Part 263: Vanilla?
The good luck text came at just the right moment.
Sure, it was just a friendly. Sure, Andorra weren't a big team and, sure, the lads wouldn't even be joining Europe's best this month for the tournament they had failed to qualify for... but international football was still dizzying and new to him, especially after a season in the gritty Championship. And he wasn't just warming up a bench and waiting for an opportunity this time, the Ireland boss had picked him to start up front. Just a friendly, but so much opportunity!
The 19-year-old Dubliner smiled gratefully at the message on his phone screen, the grainy gif of cheesy support and the written message below: `go smash it today laddie xx'. Two kisses, he thought with a giddy little smirk to himself, hesitantly conceited about the affectionate way Shane Long still treated him, all this time after that shared flight to the UK. He hadn't seen much of the older Irish footballer in the last year, but his sporadic contact remained, friendliness that crackled a little with the odd sexual tension of what had happened before.
Long's support seemed more sweet and meaningful given that the seasoned striker was missing out on this flurry of friendly games in the early summer -- it seemed like a turning point in the older guy's career, and Parrott really was stepping into his goal-scoring shoes. This match felt like Troy's chance to prove himself a worthy successor and guarantee a spot in future campaigns, where he hoped to lead Ireland into big tournaments where they could show up England, Scotland and Wales; already, the ambitious teen was fantasising about a captain's armband and being known as the Emerald Isle's greatest footballer.
The Ireland squad were kitting up ready in the shabby changing facilities of the so-called `Estadi Nacional' of the small country, a boisterous good cheer among them all after a busy week of training for this low stakes outing. There was no sign of nervousness or hesitation in any of the other men, Troy kept noticing, and he chided his own anxiety -- but he was the youngest here and there just seemed to be more hanging on his performances than for his teammates. After all, his club future was still a bit vague, and he was also banking on a good showing for his country to help make sure he was back in the Tottenham selection come the new season, not languishing at Ipswich or fobbed off with a third loan deal in a row.
Troy took one last look at the encouraging message from Shane, closing it and grinning at the list of supportive messages from his big family, then locked his phone and shoved it into a side-pocket of the kit bag next to him on the bench, straightening his posture and pulling the tight black compression vest about his shoulder and chest muscles before standing up to unfold his precious new Ireland shirt, number 10. It slid over the lean muscles of his torso and he tucked and untucked it from his baggy shorts repeatedly, unsure what was more comfortable or cool-looking.
Stop fidgeting,' barked the gruff Cork accent of his neighbour at this side of the changing room, and he grinned stupidly to the side, meeting eyes with the more experienced Ireland player who had one of his thick dark-haired legs up on the bench to tighten his bootlaces. You okay, kid?'
Great,' the 19-year-old boasted with every drop of confidence he could fake. Just getting myself psyched up, you know!' He spoke loudly and brashly over the buzz of their teammates around them, picking up his own boots to finish kitting up. `Been looking forward to this for ages.' He grinned with what he hoped was convincing laddish bravado, but the older lad just chuckled gently and leaned over -- John Egan punched him lightly in the arm with a meaty fist, then lifted the hand and patted it calmly over his shoulder muscle.
It's just a friendly,' the Sheffield player said quietly. Nothing to lose. Just enjoy yourself.'
Troy slightly resented the way the 28-year-old centre-back had seen so transparently through is false confidence and that his nerves were so evident in his body language or expression, but he liked and respected the more experience player, and appreciated the soft discretion of his reassurance -- he felt briefly tempted to speak more candidly and admit how much pressure he was feeling to prove himself here in Andorra, but the louder voice of their captain and then manager broke across the cramped changing rooms with harsh warnings about needing to look ready and hurry up. So instead, Parrott just made an awkward chuckle and punched John back in one of his thickset shoulders, shrugging and saying, `I'm enjoying myself plenty, old man. See you at the World Cup, right?'
