Part 312: Hot September in Leeds
It was hard for today's training not to become a chore, even without the oppressive unseasonal warmth that had returned mid-September; the Leeds squad hadn't faced a competitive game in a good 10 days, their latest fixture against Nottingham Forest taking the same postponement as everything else over the weekend, with the country in its official period of mourning. The air of fatigue was evident across the training pitch, in the slumped movement of each player, and the mechanical effort with which they followed their assigned drills - none of the men even sure if their next game, away to Man Utd, would take place next Sunday either, the day before the state funeral. The squad were in the same kind of bland purgatory as many sides in the league, caught uncertainly between cancelled games, but under pressure to respectfully avoid complaint.
And, thought Patrick Bamford, it didn't help that this itchy heat had fallen over even the North of England, and it was making the Leeds players all the more lazy and distracted as the morning session reached its end. For the tall 29-year-old, the energy levels were all the tougher, as not much sleep was occurring at home for he or his partner and their young child, with Paddy keen to take up his share of midnight feeds in spite of his daytime sporting commitments.
The striker stifled another yawn, hands on his hips, squinting up at the cloud-streaked brightness of the sky, and following the general drift of kitted bodies towards the far side of the pitch, and the open doors of the refectory for lunch.
It was probably just the heat and the boredom, Bamford supposed, that was making his mind wander today. After all, there was no particular reason that the Leeds ace should suddenly be feeling fresh dismay at the absence of his former teammate - he'd taken a calm grin-and-bear-it stoicism to the sudden exit of the Geordie youngster last summer, after all, aware that their strange arrangement could end as suddenly and gracelessly as it had once began, in stray hotel spaces and on that fateful New Year's Eve. Why should he be thinking about Leif Davis now, over a year after the young Tynesider had been first loaned to Bourneemouth, and now sold more permanently to Ipswich Town. Perhaps, Paddy mused, he'd always expected the younger football lad to return to Leeds after his spell on the south coast, and... well, had he assumed the two of them would pick up where they'd left off? Perhaps, perhaps.
Whatever the reason, memories of Leif had been flashing idly past since he woke up this morning, stroking lazily at morning wood in his pyjamas, and sighing disappointedly as his partner ignored it and climbed out of bed to go and tend to family duty instead. Paddy had wanked his long erection half-heartedly in the shower but failed to finish, losing the will, and wondering if cute Davis ever thought of him, now that he'd really left Elland Road behind... probably not.
Patrick had tried very hard to avoid introspection about his connection to Leif, even when the then 20-year-old left-back had made those wide puppy dog eyes at him afterwards, and tentatively asked if he could stay a bit longer. Things had remained, in Bamford's view, strictly physical... after all, he wasn't queer, he was just... in need of assistance. And assistance had been plentiful, from Leif's grasping hands and pouting lips and the firm round muscles of his behind, almost any time that Paddy even hinted at it with his eyes. Until last summer, and the loan to Bournemouth. And now... no contact at all. Hmm.
But, the Grantham-born player reminded himself, it was just the boredom and the heat, and the lack of sleep; that fling was a daft thing of the past, a fun convenience that had served a purpose and kept him energised. And now he was a dad, with new responsibilities, and he was nearing his 30th birthday, for fuck's sake - time to be a serious grown-up, right?
Realising how much his walking pace had slowed to a plod, Bamford hurried after the others, jogging through the double doors just in time to catch the gist of a short speech from the assistant manager - he didn't quite grasp the full message, but he heard the words free time', get some rest', and `see you tomorrow'. Blinking sleepily in the doorway, Patrick straightened up his 6ft1 physique and listening hard to check that he wasn't misunderstanding; nope, the instant mood and muted applause of the other men confirmed what he'd half-heard. Training was being cut short, the afternoon sessions called off and the players released for a bonus half-day to themselves or their families, and Paddy felt his entire body swell and relax with relief.
A light lunch was still in the process of being served, though some of the lads made a sharp and cheerful exit without even waiting to eat. Still a little stunned by the good news, Bamford moved to the serving hatch like a handsome zombie, collecting some salad and snacks and then taking a seat at the nearest table. He should, he supposed, be doing the same as many others, rushing off and getting in the car... he could get home pretty fast and let his partner get a nap whilst he took over daddy duties and relieved her for a change. That would be the kind and responsible thing to do, he guessed, suppressing another deep yawn, and bluntly admitting to himself that he really didn't want to go home to that wholesome monotony, not really.
Other guys were settling down at the same table, others who had made less of a beeline for the changing rooms after the coach's announcement: two young players were mid-conversation to Patrick's left, noisily clanking trays and cutlery as they sat down, and he became half-aware of Jack Harrison floating to his right, following him and grabbing the nearest seat as he did all too often. The last seat at their table of five was quickly taken as Stuart Dallas, with no food but a large bottle of squash in one hand, dropped his thick muscular form into the chair opposite, surveying them all with a thoughtful expression before slurping on his juice.
Afternoon off,' Joe Gelhardt was grunting eagerly at the summer's new recruit next to him, Brenden Aaronson. What will you do, lad?'
And to Patrick's right, Harrison was asking the same question, nudging him insistently in the arm whilst he stared thoughtfully down into his couscous. Bamford didn't rush to reply, poking a slice of cucumber across his plate disinterestedly and trying not to yawn, and before he could speak, the group of them were interrupted by the coarse Northern Irish bark of Stu Dallas on the other side of the table.
Anyone wanna come over to my place for a beer?' the 31-year-old asked gregariously. The place will be deserted for the afternoon so easy den for a bit of a lads' session - I've got plenty of drink in and a few games and that.' He shrugged one shoulder, waving an arm vaguely to the four of them. `I mean, if nobody else has any plans, yer all welcome, I'll just be sinking a couple of bottles on my own if not.' Casual and relaxed, the Northern Irish bloke grinned invitingly from face to face, and Patrick stared thoughtfully over at him. Dimly, he was aware of the two younger lads, Joe and Brenden, looking a bit sceptical at the invite of the 31-year-old guy, and he could tell that Jack was glancing to him uncertainly.
