Part 148: Going Up
Outside the stadium, you could see the fans going proper mad. From here, the big glass-panelled walls of Elland Road's most swish hospitality suite, there was a great view of the crowds and flares, the chants and banners; social distancing temporarily forgotten as the loyal Leeds hardcore celebrated the end of a 16-year exile from Premiership football. The lads in white hadn't even played this evening, but West Bromwich Albion's failure was their gain: they were now guaranteed second-place in the Championship and automatic promotion to the top flight. They didn't even have to sweat it out and give their fans' nervous breakdowns in a play-off clash, they were through, they were going up.
Like every other player, coach or staff member swigging lager up here in tonight's tentative celebration, Leif Davis was bouncing on his feet and brimming with excitement for what lay ahead. The young Geordie was a fringe member of the promoted squad, racking up only ten or so first-team appearances this season, but he knew he was on an upward trajectory and the prospect of a Premier League debut in the autumn was filling him with an almost manic excitement. It was hard to predict who would come and go amongst the club's more experienced players, but Davis could see himself having a fighting chance of regular benches and starts unless some serious defenders were bought in. At 20, the Newcastle lad was just insanely grateful to be here at an upwardly mobile club at such a historic moment for their city.
Next to him, other more senior Leeds players were going crazy at the window, waving and hollering unheard for the public below; some had gone down to meet them at the gates for brief conferences of excited discussion. Nearby, the sophisticated forward Patrick Bamford was going berserk, waving both hands in the air and screaming nonsensically into the plexiglass; beside him, their stalwart captain Liam Cooper was banging dangerously on the clear divide and lofting his pint in the air, spilling much of its content down his tattooed arm and onto the shoulder of his short-sleeve shirt. Leif grinned admiringly at the older men and backed off, a little overwhelmed by the dizzying view outside of Elland Road.
He returned to the unmanned bar, where two of his fellow younger players were clumsily sloshing out fresh pints for themselves, and he plonked his own glass down heavily beside them in anticipation of a refill. Local lad Oliver Casey was doing his best impression of a Rovers Return barmaid as he frothed out the first pint for their teammate Jordan Stevens, and Lief grinned eagerly at the two young players, awaiting his turn. Luckily for him, Olly had picked up some skill at the job and his pint managed to be less than 50% head, unlike theirs. `Wheyyy, you didn't get as much head as me,' quipped 20-year-old Stevens, clanking their glasses and cackling, already pretty drunk. He was not alone in that.
Yep, well done,' Davis returned cheerfully, you got head from Olly Casey, lucky you... Fucking nonces, haha...'
The gawkish giggling of the three young lads was interrupted as an older member of the Leeds defence crashed down next to them at the unmanned bar of the hospitality area, a pint glass in each hand and an almost wicked grin on his face. Ezgjan Alioski was as chaotic and excitable as ever, one of the more experienced and established Leeds men amongst the gathering; his eyes were a little wired as if he'd been doing more than drinking, and his bleached hair and dark roots were scraped back over his head. Do me next,' he demanded energetically, thrusting both glasses towards Casey and smiling over at Stevens and at Davis. Alioski stared blankly as the young yobs immediately burst into sniggers, given the timing and wording of his request. What is it?'
`Just a dumb joke,' Lief half-explained with lazy beer-warmed good humour.
`Casey giving everyone terrible head,' chuckled Jordan more openly, lifting his badly poured pint.
Alioski immediately burst into mad laughter, made all the more playful and daring by his strong Macedonian accent and Slavic looks. Oh I see,' he groaned happily, then laughed some more. Well, tonight may be mad party, but we see if it goes THAT far, eh, haha...' He took back his freshly poured pints from an uncertainly chuckling Olly, then clanked them noisily to Lief and Jordan's, and abandoned them in a whirl of bleached blond mischief.
Haha, you got a taker there, Olly,' cackled Jordan messily through a mouthful of the premium lager, elbowing his 19-year-old teammate and winking at Lief, who couldn't help but blush a little at how quickly the daft joke had escalated. He just grinned reassuringly at the embarrassed Leeds lad between them at the beer pump, pulling back his pint and taking a sulky glug on it. Fuckin' tool,' jibed Jordan, ruffling the younger lad's dark hair and rolling his eyes, `we're only messin' with ya...!'
Things did get quickly messy though -- a few of the older fellas left quite sharply, withdrawing a sense of caution or responsibility from the event. It had been a tentative gathering, since a win from West Brom tonight would have delayed the good mathematical news, but they had all sensed it coming and gathered here, a bit desperate for a blowout. None of the lads had been able to indulge themselves like this or hit up the city's nightlife in what felt like forever, so the brilliant excuse of automatic promotion to the Premiership was rattling through the gathering and excusing obscene amounts of booze. For a team who had their next game against Derby County in two days, there were piling the alcohol and calories away, nobody more senior than their blind-drunk captain to advise against it.
