Premiership Lads Curious Luke Shaw

Part 306: Rock Bottom

The Manchester United captain exited the gaffer's office with drooping broad shoulders and a matching expression on his face, though he'd taken the news as neutrally and calmly as he could; the temptation to explode and punch the walls inside the United training centre was strong, a Hulk-like excess at the disappointment of being dropped from the squad, but the 6ft4 centre-back stomped blandly away from the manager's offices and started mentally preparing himself for the rest of the day. This disappointment wasn't necessarily a shock to Harry Maguire, who had sensed the snub over the past few days of training, but hearing it this morning on the day of the Liverpool game was still quite tough to take - he could feel the metaphorical tug on the captain's armband and the worrying downturn in his long-protected position here at the declining football club. A game against Liverpool, for fuck's sake, and he was going to be sat away from the action, a benched substitute already warned that his participation was unlikely. `A tactical shift,' the boss was calling it, still full of brittle smiles and unconvincing reassurances.

Maguire stepped outside into the cloudy warmth, folding his arms over the chest of his warm-up shirt, and eyeing the scattered preparations of the other Utd players, who were yet to see the team-sheet; at least as captain he'd been able to have his bench position confirmed privately, rather than facing the bad news in front of the men he was supposed to be leading. Inwardly, the Sheffield-born giant scoffed at the idea of his own leadership, sick of the mistakes and confusions that had clouded his contributions since the end of summer break, and wondering if he ought to resign from the status before it was stripped from him after all.

A faint warm buzz rose in the big man's chest as he realised that one of the nearest players was moving this way at a hurried jog, and that it was none other than his defensive partner and secret beloved. Luke's blue eyes were worried and friendly, but his voice was a little more brusque and cool when he spoke. `Well, what's the news?' the 27-year-old asked him quietly, brushing their arms together but making no other physical contact than that.

Harry was about to speak when he heard the squeak and clink of the doors he'd just exited through, and spotted the manager emerging with his second-in-command at one side; well, the captain's pre-warning was pretty fucking brief then, and the clipboard in the gaffer's hand would be announcing the reformed line-up to the others any minute then. Maguire found himself eyeing the clipboard with a thin rattle of anger and he had to stop himself from openly glaring at the head coaches as they walked swiftly by, no greeting or acknowledgement for he or Shaw.

Right,' muttered the younger Premiership defender with a flash of insight on his serious rugged looks. We're benched, then.'

Maguire nodded his heavy head, trying not to droop his shoulders so much, and look less crestfallen and defeated - for the wider audience of the other players, who were pausing in their group warm-ups, but most importantly for Shaw, who might be looking at him for guidance in this moment of tension. `Malacia, Martinez, Varane, Dalot. You and me as subs. Different approach to the defence.' He found himself echoing the manager's words and he tried to look neutral and unconcerned. He was about to point out that the captaincy would go to Fernandes for the game, but he didn't want to sound too self-absorbed and take away from Luke's own frustrations here. There wasn't much that mattered more to him than the other stud's wellbeing, after all.

`We might get on at half-time,' the outer Londoner was muttering as the drifted over the turf to join the growing huddle of men. Maguire decided not to correct him on this, having been given clear strategy from the gaffer that meant a final ten minutes at best awaited either of them in the evening's action. He held his hands at his hips and kept his face lowered slightly, unsure he could remain neutral or positive whilst the team-sheet was read out. He felt Luke's hand brush once more at his arm, pausing at his elbow for a moment, and the small silent gesture made him quail awkwardly at the tattered state of their intimacy.

Over the summer, the two of them had barely spoken, and Shaw had even missed his wedding, and their reunion in the summer touring had been awkward and stilting. It wasn't that NOTHING had happened between the two Manchester hunks since their latest tiffs in early summer, but things felt different. Luke was drifting further and further away from him, a busy dad of two himself now, and something like a stranger when opportunity allowed them, sporadically, any time alone.

The team line-up was met with muted applause from the gathering, and then the coaches were shifting away and the players were separating into their allotted warm-up groups again - there was a still a good hour and a half before they would all be travelling to Old Trafford together to begin the evening, and nothing but a little more light work to do before they were supposed to be resting themselves.

As the male gathering thinned and some hint of privacy returned, Maguire nudged his arm against Shaw's, whispering to him, `It'll be okay, he's just experimenting, you'll be starting again by next weekend. Malacia won't hold the left-back like you do, Luke.'

Luke gave him a thin smile through his beard, clearly grateful for even this half-hearted support, and the two men shared a long look that, from Harry's end, seemed to communicate all of the frustration and uncertainty that had existed between them for most of this year. The team's downturn last season had weighed more and more heavily on their closeness and the enjoyment they used to offer each other, and then especially-

`RONALDO!' someone was shouting, and Harry snapped his eyes away from his hopefully-still-boyfriend to look ahead of them, where the tall Portuguese legend was squaring up against a couple of other players. Cristiano was shouting angrily and being pulled back by tonight's captain, Bruno Fernandes, and the target of the striker's wrath seemed to be Jadon Sancho.

Harry had already begun to lunge forward, keen to snuff the outburst, when he looked to his side and saw the strained expression on Luke's face - he instantly felt a mixture of guilt and indignation, seeing Shaw begin to open his mouth and then clamp it shut and step away, shoulders squared. It made Maguire stop on the spot, staring moodily at the left-back: half of him wanted to lunge over and squeeze him, apologise for the distraction, pick up whatever intimate chat they had been on the verge of there; but the other half of him was furious, sick of Luke's pettiness and unfairness when his energy and attention was taken up by his responsibilities as captain. He'd never fucking asked for the CR7 primadonna in their lives, had never asked for that impossible ego to be his problem, and yet the statuesque Madeiran had become the embodiment of everything that stood between him and his lover.

Luke was turning away, and Harry had no choice; he ignored the look on the 27-year-old's face and sprinted further onto the training pitch, throwing his size and weight between Ronaldo and Sancho.

`Idiot boy, idiot boy!' he screeched, unable to contain himself, gesturing furiously at the whisker-faced London kid through the mounting physical wall of his teammates, and at last backing off with a loud growl of dismay and then a violent show of spitting at the ground, no care for whether flecks of it hit Bruno or Maguire or anyone else. Sancho looked mortified and, to his pleasure, more than a little frightened, but that was besides the point.

Dancing,' the 37-year-old football icon snarled mockingly, dancing around like a TikTok teenager just because he is starting in one game, fucking hell.' The stop-start uncertainty of his English, wanting to offend and hurt the young fool, made the angry words sound all the more bitter and resentful, but Ronaldo was not in a headspace to care. He spat again at the grass below, his eyes fixed intensely on the younger player, who was being pushed back and further away from him, screened by the shirts and tracksuits of several other players - including now, he saw, the mighty frame of their so-called captain, who faced him with one of his big ugly expressions that were unreadable to him.

`Cool it,' the big English oaf was barking at him in his monotone.

`I'm fine,' Ronaldo snapped back at the taller man, taking a few steps away.

He knew his explosion of mood was irrational and unfairly targeted, although he also knew that Sancho's behaviour was wrong - dancing around and posing for photos with your friend was not professional behaviour hours before a crucial game, and all the 22-year-old was doing was proving that he didn't deserve a starting position in the Liverpool match tonight, and was the wrong player to stand up for Old Trafford. Seeing his smug celebrations, Ronaldo had lunged at him and made to strike him, stopped by a combination of Marcus Rashford and Anthony Elanga, two other names who Ronaldo thought were hardly fit for the match, but were up front in the boss's plans.

And then there had been loyal Fernandes at his side trying to discourage him, and Ronaldo had even lashed out at him, annoyed that his countryman was still in the squad and that, for some fucking reason, he was picking up Maguire's undeserved captain spot. Ugh - they were all so weak and irritating, he thought yet again, desperate to be away from them and from this vile rainy city.

And now he was face-to-face yet again with the mountainous shape of his apparent superior, who was trying to stare down meaningfully at him and guide him away with a hand to his shoulder. Ronaldo shucked the filthy mitt away from the material of his training shirt and twisted his lip at him. He swore in Portuguese that he knew would stress out the big man and then switched back to English - You're not angry too?' he demanded hotly, not keeping his voice down, wanting Sancho and others' ears to catch it as he announced, A shitty line-up for a shitty game, they have no chance.'

Harry was glaring at him now, losing the neutral calm. `Quiet,' he growled.

`What will you do about it?' Ronaldo spat. He sneered at the defensive player, his fuse lit by the surprising snub in the team-sheet, and the fact his skills would be absent from the start of the game - who here could break through the Liverpool defence, but for him?! His skin and muscles burned with distaste for it all and he had to fight his instinct to swing a fist at the bigger man, backing further away form him and batting away an attempt to put a hand on his shoulder.

He spat a third time, this time aiming it squarely at the chest of Maguire's shirt, and then moving quickly away from him, storming away from the centre of the training pitch without another word. He could see the nervous eyes of many teammates fixed on him but he ignored their scandal, caught up in his own arrogant fury.

Marcus Rashford threw his arm quickly about the shoulders of the other young man, squeezing at him and repeating himself. Ignore the cunt,' the local-born forward hissed in a low voice, furious at what he'd just witnessed. Ignore him, he talks pure shit, he really does.' He looked searchingly at the slack-jawed and vulnerable expression on Jadon's face, then gave the young Londoner a bit of a shake. He dropped the bitter venom of his own low voice and tried instead for cheerful and encouraging. We have to stay focused on tonight,' Rashford insisted, we have to smash the dirty Scousers, okay?'