The dark handsome features of the Sheffield defender creased with a patient smile and he pulled away, clapping his large hands together and giving him a single discrete wink of comradeship. `You'll be fuckin' great, Parrott, we all know it.' And then Egan was turning away, clapping his hands up in the air and joining the vague messy chant of the other Irishmen, who were already beginning to line up to exit the dressing rooms, lots of stamping studs and flexing limbs. Troy lowered his head and shook himself, trying to dispel the sense that a brief goalless appearance here might put an end to the aura of promise and potential that had surrounded him. John was right, it was just a friendly, and all these guys apparently believed in him! Now, he thought, time to try and prove them right.
When the Irish team's bright young thing went on to score a brace of decisive goals in the 4-1 victory, Egan could not help but feel a certain smug satisfaction and think that his own quiet encouragement had helped to steady the inexperienced striker. The sturdy centre-back was first to hug and grab at the lanky teen after his plucky first goal, and he roared excitedly in his direction again only minutes later when Parrott got a second. In the sticky heat of the early evening, he grabbed the young player to his chest for a moment and planted a fond kiss on the short sweaty dark of his cropped hair -- and on went the rest of the game.
John found himself as delighted and celebratory as everyone else when the 90 minutes concluded -- he sensibly knew that it was a slightly meaningless win, but it was still a fun consolation prize for the men, and there was a lightness to play out here that John's own professional season had lacked. It was great for him to be aware from the relegation gloom of Sheffield United, where the past few months had been a period of resignation and low hopes.
It stung that his national team had failed to win a spot in the delayed 2020 Euros, but a little foreign jaunt with a bunch of raucous and good-humoured Irish fellas was still a good change of scenery for the defender. He was more than willing to behave like 4-1 against Andorra was a world-beating moment, hugging and clasping at the other guys in green shirts as they made their way back into the claustrophobic changing facilities and cracked open their cans of Guinness.
The 6ft1 man leaned one hand to the wall as he fumbled at his tight boots and clammy socks, grinning as McClean and O'Shea launched into song, leading the other men in tuneless and cackling disharmony of an old Irish folk song. He laughed and turned away from the broken shanties, dragging up the front of his Ireland shirt to wipe his blotchy face, then glancing across as his younger neighbour skittered into place next to him, already shirtless but with one of those fancy compression vests hugging his upper torso like an empty bra, glossy six-pack on display beneath its grip and face beaming with the proudest of smiles.
Oi,' Egan said, reaching across to tap him on the shoulder, well done again, champ.'
Parrott flashed him that infectious young grin. `Cheers, bro.'
`Just don't let it go to your head, aye?' John chuckled for him, rolling the socks down and then flexing his sore feet before collapsing into a seated position on the thin wooden bench. About them, pale skin was on show as their teammates continued to strip off and disappear into the showers -- hot and aching, John was keen to follow, needing to hose his body down and be refreshed.
Oh, don't worry,' Troy was muttering, nothing like a few months at Millwall and Ipswich to keep a lad humbled, huh...!'
John paused and gave him a thoughtful look. `Bit of a drop from life at Spurs, is it?'
Troy made a brief grimacing expression then shrugged his lean shoulders and began fiddling with the knot at the front of his shorts, correcting his expression and speaking more neutrally. `It's good experience for me, as I keep getting told. It's doing me good.' He sounded far from sure, a little flickering frown to his confident features.
Well, you showed people why they should be paying attention just there,' Egan growled quietly his way, wrestling out of his own shirt and baring the broad lightly haired muscle of his upper body before getting up and starting to look for his towel. So don't you worry. Big things to come, buddy.' He clapped him on the back as he left him there, glad again to be a wise older voice for the ambitious lad, but eager to strip off and get into the steamy showers. Before he did, he glanced over his shoulder to check the teen striker did not look glum or thoughtful, but gladly he had already been grabbed at by a couple of the other younger newbies on the squad, who were desperate to celebrate the 19-year-old's part in the action.
