Part 264: Rashers
Not far ahead, the higher reaches of the grand hotel were visible erupting from a skyline of trees. It was a bright hot morning in Surrey and soon the taxi would pull up within the big complex of St George's Park, England's training base for all domestic work but their longer-term HQ for the unconventionally hosted Euro tournament that would kick off at the end of the week.
The 23-year-old football hero sat quite comfortably in the back of the cab, enjoying a lull in the sporadic chat he had been making with the driver since being collected from Euston, and just preparing himself for the chatty rituals of arrival and check-in at the training complex and hotel to be one of Southgate's men.
Few were arriving at the tournament with as much media attention as Marcus Rashford brought these days, largely for his philanthropic efforts in the past year, but he had recently been named high on a list of the most expensive players in the global sport. It was a lot of background noise and fuss for the humble Mancunian to digest, even now, and he grinned nervously to himself, knowing he would simply need to work hard and focus purely on his game for the rest of this month. Rashford was excited to lose himself in the team and the campaign, as proud as he was of his achievements away from football and the things his profile had allowed him to do.
The taxi turned off the main road and onto the narrower tree-lined avenue that would sweep in through gates and onto the England campus. The driver was humming to himself but stopped when the chatter on the loud radio switched to sport and, inevitably, football -- a BBC presenter was chirping on about England's chances in the competition with the usual optimistic hype, discussing their recent friendlies and the finer points of Gareth Southgate's selection. Namely, the last-minute inclusion of Ben White to replace poor Trent Alexander-Arnold, at the expense of more obvious alternatives...
And there was that harsh Warrington accent, cutting into the morning heat of Rashford's journey, as the interview clip sounded out on the radio. Yeah,' said the voice of Jesse Lingard in his upbeat trill, it's just like I tweeted, innit -- I'll support the boys and never stop smiling, eh. I'm not sulking the summer out! Just happy for my brothers and want them to bring football home, just like everybody else!' And then the snippet cut out and it was just back to the host's voice, praising Lingard's positive attitude and heaping more expectation on those who had made the cut in the final squad call.
Ah, what a fella,' chimed the driver appreciatively. Hey, you and him are like best mates, right?'
Sat stiffly in the back of the hired car, Marcus made no immediate reply, just staring blankly out of the window at the rapid flurry of green, the trees breaking away to the broad open hotel grounds and the expanse of training pitches that lay to the other side. He realised the taxi driver was staring expectantly at him via the rear-view mirror, and the young forward shook himself. Er, yeh,' he said slowly and quietly, we are close.' He left it there, pursing his lips as if to say more, but stopping himself, unable to shake the frown that marred his handsome features.
The driver made a vague, perplexed hmmph' and concentrated on navigating the one-way system in towards the main training complex, where a few other cars already seemed to be parking up and tracksuited figures could be seen dragging suitcases across the entrance terrace to meet smiling staff at the sliding doors. Marcus tensed, trying to regain the calm confidence with which he wanted to really begin things at Euro 2020'.
Close, he thought, turning that ambiguous word over in his head, and fretting over his once-great friendship with Jesse Lingard -- thinking of how explosively it had broken, just before Jesse's departure south for the West Ham loan. Thinking about the discomfiting realisations of that night, and the guilt and anger that had followed... But also thinking about last week, and the brief reunion the England line-up had given them...
Rashford had been one of the later arrivals on Teesside for the brief warm-up camp there; like some other big names, his team's European finale had delayed his joining the Three Lions. Unlike certain Chelsea players, mind, he was not arriving in the glow of European victory -- the Europa League final had been a sore loss for his United, just as the Champions League had been for City. Consequently, there was a muted shyness about the players of both Manchester teams as they arrived at the borrowed Middlesbrough training ground that weekend to prepare for friendly no.2, Sunday evening against Romania.
On the Friday evening, during a chilled-out non-alcoholic social for the extended squad in the bar of the small hotel, the first little reunion of sorts came between them. He had known Lingard would be here this weekend, despite not making the cut for the main tournament squad and had been mentally preparing for awkwardness for quite some time. Really, he needn't have worried.
