Part 142: Left Out
The game came to an end, Liverpool 3-1 victorious over Brighton.
Bobby Duncan stared at the big plasma screen in the lounge of their apartment, feeling an uncomfortable mix of pleasurable celebration and nagging, underlying resentment. On screen, the men in red, the Premier League champions, were happily celebrating the latest big win, and Bobby knew that more than anything else, he ought to be fully chuffed. His ex-team and the one he'd supported since he was old enough to give a fuck about the sport, longer than that, really. He'd gone mad for it when their Premiership title was settled mathematically a couple of weeks ago now, revelling with family and friends via webcam and phone call, trying to get any of his friends out here to engage much in the historic event.
The problem was that even as he watched games like tonight's, brimming with admiration for the Liverpool captain Jordan Henderson as that respectable legend of a man booted in a goal, more or less awestruck by the two goals of iconic Mo Salah, there was still a bitter aftertaste; he looked at the Reds and pictured himself still there, graduated from the Under 18s and onto the main pitch. After all, the evidence was right there: Neco Williams, one of his best mates over the past few years, had even started in this game; Harvey Elliott and Curtis Jones were on the bench.
Italy will be great for you, they'd said. Florence will make you. You don't wanna be sitting around in the shadows on Merseyside. All of that advice... So here he was, signed for Fiorentina in the heart of the Italian league, but not even making it as far as the subs bench. Bobby Duncan was a spare part and he knew it.
He switched the TV off with a mixture of reluctance and relief, sprawling his body on the big soft couch of the inner-city apartment he shared, and allowing himself a stupid moment of self-piteous wallowing; it was really shit to look back on that decision and think What if...?' Perhaps, he acknowledged, everyone was right: if he'd stayed at Liverpool and never made it onto that first team with icons like Henderson and Salah, would he be even more bitter and mournful now, just turned 19 and asking What if...?' questions about expanding his career into Europe? He was wise and measured enough to know that the grass was green on both sides of the fence, but there were dog-turds on any lawn if you weren't careful.
After a few minutes of sour self-pity, the newly 19-year-old lad pulled himself off the couch, tossing the remote onto a cushion, and prowled back through the quiet apartment to pour himself a nightcap. It was a nice place, very chic with good views of the river and easy connections around the ancient Italian city, but in its way, even this luxury pad added to the frustration limbo of his career: it was property of the club's exec board and he'd been housed in it rather than being encouraged into finding somewhere more homely or permanent. The uncertainty of his place at Fiorentina seemed to be underlined by being housed in this gilded cage, sharing initially with one loan player and now another; his flatmate had arrived to the club in January, on loan from the Premier League's Wolverhampton, and even HE made more regular bench and pitch appearances than Duncan himself had ever mustered. His early promise at the start of last autumn seemed an increasingly dim memory; Bobby was fairly sure that his own fate would be a loan deal to some other European club, perhaps not even in Italy, or a casual breaking of his once-exciting contract.
Duncan poured himself a shaky measure of gin and lashed in some tonic, ice and lemon, standing in the open-plan industrial chic of the apartment's kitchen, trying to shake off these recurring thoughts. He wasn't a naturally gloomy or overly reflective young bloke, or someone ungrateful for interesting new opportunities. No, his downbeat attitude to his position here in Italy was much enhanced by two factors.
Firstly, the hell of pandemic; he'd been a rather naïve 18-year-old stuck in a foreign country when things shut down, terrifyingly, and the homesickness and worry of the months in here had been difficult, even with a pretty sound guy to share with. Secondly, football success was very much in Bobby's blood; it didn't get mentioned so much out here, and at first that had been a relief, but at Liverpool he'd been very conscious of it: he was Steven Gerrard's young cousin. On Merseyside, this made him pretty much football royalty. In Florence, however, it made him a briefly amusing novelty.
I should be there, Bobby thought irritably, sipping the overly strong g-and-t he'd mixed himself, picturing himself back in the iconic red kit and marching out side by side with his Liverpool youth teammate, Harvey Elliott. As if that fucking troublemaker was getting Premiership time and he was out here -- stuck at home and not even invited to watch tonight's home game against Cagliari. It wasn't even just the Liverpool thing, really, though that stung most and was all the worse for being intermingled with his fierce pride and loyalty for his home club; the English league was riddled with mates of his, lads he'd trained with. Before Liverpool, he'd done his spell in Man City's academy, side by side with Phil fucking Foden, that bright new hope of British footy; he'd played on England youth sides with the likes of Mason Greenwood, quickly becoming the most celebrated young forward in the UK. Those lads were Bobby's pals and contemporaries, but now he was on oafish outsider at Fiorentina, doing his best to string together basic Italian sentences, and smirked at condescendingly by the handsome, dark-haired stallions that made up much of the squad.