In the showers, Egan put the lad from his mind, enjoying the brash banter and rough laughter of the other guys, who were taking it in turns to call out which British footballers they were better than, and all the reasons Ireland should be winning the Euros instead of watching from home -- the guys became hysterical as their boasts and criticisms became more and more outlandish, and all of the biggest English, Scottish and Welsh players had been mercilessly slandered. Only when that banter went a bit too far and nasty did John's comfortable winning mood falter -- And they can all rave about Jack Grealish, but look at his hair -- big fucking fag, I heard, proper bummer-boy!' It was Portsmouth's Ronan Curtis making the aggressive claim through a face dripping with shampoo, and it was swiftly met with some tense disapproval -- their seasoned midfielder Conor Hourihane was marching across the showers to jab Curtis in the chest and shut him up. Jack is a great fucking lad and I won't hear you chat like that about him. Shut yer trap, kid.' Hourihane was on loan somewhere at the moment, but had spent years at Aston Villa with England's new poster boy as his captain.
John himself turned uncomfortably from this conflict and finished rinsing soap from his thick arms and shoulders, blinking dampness out of his eyes and retreating swiftly from the shower space to snatch his towel and leave the other men to the laughter and name-calling that swiftly followed that brief confrontation.
Of course, Egan was not exactly offended by the stupid bout of homophobia. I mean, I'm not fucking queer, he reminded himself grumpily as he dressed. It was just that... Well. There'd been those funny stupid moments, hadn't there? Moments that he knew some yob like Ronan Curtis would be happy to banter about and throw all the slurs at him for, and no doubt plenty of the other blokes here. He cringed at the idea of half the footballing men he knew hearing what he'd got up to -- first with his Sheffield teammate that night to impress those girls in the hotel, and more lately with Phil Jagielka and his better half. For a man as straightforward and unadventurous as Egan, those two promiscuous nights were jarring landmarks in his adulthood, memories he held away most of the time but then burnt crimson in the face when they returned to him!
But still... Pfft. Let the guys say whatever nasty shit they wanted about poncey English players. What did that have to do with his own adventures? He was purely straight and he'd just blurred some lines in order to get sex with beautiful women, that was all. He winced to remember the way he'd inexpertly snogged with O'Connell to make those to bisexual beauties play, and the moment he'd followed Jagielka into bed with his missus... Jesus Christ.
The troubled mood didn't last. After all, he soon had a fresh can of Guinness in his hand and he was on a coach with one of his best mates, the lot of them travelling up through the hills around Andorra la Vella. At the hotel, an outdoor drinks reception had been laid on for them, cementing the feeling that something much more than a trivial friendly had been achieved tonight. In beach shorts and gaudy resort shirts, the Irish squad spilled in and out of the hotel bar area and across the colourfully lit terraces that overlooked the small city, sinking pints and lining up shots.
John drank slowly and steadily, drifting placidly between his many friends on the team, having spent several years now earning his place in Ireland's team. Like the game itself, it really did feel like holiday, and the indignity of Sheffield's demotion to the second tier felt distant and irrelevant. As the night wore to its end, he could just grin with lazy drunkenness and anticipate the freedom of his summer visiting family and pals in Ireland for a few weeks, golfing on the coast and getting back to his roots.
At some point around midnight, this contentment took him away from the diminishing crowd of the hotel party. Without really saying his goodbyes, the drunk 28-year-old planted his pint glass against the bartop with some warm dregs still there and slid away indoors to find his way back to his room. If he tried to say goodnight to any of the fellas, including his own roommate, Shane Duffy, he knew he'd be talked into further booze -- or worse, since he knew some of the young'uns were in and out of the loos rubbing furtively at their noses. Nah, John knew his limits.
John dragged his heels against the rough carpet of the hotel hall, traipsing with a drunken carelessness, and patting his hands against the hips of his close-fitting khaki shorts, his shirt half-unbuttoned in the close June heat. He was rounding a corner towards the lifts when he caught the singsong Dublin accent of his teammate and realised that Troy was sat on a long flat couch in the middle of this space, flushed and laughing into the phone screen held on his lap. Pausing nearby, the centre-back was about to swagger on to the lift and make his quiet exit upstairs to sleep off the booze, but then he realised he recognised the voice buzzing out of the mobile phone, and he paused too long -- long enough for Troy to notice, glance up, and suddenly be beckoning him over.
Who's that then?' slurred the familiar voice on the dancing pixels of the screen as Egan leant in next to Parrott, resting one hand on his shoulder, feeling his body heat through the thin glossy fabric of his floral shirt. On the phone screen, the newly retired Irish talisman was beaming at them both, a drink in his hand and a vaguely sunset background showing about his head and shoulders. John-boy!' whooped the voice of Shane Long, and he felt a tipsy jolt of puzzlement that the seasoned striker and national hero was on a call with this newcomer.
