Part 186: A Scouser & a Gentleman
He sat in the back of a chauffeur driven vehicle into the outskirts of Birmingham, the hired driver who had collected him from South London and taken up into the Midlands for today's meetings. It had all happened with surreal speed and he sat stiffly in the back of the car with his hands flat on his suit-clad thighs and a single packed weekend bag slumped on the leather beside his awkward posture. A glassy grin was frozen on his big featured face, staring ahead of him at the dull concrete scenery and at his own awkward expression in the rear-view mirror.
The end-of-September day was grey and damp, some pathetic fallacy for the heart-breaking suddenness of leaving London behind, albeit `temporarily'.
The tall well-built footballer hunched to the side a little to peer out of the passenger window of the backseat, seeing the flat built-up environs sprawl away from the road, and then the more familiar silhouettes of the football training ground rising up around the corner; not Villa Park itself, where of course he had visited and played, but the Birmingham club's training complex.
Aston Villa, he thought. From almost the top of the Premiership to the very bottom, sorta -- the club had barely survived relegation to the Championship this year, and thought it was a respectable club with a fighting spirit, it was certainly a nosedive for the Chelsea midfielder. He hid a grimace behind his frozen smile, supposing the elderly Asian driver was most likely a Villa fan himself; he had certainly seemed excited as he welcome Ross Barkley into the vehicle to complete the transfer journey and get him here to his new home for a one-season loan.
So here he was. The 26-year-old athlete watched the front gates of the Aston Villa campus approach, adjusting the lapels of his dark grey suit jacket and feeling more than ever the strange dehumanising existence of the top-flight footballer, a commodity to be traded with little or no say in their own career trajectory. One minute gearing up for an exciting new campaign at Chelsea, eyeing up the talented new singings who he thought would be his allies in a battle for the top spot, and now turfed out and moving halfway up the country to a strange new city. He'd literally just bought a new London pad after his months of sofa-surfing with his fellow rich West London players.
It had all happened so fast, too fast. He hadn't even been able to go into the Cobham training ground today to say his goodbyes to any of the lads, any of his many close pals on the Chelsea squad; no, his day had begun with some online meetings and then moved to this long windswept car journey, and now here he was, with more meetings ahead of him, then a muted media unveiling in the late afternoon... The car passed beneath the gates and into the parking areas of the sprawling football complex, as unattractive and industrial looking as everything else on the fringes of this big city.
Barkley stepped slowly out of the car and into the light drizzle of Birmingham rain against his warm face and short cropped hair, settling on the glossy shoulders of his new suit. He closed the door loudly behind him and hoisted the weekend bag up over one shoulder, something pilgrim-like and desperate in the few things he'd stuffed into it before going to meet the driver; he'd not even had a chance to unpack at his new London pad, barely moved into the fucking place, and now he was on the move again. Where the hell was he gonna stay up here...?
But it's all your fault, ain't it? The nagging voice at the back of his mind chided him with this question as he waved an awkward goodbye to his driver, off to park the expensive club vehicle, leaving him alone in the sea of concrete, a couple of suited figures emerging from the nearest building and making their way over to him with oddly serious expressions of welcome.
All my fault, Ross sighed internally, forcing his smile for these businessmen.
The Chelsea squad had arrived nice and early at the Tottenham Hotspur Stadium, of course, in order to settle in and warm up and prepare themselves for the EFL Cup clash between two of the big London clubs; Barkley felt a little high on the enthusiasm and ambition of the reinvigorated team, centring around the talents of newbies Timo Werner and Kai Havertz, but with many of the well-established regulars eager to prove themselves too.
The West London men were relaxing in a comfortable space upstairs before going down to the Away changing rooms of the luxurious new football ground, bouncing around in their figure-hugging blue tracksuits and making jokes about the stupidly expensive details of the still new Spurs ground that they were returning to. There was that extra crackle in the air of a London derby, the playful-yet-serious banter of facing up against Tottenham or Arsenal or West Ham; this special capital city atmosphere was being patiently explained to the new players, to Timo and Kai and to Hakim Ziyech, though nobody had to fill in boisterous Ben Chilwell on the high stakes.
Barkley, only mildly disappointed that he would be starting this evening on Lampard's bench of substitutes, kept himself to himself and tried to stay relaxed and confident. As the transfer window drew slowly to its close, he felt more rather than less anxious about the security of his place here on this expanding squad, where quick new feet were operating in the midfield and attack, and his second-half role in Chelsea tactics felt increasingly jeopardised. Still, none of the almost-deals that his agent and the Chelsea bosses had vaguely referenced at the start of summer had come to fruition; he knew that had one point he had almost been a pawn to be traded in for the purchase of Declan Rice, and it had taken all of his kindness and patience not to resent that he almost got sold off to import his dear pal Mason Mount's boyfriend into town.
Okay, so he'd start on the bench, but he felt relatively confident that Frank - who he had caught start to give him those same lusty looks during training, bringing back memories of last winter -- would deploy him in the second 45 and he would still be able to make a powerful contribution and help them triumph over Mourinho and the North London club.
In the relaxation lounge, the Cup visitors eased themselves into the pre-match atmosphere, and Ross watched on idly, detaching a little from the general mood of ambitious banter. Giroud and Azpilicueta seemed to have been charged by the gaffer to get the newbies primed on the London team politics and why Spurs were to be loathed not quite as loathed as Arsenal; Chilwell and Mount seemed to be bonding closely, which made Barkley feel vaguely left out but also rather self-conscious about their shared history (a certain experience on the beaches of Dubai coming to mind every time he saw the two handsome younger lads laughing and shoving each other on the training ground). Tomori and Jorginho were playing doubles on the table football with Hudson-Odoi and Mendy, and a bunch of the others were laughing and chirping at some of the old club memorabilia on the walls, trying to verbally trash the Tottenham prestige.
