Part 239: Derby Day
They were due early at Anfield today, directly to the stadium rather than meeting first at the training ground -- it was clear that Klopp and company were taking no risks in securing a win over their Merseyside rivals in today's derby game. Early this evening, Liverpool were hoping to wipe away a streak of bad luck and remind everyone why they were reigning champions, namely through a many-goaled destruction of Everton.
The game had that extra local significance for Trent Alexander-Arnold, obviously, the 22-year-old Scouser one of the first to arrive at the cathedral-like stadium of his boyhood dreams. His own run of poor form seemed to be over and he was particularly determined to make a mark on today's derby, an ambitious bounce in his step as he left his car and made his way indoors, taking a moment to grin through a face-mask at various staff members who crossed his path, lapping up their affectionate attention and making conversation with his usual polite vigour.
The place was pretty quiet, with their scheduled team meeting not for another forty minutes or so, and so the young right-back wandered quite idly through the backstage warren of the Liverpool stadium, eventually making his way to the gym where he thought he might kill a bit of time with some free weights before he had to join the others. This was not so much pre-match preparation as a little vanity project, a recent obsession with trying to swell up his arm muscles a little like some of his older teammates and show off -- he could find himself fixating quite jealously on the muscled machinery of guys like James Milner or his close friend Oxlade-Chamberlain, feeling quite slim and insubstantial by comparison. Perhaps, he kept thinking as he put in the extra gym time this past few weeks, if he could bulk up his body a little, he would have a bit more impact on the guys he was into...?
Quietly undressing a couple of layers in a small anteroom of the stadium's fitness facilities, Trent did his best to remember that it was a GOOD THING that his mystery lover had been transferred out of the city; god, how weird would it be if they'd had to come up against each other in a proper Mersey derby today, rivals on the field! It was... erm, odd enough as it was.
Yes, it was definitely a good thing that Jonjoe Kenny had been swept out of Liverpool in the final days of January, sent out on a fresh loan deal to a Scottish club instead. Kenny claimed it was last-minute and surprising, but Trent had felt a little irritated when he heard it on a sports radio show and not directly from his... well, his... friend. Friends, yeah. Despite the red/blue divide. They'd met up a handful of times after bumping into each other on that morning run, always at Jonjoe's apartment for some reason, and always ending up in... he cleared his throat with private embarrassment in the empty little changing room, giving his arms a good stretch. Yes, he told himself, it was a good thing Jonjoe was out of town, on any number of levels. Good for his football, and for the best personally too -- he didn't really want to end up in some weird fling with a fucking EVERTON player, did he?
Under this inner monologue, though, Alexander-Arnold could feel the sting of this latest disappointment, another possible intimacy seeming to slip past him as he did his best to keep up his place as key Liverpool FC hero in a tough Premiership season.
When he moved through into the weights room, he was surprised to hear a low grunt and realise that he was not so alone with his thoughts after all -- and there, hoisting a bar high overheard then bringing it carefully down, was one of those very disappointments. Joe Gomez, his face a little shiny with sweat, turned his handsome bearded features this way and raised a single eyebrow of almost amused surprise to see him.
`Wotcha, kid,' the Londoner greeted him, as if he wasn't just a year older.
Trent paused a little uncomfortably in the doorway, wringing his hands together, his plans for a quick private session slightly disrupted to see the injured fellow defender on-site and using the same weights room as him. And with the kind of rippling brown arms that Trent was currently fixated on acquiring, a scrappy black vest hanging over the tall 23-year-old's bulging physique as he clinked the weights back onto their shelf and turned to face him properly. The dark garment clung to the outline of his pecs with a patch of sweat and was lifted briefly up his six-pack as Joe patted his rock-hard tummy for a moment.
Above this, the centre-back grinned at him and nodded his head. `Cat got yer tongue?'
Trent laughed awkwardly, sensing and smelling the body heat of the man's finished workout. Didn't realise you were here,' he mumbled, twitching his trackies and tshirt, taking a few steps into the room. Good of you to be in to support us though. Can't wait for you to be back,' he added, trying to make it sound pally and sporting, rather than... lustful.
Same, same,' Gomez said, but light and dismissive. He took a step forward, rolling his broad shoulders and cricking his thick neck. It's felt so long since I got stuck in.' He brought his hands together in a gentle clap in front of his chest. `And the lockdown drags slower when you aren't playing a match every few days...!'
`Sure,' Trent responded, unsure if he was correctly catching the tone and lilt of this short conversation, but strongly suspicious that he was right. As one of Joe's hands descended to pluck and adjust at the front of his short baggy shorts, he felt even more sure that was a hint of invitation in the slow quiet body language. He felt a little straining shudder of conflict but took a step closer to his fellow Liverpool defender, breathing in the perfumed sweat in the air.
You must be tense,' Joe grunted. Derby day, and all.'
`Yeah.'
`No wonder you're sneaking down here to pump some iron.'
`That was the plan. Erm.'
`I know what would relax you more, Trent.'
`And what's that, fella?'
Gomez grinned very broadly and Alexander-Arnold returned a thin smile of his own. He had told himself he wouldn't fool around with Joe any more, too bruised by the laddish Londoner's dismissive laughs and shoves after he finished, his refusal to show any affection or hint of returning attention, not even a straying hand... Trent pictured himself ejected from the other footballer's car in quiet side-streets of the city, cum drying on his chin, walking the rest of the distance home after servicing the 6ft2 centre-back's needs. Yet here he was, full of derby day tension and with his only playmate moved north of the border...
In front of him, Joe lifted the front of his vest again, hooked a thumb into the waist of his shorts, and pushed down, so that his equipment tumbled out in a fleshy droop, the long brown prick already swollen and lifting beneath the wiry border of his pubes; the foreskin beginning to slide back over the pinker flesh of the glistening head. It seemed to stare up at Trent with the same casual determination as Joe's grinning face, shuffling closer in the centre of the square room. Trent failed to stop the automatic roll of his tongue over his bottom lip, his eyes flitting back up to the friendly jokey eyes of his tall companion.
`What you waiting for, Trent? Get to work,' said Gomez with a slow wheezing laugh.
Trent couldn't stop himself, was on his knees in seconds, gripping the man by the thighs, and burying his face in that moist warm crotch, wrapping his plump lips around an even plumper piece of meat, and taking some of the matchday tension out of his body by submitting entirely to the dirty deed.