Bamford surprised himself when he answered as clearly and firmly as he did. Sounds good to me,' the Leeds striker said with a slow nod. I could use a drink before I head home to nappies and chores.'
No sooner had Paddy delivered this decision than the winger to his right was nodding enthusiastically and reaching over to clap Dallas on the arm. Sure thing,' the former City trainee said eagerly. Sounds like a bit of fun, you sure you've got enough booze in, old man?'
And to the other side of the table, Joe was nudging and cajoling their new American teammate, shaking him by one shoulder and barking at him in his Scouse accent - Time to relax a bit, Stu has a great games room at his, this'll be quality.' Sure enough, the New Jersey import was shrugging and nodding and grinning around at them. Why not?' he drawled in his Stateside accent, poking at his lunch and laughing.
Why not? Patrick could think of a good half dozen reasons why he shouldn't be jumping at this chance to idle and socialise on a hot Monday afternoon, but life had become incredibly repetitive and sensible for him of late. And, if nothing else, spending a few hours with friends from the squad and sinking a couple of beers would take his mind off the haunting memories of two seasons ago... right?
He pushed his tray of food away from him decisively and gave Stuart a keen look, putting aside his mild distrust of the smirking 31-year-old, having a little mild history of conflict with him over some excessive banter around young Davis. Even as he agreed to the drinks and hangout, he had a subconscious feeling that Dallas might have other things on his mind, given some of his past behaviour... but he smiled innocently all the same, agreeing only to a drink and a game of pool with mates, happy to briefly escape his new responsibilities.
Aaronson was hesitantly excited to be hanging out so informally with guys from the team, having struggled to establish much meaningful friendship with the lads here after his arrival during the summer break; though he'd had his eyes set on European success since his early teens, the 21-year-old midfielder was a little disoriented by the different football culture here and the sudden distance from everything and everyone he knew. It was a good job that he was already well-liked by players, staff and fans, despite the team's mediocre season to date, otherwise he'd probably be starting to regret the transatlantic leap.
And here he was in the passenger seat of the older guy's car, listening to Stu Dallas boast about the contents of his games room extension, and the cooing admiration of the 20-year-old in the back; Joe was a sweet guy, if a bit dim, and the Liverpudlian dude had definitely made a special effort to welcome and support Brenden since being introduced at his first summer training session.
Back in the States, Aaronson had been warned a lot about the drink culture in the UK, especially among footballers in some of the Premiership's less dominant and moneyed clubs, and he'd smiled benignly and reassured his advisors, family and agent that he was focusing only on the success he could find. The young American had a clear trajectory in his head, hopping between a couple of Prem sides before trying for mainland Europe and somewhere like La Liga. But whilst he was here with a plan and a lot of ambition, he knew that life was about balance, and he liked the idea of sharing some beers with these British dudes, establishing him more in their cliques.
Once arrived at the home of Dallas and his apparently absent family, Brenden was quickly presented with an ice-cold beer and led through the house and garden, making polite comments on the basic unimaginative decor, and then into the large outhouse games room that made him laugh cheerily. It was so fucking American, like a recreation of some small-town dive bar that he'd barely visited in his career-focused teens, and there was something very charming about the way Stuart was so desperate to show it off and impress the pair of them, his younger visitors. Bamford and Harrison were in another car and would be pulling up soon enough, were probably on the driveway now.
`Make yourself at home,' boasted Dallas warmly, giving both he and Joe a strong pat on the back before ditching them, presumably to go and welcome the other two.
Gelhardt, he thought, must be the older man's dream guest. The 20-year-old was wandering down the middle of the large room, slurping noisily from his cold bottle, and making generic noises of admiration at each new feature of the man-cave. There was something very boyish and enthusiastic about the young forward, and Brenden just thought what a shame it was that Stuart wasn't in the room to hear Joe gush over this pool table and that home bar, that fancy sound system and this framed sports antique.
Aaronson, more mild in his response, positioned himself beside the rather tacky bar installation, and let his eyes idly follow the stocky body of the Liverpudlian guy - he'd pulled a pair of impossibly tight skinny jeans on his footballer's legs after shedding his Leeds kit, and Brenden enjoyed the way the denim held his peachy backside, a view he couldn't stop admiring when playing alongside him lately, and really had to stop himself grabbing for it when the friendly 20-year-old undressed next to him in the changing rooms.
Joe turned this way, grinning at him with his rosy-cheeked face beneath a mop of light brown hair, demanding to know if this wasn't the coolest fucking room he'd ever seen. Gelhardt never held back in his opinions, positive or negative, it seemed to be part of his unaffected charm, and why all of the older players were very fond of their up-and-coming forward.
It's cool,' the 21-year-old American said, mild but not dismissive. But it feels like there should be more of us here for this party, hey?'
Joe just shrugged his broad shoulders and ran fingers through his hair. `Fuck it, we'll have a laugh, and maybe you and me can hit up a bar in town after and ditch them haha?' And with that, he was bounding away to inspect an arcade games machine to the other side of the outhouse, whilst Brenden turned to watch Stuart lead in the other two, mouthing off the same spiel to them about how he'd talked his wife out of a home spa in the same space, insisting on his man-cave so that he could get away from her and the kids when he needed. Jeez, Brenden thought with a smile, what a guy.
Harrison was hurrying over to inspect the arcade game that Gelhardt was noisily playing, and Bamford had pretty much thrown himself into the huge couch that ran along part of the far wall, looking only marginally more awake than he had as they left the refectory. Dallas came this way, looking for where he'd left his beer, and Aaronson obliged with a smile, pushing it over the bar in his direction.
`What do you think then?' asked the Northern Irish dude bluntly, and as usual it took the American a moment to register the words past the accent.