Ross didn't want to weaken his mindset or his patience by getting too involved in this trash talk and he hung back, climbing out of his seat and walking across to the other side of the room and, with a thoughtful hum to himself, out into the broad corridor beyond whose windows looked down into the grand new stadium itself, where they would shortly be stepping out to warm up for an early cup tie with their London rivals. Looking out on the expansive emptiness of the ground they were visiting the Scouse footballer was again struck by how `normal' the lack of their fans had become to them all.
`Weird, seeing it so empty, huh?'
He looked sharply to the left and he felt totally unsurprised by the speaker; a combination of where he was this evening and recent de ja vu. It did kinda seem like Eric Dier was an unavoidable satellite to his London life. Still, he raised his eyebrows and stared at the sudden appearance of the Tottenham player sidling down the hallway towards him, trailing his hand along the ledge of the high windows overlooking the terraces. There was an edgy smile on the strong square features of the tall defensive player's face, shuffling closer with a baggy Spurs hoody hanging open about his shoulders and a tight Under Armour vest clinging to his chunky torso beneath it. He seemed on his way to get properly kitted out for tonight and Ross wondered if he'd redirected his route this way to speak to him deliberately, but it seemed less than likely.
`Yeah,' he grunted back, pressing the heels of his hands to the window ledge and staring back at the other player, trying his best to show none of the awkwardness or regret he felt at seeing him again so soon after his night of failed first date with that airhead. He didn't know what to say back to the other 26-year-old burly lad, torn between wanting to convey his disinterest in addressing their last meeting and wanting to maintain polite friendly relations with the likeable England star.
Hey,' Dier said now in a slightly lower voice, moving closer, making Barkley instantly uneasy, was hoping to run into ya, actually...'
`Oh?' Ross returned as evasively as he could, unconsciously shifting his whole body away to the right and lifting his hands off the sill, wiping his palms down the front of his dark blue Chelsea tracksuit top, giving Eric a glowering look of bewilderment as if he couldn't possibly imagine what he wanted to talk about.
`Yeah, yeah -- er, haha, it was just so cool seeing you out in London the other night, and...'
Ross stole his eyes away, fixating instead on the stadium view, only half-listening to the polished posh boy voice of the Cheltenham lad, resisting the direction of the dialogue. Always thought you were good banter when we were away with the Lions, y'know,' he heard Eric say now, and he didn't like the odd tone to his voice as he said banter' or even we', didn't like the suggestive lean of his tone or the way he was gently sidling closer. Ross found himself thinking not so much about the illicit blowjob, the latest brutish conquest in this discovered side of himself, but of the petulant kiss and the pushiness of the other man in that cubicle, taking things too far and now... I mean, I dunno if you saw my message the other day, I just wondered if...' At Eric's voice now, he turned his head sharply that way and glared unhappily at him.
`Drop it mate, eh?' he barked roughly, trying to stamp down on the unfolding conversation.
Come on,' muttered the other England player quietly but with a knowing grin on his lips, I think we both know it was fun when we-`
`Drop it, let's not have this chat...'
`Why, you think it'll get you hot and bothered before the game...?'
He frowned into Dier's soft laughter, even more annoyed by this comment than the others; so was that it, he thought, was this all tactical? Was this meathead idiot here to gloat at what they'd shared and what he knew about Ross and his flexible appetite? He frowned more deeply, irritated by the self conscious blush burning up his rugged features, moving further back as again Eric shifted this way, stepping closer and laughing some more, moving to speak again, `Ross, fella, you know full well you ain't got nothing to blush about, I've seen it all...!'
Jesus,' Barkley snapped aggressively at him at that, stopping his slow retreat and stepping right up to him, sharply coming face-to-face, chin-to-chin, squaring up to the man who would be his opponent on the pitch very shortly. You finished fuckin' gloating, posh boy? Dunno who you think you are, throwing yourself about here when we're meant to be prepping for the match, go hang with your own fuckin' best mates like Boring Old Kane...' He grabbed the lapels of the other bloke's hoody, couldn't stop himself, even though Eric was immediately holding both hands up defensively -- but he was still laughing, that smug and privileged sound that came so easily from him...
`Hey, buddy, no need to go grabbing at me, we're not in a toilet cubicle now, haha...'
`Fuck right off! Stupid twat...' He shoved at him and then instantly felt another figure next to him and a severe hand grasping at his shoulder, jerking him back from Dier just as he made to lash out with his strong arms again and push more roughly at the opposition player. The hand tightened at his shoulder and he knew who it was even before the gaffer's severe East London accent was in his ear.
Gents!' barked Frank Lampard, moving quickly between them and almost elbowing Ross back away from his confrontation with the Spurs man; the Chelsea boss turned his attention briefly but dismissively to Dier then back at Barkley, a furious expression lined across his handsome ageing features. Ross!' he barked even more loudly and angrily. `What are you DOING?'
Barkley stood there stammering silently in angry self-defense, feeling winded by the force of his boss's arm against his chest as he took some stumbling steps back away; he couldn't help but picture how aggressive and out of order her must have looked for a moment there, grabbing physically at the enemy player here in the quiet corridors of the host stadium. It was the exactly the kind of behaviour that had made a negative first impression on the ex-midfielder when he became the Chelsea manager and taken his initial dislike of Barkley's work... you know, before he'd had to, er, convince him otherwise in his own special ways...
