Part 209: Stepping Up
It was dark already outside and Moor Farm training ground was almost deserted; through the misted windows of the upstairs office, car lights were visible as a slow drip of players and staff made their exits from the Friday sessions, the late preparations he had called in for tomorrow's Championship match against Wycombe. He looked heavily out at this dim view of amber halos disappearing and felt the pull of leaving the grounds himself to get back to the wife and kids, but then frowned back at the papers sprawled across the desk and the files open on his laptop.
Here he was, stepping up, first day on the job. He knew it was a bit sooner than planned -- a LOT sooner than planned, if he was honest -- but the past couple of days had been filled with bristling excitement at taking the helm and getting Derby County ready for the next challenge.
Wayne Rooney grimaced at his own inscrutable scribbles on the pad in front of him, the messy notes of his meetings with the other senior coaches over today -- the senior coaches who'd been giving him the same sceptical looks as so many outside of the club would be. Here he was, 35 and not even hanging up his own boots, handed his first management job; he hadn't even completed the coaching badges he'd aimed to so far this season, the whole thing had been a rapid surprise after the sacking of his predecessor and own former boss.
The rugged little Scouser hunched over the desk moodily, staring at the numerous squad changes he was considering to shake up the team for his first outing, resisting the urge to just sod it all and put himself at the centre of the attack and lead with his feet. Nah, he'd be laughed out of Derbyshire! He crossed out a couple of names and then jabbed in another option then started at his own messy boyish writing and decided that he couldn't actually remember what he'd decided in the afternoon when shouldered by the experience of the other guys that formed his makeshift coaching team. Fuck, fuck.
Again, Wayne checked the time: he definitely ought to be getting down and into his motor and hurrying off home. They were putting up the Christmas tree tonight, valuable family time, and he wanted to throw himself into all that wholesome comfort away from the sudden new pressures of the management job he'd only just accepted. But he could also see it flashing repeatedly through his brain on the drive, distracting him from the road; he could imagine himself tense and impatient with the family as they started decorating for the festive season. No, he had to be clearer in his mind here before he returned, or he'd be a right fuckin' Grinch!
This was what he'd been working hard for since joining the team, trying to strike a balance between being the Championship side's grizzled old dog striker, making sporadic appearances to inject his Premiership skill into the games, and beginning to cut his teeth as a coach. A proper head coach job like this at a smallish club had been the aim pretty soon, just not... right now. Tomorrow shone with opportunity but also potential humiliation; if he screwed up here at Derby, he could already be throwing away his footballing legacy at United and for England. If his management career started on a terrible loss, then... ugh. He could already imagine the abuse and criticism that would fly his way. He'd done enough to attract negative media in the last two decades, but his undoubted footballing talent had been like a magic force field -- if it turned out he was a shite manager, then none of that goodwill and hero worship would save him now!
With a loud grunt, Wayne shoved his paperwork clumsily away from himself with freckled fists, and buried his stubbled chin against these knuckles, staring at the lists of names and jaggedly drawn strategies until they were totally illegible. He was just banging his caveman head against a wall now, he knew it; time to give up for the night.
Rooney pushed his chair away from the gaffer's desk -- HIS desk, now -- and got up, realising how much his lower back ached from being hunched here so much of the day rather than bursting across training grounds being hands-on as he'd prefer. He looked out of the window again, surmising that the training centre must be near enough empty now, the car parks were basically clear; well, maybe he ought to take advantage of the emptiness, in that case.
A little workout, he told himself. A pop into the team gym while the lads aren't here, since I can hardly train alongside them like I'm just one of the boys now! A good workout would shut his tense brain down and allow him to relax when he got home to Coleen and the boys, she'd understand if he popped her a message now. Right, good plan, good plan. He cracked his knuckles and backed away from the desk, zipping up the two-toned blue tracksuit top of his Derby kit and glancing about the room wondering what he could/should take home with him, but... nah, fuck it! It would all still be here in the morning.
The striker-turned-manager turned his back on the chaos of his predecessor's office, many of his belongings still evident on the walls and shelves, and stomped out into the deserted corridors of the training complex beyond, motion-sensor lights flickering on and off with his bustling journey, headed for the fitness suite to burn out this mood and quieten his busy thoughts.
In the gym, the quietness of the rapidly deserted training centre was irrelevant within the blaring tinny music of some wireless headphones, drowning Bobby Duncan in his own retro dance playlist as he hoisted the ambitious bar weights up against his chest and then -- one jerky motion at a time -- up above his head in a high lift to work his shoulders as well as his arms. Down, grunt, relax for a moment, tauten muscles; up he went again, not without difficulty, forcing his aching limbs to hoist the loaded bar up from his waist to his chest and then driving it further upwards over his head, feeling the tension wobble in his wrists and his shoulder joints.
The 19-year-old was doing everything he could to accelerate his fitness, and had quite lost track of time this Friday evening; he was not confident of even a bench appearance at tomorrow's Wycomb game, or he'd be in a greater rush to get away and rest like everyone else. But the awkward truth was, he thought, that again he was a peripheral spare, just like he'd been at Fiorentina.