`Wotcha, Rashers!' the 28-year-old winger called casually, approaching he and a couple of others at the corner of the bar -- a fist-bump and tap of the arm was the only physicality that occurred between the long-time Manchester pals, and then Jesse's attention switched lightly to the other two blokes with them, their good mates Dean Henderson and Kieran Trippier.
And really, that was it -- not that the two United men ignored each other from then on, but there was no awkwardness, no coldness, no suggestive looks or knowing remarks. It was a great relief to young Marcus, who let himself relax and smile, and stopped watching his own every move so carefully -- as the Friday night progressed, it became obvious that there would be no confrontation with the loan player, no big re-hash of the conflict they had parted on. Instead, Jesse drifted in and out of his evening, briefly part of that group conversation and then several others -- Lingard was his usual self, a loud joker and everybody's mate. No, not his usual self, Marcus thought, his OLD self -- the time at West Ham and the success it had given him had restored a lot of the joy and spirit to his old friend, who had become weary and cynical in recent years, worn down by criticism and issues in his own family life.
At some point towards the end of the group social, the 23-year-old reminded himself that Lingard wasn't even the person he felt most awkward around in the room!
He had been so meticulously careful in NOT treating left-back Luke any differently. He had applied his usual mental discipline to NOT viewing the young dad in a different light, NOT judging his apparent bisexuality, NOT letting an awareness of what had gone on between them affect the way he trained and played with Shaw... But for all his wholesome friendship and good intentions, it wasn't easy for the young Manc lad to be close to his left-back teammate without a creeping pang of embarrassment coming along; to think that blue-eyed smiler had actually seen him so excited and exposed, had actually got down on his sturdy knees and- fucking hell!
Looking back on that secretive encounter in the Manchester United training park, Rashford felt a bewildering mix of things. There had been the odd relief of concluding that he wasn't a rampant homophobe, guilty at the way he'd reacted to Lingard's advances. There had obviously been the other relief too, the one he didn't want to think about, his balls emptied, and his needs sated. Mostly there had been a dizzying shock at that side of Shaw, as if it didn't take two to tango and he wasn't equally culpable for the blowjob that had taken place between them. For a while there had been a regret, but one that had now just faded to this prickling embarrassment -- it wasn't so much that Marcus was still horrified at having let a guy do that to him, but that he found it mortifying for a player he valued and respected so much to have been with him in such a moment of intimacy!
As a result, all these weeks later, it was actually the wide-grinned southern fella that Rashford subtly avoided during that first evening back with the Lions, keeping a safe but subtle distance between himself and the burly defender. He didn't really expect affable Luke to bring up or make a big deal of that secret moment, but he knew he would blush and stammer if he was stuck with the bigger lad, unable to get over the strangeness of it. Compared to that, he found that Jesse Lingard had slid back into his company without any problem -- presumably he was forgiven for his angry response, and whatever madness had made Jesse approach him inappropriately, well it was all in the past!
That's what he thought that first night, unwinding with the other England players in the hotel bar over a few soft drinks, and playing video games with a handful of them before bedtime; hitting the sheets in the room he was sharing with Dean for a long healthy night of easy sleep.
The Saturday went on much the same -- some really great productive training work for the extended squad, and Marcus was deeply satisfied with his own contributions and form. By the end of that day, his attention was rescued from any peculiar distraction by a fresh honour: he was to captain the lads for the Romania friendly on the Sunday evening, as much a recognition of his character and campaigning as his footballing prowess. He hugged his manager tightly at the news and spent the Saturday evening grinning like a kid on a sugar high.
Another good night's sleep. There was a confidence in the air on this preliminary England camp, and Rashford was really becoming excited for the Euros. Like every other man in Southgate's selection, he was starting to believe that it could be a really career-defining summer.
