Part 150: Papi
The coach ground through slow traffic on the outskirts of London. Pep Guardiola looked out at the suburban sprawl and the rising view of the city that was melting into position ahead of them. He hadn't actually slept on the midday trip south from Manchester, but he seemed to have drifted vaguely between consciousness and something like a daydream, his tall body fully relaxed against the comfortable front seats of the vehicle; the pleasant chatter and occasional louder bursts of noise from the squad members behind forming a drowsy buzz.
On his lap were two notebooks, a laptop and a tablet, the vestiges of a plan to go over his notes and plans again on the trip, to discuss them in heated whispers with the rest of his coaching team, seated at various intervals down the long vehicle, spaced out to create an atmosphere of calm amongst the hyped up men as they moved south to the Semi-Final clash with Arsenal.
It was at least partly still the buzz of UEFA lifting their attempted ban and resolving matters with Kyle Walker, but the Spanish football manager had not felt this calm and confident on the way to a match since a couple of seasons ago, if ever at Manchester City. Of all the jobs he had taken, the pressure at City seemed the greatest, perhaps because of the money that oozed through the club and paid for no excuses. Pep's men had already claimed one trophy this year, but they had been a distant 2nd place to Liverpool's ascendency since before Christmas; the FA Cup and Champions League seemed to be held up as non-negotiable outcomes by the board above him, even if the contracts on his bonuses only stipulated semis.
This was often the way for Guardiola, in reality: worry and overthink in advance so that you can be relatively relaxed and confident on the day. But today was extreme. He felt almost drugged. He let out a sighing half-yawn and pushed the untouched notebooks and tech aside onto the spare chair beside him, no intention of looking at them in the final slow half hour of travel through the city itself. Instead, the 49-year-old Spaniard leaned gently across in his seat and took a glance down the coach, smiling proudly as he surveyed the distanced rows of his primed players.
Inevitably, his eyes found his `Filipe'; Foden was halfway down the coach, seated in a double to himself, grey-clad legs pulled up on the seat and hugged to his wiry body, head tilted as he stared out at the view, his thoughts unreadable on the tight sharp-featured frown of his young face. Such a slight and gentle looking boy, from a distance, for anyone who hadn't seen him get stuck in during a tense second half in the Premiership; it was the iceberg quality of Foden that had made him so striking to Guardiola in the first place, the hidden depths behind the lithe Stockport scally and his tramlined eyebrows and short scruffy hair.
In the quiet of the coach, Pep allowed him a few long moments of staring at the boy, as he never would in a more public and active instance. He knew that the youth must feel ignored or neglected, knew that he risked going too far the other way -- it was clearly as dangerous for staff or players to feel he oddly ignored the gifted young Englishman as it was for them to note and discuss his favouritism. After all, that favouritism had been discussed and joked about long before he realised how true it actually was, hadn't it? Still. He had to be cautious. He did his best to address Foden rarely in group scenarios or in front of others, limiting their player-coach interactions and holding carefully back on giving him more match-starts than he was actually ready for.
Guardiola turned away slowly, comfortable in the plausible deniability that he could have been looking at and smiling towards any of them. Some part of him wished Phil had looked up and noticed the fondness in his wrinkling eyes, but that was the kind of thought that endangered them. Walker already knew something of what was going on, and Pep now assumed that must mean Stones too had an awareness; that was already two more noses than the head coach wanted in his most intimate business. Intimate business. He could not hold in the grin that cracked his tanned features as he stared back out of the window and thought about tonight. Once Arsenal were trounced and their place in the cup final was secure, he could let loose and truly enjoy himself.
In this jubilant pre-match mood, Pep could not help but let his mind wander, as it had done all the way down the west of the country. Pressure and anticipation made him reflective and dreamy. His excitement for the evening match took him back to the first of his management career, only a couple of years after retiring from Catalonia FC, and the sheer pleasure he'd felt in readying his side for their league debut, a whole new thrill after a long playing career in defensive midfield...
It hadn't even been the club's main squad, it had been their reserves, their `Team B', that he was initially appointed to take over; a long-time player there for the first half of his senior career, and now at last part of their coaching hierarchy. Guardiola had been unable to stop grinning and singing to himself for weeks after putting his name on the dotted line in the contract, and he had entered his first day of work there flying high on this invincible mood, just like today!
It hadn't mattered to 2007 Pep that it was the club's second team -- for now -- and that he was starting afresh in a very different to career to his playing years. He was barely past his mid-30s, young and vibrant and ready to learn. He knew that it would take two or three seasons maximum managing `Team B' or similar before he was helming the full senior squad in leagues and tournaments, here or elsewhere. Ideally here, and in fact, it was only a year later that he was made manager of the Spanish club's prime team.
On that first day, which he remembered vividly thirteen years on, he had strolled into the club's training grounds feeling like a king returning from exile, back in the club that had already given him so much as a younger man! And in that elated mood, walking on air and slapping hands with every man and woman he passed, he'd caught his first sight of him.
