Part 226: Two Vikings
`Closeted Guy, 35'.
It was definitely him. Eric recognised the badly cropped main Grindr profile pic, although he silently conceded that the username seemed to generic enough in the seedy swirl of the app's grid system; it could easily have been a totally different fella to the one who'd he'd almost met last year, except that one of the secondary photos swiped along to was pretty distinctive. The dress of the woman on his left, mainly cropped out, was recognisable, as was a picture on the wall by his shoulder, next to the decapitated head where the discreet photograph ended. It was him. Definitely.
Eric let his thumbs hover over the keyboard indecisively before committing to the apology. hey. Remember me?' Long pause, controlling his anxious breaths. It was risky using this here, but wasn't that part of the excitement? sorry about before. Something came up. Didn't mean to stand you up.' No answer to either of those messages. He closed the chat to look at his profile pics again, this allegedly 35-year-old stranger with the lean good bod and the strangely likeable chat when they'd been messaging for that optimistic week. Eric had been too nervous and heartbroken to see it through and meet him, though. Still no answer to his messages. `Are you at the stadium too?' he asked now, pushing forward with a little risk to his own identity, but then why was he opening up Grindr in the Tottenham Hotspur Stadium if he wasn't willing to try and pick a guy up here...?
The response that came was not in the form of words. He saw a flickering icon that suggested the `Closeted Guy' might be typing, after all, but then the screen blurred and he was back to the grid of headless torsos, smirking selfies, badly chosen memes. He thumbed into his chat list and found the limited conversation gone. Oh. The guy had just... blocked him?
Fair enough, he thought, remembering that night when he'd snubbed him, cancelling their `date' at the last moment after waiting alone in the streets of East London and trying to convince himself that the risk of meeting a guy off that daft app could ever pay off. As if, he thought, some random guy off a hook-up app could ever be trusted regarding the footballing taboo of his sexuality...?! He had been briefly excited to recognise the profile, seemingly so close to himself, after finally signing back into the app months later, but he could hardly resent the bloke's disinterest in picking up their discarded conversation. It had been Eric who cancelled, who ended things before they were anywhere near beginning. They hadn't even risked sharing face pics.
With a rapid and bitter series of pokes at his phone screen, and a few cautious glances about the home changing rooms where he was currently sat in a discreet corner, Eric Dier first closed and then rapidly uninstalled the app, totally regretting the decision to re-download it this afternoon on another dull solitary walk through North London. He'd kept passing random lone men who tickled his fancy and decided a sleazy distance app like that might be worth it. Ugh. Waste of data. Load of weirdos. And one seemingly sound fit bloke who he'd already pissed off.
He found himself blushing as he lowered the device and then pushed it into a side-pocket of his backpack, questioning why he'd ever taken the foolish move of opening it up in here when any of the lads might have seen and exposed him. The well-built defensive midfielder scratched his blond beard and looked about the room, watching as everybody else tugged on the same Spurs-branded kit, not their proper home kit but just the layers of training gear for the warm-up. Right, phone away, get up, time to get your head in the game.
He picked himself up, dismissing his own risky behaviour, unwilling to dwell on the pangs and longings that had been working against him during this latest severe lockdown. Particularly today, given what tonight might have been. It was supposed to be Aston Villa in the opposing changing rooms, heading out onto the green pitch to warm up at the other end of the field; but that clash had been indefinitely postponed by virus outbreaks at the Birmingham club, and a rescheduled local derby had replaced it tonight. Eric had been fixated on the date for some weeks now, keeping a close eye on Villa's injury news, sure that the Premiership match would bring a certain Scouse brute into his proximity for the first time since early December.
But nope. No Aston Villa visiting, just Fulham.