They had the morning off to gather their strength for tonight, but he still rose fairly early and quit his room to get some air and exercise, leaving the small hotel in skimpy running shorts and a sleeveless Nike top. Out into the June sun and the slick modern training facilities of the borrowed Middlesbrough complex, where the speedy forward did a few casual laps of the running track just to get himself psyched up for the day. He cut it off after four laps, not wishing to tire himself out or risk any unwanted cramps later on as the Romania game approached.
The 5'11 footballer stretched carefully, yanking one and then the other strong brown leg up behind him until his heels pressed against the firm muscle of his buttock. He twirled on the spot, rolling and shaking his bare glossy arms, then started to find that he was not as entirely alone at the running track as he'd expected -- another player was seated casually on a bench to the side, perhaps been for most of his jog, and was now waving a single hand across at him and then gesturing to a little breakfast offering on the bench next to him.
`Mornin',' Marcus grunted through heavy breaths, approaching Jesse on the bench and eyeing the thoughtful gesture -- next to his own abandoned water bottle, the other United player had fetched some fresh fruit and protein snacks from the hotel canteen, and was chomping on a slice of toast himself.
Saw you from my room window, didn't I?' Jesse said quietly, looking at him with his head at an angle, relaxing there in a loose hoody and a pair of white England shorts. Thought to myself... there's a guy that needs some fuel.'
Marcus paused, looking from the food to his estranged friend, then, `Thanks, mate. Thanks for that.' He sat down primly on the other end of the bench. He glugged some water and bit into an apple.
`You're welcome... cap'n.'
`Heh. Cheers.'
`About time, really.'
`I'm only 23...!'
'23 going on 40,' teased Jesse, an old joke of theirs since the unusually mature Marcus had made his teenaged debut at Old Trafford. The five year gap had always seemed irrelevant to the friends, with Rashford usually the sensible one and the older player always acting the clown. `But seriously, Rashers... fucking great to have you get that armband on and walk out there as captain later. Good call by the boss. Better than some of his choices.' He grinned a bit as he said this, though Marcus could see the ghost of disappointment, and he sighed sympathetically.
I'm sorry he didn't pick you, buddy,' he said sincerely. It's tough competition this year, huh?'
Lingard seemed about to comment on the snub but then just shrugged and began peeling an orange. The lads ate and drank quietly and Rashford was passed individual juicy segments of the peeled orange so that they could share it, his sweat and heat from the runs easing off as they sat there in the morning sun. The quiet was fairly comfortable, but it still gaped with things unsaid -- he wanted to make some earnest apology for the way they had parted at the start of this year, but found himself mute and awkward, and Jesse uncharacteristically silent.
`Jesse...'
`Don't, pal,' the other guy said, cutting off his hesitant murmur.
Marcus eyed him worriedly. `I was a dick,' he said in a whisper.
Jesse looked back at him briefly, then busied himself with scrunching up orange peel into his fist and then throwing it artfully into the nearest bin. He clapped his hands together dismissively. Let's not go there, matey,' he said with unusual seriousness. It's just good to see you again after the rest of the season. Let's just be good with that, eh?'
`I shouldn't have spoken to you like that.'
`I said let's not talk about this, mate...'
You were just being yourself, and I was... I was confused and surprised, buddy, so I-
`Rash, can we just...'
No!' he insisted, surprised his own heaviness, and he grabbed at Lingard's arm. You've been the best fucking mate to me all through my time at Manchester, Lingz, and I called you some really shitty things that night before you went. I'm so fucking sorry, okay? You just took me by surprise!'
Lingard wriggled free and got up, dusting off his hoody and not meeting his eyes. I was tipsy. I was being a twit. I was nervous about the loan move. Forget it...' Then suddenly he WAS meeting his eyes and looking this way with a more playful expression. I don't think you really wanna dig it all up, do you? Too much of a goody-goody, matey. I forgot myself for a minute that time, thought maybe I could just...'
Marcus shot to his feet, flaring with a little of that old panic. It's cool, it's just a thing,' he mumbled vaguely. He wiped his clammy palms down the front of his sleeveless top, his growing arm muscles bulging a little as he did. I just never realised you thought about me like that, or -- erm, well any guy, for that matter...! Erm...'