He was an ambitious and hot-headed player in his own way, but he was a determined professional and a man intent on humility. He'd been aghast to see and hear the way a man of Ronaldo's stature was reacting to being a substitute, especially seeing it taken out on a bright-eyed relative newbie like Sancho there - and it disturbed him more to see the effect it had had on the lad, who was quietly pulling away from him and trying to dust himself off with hands that visibly shook.

Rashford patted him on the back, pulling close to him even as he made to shuffle away and forget the whole incident. Hey,' he said firmly, that wasn't okay, what he did, and we have to complain about it. Formally.' He'd been thinking this for weeks now, watching the way CR7 swaggered about and behaved at the heart of the team, giving off such shitty energy all the time and bringing everyone further down.

It's cool,' the London-born winger was muttering, turning away form him and fumbling with the zip of his tracksuit top. Rashford reached for his shoulder and pulled him back this way, glaring seriously at him. It fucking isn't,' he said, firmly but quietly, fixing Jadon's watery eyes with his own stony gaze.

And then suddenly the `captain' was with them, looming over both 5ft11 men, and Marcus just could not contain his little groan of irritation and the slight roll of his eyes. Sure, he was sick of Ronaldo's diva antics and toxic energy, but he was sick of a lot of issues at United these days, and one of them was this big brainless tool who'd never deserved that armband in the first place. Rashford had spent years trying to warm to the England stalwart, but he'd been at his local club for so long that he still saw the likes of Maguire as a newcomer and an outsider, he just couldn't help it.

Jadon,' the Yorkshireman was grunting. You okay?'

Marcus interrupted. Of course he's not okay,' he said in a rush. You didn't even see, Ronaldo was proper gunning for him, he'd have lamped him if-'

`Leave it, leave it,' Sancho insisted.

And that was that. Neither the shaken victim or the lumbering captain seemed interested in Rashford's perspective, though he butted in repeatedly and tried to shake some sense into the 22-year-old via his shoulder - that latter move just earned him a stern look from the centre-back and a gentle push to direct him away, which made the 24-year-old Mancunian even more annoyed. For fuck's sake, was this club really reaching rock bottom...?!

As soon as he could, Sancho broke away from the other guys and disappeared inside. He was far more embarrassed at his own behaviour than anyone else's; after all, Cristiano Ronaldo was a certified legend, a GOAT, and there was a mental block for the South London kid to frame him as the villain of the incident. Sure, he knew Ronaldo was arrogant, and difficult, but he was a goal machine and often the only thing keeping Man Utd afloat, and he was too long-standing a hero and inspiration for the youngster to be really held accountable... No, Jadon scurried away from his teammates mainly because he was ashamed for his own mini-celebrations at making the starting line-up, a vibe that now seemed arrogant and silly when he was essentially gloating at the big names who were left on the bench.

However, one comment from his friendly fellow forward had stuck with him - he could hear Rashford's Manc accent slosh through his thoughts, telling him that they jut needed to focus on tonight, on Liverpool. And that's what he was doing: pulling himself away from the fray of other players because he needed time to be alone and calm down, cool his thoughts and just find some focus.

For Sancho, tonight felt like a big deal. He was as conscious as anyone else that his hyped move to the Premiership had been a damp squib so far, and he was quietly mournful for his electric run of form back in the Bundesliga. He wasn't living up to his potential here, and he often found himself starting to regret the move... Worse than any of the other questions in his psyche, he asked himself if signing a United contract had been more about sticking a finger up at City than anything else, wanting to prove a point to the league winners who had let his younger self go. Jadon had been weighing up a full deck of offers from the Premier League's key teams, and yet here he was... just another cog in the slow painful downfall of Old Trafford, being sneered about by his own fans.

The 22-year-old huffed loudly and sat down on a bench in the boot cupboard he'd found his way into, ignoring the musty smell and just fixating on the spot as a hidden corner where he could gather his thoughts and then join the squad meal with a focused mind and buoyant mood.

He had enough distractions, he thought mournfully, without being picked on by one of his heroes. For Jadon, his limp form at United was inseparable from his sexual curiosity, which he now associated with his return to England, even if it had really begun at Dortmund, and among the Three Lions. But those teenage forays had been one thing, and his experimenting with his old buddy Phil Foden had been another, though it was often big Kyle Walker who haunted his shameful fantasies in the dark of night. Or had been, until he started to find himself jerking off thinking of guys here at Manchester United, and then hating himself for it in the morning.

He hung his head now, cringing over it, and telling himself that he could move on from it, find a new girlfriend and forget about the little dalliances with other lads. After all, what had he really done? Not much, not really, and only a handful of times, so-

He looked up, still rattled and agitated, and found that his supposed hiding place wasn't so well-chosen after all. It was Rashford again, the lean attacking player leaning through the doorway and giving him a half-smile from there. Hey,' the charity campaigner called softly, taking one step into the room. I just wanted to apologise for before...'

And for some reason, a trigger was pulled. Not of pompous aggression like in certain teammates, but of raw and usually hidden emotion. Looking at Rashford's open face and uncertain body language, hearing his soft friendly voice and warm local accent, just flipped a switch in Jadon's heated chest and racing brain, and he suddenly felt wet tears in his eyes and an awkward little sob escape his throat. He hadn't even realised how tense or emotional he'd been feeling, and now it was flooding out of him, and he threw his face into his palms.

Luke remained outside when most of the players had gone in, kicking a ball about on his own in a mindless fashion. He no longer felt compelled to put in some serious last-minute skills training, or to start psyching himself up. He could picture himself on the bench all night in a snug tracksuit, neglected by the club's new head coach. Ten Hag had made his ambivalence about Shaw pretty clear, and even asked him outright whether he was in talks with any other clubs at the moment - Luke, who had years left on his contract and zero plans to move, had fumbled that little meeting and felt like an inarticulate idiot, so taken aback by the new manager's expectations for him. After years of reasserting his place as a United defender, he was finding the latest regime change hard to stomach.

And then, of course, there was his Harry... there was always his Harry. Had it ever really been smooth or easy between them...? Not in those early days of aggressive tenderness, certainly, when he'd felt like Maguire was as likely to punch him as fuck him; nor in the conflicts that followed, the bursts of possessive jealousy, the threats posed by others, the complications of their separate female partners and growing families. No, Luke kept reminding himself, it had never been easy, never been light. But when had it got so fucking difficult? When had it got so hard to love him?

The 6ft1 left-back pelted the ball away from him into one of the empty goals, pausing to stretch out his limbs and close his eyes to the world, trying to calm and stall this spiral of thoughts that seemed to have been on replay for months, all year really, or perhaps for about three years now...? Had his affair with the sexy Yorkshire beast ever been anything more than a headache, a struggle, a nightmare?

Yes. The voice was small and thin and far back in his thoughts at the minute, but he knew it was right. Yes, he thought sadly, at times it had been so much more than that. He remembered so many moments of passion that had scorched him, of surprising gentleness and clumsy almost romance. He thought of the panic attacks that had consumed him when he sat down and really pictured being present at the Maguires' summer wedding, sitting through that ceremony and knowing everything he'd known. He'd hastily made sure he and his partner were unavailable, and convinced himself that Harry would understand - surely their love affair was as morally difficult for the other man, he'd thought, and surely Harry would understand why he couldn't be there at that lavish event?! And yet, maybe not, because Luke's absence from the event had never really been discussed, and sometimes big Harry was not the most intuitive or sensitive. Maybe he had no idea why Luke had been unable to watch him walk down the aisle...?

For whatever reason, he feared they were reaching rock bottom, that their once all-consuming secret love was fading into irritation and resentment, and he didn't even know what to do about it. Worse: he didn't know if he even wanted to do something about it.

`Oi.'

Luke paused, suddenly aware that he was just tottering side to side on his own in the centre of a big training pitch, and not as alone as he'd thought. He swung his burly physique around and raised an eyebrow at the only other player left out on the turf, a bit surprised to see him out here. He gave him a nod and a smile - the smile wasn't as forced as it could be, given his mood, since his affection for the 21-year-old was always genuine.

`What you doing out here?' young Brandon Williams demanded, hands stuffed into the pockets of his slim-fitting club tracksuit. He took a few steps this way, whistling as he did, and Luke just shrugged his big shoulders.

Taking a minute,' he said vaguely. And you?'

`Looking out for you, you dick,' the young full-back told him with a light laugh.

Luke smiled faintly and clucked disapprovingly before moving closer and giving him a playful smack to the chest for that. I'm old,' the 27-year-old announced simply, and you're the novice here, so you don't get to look out for me. Dick.' He laughed and pulled the slim short lad into a slight hug before pushing him away. I'm fine,' he added quickly and firmly, touched by the lad's concern but not keen to unburden himself to the mischievous young scally. Just needed a moment alone before a quick round in the gym.'

`I heard there was a bit of a ruckus before,' Williams said, hands still in pockets, falling into step beside him as they crossed the pitch.

Ruckus?' Luke teased, amused by his old-fashioned diction. Well, just you-know-who causing bother, for a change. Fucking hell, this season isn't gonna be easy, is it?'

Brandon shrugged and sighed. It ain't easy as a fan, I know that,' the Mancunian lad laughed bitterly, but who fuckin' knows if I'll be part of it as a player. Still waitin' to find out, ain't I. Might just be another loan in the Championship or summat.' He scowled as he said it, and Luke put a hand back to one of his slim shoulders as they walked.

