck did Alan Shearer know what he'd been up to? How much could he really know? And how much could he afford to confess to him? Fuck!
Watching the match unfold, Shearer could not help but focus on the tall, long-haired forward in particular, passionately rooting for his black and white army even as City dominated every movement. Aside from the thrill of the football, he felt a certain power trip in seeing the powerful figure of Carroll on the pitch, knowing how he'd confronted and intimidated the 31-year-old; it was a similar rush to his meeting with Jamaal Lascelles, and seeing that big muscular bloke trying to marshal the players and keep up their resistance to Guardiola's team was so oddly arousing for him, knowing what had gone on in the car that hot afternoon.
But some of Shearer's enjoyment of this angle on the action was dulled as he began to see how riled and affected the Geordie striker actually was -- Andy was always a little bit aggressive, but he was visibly frustrated and seemed to have tackled City's Laporte excessively on a few occasions. At half-time, he relished defending the tall lad in his discussion with Lineker and Richards, pointing out his frustrating hard work with a mix of affection and enjoyable secrecy... and a strain of guilt. In the second half, when he saw the big lad begin to get really worked up, and finally score a yellow card, he felt very aware that his own bad timing and smug confrontation were affecting Carroll's play, and by extension, the whole fucking team.
He felt vaguely relieved to see Andy benched towards the end of the game, now watching the game with a far sourer mood; it seemed increasingly impossible that Newcastle could equalise or win. City really were in full control. Lads like Kyle Walker just seemed so powerful and dominant out there, he noticed, they seemed to have full control of the situation.
Well, tough luck, Al,' Gary told him sweetly as the 90th minute approached. Newcastle have put up a decent fight here, but...'
`Aye, no luck,' Shearer sighed back, arms folded in the crisp suit jacket, stood at the centre of their balcony-like room in the corner, watching the final minutes play out beneath. He frowned, not just at his team's inevitable defeat here, but at the small part of that loss that might be linked to his own behaviour.
I thought City would be below par today,' Micah commented somewhere to his right, fiddling with his notes and preparing himself for the post-match discussion. I went to see the big man before the game, obvs, and he seemed really off it -- caught him bollocking young Foden for some reason outside the dressing room...!'
Foden?' Lineker asked distantly. I thought Guardiola was borderline in love with that kid...! Wonder what he did. But no way are they below par. Excellent performance. In fact, I...' He rambled on, and Shearer slowly unfolded his arms and glanced at his watch, counting down the short burst of `extra time'. From here, he could see the dugout and the bench, could see big tall Andy scowling in amongst the rest of the Home camp -- fuck's sake, why did I have to put him off like that?
Around him, the other men were complaining loudly at their few missed chances, commenting on what could have been. Lascelles, stripped to the waist with his Toon shirt tucked into his shorts and hanging from the side, marched about the dressing room like a military captain, clapping and barking scraped praise at his defeated men, refusing to be downcast or gloomy. He bustled past and slapped a big palm against one of Andy's bare shoulders, clammy skin on clammy skin. You did your best, Carroll, you did your best,' he said assertively, forget that stupid yellow, you didn't deserve it.' And on he went, doing his best to rouse and reassure the Newcastle men.
Carroll thought that was easier said than done: forgetting the yellow card. He knew he'd been frustrated and aggressive, but Almeric Laporte, that dumb French pretty boy, had just leapt to the grass in the last interaction, desperate to make him look bad. Prick. Standing half-undressed, the tall striker wanted nothing more than to storm down the tunnel and grab that smug cunt out of the City changing rooms and give him a good hiding. He held onto this aggressive burn in his chest, because it was a bit better than collapsing onto his arse and hanging his head in misery.
Beside him, others seemed pretty sanguine. Swiss Fabian Schar was typically reserved and cool in his commentary, curling at some of his overgrown hair around one finger while he discussed his defensive errors with Yedlin, even more petite beneath his afro mane. Isaac Hayden, ripped torso on show as he stood there in just his white briefs, was complaining quite casually to Danny Rose and Allain Saint-Maximin about what could have been if their first near-miss had been converted. The freckled gingery frowns of the local Longstaff brothers, at least, looked pissed off and mutinous as they sat and chatted on the next bench -- but they got what this meant, like Andy did, way more than football. The others just didn't want it enough, Andy thought resentfully, they didn't get it!