Leif Davis shifted through the escalating party in an eager daze, riding the professional high of tonight's good news but also just tingling with the most beer he'd drank since his 18th birthday bash back on Tyneside. Pint after pint of the good stuff, freely poured with no murmurings of anyone having to pick up the tab tomorrow, flowed in his bloodstream and made him light-headed and reckless, noisier and more excitable than he ever managed on a usual day.
Unfortunately, the amount he was drinking also meant the endless beer was flowing elsewhere, down through his system and dragging him repeatedly to the loos at the other end of the bar. Still clutching the lukewarm dregs of his latest drink, Davis made his way over, grabbing unconsciously at the crotch of his skinny jeans and tottering on into the men's toilets, where he placed his glass down clumsily at the sinks and headed to the only free urinal, the middle of three.
Like a lot of men of his generation, Leif could suffer from the dreaded pee-shyness now and then, but not when as inebriated as this. He yanked at the thin belt of his skinny black jeans and down on the zip fly, loosening his cock from his undies and holding it in one hand to aim. To his right, another bloke made a melodramatic sigh as he relieved himself, grabbing Leif's hazy attention and then smirking oddly at him when he looked his way; the team's 29-year-old Northern Irish winger was leaning back heavily and cupping his balls in both hands as he pissed noisily into the right urinal, seeming to take bizarre enjoyment in the bladder relief -- his noisy show was then disturbed or enhanced by similar noises to the left and Leif looked that way as Scotsman Barry Douglas aimed his soft cock upright a little and blasted the wall above the urinal with piss, both older men just gushing with their own dirty humour and forcing a silly giggle from the 20-year-old Geordie.
Calm down fellas,' Leif blurted out drunkenly, self-conscious of his own flaccid nob in his fingers, squeezing out a piss and hearing a fourth voice join their laughter as the captain emerged from the single cubicle, still stuffing at the front of his boxer short and wrenching closed his thick pale jeans, wheezing with laughter at the other men's performance. Stop scaring the young un,' Liam Cooper laughed, slapping a hand on Dallas and then Douglas' back before heading to the sink to wash. The Scotsman joined him, smirking, but Northern Irish Stu remained at his cubicle, stroking the fat snaking thing at his crotch and leaning obnoxiously over to inspect Leif as he pissed.
He wilted under the jokey attention of the 6ft winger, scowling at him and hurrying to finish relieving himself. Suddenly Stuart was slapping a hand to his neck and shoulders, shaking him and making him spray past the cubicle a bit as he caught his balance. `Pissing like a Premier League player,' bellowed the experienced Leeds player happily, shaking him by the neck then pulling away, exiting the bathroom with Barry without bothering to wash his paws. Cooper, smirking at the other two, reached over and punched him lightly in the arm.
Don't mind them cunts,' the 28-year-old Hull bloke, captain and centre-back, told him firmly, they're just wasted. Piss in peace!' He disappeared after them, and Leif shook his cock and stuffed it away inside his grey boxer briefs, a little shaken by the coarse banter of the night even when he was five pints deep and dreading tomorrow's 10am training session. He'd heard others boast that their eccentric South American manager would be forgiving of all puking on the training ground, after tonight's big news, but the young Tynesider was a lot less sure.
He made his way back out into the fray, wiping damp hands on the front of his black tshirt, abandoning what remained of his warm pint and thinking perhaps it was time to swap for a softie. He was blearily surprised to find so few of them left -- ten or so men now, half of what he'd imagined to remain -- and wondered if he'd been seeing double or if a lot of the players and support staff had begun to make hasty exits as the drinking got out of hand.
Someone had sorted out the big plasma screen TV in the centre of the communal space, showing some late repeated Sky coverage of the Leeds celebrations outside -- snippets of interviews with players, ex-players, their beloved manager, manic fans. Leif paused behind the scattering of sofas and grinned at the footage, seen for the fourth time tonight, of the fans going mad outside the stadium, dimly silhouetted figures of this party going on through an elevated window in the distance. He huffed a laugh and rested his hands on his hips.
In front of him, the celebrating was just getting more raucous. Douglas and Dallas were seated in one of the leather couches racing to down fresh pints, spilling as much on their own clothes and the expensive leather as they got in their mouths; his own good pal Jordan Stevens was cheering them on, kneeling at the table beside them and clapping effusively as they competed. Closer by, the team's star City loan player, Jack Harrison, was loudly proclaiming that he wished a nightclub was open for the lads to hit up, and next to him, that Macedonian livewire Alioski was even more loudly denouncing the repeating footage and demanding that they should be using the big screen to get some porno off his phone instead and all watch it together. Leif sniggered at this outrageous suggestion and moved on past them towards the bar, glad it was abandoned and he needn't be pressured into pouring out more premium lager, already way too drunk for a Friday night with a weekend match ahead of them.
