Part 200: The Climax
Ben Chilwell entered the prestigious Stamford Bridge office with a certain moody nervousness, fiddling his scrubbed pink fingers together and gently turning the signet ring on his pinky finger, bearing the initials of a long-dead relative and passed down between the men in his family. He raised his eyebrows inquisitively on the short walk across the manager's study and nodded his greeting at the gaffer behind the desk, a little puzzled to be called in here for a `quick chat' before getting to exit the Chelsea grounds tonight.
`Take a seat, Chilwell,' came the manager's gruff, impatient voice, not without some warmth. Ben was quite confident that the former Chelsea legend himself was very keen on him as a player, he and his team had courted his interest for long enough before making this transfer; the 23-year-old was naturally very confident in his abilities and his team contributions, had no reason to suspect he was in trouble at all. Still, it felt a little strange to be summoned like this, beyond the normal demands of the management system here.
Fresh and warm from the hot showers several floors below, Chilwell curled down into the visitor seat on this side of the big old mahogany desk, pulling back some loose fronds of his dark damp hair and grinning earnestly at the chief, adjusting the fit of his tight dark hoody and the gilet over it. He'd just been finished drying and dressing and preparing to head for his car when the manager's secretary had fetched him like a naughty schoolboy to the head's office.
Ben thumbed at the signet ring and waited for some opening gambit from the serious, lined face of the older man across the desk. When none came, he needed to push it. Everything good, chief?' he asked in a quiet friendly voice. I played well tonight against Sheffield, I thought, it was a decent game, overall...'
A curt nod from Lampard. Yeah, not bad,' he said, sounding almost bizarrely disinterested in the Premier League game that had just completed in the West London stadium beneath them, and twinkling out its lights through the ceiling-height windows down one wall of the office. That's not what I wanted to speak to you about,' he said, and that had become obvious enough. There was something distinctly preoccupied about the retired midfielder and Ben wondered if it was even anything to do with himself that had the 42-year-old icon so on edge -- it was almost as if Frank had already left Stamford Bridge behind and was somewhere else altogether at some much more important meeting.
`No?' Ben said awkwardly.
Suddenly Lampard seemed more fully in the room, hunching his blazer-clad shoulder, and resting both of his fiddling hands on the paperwork in front of him. He fixed Ben with a fairly intense stare, quite searching. I'm hearing,' he started, that something isn't quite right, mate...' His voice softened from the initial sternness and so did his face. `I'm hearing that maybe you're having a bit of a tough time, Chilwell.'
Oh,' he said, genuinely taken aback by the caring lilt in Lampard's tone, thrown by the sudden intimacy of the discussion. He squirmed in his chair, forcing a broad grin, busying himself with the zip of his gilet. Well, I wouldn't quite say that -- haha -- I mean, it's a funny old time with this new lockdown starting and everything, but...'
Cut the training ground panto,' said Frank in a voice that was blunt and corrective but again not unfriendly. He gave Ben a look of experience and insight. I know you can play the joker, entertain the troops. You're a very good team player, Ben.' He was mumbling out his thanks when Lamps spoke over him again. But a couple of your teammates are worried about your mental health. Worried you are... ahem, "going through something", and...' He gestured vaguely. It has been suggested I might give you a little break, or...'
A break?' Ben asked crossly. No, not that, I don't think-`
We have a grave responsibility here,' Frank told him firmly. We have to look after our players properly, and if there is anything going on that I ought to know about, then...'
Chilwell felt the hot blush rise in his neck and cheeks and he pressed back in this curved seat as if to make himself instantly more distant and untouchable from the concerned older man. I don't know what you mean, boss,' he said in a small and exaggeratedly masculine voice, struggling at the prospect of opening up to anybody about the relationship hell he'd been through these past few weeks. Actually, I'm totally fine, and-`
Ben,' Frank said more sternly, I am hearing that you really struggle with your moods at the moment, you zone out in training, you are late to your personal training sessions, and... People are noticing. It is your friends worrying about you, Chilwell, so-`
`I'm fine,' he said almost sulkily, unable to meet his manager's eyes now. He found he was clutching the arms of his seat and straining with his whole tightly muscled body to leap out of the seat and get out of the office. Who the hell had been talking about him to the manager? How much had people really been studying his moods and behaviour, eh?
Look,' said Lampard now more softly, leaning forward slightly, I won't press you on this, but we are all worrying about you, Chilwell. Take this as it's meant. You can joke around and throw yourself at the games, but we want to know you are okay... and if I do become too worried about your mental health, then you WILL be taking a rest break, is that understood?' Becoming more laddish and detached, `I'm not trying to be your friend or your dad or your fuckin' counsellor, but... I have to look out for you, Chilly. Now go home and relax, okay?'
Despite the concerned words, Ben found himself getting up from the seat and marching quietly out of the office as if he'd just been scolded and chastised -- partly that was Lampard's own moody disposition and partly it was his own shame and difficulty burning at his handsome cheeks. Who was Frank to criticise his mental health and behaviour, anyway? Everybody had noticed the old fella get more and more tense and erratic as the weeks of the new season proceeded; it emerged in every interview he gave to the footy media and in each of his rampant team talks!
As soon as he'd pulled the door shut behind him with a gentle slam and stomped across the office suite to the elevators, the young left-back regretted not taking Lampard's intervention in a calmer and more affable manner... but the boss had really touched a nerve, and the reality was that Ben WAS struggling. Badly. He thought his likeable laddish grin and his constant banter with the other Chelsea lads had hidden it well, but clearly not, clearly his heartbreak was showing through...
`What's the matter, good-looking, some bird taken yer achey breaky heart...?'
He jerked to the side with an impatient dislike of the pushy banter, cooling his instinctive temper as soon as he realised it was the second-in-command muscling in next to him at the buffet supper being served to the travelling Villa squad tonight in North London. Jack Grealish forced a matey smile instead of the sulky retort, turning back to finish serving colourful salad onto his plate, while John Terry drew closer to him, pushing obnoxiously against his side and reaching over to start helping himself to the late meal as well.
`Just tired,' the young captain said in a low mumble, carrying on down the buffet.
Well everyone's a bit tired,' grunted John Terry in a quite abrasive voice, no need to go around with a face like a bag of shite.' And then one of his big hands was slapping at Jack's upper back in an annoyingly pally fashion -- clearly the alpha male coach was in one of his more extrovert and frustrating moods tonight, like many of the hyped-up lads on this trip down to the capital to play Arsenal tomorrow night. `Just messin',' the local London lad barked in Jack's ear after a pause, shaking him by the back of the neck and then laughing a few decibels too loudly.