Pretty sweet,' he said, but heard how non-committal his voice was. Dallas seemed unaffected by the cool praise, pressing up next to him and waving proudly about them at the chain sports bar that had crash-landed at the back of his property. I spent ages working out the set-up,' he announced, brash and keen, and suddenly pressing one of his thick arms about the youth's lean shoulders. `So you guys are welcome whenever you like, yeah?'
`Right, cool.'
Just an escape,' the married guy continued, as if he'd reinvented the wheel, and a proper lad space, you know, just for the blokes?'
`Sure.'
`And there's plenty of games we can try, whatever people fancy really, or just a beer and a chat and a laugh, hah, whatever really.' He was pressing the arm quite firmly across the back of Aaronson's shoulders, stood close and over him, and sipping a bit too eagerly at his beer, nostrils flaring.
The slim young American glanced sidelong at him, a half-smirk forming on his thin lips, and he pulled a loose strand of his dark brown curls away from his face, back behind an ear. There was a definite something about the manner of the older football player, pressed up beside him like this, so over-hyped and keen to be hosting this random gaggle of teammates all of a sudden - and an amusing thought skipped over the New Jersey guy's mind, listening to Stuart talk on. Was he actually being a bit flirty? No longer a full arm about the back of his shoulder, but a heavy hand patting at one of his shoulders, and a real enthusiasm in the man's voice as he demanded to know whether he was any good at pool. `Wait, do you fuckers even play pool over on that side of the pond?' pushed Dallas.
Toying for a few more moments with his silly idea, Brenden regarded the taller player, weighing up the overheated body language of the rugged dude, and the tactile way he'd suddenly developed in the minutes since welcoming them to his home. There was definitely something odd about his excitement, the 21-year-old pondered, although maybe he was being a bit stupid in reading any sexual tension into the mood... after all, British men were so famously repressed and close-minded, everybody knew that!
As for Brenden himself... well, he hadn't rushed to throw a label on his own sexuality, dating a string of attractive girls back home in USA, but experimenting liberally for the past three or four years now. In America, soccer was hardly seen as the most overtly masculine of pursuits, a prejudice that had never phased the slim good-looking guy, and simply allowed him to lean into his slow-burning curiosities with the odd teammate or coach... nothing heavy or serious, but enough to broaden his horizons. As focused as Aaronson was on making a success of himself in the Premiership, he certainly wasn't averse to the idea of finding a new playmate somewhere amongst the brash laddish ranks of Leeds United.
And they didn't come more brash and laddish' than this dude: Jesus, how long do you spend on that hair?' Dallas was demanding bluntly. `It's shinier than my missus' do, you Ken doll, haha.' A rough hand was mussing playfully with his loose curls and Brenden twisted away with a single laugh and a searching look at his host. Yep, definitely flirting.
With that, Stu was marching away from him, apparently annoyed that Jack and Joe were singularly interested in the arcade machine and nothing else - and Brenden was briefly left alone, leaning idly against the kitted home bar, beer in hand. Yes, he could admit to himself, he was open to a bit of fun on the side whilst he worked his season or two in the lower ranks of the league, though he'd have to be careful he didn't do anything to tarnish his future prospects... but it wasn't quite the brusque and rugged defensive player who had really caught his eye in the weeks since his transfer, nor even peachy-arsed Joe bounding around like a big labrador.
No. Brenden's eyes fell to the sofa, where the long tall figure of their occasional captain was lifting from the cushions and stretching out his arms and shoulders, clearly hiding a yawn and pulling back the blond quiff of his hair. There was something about Patrick Bamford, confident leader and accomplished striker, that perfectly matched Aaronson's perceptions of the quintessential Englishman... the well-spoken, well-educated gentleman of a dozen rom-coms and TV dramas, nothing like the harsh-accented `yobs' that peopled much of the Leeds squad.
The 21-year-old smiled indulgently, unseen in his long head-to-toe visual enjoyment of the 6ft1 man, drifting from the bar and drawing closer to him, entertaining a fantasy that he knew he'd never have the boldness to explore: Bamford was just the kind of English gent he'd wondered about when imagining his British seasons, and he was keen to know him better.
Two beers down and a third in hand, and Gelhardt was happily sniggering on the sofa with their host, Dallas, sharing with him the memory of a Croydon strip club where things had got slightly out of hand - the away trip night out, spearheaded by their teammate Ayling, hadn't really been discussed very openly in the months since, making Joe wonder if the older lads regretted getting up to mischief with the hot strippers in the seedy joint, so he felt strangely relieved to have the Northern Irish man elbowing him and wheezing with laughter at what the gang of them had got up to that night on the southern fringe of London.
`It was mental,' the young Scouse player said, for about the third time, cradling the fresh beer bottle in both hands between the thighs of his skinny jeans, and staring wide-eyed at the more experience married bloke next to him.
Dallas made a little snort. `Standard away trip, back in the day,' the 31-year-old claimed, and Gelhardt didn't really know whether to believe him. It wasn't as if Stu was THAT much older than him, really, and could Prem football have been so different a decade ago...?
Right, yeah,' murmured the 20-year-old. I mean, was kinda new for me, fella, shagging some big-tits babe on a sticky floor behind the bar, haha...' He blushed as he said it, tipsy enough to be open about the adventurous night with someone else who'd been there, but still self-conscious - a few of his old schoolmates on Merseyside had refused to believe him when he shared the story in summer, and a couple had got quite prudish and judged him, asking him why he was shagging in the same room as other footballers anyway.
Stuart slapped him on one thigh, almost making him spill his drink. Experiences like that put hairs on ya chest, kid,' the versatile player assured him heartily. You need a few mad nights and stupid regrets, otherwise what will you laugh about when you're an old dog like me, eh?' A wide grin and a leering wink from the more experienced Leeds player.
Sure,' chuckled Joe nervously but also quite eagerly, wiping a slight beer stain from his other thigh and shuffling his arse cheeks on the sofa, suddenly a little conscious of how close the older man was sitting to him. He was pleased to be matey with a fella like Stu but he also valued his personal space and he shifted a little to the side, still laughing. But it was a bit wild, a bit much maybe, haha, I mean I bet you wouldn't want your wife to know...'