Dier bounced on his heels and shook his thick arms at his sides, stepping into place with the flow of other guys, ready to brace himself against the cold and warm up the muscles for what should be a fairly easy win over the other London team. In the tunnel, he found himself strutting along parallel to them, the Fulham players striding by and out into the cold night that had sunk over the football ground. At their rear, a dark polo neck rising up from the collar of his coat, was their young-ish manager, former England hero Scott Parker -- poor guy, Eric thought vaguely, thinking about how badly Fulham were performing lately, and remembering the older bloke's glory days in the League, an English icon who he'd really looked up to in his own formative years. Parker looked moody, fiddling with his phone as he stalked after his men, but Eric was distracted from that sight by a strong arm curling about his neck and dragging him into an awkward rugged headlock -- he broke into gasping laughter while his `attacker' hooted, and the noise of their horseplay made Parker glance tensely this way before marching uncomfortably on.
`My English Viking!' Eric's teammate's voice boomed in his ear as the midfielder wrestled at him and they broke out into the cold air of outdoors, following the other kitted men to the right and away to their half for warm-up exercises. Eric struggled out of the other athletic man's powerful grip and pushed him away with a laugh, shaking off his slaps and rubs of his gloved hands.
Oi, careful,' Dier chuckled at the relative newbie, but enjoying the grandiose nickname this ex-Southampton signing had landed him in the early weeks of the season, always quick to comment on his rugged persona and Scandi looks. We're not out in the longship now, you idiot.' He winked and shoved him in the sleeve of his top, shaking his head.
Pierre-Emile Hojbjerg just grabbed and shook his shoulders in that loose, scrappy manner that made him such good company this season, jostling him along towards the huddle of their teammates who were now being addressed by the assistant manager. Dier grinned at the 26-year-old Dane, a good ally here in the ambitious team, reminding himself of the night's task and his priorities, in which a silly dating app and his regrets about the change of opposition were pretty irrelevant details.
As it happened, it was a disappointing game for the Hotspurs, and ended 1-1 with the West London visitors. Dier felt ambivalent about his own contributions to the match, trying to wash away his disappointment in the long steamy showers of the same home changing rooms, cleansing his bulky smooth muscles and (as always) resisting the urge to steal too many ogling peeks at other fellas on the squad that might lead to embarrassment or discomfort. Partly resisting, anyhow: the slippery twinks of Harry Winks and Sergio Reguilon were hard not to give a glance, as were the more mature studly figures of Ben Davis and Hugo Lloris.
But Dier controlled himself as he usually did (it had been far easier when he only had eyes for one teammate in particular, his love for the big man stopping him from perving too much on other footballers) and left the showers to pat himself dry in his corner. He was in a slight hurry, needing to make good use of the fitness support team to make sure the oncoming cramps in his burly thighs would not turn into worse and more restrictive pains tomorrow morning.
Pulling himself into some tight clingy under-shorts and then the looser garments of the warm-up kit, he left the main changing rooms, drifting away from the subdued chat of the disappointed team. Somewhere nearby he could hear their Portuguese manager ranting at one of the other coaches -- not about them, but about the refereeing and about Parker's Fulham side. Dier avoided getting sucked into that negativity and moved on down the passage, hoping one of his more trusted physios would be available to work with him, but then jolting to a stop at the corner when he picked up that distinctly familiar mumble of Northeast London accent.
But is it serious?' he could hear him asking. He'd know Harry Kane's richly inarticulate voice anywhere. Is it legit or is it just bullshit? Why won't you tell me, eh?'
The other voice was hard to mistake too, even with a couple of Welsh buggers here at Tottenham. Don't be getting funny about it,' warned a second masculine voice around that corner, hushed but so deep it was audible. I ain't got time for this, Harry. I don't need it, okay?'
`But are you really going already?' snapped Kane's voice.
I don't even know, for god's sake,' Gareth Bale growled back in those sturdy Cardiff tones. I don't know my own situation, never mind what YOU want to think about it, so back off-`
You've barely been here,' Kane said in a rush, we've only just got to know each other, erm-`
Harry, I- The voices went lower and became less clearer and Eric cleared his throat loudly before rounding the corner and necessarily interrupting them, unable to move through in the direction of the treatment rooms without disturbing or overlapping the hotly whispering older footballers. Both tall broad strikers turned their heads sharply this way and looked at him with two grim expressions: Gareth's large features opening up in an `O' of dismayed surprise, Harry's fixing into a tight-lipped frown of guilt. In an instant, the big Welsh winger was shouldering Kane aside and brushing past Dier with a brief muscular connection of their shoulders.