Shame on you,' the Chelsea legend and now head coach yelped furiously at Dier for a moment, coming around here, distractin' my players...' He didn't stand long enough or give Eric enough attention to register his hurried denials of this, whirling back on Ross instead and grabbing the collar of his glossy tracksuit jacket. You nobhead,' he lectured him sharply in the face, still in the Spurs player's earshot, why are you letting this twat rile you like that, or any Tottenham scum? Eh?' He shook at the shoulder of Ross's body and clothes like an angry parent or teacher, speaking down to him as if he was just some idiot youngster. `You are too hot tempered, Ross!' he yelled in his face, seeming oblivious to the irony.
`Gaffer,' he breathed awkwardly, his blood still thumping in annoyance at Dier and the brief confrontation, but now also in panic at his chief's reaction; and the lingering presence of Eric seemed to make it all worse, the Spurs bloke hovering nearby looking ready to throw more gloating insults or teasing references to the recent night in Shoreditch and Liverpool Street Station. The fella was saying something now but Ross couldn't catch it because Frank was in his face, tugging at his collar again and leaning in to shout one last thing in his face.
`I've still a week to offload you if I need to, meathead,' Lampard was barking at him, none of the gentle understanding between them right now, none of the empathy or intimacy that had flickered when Barkley offered himself up to comfort his disheartened leader in some of his darker moments last season. There was something really hateful and resentful in Lampard's manner as he shook him and stared him down, assertive in his status and Barkley's inability to shout back without getting in worse trouble. Ross glared at him, stabbed with a sense of injustice, but utterly silenced by the vague threat of what Frank was saying: yep, almost a week more before that transfer deadline and a moratorium on career moves for surplus talent like himself.
`Get in there,' commanded the older man, shoving him in the arm and nodding to the double doors back into the players' lounge, not even sparing a glance for Eric, just ushering Ross in through the doors and away from further conflict, tense with disapproval and disappointment.
In the second half of the game, the North London side were a goal down to their visitors and facing knockout from the Carabao Cup. Eric Dier was exhausted in his left-back position, fighting hard alongside Alderweireld and Hojlberg to keep Lampard's men from a second and securing their victory; exhausted and doubly distracted.
For one thing, his ex was back on the pitch, Kane loping onto the field in the 70th minute to join the attack, brimming with confidence and assertiveness and doing everything to try and claim an equaliser. Dier was good at holding back his feelings when he shared the grass with the other tall England player, but inside it was an extra strain on his focus and his work ethic. Especially at the moment: for all his contrite mutterings in the harbour in Reykjavik, big Harry actually seem reinvigorated and joyful since their England trip, as if whatever he had got up to bending over for Conor fucking Coady had snapped him from a dull repressive slump.
It used to be me who put that spring in his step, Eric kept thinking, distracted from his strong defensive routine by the long striding runs of the Spurs striker up ahead in the opposition's half, his shirt and shorts stretched over a long muscular body and an eager grin on his almost boyish features as he ran. The 27-year-old seemed to be attacking the new season for Tottenham with fresh energy and commitment, as if the protracted will-he-won't-he transfer speculation had finally been pushed aside and he was sure his future lay here at Tottenham. Still a few days to go, the defender would think to himself, making a bounding run over to stop Timo Werner in his tracks, crashing into the speedy German and deflecting the ball powerfully away from the vulnerable edge of play.
It wasn't that Dier suspected anything at all was going on between Kane and Coady; he'd only half-listened to the England captain's slurred and desperate explanations of the sleazy bargaining that had gone on between pro and newbie, had been unsurprised when that Scouse yob Conor showed up in the starting line-up for the next game, two days later...! Nah, he didn't think his `ex' had leapt into something new, not really, but how could he really accept that their romance had been curtailed to preserve his precious marriage and family life, if he was going to take such rash moves with footballers he barely knew...? Didn't he trust Eric, like he'd always claimed...?
He snapped out of this painful reverie -- especially painful because he just couldn't face talking about it to anyone, not even to Alli or Winks who might half-understood, or to young Parrott who was so busy proving himself on his Milwall loan -- just in time to catch another attack, throwing his weighty physique into Werner's path and ruining his run. Again he booted the ball heavily away, a strong clearance, and he turned for a moment to catch the odd thoughtful look the handsome German lad was giving him, almost a curious sneer. Mental note: bit of alright, that one. But he was distracted enough, he couldn't take a moment to enjoy the swinging bulge in Timo's shorts, he needed to get back into position and keep his eye on the action to fend off further attempts...
But over there was the OTHER distraction of his evening shift in the Tottenham Hotspur Stadium: the little bouts of argument he kept catching on the edge of play, at the Chelsea visiting dugout down the left-hand side of the field, so close to his position. You could hear quite a lot in these empty stadiums, he'd learned; conversations that normally remained discreet on the edge of the action, drowned out by the crowds, now echoed awkwardly into the field of play. And right now, that meant that Eric was hearing snatches of dispute between the opposition manager, a very frustrated and aggressive-looking Frank Lampard, and one of his substitutes: Ross Barkley.
He definitely hadn't meant to cause any trouble, chancing a passing convo with the midfielder before the warm-ups began, he'd just wanted to... say hi, he supposed. The two of them had texted a little bit lately but nothing major, just passing comments or shared memes. He really couldn't quite fathom what had randomly occurred between them night in the station loos, even when he was as seasoned at fairly random man-on-man enjoyment snatched over the years -- it wasn't as if Harry Kane was his first or last...! But Barkley, Ross Barkley... really?
