Part 233: The Prodigal Returns
It was a slightly frantic Saturday at the Tottenham training ground, considering that they had to travel down to the south coast tomorrow for a league game against Brighton -- there was an air of slight panic at the club as the hotly-contested season ticked on, with Mourinho almost crazed at the prospect of a serious title challenge still. The panic and craze manifested today in an unusually busy Saturday when they might normally get a little more rest before a Sunday game, a schedule of myriad smaller training sessions and appointments crowding the suburban sports complex with action and a strange chaotic energy of expectation.
Eric Dier was finding it a little hard to concentrate, still stuck in a rather glum lockdown mood, made worse by the odd casual jibe from Pierre-Emile Hojgjerg about what a selfish lover he was; there seemed to be no REAL ill-feeling from the Viking to him since their heated cleaning cupboard session the other week, the realest action Dier had experienced in quite some time, but his sneering prods of humour cut a little close to the bone. He was hardly the first guy in recent history to complain about the handsome defensive midfielder's unwilling to give himself up.
Right now, he was traipsing about the building killing time before a private session with one of the trainers, an intense boxing fitness regime that he relied on for much of his solid physique and agile mobility; it was just what he needed now to switch off his brain and really start getting ready for tomorrow night against Brighton. Eric was really just letting the minutes trickle past as he waited for it, shuffling from one sector of the centre to another, or sitting himself down in one of the relaxation areas and fiddling with his phone -- checking up on some investment apps, sifting disinterestedly through several different email accounts, poking his nose carefully into social media.
The 27-year-old checked the heavy watch on one thick wrist and made a gentle snort of frustration to see the final twenty minutes of waiting were inching very slowly by. He stuffed his phone back into the deep pocket of his pale blue sweatpants and picked himself up from the stiff leather couch to cross the mezzanine area where he was `relaxing' and strolled stiffly down a rather dramatic stairway into the central junction of corridors below. He stared idly at a few pretty ugly modern art pieces down the wall, considering just what he might replace them with if anyone here was really interested in his opinion, then descended into the quiet fuss of the ground floor -- ahead of him were a scattering of reception and administrative desks, and in better moods, he had always taken time to charm and befriend the staff behind them to keep himself well-liked all around the club. Today, he held back, fiddling with the cuffs of his hoody, and looking the other way, where a number of smaller passages broke away towards the different suites and sectors.
The Hotspur was just about to wander off down there and find a spot to skulk nearer the stairs up to the particular gym where he was meeting his assigned trainer, in the mood to continue avoiding conversation with other club staff as much as his nervously energetic teammates, when a glance back over his shoulder caught sight of who had just strode in through automatic doors and was now signing in with an attractive female reception worker at the far end of this space. The tall dark-haired young man was distinctively recognisable even with an Adidas-branded face mask pulled tightly across the lower half of his face, his eyes wrinkling with cheeky smile as he chatted inaudibly with the young woman and lingered there, seeming to bask in the interest of female staff who hadn't seen him around the place for the long months of his loan absence.
Eric, distracted by this arrival, turned his path and hovered in this juncture, waiting to be seen too as the swaggering 6ft1 figure left behind the attention of the three ladies gathered at the first desk, and began making his way over the room in this direction. He looked quite different, in a way; not taller or bulkier, still a slightly lanky slim frame from this perspective, but something his step and manner, an overt confidence that seemed new or grown. And it seemed more striking and apparent the closer he walked until, a few yards away, he seemed to start in realisation and swing quickly this way with a spring in his step.
Eric, big man!' called the Dublin twang of the teenage footballer, and Eric very gladly poked an elbow forward to meet his substitute handshake of greeting. How are you doin'?'
`Well, look at you!' Dier responded quickly, slapping a hand heartily against the lad's arm and giving him a look up and down. The 18-year-old was dressed in a vivid green tracksuit of his national team, rather than the club colours of his home or loan club; it clung to his long limbs and stately physique, unzipped a little on the chest to display a slightly (in Eric's mind) gaudy gold chain about the teen's long neck. Its metallic gleam was matched by the youthful twinkle in those ocean-blue eyes, and Eric was immediately cheered by it.
How are ya?' insisted Troy Parrott behind the mask, around which peeked the fuzzy hair of a slightly surprising beard. I hoped I'd run into you, buddy, I just didn't want to text and distract you if you were super-busy or whatever...'
Come here,' Eric insisted, suddenly overcome with an odd nostalgia to see the young striker and throwing an arm about him in a clear break of current protocol, giving the big lad a squeeze and steering him down the quiet passage away from the more communal areas, then nodding back to the staircase he'd just descended. You'll come and have a cup of tea, yeah?'
`Sure, sure,' Troy agreed warmly, leaning in gladly to the welcoming hug and following him up the stairs. Eric turned and gave him an admiring grin, noting the fresh trim of his short dark hair, a little precise and brutal for his tastes, but adding to the refreshing glamour of the Irishman. In the odd maudlin mood of the January day, his young friend's arrival was a veritable ray of sunshine.
I have this meeting, y'see,' Parrott told the older guy, now nestling a hot cuppa on his lap on the stiff chic sofas upstairs on the mezzanine, resting over the gentle buzz of noise from the front offices below. Bosses deciding my little fate, that kinda thing.' He grinned sharply at the resident player, already enjoying this rare visit back to the club where he had come of age. He kept grinning cheerfully at Dier but then letting his eyes wander across the familiar fittings of the place, still able to remember his vivid first impressions of it all as a much younger teenager arriving here to begin his youth career.
