Part 143: Going Down
A ridiculous fourth goal from West Ham's Michail Antonio sealed their fate. Beneath an incongruously cheery July sky, Norwich bit down on relegation; the 4-0 loss to the London team was the nail in their Premiership coffin. The final quarter-hour of the match limped by and Todd Cantwell, only recently brought off the bench for what little impact he or anyone else could possibly make, felt like dropping to his knees on the home turf and giving up. In this way, the final whistle was a relief, an end to the agony of the disastrous match.
The Canaries went from slow half-hearted runs to dejected loping walks, largely unable to quite look each other in the eye, knowing how poorly they'd played in the contest. Frustratingly full of unspent energy and more emotional than most, local lad Cantwell stood alone near the halfway line, hands to his hips, blowing loose strands of dark blond hair out of his eyes. Fuck's sake.
He'd really dared to hope that Norwich could scrape by and stay up top. He loved this team and he really wanted to belong here, but he felt more and more like a big fish in a small pond; now that relegation was a harsh reality, his chances of sticking around at the Norfolk club into next season felt slim. He was already under a lot of pressure from his agent to talk to the right people -- the trouble was, mind, that he'd been so surly and dismissive of negotiations for the past couple of months, adamant that he could help the Canaries stay up, and that his future lay here. Sure, he'd been courting that media attention to raise his profile, but with the hope that he could be both a Norwich player and a proper Premier League star. This afternoon, that looked unlikely.
Slowly, Todd made his way over to join the others; sad back-pats and arm squeezes and muttered condolences passed between the lads in yellow, and even from some of the West Ham players; condescending and irritating gestures, in Todd's sad eyes.
Cantwell was about to head straight to the captain and manager when his sad eyes caught sight of another figure entering the relegation mourning: a tall suited figure with a Sky microphone in one hand and a cameraman trailing behind him, vulture-like in his hunt for interviews amongst the rubble of Norwich's season. Todd had known he was going to be here, had heard it mentioned a couple of times earlier today, but still... seeing him there in the flesh, tall and smugly handsome, it was shaking and troubling. Todd pictured himself on the sofa of his silent house, video call buzzing on his phone, being slowly led astray by that...
Todd shuddered, and powered on; he moved straight past the scattered huddle of his teammates to head indoors, hoping he could escape any interaction with Jamie Redknapp, a man whose appearances on Sky Sports in recent weeks had filled him with a nervous and guilty tremble. He rushed on indoors into the tunnel, ignoring a call from a couple of his older teammates.
Jack Wilshere did his best to look respectfully gloomy, but a big part of him just wanted to whoop and celebrate and gloat at the outstanding result his team had just produced here on away soil. The 28-year-old midfielder paced across the pitch, holding back a triumphant and gloating grin, giving stern sympathetic nods to the yellow-clad Norwich players he passed. Having entered the fray in only the 77th minute, Wilshere still burned with competitive energy, wishing there was another half hour so the Hammers could make it an utterly cheeky 5-0; perhaps with a bit more time HE could even shove a goal in, and earn a bit of rare kudos. Being a bench-warming spare in the prime of his manhood was not something that sat well with Jack Wilshere.
He couldn't quite compute how fluffy and comforting some of his teammates were being towards the disappointed Norwich players -- didn't they understand the dog-eat-dog nature of the League?
Look at Declan Rice, for fuck's sake, big looming git reaching down to cuddle Max Aarons, what a ponce! Jack found himself watching them: the authoritative way in which the tall West Ham defender threw an arm about the little Londoner's shoulders and steered him into the side-lines, kissing him on the crown like an older brother. Big poof. Jack scowled a little, which at least helped to keep in his bursting pride at West Ham's late season boost. In front of him, Rice was letting go of the little talented Norwich defender, and breaking away, turning this way; their eyes met, awkwardly, but for once Jack didn't push on and try to avoid contact.
`Getting a bit close there, weren't you?' he barked at the younger player, strolling up alongside him on their way off the pitch. He kept his voice light and playful, though the joke was more vicious than that, knowing everything they did of each other.
Oh come on,' muttered the young powerhouse defender, they've just crashed out, mate. Have a heart.' As he always did now, Rice bristled a little defensively, pulling himself away as they walked into the tunnel mouth, following the slow drift of their claret-and-blue kits in towards the away dressing rooms. Plus, he's hurt his leg,' Declan added lamely, glaring meaningfully at Jack. His eyes definitely said, Don't push it.' But Jack was feeling restless and riled.
Careful though,' he grunted, hugging lads like that in front of Sky cameras.'
`Whatever, pal...'
`Or your little bumboy will get jealous,' Wilshere added cruelly in a quieter voice, pulling gently at the back of Declan's shirt and flashing him a cheeky wink when he glared over his shoulder.
Max is a mate,' Dec snapped back hotly. England Under 21s, innit. Mase knows him too...'