They had arrived almost simultaneously, parking a few parallel spaces apart in the tarmac grid by the main entrance of the Everton training ground; terse greetings over the bonnets of their slick vehicles, and polite formal chatter as they entered together and made their way through the quiet corridors, both a little too early for the assembly of players that would soon travel across the city to set up camp in the Anfield Away quarters.
Jordan Pickford repeatedly looked the younger footballer up and down, unable to see him in quite the same light following the incident in the showers after their Newcastle defeat last month. Namely, he couldn't stop looking at the weighty package in his shorts, sweatpants, trackies, jeans, whatever... And today was the same: he quickened his walk to keep pace with the taller man, looking down at the front of his bulging skinny jeans and biting at his lip with queer delight.
He had obsessed over other men's proportions for a long time, shamefully conscious of his own diminutive piece, and getting a lad as well-hung as Calvert Lewin, accompanied by Kenny, to screw his missus... well, that had just been the latest in a long series of sexual experiments with his partner, a mixture of vicarious pleasure and pervy curiosity. But the other week, kneeling in the showers and made a bitch by 23-year-old Sheffield striker, well... that had been something very new.
`Hang on a minute,' the Sunderland-born goalkeeper barked at him, as they approached the doors into the large informal meeting room where they could await the rest of the squad. Pickford felt his cheeks colour a little and he screwed up his face in a frown, but stared determinedly at the 6ft2 mixed-race adonis, who just gave him a carefully blank and neutral expression in return.
`What?' Dominic demanded snappily, adjusting the straps of his back-pack and pushing his hands into his coat pockets. He looked wary and distant, as he had each time they had been anywhere near alone together in the training sessions and matchdays since that shocking expression of power that took place after a dire performance in goal from him.
We're early,' Jordan muttered. He shrugged suggestively. I thought we could... talk.'
DCL huffed a breath and averted his eyes. `I don't know what about, mate.'
You know what,' the Mackem insisted firmly, biting at his lip and leaning in a touch closer to the tall forward, the club's razor sharp weapon. But he was thinking less about his talented feet and more the bulge in the front of his jeans. Pickford gave a cautious glance behind them down the corridor and then through the square windows into the meeting lounge, then made his move: seizing tightly and quickly at the denim package, wrapping his fingers about it and reminding himself just how much Calver-Lewin was really packing. And when I say talk, I mean-`
Fuck off,' Dom snapped, grabbing his wrist down there and staring intensely at him. Don't fuckin' touch me like that, Pickers.'
Even this verbal outrage was exciting, made Pickford's slighter manhood twitch and throb in his underpants beneath his tracksuit bottoms. He grinned wickedly at the 23-year-old, picturing the perfect caramel muscles beneath his tight jacket. Come on,' he insisted, as he had a couple of other times in recent weeks. Come on, you know it felt good, using my mouth like that-`
I dunno what you mean,' Dominic insisted, pushing his hand quite roughly away and really frowning angrily at him. You're imagining things, pal. Chill out. It ain't funny.' His face clouded with the effort of denial, his dark curls tied back beneath a hairband. `Leave it out, Pickers. Leave it.'
Pickford growled frustratedly, still staring at him, his hand hanging between them where it had been shoved, wanting to reach and grab again but knowing that the younger lad was strong enough to break his wrist if threatened further. He just glared at the 23-year-old with his own dose of outrage and anger -- how dare the smug young prick degrade him like that and pretend it had never even happened?!
Look,' snapped Calvert-Lewin frostily, indicating the doors with a shoulder, the boss is already in there. Better go see him. Big day, ain't it. Derby. No time for your tricks and banter, Jord. Okay?' He glared icily this way and then shouldered open the doors, marching on ahead and ditching the tense little encounter -- leaving the maligned goalkeeper with a small semi in his trackies and a jackhammer heart in his chest.
Dismissed from the first team meeting of the day and unable to leave the football stadium before hitting the changing rooms and warming up for the game, the Liverpool squad members were encouraged to relax and kill time in pairs or small groups -- more psychological bonding, the 20-year-old local lad noted cynically, before quite willingly guiding his new teammate through into the quiet player lounge where he was now loading up a PS4 and lecturing the newcomer on his video gaming prowess. The tall midfielder boasted loudly about his accuracy and reflexes, turning to grin at the other young athlete before collapsing his body back against the coach and passing him a remote controller.
`We will see,' grunted the January signing amusedly, the same age and height, smirking at him as he accepted the controller and made himself comfortable on the other half of the couch. He seemed to find it funny that they were here at Anfield and allowed to just slob out with video games for an hour rather than doing extra warm-up exercises or work with the coaching team.
Curtis Jones was more familiar and comfortable with Klopp's player-centred approach to team psychology, and glad of the chance to relax a bit when there was so much obvious pressure hanging over them all today; his new friend here was perhaps too foreign and inexperienced to understand a rivalry as fierce as Liverpool-Everton, seeming languid and unaffected about the derby game lurking in their very near future. If anything, Ozan Kabak just seemed more relaxed and confident than ever, and the Turk had swaggered lightly into his every duty at his new club this month past. He seemed determined to enjoy and make the most of his loan spell here in the Premiership, which Curtis could only admire, even if Ozan's cool was a little annoying.
With that in mind, the 20-year-old Scouse lad took great pleasure in proceeding to assassinate Kabak and all of his AI accomplices in the battlefield scenarios they played through, winning three short bouts in a row and barely allowing the Turkish lad to get a shot at him. He could feel the other player's grating annoyance at how imbalanced the gameplay was, denting his chilled attitude and making him sit stiffly forward on the sofa. After the third stark loss, he even tossed his remote against the rug on the floor and punched the air frustratedly, barking out his harsh laugh and shoving Curtis in the arm in jokey horror. `Prick,' he blurted in his sharp-edged English.
`I did warn you,' Jones pointed out through his sniggers.
Kabak huffed and snorted and laughed, settling back in the couch. Fuck this game,' he announced bluntly. I'm not playing again.' He gave an exaggerated sulky huff and Jones just grinned to himself, still leaning forward a bit and fiddling with the post-match stats on screen, revelling in his supremacy, then glancing over his shoulder to the right to enjoy the scowl on the other young player's face; he found it very mildly disconcerting to see the loan footballer had shoved both hands into the front of his loose jogger grey jogger shorts, but then it was the same kind of laddish body language that he himself tried to overcome as he grew up in the Liverpool limelight, trying not to be a spotty teenage lout as his career began to speed up.