Right,' the 27-year-old Englishman said across the low coffee table from it, hunched a little forward to listen attentively. Things not working out at Milwall, then...?'
Troy made a little snort and shrugged his broad thin shoulders. It's not exactly... well, I mean, I don't hate it, but... It's not an easy club, you know?' His smile strained a little but he forced it, sipping the sweet builder's tea and putting his cup down on the low table. I'm doing my best, really trying to make it good -- you know I had that little injury and I've just hardly been getting my minutes, so... Honestly, Dier, I don't even know what they're gonna say today. I keep hearing rumours that they might want me back here?'
I hear that too,' Eric admitted to him. But I thought maybe you were the one starting them.' He grinned and chuckled Troy grinned at this prospect.
You know me,' he said rapidly, I just wanna play. Whatever they say, I'm up for it. I want to get past the injuries and ops I had last year and get moving. I'm getting old, after all,' he joked. I'll be 19 in a few days, past it already. Sheesh.' Another slow grateful sip of tea. Things have been good, though, considering the lockdown and all -- you know how all my family moved over here now? No more living with host families or flatmates and trying to figure shit out. Great having my little bro and sis about, and my folks obviously. It's like Dublin away from Dublin, heh.'
Eric lounged back away from him, resting the cup and saucer on the plateau of one broad thigh. His warm smile behind the fluffy pale hair of his beard was very reassuring to Troy, even after such a long absence between the friends. I'm so glad,' he said. Really glad for you, Troy. That's so much better. Ah, it is good to see you, seriously. And for what it's worth, I hope they do pluck you out of Milwall. Bunch of arseholes and racists, huh?'
Troy grimaced. The players aren't so bad, and it's not like I've had much dealing with the fans with the rules always changing.' He shrugged again. I tried my best there. And if I'm staying there for the rest of the season then I'll do what I can.' He couldn't hold in an electric smile of optimism though. `Still, it'd be great to break back into the proper team -- YOUR team -- and maybe be part of that big title win, or summat...' He sniggered nervously at his own ambition.
Dier just nodded slowly, unwilling to either humour any presumption about Tottenham's season or about Parrott's immediate career, or perhaps both. `You look well,' he said, and again it seemed ambiguous; was it just a brotherly remark out of kindly interest, or a more suggestive compliment given their occasionally intimate history? But actually, Troy thought, there was something a little sad and wistful in Eric's voice and his expression, something slumped and sad in his body language. He thought about their last few phone calls and messages, spread out really over the winter period, their previously regular contact dwindling in absence and distraction.
It's weird being back,' he said lamely. Cool, though.'
I bet,' Dier answered. His voice seemed distant. There had been something fierce and cheery in his manner as the pair reunited downstairs, but as they made conversation he seemed to withdraw a little -- there was definitely something different about him, about the way in which he held himself. Not quite the bold and amiable bloke that had made him such a popular figure in Troy's early experiences of Tottenham life. And now he was glancing at his watch as if he were keen to get this little catch-up over with, rather than properly hanging out like they had begun to last season before the pandemic hit. Troy's dismay at this body language must have shown in his face, because Eric then shot him an apologetic look and pulled his cuff down over the timepiece. Sorry-` he began.
No, it's cool, I mean, I thought you'd be busy, so-
I have an appointment pretty soon,' Dier told him. Sorry. Training stuff.' He looked momentarily worried, then curled his hands into jokey fists and jabbed the air. `Getting my fight ready for tomorrow night, of course. Sorry -- you must have your meeting soon too, though...?'
Troy shrugged vaguely. I got here early,' he said. Oh, you should see my new motor outside! But, erm, yeh...' He looked nervously at his own watch, realising how much he was actually dreading the meeting he was here for, where he would be joining his agent and some of the club top brass to hear their plans for his second half of the 20-21 season -- it was so strange that the decisions seemed to be completely removed from his own thoughts and feelings, it didn't quite fit with his youthful expectations of becoming a high-flying athlete. `You're right though, I better be getting ready. Got to be at my best and most charming, hey?'
Dier laughed a little -- did it sound a bit forced, or was Parrott becoming paranoid? `You don't need to try very hard on that, you Irish prick,' the defensive player mused quietly, sipping tea and then looking instinctively back at his watch. He seemed to pause like that, staring sullenly at his wrist and, for a moment, apparently forgetting they were mid-conversation.
What time's yer training?' the Irish teen asked quietly but sharply, feeling the need to grab that attention back. Eh?'
Oh -- about five minutes from now.' Eric looked up slowly, taking a moment to fix his eyes on him and return his warm grin. Sorry, I really don't mean to cut this short, buddy. I'll catch you afterwards if you're still around, yeah? Or I'll give you a call later -- it has been a while, hasn't it? Sorry, seem to have had a lot on my mind lately, so...'
Wanna share any of it?' Troy asked quite gently. He sat upright, folding his arms across his lap. He watched Dier's fleeting awkward expressions and the new little avoidance of his eyes. I was wondering if I'd done summat to piss you off, old man. Not much of a peep out of you in 2021, posh boy. Eh?'
Dier laughed at this but again seeming a little uncertain, a little distance. Oh, I don't mean to be melodramatic, just the same shit as everyone else,' he said vaguely. Frustration, isolation, the usual. It's been quite a long year since last Feb, right?'