It had seemed an exciting move when it was first proposed to him by his agent. Realistically, he would have done anything not to return to Italy, and so his initial dismay at second-flight football had quickly been pushed away; Derby were up-and-coming and it sounded like an opportunity to really start picking up match time and fulfil his own potential. He'd bandied the idea with some of his old Merseyside pals during the summer break, people he'd played with in the Liverpool youth academy only a couple of years ago, and the advice had been almost unanimous. Only cocky Harvey Elliott had questioned whether he should hold out for a better offer, and amusingly that headstrong Liverpool starlet was on loan to a Championship side himself! But... the difference was that Harvey had pretty much walked into first-team starts and was racking up impressive stats that would make him very valuable when he returned to Klopp's management next season.
Bobby, on the other hand, was almost as bored and isolated here in the East Midlands as he'd been in his Florentine phase. His footballing and personal life felt almost exactly the same, except for giving up on his Italian speaking lessons, and swapping the burnished sunshine of Tuscany for the drizzle and mists of Derbyshire. That and leaving behind his flatmate, he thought, gripping anxiously at the bar through his special training gloves, casting a brief but regular thought to Patrick and the way he'd left things; not a word had been spoken since the two footballers since Duncan caught that taxi to the airport and left Cutrone snoozing in their loft apartment.
So Bobby's plan was simple. He needed to become a Cristiano-esque machine of a man so that he could enter his 20s in peak fitness and begin to really make his mark on English football, the wasted time of his European excursion forgotten and dismissed. Hence he was here pumping iron long after most of the Derby players had called quits on the day's work, showering and going; hence he was lifting a bit more than he could really contend with, and already struggling to complete the last set of reps he'd intended. Steeling himself, the sturdy 5ft9 teenager pushed the whole of his strength into lifting and pushing the bar of weights, then felt his stocky legs shudder and his whole balance begin to fail him... the heavy bar and weights jangled heavily overhead and he felt his arms struggle to bring it down with any semblance of control, risking dropping it against his face or chest or on his precious striker's feet, but-
Suddenly another body was pushing against his and hands were next to his own white-hot shaking fingers, relieving the intense pressure of the bar and allowing his whole throbbing body to relax limply away; his eyes seemed to explode with little flashes of light and he felt very briefly dizzy, twisting his head to stare in alarm at his rescuer, and cringing with deep shame when he found it to be his own new boss, right beside him, lofting the weights away from him. Clearly Wayne Rooney was speaking loudly at him, but Bobby was still wearing his loud headphones and being blared at with 90s house music.
Feeling more foolish by the second, the younger Scouser grasped at the headphones and twisted them down to dangle about his thick neck, recovering his balance and watching as the older man brought the overloaded bar securely down to its rest, turning to give him a heavy stare and demand loudly, `Did you hear me, la'?'
Wha? No -- er -- wha'... erm' Bobby blinked furiously and gawped at the England hero, hot sweat prickling at much of his upper body from the strenuous reps he'd attempted there; his arms and shoulders felt rendered gelatine and his meaty leg didn't feel a great deal better in his clingy gym shorts. Thanks,' he gasped, remembering his manners, trying and failing to shift his arms into a more comfortable posture and look casual about what he'd been doing, then meeting the strangely stern look of the newly appointed caretaker manager.
What the hell were you trying to do to yerself?' Rooney was demanding, straightening up and taking a couple of swinging steps back towards him, throwing open his hands in a concerned panto. You coulda knocked yerself out, Bobby kid. Jesus!'
Bobby blushed across his craggy young features and massaged weakly at one wrist then the other, opening and closing his mouth. It was fine,' he muttered a little defensively, unsure what else to say. I just lost track of my reps, so... Thanks,' he added repetitively, straining to keep his voice measured and less panting. `Gaffer,' he added then, remembering Rooney's new status as of this week -- not that he hadn't spoken to the old forward with almost reverence from the minute he'd gotten here in September. Rooney was a certified superstar in a team of mediocrity, even if Duncan had to look past his Everton roots to appreciate that.
Wayne just raised his eyebrows, let out a whistling breath, and nodded across from them to where the offensively laden bar rested in its metal cradle. You are not up to lifting that, mate, sorry,' he assessed bluntly with a coach's assertiveness. What are you doing? I thought everyone had gone, lad. Pfft.' The older guy looked stressed out by the scenario, wide-eyed and critical, making Bobby's cheeks flush more and his weak attempts to pat life into his arm muscles feel more pathetic.
He eyed the youngster dubiously, shaking his head. `What's up?' he demanded, resisting the urge to just separate from the encounter and leave Duncan to whatever worked-up little ego mission he was on. He couldn't shirk the responsibilities of an older and more experienced teammate now, could he?! Not as the top coach. He practised his concerned and supportive face, which perhaps just looked constipated, and took a step closer to the blushing 19-year-old.