`Oh, hullo,' John muttered confusedly.
Heck, I wish I was there,' trilled Long, the 34-year-old twinkling his eyes and smile at them through the camera-phone from somewhere on the south coast of England. John, fella, give this young cunt a hug from me, he was magic out there tonight, hey?!'
Sure, sure,' Egan agreed with more uncertain laughs, feeling more flustered and drunk than he'd realised as he sloped away from the bar. He squeezed and patted at Parrott's shoulder and squinted blearily at Long on the screen. You been giving him some words of wisdom, old timer? Heh...'
Well,' chimed Shane distantly, I was telling him he ought to be out on the town celebrating properly, not skulking about a hotel on his own taking calls from dirty old men like me...'
John laughed at this, but with a vague sense that he was missing the joke. We Irishmen know how to party,' was his bland answer, sliding down into a seated position next to the teen, muscling in to smile confidently at his former national teammate on the screen. It's been a great night here, plenty of craic. Eh, Troy?' He threw one thick arm about those broad shoulders, shaking the youngster while he laughed agreeably with Shane over the call. `Sure, sure,' Troy was agreeing readily, but the Southampton-Bournemouth striker was sniggering and shaking his head.
We all know you're a bore, Egan,' chided the striker who had been left out of this trip. I wouldn't trust you to show Trojan here a good time like he deserves after those feckin' goals...!'
John tutted vaguely at this, blinking in a fluster, loosening the hold of his arm about Troy's shoulders. `Whatever you say, grandpa...'
`It's been a laugh,' the 19-year-old was telling his hero in a vague, uncertain voice.
John here is pure vanilla,' heckled Shane dismissively. Everyone says so, ask any fella on that team. Captain cardboard, our Sheffield boy here, ha ha. You should have seen his face the first time we took him to a strip club! Oof... hah, oh, wait-Suddenly his handsome intense eyes were fixed on something off-screen and there was more blurred pixilation on the screen, and then he was back with them, briefly:Right, better dash, the wife needs me, you know what I mean, ha ha... night lads, night...' And with a bleep, the call was over, the phone still clutched in Troy's hand, and the young guy letting out a series of wheezy laughs as he gently pulled his body away from the heat of John's own.
Egan laughed hesitantly and remained in stiff posture, inexplicably perturbed by Long's throwaway comments. Vanilla,' he echoed sneeringly. Bit harsh.'
Parrott was getting up, his tinkling laugh sounding out and his face still a little red from sun and drink. Pay him no mind,' he muttered quietly, thumbing at his phone before sliding it into the pockets of his tight denim shorts. You know what he's like.' He seemed suddenly self-conscious. He was just checking in, y'know, saying his bit. He thinks he's a bit of a mentor to me, y'see.' Troy's fleeting discomfort and shyness was lost on John, who was muttering the word vanilla' again to himself.
What does he know?' he demanded, slapping his hands against his thighs. I'm not so boring, or whatever. What does Shane Long fucking know?' He stopped himself, hearing the silly anger in his drunken voice, but he just carried on in a lower growl. `He's just bitter to be stuck in England while we're out here making our country proud, huh?'
`Sure,' Troy said very vaguely, not quite paying attention to him.
John stood up and faced him. `You don't think I'm boring, do you?' he demanded.
`What? Hey? Er -- no, god no, course not fella. Why?'
He just huffed and shook himself. If sober, he'd never really have been able to explain why the idea of being called boring' or vanilla' by an admired teammate would piss him off so much, it was a jokey label he'd heard plenty in his professional years. `If only he fucking knew,' he mumbled mutinously to himself, then stared back down the passage that would take him back to the bar and a final bevvy before bedtime. But he held himself still with indecision, pawing at the buttons of his striped shirt.
`You having another?' he barked moodily at the teenager.
Hmm?' The Dublin lad stifled a yawn. Dunno, I'm pretty wiped out.'
