Premiership Lads Curious Luke Shaw

Part 298: After the Red Parade

`ONE KISS IS ALL IT TAKES... FALLIN' IN LOVE WITH ME...'

The summer hit boomed from the speakers on their coach and others, pouring across the Scouse crowds and mixing with the thick red flare smoke that trailed alongside the LFC victory parade. Like everyone else, Henderson belted out the Dua Lipa lyrics in unison with their supporters below, pumping a fist in the air and gripping the rails with his other hand.

The Liverpool captain could not believe the atmosphere, as his gaffer and almost everyone else had repeatedly commented on - the lads were returning from their grim Parisian experience, losing the Champions League Final, and yet the Merseyside atmosphere today was ecstatic and full of love. The team were parading their FA and League Cup trophies, and their losses to Real Madrid and Manchester City seemed irrelevant in the face of their fans' overwhelming support and happiness. It was a breathtaking moment for the Premiership captain, warm with a buzz of cold beer and happy to sing along to the music of their guest DJ not far behind him.

Of course, it wasn't just the footballing mood of the victory parade that was filling Jordan with this buoyant happiness that Sunday evening. `ONE KISS IS ALL IT TAKES,' roared the chorus again, the footballers on top of the slow-moving coach bouncing and waving with enough nightclub enthusiasm to make the security support look nervous and remind them of health and safety rules, whilst their musical mascot Calvin Harris bobbed his head happily behind the decks and transitioned the track into another of his hits.

One kiss is all it takes... Or one fuck on the edge of a swimming pool.

Suddenly, the 23-year-old was close to him, swaying a little as he travelled the edge of the bus front, a beer bottle in one hand and the other waving overhead as he signalled to the mass of Liverpool fans among the flare smoke. Jordan turned to him, grinning, having been unable to stop smiling at the handsome young right-back throughout their weekend away for the Final, even in some of the rougher moments of defeat and disappointment.

Trent Alexander-Arnold was mouthing the lyrics to the next Calvin Harris track, shuffling close and bumping shoulders, his eyes masked by sunglasses but his toothy grin splitting his face in two. Instantly, Jordan threw a hairy arm about his shoulders, pulling the slightly shorter man close to him in a side-on hug. Overcome with the mood, he squeezed warmly at the muscular body of his teammate through the glossy feel of their football shirts and black hoodies, and slid his smartphone from the pockets of his pale jeans. `Let's get a pic,' he called brashly into Trent's ear, enjoying the glimmer of close contact between his moving lips and the warm skin of the other man's face, but holding himself back from fully nuzzling in against his smooth cheek or the smell of his neck. Instead, he just pulled Alexander-Arnold in against him in a tighter hug and hoisted his phone above to snap the selfie, capturing their grinning faces and reflective sunglasses lenses, the red victory scarves draped about broad shoulders.

Trent laughed, pulling back at him in a laddish gesture that belied the tenderness in his fingertips. No, here, that is NOT how you take a selfie, old man,' the younger player teased, pushing Jordan in front of him slightly, making the captain blush a little and try harder to angle his arm upwards and get a better shot of them. They turned, changing the view behind them to capture a better view of the parade action around them. Better,' chided Trent playfully, positioned beside and slightly behind him, able to slide a discreet hand under the loose hoodie and brush very briefly against his muscular side through the shirt.

`Oh shurrup,' Hendo mumbled happily, reviewing the flurry of selfie shots on his phone, enjoying the sight of their smiles together, just the two of them rather than one of the many wider team photos they'd both posed in already in the Sunday celebrations. He enjoyed the feel of Trent's arm sliding about his shoulders now, hugging him warmly, and when he turned to glance at his young lover, he found it a bit harder not to just lean in and snog him. One kiss is all it takes.

`Neeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeco,' roared another voice close by, and the bellowed name sent a guilty shiver down Henderson's spine beneath his footy shirt and hooded top.

But the beautiful Welsh youth was not here, other than digitally; the bellowed voice belonged to 19-year-old Harvey Elliott, dancing raucously a few yards down the side of the bus, waving his phone in the air in a wilder incarnation of Hendo's own selfie attempts. Even from this angle, you could make out the screen of the talented teen's phone - it was obvious that he was video calling his pal to wherever Neco Williams was already on summer holiday, his Championship season long over. It had occurred to Jordan a couple of times that the young defender might be invited back to Anfield for today's action, and he'd been ambivalently relieved when he found out this was not the case.

But there he was, on some boat trip in the Mediterranean somewhere, singing along on-screen with the same Calvin Harris hit as curly-haired Elliott, who was hugged close to Jones, Morton and Kelleher, clearly wanting to make the loan player feel involved in the outcome of a season he'd missed whilst at Fulham.

It jolted and chilled Hendo, breaking his moment of absolute happiness. He must have stiffened up or wore his conflict on his face, because Trent's fingers were pressing in against his bicep and the West Derby lad was doing his best to speak discreetly to him against the roaring crowd noise and throbbing dance music. `What is it?' the right-back was mouthing at him, or some question to that effect.

Hendo turned a slightly glassy, fixed smile on him, making a scoffing gesture intended to convey that nothing at all could possibly be wrong. He tried to ignore the nearby video call and his own rush of guilt, just clumsily belting out the words to a soaring chorus that was playing overhead, grabbing and shaking Trent as if to encourage him to dance, before breaking out some dad-dancing moves of his own, resuming the party.

One kiss is all it takes!' hollered Harvey Elliott, muscling in alongside the other young elements of the jubilant Liverpool squad. He bopped vigorously to the fading outro of the Calvin Harris track, punching playfully at lanky Curtis and Caoimhin, then grabbing and shaking the shoulders of young Tyler, jostling with the taller youths. He frowned, realising who was missing from their little crew. Neco,' he exclaimed, mainly to himself, but he saw a flash of sadness on the other lads' face that signalled their agreement. `Video call?' the 19-year-old questioned generally, tugging his phone out of the front pouch pocket of his hoodie.

In moments, the device was connecting to their lads to their missing musketeer, chatting with the Wales player from his holiday on a Greek island that Harvey couldn't remember the name of. Neco looked like he was having a great time, though distinctly sober compared to the young players' early evening tipsiness, and there was a serious edge to his face and tone as he failed to quite return the enthusiasm of Harvey bellowing out his name to the tune of the next dance track. In fact, it quickly felt as if Williams didn't really want to speak to them, frowning and pouting at the camera as if he resented their enjoyment without him - and Harvey rapidly wound up the call and blew a cheeky kiss at the camera before hanging up on his buddy.

The contact was brief, but in the hot mood of the evening, surrounded by all this ravey carnage, it made Harvey long for the days when he and Neco had been housemates - he thought of those smoked joints on the roof of that family home, and the mischief it had led to as his first seeds of curiosity took place. He'd toyed uncertainly with Williams' boundaries, unable to really admit to himself that he was quite smitten with the other lad's angelic looks and chilled demeanour - it was a crush that had faded, with a bit of effort, but he thought fondly of those playful nights with Neco before they moved apart. Innocent times in his earlier teens, he thought, stirred by lockdown boredom.

Who had Neco's mystery man been? It had shocked Harvey when he later found out that his mate had taken things further and was in some ambiguous relationship with a married fella. Williams had been so fucking cagey about it. Scraps of clues, at best. Harvey had marvelled at this, and for many months had cheekily mocked and pestered his mate with banter on the topic, criticising his hidden soppy side... at the time, it had seemed ridiculous that the Welsh romantic was getting seriously involved with someone whilst Harvey was flirting dangerously with any number of options.

But now, looking back on that, had he really just been a bit jealous...? Specifically, maybe, since his youthful admiration for Williams was hard to shake; or just generally, wanting a bit more companionship from the guys he got sweaty with?

Suddenly, he was being barged and shaken by the guys nearest to him. `This one is a proper retro banger!' yelped Tyler Morton in reference to a song from about three years ago, leading a rampant burst of dancing from the other young guys down this side of the coach. Harvey was stirred from his brief reverie, clapping hands over his head and leaping up and down to feel less short next to the other teens, yelling out the chorus fiercely.

Yes, tuuuune,' the boisterous Scotsman yelled across at the international DJ who he had quite randomly secured for the party through a bit of Instagram direct messaging - he waved excitedly across the top of the bus at the Dumfries giant behind the decks, and then turned back to the lad at his side, grabbing at those thick shoulders and giving him a vigorous shake. Fuck yes,' he shouted roughly, giving the solid midfielder a shove and a squeeze and then planting a stupid kiss on his cheek with no care for who might be watching.

A little calmer in his enjoyment of the evening, Alex Oxlade-Chamberlain gave him a gentle laugh at this gesture and shook his head slightly in disbelief, a note of friendly warning in his eyes and smile - not here, not now, later. `You wee radgie,' the broad-chested Englishman remarked at him in a low voice only discernible in the drops of sound in the music.

Andy Robertson enjoyed hearing his own accent mocked in the mouth of his lover, and he was enjoying every moment of the Ox's company all the more. Neither of them were really acknowledging it aloud, but they both knew what today marked. Alex's contract was up and his agent's work at Liverpool's offices had petered out - his exit from the club had seemed distantly inevitable all season as his match time dwindled and the midfield roster brimmed with more and more rivalry, but it had never been a prospect that the two secret lovers had properly addressed together.

This victory parade pretty much marked the closing chapter of Alex's Liverpool career, and the reality was only just waking up against Robbo's steadfast head-burying. He felt the unwelcome emotion of it welling in his chest again, as it had repeatedly during the unsuccessful venture to Paris and the Stade de France; he felt the threat of tears and sadness pushing back against his bright smile, and Alex seemed to sense this turn in the party mood. Oi, none of that,' the big strong 28-year-old muttered at him. Don't be soppy, Glasgow.'

Robertson braced himself against the wave of feeling, keeping his eyes locked on Oxlade's and his mouth fixed in a rictus of celebration. Nah, no soppy here, just party party. That's why I got that dickhead in on the decks.' He turned, hanging off Alex's shoulder by one hand. Oi, play One Kiss again!!'