`What are you playing at, pushing yourself and nearly getting a concussion up here, ya daft sod?' he said in a quieter voice, folding his thick hairy arms across the front of his gym shirt and squaring up to the youth, who was pretty much the same height as him and approaching his burly build, even without testing himself on the free-weights.
`Just working on my fitness,' the younger Merseysider answered, avoiding his eyes and adjusting those posey little workout gloves he was wearing. His black training shirt hugged his already muscular upper body, naturally quite thick and bulky, and tried to shuffle away from the conversation a bit, but Wayne closed him off, blocking his route to the rest of the weights, eyeing his still limp arms.
Your fitness,' he echoed. I think maybe you've done enough for one day, eh?' When the kid just frowned and moved to slip by him towards the rack of dumb-bells, Rooney pulled the locker key from his shorts pocket and tossed it in Bobby's direction. The lad's instincts were sharp but his arms were floppy and pathetic as he reached for the catch, wincing and grumbling as the effects of his weightlifting were more fully exposed. The key bounced off his chest and dropped noisily to the floor between them, where they left it.
You don't need to worry about your fitness,' Wayne told him softly. You're 19 and you run like a very fast 19-year-old. Stop pushing yourself on your own like this on a Friday night, kid.'
A long sigh from the young signing, fillied with wordless frustration and complaint that Wayne could read instantly, had seen in a few dozen young teammates over the many years of his senior playing career. Bobby,' he barked, you're young. Plenty of time for the spotlight later. Don't be getting' a sulk on cos you ain't been making the senior team this season, ey...?'
He saw the accusation in Duncan's frown and he knew as soon as he paused speaking that his patronising take was flawed, given his own stellar rise as a teenager. Looking back, he'd been at the peak of Premiership attention well before 19, and he had to frown apologetically at his young teammate -- wait, no, player. He grunted, a little annoyed to be side-tracked from his plan for a quiet solitary workout down here, but still concerned by the fact he'd almost walked in on the well-connected youngster crashing out and injuring himself. Another fucking fine start to his managerial career that would have been, escorting this lump into an ambulance and having Stevie G on the phone accusing him of negligence towards his baby cousin...!
Well, we all have our battles,' he said lamely, gesturing at the inexperienced striker, and we can't expect to have everything just... handed to us. Got to prove ourselves.'
`That's what I'm trying to do,' Bobby told him, wistfully rather than sulkily.
Yeh,' the 35-year-old murmured back, I get it. I suppose I've been the same, pushing myself to think things through, staying on later than I should.' He nodded vaguely at a clock on the wall. Should be home by now, covered in tinsel. Don't ask.' A long huffing sigh. We all go a bit crazy when we want to prove we're good enough.'
Bobby was looking properly at him now, less russet about the cheeks, but still evidently embarrassed his own struggles and sulks. He nodded distantly, rubbing with one hand at a reddened bicep, shifting about in his tight shirt and shorts in front of Wayne, seemingly searching for something to say back. `You'll be grand tomorrow,' he said in his slightly softer Merseyside accent, trying to sound firm and perky -- an effort that was not lost on Wayne, though it would take more than the vague affirmation of a random teenager to reassure him about his premature promotion this weekend.
We'll see about that,' he responded with a harsh half-laugh. And you'll be making progress on the team before you know it. Trust me... I can put a good word in with the manager.' He cringed at his own dad joke, bunching his fists, and backing away from him. `Now less trying to knock yerself the fuck out with crazy weights, and lighten up, Bobby dazzler.'
`Right,' the former Fiorentina spare part said vaguely, shifting his eyes away again and moving away from the weights rack, fiddling with his gloves and rolling his broad young shoulders with a series of winces and grimaces. Wayne couldn't help but watch sympathetically and critically, hoping he hadn't already injured himself pushing too hard on his own fitness, but distracted by the need to get active and lose himself in his own routine.
Seriously,' he called at Bobby, taking some backward steps, watching the teenager move sulkily towards an exercise bike with water bottle in hand, take it easy. Be good to yerself. And... we'll chat about your future soon, kid. Eh?'
He grinned at him in what he hoped was a reassuring and helpful way, knowing that he was in no position to be making sympathetic arrangements with try-hard youngsters when he could barely settle on a squad for tomorrow's game -- Duncan had been scratched out of his plans early in the process, too risky and inexperienced for these next few games, but sure, he could keep a close eye on his progress and see what could be done with him as the Championship season progressed... after all, Bobby was a promising prospect, had enough of the Gerrard blood in him, and Rooney did want to transform the Derby squad he'd inherited with new hope and ambition.
As Bobby turned quietly away from him to clamber onto an exercise bike, Wayne turned away, going to fill up his own water bottle, planning out what exercises he could cruise through in autopilot to switch off all these buzzing questions about the squad and strategies for tomorrow, instead of picking up the added anxieties and dilemmas of an impatient 19-year-old on the side...!