Oh, I touched a nerve,' Jack chuckled instantly, letting go of his shirt and rolling his own broad shoulders in a little shrug, unable to keep in the impish smirk of mischief, seeing how uncomfortable and insecure Rice actually was -- both at his budding relationship and at any suggestion of his disloyalty. You sure that was just a sympathy hug there, Ricecakes...?'
Fuck off,' Dec snapped back at him. He's a good mate, that's all. God you're a prick when you wanna be, Wilshere.'
With that, the tall 21-year-old marched firmly on, doubtlessly scowling to himself and thinking guiltily about what Mason Mount might see if that momentary comfort did crop up on a televised match report. Wilshere knew full well he was making something out of nothing, but his hackles were up. It had been a strained period since his in-club fun was rather shat on by Ross Barkley's forceful intervention. Jack had no idea if Ross would have told Declan the details of their back alley showdown, or anyone else, and whilst he rather doubted terse Barkley would be such a gossip, it made Jack paranoid and cautious around any lads he suspected might be open to some play. Basically, that horny submissive encounter with the Chelsea brute had left him nervous of fun he'd spent years treating as a casual side hobby, a pool in which he could dip his toes whenever he felt the need. It had reminded him of where his little experiments began, and the role he'd played in that formative intimacy, very different from the bullish predator he'd become.
Dwelling on this irksome motivation, Wilshere had paused a minute in the mouth of the tunnel, his sweaty West Ham kit clinging to the tight stocky frame of his muscular body. He stepped aside as someone came limping by, accompanied by a physio in a Norwich tracksuit -- it was the subject of his teasing attack, Max Aarons himself. The boyish 20-year-old had a pained look on his face as he hopped along with the middle-aged guy, perhaps 50/50 from his potential injury and the collective injury of 4-0 and relegation.
Declan's little England youth pal, then. Fuck it. If Jack Wilshere couldn't play with big goofy Rice because bossy Barkley said so, then... Well he'd have to find his fun elsewhere...
Jamie Redknapp strode down the broad corridor, still clutching the boxy microphone in one hand, suit jacket shed in the musty warmth of these backstage areas where the air seemed thick with manly sweat and the mixed fortunes of the two teams. Ahead of him, the Norwich manager was stood in gloomy discussion with another media figure, perhaps a more local station or paper; Jamie had already enjoyed his own hard-hitting little interview with Daniel Farke, questioning his position here now that the Championship below beckoned.
Perhaps because of those pushy questions, the footballer managed looked over with a twisted frown as Jamie approached, tightly dressed in navy suit trousers and a tieless sky-blue shirt, top couple of buttons undone to cool down a little now that his post-match duties were officially over. Not that anyone else needed to know that.
`What do you want?' asked Farke coolly.
Aha, one last interview, actually,' Redknapp said, smiling at him as if they were the best of mates. You know, no rest for the wicked, here at Sky...!' He waved the microphone and shrugged his broad shoulders, treating Farke and the local reporter to his broadest and most cynical toothy smile. `We just missed out on one of your little stars, you know, so I was hoping I could...'
`Who do you want?' the Norwich manager snapped back dismissively, clearly no interest in small talk.
Jamie resisted the urge to wilt and cow under the defensive stares of the two men, brassy and confident in his position here with these losers. He wasn't without empathy for Norwich's plight, but they were a nothing team in his eyes, lucky to have had the time they did in the Premiership. The lower leagues were where they belonged, really. He hid these thoughts behind a courteous smile and nodded through into the noisy home changing rooms. Is Todd Cantwell still around?' he asked. Would love a quick word with the young geezer if there's any ch-`
Farke turned to the doorway and hollered aggressively inside. TODD. You're wanted.' Then, glaring back at Jamie as if West Ham's win were all his and Sky's fault, he added, He's all yours,' and patted the other journalist on the arm before disappearing inside to speak to his crushed players and reflect on what was left of the season for the doomed team. The other reporter disappeared, definitely local and as gutted by the loss as the lads themselves. Jamie just stood there in his shirt sleeves, grinning to himself and thinking of the manager's words. Yes, `all yours', all mine.
When Cantwell reluctantly emerged through the big square doorway, he was already partly undressed, Norwich shirt off, stripped to his impressively ripped lean torso, hairband removed so that his long locks hung scruffily either side of his boyish features. He stared awkwardly at the Sky pundit, hovering alone in the doorway. The first time the two men had looked each other in the eye since that delightful video call.
`Yeh?' murmured the 22-year-old footy twink.
Let's have a quick word, shall we?' Jamie said quietly. Just a little interview, before you shower.'
The pain in his left leg confirmed as merely a cramp, Max Aarons stayed where he was, slumped against the firm mattress of the treatment bed, vivid green shorts pulled up about his chunky dark thighs, bare feet dangling in front of him. Making quiet comforting small talk about what a tough effort Aarons had made in the game, the 50-something physiotherapist and medic tidied away a few things and then left him to sulk, disappearing out into the corridor without insisting that young Max get up and move on down to the changing rooms with the others.
