Part 296: The Lone Ranger
2018, North London:
It was winter, and dark outside - the windows of the gym suite gave a faint twinkling skyline of the city above the blackness, due to the training building's positioning on a hillside. Within, the motion-sensor lighting had gone out, and only the little buttons and panels of various equipment glowed faintly in the soft blue gloom.
There was a click somewhere: the release of a latch as a keycard was swiped across a security device, and at one end of the room, a door swung inwards. Almost instantly, strip lighting whirred into life above with clicks and flickers and then a faint background buzz, barely audible. One figure crept cautiously into the room, chunky light trainers padding against the fuzz of carpet. The young man paused halfway down the length of the room, seeming to glance at his reflection in the dark windows, and then lean his weight against the handlebars of a treadmill, hesitant and wary.
A minute passed, and someone observing the young man or his reflection in the mirror would have seen some nervous but excited expressions shift across that face. When the little clicking release sounded from the door again, this figure tensed up, and looked sharply that way. The 5ft8 male figure looked almost ready to flee, but then their posture instantly relaxed as a second figure entered the room, a bit more slowly and assuredly than the way the first of the male silhouettes had crept in. The only sound in the gym was the men's breathing, and the background buzz of the strip lighting overhead.
`We shouldn't be in here,' one of two male voices sounded, quietly.
`Where else?' the other demanded. It was richly accented, a subtle purr.
A heavy sigh from the first speaker, the 5ft11 man who'd walked a little less hesitantly in, despite his protestation now. His approach reached the other, and one of his hands landed on top of the other man's, on the handlebars; the men stared at each other quietly before pulling closer, very close. `I can't stay long,' the first speaker said gently, squeezing that hand on top of the other guy's.
`Go, if you want to go,' came the muttered retort of the first figure. They pulled away, narrowing their eyes and running a hand through their dark hair. There was no reply from the other intruder in the after-hours darkness of the Arsenal training camp, but the two men stared at one another. The first arrival moved quietly away, walking backwards so that the stare between them was not broken - at the far end of this gym area was another doorway, this one propped open and deeper shadows lying beyond it. The accented man stopped just in front of it, his arms hanging at his side.
`You know I don't want to go,' murmured his apparent companion, following him with long but slow strides. Soon the two men were stood closely again, even closer now, in the shadows of that doorway, and the taller of the two was stooping in for the triggering kiss. Their voices fell quiet as their mouths communicated differently, and then the shorter figure was pulling backwards, his hands on the lapels of the other guy's quilted jacked. A frustrated sigh came from that guy's mouth, and then the two figures stumbled further back into the darkness, in which the contents of a physio treatment room began to reveal themselves as eyes adjusted.
They really shouldn't be in here, the training day had finished hours ago, and the Arsenal campus seemed entirely empty, even if their passes still gained them full access. But as one of the two figures had demanded, where else could they go? Where else could they be hidden discreetly like this, with their passion...?
In the dark, Aaron Ramsey closed his eyes and held the other guy tightly to him as they kissed, feeling a strong young body against his own, their lips pushing roughly together and their tongues brushing between their teeth. His heart raced in his strong chest and he groped at the shirt collar of his partner, holding the side of his neck to angle his face upwards and kiss him more deeply.
Four years later, 2022: Seville
Aaron Ramsey opened his eyes, trying his best to control his breathing. About him, the neutral Spanish stadium was suddenly gripped with a tense silence, and ahead of him the opposition keeper, Trapp, was hopping from foot to foot. Already, both sides had succeeded thrice, with Arfield, Davis and Tavernier preceding him, but matched in accuracy by three of the German team's players. Now, Ramsey had responsibility for the penultimate shot, and he was lining himself up carefully to take aim.
The 31-year-old Welshman braced himself, burst forward in the few rapid steps it took to approach the spot, and- in rapid succession, the swing of his leg and the flight of the ball sped on, colliding with the well-timed lunge of the goalie, blocking and deflecting his powerful penalty shot. Skidding to a halt, Ramsey grimaced and stumbled, seeing the ball bouncing away to the side and Trapp righting himself against one post whilst the stadium erupted with noise from the GHerman fans.
Body seizing up, the Welsh footballer took a long pause, closing his eyes again and hanging his head, before turning back and risking a look at the ranks of his fellow Rangers FC players close by. He could feel their anxiety and dismay, but he didn't try to meet any of their eyes, just keeping his head hanging apologetically and circling back to them with sagging body language, whilst Frankfurt's Kostic paced by him to take up the position, and the team's goalies jogged in their swap of positions.
It was with a sense of eerie inevitability that he watched Kostic hit the back of the net, and Rangers man McGregor stomp regretfully aside. It was Roofe now, moving forwards as the last of the Glasgow club's five nominated penalty-takers tonight in Europe. The Spanish heat prickled at the men's skin, though Aaron knew he should be more used to it than his more Scottish-experienced colleagues - it wasn't so long that he'd still been playing in Italy, albeit based in the temperate north.
Roofe's penalty went in, and though Ramsey was immediately glad, it wasn't without a sting of shame for his own failure a minute ago. He held back a little as the tense line of teammates bounced and grabbed at each other in tentative celebration, unable to relax at all until the German side offered their response. If Frankfurt scored now, the win was theirs in spite of Roofe's goal, but if they slipped, then a chance remained. Ramsey could feel the nervousness drip from the guys either side of him, but he kept to himself, hugging his arms over his chest.
Maury was lunging into action. Where Ramsey's own penalty shooting had felt like an absurd blur, this final attack of the shootout seemed to go into painful slow-motion. He saw McGregor struggle indecisively, and he saw the force and accuracy of the Frankfurt player's shot. The hands of one teammate clamped nervously at Ramsey's right shoulder and another's grabbed his left elbow, the men tensing as one in the fraction of a second that it took to know that their Europa league run was crashing to an end here in their historic Final. In it went, and the German half of the stadium's occupants were wild; even against that wall of sound, Ramsey's silent gasp allowed him to hear the groans and curse words of his Rangers men all around him, all of their hearts sinking and stomachs lurching. The hands at his shoulder and elbow squeezed for a moment in horror, then released, the men falling apart from each other in the transient isolation of defeat, despite the incredible teamwork that allowed them to battle this far in the second-tier European tourney.
The Europa League belonged to Eintracht Frankfurt, and the German side were haring away to assemble in front of their stands, disappearing from the goal zone where the fateful shootout had taken place, whizzing away like bullets and making lots of noise as they responded to their jubilant audience. The Glaswegian side were lift in a disparate mass in front of the goal, more of their team members and support flooding from the dugout and moving towards them to mourn together.
Completely gutted, Aaron pulled hands across his sweaty face, remaining very still as people milled around him; he could still hear the crass swearing of several disappointed fellas, and the muttered complaints of those who had been denied a chance to take a penalty of their own. But mostly it was a generalised noise of misery and defeat, the Rangers players have visualised tonight's win so vividly over the past few days. Aaron kept his hands clamped over his face, pulling his head back and jutting his grazed elbows up into the air - a few loose comments were directed his way, and he was slapped weakly on the back a couple of times, but he was separated from the huddle of men by his instant guilt.