Rooney's words were, for all their sudden gruffness in the embarrassing moment, surprisingly comforting to Duncan as he left the gym soon after and traipsed through into the changing facilities just down the corridor, slowly urging some lift into his arms and shoulders and fully regretting the ambitious sets he'd planned out for himself to round off the day, meaning he'd be like a fucking ragdoll tomorrow morning.
Rooney was a legend after all and his early-career betrayal of Everton made him an almost forgivable enemy to a natural Liverpool diehard -- although he had traded the Toffees in for Manchester fucking United and shaggy grannies, so he'd long been labelled a scumbag and trouble in Bobby's early memories of football banter. But there was no denying what the pug-faced Scouser had achieved in his career and for the country, and as a budding striker, he was a natural hero for Bobby to focus on now that they worked together here in Derby.
If only he'd made a better impression on him there... He turned the stilted little conversation over, regretting his defensiveness and ingratitude after the seasoned pro helped him out, and then his feeble gesture of support when it became clear he wasn't the only one a bit worried about their position here just now. Clearly, Rooney was just as paranoid as Duncan felt and actually they had more than just Liverpool in common. as he walked through into the changing rooms, Bobby really wished but he had done more to impress or India the older man and to make sure that he had a good chance of joining the team properly soon.
He stripped off his black top, peeling it away from his thickly muscled torso combat and catching sight of his body in the mirrored wall. In a moment of teenage vanity, he admired the breadth of his pecs and the solidness of his waistline, his six-pack beginning to tighten and show beneath the glistening toned skin now trickled with sweat -- he WAS stronger and more ripped than he'd been in Italy, indulging in too much pasta cooked by his flatmate, and comfort eating through the isolated loneliness of a foreign land. But right now his upper body felt like shit, torn by the weights that he'd opted for, and he sank down onto the slatted bench down the centre of the room, panting out slow breaths from the half-hearted cycling workout he'd fallen to when rescued from the weights.
No doubt Rooney would think he was a right dumb upstart now, it might take ages to make a better impression on him after this; how embarrassing! That was if he even got to speak to the new head coach much anyway and wasn't just relegated to the club's youth team full-time for the rest of the season, which was believable enough. Again, he sat there thinking about how similar his experience here already was to his time in Fiorentina. Overlooked, under-used, smilingly dismissed as on the way' and just needing some time'; being told to relax and just get on with the job hoping for the best, rather than being given any platform to prove himself and earn his place. Not for the first time, Bobby wondered which way round a particular problem was: was he only really here because of the famous name in his family, and that was why he didn't get the action he craved...? Or rather, was he snubbed and looked down upon on that unfounded suspicion, and a vague aura of nepotism kept him on the fringes of team life?
The young lad got back up, trying hard to shake some energy and firmness into his body, but just craving the soothing blast of showers and then the short drive to his local flat on the edge of town. At least he got his own place here, he supposed, no more cramped sharing with other lads, like... well, HIM, back in Florence, in that stuffy attic place, sharing so much space, always on top of each other- literally on top of each other, suddenly, in his mind's eyes, thinking yet again of that fateful last day in Tuscany before racing to the airport and the flight to John Lennon Airport. Stood alone in the sweaty quiet changing room, Duncan gulped awkwardly and stared into space, picturing the dark Italian stallion in the bed as he crept out of the room, confused and in some very private pain.
But, peeling off his gym socks and wriggling out of his skimpy shorts, he thought not just of Patrick lying asleep, but of the risqué games that had preceded it -- that night when Riccardo Sottil had joined them and brought that strange transgressive confusion into their affable relationship. It was that smugly handsome fucker that pinged angrily into his brain as the culprit, far more so than big Paddy, although... when he thought about Cutrone pushing up against him, kissing him (!), dragging his hand in against his crotch, and... his hole burned at the memory of lying on his side, pawed and caressed and feeling the hot wet presence nudging between his muscled buttocks... fucking hell!
Agitated, he blew out his breath and rubbed at his clammy face, padding about the empty room in just the tighty whities that had been beneath his gym shorts, a little saggy at the front but stretched wide over his broad hips. He stretched his body weakly and glanced at his reflection with less vanity than before, picturing it instead as something soiled and invaded by that hot-blooded son of Lake Como. Ugh.
His other hand, unbidden, fell to grab and push instead at the loose package at the front of his white briefs, slipping from bare foot to foot and glancing across towards the entrance of the communal showers, glad to be able to use it alone without other players muscling in next to him; he hated that closeness and exposure, more-so since his taste of Italian confidence and exuberance. And... fluidity.
Idly, the teen fumbled at himself and with his other hand's fingers, toyed at the fine gold chain of his little Catholic crucifix, then began pushing needlessly at his sweat-damp kit, forcing it into a bag to take home, then wrenching open his locker and organising his fresh tracksuit for the journey home, pausing now and then to pull and tickle at his bulge again, feeling the fleshy loosening and drooping of it, the little swells of his 19-year-old self-excitement. Disconnected, as far as he could admit to himself, from the rogue thoughts of Italian summer heat, of Patrick in the dusk.