Stuart decisively told him to fuck off' and then nudged him sharply. What goes on tour, stays on tour, surely even a green kid like you has heard that, for fuck's sake. It was team bonding. Our Luke knew that club and we all had a laugh. I think even Kalvin fucking Phillips enjoyed himself there, before he pissed off to City - can't think which of the girlies he got with though, was it the same one as you?'
`I dunno,' Joe slurred uncertainly, unable to really remember the girls' faces if he was honest, not even the one who he'd unceremoniously railed against the counter, unable to believe what he was doing in the same room as so many colleagues, all of them seemingly fine with it! He knew that Phillips had been there, as Kalvin had looked out for him a lot and been something of a mentor before his expensive new deal in Manchester - but he'd hardly been clocking who Big Kal was hooking up with, he'd been busy himself!
`Not that it matters,' Dallas was muttering thoughtfully to himself.
`No,' Gelhardt agreed vaguely, watching as Bamford and Aaronson continued their pool game in front of them, Harrison leaning close by at one side of the baize table, intensely focused on the game that big Paddy was winning with ease.
`Shame there's no strippers here, eh?' Dallas grunted at his side.
Joe laughed distantly at the idea, and got up form the sofa, slipping away from Stuart's nudging elbow, and positioning himself next to Jack by the pool table, leaning forward against it with no idea of how gorgeous his round bum was behind him in his tight jeans, or that anyone's eyes might be casually studying it and wondering how different a lad's arse felt to his wife's.
It was mid-afternoon now and they were all a bit tipsy, but Dallas' ideas of them digging into the spirits and mixers of his home bar had not gone down well - everybody just wanted more beer, and so Bamford had nipped back into the house itself to collect from the fridge... and Harrison had made a slim excuse to follow, ditching the other three in the games room, and quietly following his tall teammate through into the large family kitchen of the Dallas home, hands in the pockets of his navy blue sweatpants.
In front of him, the 29-year-old was lifting a crate of bottles from a shelf in the huge refrigerator, and Harrison paused a few feet from him, clearing his throat loudly. Paddy gave him a glance, and seemed to stiffen up, uncomfortable, heaving the crate out and placing it on the nearby table before shouldering shut the fridge door. `I didn't really need a hand,' the striker told him - his voice wasn't exactly frosty, but it seemed to leave no room for questions or uncertainty, and it was typical of the way the big handsome fuckwit spoke to him these days. It simultaneously made the Stoke-born 25-year-old shudder in annoyance and tingle somewhere in his ball-sack.
`Just wanted to catch you on your own,' the dark-haired young footballer muttered, hands still in his pocket, scuffing the toes of his trainers on the shiny floor tiles of the kitchen, and averting his gaze as he spoke.
Patrick made a vague noise, reaching to pick the box of beers back up, but Jack lunged forward and clutched his arm about the elbow, flinching as his grab was immediately pushed away and the other forward stared at him with more firm dislike. `Mate,' muttered posh boy Bamford frigidly, standing very still and glaring daggers at him.
The winger let out a whistling sigh, hovering there beside him awkwardly, always feeling a very short 5ft9 next to this lofty twat. Stupid spoiled rich kid. Stupid SEXY spoiled rich kid...
Come on,' Jack hissed, keeping his voice low. They won't notice.' He nodded across to one of the doors, through into the big central hallway of the ground floor. `There's a toilet under the stairs, we could pop in there and I'll-'
`Jack,' snapped Paddy. NOW he sounded frosty.
You know I'm good at it,' Harrison found himself saying, hearing the wheedling beg in his tone and cringing at himself, but unable to stop grasping for the opportunity. He didn't grab Paddy by the arm again but he moved closer to him at the kitchen counter, feeling his heart and his breathing quicken, as it always did when he stole a moment alone with the commanding striker. It won't take me long to make you-'
In an instant, the older 20-something had him by the collar of his jersey and was looming against him quite aggressively, and Jack was both furious and turned on. He'd fancied Patrick for a long time, he had to admit that to himself, though he'd never really managed to make anything happen until that Leif fucker left - he supposed he had a lot to thank Davis for, the cute ingenue who'd somehow `turned' this straight-as-fuck private schoolboy... but still he resented the Geordie lad for the temporary intimacy he'd seemingly shared with Paddy, whereas all Jack had achieved was... well, he didn't quite know how to describe the rapid blow-jobs in the cupboard at the training ground, or the disabled loo at the Christmas party, but he did know how to describe the disgust and regret on the striker's face when looking down at him after orgasm, clearly annoyed that he wasn't someone else.
`You are not getting the hint, are you?' Bamford demanded, still clutching his collar.
`It's not that when your cock's hard,' Harrison growled at him, but weakly - he didn't feel able to really stand up to this tall sexy bastard, not least because these showy aggressive encounters with him were all part of the fantasy - Patrick was one kinda attractive when he was the smiling polite rich kid of football, but he was at his hottest when pissed off, riled up, vindictive.
`You couldn't make my cock hard if you drugged me with viagra,' Paddy hissed at him, a huge pile of bullshit to Jack who had tasted his massive erection a good dozen times since last summer, after fantasising about it for a number of years!
And then he was being shoved back against the fridge door and left there, discarded - he'd been discarded by Posh Twat before, but usually with a salty taste in his mouth and the knowledge that he'd been able to satisfy the stuck-up prick! But now he just felt silly and rejected and he lingered there, cowering at the side of the kitchen, hand on the counter, angry at himself for craving the big guy so much, and wondering how he'd allowed himself to become this greedy slut...