Fetch me on, will you?' asked the crisply polite voice of their skilled forward, as Leif ducked down behind the bar to wrench open a fridge and retrieve a j2o for himself; he turned and gave a bashful grin at Bamford, caught in the act of his boyish need for soft drink, but grabbed a second bottle and hoisted them up onto the bar. Patrick, a charming 6ft1 figure of quiet confidence in the squad of brash personalities, lifted a bottle-opener and cracked off both lids in a couple of smooth gestures, giving him a confidential grin. Pour them into glasses and we'll pretend they're brimming with vodka,' the Grantham-born private schoolboy laughed confidently but secretively.
Leif did so, glad of the conspiracy, and clinked their teetotal drinks together; the clumsy slur of the gesture revealed just how drunk both footballers were, for all their sudden 10pm caution, and the drunken mischief spiralling beyond them around the one working television set.
`To the Premiership,' toasted Patrick.
`To the big League,' Leif agreed, grinning at the 26-year-old striker, one of his most respected allies at Leeds United; Bamford's career was patchy and zigzagging but he had snatches of real Premiership experience and had once spent his younger years on the fringes of the Chelsea first team. By current Leeds standard, he was an experienced top-flight icon for the younger players, even if he'd spent half his career on tenuous loan deals before ending up in a series of Championship promotion battles. Leif supposed that Paddy was probably more delighted than most to win through today, perhaps feeling like he was getting back where he belonged; Leif knew that despite the raucous excitement around the suite, many Leeds players were anxious about the step up to the big money Premiership environment, few of them having kicked a ball in those massive stadiums.
`I hope we're ready,' the young Geordie admitted quietly, taking a sip of refreshing orange and mango juice, glad of the chilled sweetness after guzzling too much beer.
Oh, we are,' Bamford promised him, it'll be amazing for young guns like you, pal.' The tall blond fella looked over his shoulder with a playful grimace. `Don't know about some of these yobs, mind...'
The pair of them rejoined the others, Leif feeling vaguely dwarfed by the tall athletic forward, settling himself down beside him on the free sofa, Olly and Tyler Roberts to his left. The sofas were long, but four grown men still squeezed to fit in together. On the other long sofa, Alioski seemed to have won his campaign; sat between Cooper and Harrison, he was fiddling with his phone and staring impatiently up at the wall mounted screen, shouting in his own language while the players around him just cackled. Jordan Stevens completed their sofa and only Barry and Stu sat apart on the third couch, looking worse for wear after their pint racing.
`Here we are,' Jack Harrison announced loudly, a confident young winger at 23-year-old who clearly saw himself as the secret ingredient that had helped the club to ascend this season. He had a big grin over his smooth features, waving a hand up at the screen as it flickered back into life, not with the neat graphics and recycled footage of Sky Sports News, but with a blurred, buffering replica of what was playing on Alioski's screen: porn.
`Seriously boys!' tutted Bamford cheerfully.
Fuck yes,' crowed Barry Douglas in his rough Glaswegian accent, get it on...'
We ought to be doin' something more profound than this,' their captain was arguing without much energy, dismissive of the porno scene now unfolding on the television above them. Somethin' special to mark the moment, y'know, something together as mates...'
`We SHOULD be curled up in bed like good boys,' Tyler Roberts suggested with a tinkle of guilty laugh, as if the 21-year-old striker was thinking that his joke sounded a good idea; there was a murmur of slurred disagreement with the sensible option, all of them dimly aware of tomorrow's regrets, but nobody quite ready to quit celebrating just yet. All eyes flickered idly to and from the porno that Ezgjan had chosen, a garish orgy of Eastern European woman outside in the woods, half of them already naked.
Well you're captain,' Harrison was grunting at Cooper now, what do you suggest...?'
`Matching tattoos,' chimed Jordan.
`Circle jerk,' guffawed Alioski, not taking his eyes off the screen.
Oh yeah,' Jordan giggled, then you can finally get head off of Olly, you mean...?'
The banter rambled on. Leif sat where he was, squashed in against the edge of the sofa, cradling his thinly hidden soft drink, feeling a bit spaced out and left behind by the rolling conversation, all loose connections and punctuating bursts of rough laughter. He looked at the screen, vaguely uncomfortable with the sleazy screening of their teammate's Pornhub faves, but dully excited by the action all the same. He rubbed a hand across his throbbing forehead and grinned around at the other nine blokes gathered here, the beer-addled remains of what had started out as a much bigger party, dwindling to this perverted atmosphere and jagged banter. They'd started drinking fairly early in the evening, he supposed, a couple of optimistic beers while they watched West Brom play Huddersfield, quickly accelerating once their rivals were losing. The hours seemed to have blurred together and slumped into this: ten men squashed across three sofas, only half of them still actively drinking, most of them ready to face disgusting hangovers tomorrow morning, a gaggle of porn actresses squealing lavishly on a big TV screen, cast by WiFi from their Macedonian left-back.