Jesse made a little scoffing noise. `What, don't you think a lot of people look at you in that way?'
With a roll of the eyes, he picked up his drained water bottle and bunched his shoulders together, readying to start walking back towards the hotel. `You were right -- let's not go there, buddy, I just wanted to tell you how sorry I was for...' But the other footballer was side-stepping and blocking his path, shorter and more wiry than he and now grinning quite broadly.
`You don't know how hot you are, do ya? What, is it just cos you've got that big conk?'
`Oh, fuck off...'
`I know most people think you're the patron saint of school lunches, but... I know what a horny bastard you are, ha ha. You forget I've seen you in action, Rashers.'
`What? What has that got to do with anything? Look, J, thanks for bringing me some food out, it was sweet of you, and it's cool to catch up, but...'
Sorry, sorry,' Lingard said now, rushing a little, still blocking his path, the two of them stood very close on the side of the empty running track, only a few light noises drifting through the sunshine from the main hotel. I'm not here trying to make you uncomfortable, mate. Captain. I'm sorry.'
No, I'm sorry,' Rashford told him but with a confused slur, losing track of the conversation -- he wasn't happy that his meaningful apology was getting lost amongst this banter and teasing, and he also just felt very hot and in need of a shower. He frowned at Lingard's ambivalent expression and huffed a big sigh from his flared nostrils. Can we just be cool about this, mate? I miss you.' He stared pleadingly at his friend and knew that the forgiveness was there for him, but still... there was a new tension here that just could not be shaken. He grimaced. `What?'
`Nowt.' Jesse grinned and leered as if to laugh at the whole silly conflict between them, two local lads who'd been through thick and thin over the Premier League seasons. When he sighed, Marcus could feel the breath cool against the damp sweat of his own long brown neck. They were standing very close and he felt so aware of his own bare muscles in his arms and legs. Lingard's eyes seem to flick around to appreciate and ogle them. Had his mate always looked at him like this?
And then the tension seemed to pass, partly interrupted by some raised voices from the direction of the hotel. Lingard backed away with a mischievous laugh to himself and then was walking quite casually up the curving path toward the hotel; Rashford followed, clutching his water bottle tightly and staring at his feet as he took the slow walk. At the big glassy reception of the hotel, some of their teammates were visible passing by, drifting through into the refectory for scheduled breakfast -- big Maguire, their own club captain, and stocky Shaw at his side, followed by a couple of goalkeepers and then Southgate himself. Low voices and subdued laughter sounded after them and through from the canteen where, presumably, much of the squad were already seated.
In the centre of this foyer, Rashford stopped, debating whether he should follow those figures on through the arch and go sit at breakfast awhile, his appetite built up by the laps, and the prospect of fresh coffee sniffable in the air. Or should he disappear back to his and Henderson's room and take a shower first? He probably stunk from his morning laps.
Lingard had stopped too, holding open a door, and looking back this way. He looked to him and caught his smirking expression again, silent but loaded. Suddenly, the much-loved young footballer was dropping both sensible options, coffee or shower, and taking long strides across the patterned carpet towards that doorway, which led to numerous suites but not his own. As he neared the doorway, Lingard just winked and held the door open a bit wider. In a low voice, he confirmed what was to happen. `Come on, my room will be empty. I just want to serve my captain, okay?'
As soon as the door of the ground floor hotel suite was pulled firmly shut, it started -- Jesse grabbing at the front of his minimal shorts and feeling their contents with appreciative little sighs as if he couldn't believe his luck. Marcus kept his eyes half-shut, his hands in the air because he didn't quite want to put them on his friend, just making a vague grunt of consent and taking further steps into the room, which was cluttered with Lingard's belongings and those of his roommate, Kalvin Phillips.