Grealish grimaced at him, ladling some dressing on his salad and then grabbing a roll of bread, then hoisting up the tray and making a swift move away from the buffet tables -- failure, Terry was following him, trailing after him towards the table of players he was set to join, pulling up the chair next to him and beginning to banter loudly with the other men. It wasn't that Jack didn't like or respect their famous assistant manager, they largely had a good working relationship, but he wasn't in the mood for his coarse jokes and dominant nature.
Whatever joke the 39-year-old Chelsea and England ace had just hollered at the table had found its audience, as everyone was cackling stupidly around him now, while Jack stared sullenly into his plate without appetite. His heartbroken gloom was at odds with the camaraderie and excitement in the Villa away camp, freshly arrived quite late in the evening at their Islington hotel, carefully quarantined here until tomorrow's afternoon warm-up sessions and then the Sunday night clash with Arsenal.
As the Villa coach made its way down the motorway from Birmingham to London, the club's charismatic 25-year-old captain had felt his mood and feelings worsen, stupidly conscious of his growing proximity to the boy in question. It felt so horrible and wrong to be here overnight in the capital, for two nights in fact, and not to have made any contact with his Benjamin -- how had it come to this? One minute it was just a spat down the phone, the next it was icy silences and feverish back-room arguments on England duty, tainting only his second camp under Southgate -- how had it got to a point where he didn't feel comfortable messaging his best mate (yep, keep using that phrase Jack, that'll help, you emotionally handicapped dickweed) about maybe saying hi... it was hardly easy to meet under the renewed lockdown rules that had kicked in a couple of days ago, but he hadn't even sent Ben a snoozy selfie from the dark motorway trip.
You've fucked it up, he told himself for the hundredth time, pushing items of food back and forth across the plate and rubbing his knuckles repeatedly over the edge of the table to distract himself from the nagging sickness in his tummy and chest. You've really bollocksed it up, Jack, you tit -- why did you have to be such a jealous hypocrite? Such a spoilt brat! Fuck's sake.
The truth was becoming clearer to the 25-year-old winger by the day: the intimacy that had grown between him and Ben and seemed to peak in a Mykonos seafront villa was over now, perhaps had never been more than a giddy mirage. Whichever of them was to blame, it was done with. Both his and Ben's behaviour had exposed them as restless playboys who couldn't control themselves, and he'd been cruel and possessive with his friend-with-benefits. Again, he thought about them lying side by side in that abandoned barn by the river, and the whispered intimacies they'd shared, so much more than friends' or benefits'.
The mealtime chatter spilled on around him and the evening drew towards its curfew. Last to sit, he and John Terry were also last to finish and leave the table. He watched the older man warily, expecting more jibes at his quietness or his dour expression, hardly brimming with his usual captain's charm or morale-boosting efforts. But Terry too had become quiet, something tense beneath his excitable gestures and energetic eyes. He was a strange bloke, Jack reflected, not the most conventionally handsome, but full of a quite ferocious masculine energy that definitely brought something to the surface. Jack remembered the alarming discovery that this footballing legend might swing a different way, that overexcited afternoon in the conference room; he didn't know how new or otherwise that experience had been for JT, but the 39-year-old Cockney had been far from shy about it at the time!
Terry was on his phone now, a look of deep concentration on his face as he engaged with whoever was messaging him. The retired centre-back, tall and broad-shouldered, hunched forward over the table, chewing his lip as he typed; Jack liked the way his tracksuit top caught the still prominent muscles of his shoulders and upper arms as he sat like that, could remember the belligerent strength with which he'd tupped John McGinn, that most willing slag of the squad. And if excitable McGinn was to be believed, it had not exactly been a one-off incident in the hot strange summer of 2020.
Maybe this is it, then, he thought. Dirty shenanigans with dodgy blokes like Terry. A kinda overspill of testosterone, nothing more than that. Seedy antics to be laughed off or regretted depending on how much you'd drunk or snorted. Ugh. He didn't deserve any more though, did he? Not really. He'd shown himself again and again what a horny bastard he was, his big bollocks guiding most of his choices.
He leaned a little closer along the rounded edge of the table, putting down his fork despite having eaten less than half of his cold dinner. He wasn't sure how to do it but he was going to do it, make some move on this brutish older man and suggest that maybe they could think about-
`Right, I'm off,' barked JT now, slapping both hands against the tabletop.
Off?' Grealish exclaimed in response to that, caught off-guard on the verge of making a first subtle nudge towards how much energy he needed to burn off tonight, having just claimed to be tired' ten minutes ago. `What about the curfew?' he asked slowly in his broad Birmingham accent, sitting back in his chair again.
Curfew is for you lot,' he was informed brusquely. Not for us bosses. So get to your room kiddo and silk there instead.' And like some infuriating visiting uncle, Terry was reaching over and mussing up the long banded mop of his dark hair, loosening strands of it into his forehead and his eyes, cackling to himself and getting to his feet, adjusting the tracksuit top over his long torso and bulging distractingly in the front of his bottoms. He grinned teasingly down at him now, full of that nervous energy beneath the banter, probably off to fuck some old mistress from his Chelsea playing days; EVERYBODY knew what a notorious womaniser Terry had been, or still was, even without Jack's own knowledge of his OTHER exploits.
Right,' he said dimly back, well, hope she's fun.'
`Heh?'
`Nothing, boss. See you in the morning.'
Terry pulled the collar of his jacket around him more tightly, the cold November night in Regents Park heightening the nervous shudder of his tall athletic body. He stomped his trainer-clad feet against first the crunching gravel and then the soft damp grass, moving towards the spot they'd agreed. Remember that boozy picnic we had,' Lampard had said, when the rules meant that they couldn't really meet indoors anyway without clearly flouting the lockdown rules. That time we were out with those two Brazilian models and we ended up fucking them behind the trees...' Hah, that had been a different time when risks had meant nothing to the two hot-blooded Chelsea aces, even once married; not cautious times of doubt and worry like today!