`Right, yeh,' Troy agreed. It was true enough: even now, his extended recovery spell of Irish summer and then his autumn surgery felt a long time ago after a few months of fighting to prove himself down at the other end of London. This time last year, he thought, he was turning 18 and just starting to find his feet here at Tottenham Hotspurs, the world seeming to stretch open before him. Twelve months since didn't seem to have fulfilled that promise. But he broke this little reflective moment and studied the odd posture of the other footballer, who wasn't in any apparent hurry to finish his tea and get up from the sofa after all, for all his clock-watching. He seemed to have lost focus again, just staring over to the side of them.
Hey,' the Irish lad said, more softly, everything is okay with you, big man, yeh?'
Hmm? Oh- Eric looked back this way for a moment with a thin smile. `Yeah, good mate, good. As good as it can be, anyway.'
Right,' Troy said hesitantly. And so... your training?'
A couple of beats, then Hmm? Oh. Oh! Yeah.' Eric shook himself a little, scratched at his bearded trin and adjusted himself. Yes, you're right. Better get moving.' He snatched up his cloth face mask, patterned with what looked like some old artwork, and began yanking it over his rather small, neat ears, seeming fidgety and uncomfortable. `Yeah, of course, few minutes now, I best go get ready and...'
Eric,' Troy interrupted, picking up his cup to feel its warmth against both hands, you sure you're okay, man?'
Dier had got up and was smiling quite normally now, running one palm against the short fuzz of his cropped hair and waving the other dismissively at his cup and saucer. Sorry I couldn't find no biscuits,' he apologised randomly. Catering cuts here, clearly! All gone to pot without you, Dublin. Right, I'll love you and leave you. Good luck with your meeting, wee man.'
`Thanks,' the 18-year-old returned vaguely, smiling thoughtfully as he watched his occasional teammate depart, making a clumsy beeline across the mezzanine and around a corner, then coming back through the same doorway with a lost look on his face, and disappearing down another instead. When he was properly gone, presumably in the right direction this time, Troy sat back comfortably and held the warm cup against his chest in both hands, his mind vacillating between two questions: what actually awaited him in this little career conference, and what the fuck was bugging his old pal and confidant...?
The session was everything Eric needed it to be: intense, aggressive, sweaty, mind-numbingly repetitive. However, its narcotic effects were short-lived. Almost as soon as he was out of the small gym area they had been using, boxing gloves unstrapped from throbbing paws, he could feel the inconveniently low mood returning. He struggled to make small-talk with the handsome chatty fitness trainer who he actually had a lot of time for and wriggled out of the offer of sitting down and reviewing his training regime more closely for next month -- instead, he broke away from the session and back out into the almost clinical modern corridors of the training complex. Feeling sweat cool against his neck and chest over the line of his low-cut vest, he stomped down a couple of passages and came to a rest at the long glassy balcony that overlooked the main fitness rooms below; Eric rested sweat-slicked forearms against the polished rail and stared down through the Perspex screen into the warehouse-sized space below where half a dozen of his fellow Spurs players were engaged in their own carefully managed afternoon activity.
He heard squeaky footsteps not far to his left and he thought it must be the trainer again, about to insist on that 1-to-1 discussion, but then he caught a flare of emerald green out of the corner of his eye and realised it was actually Troy Parrott again. He turned his sweaty face that way to give him an almost critical look, surprised to see him still around; he said so, trying not to sound unwelcoming or as anti-social as he actually felt, just resting his heavy arms against the rail and stretching out his back and legs a little. The hoody hung open about his warm shoulders and the sweatpants had been pulled back up over his tight crinkled gym shorts.
Well, I was really pretty early,' Troy admitted in a small voice, then seemed to pick up that earlier swagger immediately. Wow, you look like you trained HARD, fella. Feel good?'
He remembered how good it had felt, for a minute or two, and feigned that certainty in his nod and smile. So?' he demanded. What's the plan, Trojan?'
The teenager seemed to pause dramatically before sharing his news. You are looking at Ipswich Town's newest arrival,' he said, as if this was something to be boasted. Not what I was expecting, but -- great opportunity for me.' And he started quoting the names of Ipswich coaches and players who Dier was clearly supposed to have heard of. He smiled patiently at this, privately dismayed the boy was being denied a return to the Premiership club after all and just traded to yet another low-rate English team on a temporary arrangement, mid-season.
Well,' he said when Troy's monologue subsided, I'm loving your attitude. Work ethic always there,' he noted fairly. `That's what will take you far, kid.'
`Less of that. I told ya. Nearly 19!'
`Right, yeah, the grand old age thereof,' Eric sighed. He laughed and rolled his eyes and turned back to survey the room below. Namely, the figures of Kane and Bale, who seemed to be playing a glorified game of catch and not much else, over at one end of the training room. He could forget how much Parrott knew at times, when it was clear that the buzzing youngster in his gaudy gear had followed his gaze and made a curious little noise.
`Things okay there?'
Eric sighed. Yeah, more or less,' he said. He felt some hesitation, but they were alone, and if he couldn't update this lad on it, who else could he? After all, the 18-year-old had known about them longer and more intimately than anyone else he could name! To think it had begun with a silly moment of accidental voyeurism. I think you might be looking at his new beau right now.'
`What? Nahhhh. Fuck off. Gareth Bale?'