His cock, with greater strength and assertion than his bulky upper body, was becoming thick and hard in the musty white cotton, and he stroked at it almost dismissively, willing it down or away. He was overheated as it was, flushed with the thoughts of how he might have embarrassed himself in front of the acting manager, and ensured his low chance of Championship minutes this season... yet touching at the stiffness in his undies was comforting and reassuring at the same time, as it is for all young men, obsessed with their own virility and potential. With a little sigh of self-defeat, the Liverpudlian youth slid his fingers in against the coarse red-brown of his pubes and felt himself, satisfied by how girthy his short solid equipment was, stretching the tighty whities about his fist and playing with himself where he quivered, letting out a private little sigh of conflict.
Then he turned, grabbing up in his other hand the pale blue faded towel, printed with `FIORENTINA' and crest out of some weird misplaced nostalgia for his brief Italian sojourn, and... Bobby stopped, towel clutched in one hand and the other shoved very firmly inside his briefs, and found himself face to face with the other broad 5t9 bloke, stood a couple of metres down the row from him, equally sheened with gym sweat and taking deep panting gulps of breath.
Wayne could not help but see it, coughing out his sudden social awkwardness, and fixing his eyes on the embarrassing and obvious shape in the teenager's white undies, a startling sight which immediately pricked at his own loaded balls and a long-suppressed appetite for something his WAG could never quite offer.
`Hey,' he said wheezily, pulling and tugging at the damp chest of his pale gym top, feeling self-conscious on Bobby's behalf as the young player faced up to him with a guilty gawp on his blocky face, still fumbling at the shape in his pants and making rabbit-in-headlights eyes from him to the shower entrance, perhaps deciding whether to acknowledge what was so obviously visible or pretend he hadn't been toying with himself like a randy kid...!
God, and what a well-built kid he was, Wayne thought, his eyes roving from that limp hand across the toned pale pink of his tummy and chest, those big browned nipples... he tore his eyes from that sight and laughed, tugging and writhing at his top more, listening to Bobby's murmured and mortified `Hey boss...' back at him. He distracted himself from looking at the undressed lad by pulling up on his shirt, wrenching it up and losing his face briefly in its warm folds, until it was off and in his grip, and Bobby was still staring awkwardly at him across the short space.
Neither of them had mentioned it, but the wannabe striker's hard-on seemed to blaze aggressively between them in his briefs, unavoidably present and noticeable, silently ignored by them both.
`You were quick,' breathed the Duncan lad, a touch of annoyance in his voice -- it was clear he hadn't been expecting to be joined in here after leaving the fitness suite; in fairness, Wayne would normally have sweated it out for longer in the gym but his plan had failed and he had remained distracted and jumpy, quickly giving up on the idea after working up an initial sweat.
`Yeh,' he trilled back, the awkwardness of the moment making his own mature voice sound reedy and youthful. It wasn't him stood here with a boner stretching his pants but he felt more like the intruder and the one at wrong, guiltily aware of how much he could not stop staring at the young stud. He let his eyes draw back to him, Bobby seeming frozen to the spot, but his own shirtlessness at least breaking some barrier or dynamic down.
`Right.'
`Yeah.'
`Erm... I wasn't...'
`It's fine,' Wayne said heavily, because what else was he gonna say...? It hardly seemed the time for a first attempt at managerial discipline and a stern lecture about professional conduct at Moor Farm. He scratched at his own broad hairy pectorals, a squat hulking figure opposite the smooth pink teen and his bulging excitement. He knew his eyes kept dipping revealingly down to it and then back up the gently sculpted strength of the upper body, back to the boyishly rocky face of the anxious lad, whose hand still rested at the waistband. In his alarm, he'd let go of the towel with the other hand, and it had billowed to the floor about his feet.
It was clear now that Bobby had no idea what to say or do and Wayne was going to have to push things in one direction... or another. He took another deep breath, pushing a little at the waist of his own shorts, edging forward slightly. He could feel a tingle down below and he knew with terrible certainty what he wanted to make happen here. But could he, really...?
`You're pretty horny, ain't you?' the player manager asked, his voice quiet and rasping.
`Fuck,' was Bobby's mumbled response to that.
`It happens,' Rooney said sagely.
`Sorry chief...'
That's sound,' he said, his voice tense with the risk of what he was about to say. You want some help with that before you go, do ya?' He heard his own reedy Scouse voice in the silent room, watched the slow blink and react of Bobby's eyes. The moment stretched for Rooney, ready to rapidly deny what he'd said and laugh it off at any show of horror or rejection from the Liverpool graduate. But with every second that Bobby didn't yelp out in disgust or come flying at him with a sudden punch, his fat cock dared to hope for action, and he edged a little closer, thumbing at the front of his shorts.
`Help?' Bobby whispered, and there was unmistakable excitement quavering in his voice, and curiosity in the flicker of smile at one side of his plump moist lips.