Slurping his gin drink and pacing the interior of the top-floor apartment, Bobby settled by one window, with its prime view of the twinkling city lights around the curving river, and slid out his phone to send some congratulatory messages to mates like Neco and Harvey, catch-up `hey!' messages to the likes of Phil and Mason. If the shitty diseased lockdown hadn't made life so tough, he reasoned, he might at least have escaped his fringe life here to hit up a couple of international fixtures on the England Under 21s?!
Responses weren't forthcoming from the lads back home, though, so he returned to the sofa and flicked the TV back into life, but on FIFA rather than the international sports channels that were awash with reinvigorated leagues and tournaments around the world. At least on FIFA, he thought bitterly, I can make myself the star striker I was born to be!
At some point, he must have fallen asleep, because he woke with a jolt, PlayStation 4 remote cradled in the crotch of the old Liverpool shorts he still wore for lounging about, and head rolled a little to the side, half-open mouth stuck with drool to the back of the sofa cushions. The stocky 5ft10 forward shifted side to side and blinked his eyes at the TV screen, settled into a standby screen-saver over his abandoned game, questioning what time it was and whether he'd just had a long blink or a short nap.
The noise that had woken him soon became pretty clear: voices and steps in the hall, the slam of the main door. The aforementioned apartment was stylish and more than comfortable, but it was in a noisy old building with hard floors and echoey loft space, so it was difficult for the two occupants not to irritate each other with a fair bit of noise. Bobby rubbed confusedly at his puffy tanned face and pushed the remote of his crotch, getting up just as the newcomers bowled into the room: two Fiorentina players, red-faced with drink and in the middle of shovelling takeaway pizza slices into their mouths, bursting into snorting giggles at finding him awake and alone. Bobby glanced at the sports watch on his wrist: what he'd assumed was a ten-minute nap had been a few hours of gin-soaked snooze. Oops.
Ciao,' he grunted vaguely, raising a hand, er, dove sei, erm, stato...?' Where have you been?
One of the pair burst out laughing more loudly, rustling over and flopping down into the separate armchair, his tracksuit-clad legs lifting into the air and a package of pizza slices settling in against the tummy of his Fiorentina tshirt. Strolling past him, the other Italian lad grinned widely and gestured at him with the little polystyrene tray of half-eaten margherita.
Bobby, in English,' sighed Patrick Cutone in his firmly Italian accent, waving the offered late night snack his way and approaching him more. No need to practise your Italiano at this time of night!'
No,' agreed the other Italian footballer from his comfortable perch, it is painful to listen to!'
Cutone raised his thick dark brows and turned with a scoffing look at their teammate, then shovelled some more cheesy pizza into his mouth, speaking through it. Ignore that scemo,' he chuckled messily, crumbs in his facial hair. Ricci no used to speaking to English gentlemen, football royalty, you know, he a real pig when he want to be... haha!'
Curled on their armchair, Riccardo Sottil, fellow Fiorentina player and much more established at the club than either of them, grinned mischievously and wiped pizza grease from his lips. Bobby, beginning to wake up, just flashed him a wary smile and looked back at Pat, trying to determine just how drunk the pair were. Annoying game, then,' he said, choosing not to attempt more Italian when Sottil was bound to criticise and laugh. 0-0.'
`Yep, boring!' hooted Riccardo with a roll of his eyes.
That is why we had a few drinks,' Cutone confessed, dropping his voice to a playful whisper and rocking on the heels of his expensive trainers, we were all... very very frustrated, eh!' He pushed past Bobby and down onto the sofa, training his eyes on the screen. `Aha, FIFA, we can replay the fucking match, eh -- Ricci, you can be Cagliari, you fucking idiot, and Bobby and me will be Fiorentina, hey...'
Bobby rubbed at one sleepy eye and laughed along, about to return to his seat when Sottil suddenly clicked his fingers at him as if he was a waiter. We have drinks?' he asked. As often happened to Bobby, it was hard to assess how rude or abrupt the winger was being, or whether the broken request and its impoliteness were a language barrier. Patrick quickly chipped in, more fluently and warmly, Will you join us in a drink, Roberto?' Bobby grinned at his little Italian nickname, nodded, and went back down to the kitchen end of the big loft space.
He really liked Cutone. Apart from anything, the Italian lad's brief Premiership experience (and oddly rushed loan transfer) gave them a little common ground; they had a few more shared points of reference than other guys here, and shared a slight uncertainty about where they might be playing next season. Bobby could see that there was a mirroring in their journeys: Patrick had made an exciting move to Wolverhampton (yep, exciting Wolverhampton) last summer full of ambition and promise, then been shipped off to another club by the mid-season transfer window. He'd been glad of the other young guy turning up here in January and moving in to replace the moody, silent fella who he'd shared with initially, who either could not or would not speak a word of English, and just sneered at his clumsy verb conjugations. In theory, Bobby knew that Patrick's arrival was a bad thing for him, a 6ft striker ready to occupy his place on the bench, but the reality was a lot more positive.