Van Bronkhorst was suddenly beside him, steering him by the shoulders as the disappointed footballers began to move away to the side of the pitch, watched by the fading remnants of their travelling support - more controlled players were interacting with the remains of this crowd, milking the last of their Scotch passion in spite of the finale defeat, but Ramsey could no more bear to look up towards the stands than he could with his teammates down here. The Rangers manager was speaking gruff reassurance in his ear as he was guided off the field, but Ramsey only half-heard it - he was picturing the failed moments of his own penalty, the sloppiness or predictability of his kick, and the ease with which Trapp had denied him that crucial goal.
The Welshman passed through the final stages of the event in a sort of shellshocked silent rage, unable to muster the same fierce dignity as the other players as they had to endure being presented with their runners-up medals and then clap hollowly for the awards presentation of the side that had bested them to top the tournament. Ramsey could connect properly with none of it, just constantly replaying his own failure and wondering how he was going to swallow this disappointment after they had all thrown so much into their Europe campaign.
At last, it was time for the runners-up to escape from the ceremony and the German applause, to get out of the sweltering Seville night. Ramsey stomped alongside the other guys without quite interacting with anyone, his hands bunched into fists and his shoulders sagging. He descended concrete steps away from the platform where they had been forced to endure the winner's ceremony, and his glazed eyes skimmed past the VIP crowd that encircled this part of the stadium, much closer to the grandeur than the ordinary Frankfurt fans that crowded half of the arena. His eyes barely registered the suits and regalia of these nearer supporters, some of them clearly travelling Scotsmen who were hollering their support to the losers, but most of them had already departed for their accommodation or hideously timed flights home to Glasgow.
And then the Wales international's eyes fell briefly on one figure at the front of this closer crowd, pressed up against the high railing that separated the nearest VIP seating from the broad concrete staircase that was taking the Rangers squad down to pitch level and the direction of the tunnel mouth. Around Aaron, the defeated squad was moving downstairs at pace, eager to be out of the public eye to lick their wounds, and so it was impossible for the experienced midfielder to actually stop and check that what he was seeing wasn't some mad hallucination. It was too sudden and unexpected, so out of context - and yet Ramsey did have long enough to stare urgently to his left and confirm the familiar face that he'd clocked there. Their eyes locked over the heads and shoulders of other men, and Ramsey's mouth hung open a little bit to see him here.
But then he was being jostled from behind, needing to move on down the stairs more quickly, no time to properly take in the dark-haired figure with his hands gripping the railings, trim jacket sleeves hunched at either side. Ramsey tried to look over one of his broad shoulders, but other guys were in the way, and glancing crossly at him for slowing down, and suddenly the crowd beside the staircase was inscrutably homogenous, and he was doubting that he'd ever clapped eyes on that unexpected visitor in their midst.
2014, North London:
The kid had been at Arsenal for a season already, of course, but in 2012 Aaron Ramsey was already coming into prominence as a cornerstone of the London side, and this youngster was some talented enigma from the continent. He was just back from a loan season at Watford or some minor club like that, Aaron was always unsure of the details at the time, and quite suddenly his young talents stood out and had everybody talking, both players and coaches.
It wasn't difficult for the Welsh player, then only 23 himself, to nod heartily and agree with the praise he was hearing from his clubmates and trainers, when the young defender was amongst them in some pre-season sessions at their North London base. Ramsey was always excited by up-and-coming talent in his team, and he had no reason not to share the other guys' enthusiasm for this Spanish upstart, even if he did seem kinda aloof and behave like he was a lot more experienced than he was. Still just a teen, at that point, and yet oddly arrogant and entitled in his own quiet way.
Beside him that bright August afternoon, Arteta and Giroud were talking in low voices about how they hoped the gaffer saw sense and got the 19-year-old newcomer involved in the first team once the season got going. Younger guys needed to be given a chance to help revitalise the team and get them back to winning ways! At only 23, Ramsey felt a mixture of surprise and pride to find himself considered a more established part of the Arsenal squad, rather than youthful newbie, though it was an odd transition for the Caerphilly boy who still felt out of his depth in the English capital and the Premier League.
Ramsey drifted away from the two other players, the day's work now over, and passed friendly greetings with several other members of their squad - grabbed in a sidelong hug by a grinning Jack Wilshere, who was trying to tell him about a new bar he'd discovered in the city, and high-fiving a fresh-faced Alex Oxlade-Chamberlain then briefly embracing Mesut Ozil on the way past. Aaron smiled at them all, optimistic for the season ahead and Arsenal's chances of claiming a higher spot against the dominant competitors - but in the short-term, he was sweating his bollocks off and really just wanted a cool shower indoors so he could get in the car and head home to his girlfr- no, since earlier this summer, his new wife!
Peeling the coloured bib away from his lean, tightly muscled torso, the 23-year-old Welsh football stud moved towards the big bucket where he could toss it down on the bright neon of its counterparts - but did so at the same time as someone else holding a different high-vis colour from the group drills they'd been engaged in this afternoon. It was hot and bright and neither guy was really looking at what he was doing, hence Aaron barging arms and shoulders with a slightly shorter and more slender physique, almost knocking the other guy over and instinctively grabbing at his back to support him and prevent this - one of his hands flat against the clammy tanned skin and feeling the hard young muscles beneath.
The other guy swore in what he assumed was Spanish, then seemed to recover himself and clear his throat, staring at him more apologetically. Ramsey smiled hesitantly back, his paler hand still against that hot tanned skin, and he briefly met eyes with the dark-haired youth he had just been hearing discussed.
`I am sorry,' the 19-year-old said in awkward, brittle English.
No, no,' Aaron assured him, I should look where I'm fucking going.' He patted that back and then put the same sweat-damp hand against the lad's shoulder for a moment. `It's good to have you back,' he said blandly, echoing the general consensus about this relatively unknown right-back who had cut his teeth at Watford or wherever it was last season, but was expected to make a big impact here in the coming months.
`Er, thanking you,' the 5ft8 youngster said with a nod. Aaron vaguely enjoyed the stiff formality, especially in some odd contrast to the reputation of arrogance that he'd heard lightly pointed out around the Barcelona kid's behaviour. They both paused, Aaron's hand staying still for a moment too long on that lean muscular shoulder, and the shorter player staring quite intently back at him as they stood close together by the bucket of bibs, both exposed from the waist upwards, a little sunny gleam of sweat over their smooth chests and chiselled tummies.
And then Wilshere was barrelling between them, yanking a bib from his own thick upper body, followed by Podolski and Sanogo; Ramsey backed away a little to the side, his eyes lingering for a moment on the Spanish youth's dark gaze and heavy brows. Then he yanked his own eyes away, unsure why he'd paused to consider his returned teammate so intently, briefly forgetting his impatience to cool off and get changed and on the way home.
The Welsh Arsenal midfielder turned away from the mass of shirtless guys to begin loping away towards the big double doors that would take them indoors, but he paused or slowed down, and look over one of his shoulders. At a slower pace, the Barcelona youth graduate was also moving this way, a silently confident swagger about his movement, and he too was looking this way, their eyes meeting again.