Ox was laughing, pushing him lightly away and casting his eyes about to grab them fresh beers from the box. `He's already played it three times for fuck's sake,' Robbo's boyfriend chided him, and he laughed heartily in response, because that was much easier than exploring how tomorrow would feel - he wasn't sure how much the pair of them were even going to meet up this summer, with their families and holiday plans taking them apart whilst the Ox's football future lay open and uncertain.

`One kiss is all it takes,' Robbo sang madly, at odds with the different track playing around them, and then suddenly he was picturing one kiss, any kiss, with this big beautiful bloke, and his cock strained in his boxer shorts - whatever happened from tomorrow onwards, he thought, he would be getting this hunk alone at some point in tonight's party, and they would be sharing one kiss to remember forever.

The coach was leaving the crowds behind: the more public and official part of the Sunday celebrations were almost over, and though this might be a relief for some, Trent Alexander-Arnold felt a little sad to be leaving the city behind - it had been such an unbelievable thrill to look out on that level of local support, and there was a part of the young man that wanted him to clamber down from this vehicle and just go mingle with the crowds behind the railings and security personnel, to party with the people of Liverpool properly, to embrace that love and pride. The 23-year-old found himself quite emotional about it, having taken the knock of their loss in Paris and then returned to this overwhelming reaction.

Hendo had moved away from him now, was in tight conversation with the gaffer himself, and posing now for photos with the boss and the other coaches, and it left the young Scouser alone for a moment, sipping from a warming beer bottle and grinning happily to himself. Well, that was a good reason for not climbing off the bus and entering the crowds that they were leaving behind as the vehicle veered off the parade route and exited the more central city areas of their designated route - it would be stopping soon and alternative transport methods would carry them all on to the big organised party that would formally close their hard-fought season.

And it was a party that Trent felt himself particularly keen on... not just for the obvious chance to drink too much and pull dubious shapes on an impromptu dance-floor with all the lads, but for the chance to be closer to the captain. He turned over his shoulder to watch Jordan in profile, a strong and handsome figure from here, currently grabbed and sandwiched between Mané and Van Dijk, pulling faces for a camera held by Alisson; all through the parade, the Sunderland-born midfielder had drawn repeatedly close to him, incredibly tactile with his hugs and pats, not to mention the lingering looks over the frames of their sunglasses. He could feel Jordan's hot desire for him - or was he just projecting his own?

For Trent, the week or so that had passed since the night in Hendo's swimming pool had been one of extreme highs and lows: moments of indulgent bliss to remember the hot sex that he'd experienced there, taken under his skipper's powerful naked body; but also surges of panic and self-deprecation where he told himself that Hendo was happily married and a total clean-cut stud, who surely had no need of an average-looking side-piece to complicate his cereal box lifestyle. Trent, whilst supremely confident about his footballing abilities, had never possessed the strongest self-esteem about his looks or his values in a relationship: a string of apathetic girlfriends in his teens and a general pattern of being used and dismissed in his male sexual partners had done little to improve this. It was tough for him to believe that Henderson might be interested in him, though the constant looks and touches today were fighting against his innate pessimism.

As if on cue...

He was being hugged from behind, and he recognise the bulging pecs against his back and the thick arms enclosing his sides. Trentyyy,' sang Oxlade-Chamberlain into his ear, and suddenly Robbo was in sight, dancing close to him and pulling 90s rave shapes in his face: big fish, little fish, cardboard box. Our fave boy,' the Scotsman said gruffly, pretending to tweak one of his nips through his red Liverpool shirt where his hoodie fell open down the middle. `How's it going, sexy?'

Trent just grinned at them and wriggled out of Ox's cuddle. He had a lot of love for these two, but also a self-preserving wariness - he suspected that neither of the loved up blokes actually realised how much it had upset him to be briefly tangled in their relationship and then cast aside when the novelty wore off and they just wanted privacy.

`We might sneak aside for a bit at the party,' Robertson muttered at him in the same gruff Glaswegian growl - the music was lower now that they'd left the busy street behind, and their hired DJ seemed to be hobnobbing with players rather than doing whatever it was he actually did behind the decks.

`You know, have a little party of our own,' Alex butted in, winking slyly and draping one of his arms about Andy's shoulders. The pair of them grinned meaningfully this way, and Trent smirked shyly back at them - he was conscious that this must be quite an important occasion for them, since it was pretty public knowledge that Oxlade-Chamberlain had not renewed his contract at the club. Their loose invite could be offensive, he thought, given their casual attitude to his feelings and involvement in the past... but Trent felt more fondness and gratitude to the pair than any potential resentment, because their openness with him and the way they interacted with each other had really helped him. Compared to his confused forays on his knees for the likes of Gomez and Salah - both celebrating loudly only a few metres away right now - this pair of rugged footy studs had shown him that he could maybe have a more meaningful connection with a lad. Okay, so things with that Everton rat hadn't turned out so well, but the influence of Alex and Andy had allowed Trent to hope for an actual relationship, and had encouraged him to take those chances with Jonjo Kenny - for better or for worse.

He was glad that the freckled Scottish defender and the burly midfielder had taken him under their wings and shared so much with him in secret. `Oh?' he remarked casually, leaning back with his arms pushed against the rails of the coach-top. He just smiled blandly at them, refusing to follow their flirty hint with anything more.

You know,' Ox said, as if he hadn't picked up on their hint, just a bit of time away from the main party, and-'

`You up for it or not?' Robertson blurted in a low but pressing voice, all eagerness and energy as he leaned in closer and stroked one of Trent's shoulders for a moment, before glancing furtively about him.

Trent just smiled comfortably at the guys. I think I'll be okay,' he told them - he certainly wasn't going to risk being in the wrong room with these two if there was a chance of slipping away for a different kind of intimacy with Jordan Henderson. He saw the mild, pleasant surprise on the other guys' faces, but then blushed deeply as Andy whispered his response: Oh I see, this one has OTHER plans, does he? Good for you, kiddo, good for you!' And then both Robbo and the Ox were booming with laughter and grabbing him in a group hug.

Who do you think he's hooking up with?' Oxlade-Chamberlain hissed in Robertson's ear, following him out of the smaller minibus, one of several that had swept the Liverpool players out of the city and to the edges of this Merseyside golf club. Or do you think he just didn't want to be a gooseberry...?' He stared meaningfully at the lad next to him, then glancing behind him to make sure that nobody else was listening in.

Robbo just chuckled, bouncing from foot to foot and wheeling around on him as they strolled through the car park. `How the fuck should I know?' the Glaswegian guy barked quite loudly at him, refusing to get drawn into any whispered intimacy out here around so many of their teammates. This was the brash public Andrew, he knew, very different from the murmuring romantic he could become when they were tangled in sheets together. He loved both versions equally.

The pair of them drifted forward in the general cheerful mass of guys, still carrying on as if they were celebrating publicly on the top of a bus - but things had moved on from that, and the venue here would host a more private LFC party for the rest of Sunday night. Tomorrow would bring holiday freedom for most, though Robertson and many others would be moving on almost instantly to international training camps for the Nations League etc. Alex stared thoughtfully at the simple white structures of the cricket clubhouse, remembering a prior event at this same place - it was a cricket club owned by a member of the Liverpool executive board, and it had hosted their delayed League win back in the summer of 2020... a momentous and messy night for many reasons, but one of more personal significance to himself and his Caledonian lover, who had first fucked in a hidden corner of this clubhouse, walked in on by a bewildered Trent too.

Ox smiled vaguely to himself at this memory, feeling the rush of love for his friends, but also the wistful sadness of change - who knew what life would bring as he parted ways with Liverpool? He wasn't ruling out a continued secret affair with Robbo, but he was realistic. Their family commitments made it hard to spend much time together even now when they played on the same team week after weak - if he ended up playing in the south of England, would they ever really be able to hook up and enjoy each other in the same way...? He, and he guessed Andy too, were reassured by the knowledge that their friendship itself would survive regardless, fucking or not.

Bar staff were greeting them on the clubhouse's terrace with buckets of champagne and freshly poured flutes. He took one gladly, having drunk slowly and carefully on the bus parade, but ready now to knock the bubbles back and let himself relax. He'd wanted to stay smiley and positive during the victory parade, not to get emotional and regretful about the fact he was at the end of his Anfield journey.

A friendly young barmaid laughed at his speedy drinking and offered him an immediate refill, which he took gladly, before turning to Robbo and clinking their flutes together. `To best mates,' the 28-year-old said quietly, and Andy's eyes twinkled back at him, privately mournful behind the cheek openness of his smile.

With a series of polite smiles, Curtis Jones bobbed through the crowd and skipped the proffered champagne - the young Scouser hadn't really developed a taste for the fizzy stuff, and he sped on to the bar area to pick up a different drink. The staff were still setting up, but a patient manager still helped him out, politely ignoring his stammer as he indecisively chose drinks and got a pair of whiskey and cokes. `T-t-thanks,' the lanky youth stuttered back at her, a little annoyed with himself for slipping back into speech problems he'd largely moved on from, except that today was an exciting one and he'd felt very self-conscious up on the coaches in front of so many people.

His drinking buddy had caught up with him, grabbing him roughly by the shoulder before muscling into him and snatching one of the two drinks. Fuck yes,' Harvey Elliott sighed gladly. Quality stuff,' he declared, as if he was some experienced connoisseur and not just a lucky well-paid teenager.

Jones grinned at his mate and shyly decided against the chance for a witty comeback. He could have pointed out that the last time the pair of them had been at an event here, it had been the 2020 League title celebrations, and Elliott hadn't even been old enough to legally drink, stuck with a childish wristband that barred him from being served, whilst Curtis himself had been knocking back beers with the senior players and joining their stupid antics on the dancefloor whilst Jurgen Klopp attempted to breakdance.

Instead, he stared across the bar area to the naff, amateurish DJ booth, where international superstar Calvin Harris was hilariously getting set up. Mad,' the 6ft1 young lad declared, watching this technical faff. As if we literally have C-c-calvin Harris playing for us in our own private party, haha, in this place.' He giggled and looked about them, shaking his head. `This is all m-m-mad.'