Come on,' John encouraged him with sudden force. I owe you a couple of drinks for a couple of goals.' He nodded down the hallway from which he'd emerged, feeling hot and bothered and a little unsure what to do with the sudden burst of energy. `It's not every day you score your first and second goal for your fuckin' country, champ.'
Troy grinned at this but shrugged, rubbing a fist across his mouth as another yawn threatened to escape. I'm so fucking shattered,' he murmured bashfully. But cheers mate, I really appreciate y-`
Well, a nightcap upstairs then,' John said, cutting him off impatiently. The mini-bars looked like the best thing about this weird hotel. Yeh?' He was already jabbing thick fingers at the control panel for the elevator, and giving Troy an almost aggressive look of insistence -- the younger sportsman was laughing lightly and shrugging as he nodded his head in begrudging agreement. See, John thought, I can be fun, and I can keep the party going -- that bell-end wouldn't know, too lost up his own arse, that's his problem...!
No harm in a last drink, Troy thought, and he said as much, tottering through the indentikit hotel suite of the other Irishman, still stamping out his own sleepy yawns and just trying to be pleased by the continued attention and support of these more experienced guys. He watched as John mixed a miniature of vodka into a mug with half a can of diet pepsi, then used the other half to mix some whiskey for himself. Troy took the mug with a chuckle and clinked it gladly against John's cup, then moved vaguely over to the windows to see whether you could look down into the outdoor bar area from here and see how many of their teammates were still enjoying the night.
`We should be out in the city,' he heard the centre-back grumble next to him.
Troy just smiled vaguely at this. Try turning 18 just before a global pandemic,' he pointed out. I can't wait for shit to be properly open, y'know. And to be back living in London,' he added with a wistful sigh, wondering if two goals tonight were enough to grab the attention of the manager-less regime at Tottenham Hotspur. He shouldn't be worrying about that tonight, he reminded himself, trying just to feel like Ireland's golden boy instead.
You should come up to Sheffield instead,' John said -- he sounded really pissed now, slurring his words a bit and leaning heavily forward on the windowsill as he spoke. Great nights out there, seriously. Way better than London!'
Right,' he said uncertainly, sipping the sickly strong mix of drink from his mug, then flopping into a nearby seat and bringing his slider-clad feet up to rest on the edge of the bed. Maybe. Cheers anyway, big man.' He raised the mug again as John sat heavily opposite him and idly patted at one of his furry shins, bruised and grazed from training. Troy found himself staring momentarily at the stray hand, and then thinking of another intrusive issue -- how nice it had been to have Shane video-call him like that and give him so much continued attention. A bit nicer than it should be, he supposed.
`We could be out in a club,' Egan muttered now, waving a large hand towards the windows.
`Yeah,' he replied quietly, distractedly.
Pull a couple of local birds,' the other guy added, then again with that fierceness, fucking hell, "vanilla", what's he on about? Seriously -- I've had some wild nights before. I'm a fucking Premiership footballer.' He seemed to pause here and Troy wondered if he was questioning his present tense given how the season had gone for Sheff Utd, but then he was motoring on in the same way -- boastful and sleazy in a way that didn't quite suit him, this straight-faced hardworking bloke who had always struck Troy as a dependable and traditional Irish Catholic guy. `Some mad nights with that Sheffield lot,' he added vaguely.
`Oh, yeah?' Troy said, but with limited curiosity -- he was still thinking a little queasily about how much he'd enjoyed hearing from his hero tonight, and worse... how odd it was that he hadn't received any message of interest from Eric Dier, even if the Tottenham man was away holidaying on his boat somewhere.
`Things that'd make a kid like you blush!' boasted Egan forcefully, making Parrott pause and smile thoughtfully at him.
Try me,' he said simply. I've had adventures of my own.' At that, the Sheffield defender seemed to start and shift, rolling his thick shoulders and running a hand through his dark quiff of hair before slurping from his cup of drink.
`I shouldn't say.'
`Ah, feck off! You can't hint like that and not share, John!'
`Oh no?'
`No!'
John stared at him, pink-cheeked and frowning. Well, just -- you know, some three-ways and group stuff, so-
Sweet,' Troy said with vague, laddish admiration. Two birds?'