Curtis just focused on the game, realising that Ozan was not actually kidding; he began to load up a solo session instead, since they had plenty of R&R time before they had to head back down to the changing rooms to get kitted out for warm-up. Probably the Everton squad hadn't even arrived yet at Anfield. He thumbed at various options then was distracted by a wistful, annoyed sigh from the other 20-year-old, glancing again at the young Turkish bloke -- now one hand was up and held behind his head to relax comfortably back, but the other was still stuffed in the front of his shorts and getting kinda, errrrr, busy...?!
Curtis, remote in hands, stared at him in faint alarm. Alright,' he grunted jokily, enjoyin' yourself there, Kebab?' The lame nickname had stuck after only a couple of training sessions. `Jeez, mate...' He caught Ozan's lazy expression and curling smirk in his blocky, dark-haired features, then glanced back down at the outline of his knuckles through the grey fabric.
Relax,' muttered Kabak firmly. I just play with self before game, no big deal.'
`Right,' said Jones, taking this as a simple joke, turning back to the screen as the field of battle slowly loaded up on the whirring games console, buffering and glitching before him. Annoying. He shifted a little uncomfortably on the sofa, not entirely amused by Kabak's craic about jerking off, despite years of coarse teenage banter as he worked his way up through the club's youth academy. There was just something a little too seedy and forceful in the new lad's presence that made the joke feel unpleasantly real rather than a simple jibe like he might have been used to from cocky Elliott or similar. Harvey had been a real live-wire, and the sort to push boundaries in every chat, but he wouldn't sit and play with himself publicly like that...!
`What, you not cool with it?' demanded Ozan suddenly beside him, summoning his attention from the PS4 back to the close proximity of their lounging physiques. Curtis started, shocked to see the pink-red underside of the other lad's manhood, dragged out of his shorts and flopped back against the tummy of his Adidas tshirt as he rubbed fingertips along the shaft and then toyed with the bulbous, circumcised head... Curtis blinked stupidly and choked on a laugh, unsure now if this was a stupid prank to amuse him or if his new pal was really so relaxed about these things. What the fuck did footballers get up to in Turkey?!
Kabak slid his knuckles properly around the short thick hard-on, giving it a squeeze, and breaking his broody expression with a light laugh. `So English,' he remarked simply, tugging down a little on the veiny length of meat.
`Bloody hell,' was all Jones could mutter back at him, turning fixedly away and staring intensely at the loading screen, willing it to flicker into action and deposit him in a random arena of computer-generated bloodshed. He felt his long face redden beneath the curly mound of his dark hair, hunching his broad young shoulders and creating some fraction of space between them on the small couch. Next to him, the Turkish player was just sniggering and huffing and, as Curtis could tell from the faint rustling sound, playing with himself more. What the actual fuck?
The TV screen let him down, the game seemingly frozen as it often did in the loading of these online bouts. He blinked repeatedly and felt the heat burn fuller in his cheeks, looking reluctantly back at Ozan and expecting the burly newcomer to burst out into throaty laughter and punch him in the arm, gulled victim of this risqué banter. But nah, the other lad stilled gripped his thick tool in one hand and stretched the other hairy arm behind his neck, very comfortable in his lounging posture -- making Curtis feel very stiff and awkward beside him, still clutching the PlayStation controller in both hands and just gawping dumbly at his worldly new mate.
Bro,' he muttered, we've got a game to prep for...'
Yes,' agreed Kabak. Need to... let go of... pressure...' He laughed, then made a little moan noise.
Right,' Curtis said grimly, I should give you some privacy then! I'll watch the door. Make sure nobody interrupts you. Erm.'
Oh. You no need to do same?' The other lad frowned simply at him, pouting pink lips that were accentuated by the short thick beard about his sharp jawline. Well, is up to you, friend. Haha. You do whatever. I need to... mmm...' He murmured something else, less clear, perhaps in his own language; and Curtis just retreated rapidly from the sofa, almost tripping over his own gangly legs, tugging awkwardly at his sweater and his pants, adjusting himself instinctively then withdrawing his hand sharply from his crotch, confused and annoyed. He stumbled away, red-faced and mortified, the soft purring moans of the Turkish boy ringing in his head as he crossed the games room and out into the corridor, ostensibly to keep guard, but more urgently to look anywhere but at that ugly throbbing thing in Kabak's fist.
They were sharing an isolated pair of seats at the back of the Everton coach, legs brushing through the thin fabric of their travelling club tracksuits; it was a close proximity the two friends had sat in so many times, buddied up on so many away trips, usually on longer journeys than this city commute to their local rivals, and yet it was a position that felt quite uncomfortable now. Why?
The lad next him was a good mate, had been his best pal at the club since his arrival; whereas Dom had joined Everton on his first adult contract in his late teens, Tom Davies here was a local boy who had fought upwards through each age category. The 22-year-old blond Scouser had been the first lad he'd befriended as a nervous newbie and remained his best buddy four and a half years on. The two worked closely together in training despite very different playing positions, had lived together for short bursts, and often travelled together -- really, it was hipster Davies who had made him interested in fashion and helped him to pick up his recent reputation as a part-time model outside of his sporting antics.
The other key part of their friendship, though, was a deep brotherly trust -- a trust that had led Davies to admit a very personal truth to him when they were just 18 and 19 respectively. Tom was quite comfortably gay, but understandably terrified of making this more public -- though there had been a short time where a younger and less open-minded Dominic had wondered if the tearful late-night confession was part of a bigger move to sound him out as similarly inclined, he had quickly taken it as an honour to be so trusted, and protected Tom's secret with a fierce loyalty. Davies, for his part, had been intensely grateful for that comfort and secrecy, but had also slipped into a slightly false dynamic where his sexuality was an elephant in the room of their friendship.
Calvert-Lewin was embarrassed to think that he had never really made any effort to ask Davies about his sex or love life, or to bring up his big secret and the stress it probably put him under; it was just something he knew and guarded, and for the years of their closeness he had always really just taken smug pride in how tolerant and supportive he was to know it and not let it affect their tight teammate relationship. More recently, he had realised that Tom was probably embarrassed to bring it up much with him, or confide any further, since he largely acted as if the elephant didn't exist.