It had been on his way between the blocky buildings of the training campus, preparing to address Team B in full in a meeting hall and outline his priorities for the pre-season period; he had been much more formal then, suited and booted and desperate to the look part. No grey skinny jeans and slack black t-shirts, none of the self-assertion in his special way of doing things, just a dark-haired man strolling across the grounds, rehearsing a multilingual speech in his head, preparing to make an impact on the Spanish team's reserves. And their paths had crossed, eyes meeting between two intersecting paths: the other man had been jogging by, running late for some training session, his long dark mane bouncing with his gait, turning his rounded little face over and smiling a welcome and vague recognition at the club's new junior manager.
Pep had waved his free hand at the passing young footballer, barely 21 then, and they had shared a quiet smile in the sunshine, and gone on with their days, no idea how deeply their paths would interconnect over the following years...
It was dangerous, he knew, but it had to be done; it was both practicality and thrill. He had kept the two items in the pockets of his thin gilet top, and he held his hands there, reassured by their shrunken presence through the layered material until the moment came.
He and all of the team entourage were making their way through the quiet passages of the Emirates stadium, and he had slowed his gait so that he was falling a little behind, just a gentle trot of his long legs as he followed the group down another flight of stairs and into the broad white tunnel where the changing rooms lay. Just ahead of him, as he hoped, was Foden; did the young lad slow down and break apart from the groups in the hope of walking near or with him too, or was he just slow and lackadaisical, or a bit alienated from the older lads that made up much of the squad...? If it was the latter, Pep needed to feel some guilty responsibility there.
No matter. He took a quick stride forward and hooked his fingers gently at the crook of Phil's arm, feeling his wiry muscle through the thick grey sleeve of his hoody, jolting him a little with the unexpected touch. Hey,' he murmured, slowing Phil down next to himself, tailing behind the others, and dipping his free hand into the pocket of his gilet. He clenched a fist about it and then held it towards Phil, who grasped it off him, and widened his eyes at the feel of it. Pep took the small canister of lube from the other pocket and pushed it into Phil's pocket himself, enjoying the brief invasive feel of his hand slipping into those joggers and grazing a bit of leg. Put it in Filipe,' he said in a husky voice, `and then you will be ready when I need you.'
Foden stuffed the butt-plug into his other pocket himself and stared wide-eyed at his manager and lover, and Pep creased in a warm grin of friendship, then patted the back of his head, the simple gesture of a tactile and affectionate Spanish man. `We will celebrate in style,' he whispered, and urged Phil to hurry on ahead, the other players disappearing around an arched entranceway and into the Away rooms of the stadium to ready themselves.
Another memory. 2008. Still in the black suits, still a dusting of dark hair on his domed head; no dramatic tanned baldness and silvery beard yet! He pictured himself stood on the sidelines, already managing the first time, the youngest man ever to do so in La Liga. Blazer off, tugging uncomfortably at his tie as he watched the game unfold, only the second or the third of the season. Who had they been playing? He couldn't actually remember now. Perhaps it was one of the Madrids. It had been a big enough game anyway, he could remember the sense of occasion as he pictured himself darting up and down the touchline, waving and shouting at his men. His men! Back then, he was still getting used to the notion of leadership and power.
And of the pitch he'd come, his special boy, his favourite player. When had he become his favourite? Weeks, maybe months before that point, already. Some slight injury, Guardiola couldn't quite remember what. He just remembered standing on the edge of the pitch, watching him with a note of concern more friendly than professional, watching his bouncing run away from the action, slowing to a limp once the eyes of the crowd were off him, so sublimely professional and determined. Pep had reached for him, not just the casual slap of his shoulder, but taking his hand in his, squeezing his sweaty palm and looking intensely at him for a moment, needing to check he was really okay after all, just a twist of the ankle or knee, nothing major...
And there on the edge of the game, whoever it was against, they'd shared a moment, eyes meeting and fingers locking, and it had been like the massive Spanish football match around them just vanished for a minute. It was over in a millisecond, Pep's duty and responsibility crashing through his dazed moment. He squeezed the 22-year-old footballer's hand and then patted him on the back and nodded behind him, instructing him to rest and get the attention he needed; he'd already scored a hat-trick before receiving the injury, the match was as good as won. Back then, with this boy on his squad, they always were.
Now, he stood on the edge of the Arsenal pitch, lifting his splayed hand to his silvery chin, letting the little failures that allowed Arsenal's goal to tick through his surprised brain. He stared hard into the disappointed silhouettes of his players on the pitch and across at the quietly celebrating Arsenal players, and then over at their delighted and grinning manager. Mikel Arteta, he thought, one of the best assistants he had ever worked with. He contemplated his recent protegee with a mix of annoyance and admiration but decided against any distracting interaction with him. He swung his eyes back to the nearer members of his squad. He clapped his hands together and barked out some encouragement to them, gesturing wildly to the nearest few about how to get a speedy counterattack moving as soon as possible.
His cool confidence in tonight's outcome wobbled at his focused core, and he folded his strong arms against the chest of his tight black tshirt, trying to take a philosophical view and assume the best. Training sessions this week had been consistently exercise, and he had his worries about a few individuals and their focus, but the team had been performing at top standard just yesterday afternoon. He hugged his arms to him tightly and huffed out his breath into the sultry evening air, striding a few paces down the touchline, watching as his midfielders lost the ball again and Arsenal came dangerously close to yet another goal.
Another memory, as vivid as if it were five minutes ago, not twelve years! If it wasn't so painful to do so, Guardiola would dredge it up every night and treasure it, hold its sights and sounds and smells to him as a vision of when he was happiest.