The other guy was already here, he could see him even in the dark, silhouetted against the waters of the curving lake, a big smart overcoat giving him a vaguely Batman vibe from this distance as he pottered along the shore with his hands in his pockets. John Terry put two fingers to his lips and did a little dog-whistle of alertness as he drew close, making a saucy noise that was really just meant to avoid freaking him out to much as he came close. The manager-in-waiting had been building up to this confrontation all week and yet now, as soon as Lampard turned to look over his shoulder at him, he felt his varied assertions tumbling apart and a return of the white heat. What the fuck were they going to do about this?
`Mate,' breathed Lampard, keeping his distance but turning an earnest handsome face this way.
We'll have to be careful we don't get mistaken for a couple of old queens,' Terry grunted quickly, and get arrested for perving about the park at night, or...' He laughed but mirthlessly, regretting the direction of the joke immediately, finding Frank's expression hard to read in the dark. `Lighten up, Fat Frank, don't gimme that look... just a joke, mate...'
It always is, with you,' Lampard returned in a quietly accusing tone. But thanks for meeting up.'
Busy day for you and your lads.' He was taking comfort in footy talk, he could feel his own retreat. We have all our excitement to come tomorrow night. And tougher opposition than Sheff.'
`We're not on Sky Sports, buddy.'
`Huh. Nah. You're right. No footy talk.'
`We need to sort this out...'
`We do. We do. And this time I might avoid givin' you a smack, fella...'
`JT...'
He flinched, regretting his banter yet again. I apologised plenty, pal. I didn't know what I was doing. And YOU got a bit friendly, didn't you? You shouldn't have tried to kiss me mate, you know I ain't no queer, I'm a proper man's man and-
`I watched you fuck McGinn!' exclaimed his best friend and current nemesis.
And?' Terry barked back, riled by the quick retort. Yeah so I put my dick in a lad, don't mean I-`
`I think it means SOMETHING, Terry. Don't you? Fuck's sake -- yeah, you've apologised, but you're burying your fucking head in the sand, mate, if you don't think there's something between us...'
Between us?' he demanded, unable to stop himself sounding mocking and jeering. There was something desperately intimate about Frank's voice and his turn of phrase, so unlike the straight-talking and old-school young manager. Mate, you're 42, not 16, and in case you forgot, there's a cock and balls between those girly legs, so... Oi...' Lampard was lunging at him, reaching for his arm now, so he tugged almost violently back. `What the fuck do you think there is between us?'
Well friendship for a start!' railed Lampard furiously. Wouldn't think it, would ya? Way you treat me, and ignore me when you don't like what I say... Stuck-up prick...'
Me?' Terry demanded, long-buried arguments of their youth resurfacing. You privileged twat. Always were, never had to worry when daddy and uncle are already footy stars, you and that smug cousin of yours, what a pair of fags...'
`I've seen you pounding your players, you dirty fucker, so careful what insults throw about here.'
`And you were really holding yourself back when you saw me, you old queer.'
`I think it might be you getting' a thump this time, mate, just watch your mouth...'
Terry snarled and huffed and held his fists tightly at his sides, resisting the temper and aggression stoked by his old best mate's words and voice. `You trynna threaten me, you ponce?' he demanded, launching himself angrily forward and slamming both hands into the guy's chest, pushing Frank scrambling down against the grass. They were both big fellas and neither had let their bodies go quite to seed in the short years since retiring from the pitch, but John was the taller and more powerful player, always had been, and now he stood over his former wingman, crouching pathetically before him and awaiting the first blow. He stood squarely above him, legs planted firmly to the ground, fists bunched and teeth gritted, and instantly hated himself; he could still remember the pain in his hand as he struck his long-held friend in the face that summer night, the look on Frank's face, and the sickening guilt that had coursed through him. Now, again, tough guy Lampard was whimpering before him awaiting the attack, hands barely held up in defence as he failed to regain his balance and just hunched to the ground for a long moment of anticipation.
Terry spat as heavily as he could, gobbing on the sleeve of that expensive Kings' Road coat, then took two steps back. Fuck you Frank,' he shouted at him, fuck you!' And he burst backwards into a quick jog across the dark grass and back onto the crunching shifting gravel, a vein throbbing in the side of his head and vague muffled sounds following him as Frank shouted for him to slow down and stop to talk properly. But JT was already on the move, launching himself over the locked park gates and onto the grey pavement, haring for the side-street where his parked car awaited him.
Chilwell was still sulking a little at Lampard's interference when he made it back to his house, having taken much of the journey home to decide that it must have been Mason who dobbed him in; Mount was the only one at Chelsea who actually knew what was going on, and he was such a good-hearted kid, this had his name all over it. Of course he'd go weaselling to the boss and expressing his worries, meaning well but... Ben didn't want anyone, not Mason and certainly not Frank, interfering in his business and jeopardising his footballing because he was... well, y'know...
Crushed?
He couldn't believe that somewhere in this city right now, his Birmingham boy must be checked into a hotel, unless Villa were traveling down in the morning ahead of their Arsenal match, but that was unlikely; coaches didn't like players on `long' journeys on matchday, it was bad for fitness and morale. So Jack the Lad must be in some hotel up in the north of the capital, he surmised, and realised how upset he was even to be UNSURE. The fact that he didn't know where Jack was and what he was doing was madness -- even in the safer days before their friendship stepped up, the two of them regularly messaged or called each other from their away trips, jokily comparing notes on motorways and hotels and trying to establish the shittest away trip England and Europe had to offer. Innocent times, Ben thought sadly.
He was just locking the car and trudging up the neatly gardened front of his South London home when he saw the guy by the doorway, waving a bottle of red wine at him and grinning broadly in welcome as if he had every right to be there, and it was his job to greet the returning footballer who was shattered from the battle against Sheffield United.
Ben stopped in his tracks and stared at him, baffled. `Timo?!'
Inside, he followed the German's instructions in a daze, fetching two big wine glasses from a cardboard box on the kitchen sideboard. (He'd more or less unpacked now and started to settle into his London life, but he had spent so much time feeling sorry for himself that the Wimbledon mansion still felt rather unlived in and clinical.) He returned to the main lounge, where the hard-bodied German forward was skilfully uncorking the bottle, his coat and jumper shed on an armchair, just in a tight white t-shirt and black skinny jeans. As he had been when they parted at the stadium not long ago, moments before Ben was summoned for his `talking to' from Lamps.
Ben paused halfway across the room, a glass in each hand, staring warily at the handsome blond goal machine who had done so much to reinvigorate the Chelsea squad. Between them, they'd contributed so much to the squad's points this season, and it was much their newness and confidence as any real common ground that had built up their jokes and camaraderie over the past couple of months. I mean, it didn't HURT that Timo Werner was hot as hell and apparently quite fluid and adventurous in what he did with his body, based on that hot shower-room blowjob shared with Christian Pulisic.