Sottil was a slightly different case. The 21-year-old had shown up late this season too, returning from a loan to Pescara, but he was aloof and less friendly. He seemed a nice and funny guy but Bobby was faintly intimidated by his charisma and the hard edge to his banter, or what little of it he could pick up on.
The three of them played out the Fiorentina game on FIFA, much laughter and insults flying as Riccardo failed to crush them and the two flatmates propelled the competer-generated representation of their own club into a 5-2 win over Sottil's Cagliari. There was some joking about replaying the game with Bobby as the opposition, since only Sottil and Cutone REALLY played for Fiorentina any more -- but Patrick was quick to cut off this banter and dismiss Riccardo's suggestion, joking or not. He shot a protective and reassuring look at Bobby, which did the trick -- he was embarrassed, but he appreciated his flatmate's support and recognition. In his heart, he thought it was no wonder if either lad barely saw him as a real player -- he'd hardly stepped out in a proper game for the Italian club since their mid-season arrivals, after all. Two talented young men, one a winger and one an all-out striker, taking up the squad space that might -- just might -- have been his.
His heart sank a little as the two immediately began speaking rapid Italian instead. For all he knew, Pat was telling Ricci not to be such a rude or daft prick, but it was impossible to say. He could generally only follow the locals' language when they spoke slowly and deliberately, the rapid pace of everyday chat left him dazed, especially now he was tired and a little tipsy, sat on the couch with a warming beer half-drunk in one hand, the clammy remote in the other. Left out by the other two lads' quick Florentine chat, his thoughts turned slowly back to tonight's other game, and the roaring successes of Liverpool. He checked his phone, half-listening as both Pat and Ricci burst into laughter and shouted at each other; no response from Harvs or Neco or anyone else on the Liverpool youth front, or from his other Premiership pals. Well, it was late, he supposed. (A treacherous inner voice pointed out the time difference, but he ignored it.)
`Bobby, you follow?' Riccardo burst out in heavily accented English, sitting up in his armchair.
Duncan looked at him with a frozen smile, and then at Pat's thoughtful face, then he shrugged his broad young shoulders and shook his head. Nah, not really,' he admitted. Er, troppo... veloce.'
Both lads laughed at him then, in differing tones. Patrick yawned widely. `Ah, sorry sorry, my friend, we not mean to make you left out...!'
`No, not at all,' Riccardo agreed, although perhaps he was being ironic.
Bobby muttered something about not being daft and attempted a vague apology in Italian, which perhaps he got wrong, then just thumbed idly at his remote, unsure if anyone wanted another match. He took a swig of beer. `Left out', he thought, that just about summed up his feelings here, and these two were barely part of it...!
Two more matches of FIFA, and all three young men were reaching that special kind of drunk known as `tired drunk'; big yawns, lazy slurred insults, outrageously unsporting tactics and wild laughter over almost nothing. Bobby had relaxed into the play, especially when he and Riccardo jointly beat Pat while playing as the Italian national side, and then he won single-handedly against them both using his own Liverpool side. A grinning pixelated Neco Williams scored him the winning goal and he sent a quick picture of the graphics to add to his messages to the Welsh lad, sleepily revelling in his video game prowess as the night wore to an end.
It was now well after midnight, and three of them had training tomorrow, thought not early. He laughed off Sottil's insistence that they should sink another beer -- the fridge was empty. Bobby felt pissed and he knew these two slightly older lads must be several bevvies ahead of him, so he was pretty sure it should be bedtime.
He got up from the sofa, deciding rehydration was the answer to everything. He tried and failed to tune into the Italian stallions' banter, leaving them behind and going into the quieter cooler kitchen space, where he poured himself a pint of water and picked at the leftovers of the others' pizza, cool and stale on the counter.
Life here wasn't so bad, he concluded drunkenly, putting aside his fretting and worrying. Besides, the Italian season would soon be over and he'd already organised his flights back to England and Liverpool; the permutations of his footballing life would sort themselves out, his agent would take care of something. His homesickness would be cured by a couple of weeks on Merseyside and he'd only turned 19 a couple of weeks ago. He was young, with a long career of active play ahead of them. A spell in the background of a dynamic Italian squad was hardly gonna ruin him. If nowt else, he thought guiltily, he was pretty sure Uncle Stevie could pull some strings and get him in at Celtic, if it came to that.
When he moved back through into the proper lounge space, his seat had been stolen, Sottil moving onto the main coach so that he propped himself on the side of the abandoned armchair, looking at the other two. Two taller, more matured looking guys, all deep tanned skin and strikingly dark hair, quite similar looking to Bobby in the way that young men here generally were. The likeness was perhaps enhanced by their matching black and purple team tracksuit bottoms and t-shirts, whereas here he was in a pair of out-of-date Liverpool shorts and a England '96 tshirt he'd had since he was a kid.