`Hopefully not,' he said, and he meant it - he'd been happy to see the grinning blond youth back in their training sessions this summer, returned from his year in Norfolk, and they'd hung out a little bit when Luke got free time away from family duties. But he also knew that Brandon's bitter realism carried truth. This was a squad full of tension and competition, not least in the back four, and it was likely the club would be farming him out to some minor team before the deadline arrived in just over a week - and as far as Luke's professional chances stood, that was a loan deal that NEEDED to happen. Brandon Williams was left-back competition that Shaw did not want in this roster, he reflected gloomily.

Don't go gym,' the 21-year-old chirped as they neared the building, enjoying the warm and heavy feel of Luke's hand on his shoulder. You'll just give yourself some twinge or ache and then you won't get off the bench tonight.' He had no interest in the self-pity exhibited by a lot of the benched players for tonight's game, even his close friends', since his name was entirely absent from that team-sheet, and he remained on the absolute periphery of the United roster - his exit for another season on loan was an inevitability he had accepted weeks ago now.

Luke was looking thoughtfully at him, and he grinned encouragingly. Come shoot some hoops with me, big man,' he insisted. You've been promising to hang out for ages and you're always fucking busy.'

The 27-year-old looked mildly hurt by this accusation, so the full-back youngster gave him wide puppy dog eyes and a hangdog frown, then burst into cheeky laughter when he couldn't sustain it. Oh, come on,' he insisted. We've plenty of time before the meal and the coach journey, and neither of us is on that starting line-up. Let's shoot some b-ball.' He grinned over at the older, bigger defender, the rugged stud who had been one of his first sexual experiences, in a physio treatment room not far from the doorway where they now stood. Brandon's teenage fondness for the 6ft1 stud had remained, as had his wariness for the Slabhead captain who, as far as he knew, was still his boyfriend.

Maybe for a bit,' the southern guy was telling him uncertainly, making him laugh victoriously and poke his elbow at one of his thick arms. Come on, it'll be a laugh,' Brandon insisted, glad to get the rugged defender on his own for a change, out of both friendship and simmering physical appreciation. It had been a lonely period for the 21-year-old, after all, being back here in Manchester without his disgraced boyfriend, somehow lonelier in fact than his months with the Canaries. Down there, he'd felt cut off and isolated, but clung to memories of how cool his first years as a Red Devil had been; upon returning this summer, the wiry young player just found himself feeling almost as lonely, in a team and city that should be home. It was leaving him frustrated and hungry, and a part of him was even craving the change that an inevitable loan deal might bring his way.

But for now... Sniggering, he reached a cheeky hand to pat at Luke Shaw's sizeable rear through the tight fit of his tracksuit bottoms, patting but not quite psnaking it and then darting playfully aside to avoid the clip of retaliation as Luke laughed and told him to `Fuck right off, you dirty scally.'

Maguire found Ronaldo in the training centre's main gym, working ostentatiously on his bulging leg muscles in a way that seemed wildly inappropriate hours before game, even one where the prolific striker might spend most of the time on the bench. He needed to address this right now, he knew, and couldn't leave the problem to fester - he wouldn't have anybody acting like that towards young colleagues over managerial decisions, and he needed to reassert himself as the leader among these men. Whilst he still was.

He marched rapidly into the cooled air of the fitness suite, glad that Cristiano was the only United player vain enough to be working on his musculature instead of resting before the game. Of course, the Portuguese player did not look up from his reps, pumping his thigh and calf muscles on the machine and refusing to acknowledge the obvious presence of Harry, whose heavy steps and grumpy breaths must have alerted him. He stopped a few feet from the machine and then hesitated, losing his nerve for a minute, and aware that he was running out of things to say to this arrogant troublemaker. It had been bad enough last season, but since his stunts in summer, he just seemed a law unto himself.

You were out of order there,' Maguire grunted, big strong arms dangling awkwardly at his sides as he stood facing the gym machine. For a few moments longer, Ronaldo ignored him, gripping the sides of his chair and raising his leg muscles again, twice more, three, and then done. His bare legs, shorts rolled high, shone with a light coating of sweat, but other than that he looked as if the heavyweight setting was easy. You hear me?' the troubled United captain said now, a bit more loudly and accusingly.

Cristiano gave a light sighing laugh as he climbed off the machine, picking a small towel up form where it hang and running it across his tanned face and long neck. `I don't know what you are talking about,' came the striker's simple dismissal. He brushed straight past Harry, their shoulders clashing, and headed to the nearby water cooler.

Harry stood still, clenching and releasing fists, and staring for a moment at the slight sweat patches that the other player's legs had left glistening on the leather padding of the machine, unwiped. He turned and followed his forward to the water, where with an aggressive swipe of one arm, he knocked the paper cup out of his hand on its way to his lips, and squared powerfully up to the 6ft2 man who paused in surprise.

I thought I'd made it clear,' the 29-year-old growled to the older star, that you need to watch yourself here in Manchester, because you ain't the top dog. I thought we were clear on that, after what happened at the end of last season.'

Ronaldo didn't immediately look at him or respond, stood there in the awkward posture of holding an imaginary cup up towards his mouth for a drink. But then he relaxed his tense muscles and rested that hand on top of the water cooler, turning an icy smile on his captain, one that sent a little shiver of weakness down Harry's spine.

`Is that what you think?' muttered the Portuguese icon. Harry glowered at him.

Fucking Ronaldo near the end of last season had seemed like a turning point then, and even if it had seemed to spell out a big wasteland in his relationship with Luke, it had seemed worth it for a changed dynamic on the squad. In front of a smattering of their teammates, he'd physically dominated this arrogant superstar, getting him down on his knees in the showers and then bending him over like a slut. And it hadn't been entirely a one-off: in the short period that remained of last season, Ronaldo had come to him unbidden, furtive and submissive as he took Maguire's massive cock in his gob, and three times again in his arse-hole, whimpering for it and seeming to accept his captain's absolute power. It made Maguire's cock and balls tingle in his briefs to remember it, and it made him feel even more queasily powerful to remember the way it had changed Ronaldo's behaviour on the pitch, for a while... And then had come that period in the summer where CR7 just skipped training and flirted with exit strategies, humiliating the team with his rogue antics before swanning back in when it was obvious that no other club was interested in him. Even now, Harry thought, the smug prick was courting media attention and trying everything to hint that he was not the problem, that he was somehow the victim of United's behind-the-scenes politics.

Maguire glowered at Ronaldo, standing close to him at the water cooler, flexing his own muscles - less showy and beach-ready than the tanned Roman god in front of him, but lofty and powerful and ready. He tried to look confident and intimidating, but he knew that something had shifted over the summer - the dominance he'd felt over this man had surely been temporary, but perhaps today he could remind him. Still, his snake throbbed in his sports briefs, and sweat prickled under his arms beneath the warm-up shirt.

You fucked me good,' Cristiano conceded in a quiet hiss, but you are not my captain.'

Harry gritted his teeth at this direct challenge, even spoken so softly. `The armband says otherwise,' he muttered.

`Bruno has it tonight,' the striker pointed out.

`One game,' the 29-year-old huffed, holding a steady gaze and locked jaw-line as he faced down the shorter man, who looked so incredibly well-built up close, a Terminator of fitness perfection. His arms, legs and neck gleamed.

Ronaldo just flashed him that infuriating smile. The manager is fucking up,' he said in a low murmur. You know that. You and me, on the bench? Against Liverpool?' A bitter little laugh. `We need him sacked already.'

Maguire flinched, losing the unofficial staring contest between them. `That's not up to us,' the Englishman said heavily, stepping even closer to his rival - he felt a mixture of anger at the troublemaker and an arousing sense of how good it had been to bend him over, his cock now semi in his shorts. He was just about to make a grab for him, to take him by the arm and the neck and push him down to his knees, when Ronaldo blindsided him by coming up on his toes and leaning in, and smacking a quick wet kiss against his lips; Maguire grimaced and pushed him back, but his cock tingled.

Cristiano laughed and pulled aside, licking saliva from his lower lip, and keeping his eyes locked on the taller man, who was breathing heavily and turning to face him. No,' the striker sighed in a wistful way, pausing to laugh, I still don't enjoy kissing. Never mind.' He grinned and flexed his arms, and could feel the heat pouring from the other sports stud, could see Harry's eyes roving his arms and down to his bulging leg muscles. In one deft movement, he grabbed the front of his training vest and slid it away from the tanned muscles of his torso, baring his upper body in front of the English beast.

Maguire was wiping the back of one hand across his twisted mouth. `What was that about?' the supposed captain snarled, his show of disgust and disinterest all a bit protest-too-much, making Ronaldo smirk and snigger and flex at his pecs and abs in a showy way, running one hand up against them invitingly.

With his other hand, he grabbed himself in his under-sized, bunched-up training shorts, feeling the weight of his cock and balls in their mesh inner. He smiled as Harry's dopy eyes inevitably followed his hand down there, and he then grabbed for the other guy's huge privates with his other hand, rubbing and feeling them both in their shorts. Harry said nothing, remaining big and impassive in front of him, but his big cock felt swollen, he was so obviously turned on. It was tough for Cristiano to admit to himself just how sexy this bastard was, with his crooked awkward smile and his oafish posture, so brutal and English, so bland and Anglo-Saxon - but hung like a horse, and so desperately alpha in his own little world. Ronaldo rubbed at both of their cocks, biting the corner of his lip.

That's it,' the captain grunted, as if he was in charge of this situation, I knew you missed my big cock, you smug diva.'

Shut up,' Ronaldo told him in a whispered chuckle. You're much hotter when you stay quiet.' He enjoyed the sting of this comment on that big rugged face, and the flash of uncertainty he saw in the big man's beady eyes. And he let go of his own cock, running that hand instead up one of Harry's thick arms, whilst he got a good grip on his semi through those loose-fitting shorts, finding the fabric of the briefs through them, really jerking the monster through two layers, and licking his lips.