But what was he doing here tonight?
I know it is against the rules,' Werner told him, once their glasses were filled and clinking together in their hands, but who will know...? And we are both alone tonight.'
`Alone, mate?'
A vague wave of his free hand. `The girlfriend is away on a -- how you say? -- photoshoot.'
`Oh. Right. Yeah.'
`So just us "lads" tonight, yes? Hah. Drink up!'
Ben took a long sip, nodded appreciatively at the well-chosen plonk. `Er, yeh, cool. Good idea.'
I've been hoping we could have a drink for a while, you see?' Werner added, raising one dark brown eyebrow. Just you and I, Benjamin.'
`Oh right,' Chilwell said vaguely, watching him took a lingering sip of wine and then lick its tart red liquid from his lower lip. He remembered the surprisingly delight of that foxy mouth around his big boner the other weekend, the indiscretion that had led to that awkward phone argument and this horrible icing over of relations with his Jack. He cringed at that, but shuddered with irresistible desire at the memory of the blowie itself. He pictured himself, worshipped as a match-winner by Werner and by lovesick Pulisic. It had felt so innocent and fun, it hadn't felt like something that would ruin his life and piss off that jealous hypocrite at Villa...
Who knows,' Timo said now in a low sultry murmur, after the bottle of red, maybe you can find me something else to drink, jah...?'
Lampard had yet to undress from his TV-friendly suit of the early evening Chelsea match, but his tie was off and his shirt unbuttoned down his fuzzy thin chest hair. He caught sight of his face in a hallway mirror and scowled, annoyed by how haggard his stressful job and more stressful private life were starting to make him; where was the slick young fella from his playing days?
He was pottering the West London townhouse eating his heated-up dinner without bothering to sit, listening to his wife Christine's quiet monologue as she travelled around the first floor; the heavy splashes of her filling bath sounded from the other end of the upstairs hall, accompanied by some gently playing soul music on the sound-system in their generously sized bathroom. The wife came ducking past again, now in her fluffy robe, rattling on in her narrative of entertaining the kids today, now asleep up on the second floor.
Luckily, her talkative mood excused his own sullen silence, scooping saucy pasta form the bowl in his left hand and chomping unenthusiastically. It was tasty enough, but his mouth was sour with his own bloody where he'd bit his tongue falling stupidly in the park, pushed to the ground by that aggressive bastard he'd once have done anything for. Thinking about it made his chest muscles twinge a little with the lingering pain of the passing blow.
Christine disappeared into the bathroom away from him, leaving him alone on the landing, still staring accusingly at his reflection in the mirror on the wall. He put the bowl down heavily on the dresser beneath it and glanced to the left through the half-open bathroom door, horrified by his lack of interest as the robe dropped and he caught a narrow flash of Christine's bare body before she got into her bubble bath, a sight that should fell him with red-hot lust. He felt like he'd left his libido and his bollocks somewhere by the lake in Regent's Park, or worse, months ago against an East London shopfront where he'd first made a proper move on JT and been smacked for his interest.
Then, suddenly, there was a low chiming noise and he looked to the right, down the broad staircase into the entrance hall of the house, the doorbell rolling smoothly up to his cold ears. Oh, who the fuck is that?' came his wife's from the bathroom. Get rid of them, Frankie, jesus...' He paused uncertainly where he was, making a vague murmur of agreement, the sneaking suspicion forming vividly in the front of his mind. `Will do, hun,' he called again vaguely as she swore irritably and busied herself with her toilette.
Lampard descended the stairs slowly, and the doorbell was rung one more time when he was only halfway down into the broad art-furnished entranceway of the big Kensington house. He opened the door and took a sharp intake of breath despite finding exactly what he expected, brooding silently on the step, and staring at him with bright awkward eyes.
Mate,' John began in a growling voice so quiet it was barely audible. Let me in.'
John,' he moaned in anguished relief, holding on to the door and feeling a double conflict of self-consciousness: he didn't like the idea of a visitor stood on his step like this in the possible eyes of his neighbours, when no households were allowed to mix at all; but inside, his wife was in the bath, and now shouting down this way... Who is it? Frank?' Her distant muffled voice carrying over the landing and down the stairs behind him, as he mouthed his friend's Christian name once more in silence.
On the doorstep, Terry brought one single finger up against his lips in a gesture of hush, and then stepped on in. Lampard shifted instinctively to allow him in, their bodies an inch apart as the intruding younger football coach writhed in beside him and he pushed the door shut with a firm little thud. `Who was it?' came Christine's voice again, and he feared her emerging at the head of the stairs, back in her robe, needing to see who would dare disturb them at this time of night during lockdown part 2.
They stood very still, both close to the door, a little shiver running through his body from the draught he'd let in with this visitor. And then he read some private urgency in Terry's thin face and intense eyes. Nobody,' he called up loudly without risking a look at the stairs, keeping his eyes focused intently on John. Nobody, luv... just some...' He let his voice trail off vaguely without bothering to finish the sentence, hearing the vague thud of a door closing properly and then a lift in the volume of muffled music. She was in her bathing bubble now, cut off from the suddenly tense world of the rest of the house, where two powerful men were staring each other down in silence.
He began to open his mouth to form the first of many questions but the one finger of quiet that had been held discreetly over John's lip now came and pressed on his , stopping him before he could verbalise his hot rush of thoughts. And then each of Terry's hands were on his shoulders, thrusting him sharply backwards and hitting the papered wall. It made a fleshy wooden thump and he shot his eyes away up the stairs, wondering if the noise was audible up there over the taps and music, but it was hard to tell... Terry was pinning him to the wall, pulling close, scrunching the shoulders of his half-open shirt, face to face, and... Lampard's lips trembled open, seeking a kiss that didn't quite arrive.
Then, instantly, his fellow retired Chelsea star was pulling back, dragging him with his movement, wrenching at the shirt until at least one more button popped open; Frank scratched his hands at the front of the jacket and sweatshirt of Terry's body, imbalanced and submissive. He craned forward with his face for the kiss but again was denied and, once more, the strength of the old centre-back's hands was controlling him and thrusting his body back in another direction. Now he was slamming back against the post at the bottom of the bannister, a flinch of pain running up his 6ft body, but drowned out as, finally, the rough cold lips landed on his and he was allowed that kiss.