The 20-year-old London lad sighed sadly to himself, as disappointed as anyone with his team's performance today and across the season. He felt wiped out by his 90+ minutes of frenetic defending, seemingly unable to do a thing against the opposition's attacks, especially that one prolific fucker...! Max was caught between the tempting selfishness of thinking he could have done a better job if he wasn't stuck in such a shit lazy squad of mediocrity, much-encouraged by his agent and his constant talk of a move to Arsenal or Spurs, and the horrifying admission that it was his own youthful errors that had let West Ham walk all over them so easily.
He lingered here, his arse sat on the bed, feeling a certain reluctance to move back down through the passages and join the pity party of his teammates in the dressing rooms. There were individuals in that mix he felt deeply angry at for their shitty performances of late, and he couldn't quite be the team player he wanted to, and just mourn the relegation as a sad twist of fate. Max was a talented young guy who had been lauded for his England youth career already; today felt like a stain on that potential, a sad `end' to his years out here in the sticks. Moving out to train with Norwich as a teen had seemed such an amazing opportunity, once upon a time. Now, all Aarons wanted was a place at a strong London team, somewhere he could be back amongst friends and family AND have a stab at real success...
`Penny for ya thoughts?'
He looked up. The open doorway of this small physio treatment room was now blocked by the form of a West Ham kitted man, smiling gently in and leaning into the doorframe, thick arms folded. `Wilshere,' Max exclaimed. He was immediately a little dazed at the sight of the older footballer, sloping quietly into the room with him. He met all sorts of bigtime Premiership players week after week, but few had spent months of his childhood on his bedroom walls, a devoted young Arsenal fan who had once idolised their sparky young bad boy.
`Sorry about that, kid,' Jack said, quietly closing the door behind him.
Max stared at him and tried to muster a resigned little smile. You're kind, but we got what we deserved, I guess. Well done to you lot, I suppose.' He felt a little brightened even by his pathetic attempt to sound it. We're going down, eh.'
Seems that way,' the older player said with a comforting edge to his gruff voice. Max watched him approach, faintly admiring the compact muscular build of the other guy, who was a little shorter than him but still an imposing figure on the pitch. He was one of those players who had faded a little, from a major figure in the national sport to a background sub, but Max still saw him as the exciting young hopeful who had decorated his wall. Actually, back home at his mum's place, still did decorate the wall... I hear you'll be soon heading back to London,' the ex-Arsenal icon remarked.
Max shrugged vaguely at this. Maybe,' he said, shifting from cheek to cheek, his legs dangling a bit of the treatment table, if any fuckin' club is still interested after that shit-show...'
He expected Wilshere, whose kind and reassuring appearance here was such an odd surprise to him now, to make some blandly reassuring statement or platitude now, but he just made an uncertain noise and cocked his head. `Yeah, I guess you could be at risk,' the older guy murmured in an almost worried tone, his gentle smile fading a little behind the rugged stubble that aged his otherwise youthful face.
Max paused at this response. It was always horrible to have your own self-deprecating half-fears echoed externally. `You think?' he asked very quietly, pulling at his yellow-and-green Norwich shirt and rubbing his chin a little, nervous eyes fixed on Jack's.
`Well, dunno what the likes of Spurs and Arsenal will make of sloppy seconds from a relegated team,' Jack thought aloud, a look of honest apology on his face. Max stared at him then, gulping, looked away, hating the sound of his own private fear being voiced so bluntly. Of course, it was the truth, but so many people had been lining up to convince him otherwise in the past few months. He didn't know what to say to that, but he felt as grateful as he did annoyed by the experienced player's cool honesty with him. He grimaced and looked back at Jack, who seemed thoughtful, stood close in front of him in the confined space of the treatment room.
`Shit,' was all Max could muster to say, pulling at his cheeks and letting out a long sigh.
Jack nodded. What you need,' he said in a soft confidential voice, is someone putting in a good word for ya, that's all. You just need... someone on your side.'
`You don't seem keen to chat.'
Todd Cantwell stared over the space of the office at him, lean arms hugged about his clammy warm chest, momentarily wondering where the Sky cameraman had got to, if this interview was so pressing and necessary before he went to get changed. He lifted on hand and tucked some strands of hair behind an ear, watching the cocky smile play on Jamie's sharp older features. Unsure what to say, he just shrugged a bit, stepping foot to foot in his rolled down socks, shin-pads clattering noisily at his lower legs.
`You never got back to my DMs,' Redknapp said now, in a slightly less polished showbiz voice, leaning heavily on the coach's desk where he stood near to him. They had stole their way into this nearby office at Jamie's suggestion, due to the echoey noise of the corridors nearer the changing rooms. The older man's voice had shifted there, but he still had that flashy grin on his face, so young-looking and handsome despite turning 47 recently.