Eric shrugged his muscular shoulders, the zipped hems of his hoody scratching against warm skin. Maybe, maybe not. Something has gone on. I'm not jealous,' he added quickly and quietly. Things are... good. Actually, they are. We are... friendly, I'd call it. I mean, I told you about Iceland and all that blow-up, walking in on him and the Scouser, but... Since then, it's honestly been okay. It actually feels like such a long time ago, Troy, me and him. I mean, those days when you caught us at it...' He smirked and blushed a little in the sweaty red flush of his boxercise, enjoying the shared embarrassment and thrill in Troy's face too. `I know how I felt then, but it seems mad and distant now.'
He languished quietly for a moment before Parrott spoke speculatively. `So it's not him making you feel low?' the loaned-out youth asked pushily. The question caught him quite unawares and he almost answered with blunt honesty, catching himself just in time and glancing defensively at the visitor.
`I'm fine,' he asserted.
`Sure,' Troy said, almost teasingly.
`All good.'
`Okay.'
`You can be quite smug, you know.'
`I learned from the best.'
Eric stared back down, watching the weirdly showy body language with which the Welsh winger was now trying to wrestle the ball away from the Walthamstow striker. To him, the sexual tension between the two big guys radiated embarrassingly and seemed so obvious they may as well be tupping on the gym floor -- but he supposed other guys here didn't jump to the same conclusions as him or have the same rock-sold basis on which to draw them. I am fine,' he said after a while, giving the lad a more serious look. It's not for you to be worrying about me,' he said firmly. `You've enough on your plate and... you're just a kid.'
`Ahem. 19, yeah...?'
Right, yeah, sorry, a pensioner, my bad.' Eric smiled. Forget it, I'm fine.'
The seriousness and maturity of the lad's voice and words could always surprise him. I'll never forget how good you were to me here,' Parrott told him in a low voice. Even if they sell me off to the first club that wants the Dublin Ronaldo, hehe, then I'll always think of you as the bloke who got me going at senior level, seriously. You're a great friend, Dier. I missed you like mad at Milwall -- no blokes there looked out for me like you did, and not just because it's a shithole. Seriously, you're a special kinda guy, and I just hope you know I proper appreciate it, okay?'
Eric felt himself the immature one -- he was teetering on the edge of these low moods that seemed to occupy his days lately, and now he found himself needing to shift the subject clumsily and make light of the dialogue rather than face up to the younger footballer's quite sincere declaration of friendship. He leered at him and fixed on his account of Milwall life. `What, nobody there looks after you in the saunas quite like I did, huh?' he quipped.
He'd expected a more coy and blushing reaction, but Parrott sniggered and gripped the railing in both hands, looking up from a view of the Spurs men engaging in some makeshift parody of cricket. `Ohhhh, not in the SAUNA, so to speak, but...'
`Troy Daniel Parrott, what HAVE you been up to...?'
His attention diverted from the view below and in his own inner crisis, Eric stared thoughtfully at the smirking young whippet, waiting for some explanation or backing down on this allusive comment. But Troy just laughed in a way that was somewhere between bashful and boastful. Oh, you know how it is,' he said, still seeming to swing between triumphant and shy, I always seem to have my... admirers. And I had to... assert myself, right? Tough club environment. Premiership pretty boy. I had to show them who was boss.' He winked in a knowing way he was too young to pull off.
`Okay -- hence the shit beard. Sorry. Okay, come on, you got to tell me...!'
Nahhhh, you don't want the details,' Troy said evasively, half-turning. As if you'd even know the players. When was the last time you looked at the Championship, England star?' The boyish embarrassment seemed finally to win over the smug footballer ego and his posture shrunk in a little bit. `Don't judge me...!'
As if I would!' Smiling, Eric just patted a sweaty palm at the shoulder of his tracksuit top. Opposite. Proud as. And -- well -- maybe a bit jealous? Haha. Kidding! Don't worry, I haven't been stomping around North London pining for you, pretty boy. Don't go getting any ideas like that.'
`Tsk, don't break my heart,' teased the Irishman.
`Little heart-breaker, shut up. Well, I'm glad you enjoyed yourself at Millwall while it lasted. Next up, the boy conquers... Ipswich. Suffolk, is that? Nice coastline, I guess...' He suppressed his proxy disappointment at this transfer news and just smirked thoughtfully at the prospect of what his younger teammate had been up to in his months away at another club. The joked jealousy was not entirely untrue, though mostly he just felt a generalised surprise and a certain warm pleasure in knowing that there had been moments of fun and satisfaction among what he imagined to be a gruelling half-season for the young talent in a struggling second-rate club with the most infamously awful community in the footballing world. But still... a little spark of curious envy.
I told you,' Troy said, you really need to see my motor. It's brand new. Fucking beast.'
Right,' Eric said uncertainly, never overly excited by cars compared to his footballing pals. And looking at that weighty chain around Troy's neck, he suspected that the Dublin youth's taste in vehicles wasn't going to match his own preference for the sleek and understated. Well, I'm not coming out into the car park in this state, I definitely need to shower.'
You do that,' Troy said neutrally, but then added, and then I'll give you a lift home.'
Eric raised an eyebrow. `Are you trying to seduce me, Mrs Robinson?'
`Huh?'
`Before your time. Ignore me. I gotta get this shower, kid, I stink.'
`Yup, you do. But... the offer is there. I could drive you to yours. Show you the car.'