He held his breath and parted his lips willingly for the brutish snog, tongue invading his mouth, his back muscles pressed hard into the wood and his arms immobilised by the tight grip on his biceps as Terry pressed forward into him. A rush of panic rose in his chest at the risk of this, and as he was gradually released, he stared back up the stairs in terror, then squeezed a hand around John's, nodding away -- down the corridor to some of the reception rooms or the door beneath the stairs that led down to his basement games-room. The one where he'd `lost' to Redknapp not so long ago.
But JT seemed to have other ideas, tugging on his wrists, and curling his lips in a snarl; he was jerking his head in nods to the stairs, courting risk and disaster, and pulling Frank with him. To resist or struggle or insist on a safer route would have been to make too much noise, to push them closer to ruin, so all he could do was follow, scrambling up the first few steps and then being pushed into the lad, John's taller powerful presence right behind him as he mounted them to the landing, conscious of every wooden creak beneath his socked feet.
Ahead of him was the bathroom door, from behind which came Adele songs and his wife's terrible singing voice; metres away, she was naked and soapy and relaxed, but maybe she could still hear him taking steps out here on the landing, floorboards betraying him... but John's hands were on him, strong and authoritative, rubbing one of his shoulders through the shirt and reaching around to rip open the final two buttons over his navel. Quickly, the loosened garment was dragged off his back so he was topless, spun around then by the imperious paws. He wanted to gasp out the other man's name but how could he, a couple of yards from that doorway?!
Terry leaned in as if for a second kiss, and Lampard's cock went rock-hard beneath his boxers and suit trousers, but no kiss; one of the big hands clasped chokingly at his neck to hold their faces apart while the other dragged his wrist down and pressed his fingers into the stiff front of the other man's dark trackies, then shoving forward, almost carrying him off his feet and across the landing and in through the doorway of the master bedroom.
Timo was moving closer by the minute. At one point, they had been on different bits of furniture, laughing at the Borat sequel streaming on the telly, working their way through the dregs of the wine bottle then moving on to some beer Ben had sourced from the back of a bare cupboard. Somehow they were now on the same sofa and the German lad was right beside him, pulling close and letting his denim-hugged calf rub over Ben's shin, and his arm brush close to his shoulders on the supportive cushions behind him.
Chilwell looked away from the screen, forgetting the comedy, looking instead at his Chelsea teammate, his sharp features and sparkling eyes, the light playful curl of his smile as he moved his head a little to meet this intimate glance. They sat there looking at each other for a few more moments, Ben becoming away of the subconscious way he was sat, his chunky legs parted to highlight the bulge between them, his chest pulled up firmly and puffed out; he was liking the attention, more-so with each fresh drink he supped. He glanced back at the screen, once then twice, but found that Timo's steely attention didn't leave his face.
`Such a handsome man,' mused the German.
`Heh,' muttered Ben evasively.
`More like a little movie star than a normal English footballer,' Werner pointed out cheekily.
`Er, I dunno about my acting skills, huh, but...'
`Take a compliment, Englishman.'
`Hah, yeh, funny... er...'
The arm behind Ben's shoulders closed in against the warmth of his neck, and Werner's other hand crept over and rested on the folds of his top, over the taut pull of his dormant six-pack. The other guy was really close now, curled up against him at this end of the sofa; how had he managed that? Because you let him, a scolding voice at the back of Ben's mind told him. The hand on his abs was shifting down towards his waist and beyond. Not that Timo hadn't felt and tasted what lay down there, but there was still a tickle of novelty in watching this manly European striker reach for it, tracing the famous bulge. His slow tenderness was so surprising and uncharacteristic for this enigmatic newcomer, whose sexual leanings remained something of a mystery to Ben. When he'd gone down on his knees and sucked him last time, he'd left to fuck a woman without wanting his own equipment touched by Ben or Christian. Hmm.
Timo's hand closed more firmly about his bulge. Horny instincts burned alongside the heady effects of the wine and beer. He felt fingertips brush his neck in just the right spot. Everything about the way Werner approached suggested he was as precise and talented in his lovemaking as he was in front of an opposition goal, and Ben could not deny the tingling new anticipation of fun...
No,' he said, and he heard his own voice as if it came from someone else entirely. It was as if his conscious or his romantic heart spoke through him whilst entirely bypassing his scrambled brains or, since it was doing his thinking right now, his chubby cum-filled balls. No,' he repeated, pushing Timo's hand away and wriggling his neck from his fingertips. He clambered up off the sofa, ignoring the semi in his pants, `No!'
He took several quick steps away from the sofa, shaking himself, trying to wriggle away the arousal and the warm sensations of this late-night tenderness. He turned and glared accusingly at Werner. Your girlfriend,' he barked hypocritically, as if SHE was the issue here. We shouldn't do this. We're teammates. Stop it, mate.'
A polite little cough of disappointment. I see.' Quickly, Werner seemed to coolly recover, getting up from the sofa and adjusting his black skinny jeans a little. Never mind.' But there was a sourness in his expression that revealed the hurt ego behind these calm little utterances, and why not... he was such a handsome charmer, such an impressive athlete. `No' was probably a novelty to him.
Ben scowled, far more angry at himself. Can you go please,' he mumbled. Please. Now. I don't want this. I can't do it. It's... it's complicated, mate, I just... sorry...' He rubbed a hand over his face, unable to look at Timo's inquisitive expression and patient interest. Just go,' he insisted, grabbing his jumper and coat up from the arm of the other chair and thrusting them at it. Please, just GO!'
Terry threw him onto the bed, letting his strength free more now he was in this room and not on the risky landing -- and yet the invasive wrongness of it all was what made his cock so rigid in his pants as he lunged onto the bedding and pinned down the middle-aged manager, straddling his waist and grasping each of his clammy hands so he could stretch their arms out across the pale silky covers.
You dirty slut,' he growled into Frank's face, pressing the hardness of his excitement down onto his old teammate's tummy, squashing him down against the bed and holding his face two inches above his, feeling the lips and nose brush close in search of another kiss. You dirty fuckin' slut, Fat Frank, you know you want this...' He spat again, like he had in the park, letting his saliva drip across Frank's stubbled chin and open mouth and sunken cheeks. Then he pulled in and ran his big firm tongue over his face, licking his own spit across Frank's mouth, then letting out a hissing laugh under his breath.