No,' Todd mumbled back, been a bit busy since training re-started and stuff...'
`Of course, of course.'
`Sorry,' Todd added weakly, feeling that there was something cheeky or insolent in the way he'd deleted and ignored a number of sporadic contacts from both Redknapp himself and from the different productions teams he'd clearly passed his name to since they spoke last. A number of possible opportunities had trickled through Cantwell's inbox and been passed up on when he saw the sports pundit's name somewhere in the detail.
`There was me, just trying to help a lad out,' Redknapp sighed. He put the Sky microphone down on the desk now, folding his arms too in a fairly imposing mirror of Todd's defensive posture.
`I know,' Todd said queasily, feeling in two distinct minds over his own reaction. Yes, Jamie had been trying to help him out, that was certainly true; but the memory of what he'd let himself do for him on video call was too vivid and alarming, he couldn't allow any more association with him...!
I hope it isn't just because we had a bit of a laugh on FaceTime that night,' Redknapp broke into his thoughts, unfolding his firm arms and stretching the expensive-looking fabric of his shirt a little as he did. I hope you aren't passing up important media exposure and career opportunities just because of THAT...' He spoke quietly but cheerfully. `It was a good laugh, wasn't it, Todd, fella...?'
Cantwell squirmed at this suggestion and question, as unsure of his own mind as he was of what to say to the oddly intimidating figure of the slick ex-footballer, who now stepped away from the desk and closer towards him. It was a narrow office, so this long stride didn't leave much more spaced to be crossed. Todd unfolded his arms, letting them hang anxiously at his sides. He met Jamie's sparkling eyes.
Course not,' he muttered. Just busy, man.'
Right.' Jamie fiddled with his rolled up shirt sleeves. Where's all that showy banter today, Todd? Where's all that personality that I thought would be so good on my Sky show?'
`Tough day,' the usually chatty and extrovert 22-year-old told him honestly.
Yeah, tough,' Jamie agreed firmly; he took another step closer and they were right in front of each other now in the small, quiet coaching office, Todd backed into a row of filing cabinets, the 6ft older man looming over him, smelling richly of cologne. Which is why you're gonna need my help more than ever, don't you think?'
`Huh?'
`Well, you don't want your rep to be tarnished with THIS place... no, no... You need your media profile to be all about you, Cantwell. Your skills, your personality, your image. You need a couple of good interviews. An appearance on my panel show with the lads, maybe. A few good contacts -- guys I can fix you up with, if you should like.'
Todd stared anxiously across at him, finding it hard not to picture him sprawled on his sofa in comfier clothes while they spoke over webcam. `You'd still help me?' he asked shakily, increasingly aware of how daft or risky his avoidance of Redknapp's communications had been. After all, it HAD been a laugh, really, hadn't it...? Maybe it had gone a bit far, got a bit weird, but...
Oh, I'm a really nice guy,' Redknapp boasted in a purring murmur. Always ready to help out a promising young player, you know that. That's the whole reason I contacted you on Instagram that time at all, Cantwell... And you --He prodded him gently in the centre of his bare young chest,You have a LOT of promise...'
The defeated Norwich player nodded slowly, flinching a little at the gentle prod of fingertip on his skin. I need a good transfer,' he admitted, feeling every inch the traitor to this special club as he said it aloud to anyone but his parents or his sports agent. I need out of here.' He closed his eyes for a couple of moments, hating himself for saying it, but feeling a powerful need for the reassurance and support of an experienced guy like Jamie Redknapp, who he knew to be so well-connected in this business, amongst both the teams and the bigger forces of the league and sports media.
You do,' Redknapp agreed. So you need to start meeting me halfway, Todd.'
He nodded his head a little, awkward and unsure quite what this meant. `I think so, Jamie. I'm sorry I never replied to you, it was just...'
It doesn't matter,' Jamie assured him in the same gruffly quiet tone, seeming to loom in just a little closer as he said it. He dropped his voice more, so that Todd almost had to lipread the next comment, which sent an inevitable shudder through his lithe, half-dressed body. All that matters, Todd, is that you make up for it now. So... get on your knees.'
Jack smiled down at the nervous figure of the young player, a tough little defender on the pitch but a big lump of vulnerability here in front of him. You know I still have a lot of pals in high places at Arsenal, mate,' he said, letting one hand pat against the firm muscle of his own chest and slide ever so slowly down the front of his West Ham shirt. I can defo put in a good word for ya, at least. And I dunno which agents you're with, but I know some fuckin' good people as far as the London teams go, you know...' He felt a thrill of success as Max Aarons looked back up at him, eyes wide with respect and hope, a quivering smile on his lips, all boyish innocence mixed with the ruggedness of his sturdy physique, thighs almost as thick and strong as Jack's own. (Though really, nobody's thighs competed with his, he knew that.)