`Hey,' the 27-year-old Spurs forward said weakly, hovering where he'd stood to plead stupidly with the Madrid loanee. He stared dismally at Eric, who hovered face to face with him on his way past, unsure how to react or what to say; a certain instinct made him want to reach reassuringly for Harry's shoulder and arms, intuiting the frisson that must be going on between those two, but this could easily be dangerously misinterpreted. Caution and the pale sting of jealousy held him back stiffly, questioning how serious things might have become.
That sounded awkward,' he said lamely. Trouble in... well, I won't call it paradise.'
Mate,' Kane murmured unhappily, still in his sweat-stained Spurs kit with his hair tufty and disturbed. His arms hung limp at his sides and he seemed to be gripped by the same indecisive motion. It ain't- I mean, we aren't- I was just... Erm...' He brought one long arm up to scratch his head but Dier needed to end this -- he just stepped forward and patted him once on the chest. Go get your shower, buddy,' he said in a measured sigh, we don't need to have this convo, okay?'
Before long, the 26-year-old defender was laid out on a massage bed in the open-plan treatment room, arms folded behind his head and thick thighs spread appreciatively for the magic hands of an attractive young woman who was quite new to the Spurs physio team. Her apparent hotness was being silently endorsed by a series of manic mimes from the next bed, and Eric was doing his best to suppress immature laughter.
It was the Danish Viking again, cheering him and distracting him, and currently trying to embarrass him by provoking laughter with a series of lewd gestures in the next bed. Hojbjerg was reclining after his own rubdown, similar stripped of shorts or pants like Eric, long sturdy legs out as he sat up and mimed a rather self-aggrandizing wank panto behind the woman's back, smirking wickedly at his own crass humour.
Eric had to stare down at the mounds of his own greased thighs to stop himself enjoying and bursting into laughter at Pierre's stupid jokes, soon deciding enough was enough: That feels a lot better actually, Alison, cheers a lot, yeah...' He blanked out a few more rude gestures from the Dane, making polite chit-chat with the woman of his own age, trying his best to be his usual well-mannered self and not cause her any embarrassment or cruelty from the laddish joke of his teammate. Only when she was gone did he swing his thick legs over the side of the massage bed and give him an arch glare. You are trouble, Mr H,' he told him with exaggerated primness, swinging his loosened calves.
Hojbjerg's laugh was a deep bellowing noise, full of joy. Oh, come on, Eric!' He shook with a few more peals of laughter and straightened up his posture, matching Dier by throwing his big pale legs over the edge of his bed and swinging bare feet. They faced each other with matching smirks of acknowledgement. She is at least 8,' barked Pierre-Emile decisively, `out of 10, as you say here. No?'
Oh, I don't know,' the defensive player chuckled evasively, stretching out his legs and then pulling one arm at a time across the breadth of his chest. He hopped from the tall bed onto his feet and cast his eyes about for where he'd placed his shorts and socks after stripping for the physio. Is she hot? I wasn't really looking -- must be tired out from the game, huh...'
Not your type?' demanded Hojbjerg, kicking up his legs from one bed to the other and stretching out so that his tshirt rode up about his thick waist, the midfielder sprawling unaffectedly and yawning out a plume of condensing breath. What is it?' he asked after a beat. `Do you prefer blondes? Ha ha.' More of that booming Nordic laughter from the Copenhagen beast of a man.
Mmm?' He pulled the loose sweatpants up over his legs, which were greasy and warm from massaging hands, and fumbling with the drawstring on the waist. Oh, I'm easy, really, I'm not sure I have a type, per se...' He grinned dismissively at Hojbjerg and turned away, picking up the small bundle of his white socks.
Then what is wrong with her?' barked the other player, up on his feet and beside him now; slapping him hard on the shoulder and squaring up next to him, an inch shorter but easily as broad and well-built, if not more. You do not agree with my judgment?' he asked in his neat, clipped English.