Just then, recovering from another weighty blow with Werner, he heard the raised voices again and looked over; Lamps was turned away from the action, one hand on the hip of his dark chinos and the other held in a wagging finger at the standing figure of the tall athletic Liverpudlian, staring sulkily and intensely at his boss. Dier didn't catch what was said, but picked up on the tone of anger, accusation, retribution -- and looking sharply that way, adjusting his shorts and shirt with his muscular chest heaving with exertion, he saw the hurt and vulnerable look cross across the rugged young features of Barkley's face before the Chelsea man burst away from his gaffer and shot into the tunnel at speed, stared after by the huddle of other substitutes and recovering recalled players...
A snap decision clicked in the defensive midfielder's head, and he moved fast.
Need to go, won't be long,' he shouted heavily in the direction of Jose Mourinho and the second coach, bursting by them in a rapid sweaty jog through the dugout and into the tunnel mouth, abandoning a match in play for the first time in his life. Toilet!' he called into the face of a bemused official, exploding into the large square entrance and down the grey-blue tunnel, catching a glimpse of dark tracksuit as Barkley disappeared around a corner away from view; Dier hared after him, his brain rapidly replaying the insane choice he'd just made. Had he really just skipped out of a cup game without permission because he felt like he'd got an innocent bloke in trouble...?!
It all happened too quickly for the 26-year-old to question his own madness. He bolted around the corner and shoved open the door to the mens' toilets beyond the main changing rooms area, clattering noisily in with the studs of his boots jabbing on the hard tiled floors. The noise grabbed the attention of the man he'd followed and Ross was whirling around, arms held stiffly at his side and hands bunched into fists, his whole body squared up and puffed out in an aggressive stance but his face pulled into an `O' of confused shock -- well of course he was shocked, Eric was shocked enough at himself, what the hell was he actually doing in here...?
Ross,' the 6ft2 defender huffed, advancing on him with a clack of boots, are you okay?'
`Dier?' demanded the Chelsea sub, squaring up to him and glaring at him with the same resentful expression he'd adopted before when Eric even hinted at discussing their last meeting; he seemed to recover from his moment of disbelief and return to a visceral fury, lunging forward and snatching at the front of Eric's white Spurs shirt in the same hostile manner he'd grabbed his hoody. The player was tired and surprised by this and almost bowled backwards by the unexpected force of Barkley's lunge, so he grabbed at his arms to steady himself, pulling down on the sleeves of that tracksuit, thumbs pressing into the swollen biceps of those arms.
`Are you in trouble?' Eric asked rapidly and he heard the weakness of his voice, the puzzlement at what he was even asking or trying to do; why was he here?! Yards away, the second half of the game rattled on, he'd abandoned it, Mourinho would be fuming, men just didn't exit for toilet breaks, it wasn't the done thing, what the fuck...
`What's it to you?' Ross almost spat at him, nostrils flaring and eyes wide.
`It's my fault,' Eric breathed.
Yeah,' the northern lad agreed loudly, yeah it is, you fuckin'...!' He wrenched more tightly on the chest of the footy shirt and pulled him in close, gritting his white teeth and squaring his powerful jaw, looking on the verge of throwing a punch; Eric moved artlessly and instinctively, following the drag of his body and gripping at Barkley's body, only half-conscious of raised voices echoing in the corridor beyond the toilets door. In he pulled and pressed his face to his, pushing his dry lips in against the plump pout of Ross's. For a moment their teeth clashed as their lips wrestled, and then the other man's mouth was opening in surprise and in he pushed his tongue against his, throwing one strong arm about his side and feeling his gripping fists weaken in surprise. For a long moment they kissed, Eric mouthing at the stunned pout of the other fella, pushing their tongues together, tasting the sweet chewing-gum flavour of his gob.
If he'd heard the shouting behind him, the raised voices of their managers, both of them, then he would not have clung to the Chelsea player quite so much, feeling the tensile strength of his overworked arms or the heat of the flanks beneath them, dragging his lips over his and letting the short rough fluff of his beard stroke across his jutting chin...
`ERIC, ERIC DIER, YOU IDIOT, YOU MUST...!' That was Mourinho's voice.
`No, allow me, this is fuckin' ridiculous...' That was Lampard.
In he burst, and Eric immediately felt Ross's hand push at his chest and his arms break away from his own stray fingers, felt his hot angry breath on his moustache and beard, their tall athletic bodies thrust apart in a dizzy moment... Frank was breaking into the loos, the door clattering, swaggering towards them, his faced line with anger and his eyes narrowed -- Eric saw the flash of intense panic on Ross's face and he tried to calculated what if anything the Chelsea gaffer could have seen on his way in, what could he really have noticed between them, they'd only kissed for a moment, so... But over the intrusion of Lamps came the other voice, the almost shrill furious Portuguese of his own boss, Jose screeching for him -- `Eric! Eric, get the fuck out here, on that pitch, now...!'
Dier felt the full idiocy of his behaviour and looked for a fraction of a moment at Barkley. All he saw there was anger and distress and he knew he'd made a mistake, he'd been a fool. All he was doing was pissing off this burly Scouse lad, he'd totally misread the risqué moment they'd shared, and now... He launched himself past Frank and out into the corridor at a pace, shielding himself from a clip around the ears from Mourinho. `Call of nature, boss, you gotta go!' he yelled breathily at his head coach as he tore down the tunnel back towards the game, seeing the array of puzzled faces as he exploded out onto the grass and tore back into the game, speeding towards a successful collision and closing down another Chelsea offence, keeping a draw or win within sights...