Standing there, wiping sweat from his chiseled features and broad chest, it hit Carroll that somebody else should `get it', should understand. Why the fuck had Shearer come and spoken to him like that before the game? The conversation had played on his mind throughout the warm up and the rest period before kick-off. Not so much once the 90 minutes began, not consciously, but it had certainly put him on edge, initiated the arsey mood that led to his yellow card and substitution; he had enough arrogance to convince himself that if he'd completed the full match, he would have got at least one goal out there, restored SOME dignity... Fuck Alan!
Earlier, confronted by his hero, he had been consumed by guilt and embarrassment, but now that had been replaced with a bitter anger. The idea to confront this, to confront him, seemed to just appear in his mind out of nowhere, with little planning, a testosterone-fuelled certainty that just needed to happen. Short of sneaking through and lamping that twat Laporte in the face, it felt like the best thing he could do to release this loser's rage.
Slipping away was easy. His mood obvious, he had been more or less left alone over this side of the dressing room, and he didn't bother pulling back on his shirt, he just stomped out into the tunnel in only black shorts and rolled down socks, shin pads still clattering at the front of his legs. As was the `new normal', it was pretty deserted out in the corridor, none of the usual media circus of staff overkill; he stomped and clattered his way down to the stairwell, arms tensed at his sides, intent on finding the older guy and making it clear who HE blamed for Newcastle's cup exit.
Upstairs, the media suite was easily found, and thankfully deserted -- he wasn't quite sure how he'd explain storming around with sweat dripping down his bare torso and a thunderous frown on his face. On the passage leading down to the pundits' box was a series of short anterooms that were used as dressing rooms for these sports presenter divas, and a rather temporary paper sign on the first one indicated Shearer's name. Driven by his resentment, Andy didn't knock, he just shoved down on the handle and burst in.
Alan was in the middle of slipping out of his suit jacket, stood facing the full-length mirror on one wall of the small room, and caught sight of him via this; their eyes met fiercely in the reflection, Andy pushing the door shut behind him with a thud, realising what an intimidating and piratical sight he cut himself, sweeping into the room. It stalled him, that image, the sight of his furious face and hulking physique, bursting into an older bloke's dressing room like a thug, and he found himself stopping awkwardly before he could take another step or say a word.
`Andy,' breathed Shearer, turning around in the middle of undoing the top button of his shirt. The ex-player gave him a look of cool sympathy, lowering his hands from his throat, stood a few metres in front of him. Andy stood still, trying to calm his ragged breathing, arms still stiff at his sides and hands bunched into fists. What had he really planned to do when he got here? Was he gonna land an aimless fucking punch on his own idol?
For fuck's sake, man,' he moaned, and he knew how pathetic his voice sounded straight away, you...' Put me off sounded lame... You fucked it up...' He flared his nostrils and cracked his knuckles and took one more step forward, his shinpads rattling some more. How was I meant to score a winner with you... fuck's sake, man!'
To his surprise, Shearer was closing the gap between them, lifting both palms, saying `Hey, hey, hey', and then suddenly grabbing him around the outside of his arms, just below the shoulder, squaring calmly up to him. He glared at the old bloke, the kindly face and shiny bald head, the grizzly stubble around his firm jaw. Andy felt daft, firstly for trying to blame any of his performance on Alan, but more-so for bursting up here as if it was gonna do anything at all! Shearer should be pissed off at him, shouting for security, telling him to grow up, but...
I'm sorry,' Alan murmured gently, patting his outer strong arms and looking up at him. The football hero was a good 6ft tall but he was still dwarfed by Carroll's height. I'm sorry, lad... I was fucking daft... are you okay...?' The soft expression and quiet voice was disarming, and it just heightened Carroll's sudden awkwardness over his own actions here, returning him to the boyish embarrassment he'd felt when Alan connected him to Dummo earlier. He looked again at the mirror, saw himself -- looming muscular figure stood melting into the patting hands of this suited middle-aged man. Hey,' said Alan, you played well, you did...'