`Oh, captain,' he sighed, his tone and face full of mocking.

`You know you want it,' Maguire grunted awkwardly at him, full of showy authority and barely-restrained excitement. Yes, Ronaldo had submitted to him a few months ago, so utterly excited by the passionate dislike between them, and so wildly turned on by the power dynamic that had thrashed there - and he did slightly regret having a couple of his allies watch, of course, not liking to be seen in that way by guys who he might invite to worship his body and cock in private. Ronaldo's little early summer coup had fallen apart and he'd had to concede that, for some inexplicable reason, the powers that be wanted this huge idiot as the Man Utd leader - but it had been far from a defeat, enjoying that huge cock and re-living his younger taste for bottoming. It had taken the 37-year-old back to a very different Manchester life, where his youthful ego had clashed with another teen prodigy, and he'd had his cheeks clapped by another boorish English yob. Though physically different, he saw much of Rooney's machismo and rawness in this big dullard.

`On yer knees,' the big centre-back drawled.

Ronaldo met his eyes and smirked, giving his cock a good squeeze, and leaning in almost close enough to peck a second kiss against those sneering lips. `Yes captain,' he sighed in that same ironic tone, and let his powerful body descend, going down to his knees and pushing his face in against those shorts, breathing in the faint musk, and nuzzling the outline of the captain's cock.

Elsewhere, in the stale half-light of the boot cupboard, Rashford was overwhelmed with protective urges, squeezing an arm about the younger lad's shoulders and leaning in close to him, speaking in a low grumble. It's okay, it's fine, you just cry if you need to mate,' he told Sancho earnestly. That was a weird fuckin' outburst from Ronaldo, and that guy needs to stop running his mouth. Seriously, I think the club needs to fuck him off, he just ain't worth his goals. And trust me, mate, it'll be you and me out there tonight, sorting out a win for this badge, not that cunt.'

I'm fine,' the London scally was sniffling, rubbing knuckles across his puffy eyes and wet nose. It isn't him. I'm fine. It's all good,' he muttered thickly, hunched over and awkward at Rashford's side, still shaking slightly in his outburst of young emotion.

Marcus grabbed and held protectively at the 22-year-old, fixating on his distress as the obvious manifestation of everything that was wrong with the United squad at the moment, had been for months. They shouldn't have talented young guys like this in a mess, and in fact Jadon's whole disappointing season in the Prem just spoke volumes, it was all to do with bad management and weird dynamics. Things were fucked up here, and Marcus felt constantly at odds over whether he needed to stay and help it change, or get the hell out of it while he still could, and at 24 find a reinvigorating second act to his senior career.

`I shoulda stayed in Germany,' he heard the other lad moan in a very small voice.

Fuck off,' Marcus grunted, rubbing at the back of his neck above the collar of his United shirt, and squeezing at the side of one arm. Don't be thinking that, mate, we love having you here, and you're gonna be a legend here, I can feel it. Slow start, that's all, slow start. Don't be having regrets, mate.'

But he could hardly blame him - this kid had been a sensation in the Bundesliga, had been the hot topic as he entered his senior career, but now was just another disheartened Manchester player whose gloomy face was synonymous with this era of disappointments and defeat. And to be here at this special club, and to be picked on by a twat like Cristiano, fuck's sake...

Rashford hugged him tightly from the side, unashamed to give this attention and support to another guy. Just forget him, and let's do the club proud tonight,' he told the winger. Seriously, the boss is switching things up, and Liverpool are hardly on fire - tonight's our night, mate, and we can do this, we bloody can. We're gonna make our mark, Jay, and we're gonna get this season started, since nobody else can.' He kept on, hyping himself up as much as the Londoner, trying to build the narrative of success that would see them through tonight's tough game and beyond. And he was obviously saying the right thing, or in the right voice, because he could feel Sancho relaxing against him, less tense and shaky, and his voice a little clearer as he muttered back at him, `I'm sorry, I'm sorry, I just got a bit carried away for a moment...'

Rashford shushed and reassured him. `It's fine, we're in a pressure cooker here, buddy...'

Jadon turned at him, looking embarrassed and grateful - the Londone rude-boy exposed as a much more vulnerable character in private - and leaned in against him, seeming to be really glad of the hug and his presence. Rashford pulled his arm more tightly about his back and embraced this, glad he could be there for the other bloke, but then pausing as he felt Sancho's hand against his thigh - he didn't think much of this, given the closeness of their kitted bodies on the bench, and for a moment he just hugged tightly at the 22-year-old, his mind beginning to turn over the formal letter he was going to be writing to the board about Ronaldo and his bullshit, but then... he felt Jadon's hand brushing inside his legs, against the folded nylon of his shorts, and a hand caressing the ridges of his six-pack through his shirt, and... And then the other lad's hand was decidedly upon his bulge and Sancho's face was turned earnestly towards him with an expression of shame and hunger, and a fresh tremor to his pouting lips.

For fuck's sake,' Marcus snapped before he could stop and think, grabbing tightly at the wandering hand and shoving it quite roughly away, glaring furiously at the lad he had been hugging and comforting just a moment ago. Fucking hell, Jay!' the Mancunian striker barked angrily at his friend and teammate, pushing their bodies apart and frowning heavily at him, his head and heart suddenly a mess of reawoken conflicts he'd been trying to bury.

Damn it, Jadon thought instantly, always misreading the signals...

He stared desperately at the other United player, clenching his hands at his sides and inching gently away from the suddenly tense figure of the more established Manchester guy, whose touch had been so firm and comforting, whose soft purring voice and eager intimacy had stirred and confused the 22-year-old. Despite the instant rejection and sudden panic, Sancho could feel his cock press awkwardly inside the Under-Armour lycra shorts beneath his trackie bottoms, and he hunched his shoulders awkwardly and broke away from the thunderous expression on Rashford's face to stare instead at his trainers and the scruffy floor of the room.

`What are you doin'?' Marcus was protesting loudly, separated from him now and getting up to his feet, off the stiff bench they had occupied. The 5ft11 forward was running hands through his short afro hair and glaring angrily downwards with an expression that spelled trouble - panic welled up in Jadon's thoughts, as he struggled to find a credible explanation for what he'd just done, nestling in against the other player's body and then reaching to explore the always-visible bulge in his shorts.

The young Londoner gawped stupidly up at the other player, stammering out a few half-finished sentence starters, reaching for a credible mistake or even a joke. He could see how angry and riled the other attacking player was, and he cursed himself for being so adventurous and bold, after trying so hard to suppress his growing interest in other guys; he tried to gauge Rashford's rage and character, wondering how likely he was to be exposed for his antics here in the cupboard. Jadon was hesitantly and nervously aware that other guy-on-guy action went on at the football club, and yet it was still hard to judge how Marcus might take this, what he might do and say in response...

I was just trying to make you feel okay,' muttered the 24-year-old indignantly. I just felt sorry for you, man, I wasn't being... I didn't... Fuck!'

Jadon wasn't so familiar with the concept of the `lady doth protest too much', but he WAS gripped by desperation, and it was that fear which made him act. After all, three dozen scenarios were speeding through his worried mind, seeing himself try and fail to explain himself or apologise to the hard-faced local guy, and in none of these scenarios did it change the problem. And so the solution, ridiculously, was to try again. The only way to shut this bastard up, Jadon quickly and excitedly resolved, was to give him reason not to cause any trouble...

And so Jadon was sliding off the bench and to his knees on the hard floor of the boot cupboard, pushing his face in against the bulge in Rashford's shorts, and grabbing at those leans strong thighs, grasping the dark bare skin and its neatly engraved body art. He held the man's taut legs and pushed his mouth in against the thick shape in the material. Jadon felt the other lad's hands push down at his head and his shoulders, ostensibly pushing him AWAY, but then... uncertainty, tentatively, gripping at him, but was he pushing him away or pulling him closer, or both? He heard Marcus swear loudly again, and he went for it, taking the risk - and he began dragging down at those white shorts, pulling them away until his nose and lips were rubbing instead against the bulge in the tight Nike underpants that his ripped teammate had advertised last year, pressing his curious mouth to the shape of a thick, exciting manhood.

`Never was any good,' Luke laughed faintly, watching his own terrible shot ricochet from the wall of the rec room and bounce away until it was snatched up by Brandon. Luke backed away to give the younger player space to make his own shot, irritated by his lack of ball skills in this other sport, but quietly pleased that he DID feel distracted and cheered after all; Brandon's company was light and diverting, and the tension of the training pitch and of his interactions with the captain felt somewhat distant.

Williams netted the ball with relative ease and scampered past him to retrieve it, before thrusting it his way in a quick pass. Shaw caught it in both hands and rested it against his own broad chest, shaking his head critically at the other lad's smug face. Did you just suggest this so you could show off?' he demanded. You're worse than some of the England lads, they're obsessed with basketball on rest days. You should see Mount and Grealish at it with a hoop, so competitive...' He let his voice trail off, watching as the blond-haired 21-year-old moved closer to him, toying with the zip front of his tracksuit top.

I like a lot of sports,' Bran said dismissively. And you'd be good with a bit of practice, you obviously just didn't waste your time with anything but football before you went professional, right?'

Luke shrugged. He had vague memories of always being pushed towards rugby because of his build, but it had only ever been football for him. Pretty much,' he said thoughtfully. You ready to fight me for the left-back position this season?' he asked conversationally, gently passing the ball back into Brandon's grasping mits.

