Part 196: Hat-trick Bamford
The 27-year-old footballer walked through the corridors of the Birmingham hotel in high spirits, a broad grin plastered across his handsome features as he shrugged off some loud calls of approval from the other Leeds lads dispersing for their different shared suites:
`Legend!'
`Absolute fuckin' star quality, mate!'
`Hat-trick Bamford, nickname for life, bro...'
`Sweet dreams, striker, what a dah, huh?!'
The privately-educated striker swaggered on, doing his best to remain as calmly humble as he had through the late evening celebrations in the top-floor bar of their hotel, nursing his second pint for as long as he could and refusing a number of covert attempts to push another drink his way by delighted teammates. It had been a long and fun evening of good spirits among the Leeds squad, and Patrick Bamford was partly regretful to be winding his way across the network of hallways to his own room -- but he was also completely fucking shattered and more than ready to collapse into bed.
It had been a triumphant game for them on this damp Friday night, a solid 3-0 win over fellow resurgent underdogs Aston Villa. Bamford's team had succeeded where bigger Premiership rivals has failed, withstanding Villa's surprising good form and the heavy new partnership from the likes of Grealish and Barkley. All three goals had come from his own foot, and a few of the coaches had started quoting stats at him about how long it had been since anyone scored a Premiership hat-trick for the club; it was an achievement that seemed to cement Patrick's central role at the newly promoted team and he had enjoyed being lauded a hero for the whole night.
The beaming forward left behind the noisy cheerfulness of the others, flushed with the heat of the hotel and the two after-dinner beers, jingling a key from the pockets of his tracksuit bottoms and reaching the door to his own shared room. He slotted in the key and shouldered it opened, glancing ahead into the quiet half-lit room, and having his suspicions confirmed -- he hadn't seen anything of his roomie in the past hour or more and, yep, here he was.
Alright,' the Grantham-born footballer called instantly at the other lad, pushing the door to behind him and juggling the loose key in his left palm as he did, immediately tempering his jubilant mood and all the noise of the bar above. Here you are,' he added in a tone of suddenly forced cheer, `I didn't get to toast with you in the bar, mate...!'
The younger Leeds player was slumped in one of the two armchairs with his feet up on the other, an iPad propped up in his lap and a heavy set of Beats headphones over his ears, staring quite fixedly at the screen and showing no sign of hearing Patrick's arrival. When he strode over the room to step into his vision and wave at him, he saw a panicked flicker of awkwardness on the youth's face and an uncomfortable twitching of his sullen expression as he fumbled to pause his film or whatever and wrestle the Beats off his head -- `Oh, hey, Paddy...'
Bamford smiled warmly at the sturdy little lad, tossing the key from his hand onto the desk next to his teammate, hesitating on what to say or what tone to take. He felt very aware that his roomie's mood was not quite as high and glowing as most guys on the team, had been a little worried about him this past month or more, and he wasn't entirely sure how to enjoy his own night of success without treading stupidly over that fact. You been up here long?' he asked, realising young Leif Davis wouldn't have heard his opening comment. You missed out, had a couple of beers up there...'
Oh. Yeah. Erm.' Still seeming preoccupied with his device and headphones, consumed in whatever box set he was consuming, Davis gave him a couple of wary glances then dumped the tech aside on the desk, scratching at his chin and ruffling his loose black tshirt as he fidgeted about to make space, pulling his legs up against his body and hugging his knees. Just needed some quiet time after dinner, actually, y'know man, had a bit of a headache so...'
Yeah, fair enough,' Bamford replied smoothly, slipping into the other seat and kicking the Adidas sliders off each of his feet while he made himself comfortable. Watching anything good?' he asked conversationally, watching Leif's wavering frown carefully and trying to calm down his own happy glow.
`Nah, nowt much,' mumbled the Geordie defender in a fairly dismissive tone that sounded teenage and sulky, almost irritating to Patrick in the midst of his night's celebrations, but instantly forgivable. He grinned hesitantly at his roommate, waiting for slightly more detail than this brusque response, but Leif seemed to be avoiding his eyes and staring soulfully over the room at his own bed. As if to make a point, he reached up to stifle a yawn.
Yeah, same,' Bamford told him. Knackered, bro. Gonna sleep like a LOG.' He got up again, unfolding his 6ft1 physique from the attractively uncomfortable seat and then stretching his long arms behind his back while unconsciously echoing the younger player's yawn. `Just need to brush my teeth then I'll be straight in there, snoring like a trooper.' He turned away, reaching down to roll up his hoody and t-shirt in one go, baring his long lean torso and then shoving down his loose-fitting tracksuit bottoms until he was just in a pair of long white Armani boxers -- thus undressed, the tall striker strode on into their en suite bathroom with his toilet bag clutched in one hand, leaving behind the quiet glowering of Leif.