It was their turn now, Dallas versus Gelhardt, and Stuart was actually not sure where the other three even were. But he knew he was spanking young Joe at pool, and that his tipsy thoughts kept wondering what it might be like to ACTUALLY spank the handsome boyish Scouser, having thoughtfully studied his rear in those jeans. Internally, the footballer laughed at himself - he'd never gone that far, really, and bummed a lad, though he'd thought about it before. His bi side had only really led to naughty little incidents: teasing Leif Davis and jizzing on his face; jerking off a stunned Kalvin Phillips and enjoying how freaked out the naive Yorkshire lout was more than the deed itself; spying on his clubmates whilst they all fucked their strippers on the dirty floor of that Croydon venue, after hours. That sorta thing, just a bit of mischief...! But when you looked at a lad like this Gelhardt, well... you had to ask yourself questions, didn't you?
That's why he'd made the jokes about making it a strip knockout game of pool. And he was continuing to make them, rattling with laughter at his own banter. `Come on, just one item per ball potted,' he cackled, eyeing the younger footballer up across the table.
Fuck that!' sniggered his 20-year-old opponent. I mean, I'd be down to me skimpies already, for fuck's sake...!'
`That's the point,' Stuart laughed, but he must have sounded too earnest or eager, because the Scouse kid gave him a long and untrusting look down the length of his cue, stooped forward to take a near-impossible shot that might prevent him from losing outright. Dallas just grinned loosely at him and looked around for where useless Bamford had put that new crate of beers.
Don't get your knickers in a twist,' he muttered with a mixture of amusement and annoyance. If I wanted to see you in your keks, lad, I'd just wait til our next locker room, you daft bell-end.' More coarse laughter. Fresh beer, cap popped off, big gulps knocked back - drunker by the hour, and hornier, and there really wasn't even that long left before he'd have to cool the party down and warn the guys that his wife and kids would be getting back at a certain hour, bugger.
He'd been trying, unsuccessfully, to initiate something: Joe was just the kinda dumb jock lad who might be up for a stupid fumble, based on Stuart's previous experiences at Leeds and his other teams, including his national side. A few beers and that sort were normally too horny to question much once you had your jeans open, but... Joe didn't seem as open and excitable here as he had in Croydon, when Dallas had watched him smash pussy like a pro, belying his apparent naivety and gentle nature. Every tactile gesture or dirty joke had provoked a guarded tittering from the Scouser, and Stuart was beginning to give up the chase, deciding that Gelhardt was nothing like a Leif Davis or Dan James, two cock-hungry little slags who'd stood out to him from a mile off. He was gutted that the latter had gone down to Fulham this season, with that vacuum mouth of his...!
Joe had missed the shot, groaning at his failure, and Stuart completed his victory with an easy grace that contrasted with his generally drunk and oafish manner this afternoon, overexcited to play host and have these lads over to his new games suite. He smirked triumphantly at the other lad, about to make another stupid joke about a forfeit, when he realised that they were a three again - Harrison was back with them, stomping in with a glass of water in his hand like a bore - though where had that Yankee kid got to, and Posh Paddy?
Hey,' the Northern Irishman barked at the winger, making Jack look up as he approached. Can you believe this boring twat wouldn't play strip pool with me, Jacko? What the fuck is that about?' He leered at the dark-haired handsome 25-year-old, moving around the edges of the table and nudging Joe on his way past, coming right up to the 5ft9 Stokey.
`Huh?' Harrison looked amused and confused, and Gelhardt was just scowling a little.
You'd be up for that, would you?' Dallas demanded. Playful chappy like you, JH.'
`Up for what?' the winger sniggered, glancing between them both, suddenly full of nervous energy, a little bleary-eyed and drunk.
Dallas glanced at his watch, just checking that there was over an hour before his wife might realistically show up at the house, and smiling confidently. I've heard things about you, Harrison,' he chuckled meaningfully, and watched the little flash of panic across Jack's face. Are you still the dirty little slut that the graffiti on the toilet walls at Elland Road claims...?'
Behind Stuart, Joe sounded a bit outraged: `Alright mate, give him a rest. That's a bit much, innit?'
Jack was just staring back, and Stuart leered hungrily at him. If Joe was a boring good lad, then he would need to make use of this deviant fucker, who he'd long held suspicions towards, but never managed to get on his own. The 6ft Leeds star stepped up closer to the talented younger guy, and grabbed the crotch of his own dark jeans tightly, feeling up his bulge and looming over the shorter guy, whose eyes flashed downwards and then back up. I don't think I need to spank you at pool to get your kit off, do I?' Dallas chuckled quietly at him, and then he looked over his shoulder and winked just once at Gelhardt. Or more importantly, Jacko... to get you on your knees...?'
Bamford had pretended to need to make a phone call, unsettled still by Harrison's approach in the kitchen, and unwilling to stay in the oppressive machismo of the games outhouse; he was sat on a low wall at the other side of the garden, listening to vaguely raised voices from inside that glorified shed man-cave. The 29-year-old flicked idly through a series of `what time are you home?' variant messages from his girlfriend, taking long slow sips from his beer, and wondering if he could summon a taxi now and just fuck off without returning to the games room - this had been an error, really. He didn't like Dallas, a real typical footy bloke bully, and the two youngsters were probably just biding their time before hitting up some cooler location in the city - and he hated any moment alone with Jack Harrison, who was so hooked on his big weapon that he embarrassed himself in every interaction. Paddy regretted it every time he fed the lad his meat, but... not quite enough to stop himself from returning there the next time his appetite bubbled over.
Yeah, maybe he was missing Davis more than he liked to admit...
`Penny for your thoughts?'
Bamford glanced up. The American had appeared in the garden with him, seemingly on his way back across from house to extension, and he was clutching a can of soda taken from the fridge. There was a strained smile on the lean features of the 21-year-old, peering uncertainly this way, and then suddenly asking, `Is that a real expression you guys say, or is it just BS from every British movie I've seen...?'
Patrick laughed slightly, putting his phone aside. `Er - well, some people say it, yeh...'
`Always worth checking,' remarked Aaronson with a charming smile. He seemed a lot more chill and sober, actually, than his buddy Joe, or horny Jack, or seedy Stu. Brenden had that about him, a relaxed confidence that didn't quite suit his age, though it turned to a sort of steely sternness when it came to match-time.