And now, the two Everton players tucked side by side in the back of the socially distanced coach, where rows were left empty between assigned pairs, the knowledge of what Tom was into seemed to weigh as heavily on him as the pressure of the afternoon's derby. Oddly, Dom had been slow to make any connection between his recent forays and his best mate's homosexuality. After all, HE was totally hetero, he knew that, no matter what he'd let that queer Harvey Barnes talk him into on the England camp, or what he'd done to silence and humiliate dirty Pickford -- but the latter's insistent references to it and today's flagrant molesting to get his attention, well...! The exchange with Jordan had left him in a tense, restless mood all through the team talks and quick fitness checks before setting off on this coach trip, and somehow seemed to render Davies an invasive and unwelcome presence beside him, rather than just a casual journey with his best pal.
The 22-year-old midfielder was chatting on to himself, his scruffy blond hair tied tightly back, about a film he'd watched the night before, seemingly oblivious to how much his tracksuited thigh was pressing against Dom's own thick muscular leg where they connected between the seats. He was looking away as he spoke, incredibly light and relaxed in his posture despite the pressure of the must-win clash with the Reds. Something in his Liverpudlian accent sounded off and jarring to the pressure in Calvert-Lewin's head as he heard but failed to listen. Why was he so fucking aware of the other lad's presence and body heat, so pointlessly conscious of the fact that Tom must have experienced some similar or identical moments to what he'd let happen to his cock in the last few months?!
Thinking back on it later, stood in the line-up at Anfield and ready to kickstart the Premiership game against their fiercest rivals, Dominic would struggle to explain what made him do it; it was almost the opposite to what he was thinking and craving, which was personal space and an erasure of his troubling memories (why did he play about with stupid ginger Barnes like that? Why had he ever agreed to shag Pickford's bird? And why had he wanted to degrade the useless goalie quite like that in the aftermath of the Newcaslte game?!), rather than the more decisive and impulsive action that suddenly gripped him in the slow Liverpool traffic between football clubs.
Tom just tilted his head and looked at him questioningly with those crystalline blue eyes when he grabbed his loose drooping hand and brought it over, across one then both of their thighs, and pushed it down against the bulging front of his away kit trackies. Tom blinked once, fluttering his pale lashes, his mouth half-opening, and Dom just stared stonily back at him, his left hand gripping furiously about Tom's own, pushing it down against the chubby package in between his spread thighs. This was madness. Total madness. What was he doing?
But then he took his eyes off Tom's and stared into the aisle, at their empty surroundings, with other players just metres ahead of them in the seating plan of the coach -- and simultaneously squeezing and moving Tom's stiff but unresistant hand, moving it back and forth over his idle semi, the chubby swelling of his cock that had lingered ever since Pickford rudely grasped it in the corridor. He heard, at his left shoulder, a sharp confused intake of breath from the other footballer, but he ignored it, unable to actually look at Davies; instead, he just squeezed his hand more tightly, shaping his fingers about the outline of his thick strong cock as it lengthened. He guided Tom's fingers, pressed in against the back of his hand, forced the uncomfortable stroking motions needed, and then eventually prised his own hand away, and grunted in simple satisfaction that his mate's smaller paw continued to toy and tug at what lay in his trackies.
Only now did he look at Davies again. The Scouse lad had shut up about his Netflix film when this begun, and was crackling with nervous silence now, his eyes wide and his lips pursed. He was trying to keep up the comfortable posture of his seat while reaching his left hand across Dom's chest and tummy and jerking him through his trackies. Dom could see his chest rest and fall against his jersey and seatbelt, could see the little awkward bobs of his adam's apple in his neck. Again, he tore his eyes from the sharp blue of Tom's, and stared instead at the aisle and through the space in headrests, tuning in to the low buzz of chat from the other players, knowing that he would need to act sharply to push Davies away if anyone looked back or came tottering down the rattling bus. He controlled his own breathing with some effort, but his own pecs swelled and fell to match the rhythm of Davies.
The journey wasn't long, this being a local derby -- even in this traffic, they would soon be pulling into Anfield, and perhaps there would even be some fans waving from the roadside despite the lockdown conditions. So time was short. Dom reached his hand back over Tom's shaky cold fingers, encouraging him to move more quickly and roughly over the clear curved presence of his dick, so that it was both men wanking it at once, him using Tom's trembling knuckles as some kind of toy or sheathe. Keeping his eyes glued to their surroundings, he edged his thick thighs a few inches further apart, making the angle easier, and he let Davies do the work solo, pressing his back muscles into the cushioned seat and relaxing his powerful body as best he could, willing the inevitable to come as quickly as possible: yes, yes, just like that, Davies lad, good lad, mmm... all the encouraging words staying in his head, his breathing picking up with a barely noticed rattle.
Then he was jizzing, emptying his balls down the inside of his thigh, dampening his under-shorts and seeping through to the tracksuit material, presumably felt by Tom's brittle fingers. Dom suppressed the groaning sighs to gentle breaths, then very slowly dropped his hand back there, prising Tom's fingers from his sticky patch one at a time, encouraging the shaking fist away form his crotch, letting it drop loosely on top of his bulky thigh for a moment before shoving it back into the other guy's own lap. He sat still, letting his heartbeat and breathing cool, feeling the sticky mess of his ejaculate inside his kit, and very reluctantly turning his head to glance once at Tom Davies, who was pale-faced and stunned, cradling his guilty hand in the other, barely breathing.
Sorry,' Calvert-Lewin muttered thickly, and then, what was this film you were on about, then?'
Davies let out a long reedy sigh and he shrugged his broad shoulders, nudging him with the left one, trying to break his confused daze. Davies blinked, shook himself, stopped kneading at his own knuckles as he cradled both hands in his lap, then nodded his head slowly. `Oh -- erm -- oh yeh -- erm -- it were on Netflix, and...' He stammered and stumbled, but Dominic glared warningly at him, needing him to recover and speak normally. This never happened, he screamed through his eyes. You never did that, said his tight thin lips. Don't get any funny ideas, he wanted to yell, while a little trickle of his cum oozed down to the bottom of his thigh muscle and made the nylon stick to his mocha skin.
`You've got it in, yeah?' the other bloke asked, patting his surreptitiously on the back just above his waist, following him down the quieter passage away from the echoing babble of the other lads, as they shifted away from the team meeting and were given their downtime before needing to get changed and ready for the warm-up and match.
Andy Robertson turned and shot him a bashful look past his blush and freckles, hugging his arms about his chest and cracking his knuckles. Aye,' the Glaswegian muttered under his breath, and I could feel it all the way through the drive here and through that meeting, fuck's sake. I dunno about this, Ox. I dunno if I can play like this.'