Eric propped himself up more fully to his 6ft2 height, pursing his lips and trying not to burst into patronising laughter that these unsubtle gestures from what was clearly a hormonally horny flex by the attractive Irish boy. Well, I am quite capable of driving myself home after a bit of boxing,' he pointed out, but... my hands are a little bit sore, now I think about it. And... I do get terribly hungry after a workout that intense, you know?'
To his delight, Troy's swagger and pushiness here seemed to falter with that more familiar shyness and uncertainty in his own attractiveness. His grin was pure laddish enjoyment as he recovered and laughed, nodding his head and pulling the Adidas mask back over his bearded features. I'll catch you downstairs,' he said. I need to go finish flirting with the gals.'
`You know half of them are old enough to be your ma,' Eric pointed out mockingly, flexing his sore knuckles and backing away from him.
`Thanks, old man. Thanks.' A cheeky wink and the Tottenham export was strolling on by with the same showy confidence with which he had entered the training centre a little earlier, watched once more by Eric's thoughtful distracted eyes. The 27-year-old laughed uncertainly to himself, decided not to question this divine intervention to his patch of depression, and disappeared in the opposite direction, finding his ways into the nearest set of changing rooms to undress and shower down from the clammy excess of his brutal training appointment.
In the shower, he questioned whether he should be engaging in this sort of behaviour at the moment, but resolved that it could hardly do more harm than good to either of them or their friendship. He knew that there had been a confusing point last summer where he wondered if he felt a little more for the younger guy, but he had been nursing a very Kane-broken heart at the time, and he was sure his lust for Troy was paired only with a desire to protect and guide. Not smother with romantic kisses. Besides, he felt sure he knew the younger player's boundaries and preferences.
And as for him... Well, distraction was exactly what he needed, wasn't it?
Distraction waited for him, a vision in gaudy green, posing beside a fairly monstrous BMW car not far from his own more discreet engine, something nervous and energetic in his posture even as he loitered by the open driver's door fiddling with his phone. Eric grinned in fond amusement and made his way over to him, clothed now in a thinner fresh Spurs tracksuit in club colours, a bag dangled over one shoulder as he moved to join his chauffeur of the day. Technically, he wasn't meant to be leaving yet, but he'd exaggerated a little post-boxing stiffness and signed out rather than joining the yoga session he was due in with Kane and Winks and company. Instead, he was climbing into the passenger seat of the ostentatious new vehicle, smirking at the sight of his own car being abandoned here overnight, and listening to Troy chirp eagerly about everything from air-conditioning and sound systems to mechanical stats that he didn't sound like he understood.
The drive from the Spurs training ground to his own edge-of-the-city pad was short and the roads were quiet of traffic at the moment, but it was just enough time for him to feel far more resolute in committing to this late afternoon fun. Things between them had always been so easy and casual, no real consequence or conflict caused by wandering hands. Really, when he'd first toyed with Parrott in the saunas, he'd been making an extra gambit towards buying his silence about he and Kane; it was only later that it had felt like true friendship and gentle exploration, especially the time that Troy had helped him with a little anal toy because- Because he'd thought he'd needed to bottom to keep hold of Harry Kane. The de ja vu of that drama made his stomach lurch and he felt fresh doubts about what they were doing, about the fucked-up string of disappointments that were his love life.
But then he looked at Troy, swinging his car onto the quieter roads and up the short distance to the edge of Eric's own driveway. Handsome and brimming with energy and false confidence, a sexy little rascal as always. And a little more worldly and experienced for his time in the lower leagues, after all. A great friend to Eric in some of the toughest moments of his adult life. He nodded silently to himself as the car parked up -- fuck his own feelings or problems, that wasn't even the priority. It wasn't as if Troy was offering this entirely out of charity.
Dier eyed up the creases in the shiny green front of his trackies, remembering just how astoundingly well-endowed the tall slim teen actually was, it had shocked him then and every time he'd witnessed it up close. He began to reach his left hand across over the gearstick and controls to stroke his leg and edge his fingers that way. He would be very happy to suck off this young stud, to pleasure and thank him for his time and company, as always... it was the least this beautiful lad deserved, ha.
But Parrott's hand rested on his, surprisingly and firmly, closing about his fingers and pushing it away. Dier paused, a little thrown by this move. He frowned questioningly at the driver, wondering why he might have changed his mind on the short drive that had brought them here. The teen was smiling, although with a nervous edge to his expression. Nah mate,' he trilled in his Dublin accent. I think this time it's yours that deserves the attention... Don't you?'
Troy wasn't 100% sure at what point he'd settled on this plan, but he suspected it was the mournful hangdog look of the Spurs hero on his own looking down at that gym and his lauded ex-boyfriend. There was a troubling little doubt in his mind that it had something to do with the sweaty, aggressive aura of him after his bout of boxing with a personal trainer, but that felt a tad too weird and kinky; nah, he wasn't actually into lads, it had never been like that, but Eric WAS, and this was just long overdue payback for a lot of sweet attention from the older man.
Waiting for him in the car, he'd gone to and fro on the idea, briefly deciding that his mouth owed this degrading act to nobody, he was even a little prudish when he had tried going down on girls for the first time; and then he'd seen Eric emerging from the buildings in a slow gloomy trudge, looking so preoccupied and unlike his usual bold heroic self. This guy needed cheering up, clearly! Something was wrong, something was bringing him down, and some extreme gesture was required to fix the situation.