Then, with a sleepy little jolt, he saw the way the other two lads were sitting. Patrick was as he'd left him, almost in the middle of the couch, a little stiff in his muscular 6ft posture, a PS4 remote still in one hand. There was a funny expression on the 22-year-old striker's face, a sort of gurning half-smile behind his short rugged beard. Riccardo, next to him, had one leg pulled up onto the sofa cushion, socked foot hugged against his other knee, a hand cupped around his shin -- and his other hand, reaching out, was fumbling playfully at the front of the other guy's trackies, making Pat giggle and wriggle and elbow at him a little, muttering in Italian something which Bobby thought meant leave it!' or bugger off!' Bobby Duncan found it impossible not to stare, taken aback by the daft way the 21-year-old was pawing at his flatmate and smirking handsomely.
`Pat here is not being fun,' Ricci announced then, turning to look his way.
Bobby coloured at this intense dark-featured stare, barking out a slow cautious laugh and pulling down a good gulp of cooling water. `Errr, dunno what you're calling fun, buddy,' he mumbled in his outer-Liverpool twang, lifting one thick eyebrow.
`And Ricci here, he will not leave me alone!' laughed Patrick, who was operating the PS4 with one hand, setting up a final game whether or not anyone else wanted to take part, and with the other trying to budge Riccardo's from his upper leg, laughing heartily at the horseplay -- he was more relaxed and cool about it than Bobby suspected he himself would be, he'd fucking lamp Sottril if the smug winger thought he could prod at him like that!
Bobby, a little alarmed, picked up the spare remote on the armchair on a kind of autopilot, even though he'd been adamantly on his way to bed when he left the sofa. He held it limply in his hands and glanced back as Riccardo continued his game: sitting very still for a period then trying again to rub or squeeze at his friend's knee or thigh (or sometimes, Bobby noted, a little higher up!), tickling or caressing him in a weird manner and bursting into greatly amused laughter when Patrick had to take his eyes off the screen to fend him off. One last game,' Cutone shouted at Duncan, in a gap between his own frustrated sniggers, one last game, Roberto, and then bed, eh!'
Bobby nodded and loaded up his Liverpool team, switching kits and twiddling a few other options, trying to ignore the wriggling and smug laughter of the two Italians, the little burst of native tongue insults and jibes that emerged between them, of which he understood roughly 10%. He focused instead on the screen and had to blink away a wave of tiredness. They'd been playing, goalless, for almost five minutes when he glanced over and saw what was happening. Patrick, he realised, had given up his playful and scornful defense; the tall Italian lad was sat stiffly still with both hands on his remote, face intensely concentrated on the screen just as Bobby's had been. And next to him, curled over a little in his seated position, Riccardo had one hand in the dark crotch of Pat's tracksuit bottoms, rubbing his large hand back and forth in slow, lazy motions.
As Bobby stared at this in surprise, he heard the computerised excitement of his team conceding a goal, and then the throaty yelp and Italian battle cry of Cutone recognising his victory. Bobby just made a vague groan of disappointment but kept his eyes on the other two, waiting for the punchline to the physical joke of what Riccardo was doing. Patrick, finishing crying out at his electronic goal, seemed to register what was happening to him, and just shake his head. `Ricci!' he muttered, shoving an elbow into the other lad's broad shoulder, but not doing anything to remove his hand.
Riccardo muttered something cheeky-sounding in Italian with the word hand' in it a few times, and Patrick laughed but wriggled away a little and gave their friend disbelieving, critical stares, clearly not that impressed by the odd joke of late-night groping on the sofa. Yet Sottil was going on, Bobby noticed, really rubbing at the other fella and laughing as he did it. Pat, tossing his PS4 remote down between his socked feet, threw up both hands and made an annoyed sighing noise. See this Bobby,' he declared, `see this pervert we have to work with, look at him go...!' And he held his hands up innocently, leaning back in the sofa whilst Riccardo continued to feel him up.
`A hand is a hand, I tell him!' chuckled Sottil, turning with an appealing grin towards Bobby, not lifting his fingers from the crotch of the other lad's trackies.
`Jesus,' remarked Bobby uncertainly, good Catholic boy that he was.
`Oh, a hand is a hand, and something is getting hard!' announced Ricci playfully, and now his OTHER hand was down on the front of his own tracksuit bottoms, no, pushing inside them for a proper feel. Whilst the goal celebrations replayed ad nauseum on the TV screen, casting a flickering blue-green glow on the lads, Sottil sat there, fumbling down the front of his pants and stroking quite roughly back and forth over the front of Pat's too.
Bobby just stared at them both, freaked. `Guys,' he said, but in a hesitant, confused voice; he had the strong sense of his outside status, as if there was something here he couldn't get. He was too English, too young, too peripheral. After all, he thought, big macho Cutone didn't actually seem pissed off or concerned, just mildly irritated and a bit resigned. He met Bobby's eyes then, rolling his own and shrugging one shoulder. His carefree attitude was typical of his relaxed and positive nature, but still... when he suddenly let out a little appreciative moan and rolled his head back gently, it really shook Bobby. There was something distinctly sexualised in the sound escaping those plump red lips, something highly relaxed in the body language of the 6ft Italian forward.