One of Alex's big strong hands grabbed at and squeezed his shoulder through the jersey of his clingy red training tracksuit, muscling along beside him down the quiet passage, leaving behind their teammates in the pursuit of privacy. He heard the other player chuckle a bit, felt his breath tickle the side of the neck and his earlobe, as if leaning in for a kiss- Oi,' he said, pushing uncertainly at him, not HERE...' It took a great will to say it, but he knew he was right; if they started nipping little kisses at each other in the passages of Anfield, they would hardly keep things secret for long, would they? Though sometimes it was quite dizzying for Robertson to pause and think about just how long they HAD kept their `secret' -- in other words, quite how long this taboo lust had boiled and bubbled between them, almost a year now since those first experimental touches.
I've just spent that entire meeting wanting to kiss you,' whispered the 27-year-old midfielder, patting him on the back some more and refusing to pull away from him, but stopping short of the mouthy snog he had obviously planned to deliver. Andy stared at him excitedly at this subtle profession of their love, then hurried ahead, nodding eagerly at a door to the right. In here,' he insisted, leading the way.
He walked in the odd way that today was leaving him with, a kind of hesitant waddle now that he didn't have to hide it, and moved ahead of his lover, through another doorway and into the dark high-ceilinged boot room beyond. As the door fell shut behind him, he felt one of Alex's big hands immediately on his pert bottom, then his soft lips against the fuzzy red-brown hair on the back of his neck. Those big muscular arms wrapped about him in a cuddle, then began to turn him. He submitted now to the snog, melting into the Ox's biceps, glad to be held and touched like this -- their moments together felt so rare and difficult, though improved by Alex's fitness and return to first-team training, even if he tended to languish on the bench while Robbo fought and sweated in the defensive line.
`God, you taste good,' murmured Alex with that delicious sensitivity in his voice.
`A faint whiff of Irn Bru?' Andy returned, unable to stop himself from the little scraps of protective humour that always came when things got too intimate or sweet between them.
That must be it.' Ox smirked with his lips and his eyes. So, it isn't comfortable, then?'
It's not -- like, it ain't -- painful, so much, just...' He grimaced apologetically. This was a dumb idea. I'm sorry, babe. I tried it. Oi, watch it...' He sniggered but winced as Alex's thumbs toyed with the waistband of his tight red trackies, still unsure about the secrecy and privacy of this unlit boot-room, where surely nobody would come wandering until just before the warm-up. But he didn't have enough willpower to stop his secret boyfriend from sliding his thick fingers inside the trackies, finding the tight fit of his black sports briefs, twanging the elastic against his pale Scottish skin; didn't have the willpower to fight as those knuckles pressed south and dragged both layers down several inches, exposing the top of his pert arse and the fiery hedge of his pubes. Still grinning cutely into his face, Alex reached around behind and slid two fingers between his tight cheeks to deal with it.
Andy sighed with a mix of relief and embarrassment, feeling the knuckles of Alex's hand find the ringed end of the rubbery thing and began to gently tease the butt-plug out of him. Hold still,' Oxlade-Chamberlain commanded quietly, just let me...' And Andy did, resting against his thicker body, feeling his cheeks open as the small dark thing was dragged out of his twitching ring, leaving his body with a fleshy pop and a little `owch' escaping his lips.
Alex sighed, and he couldn't quite tell if it was a noise of disappointment or affection. `Was it hurting you?' the midfield stud asked him, his other hand stroking against the sharp stubble of his chin.
He nodded hesitantly. `A bit. I'm sorry, babe -- I do want to do this for you, but...'
It had weighed on his conscience: his failure to properly take the other Liverpool player's meaty cock when they tried last year, and the continued imbalance in their treasured moments alone. Andy would lap hungrily at the Ox cock to make up for it, sucking on him furiously to return the satisfaction he felt when ploughing that big muscular backside, but he was having real difficulty in giving up his seat and letting Alex actually fuck him. Every time Ox told him it didn't matter, he felt surer that it did.
`I didn't want you to be hurt,' purred the sexy southern Englishman.
`Well, it wasn't that bad,' he responded gruffly.
He supposed that young Trent had been a helpful buffer for a while last year, an extra part that allowed Alex to enjoy playing a more dominant and powerful role, their shared plaything and close confidant. But the thrupple had risked awkwardness and jealousy, and it had actually been Oxlade who insisted on minimising their play with the Scouse kid, wanting their encounters to be more private and special between just the two of them... another sign to Robbo that he was determined to properly top him at some point soon. Hence the purchase of that stupid rubbery thing which Alex was now dangling from his fingers, chuckling. Andy just gurned awkwardly at him, ashamed to look at the pointed plastic that had been buried in his bottom all day, trying to loosen and ease his anal uncertainty.
`I will let you soon,' he promised in a dull mutter.
I don't want you to let me,' responded Alex with odd and confusing firmness, but then adding, I only want us to do what we both want. If it hurst you too much, then I never want inside that Scotch cavern, yeah?' Gentle chuckle. `You stupid sexy bugger.'
Robbo shifted uncomfortably in his arms, unsure if he could believe this, but relieved in the short-term that Ox seemed so unfazed by the failure of his suggested scheme. He was sliding the toy into the zipped pocket of his trackies, which looked a bit stretched by the outline of his semi. And then his hands were back on Andy's hips and around to his arse cheeks, even though he supposedly didn't need to fuck his arse to be happy... Right,' grunted the south coast stud, if you've got a sore bum, there's only one thing for me to do, ain't there...?'
Andy was turned around before he could question this claim. He reached for the shelved rows of football boots, wrapping his knuckles about thick metallic bars, as his hips were pulled a tiny distance backwards and his cheeks were parted. Kneeling behind him, Alex spat messily into his crack, sweaty from the tension of the plug, and then that big tongue was diving in where it had been, making him sigh and twitch; oh yes, THIS he could always cope with, THIS he could always enjoy! He gasped and buckled, leaning heavily into the shelving as his crack was lavished with Alex's talent and force, rimming his tight inexperienced hole forgivingly and undoing the dull burn of trying out the new toy. He squealed and gasped and pushed back with his lightly haired cheeks, absurdly happy with even these stolen fragments together.
Derby day banter echoed through the Away changing rooms of Anfield, snide remarks about Klopp and his team's recent downturn and low chances of making it two years in a row -- a nasty streak to the Everton team morale that had picked up on the short coach trip and rang with laughter now they were tugging off layers and getting their warm-up kits on ready to march out and limber up for the early evening game.