Still, the problem remained. `What the fuck do you know about me and Paul?' Andy demanded.
Shearer's expression hardened a little, but he looked at him quietly, holding his hands against his arms still and taking a couple of deep breaths. There was more tension now between them at the mention of Paul's name than at Andy's abortive attempt to stride intimidatingly in. He could feel it in his grip, see it in his clenched jaws. I wasn't playing no fuckin' trick on you,' Carroll complained quietly, thinking about Oxford Town. I just... you were in a reet pickle and I...'
`I know, I know.'
`I was tryin' to help...!'
`I know! Fuck...' Alan had lowered his gaze a little, his brow furrowed. But now he was pulling in for a hug, even though he was still in his starchy pale shirt and expensive-looking suit trousers, pulling in against the cooled sweat of Andy's bulky torso. But the Toon player didn't resist or challenge this, because actually it was all he fucking wanted right now -- to be held by someone supportive and told he'd done okay. He leaned forward a little, letting Alan's sleeved arms curl about his broad chest and pat at the firm muscle of his back. He knelt his head forward and their temples brushed a little bit. Then he felt it, the shift of one hand: slowly but surely, one of Shearer's paws was moving down the curve of his lower back, towards the waistline of his dishevelled shorts, and... in moments, it had found its way onto his right buttock, and gave it a gentle squeeze through the material. He tensed up, held in this embrace, immediately conflicted.
Alan must have felt his reaction in the clenching of that muscle, the slight shift in his long torso, but he didn't remove his hand. He just squeezed the glute a little more firmly, a little more authoritatively, and let out a slow breath that caressed Andy's collarbone. There was no mistaking the intimacy or command of this gesture, this touch. The conflict, for Andy, was whether to push away immediately, ask What the fuck?', or just let it happen. Alan?' he settled on, hearing the nervous and weary tremble in his own voice, just as the tips of the older man's fingers traced the curve of his buttock and indent of his crack, where his shorts and undies were a bit wedgied into the crack.
Turn around,' muttered the former Newcastle striker now, not looking him in the eye as he spoke, his voice a little harder and cooler. Andy blinked and looked at their odd reflection again, but then Shearer repeated the two words, and he did so, shuffling on the spot and turning to face the other wall. Good lad.' Those firm warm hands moved up and explored his back in what was almost a massage; they curved up his spine then spread out over his muscular flanks, then lifted to caress his tight, knotted shoulders and thumb a little at his neck, where loose curls of his ponytail escaped and stuck to his sweaty skin. He felt a shiver of stimulation run down him to his crotch, and he thought of those experimental moments with Paul... `Take off your shorts. Do it.'
Andy didn't hesitate this time. He reached to his hips and hooked his thumbs in, getting both the black NUFC shorts and the black briefs beneath, and pushing down; in seconds, Alan was helping him too, joining his fingers in this, peeling the two layers across his smooth skin. Shearer's hand made a little slap as it returned to his right cheek, no barrier in the way now, getting a good fleshy grab that made Carroll gasp a little. But he felt silenced by the situation; the other BBC blokes must be in parallel rooms, there must be other production staff around. The walls and doors were thin. He bit his lip and stood there, facing the unlocked door, feeling both of Shearer's hands on his meaty rear now, pressing and stroking at the clenched muscle and beginning to stroke the opening at the top of his crack. So long since he'd been touched back there, but it also felt like yesterday.
The first finger hurt on the way in. He had to suppress a little yelp of familiar pain, and he bent his tall strong body forward just a little. Comfortingly, Alan's other hand moved to his hip and then a little higher, stroking him on the side just as his index finger pushed exploringly into that hairy crack and his still super-tight hole, lubed only by sweat. `Ohh,' he murmured.
For the second finger, he heard the middle-aged football icon spit noisily down at his hand, and could feel the cool wet difference as two fingertips roamed between his relaxing cheeks, ticklish at the dense hairs. He bent his aching knees a little and leaned forward that bit more. Alan's hand slid around more fully, stroking at his six-pack, while pressing two fingers at once in against his ring, forcing a long silent gasp from the virile striker's mouth.