Not only did Spurs get their equaliser, about five minutes later, but they went on to best Chelsea over a round of penalties: a sulking and shameful Barkley watched this drama unfold between the teams' best players, seeing that interfering prick Dier claim the first of five for his team, and the scoresheet hold steady between them for three more rounds. Kane himself, a true marksman, delivered the final penalty for Tottenham, and young Mason Mount stepped up for the Blues.
Barkley seemed to see the miss before it actually happened, and once it had, he could hardly look. It was not just that he felt the sting of the club's defeat, but he knew Lampard's wrath would be stoked. In all honesty, Lamps had been awful since the season resumed, gripped with so much frustration and tension that he lashed out regularly at anyone who questioned him. Ross had temporarily believed himself to be exempt from this treatment, sure that the `understanding' between coach and player was secure... hadn't he been the one to comfort Frank in those gloomy moments after the FA Cup defeat and Champions League exit? Hadn't he and his frustrated obsessive gaffer reached some kinda mutual respect by the time football closed for the summer...? No, it seemed not. What Barkley had mistaken for lusty glances had turned out to be near contempt for him, as if he was being personally blamed for whatever midlife crisis the married man was going through now.
The look Lamps had given him after catching him in that weird fucking snog with Dier...
Ross felt sick about it. And now they'd lost. He couldn't watch the misery of it after Mount's miss, turning immediately away and scrabbling out of his seat to stalk off down the tunnel again, not to sulk and punch walls in a bathroom now, but to find a quiet corner of the visiting changing rooms where he could avoid becoming the centre-point of the chief's fury.
What the fuck was eating Old Frank so much right now that he was turning on people who knew his dirtiest secrets...?
The unused substitute sat himself down out of view on a bench in the plush Away locker-room of the North London ground, cracking his knuckles impatiently and nodding respectfully at his red-cheeked and sweaty colleagues filing in from their penalty shootout shaming on the pitch. Nervously, the Scouser eyed Lampard as he entered, mouthing off at a couple of players who had missed out on important chances, including his supposed golden boy Timo Werner, the German stud looking shamefaced and regretful as he was barked rudely at by Frank; even the other coaches looked like they were tiptoeing on eggshells around the fiery midfield legend. The gaffer seemed incensed by the defeat. He must be feeling the pressure of Chelsea's expensive transfer window, so many men purchased and nobody of significance sold to offset the investment; big money brought big expectations, Ross knew that.
He started as he realised that his young pal Mason was beside him, thumping a disappointed fist into where his coat hung from a hook on the wall, his high cheekbones red and his eyes almost watery with self-deprecating tears. Of course, he must be feeling the heat, awaiting his own lecture off Lamps, the only Chelsea lad to miss his penalty...!
Hey,' cooed Chilwell, squeezing Mount's shoulder on the way past and flashing Barkley a slightly awkward half-smile, don't beat yourself up, Mase, you did your best...' And on the ex-Leicester defender went, marching sweatily past them with his ripped six-pack glistening under the electric spotlights as he continued on across the busy changing room, leaving Mason nodding slowly and staring glumly down into his kit bag, in no rush to undress from his soiled kit.
He's right,' Ross muttered, remembering to put aside his own frantic self-pity at the sight of this sweet younger player so crushed by his error of judgement. He reached over and gently touched his hand to Mason's wrist, eyeing him intensely. Ben's right, mate, you can't put this on you, lots of lads have to answer to that draw and penalty shootout, lad.'
There was a muttering of agreement from those around them, half-listening in, a morbid buzz of post-match chat filling the oblong room as one by one men writhed out of their blue kits and disappeared through into the glaring metallic mouth of the shower block. Next to them, Tomori and Mendy were loudly congratulating Mount on some of his attacking manoeuvres early on in the match, while Emerson grabbed his arms about him in passing, stripped to his tight white briefs on his way to the showers, making some aggressive assertions about what the team would do to the Spurs fuckers next time they met in the League -- Ross glared balefully at Palmieri on his way past, still unable to forgive the Brazilian for fucking his ex and ending that relationship, the sleazy Latino gimp.
Left alone with Mason, he tugged on his arm and gave him another earnest look. `Forget it, we win as a team and we lose as a team, buddy,' he told him in a controlled voice, suppressing his own fears for the manager's mood and the twisted anger he felt towards that pushy prick Eric Dier -- why had the bell-end stormed off the pitch to follow him like that? Just to gloat more over his lack of minutes, just to make him even more uncomfortable about what had passed between them in the basement of a train station...? Jesus, what a tool, what an arrogant posh boy wanker, what a...
`Yeah, yeah, that's what Eric said,' the 21-year-old beside him mumbled.
Ross paused and blinked dozily at him, pulling back his hand. `Wha'?'
Mason sighed. `Eric, mate. Dier. Real classy fella, y'know.'
`What?'
Mason wrenched his shirt up, revealing his slim toned body and narrow chest, then reappearing from the folds of his discarded kit. `Dier, he came right up to me when I fucked up, was so kind about it -- I mean, I know he's the opposition but...'
Yeah,' butted in another lad's voice beyond Mason, I was well shocked by that, what a sound bloke he is...'
`Said I shouldn't feel bad, I'd be whipping goals in for England next week when we reunite for the next game,' said Mason with a light chuckle to his soulful voice, obviously quite taken with the compliments and comfort from the Spurs man with his unusual gesture of sportsmanship. Barkley stared at him for a moment, realising how quickly he had turned his eyes away from the field when he saw Mount miss, had totally missed this interaction and... Why did it make him feel so suddenly odd and queasy? It didn't mean much, it was just a superficial gesture, that's all, it wasn't like... I mean, he's a right stuck-up posh wanker, innit, and... but... erm...