Discussion of matching tattoos, booking a lads' holiday, and most excitedly, swinging by their manager's Wetherby home tonight via taxi and waking him up with a garden party, had all fizzled out in a series of gurgling laughs, meaty slaps, and tenuous digressions. Leif seemed to tune back in to the conversation just as it reached an alarming new corner.
I want to see who is the most hung, that is all,' cackled Alioski, shrugging his shoulders defensively and shoving at the men on either side of him, Jack and Liam. Is it so mad an idea?'
Told you he was a perv,' Jordan Stevens was sniggering at the end of their sofa, lurching over to wink and gesture meaninglessly at Leif. He's always ogling us young lads, this one, watch out for him, hah...' He sprawled out his limbs, sniggering and supping from an empty beer bottle as if it still had plenty to offer.
Leif stirred himself, a bit perplexed by the shift in banter here. `Eh? What's he on about, man?'
`Ignore it,' muttered Bamford to his right, just laughing it off.
There wouldn't be no contest,' Dallas was boasting, with similar rival proclamations from Douglas and from their captain, which just had Alioski in fits of giggles. This is my point!' he screeched madly, getting up from the sofa, `Every one of you pricks thinks they're the big dog, but... Well, I wanna see who really has a Premier League prick, you know, and who has a tiny relegation dick, hehe...!'
`Don't be a nob, Alioski,' Bamford grumbled, but not loudly, his challenge to the rough banter seeming to go ignored by everyone but Leif, sat a little nervously and dizzily beside him.
`Anyone disagreeing with the idea must be hung like an acorn,' sniggered Jack arrogantly, getting up to his feet next to Alioski and shoving playfully at the other player, the two of them almost collapsing back onto the other lads on the sofa, so drunken and unsteady on their feet. It was unclear to Leif if Jack's jibe was in response to Patrick trying to cut off the idea, or just a general provocative challenge to the room, but it seemed to rile a certain brash enthusiasm among the others.
`Well I know who's tallest in the room,' young Olly was boasting, getting up, while Tyler pushed at him and cracked up laughing, pointing out that proportions were rarely reliable on these matters. A ripple of seedy laughter crossed the room and, on the TV screen, the porno was really going for it.
And what's the prize for the winner?' Barry was demanding in his surly Scottish drawl, still sprawled out occupying half of the third sofa, cradling the dregs of a pint in both hands, looking barely able to actually keep his eyes open. And by winner,' he slurred, `I obviously mean me...'
`Punishment for the loser, more like!' Harrison butted in.
Bit of both,' mused Cooper from the centre of the crowd, stretching out on the sofa and flexing his thick arms at his sides before hopping up onto his feet. Littlest cock has to wank off biggest cock for a minute, that's what I say, haha... ah come on, just team fuckin' bonding, ain't it...' Like Douglas, Cooper seemed to be having trouble keeping his eyes fully open, swaying a little as he stood there, grabbing loosely at the front of his cargo shorts and letting out a hoot of laughter, an imposing 6ft1 figure at the centre of the mischief. All in?' There was a muttering of amusement but a series of coarse aye' votes, and Leif sat where he was, a bit perplexed to find himself getting up to his feet, willed along by nothing more than peer pressure.
He turned and looked questioningly at the nearest guys: Bamford was getting up to, a thoughtful frown settling on his sharp-cut features, thick dark brows contrasting with the blond spikes of his hair; it was odd not to see him with a beaming optimistic smile. On the other side of Leif, Olly looked delirious with confidence, the tallest yet youngest lad in the room, and Tyler was sniggering uncontrollably at the whole prospect.
`Are we really doing this?' Patrick complained loudly, greeted with vague boos by two or three others.
Right, count of five,' Cooper suggested, then we all drop our keks, right?'
`Then we find out who's blessed,' blathered Alioski.
Leif Davis stood in a bit of a drunken daze, vaguely unsurprised by this daft dare as the natural conclusion of the night. There had been such a surly aggression and competitiveness in the air even as they sat around enjoying the Albions' big loss to Huddersfield. Out of self-consciousness more than cocky determination, he grabbed at the front of his black skinny jeans, feeling kinda short and stumpy next to the other lads at this side of the room, both Olly and Paddy over 6ft and Ty not far behind. He himself was a sturdy 5t9, quite diminutive for a left-back, not the most solidly built of defenders, something he was constantly making up for by throwing all of his aggression into the game. He slowly realised that everybody else seemed more or less up for the jokey contest; belts were being undone, top buttons loosened, drawstrings untied.