Wayne closed the gap between them in three stomping steps, running one hand along the metal frame of hooks, standing face to face with his 19-year-old player, two stocky bodies but one much thicker and hairier with age. `Sit down,' he told him simply, and remained standing, indicating down to the bench with just his intense eyes.
Bobby folded backwards very quickly, almost looking relieved as he did so, dropping his thighs to the bench and his back against the metal rails; Rooney sank to, dropping each hand to grasp one warm knees as he went down on his own, and softly parting those legs as he did so, nudging until the thighs opened and Bobby had to shuffle his bare feet to the sides. He glanced up briefly to see the way the lad now stretched back against the support of metal bars, his eyes narrowed and his lips awkwardly pursed. But then, without another word, he moved in on what he wanted, and nuzzled the front of Bobby's pants with his nose and mouth, running his flared nostrils against the musty white cotton and parting his lips around the firm sideways shape. Bobby's gasp was one of muffled delight.
Wayne ran his own rough palms up and down his quite smooth thighs, stroking the downiest of dark hairs there, and enjoyed toying with the hard tool without freeing it from the briefs. He just mouthed its length and shape and breathed in the lad's sweaty gym odour, pressing his own knees down into the linoleum floor and feeling his nipples and prick harden in the quick comforting enjoyment of what he'd discovered here. The comfort and distraction he'd sought in working out was here in a different kind of exercise, one he hadn't revisited in some years now.
Only once he could feel the leak of precum mix with the sweaty dampness of those pants, only once he could feel Bobby's thick thighs tremble up and down, only once those lips were opening and he could really hear the furtive little gasps of surprise out loud, did he begin to pull up on the leg of the undies, releasing the Duncan cock down out of the side and flopping free against his thigh -- so that he could now lick at it fresh, taking it really into his gob rather than just chewing at a bulge. Bobby sighed quite loudly now and Wayne had to really grasp hard at his thigh muscles to hold his nervous legs still, gaping wide with his mouth to take in the thick short weapon and really enjoy its salty tasty, precum all over his tongue, mmm...
Rooney's mind wandered inevitably. It had been years! It had been so long since he hunkered down and enjoyed another bloke's body like this, and really he had long thought it might never happen again -- the temptation or opportunity might never revive, the risk might be too great! He had held onto his marriage by the skin of his teeth in the past and so he had sacrificed the homoerotic fun of his youth. But now...
A part of him was transported back to his first England trip and that moment of exploration in the bed of his captain, the formative first experience that had woken him up. The feel of David Beckham's hand on his head and his own delicate lips curling about the massive weapon of the world's most famous footballer. He remembered how beautiful and intoxicating the man had been in that shared room, such an icon already and so smooth and otherworldly to a scally teenager from Liverpool. He remembered the taste of him even now.
He thought about his own years as an England captain, and the moment of confusion when he had tried to assert his authority over a bright-eyed young player too, just like Becks had... but what he remembered was going down on Eric Dier, sucking on the fat manhood of that youthful lad, so much more lean and sprightly then than the solid Viking lookalike who now played at Tottenham. But like Beckham, he could remember it so vividly -- the taste and feel of his wood in his own greedy mouth, the submission and acceptance of him.
Of course, there were other times, when he had not been the one on his knees, had not been the submissive hungry one in the moment. There had been so many dirty little moments in his teens and his twenties, so much adventure and exploration when the right man was near him and his inhibitions were stripped away by raw masculine energy.
For a moment, his mouth wrapped tightly about Bobby Duncan's fat cock, his thoughts strayed to a different empty changing room in a different football club, another snapshot from his teenage prime when the world seemed to be at his feet. He could see himself on his knees, and picture another, more defined six-pack close to his face, shiny with sweat. Here in the Derby training centre, Rooney's mind drifted back to a different scene in Old Trafford, and he was picturing that tanned adonis from Portugal who had been such an important turning point in his life...
A statuesque image of a young Cristiano Ronaldo drifted into his mind, shedding his crisp white towel and fully exposing his masterful body in the stuffy heat of a football locker-room in another decade. Now THERE was a memory -- if he could remember the taste and feel of men like Beckham, his first, or boisterous brief partners like Dier, then with Cristiano, he could remember... EVERYTHING. Every twitch of muscle, every fruity little scent of hair product. Every difficult second of conversation between them in those days with Ronaldo barely spoke English and his own accent could barely be understood by anyone outside the north-west.
For a moment he was utterly consumed in THAT memory, crouched in front of this hot-bodied 19-year-old lapping at his cock, and his own dick was hard and uncomfortable in the mesh inner of his shorts, making them stretch about his hips and arse, because he was reliving moments of glory from his late teens when he was as young and fresh as Bobby Duncan. But then the lad in front of him groaned his name, and snapped him back, away from the heady days of that memory, and to what was in his mouth here and now...
Wayyyyne,' he purred, unable to keep his words in. Oh Rooneyyy.... Fuck...'