`He's a good guy, isn't he?' Ross murmured thoughtfully, staring down at his feet, a little strand of confused regret gnawing at the edge of his mind.
He is,' Mason agreed quietly. But still. I need to shower away the stink of my failure...!' And he reached over, patting Ross on the back of his thick neck before dropping his shorts and throwing a towel about his slim waist, disappearing between the throng of bodies, leaving his teammate to bite his lip and realise that maybe Eric had genuinely been looking out for him today, just being a decent bloke, a gentleman...
Dier grinned goofily at the reporter as the interview concluded, hugging his thick strong arms to his bare chest and flicking blades of grass from the mud-stains on one elbow. When you gotta go, you gotta go,' he repeated jokily at the guy with the mic, nodding out from the brief press talk and stomping his dirty socked feet back down the tunnel in the direction of the Home changing rooms, the last of the Spurs men to be let go by the media since they seemed so inordinately fascinated by his stupid bloody toilet break' -- surely the game had more interesting points to discuss than his lie that he needed a shit midway through the second half?!
Alone in the broad bright corridor, the tired defender rolled his shoulders and flexed his arms and cricked his neck, eager to get into the winning changing rooms and share in the excitement of his teammates -- even bloody Kane, he thought, since his heartbroken annoyance with the striker could quite easily be eclipsed by pride and satisfaction in his closing penalty that had sealed the win over Chelsea. Football before romance, he supposed -- maybe I'm actually getting over him...?!
He was halfway down the corridor, catching the echo of a victory chant emerging from the doorways into the Home quarters a dozen metres ahead, when a figure emerged from the doors to his right, the way into the Away rooms. He stopped in his tracks, chest rising and falling, a single bead of sweat travelling down the right of his bearded face. Ross Barkley stood in the doorway, an odd frown and blush on his features, staring this way.
Eric tensed. He hadn't enjoyed the aggressive tension between them before, the sensation that a moment more could have escalated into a fight. As a footballer who had already suffered one ban for violence this calendar year, the Spurs defensive hunk had no interest in scrapping with an opponent tonight, especially not one he'd been so, erm, intimate with... He stood there silently, holding back a sarcy retort at the sour-faced Scouser, fully regretting risking his place in the match to check on the spoilt brat who'd clashed with his own manager, and-
`Eric,' huffed Ross, and he melted a little at the crackle of that Mersey accent.
`What?' he demanded moodily.
I -- er -- you -- it's -- A long silence. `Thanks for being so kind to Mase. He needed that.'
Eric shrugged his bare shoulders. I'm not a prick, y'know. Some of us were brought up, not dragged up.' He hated how sneering and snobbish his comment sounded, but he was picturing the horrible way Ross had brawled at him twice this evening, caught at it by Lampard both times; but this thought gave way to worry and sympathy, since he suspected what the Chelsea boss had walked in on earlier could hardly have improved the apparent row between them... He frowned concernedly at the other man, waiting for him to say more. Is he okay?' he asked, not particularly interested in resilient young Mount, but eyes roving all over Barkley's ruggedly handsome face, the tight cling of his tracksuit top.
Ross didn't say anything, just stared at him, looking all fresh and clean for his failure to take part in the game, a contrast to the active heat pouring from Eric's own worn-out frame, his dark blue Spurs shorts sticking to his upper thighs and riding down a little to expose a white waistband of his undies. He felt the new tension between them now, not the resentful violence of earlier, but the spark of magic in Liverpool Street Station, two men on failed date nights needing something new and important in their lives.
He jerked his head down the tunnel, in the direction of the toilets he'd chased Barkley into earlier, heart racing with friendly concern. `Come on,' he breathed, knowing he didn't have long before somebody from his victorious team came looking for him. He didn't reach to touch or pull on the other man, but backed off, turned, walked swiftly the way he'd come -- shoving his strong arms into the door to push it open, hearing the hot breaths and quick squeaking trainer footsteps after him as they both spilled into the mens' room.
Eric grabbed him instantly, taking hold of those biceps again; he shoved his friend back into the door, holding it closed with the weight of their bodies, pressing mouth to mouth once more with the same urgency but less of the fraught violence. Ross gulped and tensed in response, clearly unused to male kissing, but more receptive than before; their lips brushed and pulled and their tongues clashed and Eric brought one hand up against the back of his neck to hold him in the lingering snog, tasting that cherry sweetness on his breath and saliva. When their mouths parted, they both sighed heavily and lustily into one another, and Eric pushed his hand down over the hard front of his body and to his crotch, finding the weighty bulge in his skinny-fit trackies, prodding and rubbing it with his knuckles.
`Shit,' rasped the Scouser, some conflict in his voice.
Dier kissed it away, pushing their faces together and squashing their strong noses as they did so, cupping his hand around Barkley's package and then slipping the same hand up his top, feeling his six-pack beneath two layers of nylon. With his other hand, he grabbed at the other lad's dangling paw and rubbed it in against the bulge in his own shorts -- Ross seemed to resist or hesitate, dragging away, but Eric insisted, needing to feel contact there, needing this strong masculine bloke to touch him; he closed his hand over his, pressing it over his piece so that they were both rubbing each other into hardness as their lips dragged away again. The sharp rough stubble of Barkley's face itched his lips and made him shudder excitedly.
`Suck me again?' Ross said, a sort of sad pleading edge to his voice.
Eric shook his head, squeezing his hand more to his bulge. `Your turn,' he threatened.
Ross's eyes bulged. `Nah lad, nah...'