Huh, thought Aaron Ramsey vaguely, who did this kid think he was? Who the fuck had even heard of Hector Bellerin, really? He stole his eyes away and steamed ahead, keen to beat the crowd and get his sweaty body hosed down so that he could be first out of the car park and speeding home across the North London suburbs - he and his wife were still in the earliest honeymoon of marriage, and he would fuck her at least twice before dinnertime. He hurried in through the doors, and thought little more of the intense Spaniard... for now.
2022, Seville:
A hotel near the centre of the Andalusian city, sweating under a premature summer, though the air-con of the hotel bar was doing its best to combat that situation, and bottles of cold beer were being served to drown the sorrows of the Scottish team who entirely occupied it. Their flight home to Glasgow International was at the crack of dawn tomorrow, but such was the surge of dismay in the squad that the bosses had waived any sensible curfew or drinking ban, allowing the players to decompress in this downstairs bar almost indefinitely - and such was the Spanish culture that the small crew of serving staff showed no inclination to finish serving the thirsty men.
Ramsey occupied an awkward central position in the glum drinking scene, seated on a tall barstool between a few other guys, cradling a lukewarm bottle between his knees, and listening to the nearby guys complain loudly about various refereeing decisions that had gone against them and, maybe, guided Frankfurt to the draw and the penalty deciders that had saw them cede the trophy.
Was it just in Aaron's head, or was nobody actually quite addressing him? Even looking at him? He'd felt on edge since they got back to the hotel, and was dimly conscious of experiencing these late-night drinks in his own little bubble, rather than as a proper member of the defeated Rangers side around him.
Perhaps he was just imagining it; he'd spent much of this season being the toast of the town, a high-profile and experienced leader among the Scottish side, rapidly integrated into his new team and seemingly held in near-reverence by a lot of the younger lads in the squad. But tonight... well, maybe he was just paranoid, but it was hard not to see his own failure out there as the sole reason that they'd lost the Europa cup to their German opponents! How could every guy here NOT be thinking just that...? It made him nauseous to put in those simple terms, and it seemed to him like the awkward truth that the conversation was skirting bitterly around - to his right, James Tavernier and Ryan Kent were still very much on the cliched blame-the-referee rant, whilst down on the lower seating in front of them, McGregor, Roofe and Goldson were more of the opinion that scheduling had been against them compared to the Bundesliga side. Somebody else was mouthing off about their own manager, controversially, and another camp were in hushed conference on an unknown other perspective - for all Aaron knew, those players were bitterly discussing the truth, that Ramsey himself was entirely to blame for the outcome of that penalty showdown.
The 31-year-old brought his half-empty bottle up to his chapped lips and took a slight sip, finding the taste sour and unpleasant as it lost its chill. He leaned back and deposited it against the marble bar with a clink, then clapped his hands weakly together and rested them between the thighs of his thin sweatpants, though any clothing felt too much right now - the lot of them could be lounging about this bar area in their under-crackers and they'd still have sweaty pits. He hoped to himself that the air-con in the room he would be sharing with Goldson was going to be a lot better than it was down here in this bar.
With a quietly decisive thrust of his aching body, the midfielder slid and jumped off his stool, pulling at the chest of his Rangers t-shirt against his sticky chest. The other lads near him glanced up from their colder beers and subdued chat, perhaps only just remembering that he was there; Aaron bristled slightly against their looks, unable to feel anything but paranoid, and he muttered his excuses. `I'm getting some air,' was all he said, avoiding eye contact again, and leaving his drink unfinished as he padded away. Scuffing his sliders against the stone floor, he pushed his hands into the sweaty pockets of the slim-fit joggers and exited the bar, unsure if he was imagining the resentful stares on him, and the shift in whispered tone as he crossed the room and left.
The foyer beyond was marginally cooler and more comfortable, and he paused to reconsider: calm down, lad, he told himself, thinking back on the ups and downs of the season and the efforts he'd made to settle in here and embrace his slightly surprising Scottish career move. It hadn't necessarily been his first choice, post-Juve, but his agent had mucked up some deals in the Premier League by playing hardball with club representatives, and the Glasgow opportunity had sudden;y been the best on his horizons. And once the ink was dry on the contract, Aaron had been utterly determined to make the most of it, and he'd forged good relationships here at Rangers FC in the past 9 months or so. Or so he'd thought, it didn't feel like that tonight - other than the gaffer himself, barely a word of comfort or reassurance had been said to him by the other lads, not in the stadium changing rooms nor the bus ride to this hotel, and especially not in the winding down couple of hours since. He was too self-critical to be interested in hearing platitudes, and yet their absence seemed to scream at him - were they ALL just hating him right now for shattering their hopes?
Ramsey considered making his way up through the hotel to his room, but he realised that his excuse for departing the bar was pretty true, and he did need actual air. There was a terrace area off from the bar, but it would make his sulky pacing very obvious and visible to the other players, so he exited the hotel fully instead, strolling out onto the streets - it was busier than he might have expected, Spanish schedules running a little later than the streets of Glasgow - and certainly very different to the sleepy lanes of his Welsh youth.
The lean handsome midfielder paced out onto the city centre streets and their patchy crowds of midweek customers, and he felt joyfully invisible in the night, though if he came too close to any visiting football fans he was sure he'd become painfully recognisable. With this in mind, he skulked anonymously on the edges of a nearby square, staring uncritically at the Sevillan architecture and a few meaningless monuments.
Slowly, struggling with that late-night cup-final paranoia, Ramsey became aware of a figure quite close to him, and suddenly felt as if they'd been in his proximity from the second he'd left the hotel, as if following him through the nocturnal streets. He stopped still and took a long pause before looking in their direction - journalist? Crazed fan? Angry teammate? - keeping his hands in his pockets and his shoulders squared, ready for a confrontation.
`Hello, Aaron.'
The man's English was a lot different now, eight years later - quite soft and natural, and even laced with an almost cockney accent that had become quite humorous to Arsenal fans in recent years. He was a distinctive-looking guy, though his dark hair was different, a trendy mullet of sorts against his bony, model looks and deep-set eyes. He too had his hands in his pockets, his loose trousers, shirt and jacket hanging comfortably from his shorter physique as he relaxed there a few feet away.
Ramsey blinked twice and held his breath, and then sighed it out slowly. `It WAS you,' was all the Welshman could find to say, coming face to face with the Spaniard, his ex-lover.
2016, North London:
The season was coming to an end, and it hadn't been a great one for the Gunners, full of cup knockouts and underwhelming performances. But Arteta, the most senior of the players in the squad that summer, close to his own retirement and entry into coaching, had hosted a barbecue summer party for the lads in the run-up to their final May games. Aaron could picture it clearly, the large neat gardens of the Spanish man's huge house on the northern fringes of the city, and the bright sunshine over London as the sangria was served and the smells of charring meat filled the air.