What, really?' Max mumbled at him. You'd help me out?'
Sure I would,' Wilshere told him, keeping his voice kind and level. I've seen you play a few times, Max, kid. You're super talented. Wasted here, really. Middle of nowhere.'
`They've been good to me,' Aarons told him regretfully.
Yeah, and now you need to be good to yourself,' Jack informed him, aware of the cheesiness of it, but very set on his goal. You just need to be prepared for the price of that success, kid. Need to be ready for the tougher world of proper big clubs, you know? It's a bit different from this tinpot club and its country ways.'
`I guess,' the 20-year-old right-back said distantly, looking confusedly up at him form his seated position. Jack couldn't help but grin widely and more cruelly at the sight of his bewildered state, his dejected position here at the losing club. Wilshere took no pause to question the satisfaction and boost he was getting from someone else's misery; he was well-aware of the lame masculine insecurities driving his own behaviour, the overcompensation at play here. But much more, he was aware of how this could work for him and the increasingly interested bulge in the front of his West Ham shorts.
You'll have to do your best to make a mark, in big clubs like Arsenal or Spurs or Chelsea,' Jack told him in a rougher, pushier voice. Or even West Ham, if you end up joining us over at the East End, huh.' He took a careful half-step in closer, right up against Max on the bed now, and he let his hand slide more fully down the front of his footy shirt, pulling it gently over the lower reaches of his tight six-pack, not really registered by Max's gloomy expression. `You might have to show your respect to a few older players if you're gonna fit in at big teams like that, mate.'
`Respect?' Max murmured cautiously.
`Yeah, kid. Respect.'
Max stared him in the eye, something wary and panicked suddenly in his gormless young face; as they stared each other down, Jack thumbed the waist of his shorts, catching at the tight black briefs beneath at the same time, and peeled them slowly down so that his heavy semi-hard cock and fat shaved balls spilled out into view. He watched Max's face tilt slowly downwards and his eyes widen as he caught sight of it. Jack stood there, ample privates displayed, standing over the taller lad and enjoying the sense of experienced superiority he held here and now. But Max was tensing up, and this approach might quickly backfire. Wilshere played his trump card.
Even Rice was a bit unsure at first,' he said in a low, growling whisper, but he learnt. He learnt he needed to respect his elders to hold a place at a club like West Ham.'
Rice,' said Max slowly, shakily. Declan Rice? What...?'
You saw him wearing the Captain's arm band again out there,' Wilshere said, a bit hurried and forceful now, sensing the precipice of possible fun that they were stumbling at; this could go either way now, though of course he would deny everything and cackle it off if this upstart ran off and starting shouting to the world about his pushy behaviour and fluid sexuality. Jack pulled his shirt up a little more, showing more of his tight-packed tummy muscles, his dick drooping heavily out of the waistband of his shorts. Declan Rice was a bit freaked out the first time he saw it, mate, but he learnt that a respectful touch was all it took to earn the support of the dominant lads in the team, you know.' With his other hand, he reached forward and squeezed one of Max's narrow shoulders, gently pulling forward on it as he did. `Go on, kid. If you want my help, help me out. Give it a feel, Aarons.' And he did; gawping in bewildered incomprehension, the Norwich defender reached out and took Jack's chubby piece in hand, and squeezed.
Now, that's better,' Jamie sighed, undoing the last button of his smart shirt and letting it spill open about his toned, tanned torso, his neatly shaved chest; hands sliding down to the button fly of his suit trousers, undoing them one at a time, his eyes never leaving the expectant face of the 22-year-old kneeling in front of him. You always knew you would end up doing this,' he added, almost menacingly, keeping his eyes locked on Todd's, `even when you were hanging up from that call, twitching in your idiotic little orgasm, your finger dirty form your little man-cunt.'
Todd Cantwell stared back up at him, shirtless on his knees and already starting to feel himself up in the front of his green shorts. There was conflict in his tight frown, framed by that sweaty mess of dark blond hair, but Jamie felt he had been right about the little extrovert. He'd seen the potential for turning in the little show-off, the attention seeking player, too bored and restless at a club like Norwich. A little bit of pushing was all it took and here he was on his knees, desperate to please, ready to do what it took to make it big.
Jamie parted the flies of his trousers, scooped a hand into his silky boxer shorts, and removed his near-hard prick in one move, giving it a long gentle stroke, seeing Todd's eyes follow it. `Does it look like you remember from our video chat?' he asked the young player with a tinkling laugh in his voice, and Todd just pursed his lips awkwardly, seeming unsure what to say.
`Bigger,' he admitted after an uncomfortable pause.
You liked the look of it, didn't you?' Redknapp demanded. Todd didn't answer this, though in a manner of speaking, his fascinated eyes did. I could tell. You would have hung up on that call straight away if you didn't, you dirty little fucker. Go on, grab on it, then. That's it. Good kid, Cantwell. How's it feel?' He watched Todd's fingers close about his big thick prick, squeezing it tentatively. `You like that, don't ya?'