He let go and rolled aside, still in his warm jacket over his Aston Villa tracksuit, and shoved one hand down the front of the bottoms and inside his trunks, grasping his thick stiff prick, rubbing his hand over it and the fat hairy balls beneath. Then he tugged the hand out and reached it across at Frank, who was looming in desperately beside him, tugging at his clothes, his bare chest reddening with excitement and his suit trousers straining at the front where his hard-on showed.
`Oh fuck,' panted Lampard, as Terry thrust the hand into his face, giving him an earthy sniff of how sweaty and salty his privates already were. Like a dog with a scent, the Chelsea man was lunging over, seeking it, and Terry denied him no longer; he reached back in and tugged out his big rod of equipment, bringing its swollen head to meet Frank's descending mouth. With his other hand, he grasped at the back of his head and pushed it down on his crotch, filling his mouth and throat with his dick, pushing up too so that he really fucked that eager gob.
The rough 39-year-old sprawled back with dominant gasps, loving the feel of this bloke's mouth on his prick, so much more exciting than any of the sluttish young fellas he'd possessed and misused in the past -- maybe it was knowing what a hot rabid fucker Frank was himself, having seen him sucked off or in full fucking action in so many shared hotel rooms over the decades. Maybe it was the location, lying here on his marriage bed and fucking him in the mouth with his wife in the next room, soaping up her cunt and tits; part of him wanted to invite her in and make it a three-way, and even the stupid prospect of it made him groan more and push deeper into this gorgeous mouth.
But the Villa deputy wanted more than oral. The lust that had made him quit his circular drive around the nocturnal city and rush here to Frank's house, having ruined their park meet-up so rapidly, well, it was a burning lust that couldn't be satisfied by just a MOUTH.
He clambered off the bed, dragging Frank with him. To start with, the host dropped loudly to his knees on the boards, still trying to lap at the long chunky shaft, scrabbling off the edge of the bed. But Terry pushed at his face and hiar to get him away from his tool, stooping to grab his gently hairy armpits and hoisting him up. He twisted him and thrust him down on the bed face-forwards, landing a muted slap on his broad bottom through the tight grey fabric of his suit. It was a good arse, meatier than most, each cheek chunky with the muscles of a legendary midfielder.
He didn't bother reaching around for the flies at the front, he just gripped the waist and pulled back, stretching them and make the fabric buckle and tear at the hips. Down he tugged them, the checked boxers beneath coming with them, baring the meaty pale curve of each arse cheek in front of the masterful centre-back, whose dick wavered at waist-height and dripped Frank's greedy saliva. Terry spat on the base of Lampard's back, twice, and then pushed his fingers against the slick of it, rubbing them down into the well of his arse-crack. The Chelsea manager squealed quietly, the effort of controlling his noise so obvious, as John ran two fingers down into his crack, spitting into the gap again and massaging his saliva into that furry crack repeatedly and forcefully.
`Oh fuck fuck fuck fuck,' muttered Frank, squatting forward on the bed, pushing his face into his folded bare arms, his freckly back beading with sweat.
You dirty fucker,' Terry growled at him, pissin' yourself on your wife's bed with your arse gaping for me, you proper slut...'
Yes,' wheezed Frank now, yes mate, yes I am...'
In went a finger, roughly entering his hot tightness; a bit of John was shocked at how genuinely virginal his mate was, for his needy advances tonight and before, but mainly he was just utterly thrilled by it. He dug his finger in deeply, feeling Frank's whole body tense and lengthen in response, hearing even more ragged difficulty in his controlled squeals and gasps. He wriggled his finger inside him, pushing it so deep, laughing cruelly and slapping one of his bare cheeks as he did. He couldn't help but grasp his own big cock and rub its leaking head over that cheek, then slide it in the crack, shifting his fingers so he could really tease the edge of his meat in that impossibly narrow gap, making Lampard whimper in utter delight.
But there was a sound -- gentle creaks or shifting outside, maybe a door. Terry backed off, cock in one and drool running down his chin. Lampard scrabbled backwards, big white arse still in the air for a moment, then straightening up, looking wildly around. JT grilled with the evil thrill of it and backed off, into the open wardrobe doors, left wide where Frank's wife had been raiding her clothes for the bathrobe. Terry disappeared backwards into it, watching as Lampard dragged up his boxer shorts while kicked his damaged trousers down his thick lightly haired legs.
In she came, hair done up in a turban of towel, robe over her attractive soapy-smelling body, crossing the floorboards to approach and cuddle the jittery undressed figure of her husband. Smoothly and rapidly, John advanced and then side-stepped past her back and out of the door -- it was a ridiculous moment, his cock loose and throbbing, an utterly destructive discovery so very likely. But Frank was jabbering loudly at her and pulling her into a sweaty embrace, red hand-marks still visible on his torso if she'd been looking for them. And in this moment of distraction, Terry could slip silently onto the landing while pushing his dick inside his trackies, leaving the couple to it. For now.
Jack watched him as he returned from the bathroom, his new close ally and fairly consistent roommate. The big lad was still in the middle of brushing his teeth, stripped down just to a thin black vest that hung loosely from his lean torso and clean white boxer shorts that hugged over his thighs and bulge. As he turned to the side to lean over and inspect the phone sitting on his bedside table, those same white undies pulled tightly around the prominent meat of his backside, the seemingly defining feature of his sturdy 26-year-old teammate.
Grealish couldn't help himself; he got up from his own bed, putting down the men's fitness magazine he was pawing quietly through, and hopped onto his feet in the characteristically skimpy pyjama shorts and baggy retro tshirt he was wearing, his hair fastened back by a simple headband.
All night he'd been feeling randy. An itchy sorta arousal, a frustrating need to seek simplistic physical comfort that would blink away his internal conflict. It had been stoked by big manly Terry after dinner, but simmering uncomfortably for the past couple of hours, and now it was reaching boiling point. He felt a heated nausea about the strangely physical awareness that Ben was on the other side of the city, but he would rather allow himself to be gripped by base desire than actually confront how emotional he was tonight, distracted on the eve of a big Premiership game.
So he advanced towards the other side of the hotel room and the open door of the bathroom, looking at Ross Barkley's sculptural masterpiece of a rear, and the bared strength of his shoulder muscles beyond the black vest straps. The burly attacking midfielder was watching himself thoughtfully in the mirror as he gargled mouthwash and bent forward to spit it out. Another great view of his thick sizeable cheeks as he dipped like this then straightened back up and paused, noticing Jack's goateed face in the mirror behind him.