Before the third finger went in, Shearer's hand was leaving his six-pack, swooping down past the short trim of his pubes, reaching for his privates. Andy's long, quivering floppy was still tucked in a little against the lowered waist of his shorts, but now it was set free, pulled up and out, cradled in Alan's fingers; why did this seem the bigger taboo? The more shocking and arousing flashback? In fairness, he'd had Paul Dummett's tool in his hole before he'd let the sweet Geordie lad actually touch his dick properly, that one mutual wank they'd dared to enjoy before cooling things... so now, his dick twitched and stiffened almost immediately, and the slow aching handjob that his icon began to deliver was both more shocking and more pleasurable than the invasive feel of a third finger beginning to stretch at his hole, making him wince and sweat and hold in more grunting.
`You're going to cum for me, lad.'
`Mmm... aye... sir...' Where did that come from?!
By the time the fourth finger was being edged at his man-cunt, Alan was tossing him off with vigour, pulling back and forth on his unquestionably huge erection, spitting into that hand too for lube, grunting a little into his back muscle with his own effort. Andy did his best to remain quiet, mouth wide open and almost drooling, sucking in air and just trying to brace himself against the stretching burn of four fingers tightly forced inside him... ohhhh...
`Cum for Andy, you big bastard.'
`Mmm, sir, aye, uggh...'
`Cum for me!'
`Ohhhh fuck, man...'
`Cum for ya hero, boy.'
Carroll was never normally quick to finish, if anything he took too long and his wife would complain a sore pussy before he was satisfied; today, stood here with his shorts pushed down and his ring stretched, his orgasm seemed to come from nowhere, and blast his spunk forward on the floor and wall of the small dressing room, while he held in the scream of pained delight, feeling Alan's fingers retreat and slap at his left buttock, grabbing it with greasy sliding grip; the man's other hand held onto the base of his throbbing hard-on, not letting go until the last droplet of his seed was on his socked toes.
Alan watched the big dumb lad stagger a step or two forwards, looking at the red marks on his big buttocks, the sweaty sheen on his back; as he turned, anxious-faced, Shearer caught first sight of what had felt so humongous against his cautious hand. Fucking hell. The first cock he had touched in, what, twenty years? The first cock he had touched skin to skin in... ever? And it was so... elephantine. He couldn't help but stare at his own hand, at the grimy gloss of his fingers and the little smear of cum along the side of his thumb. Now was not the time for detailed self-analysis, but seriously, what the hell...?
Andy was staring at him, no, not quite at HIM, but lower... Shearer realised how apparent his own erection was, a diagonal rise in the silky fabric of his dark suit trousers. As stunned as he was by the proportions of the thing below Andy's waist, he knew he was no shrinking violet on those terms.
Instantly, the big young striker was stepping back close to him and reaching instinctively, almost obediently for it. Alan rested his hands on Carroll's firm chest and breathed deeply, only now realising how stiff and aching his bone had been as he played with both hole and equipment of this mighty younger lad. Fuck. His hairy chest heaved against the buttons of his shirt, which was faintly stained with sweat marks of Carroll's big body. As Carroll's fumbled inexpertly at the outline of his cock and loomed in front of him, big and eager to please, he couldn't not think back to that long-gone England away game, the troubling memory that he had only recently confronted. A much younger lad touching a much younger Shearer.
Here and now though, there was a new confidence to the ageing Geordie hero; something gained on the sunny golf course that day with Jamaal, experimenting in the car. Difficult questions aside, here he still was, virile and powerful and so able to please, just look at the MESS he'd spurred this big striker into making! Fuck yes... sure, Carroll's big clumsy paw felt good rubbing him through his suit trousers, but wouldn't his lips feel better?
Get on ya knees,' he said softly, warmly, pressing on those broad high shoulders and pulling his mouth close to the side of Andy's head. On ya knees, lad...' He could see the flicker of fear and doubt in the lad's dark hazel eyes, but his certainty in this need was stronger by the moment; he pressed down more firmly on the shoulders, licking his own lips a little bit, unconsciously but also hintingly. On ya knees,' he growled, or don't you wanna go one further than... Beckham?' He saw the flare of his young worshipper's expression there, the effect of this name.