Leif huffed sulkily and gripped the button fly of his jeans, popping them one at a time; he found himself watching how quickly and eagerly Douglas and Dallas did the same to their pants, their exhibitionism and physical looseness made obvious in the toilets. In moments, Barry Douglas had his stretch-fit chinos down around his thighs, his black trunks following suit, and the sizeable weapon let loose at his crotch, swinging idly just as it had over the urinal; Stu Dallas was joining him, swinging his prick performatively and hooting with showy laughter. Around the horse-shoe of seating, the newly promoted Leeds men were following suit: trousers or shorts and undies drooping down, crotches exposed, the blaring porno and drunken competition belying the fact that most of them had shared communal showers over and over. Leif blocked out the surreal sight and yanked down, peeling at the tight grip of his skinnies, taking his black boxer briefs with them, exposing himself as per the rules of the game, standing there awkwardly and feeling his soft cock and balls seem to shrink up with nervousness as if retreating inside him. The horrible thought struck him for the first time that he might not fare well in this contest.
As he opened his eyes, the thought took more solid and realistic form, accidentally fixating on the size of Alioski's own appendage, loose and long beneath his trimmed pubes and tight bollocks, swaying with his loose steps as he looked wildly about and cackled at the dirty humour he'd kickstarted. But next to him, Leif quickly noticed, their captain Liam Cooper was hardly dwarfed; the thickness of the fat thing dangling from his curling reddish pubes was a bit alarming to Davis, who had spent his formative years of professional footballing looking anywhere but below waist height. At least everybody was doing the same here, he realised, and he didn't have to feel quite so paranoid or frightened by the way he'd sometimes been unable to resist peeking in the past, even now he was leaving his teens behind. For once, he supposed, still floating on too many pints, it was actually OKAY to be taking a little look and curiously comparing the sizes and shapes of...
He noticed then that a lot of the guys were looking this way. `Need to pick a winner,' Alioski was announcing, at that point, and for a very confused moment Leif felt the eyes of the room on him, even Ty Roberts at the end of this side, twisting forward and looking down his way in wide-eyed wonder; no way, Leif thought in confusion, was he actually the biggest of them? But then he realised he was drunkenly misjudging the looks, the shifting focus of the room. He stared down just to his right, below the hang of Paddy Bamford's dark grey tshirt, at the thing drooping below its hem, a faintly curved snake of flesh, fat and heavy and long. Sharply, Leif looked back at what he'd seen of the other dicks in the room, then back at Bamford. God, he thought, with that monster, why was he even remotely hesitant about this stupid prank...?!
`Well, well, well,' cooed Jack Harrison with jokey admiration. Probably jokey, anyway.
`Fuckin' hell, Bamf,' crowed their skipper.
`We have a winner!' cackled Alioski.
Jesus fellas,' Patrick complained gently, shifting about; it seemed unlikely he was trying to show off, given his manner, but he pulled more upright, letting his tshirt ride up and offer a fuller view of the beast between his firm blond-furred thighs, an impossibly long dangle of manhood, fully on view to the other nine Leeds blokes. Bamford let out a bashful laugh and pulled self-consciously on himself and his hairy balls, then shrugged. Okay, you can all stop staring now... fine, I win, whatever...!'
`Well, he needs his prize,' laughed Roberts.
I don't that's necc-
`Who's smallest?' demanded Dallas, his bolshy voice laced with the seed of worry that it could be him.
Leif found himself scanning the U formation of men and their exposed crotches more closely, catching onto the desperate competition of it all, curious to know how each of them ranked, though nobody was exactly reaching out for a ruler or measuring tape! He was amazed, really, at the sheer variation in what the men carried, and he was more amazed when he began to suspect that they weren't all entirely floppy; Harrison, who was sniggering filthily and playing with himself a little, looked to be semi-hard, his nob rising away from his trimmed pubes and toned legs in a gentle rise as he thumbed idly at it. The same seemed to be true of Olly Casey, right next to him, though his nob was clearly pretty hefty, even if it wasn't getting a little bit hard. Well, Leif thought, they had all been watching porn, maybe some guys could get more excited than he could in a crowded room. He strained his eyes, confirming that none of them were exactly UNlucky in that special department, there were no overtly tiny cocks to be seen, so it would be difficult to- De ja vu. Everyone looking his way. This time, including Paddy, who cast a concerned, kindly eye this way, and lifted one of those distinctive dark brows.
Poor Geordie boy,' groaned Barry across the room, fondling his heavy bollocks and sighing with playful empathy, he's only young and it IS cold in here...'
Yeah but look at it,' grunted Jack Harrison sourly, it's defo the smallest of us all...'
Leif felt a jolt of horror and he looked down the printed front of his black tshirt. He was reminded for a moment of those weird moments when you get into a hot shower after a long run in the chill, and your privates look and feel of a third of their normal size. The young Geordie had no illusions of himself as a horse-hung porno superstar, but... He stared dismally at his shrivelled privates and realised that they were right. He was the loser. Fuck! But,' he mouthed awkwardly, but it don't always look like that, and some of you are...'
`We all knew the rules when we dropped our pants,' Alioski boomed, others agreeing.
Mate, ignore them,' Bamford said quietly, you don't have to...'