Ramsey's wife was missing that day, a family issue taking her out of the city, and so the 5ft11 midfielder had ended up feeling like something of a spare part, since almost all of the blokes at the party were there with their partners. It made him keep his hands busy with one too many refills of the summer cocktails, and it made him eventually gravitate to the only other apparent loner at the event, the younger player who he'd been bonding closely with over the past couple of seasons. Hector was cool and assured behind blocky designer sunglasses and in a sleeveless top that showed off the ink on his arms, but Aaron knew he was a far less egotistical poser than some of their other pals dismissed him as. Gradually, the Arsenal pair downed jug after jug from Mikel's kitchen, laughing at their own in-jokes as the blazing afternoon became a sultry evening.
Arteta circulated the party, 34 at the time and perhaps already with his eye on his current role of managing the team; almost everyone was drunk and giddy, and his plan seemed to be working, banding the players and their wives and girlfriends together with seeds of optimism for how the next season could be much better.
At some point, Ramsey had headed indoors, initially to go for a piss, but then sidetracked by a call from his wife. The Welsh player had ended up lingering at the back of a large kitchen, scouting for alcohol while fielding questions and loving sentiments from his partner - he must have been pretty wasted already, and he only dimly remembered bumping into his buddy Jack Wilshere at the side of the kitchen, seeming to be engaged in some odd argument with Arteta. The 24-year-old lad and the Spanish midfielder were having heated words and standing a little bit too closely, and the events of the evening had deleted any significance from the moment for Aaron - there had always been some tension between the boisterous English lad and the mature Spanish leader, and Aaron had never particularly understood why that was the case.
But embarrassment at interrupting them had driven him further into the house, rather than back out through French windows into the crowded garden. In a daze, carrying two ridiculously strong mixed drinks in his hands, mostly ice and vodka, Ramsey had drifted in through the pale decor of Arteta's cool home, finding himself quite glad to be away from the lingering heat of the garden, and the press of other bodies. Taking these moments for himself, the 25-year-old player sat down on the edge of an armchair in a lounge at the front of the house, the muffled buzz of noise calling to him from the party at the rear.
And then there had been Bellerin, standing at the door to this lounge, leaning one hand to the frame and dipping his head into the room. One of those for me?' the young Spaniard, barely 21 at the time, had asked, making Aaron look up and smile vaguely. It was in that moment of brief eye contact with the defender that he'd realised just how pissed he actually was, and he just laughed rather than responding properly. He got up, a little unsteadily, and approached his friend at the door. Nah, both for me,' he slurred in his thick valleys accent, standing over the shorter, well-muscled youth.
Hector smirked at him, one hand fiddling with his removed sunglasses, and the other lifting close to his throat to toy with a thick silver chain that hung there against the neckline of his sleeveless top. `I don't want to go back outside,' the young right-back told him in a soft Iberian whisper.
No,' murmured Ramsey hesitantly. Me neither.'
`Good.'
`Huh.'
He'd been drunk and a little out of control, but had the moment been coming for a long time? Their friendship had blossomed over the couple of years since Bellerin returned from his Watford experience and embedded himself into the Arsenal first team. They had become close despite the initial language barrier; they had little in common, really, but they made each other laugh and had been hanging out more and more outside of their football commitments, a different experience to Ramsey knew from the more typical British footy lads and their banter. To him, the Barcelona man felt smart and exotic, fashionable and curious - and at what point in their budding friendship had it occurred to Aaron that the 21-year-old NEVER had a girlfriend on the scene...?
I want to kiss you,' Bellerin whispered to him - it was so much cooler in here than out in the garden, and yet the air between the two players then sizzled with tension. Ramsey didn't know what to say to that comment, remaining close to the 5ft8 stud, controlling his own breathing and clinging to the icy glass of the drinks. He just titled his head and eyed the pouting fullness of the Spaniard's lips, the strong lines of his face. He made a soft awkward laughing sound from the back of his throat. Well?' pushed Hector, even more quietly.
`I'm married,' the Caerphilly 25-year-old had answered in a dry, distant voice, though his facial expression and body language surely exposed his latent desire. One of Bellerin's hands came into contact with his, partly to take control of the glass of ice and vodka, but their warm fingers brushing and rubbing, the spark of physical contact that was needed. Aaron had leaned a little forward, bringing their faces closer - Hector's had tilted upwards and those thick pink lips had parted and moved to his, and then they were kissing, the taste of sangria punch on their mouths.
When the kiss broke, Ramsey gasped in conflict, running his free hand against the warmth of the other lad's neck, feeling the cool of that chain in his fingers. He closed his eyes and listened as Bellerin whispered to him. Let's go upstairs,' the right-back murmured seductively, and find a little space to ourselves. Nobody will miss us. Yes?'
Very slowly, the Welsh midfielder had nodded his head three times, still holding his neck and chain, and not properly opening his eyes. But then one of Hector's hands lifted to take his and remove it from his neck, clamping their palms together, and guiding him gently out of the doorway and into the hallway, and then to the foot of the stairs. Ramsey had followed the younger player up them in tense silence, and in an unnoticed spare room of the Arteta home, he had crashed into clean white bedding and shed sweaty clothes whilst kissing and groping at another lad for the first time in his life - and everything else that followed.
2022, Seville:
Of course he was here. How had it not occurred to Ramsey before? He'd been very conscious of the Spanish man returning to his homeland for a loan season at Real Betis, had heard so much in the football world about how Bellerin had rediscovered his form and played with new vigour in La Liga - and that season was pretty much over now, but of course Bellerin was still here, based in the Andalusian city where Betis were based. How it had been such a shock to spot him on the edges of that VIP crowd in the stadium...? A ghost from the recent past, that's what he was.
They had spoken briefly on the street: Hector had offered him quiet consolations and Aaron had mumbled past them, denying to himself and the other guy that this was what he'd been craving from his teammates from the moment Rangers lost the cup. Oddly, it had been Hector who now reminded him that they had another cup final on the horizon, the Scottish Cup within their grasp... a positive that nobody in the Rangers squad had seemed able to countenance in that gloomy hotel atmosphere tonight.
Ramsey had consciously turned their conversation away from this, trying to ask Bellerin about himself - how did it feel to be playing in Spain? Was he really going back to Arsenal next season, or would he be making a proper transfer move here or elsewhere? But the 27-year-old was either evasive or genuinely unsure, and their dialogue kept trailing off into thoughtful quiet. When Bellerin had gently invited him to visit his apartment, Ramsey had felt his heart leap, and now here they were - sitting not far from the square in question on the roof terrace of a sophisticated block, on cushioned wicker chairs with strong drinks being mixed by the host, and Seville twinkling over the low white wall of the elevated garden. Ramsey tried to recognise if his own hotel was visible from here, but his knowledge of the Spanish city was too poor.
He looked at the glass on the table: the huge chunks of ice that took up too much space, the heavy slosh of cool vodka, the splash of some fruity liqueur, and the mere suggestion of soda that fizzed it together, and he thought of a similar highball of liquor six years into their past. He glanced up from the strong drink to Hector, who was still on his feet, holding a matching glass. Was he thinking the same thing?
`Cheers,' Bellerin said. Ramsey took his drink and raised it to clink. They both took long sips, he nestled in the sweaty comfort of the chair, and Bellerin up on his feet. He seemed reluctant to sit - restless, uncomfortable, alert.