I've never touched anyone like this,' Todd told him in a hushed mutter, clearly enjoying and fearing the significance of the moment as he clasped onto Redknapp's big daddy dick; but for Jamie, this was not special or sacred, this was just another fantastic opportunity, and he couldn't hold in his teasing laughter as another Premiership footballer fell sway to his charisma. It's huge,' Todd added anxiously, pulling his palm up and down the length in a couple of slow first strokes.
It feels big in your hand,' Redknapp grunted, but wait til it's in your mouth, geezer.'
Max's mind ran quickly and fearfully as he played his fingers up and down the chunky length of it, feeling it stretch and swell; he played at the heavy droop of the man's balls beneath it, then back to the dick itself, caught up in the monstrously close sight of it. He'd showered naked with dozens upon dozens of men, but he'd never been so close to another's cock in a state of arousal, well not since... Huh, not since that evening on the beach with Todd, but that had been totally innocent, hadn't it... nothing dodgy about two randy young lads just sorting themselves out in the sand dunes!
This, though...
Was this what it took, then? Had his good mate Declan Rice really touched up other men when asked, just to prove himself on the West Ham squad, or stepping up to the senior England squad in training...? No, surely not, not Rice...! Dec was the most conventional and ordinary lad he knew, such a solid upright fella, nothing dodgy or odd about him, but if Jack Wilshere said he had, then...
He looked up from the thing in his hand, up the half-revealed musculature of Jack's body, to the slow smirk on his lips, the intensity of his eyes. Catching his eye, Wilshere nodded encouragingly at him, and spoke in a confidential whisper. I know what you're thinking,' the stocky midfielder told him in a seedy rasp of a voice, but it ain't gay, not like this. It's just team politics. That's all. It's about knowing which of us is alpha.'
Max swallowed this idea hesitantly, really too stunned by the situation to think it through. A jab of pain from the cramp in his calf interrupted the blur of his thoughts and he concentrated on the facts: Jack Wilshere was a significant figure, someone who could help him. Jack Wilshere was a guy he'd admired and respected for as long as he'd been serious about footy. He, Max Aarons, was in a pretty shitty situation, a regular defender for a team that had lost most of their games and were consigned to relegation, going down. And here, in his hand, was a sort of solution. Or the beginning of one. Max was in no position to claim to be `alpha' about anything, young and inexperienced and in need of all the guidance and nudges in the right direction he could get...
Here's what's gonna happen,' Wilshere said, authoritatively. I'm gonna mention your name to my agent, and to a friend at Arsenal and a friend at Tottenham. I can't make any promises, but I can get your name spoken again in the right offices.' Max nodded, weighing up the man's chunky cock and balls in his clammy, trembling hand. And you,' Jack continued, well, you're just gonna nosh me off, and that's that.' Max froze, blinked, opened and closed his mouth. It's totally up to you, of course,' Jack said then, gruffly. If you're not cool with that, we'll put this thing back in my shorts and I'll go get my shower. This is all up to you, Maximus.'
`Nosh you off?' Max breathed aloud.
`What? I told you. Ain't gay like this, not between two lads as straight as us.'
`And did... I mean, did you say... Declan RICE sucked you...?'
Few times,' Wilshere said dismissively, sending Max's whole world into a spiral. He knew what was good for him, knew how to make an impact, and get people on his side. Don't be surprised if he's on the starting line-up for Chelsea or City in the next couple of years, mate, or captaining England in five years' time... Lad like Dec, he knows how to make friends.' Max listened to this, not really paying attention to the sinister and greedy expression on Wilshere's face, far too fixed on his own predicament, and the big hard dick now resting on his palm. Fuck, it was scary up close, but really, how hard could it be to take in his mouth...?
He pictured himself, battling weekend after weekend in the second league next year, slowly dwindling away from England's most hotly tipped young defender, and just fading away into a lower-league fighter... No, fuck that! He'd worked too hard to let that happen. Max pushed up with his hand, angling Jack's fully hard tool up away form his shorts, and then opened his mouth and ducked forward, leaning off the treatment bed; Jack's hand, still on his shoulder, caught and steadied his body as he leaned in, pressing his face down and taking the meaty thing between his lips. Max got a rush of the taste of it, sweaty and fleshy, but closed his eyes and just concentrated on taking as much of it into his gob as possible; the consequences of this were inevitable and quick. He pulled back, spluttering, shocked by the feel of a meaty dick pushing on his tongue and the roof of his mouth and at his throat. He pulled back, coughing and gasping, a sound that mixed with Jack's cool laughter.
More carefully,' Wilshere told him sternly. You gotta go slow, careful... but er, full points for effort, Max Aarons... I reckon you're gonna be really fuckin' good at Arsenal or Spurs, oh yes...'