He's too chicken,' someone was saying, and another voice cracked out, He ain't Prem material, can't even play along with a joke' -- Just a fuckin' minute!' someone else was laughing loudly -- Ah go on, it's just a laugh,' he heard his younger mate Olly say next to him, shoving an elbow in his side and guffawing messily. The more the whole drunken pack of them stared at him and his package, the more his private parts seemed to want to disappear inside him, and he felt a deep loathing for the traitorous cock and balls tucked between his meaty defender's thighs, a scarlet blush covering his rounded young face. The 20-year-old felt the sting of their taunts and the challenge of the dare. I ain't chicken!' he rallied aggressively, staring them down with darting looks. I ain't scared. I'll do it. Just a minute, you said.'
`Alright, do it then,' Jack grunted. The 23-year-old winger sounded too eager, too sure.
`Guys,' groaned Paddy.
Oh go on, let him, he wants to. Just a fuckin' dare. Relax. Haha.' And then Bamford was giving in, flopping down onto the edge of the black sofa, his tracksuit bottoms around his knees, his firm thighs parted and that ridiculous snake flopping lazily onto one of them. Leif stayed standing, staring down to his right at it, catching odd glimpses in the corner of his eye; more and more of the guys seemed to be playing with themselves quite adventurously, horned up by their own victory' over the least-hung lad in the room: him. He felt his cheeks burn with the awkward blush, then dipped his bare butt cheeks back onto the cool clammy leather next to his taller teammate, and braced himself. For a second, his eyes met Paddy's.
Buddy, this is daft,' the striker told him in a gentle voice, cutting through the braying laughs and encouragement of the room for a moment, don't feel like you got to...'
The young Geordie snapped back at him more roughly and assertively than he felt. It's just a joke,' he scowled exaggeratedly, and did what had been demanded of him by the group humour. He reached over and took it in his hand, grabbing hold of Bamford's blessed piece. To his shock, it felt even bigger than it looked, thick and ridiculous against his hand, unfeasibly warm and solid. Around him, he was aware of various jokey bursts of approval and encouragement. Someone was clapping, others were laughing. Olly had clasped a sweaty hand to his shoulder, laughing hoarsely in his ear and saying Go on, lad, give it a go, haha!' A couple of the others seemed to have moved closer to see for sure, making the spacious bar area feel suddenly stuffy and claustrophobic around him.
The two of them sat there at the centre of the oddness, connected by touch. Patrick was sat back stiffly in the corner of the sofa, pressed to its back, his lean arms lifted clear, hands planted on the back of his head. Leif twisted over a little as his side to reach properly with his right hand, his hand gripping somewhere just above the base and pulling gently up. He could feel it responding, maybe, seeming to tighten and swell; he could feel the trace of bulbous veins coursing against his thumb and finger as he pulled it up, let it flop, then pulled it again, and saw the difference in its rising rigidity. He stared intently at it, refusing to lift his eyes and meet Paddy's concerned, reluctant expression, or the harsh challenging faces of the other players who had consigned him to this task. Instinctively, Leif pulled his hand back, spat heavily in the palm, then wrapped it again around the taller, mightier form of Patricks' growing boner.
`Fuck, look at him go,' someone muttered.
`I'd rather not, there's still girls on the screen, remember,' teased another voice.
`Little Leif, haha, bless him...'
`Jesus, Bamf, you enjoying that a bit much...?'
`Fuck's sake, are they really doing it? Weren't we just havin' a laugh?'
`Leif mate, you're never gonna live this down...'
`Aw shut up, poor lad, he's just being a good sport, ain't he?'
Hey,' barked Alioski, cutting through the muddle of voices, that's defo been a minute, friends!'
Leif felt the implication of this comment, pausing with his hand wrapped firmly around the hot hard feel of Paddy's erection, his whole body and being seeming to burn with embarrassment and exposure and the defeat of his own less showy nether regions. The drunken wave was crashing inside him and he felt a sickly rush in his stomach and his head. He loosened his hand and pulled it back, surrounded by booming laughter. Nauseous, he looked away from Paddy, and caught sight of their skipper, Liam, stood close by watching them, dragging his knotted fist back and forth over his own hard-on, his lips curled in a tight grin of entertainment; behind him, Dallas and Douglas were sprawled over their sofa, faces fixed on the screen as they pleasured themselves noisily. Leif let out a little gasp of disgust at the louche scene, and looked to his left at where Olly lurked over him, playing with his cock through his tugged-up undies, and behind him, Roberts wanking more openly, glancing from him back to the lurid TV screen and Alioski's porno.