Oh, she's nice,' Eric said vaguely, stupidly, out of practice at forcing this hetero interest that had come so much more naturally to him in his teens and early 20s, performing the hot-blooded masculinity that had surrounded him in his Portuguese youth. Nice enough,' he added after a moment. `I guess I do like blondes? But also- oh, I dunno...'
Hmm, what about a redhead?' Hojbjerg demanded, still close by him, following him about the corners of the bed as he unfurled his socks and then sat his arse back down to pull them on. He did so, with the Danish player stood in front and over him, arms folded and an interrogative look on his face. You know exactly what MY wife looks like, "mate", but I have not seen any of your exes...!'
`What? Oh- er, well, some other time, haha, when lockdown is over and we can actually...'
I am just curious,' Pierre rumbled. Wondering what your type is.'
Like I said,' Eric murmured, I'm not sure I actually have one, and...'
Curvy? Skinny? Your age, older? Hmm.' He was stroking his short dark goatee, his big white-toothed grin spreading, that playful tinkle in his dark grey eyes. The one tattoo-sleeved arm unfolded and reached over to pat Eric affectionately on the cheek. You are getting shy, my English Viking...!'
The Cheltenham lad laughed at this and pushed the hand away, adjusting his left sock and then sitting up to grin at his friend, enjoying but also wanting urgently out of this lad-to-lad banter that he just couldn't quite force himself into tonight. Not with the Grindr blocking and the yearning that spawned it so awkwardly fresh in his head; if only tonight had been a game against Villa after all. What was Barkley up to, anyway? Was he really recovered from injury...?
I wonder,' mused Pierre loudly in his loud, confident way, if your type is very different from her?'
Eric internally answered that with a hollow laugh and sarcastic retort, but said nothing, making to shift forward and rise up off the foot of the treatment bed to move past Pierre, whose wide-footed stance really blocked such a route, strong arms unfolded and draping down past the hem of his tshirt; before Eric knew what was happening, his thumbs were hooking into the waist of his clingy black trunks and tugging it far down enough to expose the upper outline of a fat flaccid cock beneath a short wiry bush, holding the waistband there to expose this view for a little longer. Eric stared, then yanked his face upwards to meet Pierre's smirk.
Perhaps I know your type,' murmured the Dane. I have always wondered.'
One of the big Viking hands holding down the front of the shorts and continuing to half-expose his weighty cock bore a gently gleaming wedding ring and Eric blinked away his illogical surprise. (Hah, he'd never sucked the cock of a married man, haha...) Still, he didn't quite know what to say, faced with the big easy-going figure of this Scandi stud who he had never actually bothered to look at in that way before. Now his vision was full of his chubby pale prick and a glimpse of balls. The pants twanged back up to his waist and he laughed deeply -- was Eric being mocked here, bullied?
Well?' demanded Hojbjerg a little more quietly and discreetly. Am I your type?'
I have wondered,' chuckled Pierre in his deep voice, as the pair of them spilled into the quiet storeroom not far from the treatment space. Eric shoved the door firmly shirt behind them and then grabbed irresistibly at the tight tshirt on the man's upper body, dragging it up over the smoothly chiselled front of his torso. I have seen you looking,' the other man laughed at him, rubbing at his arms and shoulders, and grinning intensely, `and thought... what if...? Ho ho...'
Mmm, maybe I ought to be more careful,' Dier muttered playfully, running a thumb over one big hard nipple and then leaning in to flick his tongue against it, or maybe not, if it caught your eye...?' He smirked at the other big guy, and leaned in ready for a snog. A strong hand was suddenly between their faces in protest at this and Hojbjerg made a simple clicking tut noise.
No kiss,' he said bluntly. I am married.'
Eric made a single bitter laugh at this, a laugh more at his history of such difficulties and the conflicts of the Kane marriage, but he was in no mood or position to quibble over morality and logic right now; he was as horny as fuck and excited by this laidback hunk who had exposed himself so riskily to prompt his interest. Oh yes, big studly Pierre was his type alright!