The fact that the room's other occupant was probably just at breakfast and could come back at any moment gave a mad urgency to it all, so that all of Rashford's turmoil and uncertainty was pushed right to the back of his mind. Instead of hovering about and wondering what he was doing, he began to push forward with his hips, grinding his sweaty crotch into Lingz's wandering hand, then wrapping his strong bare arms about his shoulders and pushing his face in against his own hard chest. Lingard moaned and snuffled into the fabric of his vest while feeling him up, rubbing the waking cock that was held in a little mesh prison inside the shorts.
The hand was soon inside those shorts, and Marcus felt his cock rubbed and his balls tickled and cupped -- the attention felt good, and he was not going to stop and dwell on that. Instead, he just began pushing down on his mate's shoulders, remembering what it had been like having Shaw kneel for him. As well as pushing down, he muscled them forwards, across the room, until he could jut out his strong arms and splay his palms to the wall. Jesse dipped down in the gap between he and the wall, nuzzling his tummy through the vest then peeling it upwards and kissing the hard muscles at the bottom of his six-pack. Marcus heard his voice as if from a distance: `Stop that, just suck my cock, slut.'
He felt Lingard's eager fingers slide inside the waistband of his shorts and drag them down without loosening the drawstring, peeling over his hips and arse, letting his cock out of the sweaty mesh, breathing on it... oh fuck, Rashford suddenly felt so desperate to be played with, he pulled one hand from the wall and clasped it around the back of Lingard's head, dragging his mate's face in against his crotch and rubbing it there quite forcefully. As he did, the mouth opened and he felt strong lips graze his dick, a curling tongue play with his foreskin. The United star grunted and squeezed his eyes shut. `That's it, you fucking slut, suck my big dick.'
When Jesse opened his mouth for it, Marcus didn't just passively stand there. He kept one hand to the wall and the other clamped about his mate's head, and worked his strong hips. He shoved his stiffening brown prick in and out of that wet mouth, thrusting his head against tongue and roof of mouth, making his pal splutter and gasp. Jesse's hands were clamped to his thigh muscles, rubbing at them to steady himself, and Marcus just kept going, pushing his cock deeper and deeper into his friend's throat, not caring about the way his sweat-soaked balls slapped his chin or his short wiry pubes tickled his sniffing nose.
Yeah,' Rashford growled like a beast, not the polite young man he'd been minutes ago. Yeah, suck your captain dry, you fucking slag.' He dropped his other hand so he was holding both sides of Lingard's head and proceeded to fuck his mouth like the wettest slag he'd ever had, ploughing his long slender erection into that hungry gob, hitting the back of his throat. God, it felt so fucking good! His cock throbbed and his balls tingled.
Then, opening his eyes now to enjoy his dominance more, he pulled back a bit and held his dick at the base. Fingers digging into the afro frizz of his pal's friend, he jerked Jesse's head back and slapped his wet hard-on against his cheeks and nose, growling down at him -- You love that, don't you? Dirty fucking cunt, lick my balls!' He pushed forward, wanking himself, and forced Jesse's willing face in between his thighs so that the questing tongue could work his bollocks rather than his dick. Mmm. Good fucking slut. Lick `em good!' He could hear himself speaking, but as always he was shocked by the brutality of his desire -- this wasn't new for him, he could be just as dominant and rough with girls once he got going, though he would get embarrassed afterwards if he'd said anything too bold.
Yes, captain, yesss,' whined Lingard when his mouth was given a break. He stroked Rashford on the thighs and gurgled with pleasure. Fuck my mouth again, you proper stud. Mmm.' So he did. Gasping and muttering swear words, he ploughed his cock into that willing and fairly talented mouth, shoving it deep into his throat and building up some rhythm.
The rhythm was broken by vague noise. Marcus was so lust-drunk that he was confused to hear light thuds and muffled voices. Luckily, the slut on his knees was more alert and in control. Jesse struggled free of one of his hands and moved off his knees, gasping. `Into the loo,' he hissed, backing towards that doorway and dragging Rashford by his cock. He looked over his shoulder just in time to see a slight jerk of movement in the door handle, but they were safely inside the en suite before it could open and the Leeds player was back from breakfast.