Max whimpered, catching his breath, but letting his mind settle on that image, him stepping out onto the pitch at a big London stadium, freshly signed contract with the ink drying nearby, and those big crowds roaring his name; he wrapped his hand about the base of Jack's cock, and tried again.
Todd ran his tongue over it as best he could, keeping his eyes open and taking in the monstrous but thrilling sight of it, the big tool that had swayed in a blurred pixelated form over his phone screen that night while he played with his own smaller prick. Here it was, in his hands and against his tongue and lips, and he was breathing in the heady mix of Redknapp's sweat and aftershave, too scared to really take it into his mouth but utterly compelled by the command to suck and satisfy it. He kissed just below the tip then rolled his top lip over the head, which tasted even more strongly, and against the fleshy curl of foreskin. Each tentative touch brought fresh grunting moans from Redknapp, stood over him, stroking occasionally at his sweat-damp locks or the back of his neck or one of his bare muscular shoulders.
That's it,' he heard the 47-year-old smooth bastard groan above, good kid...'
There was something galling and annoying in his smug voice, but also some driving and exciting about it. Todd couldn't stop playing with himself at the same time, wanking his rock hard slim dick in his green shorts, pulling at it through the material and against his thigh; he'd slipped it out of his white briefs so he could wank it down his inside leg, too consumed by panic and obligation to stop and get it out properly, just edging himself against his own leg and the tight fabric that clung to him.
And as he did this, he kissed and licked at the lollipop of Redknapp's rod.
Yes, go on,' moaned the middle-aged divorcee. Suck on that, you little slut...'
He rolled is tongue right down the underside of the shaft and kissed at those big balls, the ones he'd seen bounce beneath Jamie's furious wanking on the video call, while teasing himself towards completion and even touching himself in the arse-crack. His virginal little ring quivered at the thought of that seedy behaviour, all at Jamie's rasping command. There was something in the older man's charismatic voice that was impossible to resist, he thought; it didn't really feel like he was doing these things, on his knees in here like a total bitch, it felt like he was watching some other version of himself dutifully obey the visiting sports presenter.
`Get ready,' growled Jamie.
`For what?' he panted.
`To eat my cum!'
Again, it felt like there were two Todds in this moment. One, detached and aloof, watching in marvellous horror at the older guy's sweaty excitement, his chest heaving in his open shirt, little sweat patches apparent in the fabric, and his own body hunched excitedly over. And then there was the second Todd, who stroked excitedly at Jamie's legs through his trousers and tried again to wrap his mouth properly about the big hard-on, sucking on its upper half as if he could will the spunk from it before it was physically ready.
Go on, eat it,' yelped Jamie furiously, eat my cum you little bitch...'
Then the two Todds were one, and he felt incredibly present. The dick shoved into his mouth was spilling fluid on his tongue, powerfully salty and weirdly creamy in texture, delicious on his taste buds and lower lip. Above, Redknapp was panting heavily and swearing at him through gritted teeth, pulling quite roughly on his hair in a way that should hurt, but the only physical effect was a powerful ache in his crotch, and the unstoppable climax of his own uncomfortable wank, spilling his silvery wet mess down his thigh...
Mmm, yes mate,' Jack groaned heavily, rocking back and forth on his heels, the studs of his boots clicking on the office floor, his big buttocks heavily clenched in his figure-hugging claret shorts. He held one hand on Max's upper back, supporting his delicate lean off the bed, and the other wrapped on his head, stroking the short tufty curls of his hair, keeping his face in place as, slowly but firmly, Jack thrust his dick in and out of the willing, tight lips. Mmm, that's it... mmm...'
Wilshere felt high on it. He'd had such knocks to his ego lately, none more than bending over in an alleyway and begging for his first fucking in twelve years. Every time he had to sit on the West Ham bench and watch younger lads take control of the action, his deep self-confidence wobbled and wavered. He was beginning to feel past it, at 28, and his sex life was spiralling out of his control. But here, fucking this cute youngster in the face, knowing he was moments away from decorating his pretty face in his own goo, he felt powerful and in control again.
He was tempted to unload in the lad's mouth, make him taste it fully, but he wasn't sure what the excited young lad's exact limits were. He didn't actually want to land himself in a mess he would need to hotly deny, after all. Best to take it easy on the cheeky little bugger, he figured. Plus, Jack loved nothing more than the visual symbol of his own authority...
So, just as he felt himself draw close, he pulled back with his hips, pushing away on Max's shoulder a little, and slapping his other hand to his own dick. He held Max back but close, seeing the almost disappointed gasp of his face as he stopped his eager, clumsy first blowjob -- that possibility always triggered something joyous in Jack, the prospect of what he'd unleashed or awoke in repressed young footy blokes. His dick exploded unceremoniously. His streaked Max's plump smooth cheeks in his seed and spilled some over the shoulders of his Norwich kit. Strings and globs of it hung in his own aching fingers as he pulled on his nob a few more times, grinning down into Aaron's startled face. That's it,' he said coaxingly, just have a little lick of it... that, lad, is the taste of your future success...' He slowly edged his throbbing clock close and brushed it against Max's bottom lip, then watched in satisfaction as the young lad's tongue curled out and over that little smear, experimental and cautious.