A room somewhere in the club's hidden corners. A boot cupboard, yes, long shelves of them lined up and shining, ready for the next big match. The setting hadn't mattered, simply that the two of them, the manager and the footballer, were alone at last, hands on each other's bodies. He had dragged his hands under the younger man's Barcelona shirt, feeling his taut muscle, and stroked at the now shorter dark brown tresses of his hair, pulling their faces close, letting his stubble tickle the smooth young man's face as they shared their first kiss. So much more had happened in that room than a kiss, that fateful day in 2009, later in that first season of managing the club's `Team A', but it was the kiss he remembered now, just the kiss...
The season had been drawing to a close and Barcelona, under Pep's stewardship, were heading for the Italian treble for the first time in their history. Guardiola was being lauded as the most talented manager in the country, if not Europe, and not yet even 40 years old. And yet none of that had seemed to matter, next to that kiss!
In his half-time team talk, Guardiola did not vent or rail against the lads, he spoke quietly and encouragingly and assured them that the win was still most definitely theirs. A change in mood or tactic now would just be unsettling and disastrous. He maintained a mask of easy determination as he returned into the warm twilight of the stadium and watched things kick off once more. He risked another look over at Mikel, seeing how much the Arsenal man was enjoying this, but how tense he still was at his slim lead.
Pep paced and paced and then alternated with sitting awkwardly against the cooler box of the players' drinks for the next break. He swung his arms and then grabbed them to his chest and then bit his nails, something he had not done in years, a revenant habit from the less experienced stress of his early management days. It was time to start making substitutions.
He took off Riyad Mahrez, unimpressed with the man's sloppy endeavours, and clicked fingers at Phil Foden on the nearest substitute seat, readying him to go on. He held his arms against his chest and did not give a single look at the young player as he whipped off his tracksuit down to his proper kit beside him; he could feel his cool and calm cracking and sliding and he hated the thought of turning to Foden now and revealing any of that on his tense face. He gave the most dismissive of pats to the lad's shoulder before urging him ahead onto the field, then turning his scowling and disappointed face on Mahrez instead. `We will discuss that performance later,' he barked coldly at the midfielder, then looked out on the pitch, seeing the slightly awkward way Foden was running out to join the others.
It took Guardiola a moment of complacent confusion to twig why his star substitute was jogging around so oddly and uncomfortably as he joined the mix of players, all of whom wore their worry on their faces, not used to losing when it truly mattered. He kept his eyes fixed solidly on Foden for a minute, a rush of self-loathing rising up as he realised how distressed and uncomfortable his boy actually was. It wasn't so much that Pep had stupidly ignored what it might be like for his favourite to wear the plug, but he had saw himself bringing Foden on in the final ten minutes when City were 3-1 up at worst, not early on and when it really mattered. It seemed he had also grossly overestimated Filipe's readiness for inserting what he'd dismissed as a small and helpful toy, something to prepare him more fully for their planned celebrations later tonight.
Pep brought both hands up to his face, grim and angry and regretful. He'd just sent out a hobbled 20-year-old and wasted a substitution. He needed to make more changes. Even dependable Kevin de Bruyne was sloppy and distracted at the heart of the game; that redhaired fucker had lied when he claimed to be `okay' in Pep's office, hadn't he?! Something was decidedly wrong with the Belgian now! Why had he not picked up on more in the final training session yesterday or on the coach here today...?
Minutes later, Arsenal got their 2nd goal, and the game was all but lost.
2012, the day it all ended. These memories were less clear, and Guardiola had little desire to fight age and forgetfulness and recall much more of them. Still, even in the mists of the painful past, he could see himself leaving the club owner's office in silent manly tears, his formal notice handed in and his tenure at Barcelona over, still in his prime. If not for certain other dramas, he might have stayed there for four more years, won more leagues and trophies, but he ducked out after a perfect run of years -- how many times had he had to stand in interviews or meetings or casual conversations and repeat the lie? Ambition, variety, challenge, the reasons he'd given for quitting Barca and moving to Germany for his second management job, and later seeking out the Premiership to put even more distance between himself and Spain.
Where had it all gone so wrong? He knew exactly where, but that revelation and discovery was far too painful for him to address, even in 2020, standing in the midst of a very different disaster, watching his team lose to Arsenal and crash out of the cup they thought was rightly theirs. How could such a distant memory of a simple conversation sting and burn so much in the present, with everything else he had done and achieved since then...?
That day, the day he handed in his notice and left the director's office with silent tears on his cheeks, he'd passed his boy in the exact same spot as that first day in 2007, their paths intersecting in the lush green grounds of Barcelona's high-tech training campus. This time, it had been him hurrying, fists clenched and eyes misty with emotion, and the 26-year-old football hero who moped slowly by, searching for his eyes with a pleading frown of sadness. The international star had recently become a father for the first time, and the new maturity showed in his agonised face, but Pep had been unable to meet his gaze and really look at him, rushing on, needing to be away. Something that he had been so sure belonged entirely to him, given to another...