Nobody was more vocal about this antipathy to their hosts than Pickford, the young defender noticed, stationed opposite the stocky North Eastern bloke at one far end of the sprawling changing facilities. Right now, in the middle of dragging a thicker layer over his goalkeeping shirt, Pickers was now laying into the Liverpool goalie Alisson, ranting about how overrated and inconsistent the highly-regarded opposition keeper was.
Mason Holgate found himself just half-smiling at the older guy's banter, amused but unwilling to loudly agree with such claims -- he had trained himself into the anti-Liverpool mindset of the club over his years here, of course, but he wasn't sure there was much to criticise about their league-winning nemeses. Frankly, he was a bit pessimistic about the evening's result, unsure how he and his fellow defenders would stand against the Liverpool attack, especially with their home advantage.
Untying the front of his tracksuit bottoms and dropping them down his thick brown legs, the 24-year-old made a half-hearted laugh at Pickford's latest quip, then turned his back on him, rifling through the bag next to him for his warm-up shorts. He was surprised then by a bit of a shift in Jordan's tone and speech -- a clownish whistle and whoop noise, then `God, the booties on you two, it's like having to get changed at a J-Lo convention, ha ha!'
Raising a critical eyebrow, Holgate half turned, shorts bunched up in one hand, and looked at Pickford as the goalkeeper, sat down on the bench across from them, laughed to himself while strapping on his gloves. Mason stood still, his legs bared and his Armani underpants bulging quite fully between them; he knew he had a decent rump, his girlfriends always told him so, but hearing it commented on jokily from the gurning goalie was a tad strange, and he couldn't help but feel the attention was somehow racially charged, unless he was just being paranoid.
Oh, don't gimme that look,' chuckled the Mackem fella, massive arses on the pair of ya, bloody hell. Mind -- not much shyer on this side view either, are ya? Bloody posers.' He leaned back against a pillar, still tightening the keeper gloves at the wrists, and smirking from Mason to his neighbour at the next locker; Mason laughed more genuinely this time, but really just at the surreal exchange more than the stupid remarks of a man he had learned to be wary around. He felt no self-consciousness about how he filled his tight trunks at either back or front, but again, it was pretty unsettling to have his prominent package commented on by this weirdo.
Mind where you look then,' grunted the lad on his right, stuck in the corner of the changing room and, from his voice, less relaxed in the face of such unexpected attention. Mason grinned uncertainly and gave a sidelong look to the other 6ft mixed-race Yorkshireman, last year's summer signing from Norwich City. If you gonna sit at that height,' Ben Godfrey exclaimed next, `make sure you ain't peeking at my package, weirdo.' The tall light-skinned fellow defender gave a moody look to where Jordan sat, making a real effort to drape the trackies he was holding over his front so that they barred Jordan's view of his sagging white briefs.
Holgate just shook his head, more amused by Godfrey's shyness than Pickford's inappropriateness. Go back to slagging off the Reds,' he suggested, cos Ben and I don't need anyone pointing out our assets, y'know, they speak for themselves.' The gently vain Doncaster lad smirked complacently, lifting and flexing one bare arm and letting his washboard abs tighten showily for a moment before he stooped forward and began stepping into the shorts.
Seriously,' chuckled Jordan, but a bit more quietly, as if he would rather the other nearby blokes weren't hearing his comments, you two definitely prove the stereotype, by the look of it, you know what I mean? Ha ha...' His laugh was seedy and a bit experimental, as if he wasn't sure if he was pushing it too far.
`And what stereotype is that?' Mason demanded simply, straightening back up and patting his six-pack, shifting from leg to leg as he got comfortably in the thigh-hugging shorts. He stared challengingly at the team's and England's No.1, while sensing Ben shifting uncomfortably about near to his right, dragging clothes over his pale brown body in a bit of a hurry, hopping on the spot as he tucked his chunky rear into the Everton shorts and then began hastily tucking his vest into their elasticated waist, clearly rattled by any untoward attention in his body.
Jordan met his eyes, something oddly threatening or confrontational in his manner, but then relaxing back and shrugging his shoulders. `Nothing,' he conceded, focusing instead on rolling up his socks. Mason gave him a distasteful look, not keen on the strange direction of his remarks or thinking, and turning his back on him once more to unfold his shirt and drag it over his lean muscular body; what an odd fella.
Nearby, the rest of the home squad could be heard getting their kits on and psyching one another up for the impending game, but this player in particular had removed himself, disappearing to the toilets further down the changing rooms from everybody else, shoving the door into place and dragging a bolt across to lock it after him.
He wasn't sure if it was just the derby day atmosphere making him so crazy, but his fat circumcised cock was straining at the insides of his black briefs, had been bulging and stirring all through the afternoon in a way that was distracting and annoying. He pushed one hand against the locked cubicle door and reached the other into his shorts to feel at the outline of his mound, snorting out a long laboured breath and blinking shut his eyes to fight against the sensation -- but there was nothing else to be done, Mohamed Salah could not strut out there and do his best for this great club unless he was totally focused and switched on...!
He could not let this perpetual semi throb and sweat in his undies below his shorts, it would be too visible and obvious, and this mood was so stressful and distracting. With these feverish thoughts, the Egyptian forward stroked at the contents of his briefs and stretched the waist of the red shorts across his wrist, toying with himself and feeling the heat of his crotch. Another long snorting breath of deep frustration. Then, almost wincing regretfully at his own unquenched horn, Salah pushed down on the waist of the briefs, releasing his cock into his hand and feeling it harden more fully to his own clumsy touch, pulling regretfully on his meat and thinking with shame that he was going to have to wank and cum here in the changing rooms toilets!
Mo thought with annoyance at the years of much more controlled professionalism that had carried him from club to club and led to his prominence here at Anfield. The Mohamed who had chiseled this body and earnt his place as a feared striker was not so easily swayed and distracted, not so stupidly sidetracked by pleasures of the flesh... and now here was, tugging on his fat veiny cock, grunting into the quiet bleach-scented air of the cubicle, cursing the boy he blamed for leading him astray and waking up this inner devil.