`It's been a long time,' the Rangers player said wistfully, half to himself.
Only a few years,' the other guy said a little more firmly, though when Aaron glanced at him, his expression was soft and interested. And I tried to get in touch many times,' his host added, and Aaron could hear the deserved bitterness and accusation behind the natural warmth of Hector's voice. He winced.
I know,' was all he said, needing to look away again at the view. At last, Hector descended into the other chair, close by him, and stretched out his limbs with a show of cat-like comfort. Aaron watched his every movement out of the corner of his eye. This is a beautiful place,' he said, banal. `You seem really chilled out here, you know. Are you sure you can't sign a proper contract with them and stay...?'
The younger man made a non-committal voice. `Arsenal want me back in London.'
`Hmm. Right.'
`Sometimes I hear they want you back too.'
No comment from Aaron to that. He took a few slow slips from his drink. Then, tearing his eyes from the distracting city view, he stared hard at the man next to him, admiring the harsh lines of his nose and jawline, emphasised by the trendy cut of his oil-dark locks. It contrasted to the hard trim of his own-short cropped hair. He found himself saying words that he'd been thinking for the past few years. I really am sorry,' he murmured. I know I never tried to say it properly then, but I was... I am.' He hesitated, already regretting this frankness. `Nothing happened like I would have wanted it.'
Hector pierced him with a knowing look. `And how would you have wanted it?'
Ramsey didn't know the answer to that. He frowned sadly back at the beautiful young Spanish man, unable to take his eyes off him. For two years of blistering heat, they had carried out their affair, hidden from everyone around them. He had been so desperately discreet, keeping their chemistry locked away to such an extent that many teammates, and even his wife, had at one point believed them to have had some big falling out, and everybody questioned them on why they weren't friends any more. Aaron had started to find it impossible to anywhere near Hector during Arsenal training, because he might not be able to control his urges. It really had been that passionate.
Aaron just sighed. `I'm being grim, I'm sorry. It's the mood. You don't need it.'
There was a pause before Hector's almost shy voice contradicted him. `I'll always be ready to listen to you, Aaron. I invited you up here, didn't I?'
Ramsey knew he had no right to push this matter, to ask the question that he did next, but he couldn't stop himself. He brought his arm further over the edge of his curved wicker chair, closing some of the narrow gap between them, bringing the line of his skin and the curve of his pinky finger achingly close to where Bellerin's more tanned arm rested. `And why did you invite me up here, eh?' he challenged, staring at his former teammate in a more purposeful way, putting self-pity on ice.
`Aaron,' the Betis defender breathed reproachfully.
`After all this time,' he murmured ambiguously at him.
`It was not me who ended things,' Hector whispered.
Aaron moved his arm a fraction more, letting his fingers rub against the back of the other guy's hand, pushing the sweat-damp skin of their forearm muscles together. He kept his unblinking eyes on the Spaniard, who stared deeply back. The air seemed to crackle, and not with the oppressive Seville heat, but a pressure all of their own.
Ramsey pulled his hand away in a moment's indecision, but he saw the instant crestfallen expression on Bellerin's face, and he knew what was possible here. He clutched the glass and threw its potent, icy contents back down his throat, then wiped the back of one hand against the moisture of his lips and stubble. Hector did the same in front of him, and then simultaneously they rose out of their seats. The younger man took his hand and pulled on it gently, nodding back through the open panels that led back into the impressive rented penthouse. Ramsey squeezed back at his hand and nodded.
2018, North London:
He let his fingers rove through Hector's hair, scraping against his head and tussling against the thick dark hair. He groaned, feeling those lips pucker against his neck and his collarbone, his starchy white shirt undone by a few buttons and pushed open so that the shorter man could kiss at his exposed skin whilst groping his muscular sides through the thick white fabric. Aaron's other hand was on the back of Hector's blazer, feeling his strength and body heat through it as he pulled the other Arsenal footballer to him. Their formalwear crumpled between them as they kissed and groped, this mad moment of passion breaking all of their complex private rules. Two years of this passion and the flame was burning brighter than ever, more fierce with every month that passed.
It was midway through the season, and the club was hosting a charity event in collaboration with one of their sponsors. Ramsey and Bellerin were supposed to be behaving themselves, seated at disparate tables with different colleagues and guests, primly suited as respectable representatives of the North London club. And yet here they were, in a risky corner somewhere between the cloakroom and the bar, and they couldn't keep their hands off each other. Aaron's own jacket was pulled down to his elbows, away from his suit, and his unknotted tie was somewhere about his dark leather shoes. He gasped and pulled back at Hector's hot body, wanting to strip all of the neatly tailored items away from it, to have him here completely and utterly.
They twisted their postures and the kisses went from Aaron's upper chest and his neck to his mouth, snogging properly at his secret Spanish lover, holding him so tightly and pressing him back in against the panelled wall of the empty passageway. There was no need for words between the two of them, they both knew what the other wanted, and Ramsey's mind raced for options, possibilities - could they really sneak away from the venue altogether and fuck off the event to spend time with just each other? Surely not! His wife was waiting for him back at the table.
His wife...
The fire with Bellerin had, to begin with, felt too different and unique to connect with his marriage to his childhood sweetheart at all, allowing the Welshman to divest himself of any potential guilt or remorse. But that lie had only lasted so long. Now that he and his teammate had been secretly doing this for over about two years, the reality of his infidelity was an inescapable ghost that squashed between Mr and Mrs Ramsey at almost every opportunity, and he was terrified that she was beginning to suspect something.
His wife...
`Aaron!'
Her voice, the Caerphilly accent matching his own. The high distress, the muted shock. He froze up, his hands still on the other man, but their lips breaking apart, the kiss dying in his mouth. He hardly dared to turn around. Aaron,' she cried again, her voice breaking painfully, and his whole body turning to ice. Oh my god,' he heard her groan, quietly and mournfully, and he kept his eyes closed as he turned achingly away from his lover, turning to face her. It's not what it looks like. The cliche flooded past his mind, and his fingers unclenched from about the lapels of Bellerin's blazer. He could hear the groaning sigh of the Spanish player, and it was a sound more of irritation and disappointment than regret.
He froze up between them, the moment of crisis that he'd been dreading for almost two years finally crashing straight into him.
2022, Seville:
It was hot in Bellerin's apartment, even with the doors onto the roof terrace all wide open. If the Betis player had air-con, he hadn't bothered to switch it on. They passed through two more doorways and were in the master bedroom of the sprawling penthouse. Without thinking, Aaron stripped off his t-shirt, pulling it away from the tight defined muscles of his back and chest, discarding it onto the wooden boards of the floor.
Ahead of him, Hector paused in front of the bed and then stripped his top off too, only undoing one button on the thin shirt before tossing it overhead and exposing the tight smooth muscle of his upper body. The shirtless men faced each other in the light of a single wall-mounted lap, and their expressions were deadly serious.
`Like old times,' Aaron dared to mutter.
`Don't spoil it by talking,' Hector grunted at him.