When the 2-0 loss was over, Pep made straight for Mikel, needing to graciously concede to his former second-in-command. He grabbed the slighter Spanish man's arm and nodded firmly, forcing the smile befitting the other coach's achievement, and meeting his dark eyes. He congratulated him in Spanish and, not for the first time, rued letting him leave when he had, letting him break out and take his own full management job so quickly. For his part, Arteta gave him a politely controlled smile, no smugness or gloating in his stern expression and posture. Pep let his hand linger at his arm, holding him for a second longer, thinking back to the close dynamic they had briefly held as manager and assistant, how fantastic it had been to have someone so in sync with his own thoughts and strategies... ah well. It had been too good to last, he thought bitterly, like so many things.
A more recent memory, 2016 -- or was it 2017? These things blurred a little now, especially as he only thought about them when he was angry and depressed.
A hotel room on an away trip like this, but somewhere abroad. Paris? Rome? Milan? Hard to say. The night of a Champions League win, early in his City career, crucial and satisfying. Sounds of partying had bled into the room through an open window, dull thuds of music and the deserved jubilation of the Manchester players in the hotel courtyard below, distant from the abortive events going in that sweaty room. Him, sat on the basket chair in the window, cradling his head in his hands, his white shirt fully open over his hairy chest and tummy, his dark suit trousers open at the waist too, exposing a little of his silky boxer shorts.
I'm sorry,' the other man in the room said quietly, in their shared language. I misunderstood.' Pep, faking greater drunkenness than he felt, just shook his head in his hands and groaned unhelpfully at the hushed apology. After a little while, the other man spoke again. `I ought to go. I'm sorry, chief. I went too far. I shouldn't...'
No,' Guardiola had grumbled, not looking at him over the humid room, but waving an apologetic hand his way and twisting in his seat a little. It isn't you, you did nothing wrong, I just...' His cock sat limply in his boxer shorts, a little wet with the other man's saliva, having sat in his mouth two minutes ago, failing to react to his hungry touch. `Please, Mikel, just...'
I should go,' sighed Arteta from his seated position at the end of the bed, still buttoning up his own shirt, hanging his head shamefully. Please, boss, do not tell anyone, I just...'
And there hadn't been much more to say after that, just Arteta silently exiting the room, and them both spending the next few years pretending it had never happened, could never happened. Pep supposed that Mikel never believed his reassurances, and always thought he'd misunderstood and gone too far, tried to take advantage or whatever, abused their intimacy as chief and deputy. But how could Pep ever have opened his mouth that night and explained the truth? That it was no guilt over his own wife that held him back, and made him push Arteta away from his crotch, but his love for a young Argentinian that had burned in him for nearly a decade at that point...?
Even then, in his early years of English football, almost seduced by his assistant manager and fully seduced by the bright lights and big money of the Premier League, he'd sat in his hotel room alone and cried dismal tears, regretting the biggest mistake of his life: leaving Barcelona, leaving HIM.
Bac in July 2020, Guardiola exploded into the hotel room, key grasped so tightly in his right hand that it cut into his palm a little, the door swinging loudly back on its hinges but not fully closing.
He knew it was deeply inappropriate to escape the stadium so rapidly and selfishly, but his mind had felt close to exploding as their FA cup fate was sealed. The thought of speaking to the players, inflicting his own stupid anger and disappointment on them, or being caught out by BT Sport interviewers, or having to discuss any of it with Arteta and his lot, well... So he'd fucked off as quickly as he could, grabbing his jacket and his briefcase and quitting the eerily quiet football stadium on his own without even speaking to his second-in-command.
The walk from the Emirates stadium to the hotel was not even long enough to cool him down or to clear his head. He had marched furiously up the three short streets and almost lost his temper as he spoke in broken sentences to the ladies on reception, demanding to check out early and not even use tonight's decadent stay in their honeymoon suite. But what about your wife, where is she?' one member of the hotel staff had asked in what she probably thought was a very pleasant way. Perhaps we can upgrade you even further and make your weekend better!' another had suggested. Eventually, Guardiola had tore away from them and shot up via the elevator, here now to grab together his things and get the hell out of this stupid London hotel.
In the light of the lost semi-final and his own stupid mistakes, the huge penthouse suite and its London views seemed ridiculous and embarrassing, just a sprawling gallery of his hubris and disappointment. Staff had been in here since he dumped his bags and bathed in the late afternoon, still doped up with over-confidence in lazy complacency in their `safe' win. He scowled about the spacious suite of rooms, looking at the copper freestanding bath in the glass-walled bathroom where he had lounged decadently and even drunk a late afternoon Scotch on his own before dressing and heading back to the stadium to oversee the warm-ups. He frowned unhappily at the gaudy pink-red rose petals that covered the huge dark-sheeted bed in the centre of the main room, the ice buckets of champagne placed on a long steel table at the foot of the bed. Somewhere, he noticed, a scented candle had been lit in anticipation of a happy couple. No doubt, he thought angrily, some sly fucker had noticed and begun questioning where his wife even was. If word got to his coaching team or players that he had splashed money on this special accommodation and that his wife was back in Manchester, or worse, if word somehow got to her about it, then...
He was spinning out of control. Months of pressure and years of secret heartache were pressing in on him. He gave up on the easy task of collecting his limited possessions and just stood in the centre of the penthouse suite, knowing he needed to hurry up and get down to reception so he could carry on demanding his partial refund and arrange some transport to Euston and catch a train home. Home! To his wife! He thought angrily about his own stupid obsessions, the way he'd let his fixation on Filipe Foden dominate even in the build-up to this crucial game. All of this! All of this fuss and romance... he stared around him furiously, unable to believe his arrogance and naivety.