Anyway,' the American kid said now, was just checking you're okay. You looked... down.'
Paddy blinked and forced a bigger smile and sat more upright. `What? Me? God, no. No, all good, mate - just a tiring life as a new dad, don't go rushing to get anyone pregnant, eh? Haha... ignore me. No, I'm good, I'm just having a breather before I decide whether to dare one last beer from Stu's stash. You?'
Brenden was slow to reply, smiling laconically at this little monologue, then resting himself against the wall a polite distance to Bamford's side, rocking a little with the rhythm of his own talk. Yeah, just thinking the same, I guess. Joe said we might go into town but he seems pretty into this place.' The American nodded wryly back to the nearby outhouse. Is this dude his childhood hero or something...?'
Paddy found himself chortling at this idea. `I'm not sure Stu Dallas is anyone's hero, except a few scally kids in rural Ireland, or whatever...' He put the phone in the pocket of his chino pants and slugged from the beer, giving young Aaronson a thoughtful, re-evaluating look - he'd been impressed by the attacking midfielder as an addition to their squad this summer, but he'd not taken much time to talk to him one-to-one yet.
And what about you?' he found himself asking. Who's your footballing hero?'
Brenden seemed vaguely amused by this question, and Patrick wondered if he'd actually offended him, implying he was some clueless teenage wannabe, rather than a confident young talent making his first move in the Premiership. But then the 5ft10 youth shrugged his shoulders lightly and ran a hand through his luxurious dark curls.
I've followed all the cliches,' he admitted. Ronaldo, Messi, Neymar, the lot. It's only the big superstars, you know, who get anyone's attention in the States. Um, well maybe Liverpool these days, too. Chelsea, a bit...' He was rambling slightly, a faraway and maybe slightly homesick tone to his voice, and Paddy found himself vaguely wondering what it was like to make that big move at 21, which dwarfed his own youthful adventure as a Chelsea youth reject at the start of his career.
`Not a minor striker like me, then?' the 29-year-old found himself asking, and then pausing with a puzzled look on his own face - he could hear the almost flirtatious lilt to his own voice as the stupid query left his tipsy mouth, and see the little spark of interest and amusement in the American's curious eyes.
A pleasant laugh. `Sorry to say, dude, that I did NOT have your poster on my wall - is that some terrible faux pas?' There was a teasing challenge in his politeness, and Patrick liked it - there was a quiet intelligence to this newbie, something quite different to what he was used to with his friends here in Leeds, and he had the sudden sensation that he could sit and talk to the younger guy for quite a while, especially if it meant going home to rescue an exhausted mum and take over the parenting.
Brenden Aaronson smiled thoughtfully at the older guy, finding his eyes oddly unreadable, his posture conflicted; it was hard to tell if Bamford was just being patient and patronising, used to dealing with big-headed youngsters who thought they were a big deal, or if there was a real friendly interest in the usually aloof striker, who had often seemed quite isolated and separate to him, from his early observations in the team.
Neither of them said anything for a few moments, and then Aaronson himself broke the shared look, feeling shy and silly - for a moment, he'd felt a curious urge to lean in and kiss the handsome Englishman, taking a moment's passion with him like some high school teammate on the bleachers, but... the guy was married or something, or a dad anyway, and as polite and proper as he seemed, would still probably smack him with a fist at any such ridiculous attempt.
Instead, the American shifted fractionally away from him on the wall and ran both hands through his tussled hair, stretching out his legs and torso, and squinting up into the hot sun of the afternoon, which felt much more pleasant now they weren't dragging themselves through training - though as a newcomer, Brenden had felt far less irritated and unmotivated than most of the established squad members. He still had much to prove.
When he glanced back to his left, planting his palms against the top of the low wall, he was a little startled to find that the striker was still looking thoughtfully at him, an interesting set to his strong jaw and thick brows - but Bamford immediately looked away as their eyes met, and clapped his hands on the knees of his chinos.
`We shouldn't hide from those other blokes for too long,' Patrick told him, quietly.
`Yeah, right,' he agreed, slowly and uncertainly. Had he just imagined that little glimmer of connection and interest, or...?
Joe Gelhardt couldn't believe what he was seeing. Okay, the strip club thing had been bonkers, and made him as embarrassed as excited when he thought about it, but it had been... well, it had definitely been a bunch of blokes getting with hot bitches, some lame porno scene from his teen fantasies, and exactly the kind of bonkers shit he thought footballers in the 90s got up. He might have been in the same room as other lads, but it had been a wet pussy about his cock as he shoved her up against the bar and emptied his balls, driven wild by all the dancing and stripping and double vodkas.
But this...
Dallas, sprawling backwards with both arms jutting behind the bulk of his torso, was sat on the prized pool table, and his jeans were hanging about his ankles. All of his hairy legs were bared, and parted, with Jack Harrison stooping slowly between them, having completely failed to get angry or freaked out when the older man undid his belt and started to drop his pants. And now he could see the back of Jack's head, that little tight ponytail of his dark cut jutting out behind, dipping between the thick furry thighs, and...
Harrison,' the 20-year-old grunted in alarm. Are you...?'
Over the top of Harrison's head, Dallas grinned at him. `He loves it, mate. You not heard? This one is a right fucking tart, everyone says it in the changing rooms, ha.'
Gelhardt blinked and stared, completely thrown. How the hell had it suddenly come to this? One minute he'd been losing pool to the other drunk bloke, fending off his daft jokes and wondering if he'd been doing lines between beers, and then suddenly Jack was in the room with them, and... this. Dallas was up on the table with his jeans about his ankles, and Harrison was bent dutifully in front of him, his head bobbing up and down as if he was... well, he must be, mustn't he, this wasn't just a joke, or...? In spite of himself, Joe circled around to the side, moving closer to see for sure, and getting a side-on view of it: the pinched features of Jack's pale face, eyes closed tightly, hair scraped back, mouth moving up and down the dark pink rod of a man's cock, with Stu just laughing and jibing and then roughly holding his head in place as he did.