Eric bit his own lip and pushed his hand inside the lad's trackies, dragging his sizeable semi and bollocks out, making him whimper and gasp, then grinding his own crotch into that hesitant hand. No?' he purred. Another time, then, matey... but for now...' He pulled both hands back and edged down his shorts until his hard-on sprung free, brushing the rough fingers of Barkley's hand... he controlled the moment, grabbing hold of the Scouser's big nob and forcing one of his hands about his own shaft so that, bodies close, they were beginning a quick and nervous mutual handjob against the door. With this encouragement and command, Ross grabbed and pulled quite confidently at his own big thick meat, while he teased and stroked at his in return, both of them gasping, faces so close. `I want to kiss you again,' Eric said throatily.
`I don't kiss guys,' Ross told him in spite of what had already happened.
`But you taste so great,' Dier said, and snogged him anyway. He pushed him back into the door with his free hand, stroking his neck and shoulder while he jerked his mighty Scouse prick, enjoying the awkward strength of the returned favour, a synced rhythm developing in their tight strong fists, cocks rubbing at each other's bodies and clothing as they did so, hot and fast and equal.
`Ah shit,' grumbled Barkley, still awkward and reluctant somehow, though something in his manner told Dier that the other night hadn't actually been his first rodeo -- he couldn't guess who but he suspected that this Scouse stud had experienced a man's lips on his cock before, the way he'd initiated things had been too forthright and demanding to be a total newbie. Yet still he was clumsy and almost fearful, so adorably vulnerable as Dier stole another kiss, now against his cheeks and chin and the bridge of his nose before returning to his lips.
`You're a good kisser,' Eric teased him, rubbing the side of his neck, pushing his face aside a little and sucking greedily on his neck, hoping to leave a teenage lovebite there, speeding up his tugs and strokes of the man's glorious prick.
Suck me,' begged Ross, you're so good...'
Nah,' Eric chided him, nibbling his little earlobe and pulling really firmly on his throbbing member, not tonight bud...' He wanted to, wanted it in his mouth so bad, but he felt like resisting, like denying; there was a power in it that thrilled him and seemed to push this brutish stud, he knew he'd miss out on these glorious kisses if he submitted and sank to his bruised knees. Instead he rested their brows together, equally matched in height and strength, and pulled rapidly on him to summon his orgasm, conscious of time and risk.
Ross came first, making a sound that was both deep and bestial and very vulnerable, spurting his cum against the roll of Eric's shorts and down his fluffy thigh, great globs of his seed dribbling to his kneecap and his whole physique shaking between him and the door; Eric sighed and whined and kissed him again, reaching down to close both hands over Ross's and force him to speed up, fucking into his two hands until he too was spunking his load, jetting cum against the lad's cock and balls and the short fuzz of his pubes, spilling some at the blue shiny fabric of his trackies. Both of them panted and sighed and shook, there against the toilet door, holding it shut and maintaining their secrecy.
`Jesus,' whispered the Scouser.
`Not quite, but I'm pretty great, huh?' giggled Dier, kissing him on the other side of the neck, dragging his lips and his facial hair over that sensitive tan skin, then retreating from him a little, sucking in his breaths, pushing both hands into the door to prop himself up and recover.
`You smug prick,' chuckled the sexy bastard in front of him, too shy to make eye contact now.
`God you're sexy, Barkley,' Dier muttered, and their eyes met again for a second, the Chelsea player blushing fiercely and his bottom lip shaking a little, pouting back with uncertainty as if he didn't know whether to take this compliment sincerely or force a blokey laugh in return. Eric just grinned at him, feeling that spark in his broad chest, that glimmer of hope for something new.
The tall muscular footballer walked the short distance to the Away changing rooms in a daze, and found that most of the lads were freshly showered and changing into comfy sweatpants and hoodies for the trip back across the capital city. A few guys made vague comments about his absence, little jokes about him trying to shag an attractive female sports journalist who had been spotted in the media suite; Barkley just murmured his jokey confirmation of this rumour, wondering if his swollen satisfied prick was bulging a bit too much in his tracky bottoms as he trailed along behind them through the grounds and into the car park.
Thinking madly about the passionate snogs with the gentlemanly Spurs lad, he was jolted out of his daze by a hand on his shoulder and the severe expression on Lampard's face, stalling him in the exit while the rest of the squad moved ahead towards the waiting coaches. He stared back at the gaffer, looking for a trace of softness in the boss's face.
`Frank?' he asked quietly.
Don't be so familiar,' he was told warningly. We need to talk before you get on that bus, kid.'
Ross didn't like the tone of his voice. `What is it?'
Lampard looked strangely at him. Still he seemed angry, but more wearied and defeated now, something sunken and regretful in his manner. He stared hard at Barkley and seemed to be doing his best to be detached and cold with him as he held his shoulder and lingered there beside him, a little of the old sexual tension back between them like it had been almost a year ago. Maybe the middle-aged fucker can smell the cum in my pants, he thought deliriously.
`Boss?' the Scouser asked respectfully, wondering what threat or punishment or fine was going to come his way for speaking out of turn earlier and complaining that he was not being subbed on to help save the game in its second half. He had pushed the boss too far with his remarks, he knew it, had taken risks in the hope that Frank's lust would give him a bit of leeway...
Ross, lad,' said Frank in the unmistakable voice of seniors about to give bad news, I've just come off the phone with your people, and I think you're going to be a bit shocked, but...'