Williams scoffed, turning to shoot another easy hoop and then letting it bounce away from them, finished with. Hardly,' he muttered. I told you - I'm just waiting to be told where I'm fucking off to, with no bloody say in the matter. That's how it was with the Norwich deal, you know, my agent barely consulted me before there was a contract in my hands. Hah. It's all standard stuff, I guess.'

It is,' Luke agreed quietly. But... you might stay here and play with us, you never know. You were really making a name for yourself before Norwich, and since then you've got way more experience and resilience...'

But I'm still just a kid,' said Brandon, quite wistfully. In the coaches' eyes, anyway. I don't know if I'll feature in the big campaign to save Old Trafford, they just want the big boys like you.' Luke just made a non-committal noise to this, very sure that he agreed with the younger defender, but not wanting to voice it, and so Brandon went on. Big is the word,' he mused, coming back close. I mean, you've always been well-built, but how much are you hitting the gym since baby number two arrived?' And then the lithe youngster was grabbing for one of Luke's thick shoulders in his tracksuit top, and then trailing down to one of his biceps, before diverting to rest on his pec. `Fucking hench,' the young Manc scally assessed in a quietly suggestive voice.

Watch it,' Luke chuckled, allowing the wandering hand to linger on his chest for a moment before catching at it and pushing Brandon's touch away from him with an assertive firmness. And I'm not sure I'm any bigger than I was a year ago, you're just being a daft little flirt.' Still, he smiled complacently at the younger left-back, enjoying the compliment all the same, even as he backed gently from him and looked about for where the bouncing basketball had rested, but unable to spot it amongst the furniture of the quiet room.

Sure you are,' Williams insisted. Fuck, those arms. I wanna be built like you, not just a skinny shrimp.'

`You'll develop...'

`Dunno, a lot of it is genes, ain't it? You're built like a fucking bear or something, hah. And as hairy as one, these days, not like back in the day when you were some pretty boy from a boyband, when you first signed for United and I was admiring you from the stands...'

Luke raised a cynical eyebrow, unsure that Brandon had been admiring guys like that in his younger years, and then shook his head. `Mind where you go, matey,' he cautioned in a gentle voice, not up for playing games today. But the games quickly became more explicit: Brandon, still stood close to him, was reaching over again, but not now for the muscles of his chest or arms. The lad's hand was reaching for and closing around an outline in the front of his baggy United shorts, cupping the bulge of his undies, and making Luke's thick body tense up suddenly. He stared into the youth's face and slowly shook his head, then planted a firm hand to his thin chest to push him away.

Brandon sniggered and protested quietly, following his older friend as he moved away from him. Oh come on,' he insisted in a playful whisper, I'm just messin' around. Don't be like that, mate.' Grinning but anxious, the 21-year-old trailed after the other defender, crossing the rec room and shoving his hands back into the pockets of his club tracksuit bottoms, hopping from one foot to the other as Luke paused to pick up his water bottle from a sofa at the wall.

`I said watch it,' Shaw repeated in a low voice, almost a growl.

`Can't help myself,' he tittered, and meant it. Fuck, how was Luke even sexier now than he remembered? It wasn't just the rugged DILF facial hair and manly crop, or the broadening of his body, it was something in his attitude and his manner, something a lot more assured and manly than he'd ever seemed in the past.

`Brandon...'

I can't help fancying you, you big twat,' he sniggered, sidling closer to the other player and rocking on his heels, digging his hands deeper into the pockets of the tracky bottoms so that the material went taut over the angled outline of his hard-on. He saw Luke's eyes flick down to it and smirked teasingly at him. You can see how excited you've got me, you big stud.'

`Fuck's sake mate,' sighed the 27-year-old DILF.

Come on,' Brandon said, his voice becoming almost a moan. We used to have fun, didn't we? You were with Slabhead then too, weren't you, but you still found your moments to play with me, and I hardly knew what I was doing...' Before I started dating that horrible prick, he added internally, thinking bitterly of his ex-boyfriend and the scandals that had removed him from footballing life just as they began to try a long-distance romance. His face must have betrayed the little stab of heartache, because Luke's frown became sympathetic, and he lingered in front of him, unwilling to march firmly away from the temptations on offer. His face looked deliciously conflicted.

Things are different,' the older man muttered distantly. I'm a dad.'

And it makes you even hotter,' Brandon hissed keenly. Ain't you gonna breed me like that sexy missus of yours...?'

Luke's frown was harder, angrier now. Don't talk about her like that,' he said crossly, avoiding eye contact now and squaring his big shoulders so that his open tracksuit jersey tautened over his broad upper body. Brandon ran his hands against that chest and slid them under the nylon of the jersey, slipping into a close cuddle and looking up into Luke's suddenly agonised face. Sorry, daddy,' he whispered giddily, `I think maybe you should spank me for that...?'

Luke almost said something back, but it turned into a frustrated sigh, and he looked away, bringing a palm up against his blushing face. Brandon pulled in close, sniggering, and let one hand wander south as he did, before bringing his mouth in close and planting a slow kiss against Luke's thick furry neck, breathing in his aftershave in a lusty gasp.

Harry Maguire held the older man's head in both hands and let out a deep groan, feeling double relief: the slow-burning physical pleasure of a mouth on his aching erection, but also some returning sense of his own power and control, some return to dominance after another period of tension and aggro with this global superstar who had crash-landed in his fragile team. Yes, Cristiano fucking Ronaldo was back on his knees for him, he thought, and tasting his huge Yorkshire prick, back in his position as the captain's lieutenant, instead of stirring up trouble and challenging the hierarchy!

The United skipper moaned freely and failed to worry about the openness of the fitness suite they were in; after all, he'd been unusually public about his interactions with CR7, having sexually dominated him in front of half a dozen men. That small crowd in the showers had watched him first suck on the usurper's cock, then turn it around and fuck him into the wall with force, and Harry was sure word of the incident had spread further than the five or six lads who'd been present that day... It was a scary prospect, of course, for so many of his team to know or suspect that he might fuck a bloke, but the power dynamic was more important. He needed the team to know that he was still top dog, and that Cristiano was a man not a god, and that even he could be the captain's bitch.

(So how could Luke NOT be furious with him, he wondered, when Harry's position in the squad was dependent on him giving his cock to somebody else...?)

But other than that tiny flicker of conscience, Luke was far from his thoughts right now. He pulled his training shirt further up his hard tummy, letting those tough tanned hands explore his abs and hips, and using his arse muscles to feed his big foot-long further into Ronaldo's gagging throat. Suck it,' he grunted more quietly, suck it like you sucked on Wayne fucking Rooney, you slut.' The secret knowledge of the Rooney affair had certainly given him a power over his rival, but it also turned him on: the thought of these same Manchester United buildings once hosting a sleazy series of fucks between that Scouse ogre and this Iberian superstar, wow... And it turned him on to take his place, to step into Rooney's shoes now and gag this arrogant icon on his own massive tool.

Breathless, Ronaldo slurped off his cock, and Maguire loved the sight of his overwhelmed pink face, saliva all about his mouth and chin. He slapped his cock off those acne-marked cheeks and groaned, wanking himself slowly and glaring at his constant opponent, needing to really make sure that Cristiano knew who was in charge.

`You're much bigger than Wayne,' the Portuguese slut whispered, and the comparison just made Harry feel even more excited. He longed for more detail, wanted to probe Ronaldo with questions about that, but he needed to remain aloof and unbothered, so he just pushed his girth back into those wet lips to silence and choke him for a minute more, before pulling away and settling into a more comfortable spot on one of the nearby weights machines. Ronaldo followed with pleasing obedience, pushing his shorts down and beginning to play with himself through his personally branded briefs, then yanking his stiff one out and starting to kneel down between Harry's spread hairy legs.

`That's it,' Maguire growled, guiding the slut's head between his furred thighs. Ronaldo just groaned and made muffled sounds of pleasure as he took it between his lips again, and Harry tugged off his own shirt, baring his body with his shorts down about his socked ankles and football boots. He put both hands to the back of Ronaldo's head and fucked his throat deep until the man had to pull away, gasping, and the United captain let out a long complacent laugh, satisfied - yes, this bitch knew who was in charge!

Ronaldo had not used his mouth like this for so many years before submitting to his so-called captain; for so long, his sex life had been 100% selfish and one-way, as he felt he deserved. He really had not taken a cock in his mouth since parting ways with the Scouser, and yet it was like riding a bicycle, and came back so naturally to him, even with Maguire's terrifying proportions to work with. But Harry was wrong if he thought he'd won this battle...

Cristiano had thought a lot about how his dubious superior had turned the tables on him, and he thought he knew how sexual egos like theirs worked. He knew how pleasure worked. The 37-year-old had been a selfish top for years, but he knew the tricks.

Whilst lavishing his tongue and lips on the long thick monster of Harry's cock, he rubbed his hands up and down those hairy thighs, parting them further, giving himself more access to the hairy balls that hung below the shaft, which he tickled and grabbed and occasionally licked and nipped at. All the while, the 6ft4 beast just moaned and groaned, sprawled over the weights bench with his whole body exposed and accessible. And Cristiano paused just logn enough to slide on of his own fingers inside his warm mouth, quickly returning his lips to the angry red head of Maguire's rod.

Down went that finger, past the balls and against Harry's hairy gooch, but then further. He worked his mouth with such neglected skill that the bigger younger man would be riding a wave of such raw physical pleasure that he wouldn't quite notice... The Portuguese fighter was pushing his one wet finger between clenched cheeks, working it gently into that thickly-haired crack, and swallowing as much of Maguire into his throat as he could, as breathless and eager as he'd once been for Rooney's equipment, when they had rutted as confused teen prodigies in the dark.