Down he went, the Tyneside giant on his bare grazed knees, letting his mouth hang open between that daft Wolverine beard he'd shaved in, his hair straggly as it escaped its ponytail around his chiselled features. Alan helped him out, tugging open the flies of his trousers and pushing them apart, scooping a hand into his boxer shorts and gracelessly removing the weighty length of his own prick, letting it swing in against Carroll's unready face. But in seconds, the hesitant eyes were fixed on it and the lips were parting. Shearer couldn't help but take control, pushing the fat head of his bone forward and down and grazing it between the pink-red `O' of the confused lad's mouth.
Andy gagged immediately but recovered. Blowjobs were a rare and gorgeous thing to a man 30+ years into marriage, so Shearer let out a long and immediate groan. He pushed his fat dick in against the soft warm wetness of the lad's cheek, felt a graze of clumsy teeth but tried to ignore it. He slid one hand around those supermodel cheekbones and cradled Andy's big head, fingers sliding against the loose dark locks. Fuck yes, man,' the old Geordie groaned. Ohhh, Andy, lad...'
Carroll swayed on his knees, such a tall figure even down there, reaching uncomfortably for the sides of Alan's firm old calves, gently mouthing at his cock and looking almost pissed off that he barely knew what to do with his lips and his tongue. But then, Alan thought vaguely, women rarely did either, and the dozen taboos here felt so much more delicious on his meat. But still, he was impatient and riled, not wanting to keep pushing his cock in or risking a graze of gnashers on his nob; he pulled out, slid his hand under Andy's firm chin to tilt it up, and began to wank. He looked down as he did, seeing with a new exhilaration how much the meathead worshipped him; the promising Geordie teen he'd first met here years back, up-and-coming and ready to make his mark. Older now, a little more rugged and worldly, but still the same big handsome stud who'd bounced around the pitch on his Premiership debut.
His lips parted, his tongue out slightly, his dark eyes wide. Alan grunted each breath, pumping his thick cock in one hand and holding Andy's face in place with the other. In moments, he was spilling his own white goo over that chiselled face, his cum decorating the pronounced brow and high cheekbones, splashing into the dark fur of his beard, lancing over his lips and the tip of his tongue. Shearer purred as a fresh and final spurt of his seed jumped forward and over Andy's tongue as it slowly curved out and round, tasting him.
You big beautiful bastard,' he moaned at him. Andy, still on his knees, seemed lost for words, just panting and screwing his face up a little at what Alan presumed was the intense and unpleasant taste of cum. Good lad,' he said encouragingly, sensing the inevitable panic of a married man going down on him, `good fuckin' lad...' As he helped him up, he stopped saying this, not knowing what else he could remark. He just patted, manly and dismissive rather than stroking and tender, at his bare torso and got him to his feet, and set about pushing his cock and balls into his own boxer shorts while Andy pulled slowly up on his kit.
He found a handkerchief in a jacket pocket and offered it to Carroll, who wiped nervously at his face and beard, and Shearer watched, even in his afterglow enjoying the sight of his white stains streaking that handsome face. Somehow even the anxiety of the big striker was a thrill as he checked his reflection and dabbed a bit more gunk off his chin then tossed the dirtied item down onto a seat, ashamed to be touching it. Shearer saw him move for the door and followed, caressing him once on the shoulder and going out with him into the corridor.
Ah, what could have been!' came Lineker's bright, smooth voice, next to him suddenly. Gary was dressed down to tshirt and jeans, a suit bag in one hand and a little leathery briefcase in the other, grinning from his handsome tanned features, accentuated by the silver of his hair. He smiled at them both, looked on the verge of some joke at their expense, then stopped himself. The two finest men never to have held the FA Cup,' he said instead, half-mocking but with a sympathetic smile.