`He like it really,' commentated Riccardo, half-turning and giving Bobby a sly wink. Sottil smirked from beneath the greasy cascade of his overgrown hair, which tangled over his brow and framed his dark good looks. His right hand was still buried in the front of his own pants, quite evidently having fun there, and now his left hand did the same to Patrick. The big striker shifted a little but only to give him a sort of begrudging access; Pat didn't look back at Bobby, he just closed his eyes, and made another of those oddly provocative sighs.
Bobby wanted to burst out What the fuck?' or Are you idiots for real?' but he just sat there on the arm of his chair, remote in one hand and glass of water in the other. He blinked and pursed his lips and tried to look away, but there was something irresistibly fascinating about the oddness of Riccardo's behaviour, car-crash viewing.
`Still feeling left out, English boy?' Riccardo asked, suddenly.
Bobby stared hard at him. `What's that, mate?'
`You look lonely over there. Come sit with us.'
`I don't know about that, buddy.'
`Hmm. It up to you, signor.' Riccardo shrugged a shoulder dismissively at him and leaned back into the sofa, both arms bulging at the tight sleeves of his club tshirt, fondling two crotches; his and Pat's heads rolled gently back on the supportive cushions, their mouths parting a little and their chiselled, dark-haired chins lifting. Bobby watched the amorphous movement of fingers beneath glossy tracksuit material and replayed Ricci's comment: still feeling left out. Huh, yeah, suppose that's right -- left out of Liverpool, left out of Fiorentina, left out of... this, whatever the fuck THIS was...!
The scene was bringing earlier irritation to the surface. What was he doing here in fancy-pants Florence with weirdo lads like this? He should be celebrating Liverpool's win over Brighton right now, laughing along with his normal mates like Harvey fuckin' Elliott! If this was the sorta shite that went on in big European leagues then he wasn't sure he wanted any part of it.
`Ohh Ricci,' moaned Pat, and the earnest pleasure of the sound made hairs stand on end on Bobby's bare arms and the back of his neck. He saw one of Cutone's hands land on Riccardo's forearm and he felt sure he was gonna push him away and end the nonsense, but he just saw a tight white-knuckled grip there, warily holding him in place, the striker sighing and rolling his head back on the cushion. Riccardo's face was turned again, grinning oddly over Bobby's way.
Bobby,' he sighed quietly, come over here.'
Almost in a trance, the young English lad rose up off the arm of his seat, took one step forward, and hovered; to his left, the gap between the furniture and across the lounge, out into the corridor that broke apart to their big separate bedrooms. He could be in his room with the door firmly shit and this nonsense left in here. He could politely pretend he'd seen nowt in the morning when these drunk idiots were groaning through their hangovers. He could ring his agent tomorrow and ask what the hell was going on and how quickly could he be out of Florence. But as he hovered on this precipice of behaviour, his good pal and flatmate let out another soft moan, mouthing Ricci's name and shifting his broad chest and shoulders back more into the sofa.
Bobby took two silent strides closer and stood in front of them, even more alarmed by the visible contact now he was right in front of it; there was no mistaking the way Ricci's hidden hand moved back and forth inside Pat's trackies, he was fully wanking him off! And now, to his tender shock, Ricci pulled his other hand up and away from his own privates, and was stroking one of Bobby's thick, fluffy-haired thighs. He held his breath and stood stock still as, slowly, that warm clammy hand moved up his thigh and under the droop of his wrinkled red shorts and found the edge of his underpants. Riccardo's thick fingers were prodding at his bulge inside the shorts leg, creeping up until they could pull more firmly against the outline of his soft cock. Oh,' he mouthed in surprise, oh...'
Pat had opened his eyes now, and he looked straight up into Bobby's; it was kinda comforting to see a bit of panicked confusion in them for a minute, but then he was just opening his lips and making a half-strangled groan of undeniable enjoyment. Touching them both, Riccardo laughed gently and, just like that, stopped; when he pulled his hand from the front of Pat's trackies, the shape of the stud's big hard-on was very obvious. Bobby found himself curiously disappointed as the prodding intimate touches against the bulge of his black boxers retreated, and Ricci was just patting the side of his thigh softly, smirking between the two of them. He'd teased them into a sort of mortified excitement, and now he was just grinning at them, hands off, joke over. Right?
He turned over to Patrick and asked a question in silky Italian. Bobby understood only one word. Bedroom'. Then, a mischievous grin lighting up his good-looking face, the 21-year-old footballer was looking his way too and asking the next question in English. Yours or his, English boy?'
As it happened, they went into Patrick's. The rugged Italian striker was muttering something indistinctly to himself as he led them in and approached the bed, pulling both hands up behind his head in an anguished fashion; Bobby came tramping slowly after him, still kinda entranced, and Riccardo completed the three, pushing the bedroom door shut firmly behind him then stepping up alongside Bobby. Very naturally, without any hesitation, his left hand was dropping down and over and cupping Bobby's own English package through the glossy red material of his shorts, continuing what he'd started. The teen stood there, feeling his traitor cock react to this alien touch, and watched as Pat turned round and looked at them both. Facially, the footballer looked distressed and worried, but there was a heavy diagonal shape in his close-fitting trackies that he now couldn't help but reach down to softly stroke a little.