Harvey always managed to look so cool and unaffected about things like that, shrugging his broad shoulders, a short but stoutly muscular next to him in the same dark tracksuit. And? We're superstars just like him, bruv. It's what we deserve, innit.' The goateed lad winked naughtily beneath the curly mop of his hair. You and me, we're gonna be massive, Golden Boots aplenty mate.' They both laughed and sipped from their drinks.

Quickly, their conversation turned to their separate holiday plans, but also the imminent interruptions to that caused by international action: both lads had received their call-up for the England U21s squad, and would be played in qualifier matches for a Euros tournament. Though Harvey had joked a lot about disappointment that the two of them weren't yet joining Trent Alexander-Arnold in Southgate's senior line-up, the youth competition remained an exciting prospect and Curtis was buzzing to travel down to the training camp in a couple of days - all the more buzzing to be sharing the experience with a close friend like Harvey, who was newer to the U21 team.

`I'm g-glad that G-gallagher moved on to the main squad,' the 21-year-old found himself muttering, around the same point as finishing his first whiskey-and-coke. They had been idly discussing some of their U21 teammates, as well as the paths of other young Lions who had progressed to the main national team.

Harvey started at this, turning over and waving his hand casually at a barman, gesturing for two more drinks as if he was some mafia don rather than a 19-year-old scally. He leaned casually back on the bar and Curtis glanced at his 5ft7 younger pal, once again admiring his supreme self-confidence and charismatic presence.

`What's wrong with Conor?' his friend demanded.

Curtis made a vague huffing noise. `Just a bit- Well, I dunno. A bit of an odd one, y'know?'

`Not really. What do you mean? Always seemed sound to me.'

The interior of the bar was filling up now, since the terrace area outside was a lot less sun-soaked than it had been two summers ago on the night of their historic League win. Curtis flinched and shrugged, wishing he hadn't steered the topic in this direction. Never mind it,' he insisted quietly. They both turned around to receive their fresh drinks form the barman, who seemed to glare resentfully at Harvey's quiet arrogance. The 19-year-old just smirked, and nudged an elbow at Curtis. Go on,' the other player insisted. What the fuck's wrong with Conor Gallagher? He's gonna be massive, y'know, if he goes back to Chelsea and gets in Tuchel's plans. He's been epic at Palace, really.' Harvey puffed himself up after a big swig from his glass. A good loan season can do amazing things for a guy's career,' he announced sagely, as if he was a good ten years older and reminiscing on his own Blackburn Rovers day from a bigger distance.

Curtis laughed hesitantly at this pomposity, but then frowned shyly. `I'm not saying he isn't talented. Or a hard worker. Erm.'

What, then?' Harvey insisted, their voices dropping as the clubhouse got busier with their teammates and other members of Liverpool personnel. Suddenly, the confident winger was leaning in against the bar in a provocative mime of someone having a cheeky sniff. Curtis blanched and Harvey burst out laughing. Okay - so he's just a coke-head, is that it?'

That,' Curtis muttered darkly, and - other stuff.' He went from pale to blushing and stiffened up uncomfortably, slurping from his glass and wondering how he could get Harvey to move on to another topic. He glanced back at the DJ booth and thought about making another fanboy comment on their entertainment arrangements, but then Harvey tugged on his sleeve and gave him a more friendly, concerned look, dropping his brash laddishness.

He do anything to upset you, bud?' the Surrey-born youngster demanded. He been taking the piss out of your stammer? I'll knock his fucking lights out, mate.'

Not that,' the midfielder said back quickly, just... a bit handsy, you know? Erm.'

Harvey's eyes bulged. `Eh?'

Curtis frowned at both his own awkward wording, his failure to stop the conversation, and the memory itself. He thought of that bit of experimental drug-taking with the over-confident young lad - who, now he thought about it, was similar in character to his Liverpool buddy right here - and the way Conor had ended up jerking him off in a coked-up frenzy in a hotel a few international sessions ago. Curtis had been so horrified by his own willingness to let it happen, his own ability to blow a load with another lad's hand on him, that he'd almost faked sickness or injury to get out of U21 call-ups two or three times since.

`What happened?' Harvey asked. Curtis didn't quite pick up on how eager and excited his friend sounded - after all, he was reminiscing glumly on what he'd let himself get involved in, both the drug and the physical stuff. It was just one time, he reminded himself, it doesn't make you gay or nothing.

He attempted to explain the scenario to his pal but struggled, his stammer going wild on almost every consonant. Harvey put a kindly hand to his shoulder. Chill bruv,' he said quietly, it just sounds like you had a bit of fun, that's all, and maybe this Gallagher lad is a bit of a kinky weirdo or something, but you don't need to feel bad or anything. God, you're a dark horse - never knew you had it in you, big lad.' Jones laughed and blushed some more - he was surprised that his dirty secret had brought this kind of admiration from the hard-faced youth, rather than a sneer of disgust or disapproval. He smiled uncertainly, not sure what to say to any of that.

`I'd rather j-just forget about it,' he mumbled through a nervous chuckle.

Huh. Maybe. Or maybe you should just think how there's probably a loada lads wanting a go on your massive schlong, you absolute beast, haha.' Harvey slapped him hard on the back, a warm and reassuring touch for the shy 21-year-old, who kept on chuckling awkwardly to himself, feeling his friend's hand rest there for a moment longer than seemed normal. He shrugged again, stumbling over his topic change - Shall we go see what everyone else is chatting about? Erm - j-j-just forget that, buddy, don't tell anyone else please, yeh...?'

`Lips, sealed.' Harvey grinned wickedly at him and mimed a zipping of his lips, and the two Liverpool youngsters left the bar behind with their half-finished mixers, entering the mingling mass of teammates and staff.

Mo Salah was sipping from a sparkling soft drink, still out on the terrace of the cricket venue, taking in the party atmosphere in a way that was outwardly very measured and humble - everybody was trying to congratulate him on his part in the season, and the 29-year-old was doing his best to just nod humbly along and stay relaxed. He'd already put out some vague suggestions that he wouldn't be staying for very long, as a non-drinker - what he hadn't mentioned to the few different guys he'd hinted this too, however, was that the semi in his sweatpants was the main reason he was feeling the need to travel home from the end-of-season event.

It was the atmosphere, Mo supposed - the wildness of the home crowds had surprised him as much as anyone, but there had also been the reciprocal energy and excitement of the Liverpool players around him. The banging music like they were on some far-flung beach bar, the frantic dancing and whooping sing-song... the sweaty bodies jostling in tracksuits, and his own muscular confidence brimming beneath his close-fitting Liverpool shirt. Was it normal to get a second burst of teenage hormones as you approached 30? The Egyptian man had not felt so frisky or restless for a decade and a half.

And there he was, the teen dream himself.

Mohamed paused, losing focus on the loose chat he was involved in with Thiago and Jota, and stared across the quieter outside area, watching as Harvey Elliott emerged from the French windows of the clubhouse, fiddling with the pockets of his tracksuit bottoms. The teen glanced left and right, not seeming to notice Salah himself, and then scurried away down some steps out of view of the terrace. Salah made a quick and quiet excuse to the other two footballers and strode across the terrace, abandoning his soft drink on a table on the way - and then disappearing down the steps into a shaded patch to the side of the white building where the teenaged footballer was hunched over to light a cigarette.

Harvey gave him a look that was somewhere between frosty and bemused. `You taking up nicotine, pal?' the 19-year-old asked him with a hint of confrontation to his voice.

Mo paused on the bottom step, which at least gave him some slight height advantage over the other 5ft9 player, though the striker was much broader and more maturely muscled than the youth. He paused, unsure what to say. `Suck my dick' seemed a bit out of order, but it was what he was thinking. He watched those lips purse around a lit roll-up, and he wrinkled his nose at the smell of it - he wasn't convinced that nicotine or tobacco were key ingredients in what the young winger was inhaling. But regardless, he wanted the young lad's mouth pursed around his sweaty dick instead.

`Want a drag?' Elliot offered, all cheeky innocence.

`If the boss sees you with that,' he muttered with ominous vagueness.

`Will you be telling him?' the 19-year-old demanded quietly.

I might,' Salah barked back, but keeping his voice equally low and discreet. Unless you convince me to keep it to myself.' He heard the cynical and blatant blackmail in his low growl, and he hated himself for it. But surely the teenager wanted the same thing that he did - he thought of how keen, almost desperate, the lad had been when sucking him off in the past, leading him astray!

Harvey was fixing him with a curious and unreadable look. Was he indecisive? Tempted? Contemptuous? The uncertainty of their dialogue left the world-famous striker shifting from foot to foot, and rubbing sweaty palms on the thighs of his tracksuit pants. He was very aware that HArvey's sneaky smoking spot really wasn't very far from the busy party environment after all, and his own silhouette was probably still visible to those on the terrace. He felt sweat prickle at his chest and his pits and between his powerful legs, and he scowled impatiently at the skilled cock-sucker who had woken up these passions in him - and then tried to push him into crossing more lines last time! He could still remember the sour taste of a man's cock against his tongue, briefly but damningly explored. In his head, his own slip of rules was 100% this young scoundrel's fault.

Tell who you want,' Elliott sighed a little dismissively. It's cool with me.'

Salah grunted vaguely. He scratched his chin, caught between calm dignity and an impatient lusty anger. `Is that so,' he answered after a long pause, unsure what to do or say next.

Harvey stared provocatively at him, leaning back against the corner of white plaster, sucking on his joint in short little drags, then letting snakes of blue-grey smoke curl from his attractive pink lips. As he did so, one of his wandering hands moved over the front of his LFC shirt and down against the crotch of his dark pants, toying there and drawing Mo's eyes dangerously towards it - the loathsome kid knew EXACTLY what he was doing, Mohamed thought, sure that he was being mocked and forced to remember the reciprocation that he'd been lured into in that European hotel basement. He scowled again and stepped back a couple of steps, feeling the sweat dampen the back of his neck.