One thought led to another. He stood back a little, squaring his frame, and reaching into the pocket of the open jacket worn over his warm-up kit -- he pulled it out and rolled through the contacts, staring angrily at the smug little pouting expression of the contact photo next to Harvey Elliott's name. And then before he knew what he was doing, Mo was hitting `call', thinking of those sporadic late night calls he'd received from the loaned out teenager, the dirty 17-year-old who would suddenly buzz into his phone in the witching hour; three times Mo had completely blanked the calls, once he had hung up on him after barely a minute, but the other times... the shame of having spilled his cum saying dirty things to the English boy...!
He pressed the phone to his ear with his left hand, jerking his cock roughly and rapidly, needing to release this load soon, to shed this mood and distraction, to get his head in the right place; below, his other head glistened with froths of pre-cum and shuddered at his heavy self-touch. The phone dialled and whirred but took no answer; a pre-recorded voicemail hit him in the drawling Surrey slur of the youngster, so recognisable and cocksure that he began to speak at it (Listen to me, you dirty boy-) before realising it was just answerphone. And then he was mumbling stupidly at his phone: All your fault, you filthy little fucker, how dare you- and things to that effect. And then, his voice lowered and husky, he trailed off and hung up, regretting every second of the voicemail message he was leaving the young talent... it occurred to him that, for all he knew, Elliott was mid-match for Blackburn Rovers right now, and somehow the angry message felt even stupider. He pictured the youngster in his kit, darting about the pitch, and then pictured him at the food of his marriage bed, crawling between his furry legs, all devilish smirks and soft pouting lips -- oh, Allah!
Salah's balls emptied and his cum spurted in long trails across the wood-effect laminate of the cubicle door, slashing it in lines then dribbling downwards. He panted angrily into the air, screwed up his eyes, and heard above the muffled team chatter the voice of his captain, `Salah? Salah? We need to get out there!'
He stared down, finding himself more alarmed by the slobbering wet noise than the sight of a man's pink-blotched face pushed so firmly in against his crotch. The blowjob felt good, really good; his long curved prick buried deep in the fella's face, his tongue rubbing aggressively up and down the shaft and his lips puckering tightly near the base. But the man would then gag and choke and drool more onto his meat and make him shudder back against the wall of the cubicle, gasping uncomfortably and wondering what the hell he was doing.
The remarks had carried on from the starting comments in the changing room, following Ben Godfrey across the enemy pitch as he and the other Everton men went through the motions of their warm-up drills; odd, leering snatches of speech from the experienced 26-year-old, directed at him alone since Holgate had given the goalie such a cold shoulder over his inappropriateness. Remarks... how had remarks come to this? What had Pickford actually said to goad him into this position?
The broad 23-year-old centre-back pushed his shoulder muscles into the wall and just stared down; he was holding his shirt up across the line of his stiff nipples, at Jordan's insistence, exposing the sculpted line of his abs, not as showy or pronounced as Mason's, but something Jordan had wanted to kiss up and down while he tugged his cock into life and then went properly to work on it. As he sucked, he was also fingering and tickling at Ben's large days-full bollocks, making him shiver and want to occasionally belt out a hysterical giggle -- except he could barely make a noise, the two of them in a toilet cubicle only yards from where the rest of the team were resting between warm-up and kick-off, a tiny respite of time before the real action begun.
This is okay, Ben told himself, this don't make me a fag, does it?
It was something he'd heard hints of at his old clubs -- at Norwich, at Shrewsbury, at York City and Middlesbrough in his youth. A bit of testosterone gone too far. Snidey in-jokes and half-shared memories that told him maybe lads working so closely could step over the line -- he could remember being appalled at the jokes, to start with, and then maybe... curious? Was that the word? Fuck. But whatever idle ideas a younger Benjamin had held about maybe getting a helping hand off an older player or an eager-to-please young buddy, well... this reality was just terrifying. He stared wide-eyed at the way Pickford drooled and slavered up and down his length, pushing it up now to lick under it and mouth at his balls. Okay, terrifying, but... well, it was getting him there, wasn't it...?
The Yorkshire-born footballer took hold of his cock and jerked it himself while Jordan nipped at the skin of his balls, making him almost yelp out in pain or excitement, until soon he was jetting his cum, a really thick white load after several days' abstinence, horrified to see it splash and dribble against the blotchy pink and red of the white bloke's features; he was disgusted but he couldn't take his eyes off it, seeing the last little burst of his juices dash the bridge of Pickford's nose and ooze over a nostril into the stubble over his upper lip. Ugh, grim!
Grimmer still: he thought he imagined or misheard it first, the sloppy mumble of the kneeling goalie's words. No way could he be saying that. But then the Mackem guy said it again, a bit more loudly and desperately, and Godfrey has absolutely disgustingly clear on what he was being asked. Piss on me,' begged the wide-eyed psycho at his feet, his mouth hanging open and jizz pooling about his lips. Piss on my face you big dicked bastard, you beautiful brown god...'
Ben's knee jerked almost automatically, smacking into his jaw as he reeled aside in disgust. What the fuck?' he hissed at his senior teammate, almost tripping over the hulk of his body, reaching for the door, his still-hard cock swinging and trailing his seed. He leant heavily into the other wall and pushed his cock into his pants roughly, dizzy with horror at Pickford's final demand. You're sick,' he told him, reaching desperately for the lock. He should have been more slow and careful -- there could easily have been Everton teammates near the toilet doors, spying two of them in a cubicle -- but he was just desperate to get away from the goalie and wash his hands, and fortunately this part of the changing rooms was totally empty as he skittered out with bambi-like motions, abandoning the gasping cum-slut where he kneeled.
But the match,' the 19-year-old gasped at him as he was practically dragged by the arm, glancing back past them to the narrow patch of doorway still visible where Robertson was jumping up and down on the spot trying to rile up a few of the others. Warm-up tracksuits being discarded and tossed aside, just flashes of Liverpool red as kick-off approached and the guys readied themselves to get out there and face Everton. We should be back there,' Neco Williams told him in a confused voice.
Jordan Henderson tightened his grip on the lad's arm a little. `Just a couple of minutes,' he said through gritted teeth, needing to do this now, before he faced down the evening's job, the much-needed win. He pushed Neco more roughly than he meant, racing to steal these five minutes before he would be needed to lead the men out onto the pitch, not really caring about how stupid or unprofessional it was to steal this one-to-one now. Klopp would be looking for him any moment. Still, he pushed Neco on ahead of him, glanced behind them to check they were not followed, then shoved the wiry teenager into the solo shower cubicle. He ducked in after him and dragged the curtain shut after him.
Jordan,' murmured young Williams in his light Wrexham twang. Sir...'