`Mate,' murmured Bamford under his breath, a term of affection that felt ambiguous and weird right now. Leif just wanted the ground to open up and swallow him. He felt too drunk and out of his depth. He pushed back and half-slid off the sofa and onto his feet, wrenching up at the tight fabric of his skinny jeans, never an easy task even when not hurrying. He pushed his flopping, relaxing cock into his trunks and dragged the tight denim up over his chubby young buttocks, clothing himself and shielding him from their competitive judgement, then launching himself past Patrick's bare knees in a swift jog of escape. He stormed past the middle sofa, where Alioski and Harrison were sitting back with their legs open, toying with their erections and booming with laughter; next to them, seated on the arm of that sofa, his mate Jordan Stevens had pulled up his undies and trackies, but was cracking up with laughter and reaching for his arm. He called something at him but Leif ignored it and raced on, out of the semi circle of sofas and away from the casual wanking and the suddenly over-loud feminine shrieks of the porn scene.
The 20-year-old burst out through double doors and into the corridor beyond, glad immediately at the cooler air that hit him. He didn't stop though, rushing on down the hallway, his drunk brain trying to process the banter that had spiralled out of controlled and ended with him doing that in front of a room full of his peers, most of them older and more integral to the club. More than anything, he was picturing himself walking into that training session tomorrow, green with hangover and stared at by everyone who knew -- and everyone WOULD know, he supposed, even if there were only ten of them here tonight...
Leif was drunk and confused and so he wasn't even sure which way he was going to get to the exits below, but ahead of him was another WC, a cooler quieter space than the pissy-smelling den back there where he'd been pre-emptively ogled by Dallas and Douglas. He ducked into it and rushed to a sink, twisting cold water onto his palms and throwing it at his red cheeks. He stared awkwardly at his reflection, skin crawling, then shuddered in alarm as the door he'd come through rattled quickly and someone else came quickly in to join him. He'd expected Jordan or maybe Olly, one of the other young lads, rushing in here to bemoan the weird banter of the older blokes with him, or express some horror at pervs like Alioski and Cooper for initiating such a stunt, or...
But no. It was Paddy Bamford himself, staggering after him and grabbing him quickly by the shoulder. Leif,' he gasped, are you okay...?'
He stared wordlessly at him, taken aback by the arrival of the tall honest-faced forward rushing to him, squeezing his shoulder and arm and standing over him, blue eyes full of innocent concern. Leif just gawped at him, more mortified in his presence than anyone else's, knowing what he'd done. And worse, he thought, Patrick had tried to stop him, tried to tell him he didn't have to, told him to ignore their shithousery... `I'm fine,' he gurgled stupidly at him, cool water beading on his flushed cheeks and in his messy fringe of blond-brown hair.
That was fuckin' daft,' Bamford breathed. I'm gonna be having words with the skipper tomorrow. They were out of order. Are you okay? Are you sure?' He twisted and turned at Leif's shorter figure, standing over him. `I shouldn't have let you... I shouldn't have gone along with their stupid GAME, Leif mate, I'm so sorry...' Caught up in the rush of the older player's friendly concern, it took Davis a moment to realise that he was being touched elsewhere. But then they both looked down. The downside of being as generously endowed as Paddy Bamford was that it didn't recede quickly, clearly; no, his huge rod was poking forward in the material of his long cargo shorts, and in turn, brushing at the top of Leif's own black-clad thigh.
`Oh fuck,' the bigger, posher lad breathed awkwardly.
`What do you feed that thing?' Leif muttered at him, seeking shelter in comedy.
I'm so sorry,' Bamford told him dumbly, I just...'
I shouldn't have done it,' the Geordie lad grunted at him, I shouldn't have...'
No, I guess not,' Paddy mumbled back, both of them dropping their voices in mingled shame and apology, cut off now from the braying of their teammates, the pressurised occasion of the bar area and the leading influences of guys like Cooper and Alioski or any of the others. But you know, you didn't do bad,' huffed Paddy then, as if the jokey compliment would diffuse something, or take the edge of the supreme awkwardness of them standing here so close by the sinks and mirrors. Leif stared oddly up at him, hearing his words over.
`I didn't?' he asked, feeling his voice thick with his dizzy drunkenness.
`No,' Bamford confirmed, then just tittered, seeming to regret the comment.
`Oh.' Leif pulled back, remembering that the hard presence against his thigh was not the hard edge of the sinks and such, but the evidence of his colleague's arousal, the state of intense rigid excitement which he supposed he had achieved. Well, along with booze and porn and a whole lot of stupid bravado, yeah, but definitely partly his touch, his spit, his nervous grip... He realised he was staring down at it, so he looked guiltily back up at Paddy's worried face, hanging close by his. A moment of loaded quiet settled between the two drunk players.
Yeah, you've got soft hands,' Bamford chuckled. His voice was strained. I mean, utter nonsense from them lot, can't believe we didn't tell them to fuck off, but -- I mean, you just... you didn't feel bad, considering, so...'
Leif acted on instinct ahead of thought, and his hand was on the front of those loose khaki shorts now, tracing the outline of what he'd held more intimately minutes ago. He kept his eyes on Paddy's, registering the flicker of surprise and little else, the measured stare between them, the gentle crease of their pursed lips, not quite smiling, but something in that direction. He squeezed.