So here he was, making a gesture.
They were in the bedroom already, had wasted little time in shucking their trainers and coming up here. And Troy was slowly unzipping the front of his green Ireland FA tracksuit like a reluctant stripper, smirking his devilish smirk at Eric who backed away from him towards the edge of his large neatly made bed. Troy pulled open the glossy garment and shrugged it away, just a thin black-tshirt hugging his long lean torso beneath. One smooth pull with both hands and it was off, leaving his gold chain to rest on pale smooth skin about his neck and collarbone, a little tufty new growth exposed in the centre of his chest and around his midriff, snaking down beneath the waistband of his Armani pants. He slid down the tracksuit bottoms too, wanting Eric to see and enjoy a view of his increasingly powerful legs, thicker and stronger than he might remember them. The impressed and expectant look on the defender's face suggested he was right.
Well,' Troy said, forcing a forceful tone, what you waiting for, big guy? Let's get yours off too.' And he stepped towards the slightly taller, definitely broader bloke, as if squaring up to a rival in a pub fight; he undid the zip front for him and began pushing the top open, which Eric finished off, and then Troy yanked his tshirt up and over his bulging ab muscles (wow) and across his warm lightly haired chest. Somehow, shirtless Dier seemed more imposingly muscular and full-bodied than clothed Dier, and he himself felt quite skinny and slight by comparison -- he refused to let his confident Milwall-surviving persona deflate, though, and he pushed on, digging fingers into the stretchy waistband of those dark blue tracky bottoms and shoving down, again letting Dier finish the job. He stood back as the other man dropped and shuffled at his bottoms, until they were stood facing each other in just underpants (Troy's tight dark trunks of black Armani and Eric's simply white briefs that hung very heavily at the front and showed a bit of mousy-brown pubes where the waistband stretched) and socks (Eric's plain white and sporty, Troy's brightly coloured Rick & Morty).
This was where things got a bit more difficult. They turned around, swapping places, and it was guided by Eric's assertive hands rather than Troy's false bravado. He was gently pushed down a little so that he sat on his arse on the foot of the bed, with Eric standing in front of and above him. He took a deep breath, looking up that impressive torso, not letting any of his nerves or indecision show in his smirking face and the smooth gestures of his hands, rubbing at the hips and muscular `V' at the bottom of the Dier six-pack. He pushed the palm of his hand experimentally at the front of those white briefs and curled two fingers of the other inside the warm waistband, tickling at the short wiry pubes. All the while, grinning confidently and ambitiously.
He thought about the incidents at Milwall that had helped to build this confidence in his own sexual dominance, starting with Bradshaw at the start of his loan spell, but there had been others: two or three more, it was hard to say now, because the scenes had blurred together a little. He supposed that after face-fucking Bradshaw, who had made his pathetic attempts to bully and exclude the 18-year-old and learned the hard way how tough a Dublin boy could be, either word had got around or he just exuded the alpha force. He had been sucked off about ten times between the few of them. Only two of them were players, another was actually a junior coach, and the other one, the one he sometimes forgot, was actually just office staff at the training ground -- he would always catch them looking at him, admiring him a little too much, devouring him with their eyes. So he would have them really devour him, open wide and let him treat their mouths like a pussy. Real pussy had been hard to get, after all, as a single teenage lad in lockdown, and one too `famous' to risk breaking the rules!
They had been different experiences to his first forays with Dier. He had felt so powerful and... almost dangerous. Standing up for himself, facing up to these men -- all of them considerably older than he -- and demanding stuff out of them, being a little shocked when they submitted so easily to him and became so hungry and filthy on their knees. Very different to Dier's tutelage, or... well, yeah, there was Shane too, wasn't there?
After that seedy phone call to his Irish childhood bedroom, there had been other voice-notes and then, once or twice, videos. And not just of Irish Long slamming his gorgeous wife. When Troy received the first voice-note of Danny Ings begging for some `Irish cock in his mouth and cum in his beard', he'd thought it was a prank or a fake; but then there had been the video clip of the Southampton striker on the floor with his legs spread and a carrot up his jacksie. Fucking hell. It had quickly become a little too intense for the teen; he wasn't NOT speaking to Shane Long, but he was wary to provoke more random filth from the Ireland legend who had helped to push him along this strange journey of bi-curious endeavour.
The teen striker's mind swung back to the immediate challenge, and the sight of Dier's cock. He'd pulled the briefs down, letting them twang a bit under the weight of the man's sack, making Dier twitch in pain a little and laugh it away, stroking at his short-buzzed hair and the very sharp fade lines at its sides. Gentle but suggestive: get your head down there, lad, those fingers said.
And so did Troy's mind. Go on, he told himself. You were up for this. It was your idea. Nobody's making you. You want to cheer him up. Look how excited he's getting. Listen to his breaths! It's like all his birthdays came at once, a proper straight stud like you, ready to give him this, ready to suck your first and only cock, crossing this line just out of friendship and gratitude! Come on, Troy; if you can stand powerful over lads like Bradshaw and make them you quivering sub over a blowie in the toilets at scummy Milwall, you can handle THIS...!
You could always tell when a lad was this inexperienced -- he ignored the little nips of pain at the brush of a tooth on his shaft, or the awkward angles that pushed the wrong way on his meat, and he tried to keep the rub of his fingers quite gentle and relaxing as he stroked his velvety hair and around his ears and jawline. There was something adorable in the snuffling awkward breaths of the lad, trying to open his mouth and take cock into it while not quite managing his breathing properly.