Enjoy the party,' Harvey said lightly, and the three words seemed to translate as Fuck off' as he grinned. Mo thought of how friendly the teen had been towards him at the FA Cup win at Wembley not so long ago, bouncing around wearing a cardboard cut-out of his face as a mask - and the young upstart mouthed off loudly about what an icon Salah was in public, being quite the perfect fan-boy. And yet here in private... He realised that it would cost him too much to get further involved with the youth, who was clearly no longer up for anyway one-way action. Salah felt queasy at his brief return, touching and then tasting the thick pink member of the younger athlete, ugh.

You too,' he snapped sourly. Put that out before somebody sees you, you idiot.' And, as if that warning was his only purpose here, and not the growing bulge in his sweatpants, the Egyptian forward spun around and marched back onto the terrace, glad of a cool breeze playing against his hot sweaty skin, turning his back on the little trouble-maker who he was sure was staring at him as he left.

James Milner held court at the centre of the Liverpool party with the easy charm and confidence of a 36-year-old man who was still being praised for his work rate and stamina on the pitch, happy to sup on his pint and relax in the midst of a team that he truly loved. Currently, he was enjoying the frantic banter of the nearest players on why Liverpool were definitely the best team in Europe, in spite of Real Madrid's trophy yesterday. Milner was experienced and wise enough now to sit comfortably between two sides of the discussion: he was not going to make churlish boasts or slurs regarding the Spanish team who had beaten them, but nor would he wallow in defeat and bemoan their number 2 spot in either the Champions or Premier League. He could look contentedly at the hard work and succes of this season, and think optimistically about next - after all, for all his mega fitness and energy, the seasoned Yorkshireman knew he was in the final chapter of his career, and he just wanted to enjoy everything that came his way.

As calm and level-headed as he was, he was still feeling something of the same frisky syndrome as the Egyptian striker who had just marched indoors with a sour expression on his face, unnoticed by anyone other than Milner. Salah strode by a few metres away, making his way to the bar with an empty glass clutched in one hand and the other rubbing worriedly across his forehead. He looked pissed off.

Milner watched him from a distance, and then separated from his current little gathering with a pat to the nearest shoulder and a gentle smile. His exit was not greeted with much attention, especially because a screech of static announced the turning on of the speakers and the commencement of their guest's DJ set, which reverberated through the small venue in an instant. Milner laughed at the roar of approval it triggered in the room, and positioned himself in the way just as Mo Salah made to leave the bar, having politely left his empty glass there for collection.

`All good?' the Leeds-born midfielder asked him, standing squarely in his way.

Mo looked briefly alarmed at the interruption, but after blinking and sighing, he nodded. Actually, I am just going to make a quiet exit,' he began vaguely. I am not really in the mood - it has been a long week. I must go home and...'

James put a big rough palm to his arm. `Already? Stay for one more, mate.'

`I don't even drink.'

`No, but you can still enjoy yourself.'

`Hmm. I really think I will just-'

Give it a minute, yeah?' He laughed lightly, grinning broadly at the respected striker, and pulling him into a warm hug, chest to chest. Dropping his voice, he murmured in his ear, Is it the same lad bothering you again?'

Salah pulled away and scowled inwardly. `Let's not discuss that-'

James laughed warmly and shrugged his big shoulders. So sending him away to another club didn't help matters, eh?' He folded his thick arms over his chest. Well, it doesn't always work. We all have needs, I suppose.' He saw the Egyptian's immediate frowning dismay, the furrowing of his thick dark brows and the worry lines about his bright eyes. Oh, don't worry, matey - you must have guessed I'd been there myself, kinda, or I wouldn't have known how to help you out when you confided in me last time. I had my own reasons for wanting that little clown off the scene for a bit.' He shrugged and patted one of Mo's muscular arms through his nylon sleeves. But it's all good, all good - try not to let it worry you, he's just a young idiot. Not a real bloke like you or I, eh?'

Salah made a little awkward snort of laughter at this, looking away and rubbing his hands together in front of him. `I'm not really sure what you mean.' James smiled at his reluctance and shyness - in a moment of stress, the surprisingly curious man had pretty much admitted his secret trysts with Harvey Elliott over a year ago, and Milner had used what influence he had to encourage that the teen vanished on his loan deal to Rovers, suiting his own more complicated dynamic with the young footballer. He hadn't meant to get into anything complex with the smirking teenager, and he certainly hadn't expected to be the one to take his virginity; afterwards, he'd become terrified that Elliott would either develop some problematic crush on him, or go mouthing off to others about it. And yet, returning from his loan season, Harvey actually seemed quite relaxed and discreet, and James no longer held those worries about his teammate. This left him in a comfortable enough position to slightly enjoy Salah's discomfort from a patronising high ground.

`Let's go take a minute away from the noise,' Milner offered quietly.

As the DJ set boomed on nearby, Salah looked relieved but hesitant. `Where? Why?'

Milner shrugged loosely. `We should chat, mate.'

`What about?' the other footballer insisted, tensing up.

He patted and stroked his arm again and nodded away towards the doors. Come on, I reckon I can put your mind at ease a bit. Give me five minutes. And then I'll let you sneak out of the party and I'll make any excuses you want on your behalf.' He gave him a big, hearty smile. Deal?'

Mo frowned but nodded. `Deal.'

Jordan Henderson now found himself in quite a predicament: he had imagined himself being able to slip away from the heart of the celebrations, given the sprawling venue that the club had booked out for them, and the chaotic energy brought by a celebrity DJ on site. But he was, after all, the much-loved captain of the squad, and so almost every time he moved from one spot, he was being grabbed and hugged and congratulated or thanked by someone different, the reward or punishment for being a permanent Mr Nice Guy in the football club. And of course the 31-year-old could beam his big white smile in their faces and return the hugs and handshakes or bust a silly dance move with them, but his eyes were nervously roving the crowd to keep track of Trent's movements, and then flicker down to the heavy gold watch on one wrist, knowing that there was a countdown to his `freedom'.

Once again, Hendo swung away from an encounter, yelling happily at the two members of support staff who had been graciously telling him what a wonderful leader he was for the younger players, and he moved quickly away, his eyes hunting for one young player in particular.

But then his path was blocked by two of his closer cronies, and he was being grabbed into a thick hug by both Robbo and the Ox in one go, squashed between their sweaty strength, one of his ears twisted playfully and his short brown hair ruffled by an invasive paw. Laughing, he pulled away from them slightly.

Where are you off to?' Alex was demanding crossly. We wanna see some dad dancing!'

`Aye, innit brilliant havin' a proper DJ here?' Andy yelled in his face.

Both lads seemed drunker than Henderson might have expected, although Robertson had been pretty boisterous on the buses and, to be fair, where Robertson went, Oxlade-Chamberlain always followed. Hendo stopped and grinned at the pair, jerking his shoulders stupidly in a half-arsed robot dance, then insisting loudly to them that he had to go and make a phone call. There was vocal protest and much grabbing of his arms and shoulder, but he managed to leave the rowdy twosome behind, pausing briefly to glance back at their ensuing hug, and wondering exactly how big a secret he was keeping for the two, and whether the pair of them had even the faintest idea that he was keeping it. Of course, he'd already been falling for Neco when he happened to overhear their private discussions about having sex with each other, but even without his own sexual development, he thought he would have done the captainly thing and held silent about the apparent affair between the two buddies - who was he to judge? He'd even agonised over whether he should confront them about it and make sure they were okay, but he couldn't imagine that being anything but awkward.

Pausing there on the edge of the throng of drunken dancers, the party really getting going now, Hendo looked back at the two other blokes with a sudden realisation: but Alex would be transferring to another club in the next couple of months, surely? Where would that leave the two of them? He thought about his brief intimacy with his own best mate, and the way Adam Lallana had so promptly had to leave Anfield, and then of Neco being loaned to Fulham - he knew the pain of those separations, and the strain on... friendship.

I'll have to keep an eye on Andy next season, he thought sadly, hoping that their connection was less serious than he suspected, and that the plucky Scotsman would be okay.

Jordan's kind-hearted thinking was interrupted as his roving eyes met those of Trent, positioned by one of two pillars adjacent to the bar, leaning his shoulder against it and sipping silently from a beer bottle on his own. Jordan stayed still, people dashing and rocking past him, and stared hungrily at the cute face of the 23-year-old, who then nodded discreetly in another direction, to the broad passages that led through into the rest of the clubhouse. And with that, the young right-back was moving rapidly away, and the Liverpool captain was following in a hurry, leaving the bar and makeshift dance-floor behind.

He glanced once over his shoulder to make sure he was not being followed, then hurried down the corridor and through the half-open door that Trent was holding for him, vanishing after him into an office space of sorts. He shoved the door shut hard behind him and looked for some kind of lock, but none was evident - that hunt was quickly stalled by Trent lunging at him and grabbing hold of him. His hands felt greedy and confident but his face was nervous, making it all the more beautiful to Jordan.

`Fuck,' he sighed, then snogged the 23-year-old, kissing him deeply and passionately and palcing both strong hands about his neck, a controlled and protective gesture that seemed to make the young Liverpudlian melt in against him. The two men kissed for several long minutes, doing and saying nothing else.

God,' murmured Trent weakly when the kiss broke. I needed that. Thank you.'

Why are you thanking me?' Hendo muttered playfully back, stroking his fingers against one soft cheek and taking the other hand to rub over the man's tight shoulders. Shut up and let me kiss you, okay?' He snogged him again, more roughly, holding him at the sides and reaching one hand down to pat and squeeze his bottom through his sweatpants. He broke the kissing again, but only to scoot across the office and grab a chair. He saw Trent's vague alarm, but he knew they needed to be safe. He lodged the chair in place to `lock' the office door and buy them some privacy, and then grabbed the front of Trent's red footy shirt and pulled him in for a third long snog, then took one of his hands and pushed it against the front of his own tracksuit bottoms.

Feel that?' the Mackem football captain growled. Mmm. That's all for you, T.'