`Relax, you two,' grunted Riccardo, pulling his pleasant fingers away from Bobby's privates, and shifting past them both to the bed; very smoothly, his tshirt was pulled off, disturbing the mid-length mess of his dark hair. Bobby fixated on the little gold crucifix about his neck and then watched as the Catholic man firmly and unashamedly grabbed that big bulging outline in Pat's crotch. He felt his own twitch simultaneously, more at the knowledge of how tender and affectionate that weird lad's hands could feel than at what he was seeing, surely...
Somehow, the three of them all moved onto the bed, without much being said. Pat was pulling his tshirt off on the way down, with some help from Riccardo, so Bobby did the same, casting the old England footy memorabilia down onto the cluttered floorboards of his friend's room, his body sinking onto the silky pale green sheets. He could hear his own thunderous heartbeat, and part of him was still calculating how quickly he could burst out of the bed and away from these two. But, rather distractingly, Ricci's hand was inside his shorts -- whoa -- and inside his boxers, stroking and cupping at the shape of his cock and balls, sending little shudders of unexpected delight through his stocky young form. He was lying on his side, Ricci in the middle, touching them both and making appreciative little moans at what his hands found.
More because it felt expected of him than because he necessarily wanted to, Bobby reached out with his left hand touched Ricci's bare chest gently, stroking the hot smooth flesh of his pectorals, letting his palm brush momentarily over one tight dark nipple. Sottil stared almost hungrily at him as he did that, and it frightened his hand away, pulling back to his toned tummy, staring down his body to where the Italian's hand disappeared inside his loose shorts, fumbling his prick into full life, quite tight and insistent in his touch.
He saw Patrick roll in a little, mirroring his posture around their visitor, but he was more shocked than anything so far when he saw Cutone reach in; like him, he seemed obligated to return the touch, laying his big hairy-backed hand on the centre of Riccardo's abs. But unlike nervous Bobby, he then dragged this hand down, splayed fingers moving over the soft definition of Sottil's abs, until he found the waist of his trackies and pulled back, revealing a little nest of pubes and then the veiny length of dick that sprung upright as soon as it was able. Now Pat had his hand curled gently about Riccardo's prick, but his nervous eyes met Bobby's; for a pained moment the two lockdown friends just stared at each other over the tanned body of their more confident companion.
Ohh Patrick,' wheezed Riccardo, grazie...'
Bobby found the confident to reach a stroking hand back to Riccardo's chest, knowing that Pat was stepping over much stronger lines than he. Still, his whole young body tensed as he lay there on his side, stroking his fingertips over a man's chest muscles while his dick was jerked slowly but tightly in his shorts, his eyes drawn inexplicably to the sight of Sottil's cock, rather intimidatingly large, being gripped and tugged by the big chunky fingers of macho Patrick Cutone.
There was a shifting rustle of all their pants. Riccardo was pushing down at his own trackies and it seemed to signal to Pat what was needed, cos he started doing the same; Bobby was slower to understand, or a little less sure of the game, because he needed Sottil himself to start yanking at his shorts before he reached back and pushed them down over his big smooth buttocks and onto his fluffy thighs, wriggling them away down his legs so he lay pretty much naked, his stiff cock flopping for a moment against Ricci's hip.
The three of them lay like that for a few gentle moments, then Sottil began to play with them both, almost like a skier with his poles. The 5ft11 winger just lay there, head nestling back into the pillows and his longish dark hair falling gently around his soft features. His left and right hand moved in sync, pulling up and down at the crotches of Bobby and Patrick. For his part, Duncan couldn't hold in his pants and moans -- another man's touch was so novel and firm and frightening, but it felt so good. He lay there, still somewhat on his side, his thigh and flank rubbing a little at Riccardo's body, watching his cock be pulled to and fro.
He couldn't help but look over, past where Pat still gently toyed with the middle man's dick, to the parallel handjob of Ricci's right fist around Pat's own dong. Bobby was pretty happy with the size of his cock, sort of average length but particularly thick, he knew it had pleased the few lasses he'd shagged around his hometown and in Liverpool itself, the minor conquests he'd sought out in Florence as a rogue Englishman during autumn and winter. He could also see that Riccardo's dick was a little longer than his, though leaner and, to him, oddly curved. But what struck him in the beer and aftershave-scented dark of the bed was that Cutone had a piece that matched up these qualities -- long AND thick.
The other two murmured things in Italian that might have been appreciation and enjoyment or things more in line with his own thoughts of what the fuck?' and is this a nightmare or a fantasy?' But hearing them purr in Italian, he didn't feel quite so left out. How could he? Riccardo fucking Sottil was jerking him off, shit.