As one of the older and more experienced members of this ambitious squad, Bamford felt a determination to look out for fledgling Premiership lads like Davis, especially when their captain Liam Cooper often seemed more interested in getting wasted and telling everyone how much more fun he had when away with the Scotland team, fucking Glaswegian hookers in basement bars. And obviously certain, erm, incidents, as he kept awkwardly framing it in his head, had put the Tyneside lad in his path as a particularly needy pup; since adopting Leif as a roommate a few weeks back, he'd been trying even harder to encourage and support the quite reserved 20-year-old.
Patrick hadn't QUITE established what happened in that other hotel night, but he had the distinct sense that some other members of the squad were bullying Leif to some extent, and he didn't like it. He sorely regretted any part in the daft contest on the night of Leeds' promotion, that sordid drunken gathering in their own stadium. He was gutted that so many members of the team were aware of the `outcome': his winning, Leif's losing, the... forfeit. He was particularly irked by the behaviour of outspoken loan player Harrison, who he knew had been needling the young lads' ego, and then... well, it had become clear to Paddy that Jack was a shifty character, the way he'd behaved when he confronted him! Fucking hell!
He stared himself down in the mirror with a mouthful of drooling toothpaste froth, shaking off that little memory of the way seedy Jack Harrison had moved on him in the heat of the moment. He had a lot of respect for the Man City loan lad, trusted him as an ally on the pitch and another key segment of their recent success, but he was now very wary of him on a personal level -- he knew him to be a sneaky arrogant bully, and he suspected him to be less than straight...forward.
Paddy returned to the main room, knuckling white paste away from his softly bearded chin, patting at his smooth six-pack with the other hand and traipsing towards the beds with another wide gaping yawn, seeing Leif already under the covers of his own bed with a TV remote in his hands, staring quite gloomily up at the flatscreen on the wall.
Fuck, he really did look down in the dumps, actually -- not that he seemed a selfish sort, he'd been as celebratory as anyone else when Bamford got his third goal tonight and underlined the already certain victory. But he did seem particularly downbeat on this short trip into the Midlands, none of the mature confidence and Geordie resilience that he'd shown in the Championship or in the pre-season weeks this year. It was horrible to think that his burgeoning confidence and ambition had been flattened by a bit of daft teasing or provocation from his own teammates!
The hat-trick scoring forward moved towards Leif's bed rather than his own, resolving to tackle this head-on rather than taking the coward's route of much-needed slip and typical male evasiveness. He saw Leif twitch and glance over in his comfortable bedded position as Patrick loped forward and sat sideways on the edge of the bed, aware of his limited outfit but needing to push through the traditional masculine silence between them.
Leif, mate,' the tall posh sportsman started with a firm confrontational tone, are you okay at the minute? I'm a bit worried about you, you know.' He fixed him with a warm but worried look and patted his leg through the thick duvet, leaning his way slightly. `I can tell you're down, I just want to be there for you, like you've been there for me, kid. What's bothering you, Davy...?'
The 20-year-old Newcastle lad stared his way, looking momentarily stricken, then furrowing his blond brows and faintly acned young face. You've er, spilled a bit,' he coughed back, sitting back still in his tshirt, a thin gold chain showing over it around his neck; he was dabbing at the chest of his top as he spoke and Paddy paused, distracted from his confrontational aim. Oh,' he said, finding the missed smear of his own toothpaste dribble that had stained the light hairy between his pecs, licking a finger to smear over the little white splash and then pausing awkwardly in a faint moment of reminiscence as he sat there close to the other player. When he looked up, his eyes caught Leif's and they blushed simultaneously at the thought of another private moment of white spillage and quiet shared knowledge between striker and left-back.
For Leif, the crappiness of today's officially victorious away game had really started when he was elbowed aside on the way into Villa Park, one of Stuart Dallas' heavy hands landing on his shoulder and a leering cough speaking into his ear: Subs bench for you again, Davy? Oh no, hope you make it on the pitch this time,' the Northern Irish bloke chuckled, steering him along in the distanced procession of visiting players down the long corridor to the Away changing rooms. Otherwise you'll end up all nervous and energetic again after 90 minutes... but if you do, you can always lend someone else a helping hand again and use up that spare tension, Leafy...!' And then the gruff 29-year-old just burst into seedy private laughter, patting him roughly on the back and overtaking him as he strutted after the others.
It wasn't the first time he'd had some fresh teasing from Dallas, or his absent crony Barry Douglas, and he sourly concluded that it would not be the last. His stupid naivety in briefly rooming with the sleazy pair on that last trip had bitten him repeatedly in their Yorkshire training camp, and in allusive jokes and gifs in the laddish group chat. The muttered knowledge of `Little Lief' and the promotion night party followed the youth like a shadow, and the gruff pair of Dallas and Douglas were not alone in enjoying the odd joke or prod at it. Ugh.