Well, no kisses on the lips, but not no kisses... Eric pushed up further at the tshirt, encouraging Pierre to fully shed it, then pushed his face in against his chest, planting his lips against the soft warm skin. He went back to the nipples, one then the other, flicking the tip of his skilled tongue against each, then sucking more roughly on them until Hojbjerg grunted and groaned and cuddled at him. Despite his snog ban, he was very tactile and affectionate with his strong arms, the pair of them tussling further into the storeroom and crashing against a set of mops leaning on the wall, which skittered in every direction away from them. The men laughed indiscreetly and grabbed at each other's sweatpants to push them down; Eric resisted the urge to try again for a kiss on the mouth, respecting the married Dane's boundaries.
`I wondered if men in this country did these things,' barked Pierre in a deep whisper.
Huh,' murmured Eric, kissing his bare shoulder and allowing his own long-sleeved top to be ragged up and over his shoulders. A few,' he responded wryly, thinking about the year of discovery that had followed his split from Kane. He could not imagine his younger self's reaction to the image of him going wild on the lawn of a Peak District cottage to celebrate Luke Shaw's birthday.
Shirtless and hot with lust, Eric went down to his knees, dragging down those sweats and undies to get another look at Viking cock. He licked his lips unconsciously and reached to tickle the low-hanging balls behind it, then ran his thumb against the head of the main piece, making Hojbjerg chuckle and gaps and scratch nails across his scalp. He leant in and began to suck it, taking the semi between his lips, his first in a while, and tasting its fresh manliness on his tongue. Mmm.
This felt good -- letting go, giving in, playing free.
Specifically, what felt really good were Pierre's strong hands kneading at his neck and his back muscles, then scratching back across his hairline, not too pushy and dominant, but very strong and manly, just how he liked it. And his cock was short and very thick, a great mouthful. Eric pushed it upright and tongued at his balls instead, making him whinny and growl. Then he just wanked him by hand and kissed across the grey-brown hair of his thighs. Eric's wide open mouth returned to the prized cock to suck it some more, teasing and toying with it, running his hands up past the waist to stretch across the deeply ridged six-pack of this strong fast midfielder.
Eric nipped at the skin of his balls and then kissed passionately just above his pubes, then drooled along the sides of his shaft again before rushing upwards, daring to bring face to face once more... No,' Pierre giggled firmly, I told you. My wife.' But he leaned in and began to kiss quite roughly and greedily at the side of Eric's neck instead, making him absolutely purr with pleasure and let their hard veiny cocks rub and poke. He clawed his hands down the long strong back of the 6ft1 Dane, finding the lightly furred globes of his buttocks and squeezing them happily, creeping his fingers adventurously between them to explore potential; Pierre sniggered into the crook of his neck and kissed his shoulder. Oh?' he mused, as Eric opened his cheeks and tickled one finger into the fuzzy crack. Mmmm...'
The consenting joy of that moan was a great delightful surprise to Eric, who would never have anticipated open-minded fun from Pierre, never mind a particular openness in this area. He spat on two of his fingers and slid them in more purposefully while they cuddled and swayed, clattering against falling brooms and then in against a different hard cold wall. Hojbjerg jerked their cocks, one in each stern hand, while Eric pushed fingers into his crack and against his bud, tickling and taunting it and feeling the desperate urge to top this Scandi beast. Once his single finger was in him and the big guy was just gurning and growling his enjoyment, Eric knew it was happening, oh fucking hell yes.
Impatient, he twisted him around, and pushed Hojbjerg firmly forward against the wall, kissing the backs of his broad shoulders and the top of his spine, doing so gently and slowly and trying to let his lips and beard hair tickle sensuously at the skin. But this tenderness was contrasted by the needy push of his fingers, opening and testing the arsehole of his teammate who, he realised excitedly, was not entirely new to this. It's been a while,' Hojbjerg growled, as if reading his mind, but then breathily added, but I like it HARD, Viking boy.'
`Fuck,' stammered Dier deliriously, more than willing to comply. He spat more on his hand and slicked it against his cock, then on his fingers and pushed them more deeply and aggressively in between those thick strong cheeks -- then in he pushed his dick, holding the Copenhagen man by the hips and driving his cock repeatedly forward until its fat head began to press against the parting ring, the one that belied the hard rules an caution of the man's wedding ring.