A shift in Harry's moaning said that he was noticing now, but he wasn't doing anything about it. Ronaldo was digging a single finger in against his impeccably tight hole as he sucked on him, although... it wasn't AS tight as he might have expected, not QUITE so utterly clenched and unyielding... had this big thick ape actually given up his arse before? Surely not. Who the fuck would this wannabe alpha ever bend over for? Cristiano dismissed the suspicion, besotted with the idea fo being the first, of being the one to de-flower his competition, the first to fuck him as he had been with so many of the men he'd seduced at Juve and Madrid and on his own national squad.

He stopped properly sucking Harry, just rolling his tongue over the tip and kissing the sides of the shaft, teasing him really, while he began to finger him quite quickly and firmly. The groans revealed a conflicted enjoyment from the sprawled mass of the captain, and Cristiano became feverish with impatient anticipation. He thought about how Harry had bluffed him in the showers that day, weakening him first with the secret - Ronaldo still had no idea how the fuck Maguire found out about Rooney - but then teasing his arse and, fuckkk, rimming him good and deep like that dirty Scouser had so many times, melting him like putty in his huge Yorkshire hands!

Well, two could play at that; Ronaldo knew how good his authoritative finger felt inside the other man's hole, knew how many supermodel women and footballing men had squealed and contorted as he prepared their holes for entry! In went the second finger, lubricated by a lot more spit, and louder came Harry's moans, dangerously loud, but neither egotistical man gave a fuck - they were the most powerful figures in this football team, and who the fuck could judge or criticise them?

Ronaldo's cock was hard and leaking, and his impatience soon got the better of him. He stopped altogether on the oral service of Harry's huge throbber, and rose up on his knees, coming up between those spread legs, and staring hungrily up the bare tummy and big chest and into the worried dark eyes and twisted smile. Maguire stared back at him and his expression seemed full of knowledge and readiness. Cristiano just smirked. `You want my cock in you,' he breathed, and it wasn't a question.

Maguire let out a troubled gasp, but couldn't seem to find his voice. Ronaldo pushed two fingertips back onto his wet hole, still holding his gaze intensely as he did, toying with his tight ring, his tight virginal (?) ring. Harry's huge body trembled with pleasure, and it seemed as if he'd completely forgotten the context, the power struggle, the captaincy - instead, he was just a primitive man, utterly consumed by pleasure and instinct, and he nodded his jutting chin and heavy head, his eyes not blinking or flinching once. Cristiano grinned triumphantly and guided his cock in between those rock-hard cheeks, into that hairy canyon, gasping as the fat head of his own meat made contact with the quivering wet hole.

Rashford pushed one hand against the wall panelling, and held the other atop Sancho's head, holding it in place as he pumped his hips and guided his long slim cock in and out of that gorgeous mouth, making a cunt of the 22-year-old's face, shagging it like a girl and soaring ever closer to emptying his balls. Yes,' the Manc lad whined, mainly to himself, yes that's it...'

In the mind's eye, it wasn't Jadon Sancho on his knees for him in here, but his best mate, whose departure for Nottingham Forest had hit him hard. It was all Rashford could do not to grunt out `Jesse' as he fucked Jadon in the mouth, thinking of the way that mischievous older buddy had broken down his barriers and begun to regularly blow him after their first risky encounter on an England camp last year. (Of course, Jesse Lingard hadn't been his first, and to this day Marcus struggled to look Luke Shaw in the eye, but with his bestie he'd almost come to accept the activity as a special kind of friendship, and not something to be worried or ashamed of!)

Marcus could feel his balls tingling and he knew he was getting close already, all of the tight muscles of his body clenching as he drove his dick in and out of those plump lips, feeding all of his rigid shaft to the eager slutty gob of the surprisingly bi London lad. Rashford was in shock at it all, having never once suspected the brash Camberwell kid might be inclined in the same way as Lingard or Shaw, or any of the other dirty buggers he was half-aware of on the squad; after all, Rashford had witnessed his own fucking captain getting hot and steamy with Ronaldo that day in the showers, a reality that he'd been struggling to mentally process ever since! The action between the warring alphas had been so tense and aggressive that Marcus could hardly align it with his own furtive explorations with his Jesse, which seemed special and safe.

And yet here he was... Face-fucking another fellow man, feeding his cock to Jadon just as he'd done with Lingard and Shaw, and so so close to cumming... Fuck, fuck, fuck... oh, Jesse - shit, was that out loud? If so, did Sancho hear it?! Oh, fuck, who cares...

He pulled his cock out of the lad's mouth, pumping its wet length in one fist and gritting his teeth, whilst the lad on his knees stared earnestly up at him and began to climb up, hands pawing at his six-pack and hips, then reaching for his arms and shoulders, up on his feet and face-to-face... `Don't cum yet, bruv,' the 22-year-old was whispering, Marcus staring at him through half-closed eyes as he felt the waves of ecstasy flow through his lean body.

`Ahhh,' Marcus groaned.

Hold it,' gasped Sancho eagerly, and then he said it, and the words rocked threateningly through Rashford's mind, just as they had each time his best mate had made the same filthy suggestion to him, always pushing for more, never satisfied... Put it in my arse,' grunted the London lad in a trembling voice, `cum inside my arse, man, please...'

Rashford exploded. Literally, his balls gave way, and his silvery load jetted against Jadon's body, dribbling cum against his United shirt and his hand where it held his stubby fat hard-on. And metaphorically, an explosive clarity came into his mind, and he found himself yelling Fuck off' and Dirty bastard' at his playmate in the same way he had with Jesse, so sure that some lines couldn't be crossed - he shoved the 22-year-old away from him, disgusted by the thought of putting his cock inside his other end, and staggering back away from him even as the spunk still dribbled from the tip of his brown rod.

Jadon fell backwards against the wall and then the bench, taken aback by the force of the other man's shove. He trembled and gasped, still holding on to his stiff cock, and stared desperately at the angry expression on Marcus' face. He reached desperately forward from his seat, wanting to pull on Rashford's beautiful cock, wanting to lean in close and lick the cum from its shapely head - but it was being pushed inside the other man's shorts and his reaching hand was slapped viciously aside.

`You dirty fuck,' the senior player was snapping at him.

`Sorry,' Jadon gasped, knowing he'd gone too far with his desperate idea, and almost as disgusted with himself as Rashford was - after all, there was a reason the boisterous young chav hadn't given up his pert brown cheeks just yet. The idea filled him with equal excitement and terror, just as it had as he lay there begging his mate Foden for it whilst the City boy's fingers stretched his ring. In his dark private fantasies, he thought back to being fingered and rimmed by Kyle Walker, and nothing made him blow his load faster or stronger!

`Fucking hell,' Rashford was swearing, adjusting his shorts and his shirt and wiping grubby hands on some of the boot-cleaning kit on the shelves. His face was thunderous and his movements jerky and awkward as he rushed to get away from this scene, and Sancho didn't try to say anything or protest, just staying seated and pathetic. He was such a confident and outgoing lad, he knew, but his shame and uncertainty turned him into a trembling wreck whenever he got to play with another guy. It had been the same with Emre Can in his first fumbling hand-job in Germany, and experimenting with Kyle and Jude and Phil; even though his cock was hard, he let go of it and just hunched there, alone once Rashford had stormed out, feeling dizzy and mortified.

At least Rashford wouldn't be rushing to tell anyone, he thought weakly; he'd been right to push it and take a mouthful of cock, because now Marcus would be too embarrassed to spread any dirt about him amongst their teammates, surely! It certainly didn't cross Sancho's paranoid mind to think that any other lads might have had a taste of that beautiful cock, that there was any back-story to Rashford's temper in those hot moments.

The 22-year-old slumped there alone in the boot-room for several long minutes, willing his erection to subside in his trackies, before eventually getting up and looking guiltily at the dirty rag on the shelf that had been used to wipe away Rashford's spunk. He could see glittering flecks of it on the dirty material and he briefly entertained thoughts of licking it up, but he felt sick with himself, and he just grabbed it and hurled it to the other side of the large cupboard instead, before shuffling out into the corridor and wiping his clammy face on the back of one arm.

Jadon's upbringing in South London had centred around his mum's church and the casual street gangs of his school pals, and both environments had dripped in homophobia; he was hardly conditioned to be particularly open-minded about the new experiences that had entered his life in the last couple of years, and yet the body wants what the body wants. Even as he frowned miserably and hung his head in shame, Jadon walked through the training complex with flashing images in his head of Rashford's thighs and six-packs and stiff prick. His teammate wasn't the best looking guy, facially, but he was a ripped stud and a charismatic figure. Sancho knew miserably that he would be adding the striker to his nightly fantasies from now on, and he felt a mixture of despair and thrill.

Such was the young lad's mood that he might have strolled on through the corridor without paying attention to his surroundings, and he certainly wouldn't have paused at the door to his left and peered through its small window panels in the gym beyond. Visually, nothing would have alerted him, deep in his self-pity and self-loathing; but the groans were quite loud, even through the doors, and they blurred briefly with his own inner fantasies of bending over and being broken in by Rashford's cock. Or Phil's, or Kyle's.

Drawn by the noise, Sancho stopped. He pressed himself carefully to the door and stared in through the square of glass. Not far from the door was an occupied weights machine, and on it was a bare male body. Huge legs were parted, and between them glistened the muscular masterpiece of Cristiano Ronaldo's upper body, muscles working hard. There was a wicked look on the striker's face, his eyes fixed down intently on the face of the guy he was fucking, which was screened from Sancho's vision by the outline of the machinery... though Jadon could see enough of his body to sluggishly start to guess. Nobody else at United was built quite like that. Fuck.