The 3-0 win that proceeded under the Midlands drizzle was not lost on Davis, but it was a tough one to enjoy from his substitute seat on the edge of the action, watching on as Rafinha, Hernandez and his own close pal Shackleton all left the bench to take their own moments on the playing 11, while he languished in his Leeds tracksuit with nothing to do but clap limply at one, two, three goals from Paddy Bamford. He didn't feel any specific envy or bitterness to Bamford, he had a lot of love for the plucky forward and his increasingly close friend, but he felt a combined dissatisfaction with his meagre Premiership minutes so far and the idea that he'd become a behind-the-scenes joke at Elland Road this autumn.
After the game, his unused sub status meant he obviously didn't need to join in the steamy communal showers, and he was glad of that -- he always felt particularly conscious of that daft toxic contest in the summer when he was stripping down his short stocky frame and washing down in the same space as other players. He'd never been particularly shy in his teens and yet now at 20 he was starting to dread the shared showers and exposure, especially if certain brutish individuals on the Leeds side were present, or if he ended up soaping down anywhere near a friend like Bamford, whose `winning' appendage was so fucking obvious as he stomped casually about.
He did have to hang about the dressing room clapping weakly along to various chants and celebrations of the well-endowed hero though, eyeing Paddy up across the room from his stuffy corner while the towel-glad golden boy basked in his status as singlehanded match-winner. Again, Leif wasn't resenting Bamford's deserved applause, but he felt totally peripheral to the successful game and just a bystander.
This mood continued during the short bus trip from stadium to hotel and at the long spaced-out tables of the restaurant where they enjoyed a late evening meal before being allowed brief access to the bar. Leif ate quietly and kept to himself, annoyed by his own moodiness and just wanting to get back to Leeds tomorrow and enjoy a day off hiding out at his shared house in the Yorkshire city. He needed tonight to just skim by and the early drive north in the morning to be out of the way, and then he could enjoy some Zoom socialising with his Newcastle pals and family.
But despite these clear efforts to hold himself back from the increasingly rowdy mood of the dinner, he then found himself targeted all the same. He was just pushing the final crumbs of his apple pie and custard around the bowl when a different guy to his previous neighbour dropped into the seat beside him, most of the men already moving through from restaurant to bar: it was Jack Harrison, the 23-year-old Stoke lad pushing an elbow into his arm and giving him an almost conspiratorial wink.
Wotcha,' the talented winger said, big night for you, eh!'
`Huh?' had been Leif's instant response, glowering uncomfortably at the attacking player, awkwardly conscious of how much he'd overreacted and struggled with the guy's pushy banter when they were last alone together. He looked at him with a moment's genuine confusion, slow to feel the jibe coming.
Well,' Jack told him in a hurried whisper, your boy is champion of champions, right, it'll be a busy night for your right hand making him feel like the winner he is, huh...?'
Immediately, the Geordie lad gritted his teeth and glared angrily at the grinning cunt. Don't fuckin' start, man,' he growled warningly, squaring his thick young shoulders and shifting away from the other lad as he reached to pat his arm, I ain't in the mood, pal...'
Oh, come on, someone has to look after Hat-Trick Bamford,' Harrison trilled, punching him lightly in the shoulder and emitting a mean little cackle of enjoyment again. Taking one for the team, you are, such a valuable role for us, y'know, so...' He didn't stay still to listen to any more bullshit, scraping his chair back from the table and shoving the 23-year-old's invasive hand off himself before springing up to his feet and storming instantly away, Jack's laughter just audible over the background rumble of the dining room.
It was such a petty little moment. It wasn't as if an undertone of homophobic humour wasn't depressingly commonplace amongst footballing blokes, nothing Leif hadn't heard before between players here and in his younger starts in the North East; he should have been able to bear it with a grim smile and a roll of the eyes. Better yet, some cutting comeback or attempt to shame Jack for being so basic and prejudiced, that's what he should have done to him -- So what if we were bumming each other?' the 20-year-old wished he'd barked smugly back at that slippery twat who thought he was bigger than the team. So what if we are secret lovers?' he fantasised about snapping at one of his tormentors, snarling at Harrison or Dallas or Douglas, defending the queer community and calling out the bullshit homophobia of male sports. But in this reality, Davis left the meal with his tail between his legs, sulky and defeated, and only made more paranoid and anxious by the relish with which he imagined delivering that dismissive comeback to the stupid ponytailed fuck. `So what if we are fucking?' he'd imagined himself barking before pushing Jack away, and his round cheeks coloured and heated as he disappeared into the lift cubicle alone.