Pep was so fixated on his crashing mood that he didn't hear the noise of the door or the awkward steps scratching at the laminate wood flooring, not until the intruder was stood a couple of metres away from him, panting loudly from rushing, and looking him up and down. He froze and jerked his head that way, and stared awkwardly at him.
`Filipe,' he breathed cautiously.
`You left,' Foden gasped, standing there red-faced in tracksuit, clearly fresh from the post-match hustle and bustle, blotchy-faced and uncomfortable; still in his boots, which had scratched at the flooring as he stormed into the room. He was shaky on his feet, breathless and panicked-looking. Pep just stared at him in dim surprise, unable to compute that he'd followed him from the stadium and made it up here after him even as he plotted his embarrassing escape.
Guardiola stared at him and did his best at sounding detached and uninterested. I have been a fool, Foden,' he said quite formally, holding himself still, bunching his hands into fists at his side. I have made poor decisions. I was arrogant and conceited. Tonight, we...'
We're out of the FA Cup,' Phil panted at him. So what?'
Pep creased his brows and stared hard at the naïve young man. So what? We are beaten by Arsenal tonight and you stand there and ask me so what?' He made a loud tutting noise. I knew you could never understand my position at City, boy. Never.' He heard his own voice, cruel and unfair, and hated himself, but he seemed to be on a spiral of anxiety now, crashing since midway through the match and the twist in his initially nostalgic remembrances.
Phil, taking one step closer, seemed to ignore his coldly dismissive gambit. And what about us?' he demanded, loud and quite shrill. What about me? You just fuckin' storm out of the footy stadium like I don't even exist, cos we lost?' He threw his hands up questioningly, and moved past Pep, circling him, stompy and uncomfortable.
`You are being ridiculous,' Pep gasped, but he may as well have said the same about himself.
`I thought tonight was our night!'
It should have been,' he shouted at him. It was going to be so special. I was a fucking idiot though, Filipe, and...' He let out a growling cry of distress and waved on hand angrily at the innocent youngster. `I am sorry, Foden, but...'
You're sorry?' Phil shouted at him with a force and passion he'd never once seen in the mild-mannered prodigy. Foden was storming right to him now in the centre of the suite, squaring diminutively up to him and gritting his teeth angrily. What are you sorry for, Pep? For leading me on? For making an idiot of me? For fucking with my head month after month?' There tears sparkling in his vivid eyes. For keeping me waiting, for teasing and taunting me even when I do every fucking thing you say?' He smacked both hands against the chest of Pep's black tshirt, ineffectual in his shaky temper, but rocking with sudden rage. For making me run around in a shitty football game with a bit of rubber up my arsehole and then running off and leaving me with everyone else like I'm nothing to you? Which bit, Pep? Which bit are you sorry for?' The tears burst lose and his questioning monologue turned into a strangled sob. `Fuck you, Guardiola! FUCK YOU.'
Guardiola stood his ground, reaching to grab for Phil's shaking arms but finding them scrabbling away from him, the young footballer backing off from him, further into the big central bedroom of the extensive suit, his boots clicking loudly on the floor and his tracksuit bedraggled around his wiry frame. Pep took a slow step after him, speechless for a moment, staring with dismal apology at him, trying to understand his own poor decision-making, his own selfish rush. `I am sorry,' he said again, hoarse and ashamed. He was nearing 50 and he felt like a foolish teenager. He stared at the boy's heartbroken face and the ridiculously luxurious room around them. Beyond Foden was the table of champagne and treats and the petal-scattered bed. Ridiculous!
I cannot explain it,' he started again, his voice weakened and gruff. I have let things become...'
`Are you saying it's over?' Foden asked boldly.
Over? It's... I don't know, I...' He struggled for the words in English, tried to step closer to the young man, annoyed as Phil backed away from him instead, their paces crossing the room towards the table and bed. Calm down, Filipe,' he pleaded, you are being dramatic, and...
`You're the man who fled his own football match!' countered Foden angrily and righteously. Guardiola stared miserably at him and caught the madness in their shouting match and their predicament, so that he almost burst out laughing. He felt completed drained and maddened. He was angry at his own petulant exit from the stadium, his reckless scape, his selfish hiding up here, his plan to sneak onto a night train and vanish north back to Manchester. How had he just abandoned a team like that after a loss? He had NEVER done anything so rash or idiotic, but then... he looked again at the extortionate hotel space around them, the luxury he'd thrown money at to try to spoil and impress this very young man, who was crying angry tears in front of him and backing away from his reaching hands. Pep realised what a complete dick his desires had made of him, for the second major time in his career, and he dropped his hands to his thighs and stood there, gloomily defeated.
He tried to pick himself together, the tall suave football guru, not the scatty sexually confused youth!