Not that it didn't also feel great -- it was a hot wet tongue and lips against his raging boner, and it was from someone as sexy and masculine as this 6ft1 Irish jock.
But when he opened his eyes and looked down, seeing the quite distressed expression on the teen's reddish face, a little disgusted and confused, trying to open wide but also resisting the urge to pull back and splutter distastefully, he just wanted to laugh fondly at the willpower of this confused young man. What he did instead was rest the heel of his palm gently on the brow and push Troy's face slowly and carefully away until those red lips left his meat in a little `O', spit trailing from them to the curl of his foreskin.
Then he cupped his hand about his strong chin, stroking the short but thick dark hair of his beard, tilting his head upwards and smiling at him. He leaned forward and planted a single kiss on the crown of his head, then pushed his hands into his hot damp armpits and pretty much threw him backwards, letting his long back bounce onto the mattress and his legs lift up outside his own. Quickly and demandingly, Eric's hands fell to the strong calf muscles and feeling how hairy he was there... he slid his hands up and down the side of them, rolling down but not removing the socks, then reaching all the way up the delightfully solid thighs to find the tight silky fabric of those Armanis.
Thanks for trying,' he told him, dismissively but gratefully. But your cock is gonna rip those pants if it doesn't get attended to right now, matey.'
Pulling Troy's undies off was a quick easy move, and so too was diving down onto the bed and pushing his body between the bared legs, popping his lips around the fat head of Troy's long curved semi, taking more of it into his mouth and hearing his instant appreciative groan. Eric sucked on it, letting it grow and stretch against his mouth, taking it into the back of his mouth without gagging, really taking it slow and lavish... mmm, what a mouthful!
`Oh hell,' Parrott was groaning loudly.
Eric pushed the legs further apart and licked his way down the shaft, then played his mouth over the perfect eggs of the lad's bollocks, tonguing and nuzzling them, sniffing them, then going lower. He'd experimented this on Troy that day in the hospitality rooms of the stadium, and he remembered how it had excited him; right on cue, he heard the shuddering whimper of surprise and pleasure from the teen as he pushed his tongue in against the dark fur of his crack, so hairy compared to his upper body, and licked a little in there, not going too mad on him, just a tease... Of course, the last arsehole he'd tried to rim in here belonged to someone very different, and he got another flash of distress and yearning, but he ignored it, fixating on the whining growl of the Irish hunk. He alternated: one minute, pushing his tongue in there, spitting and blowing into his hairy canyon, then going back to his cock and licking and sucking it, rubbing his strong hands up and down those muscled thighs.
When he could tell that Parrott was very close, he stopped and just put a hand to his cock instead, climbing more fully onto the bed with his own briefs about his ankles. He lay sideways beside him and jerked them both off, bringing their faces close but not wasting any time in trying to kiss him, he didn't want to distress him or confuse things. Cum for me,' he told him powerfully though, knowing it was a matter of seconds, cum for me, you fucking STUD...' And then a few juicy spots of the youngster's seed hit him in the face, wow, and he burst out laughing in joy; his own jizz fired along the lad's flank and onto the narrow strip of bedding between them. Still he played with both of their tools, teasing out drop after drop of semen and making them both moan and pant.
Lying naked on his back, with one of Eric's arms draped beneath his neck in a loose semblance of a distant hug, Troy felt far too comfortable and safe not to speak his heart. Ipswich Town,' he said, after they had both been lying in silence for some time. What the hell, man?'
I know,' sighed Dier beside him. His other hand was lifted over his front, one finger drawing little patterns over his budding chest hair and long strong six-pack. It's only a lain, prodigal striker. You'll be back for next season. When we're champions, defending.'
Maybe,' the 18-year-old sighed, knowing that Eric would have seen through his bravado and witnessed his dismay at today's decision. A second short-term loan at a second low-performing team, and this one quite a journey out of London. I'll have to stay most nights there, and not see my fam. I'm being put in some apartment with a load of their youth players, not even the senior ones I'm hopefully gonna play with.' He grunted. `It feels like an even worse loan deal than the first one.'
`Fans might be less horrific?' suggested Eric lightly. Troy laughed weakly -- he knew the older guy wasn't dismissing his worries or mocking him, just trying to brighten the picture. The kindness made him twist his head a little to look at him where his bigger body slumped alongside his own, both so naked and exposed yet very comfortable together.
`Are you going to tell me?' Parrott demanded, quiet but insistent.
`Tell you what?'
`Tell me what's got you so low, mate. I'm not fucking stupid, you know, just cos I'm young. Are you really okay, Dier? I don't like to see you like this. I can tell. I thought you were just ignoring me cos you were busy or I'm an annoying Irish prick, but... Something's been going on. What is it?'
He let the silence burn on, unwilling to back down or change the subject. His strategy seemed to work. Eric sat upright, still tickling fingertips up and down his tummy. It'll sound ridiculous,' he warned. Troy told him to shut up and get on with it. There is, was, I dunno, a guy. A thing. I thought... I dunno. I thought I'd found something, someone. We were... I mean, it wasn't serious or official or anything. It was just... right. Easy. Nice.' He could see the deep sadness on the handsome 27-year-old's rugged features. `And now... it's not. That's all.'
`So this guy...'
`Don't ask me about who he is. You know that isn't fair, kid.'