He made the mistake of looking back at Sottil now. The confident smug expression on the middle man's face was deeply infuriating, but also exciting. Everything about his sloppy drunken manner said this wasn't a big deal, this was something he'd done before, would do again, who even cared? Bobby's eyes flicked past him to the jerking outline of Patrick's big one, still rather awestruck at it, and he was aware of Riccardo following the line of his vision. Bobby,' growled the middle player, let us swap...'
`Huh?'
It happened quickly and confusingly -- Riccardo rolled a little then propped himself on one arm, then two, then slid over the top of him with a little bounce of mattress. The three figures shifted position and suddenly HE was the lad in the middle, Patrick instinctively sliding closer towards him on the bedding with a rustle of one heavy dark-haired thigh and a little grunt of confusion. Bobby knew what being in the middle meant, but he didn't know if he had it in him; Ricci wasn't going to wait for him to decide. He felt his left arm pulled down and his hand prised open, and there it was -- he was holding Sottil by the prick, his fingers closing about the slim rigid shaft. In turn, Riccardo had hold of his own dick, teasing a thumb over its fat head and making him emit a shuddering moan. Okay, almost there...
He looked to his right, and caught sight of Pat's conflicted face again, his wide dark eyes and almost chubby hairy cheeks. His big bare body beside him, the little curling patch of chest hair between his large pink nipples. His thighs lifting and parting, angling in a little so that the big almost purple-headed beast of his manhood hovered close to where Bobby's right hand lay at his side. Fuck. Bobby closed his eyes and did it, taking a second cock in hand, rubbing his palm down it and letting his fingers play carefully around the curves of its tip.
Beside him, both men sighed, and he let his own strangled little groan mingle with that breathy noise. He kept his eyes closed tightly as he did it, echoing what he'd seen in Riccardo's ski-like motion. Up, down, up, down, a little twisting circling almost to the stroke. He shivered despite the body heat that encircled him, jerking parallel cocks and marvelling privately at how the feel of them differed against his hands. He found he was shaking, nervous and uncertain, but then something comforting came his way; lying against him, pushing his fat cock into his wanking grip, Pat had leaned over more, and placed a hand (the same hand with which he'd seemed to almost dutifully touch at Ricci's hard-on) in the centre of Bobby's body, resting soothingly atop his abdomen and staying there, a flat calming touch to steady him. Bobby was too afraid to open his eyes but he was sure that if he did, he would see the same calmly confident smile and trusting eyes that had looked at him when the two young lads shared this loft flat at the heart of a stressful national lockdown.
The intimacy of that moment was broken by the heat of Riccis' pants to his left. He felt one of Sottil's hand reach down and not push his away, but close around it, guiding his grip in a tighter and faster jerk. Automatically, he began to try and emulate this on Pat to the right, steered and encouraged by Sottil's control. He heard a deeper, more satisfied moan sound from Pat, so close that he could feel his breath on his bare shoulder and chest. In turn, Riccardo was wanking him off with the same increasing fury and urgency. Bobby felt his balls tighten but he couldn't QUITE believe that he was going to cum at the touch of a man. Surely not, no way, he wasn't even a bit-
OH FUCK,' he howled, oh fuckin' hell boss...'
His sudden and rasping cry was drowned out as Sottil began to groan ecstatically and Cutone's breath became quick and ragged and disbelieving. It was a blur, and Bobby wasn't even sure which of the three of them came first. He felt the hot splash on his lower tummy, but it could just as easily have been one of the other two as from his own dick. His orgasm was intense, a white-hot sensation around the whole of his crotch and lower torso. Whether he came first, second or third, he came big, and messily, streaks of it up his midriff and on his thighs and, he thought in silent horror, probably on the other lads' bodies too...
Incredibly, Riccardo was laughing. `Oh my...' He slipped back into Italian and Bobby was too tired, drunk and orgasm-high to even try and pick apart nouns or verbs. He opened his eyes and stared up into the sloping ceiling of the big bedroom, his broad young chest heaving and sweat prickling the back of his neck. To his right, while Ricci chuckled and rambled out loud, Pat just moaned heavily, deep heaving breaths, almost animalistic. Bobby daren't look at him, knowing what he'd done to his good Italian friend. He realised he was still holding him, both of them, by the nob, and he let go suddenly, pulling his palms back across his own body (which he found sticky and streaked with spunk) until he realised Pat's big strong hand was still where it had been left, at the top of his abdomen, holding him in the centre of his torso. His fingers, gooey from the mess they'd ran through, closed briefly around this big capable paw, glad of its strength and security on him, but then prising it away, too hot and uncomfortable.