Foden was backing away from him more but snatching one of the heavy champagne bottles up from its buckets in a rush of ice and water spilling on the marl grey of his hoody and joggers over his footy kit. For a horrible second, it looked like Phil was going to do something mad; swing it at him in violent retribution or smash it crazily to the metal table, but he was wrenching at the cork on it instead, a jumped-up little F1 winner on the podium for a minute. Pop went the cork, smashing away to the side of them, and the geyser of top-price fizzy wine gushed out. Pep stood there uselessly in his tshirt and jeans and watched Phil pull the bottle over his head and let the contents gush out, white fizz frothing over his sweaty dark hair and down the angular features of his face, pouring over him, soaking his hood and collar and running down his clothes. The pair of them stood in this mad tableau until every overpriced drop of champagne was sticky on the lad's skin, soaking at his clothes, trickling to the boot-marked floor around his feet.
Pep moved quickly forward and this time his Filipe did not pull away. He grasped both hands to his neck, either side, and dragged their faces together, kissing champagne from his lips. Phil's hands were immediately and almost aggressively on the black cotton of his tshirt. Pep dragged their lips together and bit gently at Phil's bottom lip, then shoved his tongue in and snogged him properly, both of them groaning a little into one another's mouths. The kiss became more aggressive, Pep's hunger waking up and bursting past his anguish and self-pity. He tugged viciously at Phil's hoody, failing to tear open its zip, scrabbling at it with hurried hands and eventually tossing its sodden weight away from his body, which shivered sweatily in his City shirt, sticky with fizz. Phil was pushing up at his tshirt too and together, they eased each other out of their tops. Shirtless and kissing, Pep pushed back, reached past Foden, and grasped the other stupidly expensive bottle, zero interest in drinking it. He lifted it to his mouth and, much more smoothly and easily than Phil's little wrestle, took the cork in his teeth and twisted it out. This time the geyser of alcohol spilled on them both, covering both of their chests, splashing between them. They instantly kissed at each other's bodies as Pep drizzled it decadently over them, pouring it in Phil's hair and down on his own hairy chest and then into his own mouth; Phil struggled to lick and kiss it out of his chest hair and off his nipples and then in both of their mouths at the same time, hands grasping painfully at bare contrasting skin, tanned and pale.
The glass bottles thumped to the floor without breaking and the two men exploded into movement in their wrestling hug, Pep taking fuller control of the slighter young footballer and dragging him to the bed, almost throwing him to it so that rose petals cascaded from the sheets around them. He threw himself down on top of him and kissed at his neck, which tasted like champagne and sweat, and pinned him below his height and weight, kissing every inch of his face and neck and shoulders and chest, quickly rock-hard inside his jeans. My boy,' he moaned, my precious boy...'
Oh papi,' Foden responded, oh yes...'
Pep pushed forward and dragged him further onto the bed, which felt even more huge now they were on it. He held one of Foden's hands in each of his and stretched them out and away, pinned down on the dark sheets, arms over arms, chest over chest, face over face. Crotch over crotch! Their sticky champagne kiss ground on and their bodies writhed together, all loud breathy moans. Eventually, anger and self-loathing broke through Guardiola's lust and he lifted himself up a bit to try and apologise more, muttering half-sentences and empty explanations, but Phil quickly told him to shut up. Papi, just fuck me,' he begged, just make me yours, PLEASE... you PROMISED...'
Yes,' the 49-year-old moaned, yes I did, my Filipe...'
He sat back, held tightly onto Phil's body, and flipped him onto his front, hands dragging stickily over his blotchy skin. He massaged his hands down the legs of his jogging bottoms and wrenched his boots off one at a time, not bothering to undo the laces, then pulling on the socks and tickling briefly at the soles of his feet. Then the joggers, peeled down, sodden wet with spilled fizz, exposing the crumpled footy shorts beneath, stuck to his smooth skin around his thighs and buttocks. Oh sir,' Filipe whined for him, oh, papi...!'
Pep dragged down the shorts and then the Under-Armour shorts below, and parted those beautiful perky pink cheeks; between them he could see the flash of blue plastic, the plug still loyally fixed in the virgin hole, stretching and preparing it for him as demanded. He felt a dizzying surge of love for the boy who had loyally followed his instructions, even at the expense of his comfort and confidence on the pitch, and kept it in right until now. He pushed two fingers in there and pulled on it, gentle but commanding. Phil howled at the relief of its exit. Instantly, Guardiola went down, pushing his tongue into the sweaty hole and tasting Foden's effort on the pitch for him, doomed but full of optimism and love. He lapped at the sweaty arse and squeezed and pinched his cheeks.
Papi, yes,' Filipe shouted, oh YES, fuck it feels so good...'
With more clumsy desperation than before, none of the masterly control of his teasing sessions eating the lad's arse out, Pep licked and rimmed him, pausing only to bite each buttock a little and slap at them with his sticky palms. Unable to stop himself, he gave up on the dirty task and kissed his way up Phil's lean smooth back instead, tracing his spine with lips and tongue and snogging the back of his neck aggressively. I will never leave you anywhere again,' he promised rashly and loudly in his hear. You're my boy, I love you, you're the best... I want you so much, my Filipe! Fuck the cup, fuck them all, I just want YOU...' He growled with desire, cuddling and squeezing him from behind, rolling side to side on the bed and spooning him in several positions.