Phillips' Yorkshire accent sounded out on the other side of the door: `Hey Lingz, you in the shower, mate?'
Breathless, `Yeahhh, just about to -- might be a while in here, mate!' As he shouted this to his roomie, he was already crouching forward, leaning one side of his body into the locked bathroom door, and both of his hands sliding about Rashford's cock and balls. Marcus stood there in stunned silence, not able to fully process the danger of their position -- they were trapped in here now, totally reliant on Kalvin leaving the hotel room for him to safely get out. This was mad, he thought, this shouldn't be happening. But somehow the terror did nothing to quench his erection, which raged hard from his middle, and was now already being licked and kissed again.
In here, Rashford's brutishness subsided, because he could hardly risk grunting dirty insults and demands, and he was too scared of causing a noise if he grabbed as roughly at his submissive friend like before. Instead, he just leant into the door and wall and let Lingard do his best. And Lingard's best was pretty fucking good. After a few minutes, the United forward had to shove a fist in his mouth to shut himself up and prevent the welling moans of passion. As he neared climax, he had to listen to Kalvin through the wall: `Can I not get in there for a piss before you shower, Lingz? Eh? Mate?!' Louder, closer. On his knees, Jesse showed no signs of pausing to respond.
The door-handle right beside them rattled with Phillips' impatience. `Jesse, you bell-end, can I just have a whizz? I promise not to look at your pencil dick while you trim you pubes or whatever! Mate!'
Finally, almost at the exact time as Marcus began to feel his body melt, there was a light punch against the thin door and Kalvin could be heard backing frustratedly away. The outer door of the hotel suite slammed a little and the Leeds bloke was clearly gone, off in search of an available loo. Rashford finally released his groan of satisfaction. `Oh god,' he howled, and reached his right hand down to squeeze at his balls. He stared down and watched as the slick mess of his seed leaked between Jesse's lips and creamed down his own shaft. Jesse's wide bulging eyes stared up to meet his while he continued to suck.
Fuck,' grumbled Rashford uncertainly, feeling his whole 5ft11 frame go limp and his head become dizzy. He stood quite passively and watched his mate's lips slide off his cock, cleaning spunk from around the curl of his foreskin and the bulging dark tip. Jesse remained on his knees, gasping, his lips sticky, his eyes watering slightly. He was reaching down and playing with himself in his own shorts. There were little greyish flecks of cum down the front of his hoody. Fuck,' Marcus repeated weakly.
Just... stay a minute?' His friend's voice was pleading. Let me finish.'
`But Kal?'
Please,' urged Lingz, and it was hard to be as dismissive and blunt as Rashford wanted to -- every instinct was telling him to wrench the door open and rush out and away before they became trapped again. Even without the problem of Phillips hanging around, he felt a bit disgusted with his own lust and the way he'd just face-fucked this guy. But... well, Lingz was such a good mate, wasn't he? And he'd just done his part, so... Just stand over me,' Jesse was begging, pulling his dick out of his shorts and jerking it furiously.
Okay,' Rashford mumble hoarsely, okay, okay...' He wasn't sure what he was supposed to do, but he rapidly realised his presence was enough. He stood there, sweat trickling down his inner thighs, his cock shiny and hard, and Lingard just kneeled at his feet, wanking himself off and staring up with wide eyes. In a moment of inspiration, a bit of the dom came back: `Yeah, wank your little dick, you slut. Here, lick my balls while you do.' And he grabbed his mate's head and pulled it in to make him lick his bollocks some more, enjoying the soft licks even though he was satisfied now. He grimaced and let his neck roll, ashamed of how much he was enjoying this.
`Let me sniff your pit,' whinged Jesse suddenly.
`What?'
`Please.' Up he came, using a towel rail as well as Rashford's muscular torso to steady himself and shoot upright. Dumbly, Marcus lifted and flexed one arm and Jesse dived in, pushing his nose beneath the arm and breathing in his musty odour of bed and exercise and stale perfume. Marcus, remembering the threat of discovery, hugged his mate tight to him and felt the shake and jolt of his body as he wanked to completion. He felt something warm and wet dirty his thigh and he winced some more, then began pushing him away. The smell of both of their cum filled the air.