When Harvey Elliott was reunited with Curtis Jones by the random whirlwind of the party atmosphere, he was glad to see his friend seem a bit loosened up by a couple more drinks, and he grabbed him in a tight hug. `What was that f-for?' the slightly older player slurred at him with a smile, elbowing him away but seeming pleased to see him.

Nowt,' he said sharply. Don't get excited.'

Jones laughed at this, playing with the collar of his footy shirt, and bopping loosely on the spot, turning away to look about them, seeming to actually tense up at his presence, disappointingly. Harvey rubbed his back lightly. `Enjoying yourself?' he shouted in his tall pal's ear, craning up to do so, and raising his voice over the blast of music.

Yeah,' Curtis said, but he gave him a worried look. He leaned in very close, so close that the lads' curly hair rubbed and their sweaty brows momentarily clashed. I w-w-wish I hadn't told you that stuff before, mate. I was stupid, I just-'

Hey, hey... don't be worrying! You think I'd tell anyone? Chill bruv, chill!' He patted him on the back and reached up to squeeze his high shoulder. Seriously, CJ, you worry too much! It's all good!' He was still shouting over the music, but he had to mouth the next bit for discretion: `You got your dick played with, no big deal!'

Curtis' eyes bulged and he pulled awkwardly away, taking this as a mocking jibe. Harvey sighed frustratedly, but he knew not many young blokes were as fluid and relaxed as he was about these things. He yanked him at the elbow. `Come outside with me for a minute, bruv!' And he shuffled away, confident that his friend would follow, navigating the shifting bodies of the drunk dancing that had kicked off, finding his way back onto the now-deserted terrace and flopping into an outdoor seat. After a moment, the 21-year-old was with him, slowly folding down into the next seat and resting his chin on his knuckles moodily.

Stop worrying about it,' Harvey said, patting his pockets for his smoking stuff, then deciding that he shouldn't give Curtis anything more to be paranoid about. He leaned in close and confidentially with his buddy. Honest, stuff like that happens, I mean I've been in those situations myself, so-'

You have?' the gangly midfielder barked at him in surprise. What, when? Who with?'

Harvey laughed mysteriously at this - oh, if only he knew! Now and then, this and that,' he said with a general wave of his hand. It's no big deal.' Then he winked and sniggered. `I mean, you ARE a big deal, I've showered with you enough to be aware of that, Cj...!'

Fuck off,' huffed Jones through nervous laughter. I never would have thought. Well. I guess if it's happened to you, then I don't feel so ridiculous. You really let a guy wank you off?'

And then some, Harvey thought cynically, thinking of the loads that had hit the back of his throat since he first sucked off Joe Gomez and Trent Alexander-Arnold at this very venue on a drunken whim almost two years ago, star-struck and overwhelmed. All that seedy action since ran through his head with a mixture of dirty pride and slightly unsettling self-awareness.

It's all just fun,' he said brightly and honestly, with just a hint of doubt - had he always felt good about what he'd done afterwards, or had he sometimes felt his friend's worry and shame? It was hard to know in the brittle drunkenness of tonight. We're footy lads, we need to let off steam. Reckon it's always going on. Don't fret. I mean, did you enjoy it? Did it feel good, what you did with Conor...? Or were you just too coked to know, haha.'

`Huh, bit of that... but er, I mean, I did er... f-finish, so-'

Haha, bet you spunked all over the smug Chelsea twat, did ya?!' Both of them laughed gloriously at this stupidity, and Harvey hugged his arm against his buddy's back, sitting very close to him over the two chairs, ignored and alone out here on the terrace. Legend,' he told him, patting higher up his back, so that his fingers grazed the fuzz on the back of his neck, and Curtis looked at him with a broad bashful grin, arms hanging loosely over his lap. There was a moment's quiet between them, against the clubby backdrop of dance music that poured from the French windows.

`Want me to get some more drinks?' Curtis asked softly, shifting his neck a little as Harvey's fingers and thumb played against his skin.

Harvey shrugged one shoulder. Maybe.' He stared thoughtfully at the tall lad. He'd never have described CJ as... handsome, as such. A bit too tall for his own good, a shy and awkward guy compared to your average footy player, and cheeks scarred with some acne - but he was cute, wasn't he? A dopey, earnest kinda cute, and definitely one of his closest mates here, especially without Neeks. And he had meant what he joked before: everything was very in proportion' on the 6ft1 Scouser.

Something held him back, making him keep his hand at the warm skin of the lad's neck, rather than running down his back to find the waistband of his undies and tug demandingly at them, like he increasingly wanted to. He thought of the fat cock he'd seen bouncing about in the showers, now nestled in the front of those tracky bottoms. Maybe not a drink,' he said now. Maybe something else, for now.' His other hand found the outline of his lighter and baccy tin in one pocket.

Curtis grinned in a docile, contented way, clearly up for going along with whatever he now suggested. The taller lad was leaning in close to him, and one of his hands seemed to over nervously over his own knee as if at any second it might find the confidence to cross over to Harvey's leg. He laughed lightly. `What?' Jones demanded, a touch of nervousness in the little question.

This might be fun, Harvey mused. This hung fucker with no idea how to use his big equipment - had he even had much luck with girls, never mind his exploits with that sleazy Gallagher on England duty? Just how desperate would he be to unload his balls, the big shy geek? Harvey bit his lip, feeling the eagerness well up in his chest. But he was a buddy, and it could make things awkward or creepy - that was different to toying with sensible older men like Salah or Milner, he thought, and did he really want to put himself in a situation where he might, erm, actually FEEL something for a guy...? There was just something about the other lad's vulnerability that he felt drawn too, and he wasn't sure he liked it.

What did you have in mind?' Curtis asked, an air of carefully prepared recklessness about him. Harvey smirked at him. A joint,' he said, watching the flicker of worry or disappointment, then, `to start with, and then we'll see what else we can find.'

Andy slid his fingers discreetly in among Alex's at the opportune moment, when the Calvin Harris set was reaching its crescendo and the small crowd was totally intent on that, some glorious Ibiza moment recreated in the suburban blandness of the golf club. The two of them made their exit from the scene, shifting away down a passage by the bar and quickly onto the stairwell. Neither had said it, but they knew they wanted to be back in the same conference room where it had happened before, and their feet moved almost automatically to find that door and barge into it.

Inside the room, which held such a special memory for them, Andy paused, sweaty and excited, but also weighed by a heavy guilt. `Ox,' he hissed, as the door clicked shut behind him. The 28-year-old was already stripping off, peeling the new Liverpool shirt away in a gradual reveal of his ripped six-pack and chunky pectorals. He paused with the shirt about his neck and shoulders, picking up on Andy's worried tone.

`Look, I wanted to say sorry again...'

`Oh mate, don't-'

`No, come on... I really fucked up, Ox, and I...'

`I've said I forgive you, I said it straight away. It's okay. I know I've been distant.'

`But still - what I did, what I let happen, I was just... I need to explain. Sometimes I just don't feel so confident as everyone thinks and -'

`I know, I know, you think I don't know you that well? Please, just relax...'

I shouldn't have let Joe fuck me,' he grumbled miserably, having regretted the clinch with Gomez ever since. It was so bad of me, especially after everything, after all the times we'd almost... Ergh, man, I feel sick about it, I was just such a dick to you last month, and...'

Alex silenced him with a strong kiss, pushing him back against the door, pressing his bare hard torso in against him, and beginning to drag his shirt off until both footballers were shirtless as they embraced and kissed. Forget it,' Oxlade-Chamberlain commanded him in a quiet growl. I love you, mate, I really do - I don't care what you do, and all I really want is tonight to last forever.' Andy could hear him about to go there, to brave what they'd been carefully not saying for so long. I don't know what happens next,' the midfielder admitted in a quiet voice, but I know we'll always have these memories, and none of them can beat what happened in this room, Andy. Nothing can ever take that from us.'

When you let me inside you,' Andy sighed, his cock aching at the thought of it - that time, and every time since, pushing himself between those big brown cheeks and entering this muscular beauty. I love fucking you so much.'

Alex nodded his agreement, biting his lip for a moment. `But tonight...'

Andy nodded fiercely. `Tonight, I'm letting you in. Promise.'

I'm gonna fuck you so good,' sighed Ox tantalisingly, and it wasn't just Robbo's cock that twitched and throbbed, but his tight inexperienced ring. He panted eagerly and nodded his head more, running his hands down the outside of those big arms. Fuck me,' he hissed. `Fuck me on that table, Alex, fuck me so I remember you forever.'

Jordan was seated in the desk chair where he'd pushed him, and Trent was on his knees in front of him, his upper back clashing occasionally against the wood of the desk, but he didn't care; he bobbed hungrily up and down, using one hand as well as his mouth as he worked the rock hard tower of the captain's cock, slurping up the shaft and letting his tongue roll against the glossy pink head. Every moan from Hendo, every stroke of his fingers against Trent's neck, ear, locs, all of it was encouraging and empowering, and made him want to do an even better job of sucking this beautiful dick. He moaned between mouthfuls and spat heavily against the dick before running his mouth back over it, taking it chokingly deep and rubbing his other hand against one of those mighty hairy thighs.

`Yesss,' moaned the Mackem bloke in a way that Trent might dare to describe as loving.

`Cum for me,' he muttered, pulling his face away from the gorgeous cock, saliva trailing from his plump bottom lip. He stared up along the sturdy muscle of the older man's torso, his eyes meeting Jordan's, so glad at the way the married bloke stared down attentively at him rather than shutting his eyes and facing away... like Salah.

`Yeah?' groaned Henderson, stroking the side of his face and touching his hair in a way he'd never let anyone else.

`I wanna taste it,' Trent grasped freely, not caring how sluttish or desperate he sounded. He'd tasted it once, that mad seeming one-off in the hotel, but he hadn't got to the second time, the time by the pool, and he wanted to fix that now - he wanted this powerful man's seed on his tongue.

`You want every drop?' groaned Hendo in a stern, dominant tone.

`Oh god yes,' Trent whined.

`All of my seed?'

`YES!'

`All over your mouth?'

`Yess...'

`Good, but first, I need to fuck you.'