Ross, dabbing at his mouth with a hand towel, turned and gave him a patient smile. `Sorry, all yours,' the big scouser said, stepping out to join him in the main room, misreading his impatient anxious expression and tense body language.
`All mine?' Grealish chimed, and he reached for what he wanted, planting his hand against the sizeable package in the front of those crisp white undies, taking hold once again of his new teammate's equipment, then flinching at how instantly his hand was pushed away and Barkley backed off away from him, frowning deeply.
`Mate!' the northern lad protested angrily.
What?' Jack snapped. Aren't you horny?'
Mate, what are you doing?' grumbled Ross, face reddening. Don't just... fuck's sake...'
Jack coloured too, embarrassed by any rejection, especially tonight. `I just thought... you know, you might be up for... I mean... fuckin' hell mate, erm...'
Hey,' argued Barkley, backing further away from him and reaching down to toy with and adjust his package, it was you who backed out last time, but... y'know... you were right. Mate. We play together, we shouldn't... well. Play together. Okay?' He huffed loudly. Fuck, you just... mate, I'm sorry, I'm not...' Grumbling and growling as he turned away and ambled to his bed, muttering more to himself before loudly exclaiming, We're just two straight lads with a match tomorrow, we shouldn't be messing around and...'
Fine!' Grealish railed at him, irritated, pushing past him towards his own bed. Be like that, you bore.' He reached for a hoody crumpled at the foot of his bed and tugged some long sweatpants up over his legs and shorts. `Jeez, just messin' around, Ross the Boss, no need to get so touchy... never said you weren't fuckin' straight, matey, so don't be protesting too much...' He blinked his dry eyes and felt the embarrassed burn in his cheek as he dressed and forced his feet into some sliders, making a quick move to ditch Barkley alone in the room and ignore their curfew. He heard the start of a regretful sigh from the new Villa star but didn't wait around for further explanation or apology, taking the rugged hunk's disinterest as another slap in the face on a night of self-loathing, and marching off into the quiet hotel corridors to sulk alone wherever he could.
As quickly as he could, the Chelsea manager descended the stairs, his life left to her rituals of expensive moisturiser and specialised night-creams, enthroned at her dressing table while he could vanish rapidly down into the house, a long silky dressing gown pulled on over his checked boxers and white socks. His heart was beating out a festival in his chest and his breathing was as ragged as it had been when he was pushed forward on the bed and fingered for the first time.
He almost fell the last five steps, catching his balance and gripping the bannister, seeing the spots where Terry had mastered him, dislodging ornaments and frames and hanging coats. He stared at the front door before opening it, staring out onto the steps, wondering if Terry had escaped out this way and was gone. How the fuck had he managed to get out of the bedroom without her noticing? She had been so lost in her post-bath reverie that she didn't even observe Frank's erection in his boxers, though she'd made some horny murmurings about what they might get up to when they crawled into bed quite soon.
Shutting the front door again, he pulled the robe more carefully around him, aware of the way his boxers tented around his prick and his arse cheeks twitched with memory of being pulled and parted by the dominant man. Teeth chattering nervously, Lampard made his way down the hall, past the stairs, past the closed door to the basement, into the kitchen at the very back of the house. He paused, noticing the bright glare through those rear windows; the security lamps were on, their motion sensors triggered. Frank moved across into the rear reception room with its big wide French windows, dragging the blinds aside and undoing the bolt at the side to open them a couple of feet, allowing him to slip out into the back garden.
Terry HAD sneaked out the front door, he realised, but not stopped there; he'd come around here to the back where he was now waiting for him, stood squarely a few metres from the house like some optimistic burglar, tall and broad and aggressive. And sexy as fuck.
You're mad,' he told him breathlessly. What if she'd...'
Terry ignored him and glanced up the back of the house. Lampard did the same. The security lights over their heads timed out, darkening the space, but there was still a warm glow from the big bay windows of the master bedroom there where his wife was creaming her face. While down here he was creaming his boxers. He calculated the angle and reassured himself that the view from the bedroom wouldn't look down this sharply; as long as they stayed close to the back of the house, they were screened from any view of those windows up the back of the house.
Before he could take this any further, he was being grabbed, pushed, manhandled. Forward into the hard double-glazed chill of the French windows, the robe being dragged from him. He spread his arms to make this easier, ignoring the night chill as his 6ft body was exposed in the dark and John grabbed him from behind, biting him on the back of the shoulder. He gasped, his breath forming a plume of mist and condensing against the glass. This was insane. This was utter madness. They were screened from the windows above, but what about the neighbours?
Terry was either uninterested in that danger or turned on by it. Here in the shadows at the back of the house, he pushed down Frank's boxers once more and grasped at his buttocks, nuzzling at his neck and shoulders and swinging from aggressive -- more bits and nips -- to tender, kissing the top of his pine and tickling fingers down his flanks and biceps. And then, like upstairs, Lamps could feel the big thick head of his mate's tool pushing between his cheeks. He could hear more heavy spitting from the big rough defender, feel the warm fluid creep between his cheeks, then fingered into his aching tender hole.
He pressed his face in against the glass, watching it cloud up with his breath, his body jerking as he was frigged by two of Terry's thick fingers. In, out, in, out, in out. Ohhh. He did his best to hold in the screams of pained passion, holding himself against the hard glass and letting John fuck him with his digits, stretching and loosening his unused hole. Oh fuck.
Terry was impatient and commanding. He didn't stick to fingers for long. He could feel the hugeness of his prick back there in minutes, and felt Terry's strong arms fold about his waist and chest as he began to push it in ,easing its girth in between his muscular buttocks. Out here in the cold and danger, he was being fucked for the first time, held in wiry strong arms and a voice growling in his ear, telling him what a dirty slut he was and how much he need to be used and abused. He shivered and yelped quietly, holding in the gasps and screams, knowing the slightest noise could alert Christine above -- or even without that, she could drift curiously downstairs at any moment and enter the lounge, switch on the lights and be greeted by the sight of him, pressed up against the glass with his dick dripping pre-cum, being mounted by the Premiership's most feared bad boy in years.