`My boy,' growled Jordan, grabbing him by the waist and kissing him hotly on the lips, just as he'd secretively done this morning while his wife was in the shower, creeping into the guest bedroom and snogging the teenager for 60 delicious seconds.
What is it?' the Welsh boy demanded. What's wrong? What do you need to tell me?'
Not tell,' grunted Henderson in his thick Sunderland accent. Not tell, just show.'
There was a flare of panic of the young defender's angelic features. `Is this about...?'
Jordan flinched somewhat. Kinda, but wait, listen-
`I'm sorry, I'll be ready soon,' Neco told him in a heart-wrenchingly pleading tone.
Stop saying SORRY,' Jordan insisted in a low growle, pushing him back against the slippery tiled walls of the narrow shower cubicle, dry and unused. But...'
It had hit him like a truck, the things he'd seen earlier today, in that quiet hour before they needed to really switch on. Lurking in the quiet dark of the boot-room, making sure that his best boots were cleaned and ready, and leaving it moments too late to cough or say something and alert anyone to his presence. He'd hunched there in his shadows and seen it all, the kissing and touching between those two shocking teammates -- heard every word, and seen the thing that Alex Oxlade-Chamberlain waved around like a gun, so much more chunky and obnoxious than the delicate toy he'd stolen from his missus for Neco's slow experimentation. And he'd seen what followed next, if only for a dangerous few minutes before a noise elsewhere disturbed the secretive couple and made Andy Robertson hurry away in muttered panic. When they had both gone, the Liverpool captain had remained in his unseen corner, shaken but... educated. His shock at finding out the truth about Andy and Alex was far outweighed by the inspiration they had given him.
`Sir?' whispered the Welsh right-back against the wall.
`Turn around,' Jordan hissed at him impatiently.
Neco frowned but did it, turning and resting his forearms against the hard tiles, seeming to shake where he stood. Jordan was concerned and embarrassed by that, but too urgent and full of this wild boldness, there wasn't time to hesitate or explain -- he didn't think he could tell the teenager what he wanted to do to him now, he just needed to show him. It's okay,' he grunted though, leaning in and kissing his neck just below the ear. It's okay, you'll understand. I just need to show you. I've got the answer. I know what to do now.'
`But captain...'
`Wait, hold there. One minute.'
`The match... the derby...'
`This is more important,' he found himself barking, and felt a swell of shame and confusion at saying so; what the fuck could be more important than his captaincy here at Liverpool?! The answer trembled sensitively in front of him as he reached down and pulled at the tight red trackies, yanking them and the undies below away from the pale perfect peach of his arse, then lowering his knees towards the white smooth floor.
Jordan parted them, squeezing each cheek, hearing a half-snigger of sensitive excitement from the young lad, but his body tensed with uncertainty and panic -- he was right, they shouldn't be here, this was insane, he should be getting ready and lining the men up right now, serious-faced and ready for action. Instead, he was parting those perfect white cheeks and inspecting the light fuzz of dark grey-brown hair that ran along his crack, which he stroked down with a blunt thumb, staring into the little pink not that he had been trying to finger and ease with that gently vibrating toy...
Mmm,' whimpered Neco quietly. But skip, not here...'
Just a moment,' he insisted in that same authoritative grunt. Then he brought his face closer, concentrated, and spat. He felt Neco's body twitch and move at the wet feeling against his crack. Jordan thought about what he'd seen the Ox do (would he ever be able to look him in the face again?!) then leaned in, pushing the lean cheeks further apart despite the tensing of the muscles, and pushing his tongue out of his mouth... bringing it in one long lap against the lad's arse, as if it was the paradise between his wife's legs. Above, he could hear Neco shudder and gasp. Holding his face in close, knowing his short stubble would tickle and itch at those perfect white cheeks, he rubbed the tip of his tongue up and down, tasting his lad in this most private spot. Oh,' gasped Neco, `oh captain...!'
Then he pulled back, took a deep breath, and blew it out, letting it play against his own saliva on the knot of Neco's virgin hole. Another tense gasp from the 19-year-old. Jordan realised that he was the one shaking, not Neco; or both of them, perhaps. He took another deep breath, then patted his hands once on each cheek, and laid a single kiss just above the arse-crack, on the base of the spine, before climbing slowly up and placing a second gentle kiss at the top, on his neck. That's it,' he grunted. That's the key. Now I know how to fuck you.'
Oh god,' whispered Williams with what sounded like a mixture of dread and relish. After a beat, But... when?'
Jordan fell silent at that, his breathing heavy. `Only when you're ready,' he insisted in a weaker, shakier voice, the brief madness and boldness gone -- he couldn't actually believe he'd licked a man's arse, any more than he could believe he'd sucked on Neco's cock and eaten his cum, or any more than he could cope with what he'd witnessed between Ox and Robbo. It was all insane. This wasn't him. Somewhere, he heard his name being called, not Klopp but one of his assistants. He backed away form Neco and rustled into the shower curtain, willing the hard-on in his pants to subside and retreat before he marched back out there and re-joined the guys.
In Glasgow, the television screen in the apartment lounge spelled the end of the 2-0 home defeat for Liverpool, Everton victorious on derby day. Further down the couch from him, his phone was going mad with notifications from the group chats -- friends, family, teammates. A sick win for the lesser Liverpudlian club today, taking down the champions. Jonjoe Kenny should feel ecstatic, should be leaping around his rented accommodation whooping at the top of his voice. Even here on his loan spell at Celtic, he was still Everton in his heart and soul, had been since he was hold enough to kick a ball. What a fucking result!
He stared dimly at the buzz and flicker of his phone as the messages poured in from those chats that he would need to respond to and join in the banter with. But his eyes stole back from them to the TV, and the tracking close-ups of the dismayed Liverpool players, flicking between their hangdog expressions and then following one particularly emotional and horrified young man.
How the fuck could he celebrate his home club's big win? How the fuck could he feel happy about 2-0 to Everton, when he had to look at that? Pouting sadly on the screen and drifting off the field with his fellow men in red, Trent Alexander-Arnold. Jonjoe stared sadly and longingly at the screen and hugged his knees, feeling the deep conflict in his chest and tummy.
He grasped for his phone, ignoring the growing list of notifications, and scrolling through his inbox for Trent's name instead, opening up the thread of their chat and punching in the words one at a time. so sorry, bud. If u need 2 talk, am ere. X' He stared at the kiss, then deleted it, then typed in XXX' instead. SEND.