`Yet,' Alan returned immediately, recovering from the initial shock and fear of being seen with this shirtless stud. He kept his hand where it was, on the heaving warmth of Andy's shoulder, and watched Lineker's eyes adjust to what he was seeing; two Newcastle forwards emerging from a room together was nothing weird here, at St James' Park, but he knew how this might look, Andy needlessly bare and clammy with sweat, himself sweating out of his crumpled shirt and probably red-faced with the force of his climax. Somehow, still buzzing from the crossed lines and discovered pleasure, he couldn't find a fuck to give.
Yet,' agreed Gary politely, nodding at Andy. Well, I shall leave you to your... interview?' Just the faintest hint of suspicion or bemusement in that uncertain question, pausing on his way past them.
Andy looked panicked but Shearer made the scoffing grunt a man of his status could get away with. Just a catch-up,' he said dismissively, slapping Carroll more firmly on the back and half-pushing him away down the corridor, just a pep talk.' Lineker nodded, smiled, said his goodbyes; Carroll shot Shearer a nervous, needy look, and he didn't know how to return it, so he just gave him the nod, and gestured away down the corridor. But then, as the big shirtless footballer left, he felt panicked and guilty, and cleared his throat loudly. Andy half-turned.
You'll have to come round for dinner sometime,' Shearer barked at him, formal and mundane, returning to the vague friendship they'd nursed over the years. We haven't had you over in at least a year, mate.' Andy nodded, half-smiled, and turned quickly away, a new hurry in his step as he left, perhaps regretting or questioning his actions, while all Alan could do was wonder why it had taken him until his 50th year to shove his cock in a lad's mouth.
Andy Carroll relaxed into the bedding, heavy with the takeaway dinner they had treated themselves to, comforts of a cup knockout and a goalless day of frustration. At moments like this, his professional lows, he was gladder than ever of his wife and her renewed love for him. He made a wistful little moan and cuddled closer to her in the bed, wrapping his strong arms about her slim waist and nuzzling at the perfumed hollow between her neck and shoulder.
`You've still got some energy, then,' she chuckled quietly at him.
`Mmm? For you... always...'
She laughed again and pushed her backside into his crotch a little, the frilly lace tickling at the pouch of his boxer briefs, stirring the big flaccid length that rested there. He joined her quiet, sleepy laugh and kissed her on the cheek. His kiss became slowly more passionate, lifting one big hand to cup her right tit and parting their bodies again slightly so her hand could creep in to tease his bulge, the opening gambits of a slow and delicious foreplay.
`God, you massive fucking stud,' she whispered shiveringly, as she often did when she was really really gagging for it. It had been a few nights, after all, Carroll saving himself for the big match.
`You know it,' he murmured, thinking for a flash about the look on Alan Shearer's face when he had turned round and exposed the size of his tool earlier tonight. He was surprised that he could feel the stirring down there so soon, but there it was, a pleasant humming in his heavy balls and the irresistible dusky presence of Billi in the bed next to him, rolling to face him and going in for a French kiss.
`I want that in every hole,' she giggled, their lips brushing as she spoke.
`Mmm, babe...'
`My big footballing stud...!'
`Mmm...'
She reached again for his cock, sliding her manicured nails over his treasure trail and tickling at the waistband of his CKs. He moved his bigger hand in slowly and stalled her touch, gently, looking into her eyes and feeling the unspoken desire well up in his broad smooth chest. She paused and met his gaze, questioning and playful. `Babe?' she asked.
Was just wondering, like,' Andy grumbled coarsely, pausing to kiss her on the lips again. Maybe we could... get the toys out... tonight... like before...? I mean -- if you enjoyed it that much, ya kna, like...' He stared questioningly into her surprised, affectionate eyes, the plump curl of her smiling lips, the insistence of her hand pushing past his and cupping his swelling bulge. He held his breath, awaiting her answer.
Oh hun,' she purred, squeezing the outline of his cock, I thought you'd never ask...'
***HOPE YOU ENJOYED... A LONG OVERDUE REUNION FOR THESE TWO GEORDIES, BUT PERHAPS NOT THE LAST? BUT I KNOW WHAT YOU'RE THINKING... WE NEED TO SEE THOSE ARGUMENTS BETWEEN THE WINNING CITY PLAYERS AND THEIR COACH. COMING SOON ;) ***