He looked at himself in the dressing room mirror, the pale blue sleeves and shirt tight around his shoulders and torso, the jarring Kappa logo bold in its place, the splashes of claret marked out against this backdrop. It was odd not to see himself in strong blues, whether Everton's or Chelsea's. He gulped loudly and chewed his lip, stretching and moving his thick legs in the loose grey shorts that had been picked out for him, dressed up and ready for the `reveal' photography that the Villa management had organised out on the training grounds.
Ross breathed deeply and reminded himself that it was a one-year loan, not a full transfer; that it was still the Premier League, not the Championship or worse; that Villa were a really resilient team who had clung to their top-flight spot against all odds last season; that he was guaranteed far more match-time here than staying at Stamford Bridge with all the new competition the powers-that-be had bought in over the summer, one exciting name after another.
He was a free young bloke and a move to Birmingham was easy for him -- what was he really leaving behind in London? Unwanted and distracting, the thought of those lips on his drifted back to him, the furry tickle of that man's beard against his own stubble, the kindness in those blue eyes.
`Whenever you're ready, fella.' The brash Brummie accent of an executive outside the door of the dressing room, waiting for him with the others.
He nodded at his reflection and adjusted the fresh kit on his body, leaving the privacy to join them and be ogled as their new rental, just a commodity to be traded by competitive teams without any consultation of his own thoughts and feelings. Fuck.
Photos were taken, hands shook. The contracts were already signed, and the pay deals were surprisingly good. He was too bewildered and dazed to feel overly appreciative; twelve hours ago he had been watching his team lose in Tottenham, now they weren't really his team at all. He drifted through the afternoon of posed photographs with the manager, and then the introductions to some of his new teammates. At the door of a players' lounge beside the refectory where an early evening meal was stirring up some spicy smells, he caught sight of a familiar figure limping his way, laughing off a comment from someone else nearby about a minor ankle injury.
Ross gripped hands with his new captain and entered the brief half-hug of manly affection. `Jack,' he rasped, glad to see the young Brummie, but still getting used to the idea of being teammates with Grealish. The goateed young player grinned at him, patted him on the arm, turned to pose as someone with a camera filmed their first encounter as teammates.
All good?' Jack the lad asked him. Mate, when I heard...! Fuck, welcome to Villa, you legend... is this exciting or WHAT?' Another grab of hug from the excitable young midfielder, pulling him in the direction of a huddle of the others. You okay?' Jack demanded, throwing his arm about his shoulders and steering him along, his long hair flopping about his sparky features. You look a bit knackered, pal, long journey up...?'
`Hmm, uh, yeh, early start, and all a bit of a blur, heh...'
Ah, don't you worry,' Grealish promised him with a squeeze, you're gonna love it here, what a team and what a gang of lads. Best fans in the world, too. Love it. Mate! You're gonna be alright, Barks, Ross the fuckin' Boss... Captain Jack will look after ya...!'
Behind them, standing with his hands in the pockets of his dark grey tracksuit bottoms, the club's assistant manager watched them, a strange half-smile on his face as he observed the two young athletes catch up and rejoin the scattering of relaxing Villa lads, tired out from their day's work and ready to be fed by the team kitchens. Another good bit of business for the team, he thought with a stirring of optimism, quietly confident in his colleagues' negotiation skills here and the odd speed with which this loan player had suddenly been secured.
John Terry nodded silently to himself, appreciating both the importance a man like Barkley could take on at their club as they fought to secure a proper permanent place in the world of the Premiership, and the way those fairly loose grey shorts curved around the young man's impressive behind, teetering along beside the peachy round rump of the Captain.
Yes, he thought confidently, it will be nice to have this new meat around the place.
In his pocket, his phone buzzed against his resting hand, and he slid out his phone. It was, to his surprise, a message from Lampard; almost the first contact from his closest footballing pal in a couple of months now. The first real contact, he thought, since their quite violent parting on the streets of London in summer, when he'd been so freaked out by the advances of that poor confused bloke; a pang of guilt troubled the old Chelsea warrior as he saw his mate's name flash up on the screen, but he opened the message anyway and read it.
It was a short and cryptic message, and the emoji at the end signified more than the ambiguous words his best mate had typed, so much so that for a few moments he thought it had been sent to the wrong person after all. He'd ignored a number of oddly timed calls from the young Chelsea boss, his old amigo, the greatest wingman he'd ever had; but here was a message from him at long last, the first sign of peace between them since that tense night of confrontation and denial.
`hey JT -- have fun with the gift I sent you lol' So ambiguous and confusing. But after it, an eggplant and peach emoji, and a sly winking yellow face. Terry looked up from the message and at the Chelsea loan man, laughing heartily at some joke of young Jack's, sliding into a spare seat along the other kitted Villa players, slowly relaxing into his temporary new footballing home. Terry reread the message and its suggestive emojis, and a slow smirk spread over his lips. Oh Lamps, mate... you dirty bugger...
AGAIN, JUST CAN'T RESIST THE EVENTS AND TWISTS OF THE WEEK'S REAL FOOTBALL... HOPE YOU ENJOY MY TAKE ON THEM. THANK YOU FOR YOUR CONTINUED SUPPORT, FEEDBACK, ENCOURAGEMENT! LOTS OF IDEAS BOUNCING AROUND AT THE MINUTE BUT STILL OPEN TO REQUESTS AND SUGGESTIONS - I KNOW THERE'S SOME FAVOURITES WHO NEED TO BE REVISITED AS WELL AS ALL THESE NEW CHARACTERS AND PLOTS! COMING CLOSE TO THE 200TH CHAPTER SO NEED TO START PLANNING THAT - HOW SHOULD I CELEBRATE THAT LANDMARK?