Metres away from him, separated by the doors and this well-placed window, he watched as the hero who had been so mean to him earlier on ploughed into his captain, and the moans of both men leaked through the door and into his excited ears. Staring through the small panel, Jadon had no choice but to push a hand into the front of his tracksuit, taking hold of his still-swollen prick, and begin to play with himself, staring at Ronaldo's juddering physique, and mentally placing himself on the bench with it...

Luke stood there by the couch, one hand gripping his half-empty water bottle, and the other resting tentatively at Brandon's shoulder, beginning to grip him but not quite push him away. He closed his eyes and breathed deeply, feeling the young footballer's fingers through his tracksuits and tight boxer briefs, feeling them on the chubby form of his cock, tickling at the stubble of his pubes, finding the outline of his balls...

Sighing, the 27-year-old did think of the few times he'd messed about with Williams in the past, at first comforting him after a rude sexual awakening with Maguire himself; the pair of them had never gone as far as fucking, just borrowed hands and lips, and it hadn't lasted long. Brandon had begun his teen romance with he-who-will-not-be-named, and Luke had happily looked on and helped to protect the smitten pair.

But Luke also thought about all of the pleasure and fun he'd had since giving in to his most repressed desires, almost three years ago now. He thought of casual Memphis Depay, and of cheeky-faced Daniel James, and he thought about that brilliant foursome with Stones and Walker on England duty. But more than anything else, he thought about his Harry. He thought about Christmas Day 2019, pressed into the snowy ground and squealing as they made their first attempt at anal; he thought of a broken bed in a Spanish hotel room on what might have been Valentine's Day; he pictured Maguire in that ridiculous spangled thong, Magic Mike-ing for him in another hotel, and he pictured himself handcuffed to another bed and teased into ecstasy as `punishment' for an own-goal. He thought about Covid lockdown, and their socially distanced self-pleasure in a public toilet in the Peak District, unable to go without seeing each other under those strict isolation rules...

Brandon was starting to pull at the elastic waist of his tracksuit, and had lifted up, kissing at his jawline and cheek rather than just the side of his neck. No,' Luke growled, no.' He pushed more firmly on Brandon's shoulder, and still the slim 5ft7 Manc lad tried to resist, tried to grab and explore... but Luke took tight hold of him and pushed him away, sparking a little giggle of excitement from the 21-year-old. `Yeah, throw me about,' whispered Williams excitedly, but he went quiet when Luke fixed him with an icy glare.

Not now,' the 27-year-old growled, and there was a finality in his voice. I'm not up for it. Sorry, mate.' And with that he tore himself away, ignoring the swelling in his trunks and tracksuit, ignoring the heat in his chest, just needing to be away from the lithe boy and his wicked smirk. In fact, he needed to be outside, needed the cool air on his face, and he rushed for an exit, pink-cheeked and aroused, and feeling more troubled than ever - what was he going to do about his relationship with Maguire?!

For a minute, the young defensive player lingered in the corner of the lonely rec room, wondering if he could have said or done something more subtle to initiate some fun with the big hunk... but at his heart, he knew that Luke's interests just lay elsewhere, for now, and it wasn't really anything to do with him. He sighed disappointedly.

Still, Brandon was young and largely optimistic, happy-go-lucky, horny rather than smitten. He laughed critically at himself and tugged limply at the outline in his tracksuit bottoms, then gave a shifty look about the room in case there had been any witnesses to his deviance or that rejection, then laughed again.

The under-sized defender shrugged it off and left the room, giving the stray basketball a resentful kick on the way out to release the last of his frustrations. Out in the corridor, he could catch the echoing chatter of teammates, relaxing in the other player lounges branching off at this end of the centre, probably engaged in FIFA tournaments or the pool table or something. For some reason, he didn't quite feel up to that environment; Brandon just didn't seem to be reintegrating easily into the senior squad after a season away from them all, self-conscious about his peripheral place on the team, and fatigued from the effort of establishing all those new connections down in Norwich.

Instead, he moved on through the quiet passages of the team's training complex, passing the quiet refectory where a few guys were already gathering for the pre-match meal and team talk. Past that, he entered the stretch of gyms and fitness facilities, and he stared at a few treadmills and weight racks, and wondered if he should get a bit of body work done whilst he was at a loose end - a brief self-conscious thought of his own weedy physique haunted him for a minute, and the need to start bulking himself up to be considered a real cornerstone of any defence. But he thought he heard faint voices coming from elsewhere in the gym, and he walked slowly on, instinctively sneaking carefully, always curious and voyeuristic - such habits had allowed him to spy on the Norwich lovebirds Cantwell and Aarons on a number of occasions before one of the secretive pair was sent away on loan to the south coast. (Brandon had tried repeatedly to hint his interest to a lonely Max during that absence, but failed to get anything going - he'd been too lovesick for his own ex-boyfriend, recovering from that awkward secret break-up.)

Whilst another lonely United player watched through a window at a different angle, Brandon stealthily crept about the corner and saw it from behind. Saw the 6ft2 power of Ronaldo's bronzed body, every muscle obvious and engaged, and saw the creaking shifts of the weight bench that buckled and struggled underneath them; he saw the big legs spread on either side of Cristiano's pumping body, and past them a patch of pale chest, and then the wide-mouthed face, dripping in sweat, staring up at the man who was thrusting in between his hairy cheeks. Brandon's cock was instantly hard and he half-crouched down behind another weight machine as he began to jerk himself through his pants, his eyes fixed on the shocking scene.

`Fuck, yes,' the legendary striker could be heard yelling; Maguire's voice was just throaty cries of anguished pleasure, the kind of guttural sounds Brandon had once made whilst lying back and taking it from his teenage sweetheart.

`Take it,' Ronaldo was yelling thoughtlessly, oblivious or unconcerned about anyone else entering the gym; the showiness and risk of it all was as exciting for Brandon to stumble upon as the big powerful bodies of the titans engaged in the fuck. He wanked himself furiously through the shiny nylon, trying his best to keep his breathing quiet and secretive, reluctant to blink and miss a second of the action. Williams had no idea that he wasn't the only wanking onlooker, no idea that beyond the nearest exit, Jadon Sancho was jacking off furiously and holding himself back carefully in case he made the door creak or rattle, equally fixated on the glorious sight of Ronaldo and Maguire in these inverted positions.

Brandon had heard rumours of Maguire being somehow sexually involved with CR7 as soon as he returned to the squad, but he'd laughed at them and found them ridiculous, even though he knew their captain was a dominant sexual monster. But he certainly hadn't expected this. Ronaldo upright and powerful, holding onto the centre-back's huge thighs whilst pummelling between them, sweat cascading down his bronzed back, and Maguire just groaning and gasping like a bitch on his back.

`Fuck - fuck - fuckkkk...' came Ronaldo's screams of climax, and Williams shot his own load down the inside leg of his tracksuit at almost the exact same moment, his whole body suddenly hot and clammy and his eyes boggling. Even as he suppressed his orgasmic gasps, he was gingerly retreating, no desire to be caught spying on these two monsters; the excitement and caution occupied so much of his thinking that it wasn't until he was disappearing out of the gym, cum dribbling down his thigh, that two and two added up in his head, and the problem presented itself: if Luke was still so loyal and devoted to Captain Harry, what did he think about his man being topped by none other than RONALDO...?

Harry was still thinking about it when he sat down in Old Trafford in the evening, his arse aching a bit as he struggled to get comfortable in his substitute chair at the Home dugout. He had been uncomfortable all through the meal and team-talk and the short coach ride across the city, though only partly because his cheeks stung from spanking and his hole throbbed from its first entering in a long time. When he thought about himself just lying there and opening himself to his rival, he felt a cold sweat come over him, and he wanted to turn back time and plant a kick in the middle of Ronaldo's smug face. But the blowjob had felt so good, and then that one teasing finger, and then... It had been so long since he'd allowed Luke to top him, could count the instances on one hand, had never warmed to the thought of changing his role in the sexual act... and yet that one strong finger testing his ring, and suddenly he'd felt the need for it, felt the need to give up the control and just let someone else overpower him. In the sweaty furious fucking from CR7, he'd let go of his stress and responsibility and surrendered to the moment in a way that he could never have done while trying to dominate his enemy. He'd given in and taken it and shot an absolute fountain of cum over his tummy when he felt Ronaldo unload in him, sneering down at him and flexing his arm muscles vainly, and as soon as it was over he'd felt the wave of regret.

And now the 29-year-old was shifting in his seat and staring morosely out over the pitch as the Liverpool game prepared to kick off. The home crowd was louder than ever, but it sounded muffled and distant to Harry, who felt like his shame cloaked him from the rest of the world. There was a plasticky creak and the figure of his closest teammate settled into the next of these substitute chairs behind the bench, and he felt a dull surprise when he glanced to the left and found Luke choosing to sit quite so close to him - he'd felt an icy distance still from the other defender during the meal and build-up to the game, and yet here he was, coming close to him again, and now looking this way with a warm little smile.

`You okay?' the left-back asked him quietly, muscling up to him in their matching tracksuits, tilting his head this way and giving him a concerned look.

Harry nodded his head slowly, staring back at the man he loved. Sure,' he grunted. Totally fine.' And around them, the home crowd exploded with more noise, because the United team were marching out onto the green turf, and the game was almost ready to kick off.