`Here?'

Yeah,' Jordan growled firmly. Here.'

Trent hadn't expected that, thinking it would just be a quick encounter, and that he'd probably have to go finish off his own hard-on in the toilets alone; he felt unable to believe the way Hendo had quickly returned the favour and blown him by the pool last time, thinking it was a hallucination or a freak incident, he couldn't imagine this blokey football captain going down on him again.

Jordan was pulling him up by one hand, dragging them both away from the desk and tottering on their feet. Trent felt the strong hands on his shirt, ripping it up his body, baring his tummy and chest, while he reached eagerly down to stroke on the captain's cock, and their standing embrace staggering side to side. Jordan's hands were in against his arse now, pushing his undies down with his knuckles, baring his chubby brown cheeks and parting them in a series of grabs before one finger found its way between. Trent whined and snogged at his captain, desperate for it, feeling like he might pass out in this hot small room with him, but needing everything he could give.

`Bend over,' Jordan growled in his ear, and he rapidly complied.

Alex wanted to move slowly and sensuously, to really take it slow and treasure tonight - what if their busy summers made this literally the LAST time they had sex? What if this was it for them, and their schedules never allowed another sweaty night together? What if he ended up signing for a team in Spain, as his agent kept hinting? He should be going slow, but he couldn't make himself, lacked the discipline: his cock was aching to go where it had always wanted to go, and so clothes went flying everywhere and their two fit bodies were grinding on top of the conference table in moments.

Ox was aware that he could or should be more annoyed by Robbo's indiscretion: the confession had been rapid, only a few nights after it happened, and the sexy Scottish joker had even been in tears as he shared his naughty behaviour. He'd immediately forgiven him and sucked him off to cheer him up. They didn't own each other, they both had female partners and were foremost best mates. And besides... he COULD resent that someone else had finally deflowered the nervous reluctant bottom now quivering against him on the table, BUT... Alex had known for a while what the problem was, then they tried to flip things around and change the dynamic of him offering up his bulky arse to the tigger-ish energy of his Glaswegian stud; he was too scared of hurting his slimmer lover, too scared of him not enjoying it, of scaring him away and ruining things. Really, he'd thought, THAT was why they'd never quite managed to swap it round and for Andy to take his dick properly. But now someone else had taken a rougher hand to it and Robertson was ready for him, and since realising that a couple of weeks, he'd been holding his breath for this very moment.

Kissing Andy messily on the face and pushing his slim pale arms back against the wood of the table, Alex bore down on him, grinding their hard cocks together and smearing pre-cum over each other, but then rolling his hips and jabbing lower, pushing the head of his meat against Andy's fat balls and then his furry gooch, then in against his arse in a series of loose, clumsy thrusts. He'd already fingered him, spitting in there and poking two thick digits inside his quivering ring, but now he needed to be in there properly. He hooked his arms under Andy's knees and lifted, and began to poke the head of his thick monster in there, teasing it on that tight muscular ring.

`I'm ready,' Robbo repeatedly insisted in staccato gasps.

`I know you are,' Alex growled back, and pushed.

Curtis stood in the doorway, needing the cool breeze of the outdoors against the back of his neck and his long arms, but not wanting to really leave the happy action of inside the clubhouse bar, stood at the fringe of it all; the celebrity DJing was over and it was just some guy's playlist on Spotify that blasted through the venu now, but loads of people were dancing happily in the long rectangular room in front of him. The 21-year-old's shaky hands clutched the beer bottle against his chest, feeling its refrigerated cold against the hard muscles there, a hesitant shiver over his whole 6ft1 body. Curtis Jones was confused.

He'd followed Harvey down the steps, away from the main outdoor seating area, into a shadier corner where they could light up and share the joint, which Curtis imagined going straight to his head and making him goofy and feather-light. He'd been unsure, obviously, whether he understood Harvey's signals - were they just going to smoke the weed and then stagger back into the fray, pretending not be high? Or was the short muscular winger suggesting something a bit more transgressive, given the chat they'd shared this evening...? But with the marijuana in his lungs, the 21-year-old had been emboldened, and he'd started to touch himself a bit in his sweatpants, finding the outline of his privates, and giggling stupidly in the hope that his friend would notice.

Harvey HAD noticed, had smirked and leaned in, taking exactly the interest that he might have hoped - and then it had been Harvey's hand, rather than his own, teasing against the big shapes in his black sweatpants, the joint still passing between them for quick sharp drags of its heady taste. Curtis had been nervous and overwhelmed, but had still allowed one of his dangling arms to be pulled into place, and his fingers to be shoved inside the elastic waist of his friend's undies, until he was resting his hand clumsily on the wire-wool pubes and fat warm outline of another prick.

How long had that gone on? He wasn't sure. But he was even less sure why it had ended. One minute they had been breathing aromatic smoke at each other and fumbling against each other's chubby cocks, and the next Harvey was muttering indistinctly to himself and grinding a fag-end to the floor with his trainer, then disappearing away. Disoriented by the weed and conscious of the growing hard-on in the front of his sweats, Curtis had been forced to stay out there on his own, lurking in that private corner, until he could bring himself to hurry back up the steps and indoors - but there was no sign of Harvey Elliott anywhere, so he'd got himself this drink and avoided getting sucked into any conversation or dancing, just loitering at the edge and waiting to catch a glimpse of his 19-year-old pal.

What he done wrong? Had he been too awkward? Too fast, too slow? He'd spoiled a moment, he thought, or maybe Harvey had never wanted to do anything at all, and he'd just creeped him out by implying it. This felt worse than his regret over the Gallagher stuff, he realised, because he really fucking liked Harv and he was terrified of falling out with the charismatic younger player - his teammate here and on the England U21 action that awaited him later this week!

Salah rested his buttocks against the low wall, staring critically around the scruffy rear exit smoking area that Milner had led them to via the fire escape. Hardly a salubrious corner of the party, but it was quiet and cool, and he felt better for being away from the mass of bodies that had made him so restless and excitable in the parade atmosphere - but instead he was faced with the bulky strength of the Yorkshireman, who was leaning on the white-painted bricks opposite to him, arms folded over his pecs.

All I'm saying,' Milner continued now, is that you need to lighten up on yourself.'

Mohamed frowned at him again. `I have rules, James.'

`Sure you do. But you clearly weren't following them.'

He let out a loud breath of indignation, unsure why he was still out here listening to his older teammate. The age, he supposed - James was such a tower of experience and assuredness, and not just for the weedy youngsters in the Liverpool ranks. Salah believed utterly in his current primacy, but he'd had difficult times earlier in his career, and he had huge respect for Milner's career and achievements, just like everyone else in their squad. He'd long trusted and valued James' thoughts on anything football-related, and now he found himself turning to that same older perspective to review his... what to call it? His sinful temptations, he thought bitterly.

The thing about men like us,' James said to him in a low but confident voice, is that we work incredibly hard and we take on a lot of power and responsibility. We're serious guys, you and me, we're not jokers like Andy or whoever. We keep things going, don't we, we're the tough spine of things when we come up against it - who stayed strong for everybody else when it all went tits up in Paris last night...? It's us, Mo, always us. You know what I'm talking about.'

Salah looked critically at the other play, but didn't cut him off, giving his words serious thought, and kinda proving him right in doing so. He nodded his head slowly, and scratched at the thick dark stubble of his chin. Milner was smiling in a knowing way at him, slightly irritating, but also... reassuring? That was what he needed, wasn't it?

We're a certain kind of guy,' the 36-year-old footballer told him in a firm tone, and we have certain kinds of... needs. We need to be respected, to be given a little of what we deserve. Just a little. A little something to show us it's worth it, being so strong and responsible and sensible the rest of the time.' James' craggy face lined a little as he grinned and tilted his head to the side. `That's all it is, Salah, that's all - just a little taste of something naughty to let us be so boring the rest of the time, hah.'

`You aren't boring,' Mo told the older man vaguely, picking uncertainty up on a favourite in-joke of the team, one that James played up to constantly and seemed to fully entertain - but it was hard to tell what anyone really thought, so Mo felt the need to contradict it. He thought of how to more articulately point out how interesting and valuable the 36-year-old midfielder actually was to them all, including to someone of his own goal-scoring stature! But he stayed quiet and moody, running the same scratching fingers across his strong chest through the Liverpool shirt.

`I just have to let go, every now and then,' Milner was muttering, stepping away from the wall. The 5ft9 Yorkshireman was no taller than Mo, but he was a broad and blocky figure, looking built more for rugby than football these days. He was standing very close now, looming over Salah slightly, because he was slumped at the low wall with his elbows pointing out behind him to support himself. Slowly, he pushed himself upright, so that they stood properly face to face in the cool shadow of the fire exit.

`Letting go, you call it,' the Egyptian murmured dubiously. Could the sinful deeds of fucking Harvey Elliott's smug face really be dismissed by so simple a phrase?

`Letting go,' Milner insisted, and took hold of his cock.

Letting go, but taking hold. James felt the outline of it through the bottom half of the Liverpool tracksuit, and his face split with a grin of wild decision. It had been a long time, probably a decade, since he touched another cock, but why the hell not? This fucker needed to relax a bit. He pulled on its shape through the material, then let his hand droop. `Well, take them down,' he said in a friendly bark, one that he knew was impossible to resist. He could feel how aroused the other man already was, and how much he would need this release.

In near sync, the two solid footballing hunks did the same thing, loosening the front of their dark sweatpants and then lowering them about thick athletic thighs, and pushing underpants down with them - Mo his white and black designer briefs, James a pair of saggy grey dad-pants, cock and balls exposed to the cool outside air. He took proper hold of Mo now, wrapping his large rough paw about the veiny curve of meat, which stiffened and grew against his touch, and he took hold of himself as well, squeezing gently on both big pricks - though Salah was clearly more well-endowed than his own chubby member, which was impressive soft but didn't stretch or extend as much as the Egyptian's rod now did against his palm and thick fingers.

He kept clam eye contact with the striker. `This will make you feel better,' he said firmly.