Eric was a little out of practice, it had been a depressingly sexless series of months, the best part of a year really -- bar his fumbling initiations with his young chum Troy and the stilted exploration of Ross, there had been so little sweaty fun, and he certainly hadn't enjoyed much chance to plough a firm arse like he'd been used to in his time with big Harry, that disappointing former love. So now he really relished this, squeezing his long thick meat inside Pierre-Emile and holding his thick body firmly in place: one hand remaining firmly on his waist and the other placing a loose choke on the back of his neck, pressing his face sideways against the wall, while Eric's own hips thrusted and gyrated, fucking his sudden intimate friend with a real ferocity. Hojbjerg, true to his word, made pained noises to begin with but then just panted with a rugged greed, all rapid gasps and encouraging muttering, though possibly in Danish because Eric couldn't make out the words.
Dier, realising he might soon cum inside this guy, slowed down; he was both unsure if emptying his sack inside his new fuck-pal was quite kosher with his `married' rules, and also just keen to delay the pleasure and really savour this clandestine clinch. He slid his dick in and out more gently, spitting down against his own shaft to give it more lube, then almost reluctantly pulling back more fully as Pierre gave him a gentle push in the abs and twisted away from the wall, expressing his satisfaction through more deep laughs. His enjoyment was also evident in the drooling streak of pre-cum leaking from the tip of his short fat hard-on.
`Your arse is incredible,' Eric panted to him, slapping one cheek of it as Pierre turned around, his own big chest rising and falling with each recovering breath, excited to taste the Danish cock again or have his own spit-lubed prick taken in mouth -- surely Hojbjerg would be up for blowing, if he was up for being railed against the wall...?
Thanks,' grunted Hojbjerg, and then disastrously, Let's see about yours?' And his hands, rather than being on their cocks, were reaching around for Eric's suddenly tense glutes, realisation striking him like a cock to the face.
`Huh?'
Bend over sexy,' sniggered the Dane, my hot English viking, oh yes...'
No,' blurted Eric, pulling awkwardly away, still catching his breath, I don't, I don't bottom, actually, I don't erm, receive, or whatever you wanna call it, I just...'
Hojbjerg's initial reaction was to laugh, but then he frowned. You are serious?' he demanded, and his burly accented voice sounded extremely cross. You... don't...?' He laughed again, but it was a sourer noise, not the Viking joy of earlier. `You just pushed me against the wall and had me, but you won't...? Huh...' The disgust and regret on his handsome bearded face were as obvious as the groans of enjoyment had been while he took Eric's cock. Eric stared awkwardly at him, trying to decipher the extent of his own faux pas, thinking through the special etiquette of this filth: was it really the expectation that both of them should...?
Huh, fuck this, then,' stated Hojbjerg, and he spoke on to himself in Danish, brushing past Dier and yanking his tshirt off the shelf where it had fallen. In moments, his big beautiful arse was inside both his undies and his sweats, and Eric, stood dimly naked with his own pants about his ankles, was being abandoned alone in the storeroom behind a disappointed slam of the door. Before exiting, Pierre had turned simply to him, patted his shoulder, and said, Never mind. Selfish boy.'
Eric's cock remained rock hard but he stood uncomfortably still where he was, hearing the slam of the door repeatedly in his head. Selfish? But everyone knew what they liked and didn't like, right? It was all a bit too much de ja vu for him tonight. How could he not picture his own bedroom and the tangle of limbs as Barkley kicked him away and lashed out over their misunderstanding? He'd been here before, confused and dissatisfied -- but Hojbjerg had taken it like a pro, so why was he so fucked off not to swap positions...?!
He stared bitterly down at his own saluting prick, and took it firmly in hand -- there was only one way to get rid of this obstructive rod, after all. He stuck his other arm out and gripped a wooden shelf to balance himself, and wanked his large veiny cock furiously until his stored-up seed was hitting the floor and dashing his own bare legs and the folds of his clothing around his ankles. He crested the wave of frustrated pleasure, holding onto the sensation of being inside Pierre, and trying his very best not to picture himself in bed with that beautiful Scouser.