Kalvin,' he hissed as a reminder, and he backed quickly off, dragging up his shorts and refusing to look properly at the stain of his friend's cum that shone among his own sweat on his thigh tattoo. Now he did what he should have before, wrenching the door and disappearing through it, launching himself across the cluttered room. He heard a gaspy voice from behind as Jesse left the bathroom too. He heard the thanks mate', but he was already tearing out into the corridor and marching along it, desperate for that shower.
For the rest of the day, Rashford had done his best to just focus. For a few hours, it was tough to erase the image of himself and Lingard, and it threatened to spoil the match-day completely. But by the time they were setting off for the Riverside Stadium and he was making edgy eye contact with the other United player in the queue for the coach, the shame was becoming something different: looking at an unusually quiet and humble Jesse Lingard and seeing the adoration on his face, it just swelled his ego and made him even more sure that he deserved this first shot at being England captain.
It was not an exciting friendly match, but when he stepped up to take his winning penalty, he sought out Lingard's eyes across the field, and again felt that same swell of confidence and power. After the goal had gone in and the celebrations were over, some of the shame and uncertainty returned, and when Jesse hugged him at 90 minutes, he felt a little nauseous at himself.
And now, only a couple of days later, he had to sit and listen to Jesse's supportive claims on the radio, and feel the strange rush of emotions about his pal's absence: relief, at some distance and safety from the madness he'd given in to; sympathy, knowing how much it would have meant for Lingz to appear in this tournament after his wilderness years; yearning, his cock and balls stirring in his England trackies, remembering how good it had felt to fuck that face.
Here we are,' interrupted the voice of the driver. Aye, cool,' Rashford told him, shaking himself again and trying to stop thinking about that seedy reunion on Teesside; nothing more had happened on the Sunday night, and their goodbye had been subdued, but there was no mistaking the desire in Jesse's eyes as they parted in a Middlesbrough car park along with everybody else.
Outside of the cab, the smile came on light a lightbulb, and Rashford gratefully took his luggage over from the driver at the boot of the car. An FA employee who worked with them here was already on his way over, a big smile of greeting on his face. Rashford could already feel the tournament bubble closing about him, and a distance from the dirty deeds in that hotel suite, where he'd become so carried away with himself and Lingard's apparent fixation on him. Surely what they'd done hadn't ruined that long friendship, had it? Nah, he thought, they just needed some time to calm and let it pass -- and if Lingz was back in Old Trafford for the new season, then they'd just be close buddies again like old times, no worries! It had just been an explosion of madness between them, it didn't need to mean anything more than that.
He allowed himself to be greeted and led inside, waving and smiling at John Stones and Jordan Henderson as he did, then catching sight of a mystery blond in the next arriving cab -- who the hell was that with the ridiculous platinum blond dye job? Marcus was ushered indoors and shown to the check-in table, ready to be handed a load of new kit and inducted into the tournament squad. Inside, a couple of the others were still hanging about, chatting to the management team -- he spotted the skipper himself, Harry Kane, laughing and joking with one of their chief physios, and then nearby, the less comfortable and familiar presence of young Ben White, the 23-year-old Brighton centre-back who had only made his debut in those recent friendlies.
White glanced this way and smiled in nervous welcome, and just for a moment Rashford found himself glowering unpleasantly at the South Coast defender -- why had Southgate picked this nobody, when Jesse Lingard was free and in fine form? But then he caught himself in this odd defensive moment and shook it off again, trying to remind himself that Southgate was in charge and knew exactly what he was doing; noting the concern on White's features, he upgraded his expression to a beaming smile, and gave him a friendly wave, pretending that he didn't wish Ben had been left at home and Jesse was here right now, ready to lick his balls clean for him.
AND LET THE EUROS FUN BEGIN ;)
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