It hurt so much. He had a new respect for the men he'd fucked, realising how much it took to relax and allow the huge manliness enter him, stretch him, fill him. He began to squeal and up came John's hand, covering his mouth, accidentally closing off all his breath for a couple of moments before adjusting to let his nostrils flare and pinch. In went Terry's big dick, deep and invasive. Frank's body was almost lifted off the ground, pressed hard against the glass, fucked good and proper. You dirty bitch,' John hissed into his ear, you always were, always were a little bitch, Frank, mmm...' The filthier and more horrible his words, the more Lampard shuddered and relaxed and opened for him. It hurt, it really fucking hurt, but it was a pleasure like no other for him; a depth and sensitivity no sexual experience had ever allowed him before.
So much so that as soon as Terry's reaching hand (had big John ever touched another man's dick before, or was he too selfish for that?) reached down and grasped his hard-on, Frank spunked his load against the double-glazing, dribbling his seed down it as testimony to this insane pleasure. Still Terry fucked him, slapping his ragdoll body against the windows until he was reaching his own filthy climax. He clamped his hand tightly over Lampard's mouth and grunted out his final dirty messages. `Feel that in ya, my bitch, my little girl, my princess... mmm.... Yeh.... Fuckkk... baby girl...' And then he was squeezing his body even more tightly, humping him with one last deep thrust, emptying his seed inside him like he was impregnating some young bride.
Frank collapsed weakly between his grip and the window, all his strength gone, overcome with pleasure and pain, thinking about when he'd first fucked a bloke, topping Mason Mount on his mahogany desk: perky little Mason, who he'd thrown about as his plaything for a couple of months, no appreciation for how much it must hurt the lad! Little Mason, he thought, who'd played on that shared past to push his buttons today and convince him to intervene with poor depressed Chilwell, who apparently was heartbroken by some girlfriend back in the Midlands... well, he'd honoured his bond to Mount and given it a go, but Ben had seemed reluctant to engage, lost in his own world... just like Frank was now, shivering weakly and slumping forward as his lover released him and backed off, grunting and growling like a wild animal, then dashing off with a rustle of fallen leaves, abandoning him naked and whimpering in his own back garden.
After bouncing around the hotel on his own for a good half hour or more, Grealish had resorted to the cold night outside, regretting the thin layers of his chosen clothing as he patrolled the nearest streets of Islington in a cloth mask and tugged low baseball cap. He'd regretted the dramatic late-night stroll as soon as he was out there on the empty pavements, England's capital silenced by lockdown except for purring delivery scooters and the occasional overspill of bassy music from an open window way above street level.
The sulking Premiership captain was soon returning to the hotel grounds, realising he would just need to stomp back to his shared room and hope that big kind-hearted Barkley was already asleep; he knew Ross well enough already to hope that tonight's little spat would be forgotten in the morning, his own petulance forgiven or forgotten in favour of their increasingly effective footballing partnership. But he couldn't face the awkwardness of going back into that room when he'd been such a little twat to him, so he figured he might just hide in reception for a bit before slinking upstairs and checking in on the room...
He was just crossing the forecourt, looking up at the dimly glowing windows of the floors above and trying to figure out which belonged to he and Barkley's room, when he heard the deep ragged breaths of another man in the darkness here. He tensed up cautiously, realising he might have been stupid to wander these North London blocks in his designer gear. He almost jumped out of his clothes when the other guy in the hotel grounds was suddenly next to him, right up in his face, breathing heavily and reaching for his arm -- but then he saw the guy's face, lean and tanned and stubbled, hair combed neatly back and eyes wide with desperate interest.
Jack,' hissed Ben Chilwell, seizing his elbow, where the fuck have you been?'
Grealish blinked dopily at him, still lost in his moment's terror of being mugged, struggling to adjust to the new reality that Chilwell had teleported across the city and into his presence as if summoned by his anguished thoughts on his lonely walk. He remembered himself and pulled back with his elbow, away from Ben's cold fingers. What?' he snapped. A walk, man. What's it to YOU? What are you doin' here anyway?' The angry words tumbled out, dripping in spite.
I've been ringing for like fifteen minutes,' hissed Chilly. Where's your phone?'
In my room!' Grealish said back, pulling up his height and trying to look less frightened and vulnerable than he had felt a moment ago. God, what's with the questions? Why are you HERE, Ben, mate...?' He glared at him, and the glare took some effort; he was welling up with relief and excitement to see him for the first time in this many weeks, really bewildered and overwhelmed that his sulky silent return to the hotel had been intercepted thus.
I needed to see you,' the Chelsea and England heartthrob insisted, reaching for his arm again. I needed to talk to you. Jack. Please.'
It's late,' Grealish mumbled desperately at him, feeling annoyed even as he said it that his anger and distress wouldn't let him just shut up and listen. You shouldn't be here, man. Quarantine rules. If you were caught, then...'
Jack, just STOP,' he was told forcefully by the slightly younger footballer, who grabbed him for a moment by both arms and shook him. Listen to me! Please! Shut up that stupid mouth for five minutes and just LISTEN, okay?' There was something really fierce and determined in the other player's expression, and a force in his grip that stilled and stunned Grealish. His overwhelming gladness and comfort at seeing the handsome fucker was fighting to get past his slow-burning heartbreak.
What?' he cried. What the hell is it? How can you just be here after...'
Forget it,' Ben insisted, forget it all, we were both fucking stupid, weren't we? It doesn't matter. It doesn't have to matter, Jack. Please.' He was pleading but he sounded so sure and authoritative rather than desperate or emotional. Grealish stared and gawped at him, surprised even more as the other guy began to descend, still clinging to his arms but sliding his hands down from his elbows to the cuffs of his hoody then locking fingers with his. Ben Chilwell was down on his knees in front of him on the quiet dark flagstones of the forecourt. Jack stared at him, uncomprehending.
Ben let go of his hands and Jack felt a rush of neediness at that, wanted to reach out or stoop down to grab them back, couldn't stop himself. He heard his voice out loud saying more stupid angry things, demanding to know why Ben was here and what he wanted, but his body and soul were craving touch, embrace. But then Chilly was fumbling in a pocket and pulling a hand back up towards him, holding something towards him and staring up with that open handsome face.
`Jack,' he gasped, almost soundlessly. His eyes were bright with what looked like tears, and so the Brummie lad felt his own mist instantly with the same intense emotion, staring at what Ben was lifting from one palm and holding up in two fingers towards him. A small gold ring that bulged at one side with a thicker etched stub. A little signet ring he'd seen Ben wear on his pinkie finger time and time again. Jack stared at it, the breath knocked from his athletic body.
Jack Grealish,' choked his lover on his knees, will you fuckin' marry me, mate?'