You needn't worry,' Bamford told him quietly. Nobody would dare say a word of this to anyone who wasn't there. And they know I won't put up with dirty banter about it in the changing room. I mean, I'm not saying I'm no VIP at this club or anything, but I think I have my... you know, influence, and...' He finally stopped talking, Leif's hand stroking gently across and around the front of his long cargo shorts, then pulling nervously away. Paddy did the next bit for him, pushing down at the hips and letting the hard-on spill free again, rigidly long between them, so that Leif could grip and squeeze it in his hand, holding his own breath tightly. `You shouldn't worry, is all,' concluded Paddy lamely, tall and gentle beside him, a sturdy figure to rest against while Leif closed his hand and began to stroke on it once more. It had just felt so massive and surprising. It still did, but less... terrifying. Less pressurised. Nobody watching and laughing. He pressed his face into the firm rest of one of Bamford's shoulders and eased his arm back and forth, politely wanking on the striker's big tool, letting his own breath escape in a nervous hiss that mingled with the ex-Chelsea player's quick hot pants.
Leif thought about touching his own cock, but it felt numb and dead, way too much booze in him. No wonder it had shrivelled away from view while competing with the others! He felt the vague and confusing throb of desire and excitement, but none of the physical symptoms, so he just focused instead on Paddy's cock, well, what felt like THEIR cock, shared property, so big and connecting them so tightly by touch, as it had on the sofa. He held position there, resting into Bamford' strong frame, picking up pace and sliding his hand up and down that thick shaft, teasing the tight foreskin at the red curve of its head, feeling the bigger older player's pants get hotter and quicker and more ragged. Then suddenly Paddy was sliding one thin strong arm about his shoulders and back and grasping him tightly in a half-hug, releasing tension into him through this tight hold, and releasing something else with a long, strangled sigh.
Slowly, Leif looked down and to the right, still held firm against Patrick's gently heaving chest. He stared at the still thick and hard thing in his hand, and at its sticky gooey tip, and the glistening smears on the wall beside them. Dribbles of Bamford's seed. He felt queasy but amazed at what he'd produced from the other bloke. His head span. Kind and gentle, Patrick was prising his hand of it, stroking his forearm and patting his shoulder a little. `Thanks,' he said, the word sounding pathetic and momentous at the same time.
Leif felt the surreal calm of the climactic moment leave them, and a return of the sweaty panic he'd felt on the sofa. He'd just wanked off another fella. What the actual fuck?
You should go back through,' Paddy murmured, his voice sounding distant. I think Olly and Jordan were organising taxis for everyone? Don't you live with Jordan? Eh?'
Leif nodded slowly and pulled away, wiping his hand on his jeans, though it was clean of the white goo, just damp with his own sweat. He turned away as Patrick began, awkwardly, to stuff his tool away, and he pulled his messy fringe out of his eyes and dragged at the fabric of his tshirt, trying to cool his clammy thickset body beneath. He moved to the door, still nodding dumbly.
Leif, buddy,' whispered Bamford, and he looked his way. Er, thanks again. Erm.'
It's... okay, man,' Davis told him shakily. Erm...'
Their eyes met briefly then they parted in a hurry. Bamford remaining in the quiet WC, ready to cool himself off and recover; Leif rushing out into the corridor and stumbling back in the direction of the hospitality bar, dreading the knowing looks and jibing comments of the others, but some horrifying pressure lifted off him by Paddy's gentle approval and kind comfort.
He found Jordan outside of the bar doors, tapping at his phone, grinning sheepishly as the two 20-year-old friends approached and bumped fists. You alright, pal?' Stevens asked quietly. Fuck that, we all know you're no babydick. Stupid prank. Shouldn't have encouraged them, hah. You okay? Come on, let's get an uber, my head is KILLING me.' He didn't look up from his phone screen, seeming vaguely troubled by what he was party to.
It's okay,' Leif said vaguely, glancing at the frosted glass of the doors. Erm, in there, are they still...?'
Couple of blokes spunked on themselves and passed out,' Jordan groaned distastefully. Fuckin' hell. We gonna be that weird when we near 30? Shit, mate. This lot. Hah! But still... quality, ain't it? I mean, Leeds! We're going up! Haha.' He reached out and slapped Leif on the arm, then returned his attention to his phone, and turned away to finish ordering their cab. Leif took one last glance at the frosted glass doors back into the bar, which would stink of spilled beer and sweaty overexcited men, and then back down the corridor towards the other toilets, where he could see Bamford silently emerge on his own, drying his hands on a paper towel.
Aye,' Leif groaned uncertainly, following his friend and flatmate onto the stairs down out of the stadium, feeling his tummy churn and his head throb with beery ache, that's right, man... we're going up, haha... sweet...!'