Slowly, the Scouse lad allowed his shocked thoughts to scroll from What the hell is Harrison doing to him...?' to Why the fuck is Dallas letting him?!' The new thought wasn't any less troubling, and Gelhardt found himself glued to the scene with horrified fascination, rather than hurrying out of the outhouse and leaving the weirdos with some privacy for their little prank - he should just fuck off and leave them to their ridiculous banter, go find Paddy and Bren, a couple of more normal guys like him!
Dallas, supporting himself with one arm, the other held forward with a hand clutched tightly over the back of Harrison's head, looked sideways and winked at him again. `He's actually pretty good, y'know. Better than my boring wife, anyway - she only goes down on me on my birthday, can you believe...?'
Joe just blinked and stared up and down, his gaze moving from Jack's puckered pink cheek to the smug expression on Stu's bearded handsome features. `Fuck,' murmured the young forward naively, unable to believe that their drunken lads' afternoon had taken such a sharp turn, and not really knowing how to behave - should he be laughing too, finding it all hilarious, or was he supposed to be chilled out and disinterested?
So,' grunted Stu now, between moans. You ready for your turn, Joey?'
Harrison's shame and rejection in the kitchen had left him agitated, and he still felt it: the hot self-loathing and premature regret, the sensations that had followed his cock interest ever since it bloomed in his late teens, never able to improve as he'd never been lucky enough to find an actual connection with another lad, just a series of frenzied crushes and awkward, bully-victim dynamics, taking both roles at different points. He was not a lad who was finding his homosexuality easy to handle, and the football culture around him hadn't helped.
He'd teetered on the brink of leaving in a sulk before coming back into the games room and being so confidently approached by Stuart, and it was like Dallas had caught him at the EXACT right moment. The same submissive urges that had seen him kneel down in dirty toilet cubicles and beg Paddy to cum on his face now saw him quite publicly fellating the Northern Irishman, and he found himself shaking and sweating with even more thrill when he heard the arrogant host offer his services to young Joe.
He could see that Gelhardt was unsure, and he let Dallas do the talking. The three of them moved from the pool table to the sofa in fits and starts, and Jack just wiping spit and pre-cum from his dark pink lips, fiddling with his slicked back dark hair and feeling the outline of his own erection in his sweatpants.
And then he was sucking Dallas off again, enjoying the short thick meat that protruded from his bushy dark pubes, lavishing his tongue and lips all over it in a way that was showy and extravagant, knowing that Gelhardt was watching and stammering his uncertainties at them, yet going nowhere.
Go on, let him,' grunted Stuart. He feels good, and a mouth is a mouth, hey...?'
`I've never,' murmured Joe for the fourth or fifth time, flabbergasted.
And Harrison was just about to move things forward himself, already reaching across and stroking one of the forward's sturdy legs through the clingy denim, when he heard the footsteps, and the mingled exclamations: Paddy's For fuck's sake, guys' and Brenden's almost nonplussed Whoa, dudes'. Right then, all five of them were on the scene now, and lust and shame were making Jack reckless. What did he care if that Yankee prick saw him doing this? It wasn't as if Patrick hadn't seen it plenty! The 25-year-old had never been so exposed for his behaviour, and yet he wasn't gonna let it stop him... he lifted his wet mouth from Stuart's short fat cock, turned and glared at the other two, and then side-stepped and positioned himself in front of rosy-cheeked Joe.
Come on,' he growled impatiently at the younger lad. Get yer cock out, will ya?'
Paddy could see it for what it was: apart from anything else, that ridiculous tart was trying to make him jealous. Ha! Did stupid Jack really think that noshing off two other players on the sofa right there was going to change matters? Make him fancy him or something? Make him an attractive playmate, rather than just a dirty rag for when he was desperate...? Who did the smug little prick think he was?
Well, Bamford thought, I'll fucking show him.
With all the confidence of a well-hung bloke who had proved his dominance in a cock-measuring drinking game a few summers ago, the 29-year-old strode closer to their side of the games room, and began undoing the button fly of his chinos as he walked. He caught and locked eyes briefly with Dallas, acknowledging the sleazy guy's naughty wit in orchestrating this, and then just gave a single reassuring nod to Gelhardt, whose jeans were being peeled down his fluffy thighs, exposing the tight grey briefs that housed his chunky bulge, his cheeks beetroot.
Paddy stood by and over them, at the arm of the sofa, pushing a hand into the open front of his chinos and feeling himself through white Calvins. He smiled encouragingly at Joe and then returned his gaze to Stu's, finding the almost accusing triumph in the bully bloke's face, and refusing to entertain it. Fuck it, they were all horny, and it would put off the inevitable boredom of driving home to his wholesome family life. Dudes,' cooed the voice of Brenden nearby, almost forgotten. Paddy glanced at him - the American lad had followed him over and had a strange look on his face, not quite a smile but certainly not a frown. He looked surprised, but beyond that was hard to say. Then he cracked a laugh and reached over, offering a high-five to deeply blushing Joe. Sick, man,' Aaronson declared encouragingly to his fellow forward. `You do you, bro.'
Gelhardt, bless him, looked astounded and affronted by this, but just sat there, his jeans at his knees, and Harrison nuzzling his crotch, kissing at the grey bulge, and Dallas cackling at his side ,wanking his own shiny prick and grinning proudly at everyone as if this sofa of filth was one of the games machines in his precious man-cave.
Just get his cock out,' Paddy barked suddenly, directing his fierce voice at crouching Jack, and give it a good suck, you dirty slut.' He heard his own voice like it was someone else's, a fierce rattle, the way he spoke in dark secret corners whilst fucking Harrison in the face and wishing it was Leif's strong bottom bouncing against his balls. Something about wheedling desperate Jack brought out his most dominant and aggresive streak, he couldn't help it - and if this stupid prick thought that he was going to be jealous, then he had another thing coming!