`Wha'?'
You and two ladies?' he repeated innocently, then catching the awkwardness on John's face. Nahhh... you and another player with a bird? Pfft. Didn't think you had it in ya, mate, hehe, I thought Shane had it pretty right, but maybe not...!' He kicked his feet against the other man's thigh. `Who was it? What happened? Ah go on, give me the gory details...'
John's hand remained on his leg as he shifted uncomfortably, grunting and laughing and downing more of his drink. Stuff happens,' was his elusive response. But I'm not a bore, that's for sure, not after that. Shane and them can just feck off with that shit! You know?' He huffed stupidly and clawed at the neck of his shirt, pulling it a bit more open, baring a bit more of the thin rug developing on his chest. He was obviously getting too hot for his clothing. Troy thought about getting up to open a window, but he just sipped his vodka-and-coke quietly and made an admiring whistle.
Egan the playboy,' he teased. I thought you had a missus.'
John shrugged. It's on and off,' was all he said about that. He seemed to realise his hand was on Troy's leg, and Troy found himself realising that a thumb and finger had been stroking quite soothingly against the dark hairs on his tanned skin. He laughed to break the flash of tension. You ever kissed a lad?' The question was a bolt out of the blue and it made Troy laugh instantly in a high pitch, both amused and paranoid.
`Eh?!'
We were impressing these birds,' mumbled John, sounding as if he was unsure whether he was confessing or showing off. It was just a daft thing to get them to shag us, y'know? Like -- they would play with each other if I snogged Jack. Fucking hell, it was gross! Ha ha ha!'
Right,' Troy returned, bemused. Well -- nah, I haven't, and... I don't bloody intend to. Hah!' Uninvited, he imagined himself being held and kissed by Shane or Eric and it made his skin pimple and hairs stand on end on his half-exposed striker's legs -- yuck, that just didn't sound right, did it? Sure, he'd dabbled, but not in THAT way...
And this other time,' John was saying suddenly in a hot rush of honesty, I had a threesome with Phil feckin' Jagielka and his super hot new girlfriend, right, and well, he and I, we-A tremor of nervous laughter.We were both inside her, y'know, like -- both in her fanny, fucking her at once, and...'
Whoa.' Now Troy WAS impressed, or at least very surprised. Suddenly a little too hot himself, he got up from the seat and moved to open a single window to the night -- instantly, distant sounds of laughter and Irish accents drifted in, the noisy traces of whoever was left downstairs on the terrace, toasting to the Emerald Isle. Troy felt a scrap of breeze on his hot face before turning to give his teammate a questioning glance. That sounds like some crazy porno,' he said.
Burly Egan was up off the bed, his shirt fixed by a single button somewhere around his middle, and that deep awkward pink in his stubbled cheeks. It was good,' he grunted simply aloud. Really naughty and fun, like.'
`Aye,' Parrott agreed quietly, finding himself stood in a narrow space between the other man and the window, both of them tall strong lads but the 28-year-old much thicker-set and sturdier. He became very aware of hot and dark the hotel room was -- why had neither of them flicked on a light or lamp when they got in here? It suddenly felt just a little TOO intimate. And yet...
`You ever done owt like that?' Egan demanded, but his ragged voice was quieter, secretive now.
`Mmm, dunno,' he told him honestly -- was any of the experimentation he'd allowed anywhere close to that? His mind was boggling slightly at the thought of trying to double-fuck a woman like that, not an idea that had really occurred to him before; but he found himself trying to mentally compare it to being sucked off in a sauna by Dier or wanking off as he listened to Long and his wife make love. He even pictured himself that night in the grimy brothel, his cock grasped by enigmatic Charlie Austin -- fuck, had that one even really happened...?
Nah, you're pretty young,' John muttered thickly, bet you're pretty innocent...'
If it was meant as a challenge, it was not one Troy felt a need to rise to. He had no urge to prove himself or to show off his escapades. But he did feel... something. Something stirring. And then also the fear, the caution. Months had passed since his sour encounter with Alan Judge, and the fuss and banter over the other Irishman's accusations had been forgotten within a week -- but Troy was once bitten, now shy. It had been so strange, being eyed up by Judge in the showers, then `outed' as if he was some kind of a pervert! The shame and regret of that day caught in his throat as he stood there, close to the other 6ft1 footballer, watching the odd quiver of John's thick pink lips.