In the hotel room, he didn't feel any particular guilt or regret at storming off -- he didn't feel like he could stomach the hour or so before curfew trying to be jolly and to cheer and yelp for the win over Villa when he'd not contributed a single tap of the ball. Nobody would mind, he told himself resolutely, nobody would miss a wee Geordie substitute who hadn't made the cut! So instead he loafed about the hotel suite in his pyjamas, a baggy black sports tshirt and a pair of faded old adidas shorts; catching up on text messages and his social media, even going as far as to post some congratulatory pics of Bamford's hat-trick to his stories to make up for not joining the drinks below.
He ended up on his iPad because his tired eyes were irritated by the small screen of his Samsung phone. Pornhub sat tantalisingly in a browser window left open from a couple of nights ago when he'd had to cancel a date with his girlfriend due to pre-match quarantining rules, and a scrawl through the infamous porno site had been all he could access. He bit his lip and let his eyes over between windows on the screen, sitting comfortably in one of the two solid chairs with his bare feet propped up on the other to stretch his short chunky legs. Leif glanced over the empty room, at the closed door, at the clock, then back at the tab; he jabbed a stubby finger at the screen and loaded up the playlist of dirty videos that he returned to whenever he was in need. Well, nowt comforted a lad like a cheeky wank, right...?
That was the theory. But it turned out his left-out and bullied malaise was heavier than he realised, since his chubby soft prick and sweaty balls remained dormant in the folds of his close-fitting old shorts, scrolling through a series of tried-and-tested dirty videos that he'd bookmarked as a randy teenager moving away from home. He fondled himself lightly in the glossy blue nylon of the shorts and skipped the next video to the better bits -- the real action, the dirty stuff, but... nah, still nowt. He huffed irritably at the screen, paused on a close-up of a bird fingering herself rabidly, and pictured Jack's smug face at the dinner table, Stuart's Northern Irish wheeze and leer in the tunnel to the changing rooms. The stuff he'd done had really knocked his laddish confidence and he thought with a gloomy frown of the times he'd struggled to keep his hard-on going on rare meet-ups with his girlfriend so far this season. Was it knowing he had the smallest prick on the Leeds squad, or was it the fact he'd now tossed off three different blokes with his soft strong hands...?
That was when the rogue video on the bottom right of the screen caught his eye, its thumbnail icon jarring against the array of tits and pussy: it was a guy fucking a girl but HE was the obvious focus, some big musclebound American jock type, grinning for the camera and pinning his petite lover to the bed, chest huge and- Leif was tapping on the icon before he'd questioned this odd twist on his usual porn, loading up the video from `Hot Guys Fuck' and looking at the couple, now fully dressed, being interviewed on a couch, the girl playing with her cleavage and the guy adjusting a tight muscle-fit tshirt over his swollen pecs... bloody big fella, Leif thought, full of aspirations to bulk up his own short frame, but knowing that kinda showy body-builder look had no real place on the footy pitch. Well, unless you were Traore, haha. His thumb slipped and he skipped the video forward: the t-shirt was yanking up over tanned American beef and the girl was down to skimpy lingerie, conversation over and just giggles and pants sounding through the Beats headphones over each ear. The video's quality or focus or something was doing what his usual faves weren't, and he felt a prickling in the front of his shorts, a growing and warming of his manhood.
He was just feeling the stiffness really take hold down below when his eyes were distracted sharply from the screen by a waving hand just out of centre and the arrival of someone else in the room -- fuck! He hadn't heard the door or Paddy's voice, too fixated on the way this big jock was motorboating the artificially huge boobs of his girlfriend. And now Leif had a stiffy in his shorts barely covered by the iPad in his lap, its screen blaring with the American porno. Alright,' Bamford was saying, here you are... I didn't get to toast with you in the bar!' Leif stared at him in mortified horror, shuffling the headphones off and thumbing awkwardly at the screen to pause and exit the video and make sure its gasping noises weren't blaring from the Beats now curved about his neck.
`Oh, hey, Paddy...' he murmured uncomfortably, feeling very annoyed by his unawareness of the time; he knew full well all bars had to stop serving at 10pm so of course the lads would be up to their rooms about now, what the hell had he been doing sat here playing with himself in his shorts and looking at... he grimaced, realising just how much he'd focused in on the bloke in the video, the big hunky bastard and his stupid ballooning muscles!
`You been up here long?' he heard the other guy say and glanced irritably at him, annoyed at himself and not the big handsome fella who'd been such a rock to him in recent weeks, the only guy not digging at him with jibes and references to what had happened between them; in fact, Paddy seemed completely unfazed by the moment they'd shared, just seemed to want to look out for him like a big bro. What a sweet guy he was...