Then Jack pulled back, watching the footballer almost drop clumsily off the edge of the bed as he removed his supportive paw from his shoulder. Wilshere laughed again, self-satisfied and spent, and saw Max pull back, dragging up on his shirts to wipe over his chin and cheeks where the cum had settled, disgust returning to his starstruck features. Disgust, perhaps, but not entirely. Jack was about to burst out in fresh laughter or make a seedy, taunting comment on it, the swelling in the green folds of Max's own pants there, but then he realised just how prominent and enormous the shape actually was, and he stopped himself. For an ego as fragile as Jack's, the sighting was enough to irritate him; a physical suggestion that he was not the real `alpha' in the room. Max Aarons appeared to be hung like a horse.
Provoked, Wilshere ran his fingers back down the still stiff form of his cock, smearing the last of his load onto one finger, then flicking it pettily at Max so it smeared his cheek again. Then, without another word, he backed frostily away, pushing his cock and balls back into the tight confines of his shorts. `I'll put the word out. See what I can do. Speak a word of this and I'll make sure you never kick a ball again.' He burst angrily out of the room, not pausing to see how Aarons dealt with his sudden change of mood, not caring.
Todd emerged from the shower, combing his long hair back with the fingers of both hands; he'd washed it thrice in a row, paranoid that some of Redknapp's seed might still be there. The lithe young player made his way into the largely empty changing rooms, towel about his waist, having been late to the showers after his private `interview' in the office down the corridor. Still a little shaken by the force of his submission to Jamie's appetite, and perhaps even more shaken by the speed of his own clumsy orgasm whilst doing so, Cantwell made his way back to his things, and was quite surprised to find Max Aarons there, still in his dirty kit, sitting quietly on his own.
Hey!' he exclaimed. Hurry up mate, you not even showered yet?'
Max lifted his head and looked at him with an odd, almost angry expression, but didn't say anything. Todd gave him an awkward half-smile, the same strange expression he'd given everyone upon returning anxiously to the crowd of the squad after his one-on-one time with Sky Sports. Todd fished a bobble from a side-pocket of his bag and tied back his hair in a little ponytail, still wet against his head, and loosened his towel to begin drying his lean muscular body, conscious of the other player's brooding young presence beside him.
They had been close for years, two excitable young footballers in a fairly stale community, but in a way that had felt closer than ever since the evening on the beach. Todd had vaguely regretted his playfulness in front of another guy for a little while after that, but it HAD created an odd new intimacy between them; as embarrassed as the pair of them were by what they'd tried out in that private little spot in the dunes, the shared knowledge had brought some new confidence to their relationship. A much-needed support for them both in these recent weeks of repeated loss to bigger teams, he thought.
With this in mind, in the middle of pulling on a fresh pair of CK boxer shorts, the 22-year-old midfielder found himself looking over at Max, and considering confiding this in him. He could finally explain why he had been so funny about that disastrous interview with Redknapp, and the reasons he'd avoided all media engagements since, despite all the interesting offers in him as a fresh young face of the game. Would nervous young Max understand? After all, Aarons had been so honest with him about his slow sexual awakening, his `late' loss of virginity and all that...
No, it was hardly the same. With a little internal sadness, Todd decided against it. The young defender was sat there in a heavy sulk, clearly brought on by the team's disastrous performance and their early guarantee of Premiership failure. It was hardly the time to start broaching more personal matters, clearly, if ever there was a time. No Todd, he thought, keep your mouth shut. He turned away and started pulling on his skinny jeans, while Max got up with a heavy sigh and padded away to take his own shower, clearly lost in his own moody thoughts and reflections, disappointed and defeated like everyone else.
Alone, Todd stood there, dragging on a tshirt and catching sight of himself in a mirror, fresh-faced and scrubbed clean, but still... Redknapp's little bitch. He felt equal shudders of pleasure and disgust at the notion. First by video call, and now in person... he licked his lip unconsciously, almost hoping to still taste the older man on his lip but catching only the soapy freshness of his face. He stared guiltily at his own reflection, ashamed by the moment of secret hope, his cheeks going scarlet.
You did it for your career, he told his reflection.
You just need his influence, he assured his nervous brain.
You're just hustling, he convinced himself, flexing his body vainly through his clothes and pouting into the mirror, convinced of his hot looks and his readiness to become a major star.
If it was just about his career though, why had it tasted so fucking good?
'Writer guy' - Premiership Lads on Nifty https://www.nifty.org/nifty/gay/celebrity/premiership-lads/
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