He remained very still where he sat, his legs feeling pinned by the older man's strong hands, but really just stuck to the spot with sheer pleasure and gratitude, utterly thrilled by the way his sensitive cock leaked and throbbed in the sloppy, panting mouth. He felt every bristling tickle of the Scouse man's facial hair on his inner thighs and crotch, his briefs still on but pulled aside to allow the hot lingering blowjob and drooling attention of the older striker's tongue.
He wasn't sure how he had reacted if it had been an average player offering him this `help'. This was fucking Rooney, one of the most solidly manly figures he could imagine; and his boss now, really, so questioning his behaviour hadn't even seemed doable. He'd acted unthinkingly, down on his arse on the bench, spreading his legs when pushed, and now... he felt like he'd been on the verge of blowing his load for many long minutes now, shocked at how soft and supple Wayne's tongue and lips were as they worked magic on his cock.
Rooney's head pulled back a little and his eyes rolled this way sharply, something ferocious and animal about them that chilled Duncan's near-orgasm; the brutish footballer was staring hard at him with glossy wet lips and sweat rolling down his brow and cheeks. There was a flash of surprise in his eyes, Bobby thought, as if he thought he was with someone else, or as if he too was in as much disbelief at what he was doing, snuffling around a lad's crotch like a dirty pig.
Fuck,' Bobby drawled at him, without really allowing himself any questions or doubts of his own, mate that feels... I mean, sir, boss, that is...' He laughed wheezily between his pleasured pants, unsure how to address the thuggish man between his legs, now stroking and kneading at his thighs and licking his bottom lip and stooping to lick across the fat mushroom head of his dick.
Yeh,' Rooney agreed, fixing him with those edgy eyes, and now it's your turn, lad.'
He was getting up now, pushing down on Bobby's sturdy legs as he did, and he was up on his feet in front of him before the teenager had digested this revelation, his mouth dropping open. For the first time since he had been caught here with his hard-on, he connected what was happening to the experiences that haunted him: the reciprocal way he and those Italian stallions had grabbed at one another -- but mouths had not been involved! Not mouths, no, just his... his buttocks clenched together hard against the wooden slats below, eating up the cotton of his briefs between them, while his cock ached for completion.
But in front of him, the shorts were being pushed down, and mousy brown pubes exposed, a cock as hard and thickly veined as his own, but longer and a little curved, Wayne's foreskin sliding back around the long shapely head that glistened wet in front of him, FUCK... He looked past it, down its shaft and into the bush, then up the thick trunk of Wayne's pale body, to the soft rug of his chest and at his grinning eager face, as impish as when he was a spotty teenager impressing the world.
What do you say?' the new Derby manager grunted under his breath. Wanna show me what you can do?'
`I've never...'
`Gotta start somewhere, then.'
It was a moment of deep indecision for the 19-year-old, who had fled Italy in horror at the touching and intimacy he'd shared with another man. But here he was, rock-hard and sharing his sweaty bare body with an older man, with this footballing legend who now ran his team. He reached first with his hand, touching the Rooney manhood like it was a grenade that might explode, but then he did as suggested, and leaned tentatively forward, letting his jaw hang open and his mouth approach the deep masculine taste of that pink glans. He didn't have to lean in much or open his mouth fully -- Wayne was instantly pushing forward and edging his chunky equipment into him, making him gag a little and wriggle on his seat. Relenting, the burly striker shifted back and repositioned, but then pushed with his cock again. This time Bobby was more ready, parting his lips and letting the big presence jab against his flat tongue and the roof of his mouth, tasting his gaffer's manliness against his palate.
For several minutes he struggled, choking and whimpering, then he stepped up -- being sucked by this meaty man had felt AMAZING, and he began to grab and jerk at his cock to remind himself of that while he made his own clumsy attempts to emulate that service. Jerking on his dick, slick and slimy with Wayne's spit, while trying to rub his lips against the veiny shaft and give some fraction of that insane pleasure to the masterful Scouser who moaned heavily and breathily over him. Each of Rooneys' thick tattooed arms was pushed against the frame behind him, exposing the mousy hair of his pits and the breadth of his white chest, his reddened face screwed up in a growl of enjoyment, raw animal pleasure. Yesss,' he hissed, yes la'...'
Duncan rolled his tongue against it as much as he could, but the dick seemed so huge and mouth-filling (and a corner of his mind acknowledged that it wasn't even a match for Cutrone's Italian sausage, was it?) and he had no real idea what he was doing. Also, he was now so preoccupied by the experience of wanking himself, loving how his palm was lubed by saliva; his other hand reaching down to tug at his own red balls as he did so, feeling himself seconds or microseconds away from spewing his juices. His lack of focus or care resulted in some almost angry yelps from the standing athlete-coach, as he felt his teeth nip or scrape a little. He eyed Rooney apology as the standing brute pulled back and took hold of his own cock. `Mind yer teeth!' he barked, but with laughter in his eyes and voice, and his grinning presence was all that filled Bobby's vision as he came.