He was different tonight, he knew, humbled and ragged with defeat; but Phil was different too, assertive about what he wanted. He was wriggling out of their long kissing positions, reaching for the front of Pep's jeans, desperate to open them and get them off. Eventually, the football manager relented, throwing his arms aside and lying on his back so that his precious golden boy could wrench the denims open and peel them down his thick furry legs, then kiss hungrily at the front of his heavy trunks, tasting his cock through the material. Off came those trunks, and the pair of them were fully naked now, all clothing kicked away and petals fluttering off the bedding around them. But Pep gripped Phil's wrists and held him down, silencing his hungry sluttish whines with a kiss and resting controllingly on top of him, pausing the magic. We only do this if you are sure,' he intoned heavily. I will not rush you.'
`You can do anything to me,' was Foden's gasping answer, his voice thick with his Stockport accent.
His submission stoked fires inside the Spaniard, but his affections were as strong as his lust. I know I can,' he chuckled hoarsely back, because you are all mine, all fucking mine. But I won't hurt you, I won't rush you. Tell me you're ready. TELL ME YOU'RE READY.'
I am so ready,' his Filipe almost screamed in his face. Just as Pep made to let go of his wrists and throw him heavily on his front, the boy grabbed at the coarse beard hair and his jawline and pulled close enough for another kiss, and whispered at him. The handcuffs?' he asked, a naughty glint in his eyes. Pep almost screamed too now, so in love with everything about this moment, football and his past completely forgotten. In fact, it was like whole years and decades could disappear, just like the FA Cup and Arteta's face and everything in Barcelona; he was just a young man for a moment, just 20 like Filipe, young and so invincibly virile. He was not a married 49-year-old with an entire football club to worry about, just a horny young fucker in love.
Guardiola hopped momentarily from the bed and found the cuffs in the depths of one bag, and with them a gag. He turned, stood tall by the bed with his big Spanish cock hard between his legs and below the bush of his pubes. Phil was on the bed on his back, gasping and moaning, stiff-dicked and limbs stretched out, eyes fixed on his master. Pep smirked at him, stopping only to relish the image and the delicious anticipation of what they had both been building up to for so long. Before he took full control, he clutched the props in each hand and bent over the side of the bed, kneeling for a long moment to stoop down and kiss the tip of Foden's cock, always so surprisingly girthy and solid for a petite and skinny lad like him, if not comparable to his own huge wood. The young City player gasped desperately at this brief blessing and begged his name and titles. `Pep, papi, sir, mmm...'
Then he was cuffing his hands together and wrapping the gag about his mouth, stretching his body out and pulling in beside him, fingering his wet hole, delightfully loosened by the hours of plugging. He loved the muffled cry of Foden's enjoyment and pain. As he fingered him, he kissed at his neck and shoulders but held his head down into the pillows, almost smothering him for a moment by accident, inserting a second and then third fingers into his slick ring. And then he was ready to insert his cock. No words, no dirty talk, no master/servant play, just raw physicality. He hugged both arms about Phil's narrow muscular chest and guided his dick between his cheeks, finding his twitching hole, edging the tip of his meat into him. He thought he was listening to Phil's delighted moaning, but remembered the tight gag, realised it was his own -- boyish and lusty and full of unadulterated enjoyment. He forced inch after inch into the lad, into his Filipe.
The floor of that boot-room in Barcelona in 2008 had been hard and cool on their skin as they stripped, Pep shedding his suit and the boy stripping his red and blue kit in hurried motions. Now Pep was kissing not his gorgeous soft lips but his smooth chest and his tight pink nipples and down his achingly muscular tummy to his naval. And then, somehow, in a blur, they had shifted positions, the most promising young footballer in Europe was facing away from him, and he was fingering down the saggy white fabric of his ill-fitting briefs, pulling on them and exposing inch after inch of bulbous pale muscle, getting access to his gorgeously shaped rump.
`My boy,' he'd purred in the darkness of the boot-room.
`Oh papi,' groaned the greatest footballer in the world.
Phil's body bounced and shook beneath him like a ragdoll. Always he kept hold of him, gripping him with one or both arms, keeping their tight hot bodies together as they shifted positions on the bed, testing its mattress and springs and dragging its neat sheets and duvets out of shape until all of the bedding was rustling onto the floor and it was just simple sheets creasing and tugging and loosening beneath the sweaty machinations of their bodies.
Over and over, Guardiola ploughed him with the thick veiny shaft of his Catalonian cock. He bit on the lobe of his ear and at the hewn outline of his jaw. He gnawed at the flesh of his shoulder, leaving little teeth-marks in his pink-white skin. He pinched and squeezed his dark little nipples, grabbed at his thin six-pack and at his flailing arms, at the clinking and rattling cuffs that held them together in front of them. At some point, consumed with lust, he even tugged the gag away from his face, needing to hear his screams and cries. Pep's own voice mingled with this, shouting in English and Spanish and English again.
He didn't hold back, he couldn't. He fucked the youngster with all his strength, in and out, in and out, long powerful strokes that made him ache down there, never mind the virgin's hole. For a long time he resisted the reach-around, but eventually gave in to it, unable to keep his hand off Phil's delightfully fat hard-on, wanking him whilst piledriving his rear. At that point, pleasured at all sides, Phil could no longer form the words Oh papi' and YES SIR', his voice just became a trailing squeal of base enjoyment. Pep screamed hungry obscenities in his ears, no idea what he was saying, and fucked him hard into the groaning sweaty mattress, discovering pools of youthful energy he hadn't experienced since his 30s. He felt Phil, inevitably, shoot his load, only minutes after touching his cock for the first time; the internal stimulation was too much for him, how could he be expected to edge and wait? He fucked on, wanking stream after stream of spunk from the young lad, letting it smear over the sheets below while building slowly up to his own.