A quick second shower and swaddling layers of clothing against the bitter cold, and Dier was crossing the quietened car park of the Tottenham Hotspur Stadium. His cock ached dully in the front of his sweatpants and sweat prickled irritatingly beneath his arms, overheated and keen to be comfortably home. He kept his head low, conscious that he should have left a while ago, as most of the players already had, slinking away from the disappointing draw with Fulham.
Not the only player left, though, he noticed, reaching his car and seeing the other guy stood by his vehicle, fishing for a key in the pockets of his waxed jacket. Gareth Bale turned around and gave him an odd look, then a brief silent nod of acknowledgement. Hey,' Eric murmured vaguely, stopping beside his car and staring over the roof of the other at his Welsh teammate, awkwardly faced with him for a second time tonight. You're here late,' he pointed out stupidly, knowing that question marks on his own presence should be avoided.
Meeting,' grunted the Welsh wonder, frowning downwards without properly looking at him, unlocking and opening his driver's door. Just more chat with the bosses,' he muttered on, and it made a bit more sense to Eric: ah, no doubt there were still some frenzied discussions going on as to whether the famous loan deal would be extended or if Gareth would be flying back to Spain and the club that had so publicly exiled him.
It was a whim of sorts that made Dier speak rather than just focus on getting into his own car. A rogue offshoot of his troubled mood: his anxieties over how his encounter with Hojbjerg had gone awry and what consequences that might bring, his longing to have at least SEEN Ross Barkley across the pitch tonight, his professional disappointment in Spurs' failings. Somehow, that frustration was channelled into a sudden and firm challenge towards Bal.
`He's not somebody you should mess with,' he called fiercely.
Bale glanced twitchily up, brows furrowing beneath his yanked back dark hair and topknot. `Sorry?'
He's a good guy,' Eric said, less loudly. He isn't just some dickhead you can treat like that.'
A long pause. I don't know what you're talking about. I don't know what you think you know, but-
He's got a good heart,' Eric said earnestly. He's just conflicted. He doesn't think he deserves to be as happy as men make him. He won't leave her, the wife, and he won't stop looking for something to make him complete.' He stopped, realising how quickly and passionately he'd been speaking. `Don't mess him around, Bale. He doesn't need it. Okay?'
`Harry's been making me welcome, that's all,' snapped Gareth, and he moved to get into the car, to escape this confrontation and avoid Eric's intense eyes.
Making you very welcome, I'll bet,' Dier said, leaning forward and slapping one hand briefly against the roof of Bale's car, interrupting him and making him look up again. I've seen a few wankers exploit his kindness, and don't think I'll stand back and watch some stuck-up has-been join the list. Stop messing him around. Stay or go, Bale, but don't play with him if you aren't gonna be hanging around, okay? He... He doesn't deserve to be hurt like that.'
And what's it to you?' Gareth hissed, before immediately seeming to feel like this harsh question gave away too much. It's just a bit of a laugh,' he snapped in a hard whisper, `and it sounds like you know how much the big slut likes sucking cock. So stop getting heavy and mind your own fucking business, Dier. I don't need a deadwood defender making stupid threats at me -- I'm a superstar, in case you didn't notice. Fuck off, Eric.' He slid inside his car and slammed the door harder than Hojbherg in the storeroom. As the car reversed away and out of the parking spot, Eric was left lamely beside his own, clutching his keys so tightly that they almost cut into his palm.
What was he playing at, poking his name in Kane's affairs...? He had no idea what, if anything, was really there between Kane and Bale, and it now sounded like it was really just a bit of... oral. He'd briefly imagined much more. Though there was no mistaking Harry's wistful hopes, his long face was an open book to Dier. Still. It was none of his business. `What's it to you?' the Welsh brute had demanded of him just now, and he had a fair point.
Dier got into the car as the drizzle thickened in the air, driving himself out of the car park and onto the North London roads, speeding up through the thinning city towards his own homely corner, annoyed and confused by the tears that were welling up in his eyes.
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