He nodded his agreement. Then, more purposeful and sure of himself, he moved forward. He grabbed his arms about Bellerin's waist and bore him back onto the springy bed, kissing him on the mouth and letting their chests and abdomens rub together as they hugged and snogged and rolled side to side. He lifted his body to make it easier for his lover to remove his sweatpants, letting them fall back down his thighs, and then fumbling with the buttons of the other man's fine linen chinos. But in moments, they were down to underwear, their strong legs interlocking in the tumble of their embraces and the hot biting kisses they shared.
The Welshman pushed the lighter man down against the bed, holding his wrists down and holding their faces agonisingly apart whilst rubbing their crotches together, letting the bulge of his loose grey briefs massage against the constants of Hector's silky dark red boxer shorts, their privates smushing together teasingly in anticipation of fuller action.
Strong and compact, the younger man broke out of his pinning, grabbing hands against his sides, almost clawing at the muscles of his back, and pushing up with his groin, rubbing the hard outline of his excitement up against Aaron's own bulge, and locking one hairy leg about the back of his thighs. Their skin was sweaty and slipped a little at each contact as they rolled one way and then the next, bodies crashing and thrashing against the silky sheets of the bed.
And then Ramsey could wait no longer before forcing down the fabric of the other man's shorts, and taking his thick heavy prick in hand. He spat down on it for lube and ran his hand over the bulbous head and veiny shaft, growling a little unconsciously as he kissed the centre of Bellerin's chest and then sucked on one of his dark red nipples. Then, almost drooling he stooped sideways and enveloped the thick Spanish cock in his mouth, tasting one for the first time in several years. Hector gasped luxuriantly and stroked his neck and ears and the fluffy length of his hair, easing his own body backwards and arching his back, allowing more of his shaft to be taken into Aaron's hungry gob.
He slathered over it, pausing to spit against it and lubricate his pursing lips, teasing right up and down the length and then attending only to the head, rolling his tongue about it and teasing it over the slit. He pulled back, panting and shiny-faced, and his eyes sought out Hector's deep dark ones, seeing the ferocity of desire there - just like old times.
Ramsey went back down, taking the cock in his mouth again, and Bellerin gasped and murmured at him, but in Spanish that he couldn't really understand. It didn't matter, he could pick up the erotic urgency of the speech. He slurped and gagged on the incredibly thick weapon between the defender's furry thighs, taking it against the back of his throat and choking - even when he'd sucked regularly on it, he had struggled with his gag reflex, and he hadn't had a cock in his mouth since that night of painful discovery at the charity event, his wife catching them in a clinch.
`Fuck her,' hissed Hector, squeezing at his hand, yanking back on it.
I've got to find her,' gasped Aaron, dragging himself away from the strength of the right-back, pushing forward down the empty corridor. He felt Bellerin really drag his heels and snatch more forcefully at the sleeve of his shirt, and the loose tangled of his suit blazer. He wrenched away, needing control of himself, but his motion was too hard, and as he forced his arm back into the sleeve, his elbow caught the other player in the face - Bellerin reeled away and when he lifted his head again, a patch of blood gleamed on his top lip and about one of his nostrils. He was blinking and Ramsey froze, aghast. I'm sorry,' he blurted, still wrestling back into his blazer but turning back to the other man, seeing how badly he'd caught him in the nose.
`Fuck!' exclaimed the other Arsenal player, and a string of Spanish expletives.
`Sorry, sorry-'
Fuck her,' Hector said again, his voice now thick with pain as well as the urgent emotion of the scene. He snatched at Aaron's lapels and pulled in close, blood oozing across part of his face. You don't need her. You are happy with me, with ME, Aaron - you know I am right, you know this is REAL-'
`Hector-'
We can be okay,' the Spanish defender ranted quickly, as if the words had been waiting for this moment for months now. Maybe they had. We don't have to tell anybody, not at first, but if SHE does, then - we'll be fine! It will be strange but- Won't it be great to admit our love? To let others see what we are? We will be okay, Aaron, we will!'
`Get off me!' he blurted, the violence of panic in his voice. He was thrusting Bellerin away from him, but with a bit more control now, wary of accidentally hurting him some more. His mind and body were flashing with white terror, picturing his wife's face and hearing her agonised voice. Somewhere in this theatre, she was dashing emotionally away, having seen them together - what the fuck would she do now?
He saw that the blunt force of his words had stunned Hector, or perhaps it was the blow to his nose. There was too much bloody now, it was all over his mouth and chin, and dropping onto the prim white of his shirt front. He backed away, lifting a hand to pinch the bridge of his nose, but his eyes were wide and intense. He looked like he'd just realised something.
Get back from me,' Ramsey said now, more weakly. I need to find her.'
`Do you?' challenged Bellerin.
He was conflicted, and angry, but sure. Yes!' he shouted at him, as if it was all his fault, every moment of their passion. This ends now, we have no choice. It's over. Don't touch me. I have to get to her.' And he'd pulled rapidly away, resisting one last stroking gesture of Hector's hand for his. He shook his head and angrily and raced after her, ready to explain, to lie, to say whatever had to be said. He raced after his wife and left his lover behind, dabbing blood from his face and cursing to himself.
Aaron squatted down on his haunches, one hand reached out to grasp at the headboard, the other flailing loosely to his other side - he howled and moaned as his cock, his balls, the insides of his thighs, all of it kissed and nipped and licked, and then the attention more fully on his long firm Welsh prick. Hector was so fucking good at it, always had been - it had stunned him, experiencing that first blowjob up in the soft whiteness of a guest bed in Arteta's home, his shorts and undies about his ankles whilst the then 21-year-old Bellerin serviced him and drained his balls. And years later, in this Seville penthouse, it felt just as good - better? - and it was the comfort that he needed. All thoughts of the Europa tournament drained from the edges of his consciousness as he rediscovered this pleasure and intimacy with his Arsenal boyfriend.
They had never dared use that word back then, but he thought it now - that's what Hector had been, really, his boyfriend.
Bellerin's mouth left his cock and kissed up his six-pack instead, one hand taking over the work, jerking his cock and then bringing it against another; Bellerin jerked them both off, their dicks side by side between his palms, rubbing and throbbing together. Up went those beautiful lips, up past his navel and across the ridges of his abdomen, up against the flat swell of his pectorals, brushing the fine dusting of hair there, circling his nipples and ascending to his sensitive throat. And then Aaron was reaching for the kiss, dragging their faces together, but Hector resisted, over and over, holding back from him, still grinding their cocks but denying him the intimacy of kissing. One of the defender's strong hands came pushing about his shoulder and onto his upper back, then his neck, and it was strong and guiding in its movements, nudging him aside and towards the headboard. Ramsey could only respond as he always had, putty in the fingers of his lover.
He could still remember his fear and uncertainty the first time, confused at the direction their passion was taking - by then, Bellerin had sucked him to completion five or six times in increasingly unlikely hidden moments, and he had even had his first go at tentatively returning the favour, almost throwing up from the newness of it, but coached and encouraged to swallow more of the girthy thing into his mouth, and getting his first taste of the silvery goo that spurted from its thick head.