Oh,' Leif said distractedly, Yeah, erm... Just needed some quiet time after dinner, actually, y'know man, had a bit of a headache so...' He thrust the locked iPad and beeping headphones onto the desk to his right, folding his legs up to hide any sign of the erection in his shorts as, aggravatingly, Bamford sunk down into the chair opposite to join him, leaning on the desk with one of those expansive classy smiles of his. Leif tried his best to restrain a yelp of horror and annoyance when Paddy then asked what he'd been watching, and he couldn't hold in the sulky defensive `Nowt much' as he answered him. He saw his own moodiness register in Patrick's long kind face, the slow nod of acceptance from the other guy. Leif faked a yawn, wanting out of this dialogue as fast as possible, but feeling a twat to be so rude and distant from the one guy who'd tried to look out for him this season.
Yeah, same,' Bamford was murmuring. Knackered, bro. Gonna sleep like a LOG. Just need to brush my teeth then I'll be straight in there, snoring like a trooper.' Leif for a moment watched him stripping for the bathroom then politely averted his eyes, glaring at the Apple tablet on the desk as if placing all blame for his near-miss awkward moment on the device itself, not his wandering digit.
Leif seized the opportunity of Patrick's disappearance into the bathroom. He climbed straight into bed, listening to the watery splashes and gurgles, and pulled the duvet over himself with his tshirt and shorts still on, his prick rock hard against the inner leg of his shorts. He huffed out annoyed and worried breaths and realised his tiredness had faded in the adrenalin of near-discovery. He seized on the TV remote on the table between the beds and switched on some late-night news, hoping the gloomy headlines would kill his boner; but here was Paddy back from the bathroom already, standing tall by his bed and staring his way.
To the Newcastle youngster's horror, Paddy was sinking into a seated position on the bed by his legs, still just in the white Emporio Armani pants that clung to his blond-fluffed thighs and narrow waist. Leif, mate, are you okay at the minute?' the friendly striker was asking, and Leif internally screamed No get off my bed PLEASE' but just stared worriedly in silence. I'm a bit worried about you, you know,' the posh bloke was saying in that low friendly voice that melted Leif's gruff resistance. I can tell you're down,' Paddy was continuing, patting his leg -- dangerously close to his crotch! -- and giving him those big wide eyes of concern. `What's bothering you, Davy...?'
In a desperate bid not to meet Bamford's eyes, he glanced down, and noted the little streak of toothpaste on his chest. `You've spilled a bit,' he gulped out, and immediately he returned to the moment of rescue: Paddy finding him stressed and guilty in the corridors after being wound up by first Harrison and then used by Dallas and Douglas. Paddy had noticed and wiped the stray speck of spunk from his hoody, mistaking it innocently for toothpaste, before allowing Leif to crash in his room and basically taking him under his wing from that moment on. Leif trembled in guilty awkwardness as Paddy laughed gently and wiped the white mark away from his pale skin.
When he looked back up, Leif shuddered at the intimacy of their eyes briefly locking, his dick aching hard in his shorts below the covers. Patrick, always so calm and friendly and matey, did look awkward too for a moment; surely he was thinking of how overly close they'd been before, giving it some dubious remembrance? Or was it really no big deal to someone as confident as him? He realised that Bamford was speaking again but he'd tuned out.
It took me a long time to get here, y'know,' Paddy was saying now. Honest, just look at my career track, been on more loan deals than a DVD rental -- fuck, do you even know what a DVD is, kid?' Nervous laughter that Leif sulkily batted away, trying to look less moody and hostile.
`Course I do,' he mumbled.
I'm 27,' his striker friend was pointing out, and I've had to really work my arse off at so many different clubs even just to be made permanent, so now... I mean, a hat-trick like that in the Prem, for me, it's incredible, but -- don't think it's come easy or out of nowhere, so-`
I ain't jealous,' the younger lad grunted quickly, sensing the jarring direction of it all. I don't resent you that success! I'm not... I'm not moody cos of your goals, mate, I'm seriously chuffed for you, didn't you see what I put on Insta or Twitter, or...' He felt his cheeks burn and shuffled in the bed uncomfortably. `It isn't like that, man -- what kind of petty gimp do you think I am, seriously...?'
He saw the surprise and relief on his roommate's face but realised that it now left him with a more difficult and honest point to be made. Bamford was staring searchingly at him, very close on the bed with his hand still on his left leg, leaning over with his tall body all on show. It's all the fuckin' teasing,' he exploded, and the way the guys treat me since... since... well... y'know! Fuck.' He cringed at himself, hating his childishness and hoping he didn't have to be more explicit. `People calling me Little Leif and knowing that I... well... I mean, they don't even know I FINISHED you, so...' He couldn't look him in the eyes now, cringing and shuddering and feeling Patrick, frustratingly, come even closer to him on the bed, reaching for his shoulder.
`Oh, that? Still that?'
`Aye man, still THAT!'