Mo didn't speak, just shifting uncomfortably, but his dick spoke for itself. James stroked them both, two muscular bodies face on, 5ft9 of strength and sinew. He pulled on his own cock, rubbing against the thick curly bush of his mousy brown pubes, teasing himself into rigidity, and pulling a little harder and longer on the veiny monster protruding from Mo's tight dark curls and low-hanging balls. Salah sighed and Milner let out a light chuckle of success.

Now,' he said, you take hold of mine.'

The striker stared impassively at him, not answering.

Go on,' Milner insisted. Fair's fair, mate.'

More silence, more staring.

`You will feel better once you let go,' the seasoned Premiership man insisted very quietly.

He smiled as he felt Mohamed's fingers close about his shaft in a hesitant grip, and he pulled even more vigorously on the Egyptian soccer god, dragging his hand up and down that masterful prick, making it throb and tauten. Just two men together, letting go.

The desk buckled and rattled against the hard floor of the office, and the chair that kept the office door locked seemed futile: anyone in that corridor now would hear the noises of their fucking, and not just the furniture, but the gasps and moans and words of satisfaction. Jordan didn't care, he was a man on a mission, like any hot-blooded bloke in the middle of the act - he was pushing himself inside the tight arse-hole of Trent's body with long hard strokes, initially pacing himself, but now just riding him hard, really pushing in and slamming him against the desk with grunts and constant `Yeah? Yeah? Like that?' muttering.

For his part, Alexander-Arnold whined and begged, Yes, god yes, please', and almost yelled out his regular affirmations: Fuck that's SO GOOD, oh yes, captain!'

Neither of them were thinking about risk any more clearly, and Hendo was just fucking his new lover as fast and hard as he could, all the same urgency and need that he had been gripped by in the pool-house in the early horus of the morning. He wanted to make it last ages, wanted to shift positions and such, but was now just locked in an urgent rhythm - he could feel himself climbing rapidly towards climax, and only just stopped himself in time, remembering his promise.

Now,' he grunted, now...' And he pulled away, sliding his dick out of the slick spit-lined hold and gripping it about the base, taking a few shuffling steps backwards with his pants restrictively around his ankles.

His strong chest was heaving and for a split-second he regained consciousness of how risky this was, looking sharply at the door and its flimsy barricade, wondering how loud his groans and dirty talk had been; but Trent was sliding off the desk, his arse cheeks jiggling for a moment, and then dropping to his knees on the hard office floor, spinning about and staring up at him with wide eyes. He was reaching down to tug himself off, wanking furiously between his spread legs, naked but for his socks and trainers, a beautiful sight at Jordan's feet.

`Cum for me,' the right-back wheezed, opening his mouth wide and sticking his tongue out.

Jordan just grunted and gritted his teeth and pulled himself off, knowing it would take only a few precious strokes. His hairy forearms pumped away, one hand clutched beneath his tight balls and the other sliding rapidly back and forth, and then... ahhh yes... Fuck,' he groaned, fuck fuck fuck...' He watched the thick splashes of cum hit Trent's face in diagonal slashes, wet and shiny on his skin, dropping and splashing into his open mouth. Jordan kept pulling on his dick, milking as much as he could from his girthy tool, spraying his jizz at the eager canvas of Trent's adoring face.

Harvey did his best to open wide and take the cock into his mouth, but it was a massive one, long and girthy and difficult for him to do justice to. Still, he let it hit the back of his throat and almost choke him, and only pulled back to recover and suck in breath when he had to, happy to be crouched down here attending to it, growled at from above and spat on, told he was a slut' and a cocksucker', made to feel dirty and wicked - he'd always enjoyed that, for some reason, always liked the idea of his own deviance and propensity for trouble. Perhaps it was just the reputation that had been pushed on him and he was trying to occupy it as best as he could - THIS was what he wanted, he thought, not something cute and wholesome and fluffy, that was just yuck and for other people!

He opened wide and tried again, sucking on it furiously, feeling his knees scratch against the rough floor even through the nylon of his tracksuit bottoms. The hand on his head had a tight grip against the curls of his hair, pushing his face right into the warm sweaty crotch, making him take so much more of the rocket cock and, for a few moments, actually struggle to breathe. And then his head was being pushed back, held about the jawline, and the massive prick was being wanked in his face, the wet head pushing against his lips and cheek, slapping and poking at him, while the grunting grew heavier and the insults more fierce and growling: `Fucking take it, fucking lick it, come on you little slut, ugh yeh!'

Harvey nodded, or tried to nod, but his head was held firmly still by the large hand on it, and he was stuck there on his knees, submissive and accepting - this was it, he thought, this kinda dirty action, this is what I'm up to, nothing more. The thoughts hared through his confused brain, wired and scrambled on booze and weed. He didn't need any more connection or thought than this, just the dirty urgency of the moment! That's what he'd enjoyed about teasing and tempting Mo Salah, after all! (Nothing to do with the protective strength and reliability of his character, or his laddish hero worship of such an accomplished player, right...?)

Harvey let his tongue rub repeatedly against the wet hot meat, eyes rolling upwards, staring hungrily at the man against the hedge - the 6ft5 stature of him so intimidating yet exciting, a real giant leaning in against the foliage for discretion, and slapping his massive Scotch hard-on into Harvey's face and mouth until he was biting his lips and repressing a yelp of ecstasy. Harvey tasted the hot frothy cum on his tongue and lips and he swallowed as much as he could, but feeling some streak his face and almost go in his eyes. He panted and gasped and whined, hearing more insults from above, `Lick it up you dirty little English cunt,' the huge Scottish man whispered in a rush of breath.

Harvey nodded weakly, licking his lips, his own hard-on seeming to die in his pants, his cock going soft and numb against his inner thigh, something changing in the atmosphere of the moment - whatever had made him so rigid and excited thirty seconds ago now left him cold, and he swayed a little on his knees, uncomfortable as the dick smeared on his lips once last time before being tugged rapidly away. He opened his eyes cautiously, not wanting to get jizz in them, and he reached out to try and steady himself - the hedge was spiky and unstable, so he reached for the man's legs instead, for the tight denim on his calves, but was pushed away for that, and almost toppled sideways into the dirt. He crouched awkwardly there, his face sticky with cooling spunk, and looked up at Calvin Harris as the Scottish DJ buckled up his belt, the outline of his wilting hard-on still incredibly obvious in the pale denim.

`I knew you wanted my cock,' grunted the late 30s man from above. Harvey just made a vague indifferent groan, wiping a wrist over his mouth and the damp tip of his nose. He looked about him at the rough earth and gnarled tree roots and dead leaves, this ditch by the hedge that he'd ended up in, after locking eyes with Calvin at the bar and following the charismatic superstar out into the gardens. It had all happened so fast, Harris had been hard in moments and spunking in only a few more. And now it was over.

Nobody will believe you if you try to tell em,' the DJ was muttering, standing over him still. `And I'd be quick to let the whole fucking music world know what a little slut was playing at Anfield. Okay? Okay.' And that was that - he was strutting away, still adjusting himself in his dreams, and looking sharply from side to side, a tall manly figure in his plain white t-shirt and close-fitting Levis. Harvey lingered in the dirt, tasting the Scottish cum on the roof of his mouth, and feeling completely dazed. Yes, he told himself waveringly, that had been real fun, not like the cutesy near-miss of fumbling with that dope, Curtis Jones...! Yep.

Andy Robertson tried his best to relax, as he had before, but it was a contradictory urge: relaxing in the midst of such intense passion and excitement! But it was different now, because he knew he could do it, where before he'd felt his muscles clamp up and his buttocks clench resistantly... it had all happened so quick with Joe Gomez, and he'd hardly had a moment to panic or doubt, and whoa, it had felt GOOD. He wanted that with Alex, he wanted to feel him inside him, so he relaxed himself and spread his legs more, arching his back too, opening his bottom up to him, kissing him back fiercely.

It happened slowly in a series of experimental pushes, the hugeness of his lover's piece straining the conscious openness and willingness, but Ox showing such patience once it had begun, despite his fierce masculine rush leading up to this moment. Now he held Robbo tightly and tenderly and tongued his mouth, and repeatedly rubbed his head against the hole for as long as it took until Robbo's arse muscles were relaxing and parting for him.

Once he could feel it inside him, he felt paralysed with happiness, clinging to the thicker body of the other 28-year-old player, just wanting to relish the sensation of such girthy presence in him, after so many failed attempts and painful disappointments - but now he let himself go with it, feeling himself stretch and accommodate, and just fixating on how much he wanted to remember this moment in the months and years to come!

`Is it okay?' Oxlade-Chamberlain groaned in his ear.

He nodded and realised that Alex couldn't quite see. `So good,' he gasped hoarsely.

`You feel so tight,' his lover whispered.

`It's amazing,' Andy whimpered.

Ox fucked him slowly but powerfully, opening him up with each thrust, weighing down on him, a 5ft11 mass of muscle and passion, but never going too hard or fast now, just an easy rhythm, one that Andy imagined might be taking a LOT of self-control. His cock and balls felt so sensitive, rubbing against that six-pack, and he wanted to reach between their bodies and jerk himself, but he was almost scared of letting go of Alex's broad back, just clinging to those muscles as a focal point of his trust and devotion to his best mate. And the thrusts kept coming, slow but hip-juddering, right inside him, and he gave himself up to the Ox at long last.

Trent came quickly, overwhelmed by excitement with Jordan's seed in his mouth and dribbling down his chin. He panted and gasped and then, just like his captain, realised how tentative their privacy was. Laughing nervously, he scrambled aside and began pulling on his clothes, hopping into his black boxer briefs and disentangling his Liverpool shirts from the legs of the desk chair. He was stopped briefly by slow, firm movements from Hendo, who stilled him and found a tissue from the desk to wipe his face clean before giving him a slow final kiss, and then separating to dress himself.

In a matter of minutes, they were out of the room, pacing back down a corridor that rang with party echoes. Without vocally sharing the idea, they fell apart in pace, Jordan powering ahead on his own and Trent slowing down to avoid any risk of suspicion, traipsing out on his own into the edges of the ongoing party whilst the captain moved confidently on as if nothing had happened - just ten minutes ago, Trent thought, he was all the wy inside me, and I've never been fucking happier.