Bobby pulled himself up off the bed and away, not pausing to look at either of the Italians. He scooted down the bed and snatched at his shorts, which had lodged under one of Riccardo's thighs. He bunched them and his undies together in his left hand and hopped off the foot of the double bed, exiting rapidly across the dark room and into the hallway. It was the work of moments to nip down this passage and into the parallel room he occupied, Liverpool memorabilia visible everywhere, full of their frustrating home comfort. The young Scouser slammed the door shut after him and stood there, dick swaying, only socks on, sweat trickling form his blunt dark fringe down his brow and over his cheekbones. He dropped his shorts and boxers to the floor and moved quickly to the dresser, snatching at paper tissues and dragging them over his hands then at his midriff and his crotch and his thighs and then his own cock, smearing up what he feared was more than just his own salty white load.
In the morning, the world was glaring and bright. His head hurt and he supposed he hadn't slept as much as he should have. He'd also forgotten to shut the curtains. He lay in bed for a while, staring at some old Liverpool posters on the wall, including the big framed display of one of Uncle Stevie's famous red shirts. Then the memory of last night hit him through the fug of hangover, and he questioned the same thing: nightmare? Dream? Had it actually fucking happened?
Bobby got out of bed slowly, dragging on some baggy pyjama bottoms and another old tshirt, then a prudishly thick robe, as if he needed protective layers. He could hear voices drift through from the rest of the apartment, confirming that he and Patrick had a visitor. (Confirming much more, he thought, but he couldn't quite believe that just yet.)
Bobby left his room, hugging the robe about him, and walked gingerly down the hall into their shared living space. The main voice he'd heard was a singsong, Patrick Cutone whistling and chirping to himself in the kitchen, frying up something that smelt incredibly greasy and good. Cutone grinned immediately over at him, stood cheerfully in the kitchen space with a spatula in one hand, surrounded by broken eggshells and messy chopping boards. He nodded pleasantly at Bobby and got back to work. On the other side of the room, Riccardo was draped in the armchair again, wearing only his underpants and a tshirt like Pat, already playing on their PlayStation 4 and making vague hungover comments that Bobby could pick apart into phrases like sore head' and fuck training'. Dazed, the English teen looked between the two Italian footballers, and tried to decide: either nothing had happened and he'd experienced a horrible vivid dream (he really wanted to believe this), or he remembered everything correctly but the two Fiorentina players were utterly unconcerned and going on with their day.
Head pounding, young Duncan could not decide which option he preferred.
He found his phone where he'd left it, half-wedged down the side of the bigger sofa, and pulled it out. Fuck's sake, 5% battery. He hated it when he forgot to charge it at night. Still standing, irked by the gunfire and screams of the violent game Sottil was now playing, he drifted back towards the kitchen end, squinting at the dulled low-battery screen of his phone, and finding four different text replies in his inbox.
Mason G: `hah yeh, can't wait til we back in 3 Lions kits buddy, be sweet -- luv u bro xxx'
Phil F: `lol, dnt worry, I hardly ever get to start here 2, even tho manager luvs me lmao xx'
Neco W: `we miss you here, bobby d, get back to Merseyside soon -- need your common sense, surrounded by some dodgy shit at mo. Will explain when we see each other lol x'
Harvey E: `bobby dazzla! Long time no see, big dick. Miss u, u ugly prick. Get your arse back to Liverpool and fuck off them Italian slaaaaags haha' -- no kisses at the end, but a swirl of emojis: smiley face, laughing crying, flexed bicep, then three aubergines. The ubiquitous eggplant emoji, typical of Harvey Elliott's swaggering humour.
Bobby lingered between halves of the loft space, rubbing his head a little and putting the phone down on the edge of the kitchen counter. There was something reassuring by these unambiguous snapshots of his pals in England, the stabilising world of UK footy that he'd left behind. Fuck's sake, he thought, he needed to be back there, didn't he?
In the kitchen, Pat was looking over at him, his smile less bright and reassuring than he'd been a minute ago. The flicker in his creased brows and plump lips showed a note of concern or regret, enough to signal to Bobby that he was not alone in his morning turmoil. He met Cutone's uncertain look with his own wide-eyed broken innocence, but neither lad said a thing. Bobby just looked silently over his shoulder at the comfortably sprawled presence of the third footballer, the cocksure Italian stallion who had got some odd things going in here last night, almost oblivious to their presence as he pumped imaginary enemies full of imaginary bullets. Bobby sighed, and so did Patrick. And then breakfast was served, and the three lads ate in uneasy silence.
ANOTHER SNEAKY DEVIATION FROM PREMIERSHIP LIFE, BUT I HOPE IT'S STILL ENJOYABLE! PERHAPS WE'LL HAVE TO SEE WHAT BOBBY DUNCAN GETS UP TO ON HIS SUMMER BREAK IN THE UK, OR IF ANYTHING ELSE HAPPENS WITH HIS HANDSOME ITALIAN HOUSEMATE...
'Writer guy' - Premiership Lads on Nifty https://www.nifty.org/nifty/gay/celebrity/premiership-lads/
Amazon Wishlist here if you wanna say thanks LOL
https://www.amazon.co.uk/hz/wishlist/ls/26BW3WSABBHNM?ref_=wl_share