He burst out of the bedding in an effort to free himself form the invasive concern of the bigger older lad, pushing past him to get up and out, but forgetting the fatal error of the move as his tented blue shorts were exposed and Patrick was instantly looking down at it. Now he was trapped, stood face to face with him in the aisle between their two double beds, his arousal apparent. The laugh that sounded from the 27-year-old was soft and friendly rather than teasing or judgmental. Mate, so much for Little Leif,' the successful striker trilled cheerily. How shrunk and cold were you that night of the competition...?'
Leif was stunned by this appraisal, hearing his own thoughts echoed so bluntly by another lad. He gawped stupidly at his older friend and then joined his tinkling laugh uncertainly, seeing the funny and positive side of having his young hard-on spotted right now. Right!' he mumbled dumbly. I tried to tell em, I ain't that little really, just... oh shit...' He rubbed at his patchy short beard, cringing in front of Paddy's warm grin and loose near-naked posture. Everyone just sees me as this little idiot who... you know, the mad lad that actually...' He mimed a hand-job and scowled. `Stu and Baz just thought I was into that, some queer they could... ugh...'
A long sigh from the forward. Nobody really thinks that,' he said unconvincingly. I mean... I sure don't, and it was me you...' The slightest flash of concern or regret on the confident face. `I don't see you that way, Leif, Davy. I see you as... well...' He stumbled on his own assertion, clearly unsure what to say.
Bearing all of his anxiety, Leif grunted back, `Don't change the truth though, does it? I'm just the bairn that tossed you off when we got promoted. Fuck's sake. I'm sorry, Pads. I shouldn't be...'
`No, no -- it's good for you to say how you feel. I'm glad you said, mate. Hmm.'
Still,' he grumbled sheepishly, it's not your problem, it's...'
I let you do it,' Bamford said quietly and honourably. It takes two to... y'know.' Leif was staring at his toes, annoyed by the way his manhood poked eagerly into view, and dreading the inevitable moment Paddy refused to room with him again after this outburst and honesty; what his roomie said next threw him completely and brought his eyes sharply up to look at him. Maybe we need to even the score.' He stared at him, frenzied with uncertainty if the statement meant what he thought. Maybe,' Patrick said, and shrugged his broad strong shoulders for a moment, `I dunno. Would that help? Would it make you feel less... I dunno. Little?'
Leif just stared at him, blinking and letting his mouth hang open. I... I er... well... I guess- He cut himself off, unsure how to answer it, and suddenly frightened by any show of enthusiasm or readiness to meet the older lad's offer. He paused to measure the earnest friendliness of those dark brows and blue eyes, worried that even Bamf could be mocking him and the way he'd lowered himself in the hierarchy of the football team.
`If that's what it takes,' Paddy puffed at him in a resigned but playful tone, and he reached forward; suddenly his hand was on the front of Leif's shorts, feeling the outline, the hardness of it. And the older guy was right, wasn't he? Leif wasn't so small really, though he knew his dick was kinda short, it was really pretty thick, it just shrunk in a bit in the cold, and obviously next to the snake that he knew -- could see! -- lay inside those white Armanis, well...
It felt so weird and wrong. He wanted so much to help relax and reassure the stocky little left-back in front of him, but this didn't feel right. He coughed a bit formally as with one hand he lifted the front of that tshirt and with the other pushed down the shorts, letting Leif's hard prick out into the air, seeing its short swollen length and the bulbous shape of its head, foreskin pulling gently back over pink flesh... a strange inexperienced revulsion overcame his strong desire to help, the stupid rash words he'd muttered in his need to support. He took a deep breath and reached down and wrapped his right hand around it, heard Leif's immediate surprised gasp, saw his honest puzzled face...
But no. He pulled back, letting go of it, taking one shaky step backwards in the suddenly claustrophobic space of the bedroom. He grimaced apologetically at the other lad and held up both hands in a surrendering gesture. `I can't do it,' he said, his tone switching from warm and friendly to more distant and panicked, as if it hadn't been he himself who suggested this seedy solution to an embarrassing problem. He closed his eyes for a moment, another step back, suddenly uncomfortable with how little he was wearing and the way Davis' exposed boner hung at a funny angle between his layers of clothing. But what upset him more was the look on the lad's face, the obvious disappointment and shame -- to be exposed like this and offered some taboo and then rejected, abandoned, after what he'd obviously done for Paddy that ridiculous drunk night of Premiership promotion, well...
I just can't,' he said again, heavily. Sorry mate, I thought it'd be a laugh, but...'
`It's okay,' Leif told him in a tiny voice, grabbing at his shorts; the lad had been blushing before but his face was beetroot now and his posture shrunken and uncomfortable. Fuck, Paddy thought, am I even worse than Harrison or those yobs?! Why did I start this?