They had been enjoying this closeness for a few months when Bellerin first turned him around, this time in a hotel bedroom somewhere in the North West of England, the night before a game with Liverpool or Everton or a Manchester team. Ramsey hadn't really known what to do then, hadn't known if he could handle it or if it would please him - but now, all these years later, he knew he needed it. He'd needed it ever since that night when he'd bloodied Hector's nose and ran from their passion in fear.
Willingly, he turned away from his man, pressed his palms to the thick wood of the headboard, and felt Hector behind him, leaning in to kiss at his shoulders and neck, hands roving up and down his sides, then kneading at the firm glutes, parting them, spitting into the crevice between them. He shivered and muttered `Take it easy', suddenly unsure if he would be able to receive that thick thing after so long without being fucked - Hector said nothing to acknowledge those words, but he was tender and slow, working a finger in against the tight knot of Aaron's arse-hole first and for several beautiful minutes. It made the Welshman squeal, made him whimper, he felt so sight and unpractised, like he had the first time, unsure if he would manage it - more spitting behind him, and then the finger was puncturing in and out of his ring in rapid jabs, and slowing down before being joined by a second. Oh, yes.
The Welsh stud stretched forward, leaning in against the headboard and the wall, his back and arse pushed back as Bellerin prepared to mount him. One hand up on his shoulder, massaging him there, and the other really spreading his cheeks, then the huge hot feel of the cock-head in between them, pressing on his quivering entrance. Bellerin leaned in closer to kiss the side of his neck, then twisting his head to the side so that they could kiss on the mouths, snogging him comfortingly whilst edging the fat tip of his Spanish cock inside that Welsh valley, claiming him once more like he had five years ago.
Ramsey relaxed in his hold, as he always had, all worry forgotten because he felt so utterly secure in the strength of the smaller guy, submitting entirely to his power and confidence. No wonder Hector Bellerin strutted about the world like he did, when this was what he was working with. And Aaron felt every inch of it slide into him, opening him back up after so long, slowly gyrating movements to edge it in, deeper and deeper still - he groaned into his lover's mouth and trembled against him, all of his own masculien force subdued.
And then the right-back was fucking him, but clearly conscious of his words, of how long it had been - it wasn't the kind of rabid hardness that had often happened between them towards the end of their affair, Hector humping eagerly like a horny rabbit and cumming way too fast, full of youthful vigour - this was slower and more tender, perhaps jsut for his inexperienced hole, but perhaps also because Bellerin had matured in these years, become a real man rather than just a horny boy.
Now it was Aaron, 31 years old, who almost instantly felt his balls straining to empty, and had to stop himself from reaching down to pump his dick and empty his load. As if sensing this, Bellerin's hands closed about his, controlling and placing them, leaning into him and thrusting those strong hips in perfect slow rhythm, breathing heavily but saying nothing, and making Ramsey almost squeal with anal satisfaction.
2019, the Emirates:
The final game of Aaron's Arsenal career, and he hadn't even been able to play in it; he'd been injured for a little while, and his troop out on home turf to wave goodbye to the Gunner fans was purely ceremonial. He lifted his arms and waved to them, clapping their support, feeling the tears well up in his eyes, and then stream inevitably down his cheeks.
He was saying goodbye to the club that had defined his senior career for so long, and that was making him incredibly emotional; but none of the fans, players, pundits, none of them could guess what was really biting at him and making this eventual Arsenal exit quite so painful.
Most of the Arsenal squad, whether they had played their part in today's final Premiership game or not, were clapping too, directing their applause towards a man who everybody considered a vital piece of the club at that point. But one was not: Hector Bellerin moved among the other red-clad players with a strange impassive look across his long face, and his hands clutched oddly together in front of him, almost emphasising his lack of clapping for his outgoing teammate.
Only once did Ramsey risk looking at him during the farewell parade of his pitch, and he hated what he saw: superficial indifference and coolness, masking the raging pain that he knew lay underneath, the heartbreak he'd caused in the younger guy when he made it so clear that he was choosing to save his marriage. The Italian deal had been the only thing that calmed her down, the utter distance from this club, the fresh start and the ability to put that mistake fully behind them. A one-off, a silly drunken error, that's what he'd called it to her, what he'd convinced her it was. A joke gone too far. A stupid sloppy kiss. He's had a crush on me for ages,' he'd lied to her, feeling the cruelty in his words. He's mad for me, apparently. Poor kid. I dunno where it's come from, honestly. I'm so sorry at what you saw, babe. I dunno how I let it happen. You're right - I just need to get away from him, that's it, but he's not going anywhere.'
So, Juventus it was. RIP Arsenal. And that last day at the stadium, humbled by the love of the home fans, Aaron Ramsey wept for it, the mess he'd made and the one goodbye he'd never really be allowed to make.
I'm going to cum,' Hector hissed in his ear. Inside you. Yes?'
Yes,' Aaron whined for him, oh yes... in me...'
The thrusts got harder, shorter, more urgent. Hector held him by the waist now, hands clamped there, crotch fucking into him in hard bursts, pushing that incredibly thick meat into him and making him jolt with each push. And then the ragged concerto of the Spanish man's breathing announced his climax and Ramsey knew his arse was being loaded with that cum, the first and only seed he'd ever tasted.
He whined for it, loving it, just as he had each time he'd been bred by the powerful right-back in their shared London years. But his own cock and balls ached with a need for the same release, and he couldn't help but reach one hand down to grab himself there. He jerked himself in sync with Bellerin's final thrusts, almost annoyed with himself as his cock refused to let go of the saved-up load.
`Let me,' insisted the Spaniard quietly.
Ramsey was turned around, his hole throbbing as the cock slid out of it, and Bellerin hovered over him. They kissed, on the lips, and the sturdy hunk reached down to jerk him off whilst they did, straddling his thighs. Aaron leaned there, trapped and held, and allowed his cock to be pumped in rapid hand movements, his own arms flopping weakly to the sides. What he'd struggled to find for himself happened so quickly with Hector's hand on his cock, and his mouth on his - he shot his thick white load against the crunched abs of the other man's tummy, spattering his olive skin with white globs. Still they kissed, brushing past the glow of their orgasms, just tonguing at each other's mouths and dripping with sweat in the Sevillan night.
It was only a need for clearer breath that made the men tear apart, both gasping in air and falling apart slightly, though refusing to fully lose skin-on-skin. They lay on their backs, side by side, with one of Hector's calves hooked over Aaron's shin, and one of Aaron's hands resting somewhere on the other guy's six-pack, fingering at the sticky patch of his own jizz there. They both breathed in deeply, chests heaving, saying nothing. For a moment, Aaron's thoughts did flirt with the night's disaster: the failed penalty returned to him, and the gloomy perceived disapproval of his teammates, but it felt less heavy. He was doubting his own paranoia - they were all just as upset as each other, it didn't need to be about blame. Nobody had actually accused him, they just hadn't massaged his ego. And the weekend was bringing the Scottish Cup to them as an opportunity for redemption, a game against Hearts that could end the season on a high.