Rooney felt flecks of the youth's ejaculate spatter his sweaty legs, but in turn he showered Duncan in his fertile juice: he came seconds after the younger forward and spurted long streaks of creamy white down the hot pink of that smooth chest and in gorgeous icing over one big nipple, some dabs of his seed hitting the trembling biceps and trickling lower down his abdomen.
The broad-shouldered little footballer groaned deeply into the quiet, pulling a last few times on his aching boner, which had been so stimulated by the clumsy attempts at sucking and so quickly finished by his own hand -- it had been almost ready to blow long before it was tugged out of his shorts, as he went down on this solid young lad and revelled in the memories of past conquest.
Wayne looked at him, the little death-mask of orgasm on his puffy features, enjoying the mix of innocence and filth in his expression. He was a sexy lad, not the most conventionally handsome, but then who the fuck was Roon to talk about that? He panted and grinned and took in the sexy sight of him, all glossy and toned and bare, his dick an angry red and dribbled spunk all over his ruffled undies and his spread thighs, and in the little creases of his six-pack... well, waste not want not...
Down Wayne went, back onto his knees, and forward into that lap -- first just kissing the sight of the throbbing, dwindling member, then lapping his tongue against each dirty little slick of teenage jizz. He lapped cum from twitching inner thigh, from the damp folds of white cotton, from his musty belly button, licking him clean and making him pant and whimper some more in surprise. But the dirty Scouser did not stop in licking up these interesting little mouthfuls of (indirectly) Gerard spunk, but he rose up, kissing his chest and tasting his own semen there before backing away with long wheezing gasps, his still-hard cock swinging side to side with each clumsy oafish step.
He stood there, wiped out and satisfied and, so importantly, DISTRACTED; on the bench, the teen slumped there, dazed and overwhelmed and obedient. Rooney laughed once, a rough little barking sound, and patted his flat hairy tummy with one cum-stained hand. You dirty little bugger,' he teased. Who knew? Fuck...' He licked his lips, still sticky with the important cream. `Now... you need to shower down. Ey ey?'
Bobby nodded vacantly. Wayne offered him a strong clammy hand. Side by side, the two 5ft9 strikers tottered into the showers and occupied other ends. It amused Rooney to see that Duncan was so dazed by orgasm that he still had his sticky briefs on, bunched about his impressive buttocks where they had stayed during the blowies. He chuckled softly and turned away from him, spunking shower gel into each palm and then running it over his red chest, knocking the shower into life and enjoying its cleansing force. Fuck, he had NOT expected to dip his toe in THOSE waters again at this job, but... it had certainly done the trick! Against the wild irresponsibility of what had just happened, the pressure and tension of tomorrow seemed irrelevant!
Bobby looked over his shoulder at the rear of the almost legendary goal-scorer at the opposite showerhead -- the broad pink muscle of his back, the short-cropped lump of his head. His protruding chunky arse, almost alarmingly hairy to someone as young and smooth as Bobby. He could hear the low mirthful chuckles of the showering head coach, though he was not sure exactly what amused his gaffer so much -- he seemed so cool with what had just happened...!
For his own part, the 19-year-old was not exactly regretting it. Though his mouth felt a bit dodgy for having been invaded and he kept gargling shower water to try and cleanse the dirty taste of the brute's boner. He spat heavily between his toes and rubbed soap over his outer arms, swaying a little on his heels and wondering if man-to-man sex always left one quite so light-headed and terrified.
Inevitably, he thought of Patrick. Thought of the dirty way in which Sottil had so casually initiated a bit of kink over video games, that slimy bastard! He thought of the tension that had built between he and Cutrone after that, and the way it had exploded on his final afternoon in the great Medici city. Bobby ran his face and short brown hair beneath the blast of the shower with something approaching regret, backgrounded by a chirpy Scouse whistle from Wayne Rooney: the problem that now occupied Bobby's tired brain was a simple retrospective question. If something as deviant and filthy as this could happen with a married dad-of-however-many like Roon, so easily and casually as this... had his escape from Florence and from Patrick been... an overreaction?
He ran his hands over his face and spat more shower water out from his pouty lips. Slowly he turned the handle to reduce and then finish the stream of hot water, standing there near-naked with steam rising off his blotchy pink body. He thought about his race out of that apartment and his desperation to reach the airport, his relief at landing in Liverpool after so many months of pandemic quarantine in a foreign country... He thought about his escape from Paddy and his utter silence towards the Italian striker ever since. Given what he'd just done with his new manager... had he been wrong to leave him?
I KNOW ROONEY IS A BIT MARMITE BUT FELT HIS NEW JOB DESERVED A STORY... SHAME IT WAS JUST A 1-1 DRAW, HE MUST HAVE BEEN DISTRACTED ?? LET ME KNOW WHAT YOU THINK - SHOULD HIS OLD TRAFFORD MEMORIES BE EXPLORED A LITTLE MORE, OR SHOULD WE FIND OUT WHAT PATRICK CUTRONE IS UP TO BACK IN FLORENCE...? ALWAYS INTERESTED IN FEEDBACK AND IDEAS. X