I just can't- I mean, I've never- it don't feel right to me, but...' He slumped sideways to set back on the bed, cringing at himself. I mean it ain't as simple as just fingering some random pussy, is it, I don't think I'd know what I was doing with a dick in my fist, so...' His young friend slumped down beside him at the same time, the pair of them sat on the edge of the bed unable to properly look at one another. I'm sorry, mate,' he said very quietly, feeling the heat in his own face and neck, the supreme embarrassment they were sharing. He could feel the effect of two beers, but he was nowhere near the loose drunken release that allowed him to be so inappropriately touched and helped' in Elland Road's toilets.
I'm sorry,' he heard Davis mutter, and it ached his chest; how the hell could the young bloke be apologising, how was this in any way his fault? He turned to look at him with a strong protective urge, and the idea first came to him. He put his hand to his shoulder and said it in as low and gruff a voice as he could. Just lie down, mate, let me try something, okay...?' Leif glanced at him and he could see the trusting loyalty in his sullen face. The Geordie defender clearly had more trust in him than he did himself, unsure if this new idea was totally insane or the perfect solution.
Leif was immediately doing as he'd said, going down on his side along the bed, and Paddy pulled himself back over the bedding so that he was behind and coming in parallel with him, keeping a good foot between their bodies, a distanced spoon that just seemed to exaggerate how long and tall his own body was next to the short well-built lad. Moving before he could stop himself, he reached for the waistband of the shorts, already angled and displaced down the lad's broad bottom, and pulled it and the grey undies below away downwards, exposing two pale rounded cheeks covered in pale downy hair. He heard the little breath of surprise from the other player.
As he'd said to Leif just now, holding a dick was terrifying and new, but slipping a finger in, well... that's what he'd been doing with excitedly discovered talent since he was a handsome private schoolboy charming the younger dinner-ladies at Nottingham High. `Trust me,' he said in a choked voice, and rested his right hand against those quivering warm buttocks; the hair felt odd but the plump cheeks could have been any of the girls he'd tried anal with, really. He lifted the right cheek and avoided looking down, not wanting to see the laddish rump he was now sliding one finger into. Another little gasp from Leif. He remembered himself and pulled his hand back, brought his index finger to his lips, spitting onto it to slick it, then returning it into that fluffy warm passage.
`Paddy?' the young Leeds substitute murmured.
Just trust me,' he murmured hotly, drunk enough to sound surer than he felt. I will be better at this than... erm, what you did...' And as if to prove a point, he dug his fingertip in more as it rubbed up and down the inside of those plump cheeks, making Leif tense up and gasp very quietly again. `This is to... erm... return the favour, okay, so you don't... erm... feel too...' He found it, the tight muscular knot, and traced his wet finger back and forth over it, remembering a giddy kinky night years ago when an ex of his had finally agreed to try it up the back alley, thrilling his upper-middle class sensibilities with her rough Teesside openness. He'd loved it but, none of his partners since had done anything but scowl and swear when the idea was mooted in bed.
As a result, there was a subconscious excitement to what he did now, more than just his burning brotherly desire to comfort and help this sturdy lad who'd taken a knock to his ego. He repositioned himself an inch or two closer, leaning on his left elbow and angling his arm and wrist to push more firmly, forcing the dampness of his fingertip in against that bud of strong virginal resistance...
It hurt, but it also felt exciting and good -- even as his bottom burned with the sensation of a fingertip entering him, his balls tightened and his lingering hard-on jerked clumsily against the sheets. Leif lay obediently on his side, totally bewildered by Bamford's apparent alternative to the offered wank that had almost jokily floated between them. The pain that had stabbed him seemed to increase more than decrease, but he wondered if that was his own nervous tension. He let out his breaths in long slow whimpers, hugging his heavy shoulder and face against the pillow.
Then Paddy's hands were on his buttocks again and his hip, angling his body over more, pushing one leg forward a little... and then he heard a spitting noise and the finger was back in there, sliding between his muscular arse cheeks and tickling his tender entrance, making him shiver and then breathe out an almost giggling noise of thrill that embarrassed him until he heard his friend respond, `Sorry, it'll feel good in a sec I think, just... erm... how's that..?' He could feel the apparent hugeness of a finger pressing into him and he had no idea what he was supposed to say back to Bamford now, what the fuck could he tell his hat-trick scoring teammate about how it felt to suddenly feel a man's finger going into you...?!
Then, more quietly and gently, `It's okay if you play with yourself, mate.'
It was odd that it hadn't occurred to him to do so; his dick absolutely ached with his tense arousal, unaffected by the shame and awkwardness that had filled the room since his private play was interrupted. But now he reached down into his crotch and stroked his member, amazed by how sensitive it actually felt, with his right leg slightly lifted and the Grantham man's knuckles pressing between his meaty buttocks. He tried to control and quieten his little gaspy breaths, but it was hard, and he felt himself get louder as the presence in his ring burned more and felt deeper, deeper... oh fuck, this was so weird.