It felt good,' grunted Egan under his breath. Both of us fucking her.'
`I bet.'
`Really stretching her.'
`Right.'
`Making her scream.'
`Um.'
`My cock rubbing his.' The four words spilled out and the red-faced drunk looked almost immediately regretful, his expression dumb and worried, but his stance quite confrontational and... intense. Troy didn't say anything back to this, but... somehow, it was just the thing to clear that fug of fear and shame. Why? What was it? Looking back on this later, he knew that it was some kinda release for his ego -- after all, by saying that, Egan had made the first mood. It wasn't HIS fault that he now reached down and undid the buckle on the front of his denim shorts, or HIS fault that he pushed down on the waistband of his CK briefs -- it wasn't HIS fault that he took a small step closer and took hold of the older man's wrist, and brought it up against his semi-hard piece. Nah, it was John that started it, and so the conflicted 19-year-old could continue to tell himself he was 100% hetero!
Slowly, he drew the two pieces of meat together, feeling the alien warmth and stiffness of the young lad's erection against his palm and now against his own hot sweaty cock -- he took them both in his hand and rubbed very gently. Just as when he'd lay on Phil's bed and eased himself into that three-way, he felt his hard cock rub at another, meat to meat, now closed in his own large paw, rather than the wet entrance of a hungry female lover.
More slowly still, he tilted his head forward with his eyes almost closed, and drooled a mouthful of spit down between them until it was slick against his fingers and the veiny shafts. When he lifted his head again and his eyes opened properly, he found himself locking dark eyes with the youngster, tonight's Irish hero; he was in enough control of his actions to feel surprised by the confidence and certainty on Troy's face at being touched like this, but far too drunk to question why. He just continued to rub his spit-slicked fingers about them both, rubbing and squeezing their cocks together and beginning to appreciate how well-endowed this confident teen was, inches longer than his own comfortably large manhood.
Just like that,' John growled. It felt just like that.'
`Mmm,' came Troy's responsive little moan. Well, that was good to hear.
Yeah,' he muttered. You like that?'
`Mm-hmm.'
He gripped more, pulled more... spat some more, brought a second hand into gear. Holding their equipment together between them, their chests heaving gently through the open buttons of their loose summery shirts, shorts open but clinging to their bodies, legs bare and muscular down below. Slowly, so slowly, John wanked them in unison, spitting some more so that his frothy saliva could lubricate the motion of his clumsy hands, his anxious grip.
Gently, Egan leant in on his heels and toes. He edged his body forward, taking a good tight grip of their cocks together, letting their bodies edge closer... face coming in against face. He parted his pink lips, held his breath, began to approach for it, that strange sensation that hung with him since the night he and O'Connell got adventurous... but there was no kiss. A couple of Troy's fingers barred it, lifted between their almost clashing mouths. The young lad did look nervous then, a flash of worry in his eyes as he shook his head; the disappointment was hard for John to process, in the drunken swirl of thoughts that made him event want to kiss the boy.
`Just this,' Parrott whispered firmly.
Egan nodded -- what else was he going to do? He was in it now. It was happening. Fuck. He leaned gloomily forward and stared down between them. He was no longer pulling their cocks together, but just running his spit-wet fist up and down the long impressive snake that emerged from the flies of Troy's denim shorts. It felt huge and powerful and he couldn't let go of it. His other hand reached for his own, stroking them both but not together in a meaty fistful. He remembered to breathe, but his exhalation was an anguished gulp of premature regret.
Troy brought his arms up, not exactly hugging the other big strong man, but resting his palms on each thick shoulders and angling his face away to the side in case there was another quiet attempt at a kiss. He leant there, eyes closed and breathing heavy, and felt his cock jerked furiously, spit squelching a little against his veiny shaft. John's breathing was even more ragged and furious than his own as the strong, rugby-built centre-back wanked him off in a hurry.