`I wouldn't. But this guy... You feel a lot for him?'
`I do.'
`Did you tell him?'
A long pause. `Not quite.'
`Well.'
`Well what?'
Troy propped himself up on his elbows and gave him a stony look. Honestly, why are we guys such dicks when it comes to telling people anything important?' he said impatiently. Come on. You're gutted. Aren't you gonna hate yourself if you don't at least tell this fella what you're thinking and feeling, Eric? Can you really live with that?' He sat up properly, holding Eric's wandering hand and moving it away from his abdomen, needing to climb off the bed and dress and get out of here, but also needing to knock some sense into the big muscular doughnut beside him. He squeezed his fist and looked him in the eye. `If not seeing this guy is hurting you like this, tell him that. What have you actually got to lose, you daft fuck?'
With that, he slid off the bed, a little surprised and alarmed by the damp feeling between his cheeks, still shocked he had let a guy lick him down there for a second time; Eric was bold! He pulled up his Armani pants and twanged their waist on his strong lean hips. He adjusted the big package where his snake sat sideways and his balls hung weightily. Once his tracksuit was back on and zipped up, he turned to watch Eric on the bed, wrestling into his briefs and tshirt and staring sadly into the middle-distance.
`Tell him,' Troy said firmly.
He stared at the hotel room door, the early morning seaside sounds still ringing in his ears: cawing seagulls and the muffled crash of water in the distance. It had been an early start after a sleepless night, and he had cleared the drive from London to Southampton in an insanely fast burst down the motorway. Finding the hotel had not been difficult, really; every town and city was the same, there were only a limited handful of venues that the big league teams bothered to negotiate with. Eric knew the place well enough from his own away visits here when playing at St Mary's.
So here he was, at the hotel room door.
Even getting in here and to the right room had not been as hard as it probably should be. He had found the early shift manager downstairs, his beanie pulled low and his coat collar up high, revealing his identity only to catch the old bloke's interest. It hadn't been hard to bullshit some last-minute transfer gossip about how he needed to speak to the Southampton boss and so he needed a glance at the rooming plan.
It was all frightfully easy, and frightfully stupid.
He'd lay awake all night, fitful and restless from the moment he waved off Troy's BMW and went back inside the house in his baggy pyjamas, trying and failing to read his novel or play chess or decide on what to cook for dinner. It had still been dark outside when he'd eventually pulled on this outfit and left the house, starting up his car and launching out onto the M25.
And now it was just a door between he and Ross Barkley.
Parrott had been so right. How stupid was he? Was he really going to let this opportunity slip away without at least a fight? Would he really have risked not saying any more to Ross about his feelings? As impossible as anything now seemed between them, it just had to be said! To leave it blank and ignored, to just walk away in defeat... Stupid!
So, almost oblivious now to how early in the morning it actually was, and how ridiculous it was for him, Tottenham Hotspur regular, to be here in the `away' hotel of Aston Villa, in Southampton, before anybody even seemed to be up on the day after their 1-0 win... so he rapped his knuckles against the door and stood there impatiently in his layers of pyjama and tracksuit and waxed jacket, hat still pulled low to his brows. He knocked again after a moment, harder.
This time, it was met with some noise inside the room. A low, grunty voice. A few heavy footsteps, as of a heavy athletic body hitting the ground in confusion from bed. A long quiet pause, then more steps. They came heavily and rapidly close to the door and he knocked one last time before the locks clicked and twisted and the handle jerked. The door pulled inwards and a sleepy man's face filled the space, eyes screwed up and mouth twisting open in a yawn like a lion's roar.
`Ross,' he breathed, a little confused to be greeted by this half-asleep zombie version of the man who occupied his thoughts, but still so deeply excited to see him -- to see so much of him, since the man now pulling the door open was dressed only in pale grey underpants that bulged obscenely and had twisted about his upper thighs in the wrangling of sleep.
Come back to bed,' yowled a voice that wasn't Barkley's; of course there was a roommate, was Eric's first thought, having toyed with this problematic fact all the way down the motorway. But then he'd seen who Barkley's roommate was, and decided that it was not such a dangerous factor after all, not with what he knew about that footballer in particular. But then the words and the purring sleepy voice seemed to register properly, and he heard it once more in ringing ears. Come back to bed.' And in front of him, Ross pawed at his face and blinked his eyes stupidly.
`Eric?'
Jack,' said Dier, at odds with this moment of recognition. The door had opened a little further and Barkley swayed sleepily, or drunkenly, where he stood, and in doing so gave a better view of the stale-smelling hotel room beyond. It was the beds that Eric saw first, really. One heaped with the shape of a body, and the sheets all tangled and disrupted; the other perfectly neat and made in that tight fascist manner that only hotel staff are capable of. Only one bed used, and two fellas. The heavy Brummie yawn of the other occupant sounded again. Come back to bed and let me fuck ya, you big oaf!' it sang out with a crackle of excess and hangover at the back of the throat.
In front of him, Ross seemed to have woken up, red-eyed and bewildered, staring this way and leaning on the doorframe, so much of his powerful body on show there in the entranceway. But Eric was taking a step back away from him, realising how stupid he'd been even coming here. Jack?' murmured Ross confusedly, and then again, Eric? Dier... mate... what the...' He scratched at his balls with one hand and rubbed his eyes with the other. `Am I in a dream?'
Dier did not wait around to ask his own question. This had to be a nightmare.
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