He turned them on their sides and held Foden more tightly than ever, both arms about his body, gripping him very tightly, driving his hips into his backside in thunderous motions that made the whole bed rock, and then... and then... and then... Oh yes. He spewed his creamy load inside his precious young player and hugged him tight to him as he did it, growling words in whatever language he fancied into his ear and then planting sloppy wet kisses on the sweaty grease of his neck, their bodies rocking with each of his deep breaths and moans. Their limbs and back/chest felt stuck together with a mix of sweat and champagne. He left his cock inside him, attached and interlocked, and hugged him against his hot chest and stomach, tickling at him with the hairiness of his strong older body.
How was it?' Guardiola dared to ask at long last, only then beginning to pull back with his waist, loosing his throbbing cock from what he assumed was the agony of the deflowered arse. He moved carefully now, tender and slow in sharp contrast to the wild beastly motions of the past hour of fucking, turning Phil onto his front to save him more pain, and lying alongside him. He traced his fingers up and down his back, kissed him on the crown, rubbed his sleepy body on his side and breathed down on his face. How was it?' he asked again, when it was just exhausted moans emerging from Phil's lips.
`It was unbelievable,' Foden eventually replied, tilting his head so their eyes could meet. He looked more young and innocent than ever, impossibly, a little angel of an athlete in his manager's arms. Pep laughed indulgently, delighted with this answer.
It will get better every time,' he promised. I know you must be in so much pain, but it will get better. I will look after you. I will never hurt you.' He kissed him in the centre of the forehead. Was it really good? How did it feel? Was it very different to anything else?' His questions sounded as awkward and teenage as he felt when he was with his golden boy, but he didn't care. He wasn't even 100% sure if he was speaking in Phil's language or not, the way the lad stared uncertainly at him. After repeating himself, definitely in English, and still facing those wide mystified eyes, he felt a little lurch of worry, and squeezed Foden close. You are okay, aren't you? It's okay if it hurts, it's hard not to, but if I went too hard, or too fast, then...'
Of course it hurts,' tittered Filipe gently, you're massive, but...'
What is it?' Kiss, kiss. What is wrong? What can I do?'
I just...' Phil's voice faded into a laugh and he wriggled in Pep's strong hold, stroking his chest hair with fingertips and rubbing his leg over Pep's thigh. It felt amazing, sir, it felt so incredible, it was... but...' The but', in this intimate hold, was terrifying. Pep stared down at him adoringly, wanting to somehow spring another boner and smash his arse all over again right now, though neither of them would really be up to it tonight! Maybe in the morning? The but' hung there in this magical contemplation and he stared searchingly at the 20-year-old footballer.
`When you came,' Phil said hesitantly.
`Si? Yes?'
`You...' The longest and most awkward two second pause ever.
`What? What is it?'
Phil took and released a deep breath, which tickled at his neck and chin, then met his eyes with crazed boldness and curiosity, leaping past indecision. Who's Leo?' he asked in a barely audible whisper. When you came, you screamed for Leo... Pep, papi, who is Leo...?' The lad stared at him with trusting eyes, blinking and pouting and straining. Pep stared back in silent guilty horror.
Finished, the two men in the boot-room untangled their bodies, both shaking a little at the shock of what they'd done. Guardiola lay on his side, gently releasing the tight-packed muscular physique of his star player, concerned he must have hurt him by sticking it in there, and with no lubricant. He stared down into the small handsome face of the young athlete and pulled some of his shaggy dark fringe out of his eyes. `You're okay?' he asked him in Spanish. The young player nodded and smiled, but weakly and nervously, clearly in pain.
Pep stroked his upper arm and his shoulder, and laughed anxiously, guilty at the force with which his older and more experienced body had given in to their shared lust. Desperate to somehow appease the moment, he reached across the cold tiled floor for some of their discarded clothes, found the boy's Barcelona shirt. He scrunched it up and brought it close, sliding it beneath his head as a tiny and ineffective pillow to support his face as they lay there staring in marvel and disbelief at their first male sexual partner. Beneath the footballer's head, only a sliver of the colourful Barcelona shirt still showed, but it amused Pep, since it was the strip of its back that carried his name, displaying it in bold white letters beside his gasping young face.
`What?' the Barcelona star asked him innocently.
Nothing, my boy,' Guardiola told him gently, admiring his beauty and running a thumb over one of his mostly smooth cheeks, tickling at the faint gingery stubble that grew there, and looking past him to the folds of his shirt, such a terrible cushion, but excellent name-badge, the letters spelling it out even in the dim light of the boot-room: MESSI'.
WELL, THAT'S DEFINITELY THE MOST DRAMATIC EPISODE YET... SORRY IF IT GOT A BIT MUH! HOPE YOU ENJOYED THIS MAD 150TH EPISODE OF THE SERIES, AND THE FANTASY IS AS FUN AND ABSORBING AS EVER. THANK YOU FOR READING AND ALWAYS LETTING ME KNOW WHAT YOU THINK.