With these thoughts, he almost drifted off. Not quite into sleep, but in a satisfied stupor that was only broken when Bellerin climbed out of bed and paced across the room. Ramsey twisted his head to take a good look at him: his slim, compact body, dense with muscle, and the big rise of his meaty backside, gently haloed in dark hair, in contrast to the smoothness of his upper body. He was fetching a towel and dragging it across his crotch and tummy, then tossing another one this way for him.
So,' the 27-year-old said quietly, you haven't... done that in a while, eh...?'
He could hear a spark of surprise in Hector's voice, and he let out a hesitant little peal of laughter before responding, still collapsed on the bed and holding the towel against himself. No,' he murmured. No. Never. Not since... you.'
`It felt like it.' It was a compliment, of sorts, but Bellerin sounded conflicted. He drifted out of the room then, tying the soiled towel about his waist. His exit dragged Ramsey upright, climbing out of bed and doing the same with his towel, wearing it about the waist as he followed his host out through into the main rooms of the apartment. Bellerin was pouring water from a filter jug in the fridge, two glasses. Ramsey joined him and took one, glad of its refreshing blandness on his tongue and lips.
I always wondered,' Hector said distantly. I thought there might be... others. After me. Even after everything you said.' He glanced this way, and his sharp look somehow managed to be both apologetic and accusing.
Ramsey paused. He'd hardly been the perfect husband that he'd promised her and himself after that near-scandal. He'd strayed, and he often cursed himself for the moments of weakness, but how to explain any of that to Bellerin now...? How could he explain that yes, he'd been weak, and he'd dabbled in gay fun in the years since their affair was extinguished, but that he'd never once taken another guy's dick into his mouth or his bottom, unable to imagine anyone else loving him like Hector had?!
Things have happened,' he admitted hoarsely, but not that. Not since you.' He hoped the words sounded somehow romantic and sincere, but it all felt brutal and anatomical instead. He was glad that Hector had felt his tightness and inexperienced, had known that nobody had claimed his strong arse since those days, and yet... it changed nothing.
`Who?' Bellerin demanded a little aggressively.
Ramsey frowned at this, hanging his head, drinking the filtered water. `Hector,' he pleaded gently, unsure how this conversation could possibly go well. What was he supposed to do, list them? Tell his ex-lover all about the things that had gone on in the Ronaldo-dominated world of Juventus, where Paolo Dybala had been everybody's favourite wank sock? Or recount the surprising little adventures that Wales international play had offered, most recently spit-roasting that beautiful teen Neco Williams with his shockingly open-minded best pal Gareth Bale? It was all so different, he wanted to say, taking on that role and being so forceful and one-way - no man had felt his lips around their dick like Hector had, nobody else had ever even touched his arse cheeks.
Bellerin made a scoffing noise. I suppose it's stupid of me to ask,' he murmured. You could ask me the same.'
`I wouldn't. I don't have the right.'
That's true. Huh.' A long pause, the two of them in their towels, bodies gleaming in the quiet dark kitchen of the apartment. The sounds of the city poured in from the balcony area, a passing siren and the low hiss of traffic, punctuated by the odd soaring voice of singing or shouting from street level. You can't stay the night,' Hector announced suddenly.
It was hardly a shocking attitude, yet Aaron felt the sting of it somewhere inside his chest. He tensed up, feeling the lusty heat dry up in the air between them. `I won't argue with that.'
Bellerin seemed to frown at him, irritable. `I mean - you have to get back to your team hotel, surely?'
`Oh, erm, yes.' He smiled uncertainly, unsure now what Hector was thinking or feeling. He thought he'd said that in bitterness, not in practicality. Maybe it was both. He finished the glass of water, feeling the beginnings of his hangover headache already. He hadn't even drunk much - dehydration? Or overthinking.
`But... I'm glad you came to Seville. I'm glad we saw each other. I've missed you.'
Aaron was about to earnestly echo this sentiment, but he stopped himself - what good could it do to admit that now? He'd smashed their relationship apart, terrified what would happen between him and his wife. He had thrown everything into saving his marriage and made his secret passion with Bellerin into collateral damage. How could he admit to the nights of craving for him during his first few months in Italy? He stayed silent, and hoped that his body and the way he'd offered it up it made it clear how much he agreed. You're right, I should go,' he told the other man weakly. I really do have to get back to the hotel. And I'm flying to Scotland in a few hours.'
Bellerin just nodded. `Of course.'
The heat was gone now, metaphorically. As Aaron dressed in the door to the bedroom, pulling his t-shirt back on over his damp shoulders, and dragging those briefs back up his thighs and pushing his spent cock and balls into their pouch, he could still feel the stifling warmth of the Spanish night, but the tension between he and Hector was broken. Their passion had reignited, but it felt like in that short conversation he had failed some test - but if he'd been more fully honest, what could it achieve? Those days were long gone now, and it was he who'd let that happen. He'd made his choice. Perhaps in some other universe, he'd stopped and listened to Bellerin that night, and dared to contemplate leaving his wife for him, taking that chance, damn the consequences. But not in this world. In this world, Aaron Ramsey was happily married and now lived in Glasgow, and Bellerin was on his way back to Arsenal, somewhere that must have been tainted for him since that farewell. Fuck.
They talked a little more before he left, but it was mundane - him asking about the rent deal on the luxurious pad, and about when he would actually be upping sticks and heading back to North London. A bit of chat about Mikel Arteta and their mutual admiration for the Arsenal gaffer, and then some mournful comments on how Wilshere's career had gone. Somehow they even ended up just talking about the weather, the heat. And then he was gone, seen out of the building and walking slowly through the couple of streets that would return him to his hotel on the other side of the square.
Regret hovered somewhere on the edge of Ramsey's mind, but he couldn't let himself go too close to it. Tonight had been amazing, and bending over to be ploughed by that powerful smaller man had been everything he needed, pure serendipity, utter comfort. But he'd made his choices, and he wasn't sure that if a time machine took him back to 2018, that he wouldn't do exactly the same thing all over again. The rest of that season had been a misery as he tried to reconcile with his wife and keep Hector at a safe distance - escaping to Juventus had been the only option, though the Serie A move had hardly boosted his career or brought the satisfaction he'd hoped for. And so he'd put so much hope into Rangers FC now, and tonight's final had been meant as one of two crowning achievements.
Saturday, he reminded himself. The Scottish Cup.
He paused at the mouth of the lane that would take him back to the hotel, and looked back across the square. He fancied he could make out the top of Hector's building, see the exact palm-lined roof terrace that they had briefly occupied whilst sharing a drink and building up to that explosion of shared lust. But there was no lonely figure on the balcony, stood out there pining for him, looking down. And why should he? Hector Bellerin was a beautiful man, and he could do so much better than being any married man's side-piece. Aaron gritted his teeth and reassured himself he had done the right thing then, was doing the right thing now - leave him alone, let him move on. He had his wife, his kids, his career. That was what mattered, not some fiery fling in his late twenties.
But if it was just a fling... why had it felt so fucking good?
'Writer guy' - Premiership Lads on Nifty https://www.nifty.org/nifty/gay/celebrity/premiership-lads/
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