It felt good, it felt so fucking good. Ugh. He hadn't wanted anything like this to happen on the Ireland trip. Really, he'd been burned by his odd little run-in with Judge and in fact he'd been briefly terrified that Alan might get an Ireland call-up himself and it would be the both of them out here on this trip -- he'd literally had nightmares about that happening. The Judge incident in the Ipswich showers had made him swear that he'd never let a curious fella touch him in that way again. Yes, he'd continued to enjoy the affectionate messages from comfortable Dier and from strangely whimsical Long, but... he'd not really wanted anything more than that from it! (Right?)
But here he was, comfortably pissed and leaning into the strong frame of the 28-year-old, being ambiguously pleasured by yet another older footballer whose interest in him had crept out of nowhere. And all he could focus on was how good it felt, how tightly his balls were tingling, how close he was to emptying them -- and it was brilliant, wasn't it, to be so hot and young and wanted! He could almost convince himself this was the natural and fitting reward for scoring those two goals!
Fuck yes,' he growled in exactly the same proud snarl as when he'd scored his international debut, as he fired his messy load against the fabric of John's shirt and shorts, spilling milky white drool against the stripes and on that khaki. Ffffuck yesss,' Troy Parrott moaned, gripping Egan's shoulders hard and steadying himself as more of his gooey cream plopped from his dick and splashed a little against their shins and knees. `Mmmm...'
He stood still and closed his eyes for a moment, relishing the afterglow of his own orgasm. But then he felt the strong scaffold of John's body go and he wobbled on his feet before finding his balance. He reached down to control his swinging boner and then began stuffing it awkwardly inside his briefs, watching as John backed away, eyes glazed. The Sheffield player's cock still stood solid from the flies of his shorts, but went untouched. He looked pretty much terrorised.
Mate,' Troy wheezed. Thanks for that...'
`Get the fuck out,' Egan ordered simply, quietly.
`Er, mate...'
`Get on, ye heard me. Feck off. Get out.' He was hiding his eyes behind one lifted arm, rubbing it against his clammy red face -- Troy could see a little of his seed drizzled on the hand and wrist there, but it didn't seem a good idea to point it out. He stepped aside, suddenly uncomfortable himself, still trying to angle his hard-on comfortably and discreetly inside the tight denims. Beside him, the older bloke was ignoring his own erection but disappearing for the bathroom, and Troy paused only to find and finish his cup of vodka mix before a speedy exit into the corridor, not waiting around to be bullied or blamed again like what had happened in Ipswich. No, the teen made a dash through the hotel for his own room, his hard-on wilting as he went, and sweat dribbling down his face and under his clothes. He was drunk and confused and surprised...but mainly, he was satisfied and... proud.
In the small boxy bathroom of the hotel suite, aware now that Duffy should be on his way back to the room and that lurid scene could have been so easily discovered, John Egan stared into the small rectangular mirror and watched his glossy pink face. He watched himself dispassionately while wanking himself furiously with one hand, finishing what he'd insanely begun.
He really was so fucking horny, even if he'd been unable to look the lad in the eye after hearing him groan his victory, after feeling his hot wetness against his clothes and skin. In fact, it was still there, he realised, cooling on his wrist and against his thumb, where his left hand hung limply at his side.
The blazing Irishman stared himself down in the hotel mirror, his right hand pumping mechanically at his thick tool, and slowly he brought his left arm and hand upwards. Slowly but surely. Until he was reaching it in against his face. He remembered kissing that girl after he and O'Connell were finished, and he remembered tasting his brutish teammate on her mouth; now he pushed his hand and wrist against his parted mouth, feeling the cool saltiness of Troy Parrott's spunk there, not quite licking it, just letting it rub against his sweaty stubbled mouth... and moments later, dumping his own thick mess inside the sink, dripping with sweat and overcome with shame.
SORRY TO KEEP YOU WAITING - I HOPE THIS LITTLE IRELAND TEASER WILL BE JUST THE START OF MANY INTERNATIONALS STORIES OVER THE NEXT FEW WEEKS.
'Writer guy' - Premiership Lads on Nifty https://www.nifty.org/nifty/gay/celebrity/premiership-lads/
Amazon Wishlist here if you wanna say thanks LOL
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