Ronaldo had came quicker than usual whilst fucking his `captain', so turned on by regaining this authority over the big English lump. Sure, he'd enjoyed the novelty of being dominated and returning to a bottom role for a little while, but his time with Wayne had been special and different, a thing of teenage innocence; he was a different man now, the GOAT of his sport, lauded across the world and his shelves overflowing with silverware. And if his summer exit from this damned club was not happening, he needed to retake control and oust Maguire after all - if not officially, then between them. As he shot his load inside the man's deliciously tight arse and dripped sweat over him, he'd glared into Harry's eyes and knew he'd won. This man would not challenge or question him again now. He watched Maguire cum pathetically on his own body and whimper for air, and knew with deep certainty that he was once more king of Manchester United, undisputed, and he would either turn their fortunes around or get the fuck out.

`Don't ever try to tell me what to do again,' the 37-year-old snarled as he pulled his slick wet cock out of that trembling arse and wiped some cum on the shorts that dangled from one thick ankle, backing away to find a towel and rub down his glistening body.

And now he sat at the opposite end of the subs' seating to the benched skipper, arms folded across his chest and a moody, uncertain expression on his face. The private victory of topping the imposter captain had changed nothing about the dismay of being a substitute, or his concerns for the historic failures of United's season so far. He was watching the opening minutes of the game with his eyebrows arched critically and a sour look on his lips, waiting for the manager's new line-up to fuck up and prove him right.

For a moment, Cristiano glanced down the line of spare players in various layers of tracksuit over their ready kit. His eyes settled on Maguire, who seemed to be trying very hard to avoid looking this way, and was engaged in private chit-chat with that gormless crony of his, Luke Shaw, who Ronaldo considered far too chunky and ungainly to be a serious footballer. He'd tried to offer him some tips on shredding body fat, and just received a stony glare from the left-back. Ronaldo stared at them, hoping to catch Maguire's eye and smirk at him, knowing that he would still be sore from his rough treatment on the weights bench, but the two defenders were hunched close and paying no attention. Cristiano's nostrils flared moodily and he turned his attention back to the match...

Just as Sancho's debut goal went in, and United took the lead over Liverpool.

When Sancho put them in the lead, Rashford rushed to celebrate with him as eagerly as anyone else. Football and this club were more important to the 24-year-old than anything else, and he would treat any teammate with respect and loyalty on the pitch, especially one who had just scored a beautiful goal against such significant rivals!

Marcus piled on with the other players to grab and hug Jadon, who looked more startled than jubilant at his own success, his first goal in the red kit so overdue that he seemed hardly able to believe it. Even as the other men dispersed, Rashford found himself grabbing tightly at the other attacking player and kissing him damply on the brow, telling him he was a fucking legend and then slapping him on the arse of his white shorts with the usual tactile machismo of their sport.

It was only as he jogged away from him to take up position that he gave a more wary glance back at the other player, and some corner of his brain allowed him to revisit the late afternoon scene in the boot-room. Fucking hell, he thought, how did I let that happen, again...? It's a one-off, he told himself firmly, no more of that nonsense. He'd wanted it to end with Lingard's goodbyes, it had been too distracting and confusing last season as he let Jesse crawl into his hotel beds and take him in his mouth - no more of that!

Rashford turned his attention back to the game, refusing to ever acknowledge their secret encounter or discuss it with the London lad, NEVER. He set his focus back on the match against Liverpool, and securing his own goal...

At half-time, Jadon had tried and failed to get his friend alone and try to issue some wet apology for what had happened, even though it was hardly his fault alone - he was just determined to preserve a good relationship with Rashford, and he certainly didn't want any tension or bad feeling to mar the celebrations tonight, now that HE'D finally arrived as an attacking proposition in the club and the league.

Back on the pitch, he felt optimistic. After all, Rashford had come and celebrated his goal as eagerly as anyone else, hugging and close. No discomfort, no distance. Maybe it hadn't been such a disastrous little moment, he thought, and maybe he hadn't ruined a friendship after all. For a moment, his excitable mind went further: maybe he'll give in and let me suck him again, and maybe he'll be the right guy to finally take my cherry...

And then Rashford was scoring his goal, making it 2-0 to the home team, and Sancho put these dangerous thoughts out of his head. As he leapt at and hugged the other goal-scorer, he reminded himself of their job here, and the high-pressure league they were in. He couldn't go around trying to suck off his teammates and not expect it to bring him more stress and aggro! He swore to himself that he would respect Rashford's silence over what had happened and not bother him again, and that he would try his best to stop the late-night fantasies that disturbed his sleep.

Around him, players of both teams dashed and dived, and he grimaced at the knowledge that their sweaty bodies would visit his dreams, and he would continue to crave the taboo fun just as much tomorrow.

Liverpool's Mo Salah had just netted a late goal and threatened United's lead, but still the dugout buzzed with the prospect of the team's first win of the season. The new manager was visibly excited and his coaching team around him looked tense as they watched the final chunk of the game unfold, everybody focused on holding Liverpool back from an equaliser and a drop in their 3 point achievement.

`This ain't good for us,' muttered the voice of the man to his right, and Harry's grunted tone aired his own private worries as the pair of defenders looked on. Luke glanced across at him, nodding imperceptibly, and then looked back at the action on the pitch, the furious efforts of the Man Utd defence as the 90th minute approached.

It was a terrible thought, and Luke was glad to hear Maguire be the one to murmur it. The two of them, established members of this team and club, ought to be as overjoyed as everyone around them, watching the game slide towards a 2-1 win. Even sour-faced Ronaldo had been subbed on and seemed happy to claim some credit for a game he had largely missed. But here on the subs bench, Shaw and Maguire were feeling the same worry: if the squad were getting their first win without them, how keen would the boss be to start them in the next few matches...?

Luke sighed uncertainly and tried to suppress these negative thoughts. A win was good. The lads needed it, desperately. The morale, the atmosphere, the optimism. He needed to think unselfishly about it and keep his mind on the team, not himself. But... he'd broken his back to get back into the first team here after tough times, and he could already feel it starting to slip away from him.

Briefly but tenderly, he felt Harry's hand brush against the back of his, heavy and rough on his skin, and he realised that Maguire had been watching the twitch and frown of his face. Their eyes met and the looming captain smiled weakly at him, and Luke's heart fluttered in his strong chest. The big rough man could be so clunky and insensitive, and then every now and then he was capable of such soft and loving attention, and... Luke pursed his lips and returned the gesture, reaching over and discreetly holding Harry's forearm in his hand, giving it a squeeze through the sleeve of his jersey.

In the same low voice in which the pair had chatted and conferred throughout the last 90 minutes, he leaned in and said, I want to make things work, you know.' He let those vague words sink in, hunched close to his centre-back captain, confident that their whispering would not look too weird or out of place to the stands or the cameras. I know it's been rough, and I'm not blaming all that on you, but... I want it to work, Harry. I want it to be like it was.'

For a still moment, Maguire stared back at him, and he looked like he was struggling for the right words. `I do too,' he said eventually, his voice sounding heavy, maybe thick with controlled emotion because of where they were. Somewhere, a whistle had been blown and extra time was over. United had won, rising up from rock bottom after all, and Luke squeezed his man by the wrist, looking intently into his eyes. Just as the team were swerving before they crashed and burned, he thought that maybe his and Harry's relationship could do the same - they weren't so distant and tired, not yet, and that passion was still there, just under the surface. He let go of Harry's arm, worried someone might notice, but kept his eyes on him, holding that serious gaze whilst around them the rest of the United camp went wild with celebration and matched the scream of their home supporters.

Not even on the subs list, Brandon Williams had been forced to sit a few rows back from this, really cut off from the inner circle of the team as tonight's glorious win proceeded. But now he was up on his feet and hurrying down the concrete steps with a few other minor players, keen to be down in the dugout and joining in with the triumphant mood of their teammates and coaches.

But the 21-year-old paused briefly on the steps, his hand resting on the cool metal of the railing, and his eyes cast down the row of substitutes; most of them were empty, since Heaton and Ferreyra had raced down to the edge of the pitch already, and now the resting players who had been taken off at various points were getting up in their hoodies and sweat-towels, rushing past Brandon: Dalot, Elanga, Eriksen and Sancho, all of them rushing to join the celebrating huddle on the turf. But at the far end of the row of seats, two players were notably slower to spring up.

Brandon watched them for a short moment, seeing the hunched intimacy of the two senior defenders, close together in whispered conversation: Luke and Harry. Clearly there was still something very close and private between his buddy Shaw and that bullish skipper, he thought slowly, judging by the way they had been with each other throughout the game. He'd glanced their way repeatedly from a few rows behind, idly curious but increasingly anxious. Watching them get up now and troop through towards him, he thought back to what he'd seen in the gym, Harry on his back and Ronaldo balls-deep in him, and he felt his stomach lurch with the burden of knowledge.

On their way past, both Shaw and Maguire patted and grabbed at him with vague barks of excitement before carrying on down the last few steps and joining the others, but Williams just lingered there on the steps, facing his dilemma. He felt pretty sure that his mate Luke would not be aware of what was clearly going on between the two big egos of their team, and so the problem lay in front of the 21-year-old - should or shouldn't he be telling his buddy what he'd spied in the gym today...?

I'VE BEEN CONSCIOUSLY GIVING A LOT MORE TIME AND ENERGY TO NEWER TEAMS AND CHARACTERS LATELY, TO KEEP THINGS FRESH AND INTERESTING, BUT IT WAS GOOD TO GET BACK TO THE SERIES' ORIGINALY NARRATIVE. LET ME KNOW WHAT YOU THOUGHT OF THIS TWIST AND WHAT SHOULD HAPPEN NEXT... AS ALWAYS, FEEDBACK AND REQUESTS ARE GLADLY WELCOMED!

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

Amazon Wishlist here if you wanna say thanks LOL

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