But now he was watching as Jordan broke through the crowd to greet and embrace a woman. This was their deadline, their countdown. Many of the players' families were arriving in taxis out on the forecourt, and Trent watched as Hendo and his wife kissed and cuddled on the far side of the dancefloor, as the captain had quietly warned him with a whisper in the ear just as he bent him over that desk and spat on his arse-hole. Hmm.

The 23-year-old hovered there, resting his shoulder again on the same pillar, and folding and unfolding his arms several times before pushing his clammy hands into the pockets of his sweatpants. He stood there, letting the wave of post-coital euphoria seep through him and, inevitably, away, leaving mixed emotions: utter joy at the new intimacy with his beloved skipper, and the agonising uncertainty of it all. Another married man, kissing the wife on the other side of the room, and another intense connection that he assumed would have to stay secret to absolutely everyone else. He asked himself what he was doing, and whether this was what he really wanted - to be another man's dirty secret on the side, to be alone in public, unable to grab that beautiful man and rush to the heart of the dance-floor with their mouths interlocked.

He took one last look at Jordan and his handsome face before sloping away to the bar, confirming that yep, despite all that, this was what he really fucking wanted.

On the way to the stairs, Alex couldn't help but grabbing and squeezing the tight perky bottom of the Scotsman through his pants, wallowing in the gorgeous thought of how he had fucked that peachy pale backside, of how he had left his cum far inside his favourite man, of the look on Andy's freckled face as he took it and realised that he'd cum. Alex had then pushed away and squatted between his trembling legs, sucking him quickly to completion and swallowing every drop of his spunk.

And now here they were, sweating in their matching tracksuits and descending the stairs back into the party, side by side - he let his hand linger on the muscular bump of Robbo's bottom for a moment more then dragged it reluctantly away, separating properly and hopping through the downstairs passages until they were back in the main room. Close by, the familiar sight of Andy's wife was at the bar, taking a cooler bucket and bottle of white wine from the barman. Andy moved rapidly to her, all rosy cheeks and sweaty sheen, but who would ever guess that it was from a slow hard fuck on a table upstairs?

Unpossessive and loving, Alex drifted by them, pecking the wife on the cheeks and helping them to pick up several glasses that they could carry to a table. His own partner was too busy with a recording studio visit for partying, and he would have to be third wheel to the Robertsons for what little remained of the night's fun - but he was happy to do so, sitting across from Andy and just grinning privately at what they'd shared. After all, there might not be so much chance for this from now on, so he just had to enjoy it all - the hot muscular action upstairs, mmm, but also the innocence and banter of spending time with each other as best pals.

Settling down at a table with some other couples, they caught each other's eyes over the ice bucket, Andy doing the honours and pouring wine into glasses. The sexy Scotsman grinned preciously over, and Alex nodded once, acknowledging the magic that had blossomed between them for two years, and gently letting it go as his career beckoned him away from Anfield.

Curtis glanced about, feeling some vague unnamed annoyance at the arrival of WAGs and the turning down of the volume on the music. It was a different party now, he supposed, and he was between girlfriends, so nobody would be turning up to join him here. As lads and blokes coupled with arrivals, the 21-year-old was left on his own, with his back to the bar, a much-needed glass of water in one hand, and a half-empty whiskey-and-coke in the other, probably his last of the night.

He spotted him moving furtively through the crowd, twitching his nose and fussing with his hair, then brushing what might be a leaf or twig from the shoulder of his hoodie. And then he was next to him, stealing the pint of icy water from him and downing a third of it in one noisy slurp. Curtis frowned and tried to smile, and moved a little to the side to make space for Harvey by the bar.

`Where have you b-been?' the midfielder asked. He tried to sound neutral, hiding both his relief to see his friend and his resentment at having been abandoned.

`Nowhere,' Elliott snapped back at him, with no such reserve or neutrality.

Jones blinked, and supped his drink. `Right.'

Beside him, the 19-year-old downed more of the cold water, letting it trickle at his lips and scruffy facial hair, squaring his shoulders and staring moodily around them. Curtis studied him briefly from the side, puzzled - but he'd drank a lot and smoked half a joint, so he could hardly expect the world to make sense. He just wanted to be sure he'd done nothing wrong, nothing to make a fool of himself, nothing that would be an elephant in the room when they got the train down south together in two days' time.

Er, are we okay?' he blurted. I j-just thought-'

Oh just leave it, will ya?' Harvey cut him off, not looking at him. You never smoked a bit of pot before, or summat? Chill out, bruv.' He was still frowning around the room without looking properly this way, slouching arrogantly against the bar and finishing off the glass of water. `Fuck, why did everyones' boring wives have to turn up, eh?'

Curtis paused quietly, wanting to ask more, wanting to point out that he'd been left embarrassed and alone in a silly corner of the golf club. Instead, he let out a slurring laugh, and agreed. Yeah, gonna be proper boring now,' he said in a dull murmur. I might just get a cab home and load up the PS5, to be honest.'

`Huh. Same. Fuck this place.'

`It's got really boring since Calvin stopped playing records, y'know.'

`Huh. Right. Hmm.'

`So fucking cool that he p-played, though.'

`Hmm.'

`Harv? Are you feeling alright...?'

`Oh just fuck off, man! Chill! Jesus. Go get your cab or whatever, we're not glued at the hip or anything.' And with that the teen was storming away from him, not turning to look at him, just marching off and disappearing among the blur of t heir teammates and colleagues, leaving Curtis to frown into the dregs of his drink, and hurry to finish it so that he could escape.

Mohamed Salah sat in such a cab, whizzing away from the party without properly saying his goodbyes; he hadn't gone back indoors after they finished in the fire escape, though it had taken him a while to gather his strength and move away. Even now, sat in the back of the hire car and watching the suburbs fly past, he kept staring down at his palm and wrist, and wiping it up and down the leg of his sweatpants, sure he could still feel remnants of the sticky mess on his skin. Discreetly, so that the driver wouldn't notice, he even leaned over and spat into his palm, hoping his own spit might do more to sanitise the traces of James Milner's seed from his hand.

He'd cum at almost the same time, and much of his own load had actually stained down one thigh of the other man's leg and pants, whereas James had almost entirely emptied his balls into Mohamed's shaking hand. The men had stared at each other as they heaved out their recovery breaths, their faces red and shiny even in the shadows.

There had been a bear hug of their overheated bodies, and Salah had not resisted or avoided it. He had no problem with Milner, had perhaps even more respect for the midfield player after that, and yet he had been disturbed and disoriented by the mutual hand-job all the same. After James had chuckled his approval (`Good handiwork there, pal') and drifted back inside, Mo had remained outside, staring at the drying spunk on his wrist, and letting the sweaty heat of his body recover beneath his tracksuit.

He was still worried, still regretful, still conflicted - but he had, to some extent, taken the older man's advice, and let go. He'd not only taken the generous powerful touch of Milner's big hand upon his own aching prick, making a real mess as he climaxed, but he'd returned it equally, overcoming the alien feel of the other man's dick, and actually making a MAN reach orgasm. Wow. A line in the metaphorical sand was a scattered mess some way behind him now, and it had left him a bit breathless.

Here, you're Salah,' the thickly Scouse driver had said, as he picked him up. Fuck, you're a proper legend, you're like ther best player we've got!'

Salah had just nodded grimly, taking his seat in the middle of the back, and fastening the belt over his waist. Yes,' he answered in a distant murmur, yes I am.'

Milner greeted his wife and stood with her at his side, taking up position by the tables where so many of the others were now mingling and laughing, the music a quiet background throb against the happy voices and mirth of the Liverpool family. Hendo bantering with his partner at the nearest table, trying to get her up and dancing, and nearby Robertson being shushed by his wife as he tried to start a singalong; quietly smiling loners intermingling with the couples, like a gently laughing Oxlade-Chamberlain, and a silently grining Alexander-Arnold, in between the comfortable pairings.

He noticed a rather sour-faced Elliott sitting at the far end of the huddle of tables, hunched over an empty glass and frowning at nobody in particular. Moody brat, really, but a fucking talented player, and someone Milner knew would go on to big things at Liverpool or elsewhere. He'd maybe overestimated the teenager's experience and confidence when he dipped his cock there a while ago, and for a long while it had seemed a big mistake - but Harvey had come back from his loan a better player and a stronger guy, and he now held his own in a team of experienced heroes, so something had gone right along the way. Even if he did look a miserable prick there tonight - James decided against going to speak to him, thinking that it would take time to re-build a more mentoring relationship with the cocky 19-year-old, and he didn't have the energy for it tonight.

Instead, the older player just hugged his wife and went to go get them fresh drinks, thinking happily of the final seasons ahead of him at Liverpool, and deciding that a cheeky mutual wank with that sullen stud Salah had been just what he needed to round off the season after all. If it did anything to lighten up the Egyptian bloke and help him to maintain his form next season, it would be a jizz stain worth taking, haha.

At the bar, he bumped into their celebrity guest, and squeezed his high shoulder gratefully. `Thanks for joining us, mate, great to have you,' he said to Calvin Harris, who just gave him a slightly forced smile back and returned to his pint, a slightly haunted look on his long handsome features behind the beard. Jeez, thought Milner, another bloke who just needs to lighten up and empty his balls...! That's all it took, the 36-year-old mused: a bit of action and release, and everything looked a lot sunnier. His empty balls ached on cue and he grinned to himself, hoping he had it in him for a bit of bedroom stamina when he and the wife made it home tonight, the beginning of their summer holiday.

`I'll leave you to it,' he said warmly to the sulking DJ as he took two fresh drinks from the barmaid, and then James Milner strutted back towards the convivial gathering of Liverpool players and partners, Mo Salah's cum still drying in little flecks on one leg of his tracksuit.

'Writer guy' - Premiership Lads on Nifty https://www.nifty.org/nifty/gay/celebrity/premiership-lads/

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