More spitting noises, a creak of the bed as the man lined up behind him shifted position, got a better angle. Then he could feel Paddy's other hand resting just below his neckline, perhaps to balance himself on his side, or to hold him in place, while the exploratory finger plunged inside his inner heat and tickled him down there, making him cough and gurgle and grip really tightly at his own hard erection. The pain was subsiding a little, but then he could feel the thick knuckle passing inside him and a little more stretching of his untested ring -- ohhhh!
Paddy kept it to just one finger, Leif couldn't even imagine what it might be like if a second went in there. He just lay as still as he could, enjoying the strength and authority of the hand below his neck and the finger teasing and digging at his arse, beginning to wank himself with a bit more energy and confidence, knowing how much this extra stimulation was making his dick swell and throb and climb steadily to orgasm. He was self-conscious of his pants and he buried his face down into the pillow to quieten them, working his right wrist rapidly and strenuously, lifting his arse a little bit more and feeling the rhythm that Paddy had now found, finger-fucking him like he probably did to the pussies of the hot girls he was always dating, models and influencers and that sort... oh, oh, oh...
Leif was totally transfixed by the new experience. His moods and anxieties were forgotten in the heat of his wank and the strange painful excitement going on behind him. There was just something so utterly reassuring and safe about the way Paddy now lay close to him and held him down. He could just about feel the taller man's breaths tickle the trimmed hair on the back of his head and the lobes of his shapely ears. He closed his eyes tightly and tried not to yelp or whine, feeling the moment get closer, closer, closer, here...! And now he was cumming heavily, spilling two days of seed since his last Pornhub wank, oozing it over his hand and onto the ruffled bedding, the tight presence inside him so alien and convulsive in the stretched-out moments of climax.
Paddy pulled his finger back and looked at it, the greasy dirt of it. He smeared it against the patterned bedding below and then, in some weird patronising gesture of the hetero bedroom, patted his numbed hand against one chubby cheek of the lad's bottom, still listening to his muffled squeals into the pillow and smelling the hot saltiness in the air over them.
A little dazed himself, the tall striker pulled back, pushing both hands into the mattress to lift himself and look for a moment down on the prone form of the Tynesider, almost foetal on his side with his white arse exposed and his face buried in a pillow. He seemed so private and vulnerable in his after-cum, and Bamford pulled back, shaking his right hand a bit and clambering off the bed with less than his usual confident grace.
He stared again at his dirtied finger and went back through into the bathroom, shoving it under a tap and squirting out the green hand gel to wash his fists with a certain fury. He caught sight of himself in the mirror, a slight sheen of sweat on his youthful features. He met his own eyes guiltily, reading his own question in them: `What the fuck was that, Patrick?'
Returning to the room, he found Leif sitting at the foot of his own bed, his face as red and glossy as if he'd just got off the pitch from a 90 minute match. He stared this way and Paddy found that he couldn't quite meet his eyes now, thinking about what he'd just done to him. The quiet breathy Thanks mate' that came in his Newcastle accent stung a little, gave him a weird sense of self-disgust. He just nodded. But then... Erm, do you want me to sort you out?' He was alarmed by the tremulous way Davis made the verbal offer, but then he realised where Leif was looking, and glanced down his long bare body at the front of his white undies. He hadn't noticed himself reacting to those memories of anal sex with that rough Middlesbrough ex, but there it was, the almost fully formed diagonal tent of his sizeable hard-on developing in the Emporio Armani boxers.
No,' he said quickly and gruffly. I don't think that'd be right, kid.' Was there a flash of disappointment on the youth's face now, or was it relief? Patrick didn't look too closely as he rubbed his damp clean hands down his six-pack and climbed into his own bed, pulling back the covers and disappearing beneath them with an exaggerated loud yawn. He reached for a switch to knock off the wall-mounted lamps and plunge them into sleepy darkness; he sensed that for a few moments the excitable young left-back was maybe watching him in the dark, but he said nothing more, neither of them did.
No, a problem had been solved, a dilemma equalised, a hierarchy crushed. Leif didn't have to feel like the pathetic bottom boy of the Leeds brotherhood now, did he? Not now Paddy had helped him to cum like that, done something as weird and taboo as the quiet tender handjob in the Elland Road loos. Perhaps now the Geordie lad would rediscover the confidence that he had once brimmed with as he began to make starts for the talented team; perhaps he would be able to handle the teasing of dickheads on the squad, or perhaps Bamford would be able to really silence them, now he knew how much it had actually upset the defender. Problems solved!
Problems solved, the 27-year-old striker thought, lying sleepless on his side with his long thick erection throbbing unattended in his underpants, harder than ever before.