Adrenaline pulsing through him, Bamford whipped his impressive cock out from his CKs, knowing it was far bigger than smug Dallas, and he pulled lazily on its length, holding it clearly for everyone to see, and wanking it overhead as Harrison mouthed Joe through his briefs, dampening the cotton and teasing his nob into life.
Aaronson couldn't stop grinning and giggling: this was ridiculous. He'd known that Stu guy was flirting with him, he'd just known it...! And here the big oaf was, wanking himself silly, another man's spit dribbling down his shaft and balls, haha. And now the 21-year-old was watching, with a mixture of excitement and amusement, the reddening of Joe's innocent face, whilst his (unsurprisingly massive) prick was loosed from the tight briefs and taken into Jack's greedy mouth. And then there was the star of the show: just to his left, stood over this, was Patrick Bamford, this English prince charming, jacking off with his long thick tool in both hands, jutting out between the salmon-pink of his Oxford shirt and the olive green of his chinos, holding it over the sordid deed as if awaiting his turn.
The American soccer player rubbed the front of his own baggy combat pants, feeling his cock waking up in his loose boxers, and staring from guy to guy, but his eyes always drawn back to tall handsome Patrick, trying to catch his eyes again - he thought unsteadily about that little moment on the wall, the lingering look they'd shared as they chatted lightly and frivolously in the garden. He'd imagined it, surely? And, er, yet here was the married DILF, wanking himself silly over a pair of teammates ,and all of this mad horny energy, and...
Fuck it, the young midfielder thought, pushing down the front of his pants and letting his circumcised dick out, semi and long, and stiffeninig with every pull of his shaky fist. If everyone else was at it, he was hardly just gonna spectate.
`Fuckkkkkk,' Gelhardt was moaning, and Aaronson couldn't help but laugh at the sound of his slurring excitement, the sort of high terror in his whining pleasure, and the look on his yobbish face.
And still, even entertained by his friend's obvious first dabble in this sorta thing, Brenden looked hopefully back at Bamford, trying to capture his gaze and communicate something, but finding him transformed: red-faced and furious-looking, glaring down at Harrison as he jerked off, grunting and muttering out nasty phrases, calling the 25-year-old lad a pig' and a whore' and asking him if he was ready for `four messy loads'. Jesus! This was amazing. Aaronson almost wanted to pinch himself to check he hadn't passed out drunk and slipped into a dream, but if he was, he didn't want to wake up.
Joe also thought he might be in a dream, but he was still unable to decide if it was a nightmare. His muscular body felt heavy, like he couldn't get off the sofa if he tried, but it was like his cock suddenly had three times the nerve endings, madly overstimulated and making his limbs all temple with pleasure as those lips danced around the bulging edges of his cock-head, pushing back on his foreskin and tonguing across his slit.
When it stopped, it took him a moment to even realise, and he thought the wet slobbering noise was Harrison still noshing him off, blowing him like one of the slutty Scouse girls he'd messed about with in high school, or the stripper at the bar before he nailed her. His two more serious girlfriends had often refused to suck him off because he was, apparently, `too big', and hurt their mouths. Whatever - this lad here had taken it into his throat like it was nothing, so how big could he really be?!
The 20-year-old Liverpudlian wrapped one shaky hand about the girth of his tool, finding it wet and slippery, freaking him out but also making it easier to pull and jerk on. He held himself tightly and stared, entranced, at the action right in front of him: Jack slurping now on Paddy, who was thrusting into his mouth quite violently, grunting loudly as he did, fucking that face and calling Harrison his slut, and then - Joe shuddered and groaned and pulled harder on himself - passing him across to Brenden (fuck, when had Aaronson even come back in?!) and forcing his head down on that cock too. They were all of them passing around Jack, who was now red-faced and clammy, breathless and gasping, moving from Bamford's cock to that circumcised American one, slurping on them all like ice-pops.
From Bamford to Aaronson, from Aaronson to Dallas, and from Dallas back to Gelhardt. It was all so seedy and aggressive, and he couldn't understand why Harrison was going along with it - what could be in it for him, to be used like this?! And it wasn't just the dick sucking, even - Bamford was shouting quite harshly at him, and spitting on him! And Dallas was doing the same, laughing like a maniac, and... Ohhhh, fuck, Jack's mouth felt so good on his cock, and he stopped asking himself questions about the dirty group session, the strange domination of the greedy sucker... he relaxed, pushing his heavy body back into the sofa, and unleashing his load, letting it stream out, crying out his enjoyment.
Harrison took this first load, Gelhardt's, straight in his mouth, tasting it on his tongue and the roof of his mouth, finding it sour but satisfying; the next though, he guessed it must be Aaronson, showered some of his hair and dribbled down his brow and the bridge of his nose, and he let his eyes flicker open and shut, worried about getting cum in them. He stayed on his aching knees, luxuriously entrapped between the four of them and the sofa, surrounded by cock now, cock and thick strong legs, which he grabbed at and stroked, whether bare or through jeans and sweatpants and chinos. And then another load, his face pushed down against one of Stuart's thighs, and cum dumped on his cheek and chin and leaking between his lips; and then his mouth sore and chapped as he got the throat-fucking he craved from Paddy after all, loving it all the more for the witnesses of the other three! Glaring resentfully down at him, the tall striker withdrew just before he exploded, and the 25-year-old felt dribble after dribble of sticky mess run over his pretty face, keeping his mouth open wide to catch as much of it as he could, taking hot loads on a hot September afternoon.
Stuart knew he'd need to hit the shower as soon as they cleared off, but still he didn't rush them - fetching a couple of towels, and more ice-cold beers, and laughing to break the tension. He ordered the taxis himself, telling gibbering Joe to `think nothing of it', and assuring Paddy that he was fine leaving his car on the driveway - he almost argued with the Posh Twat a bit over the demand that he and Jack weren't going to be sharing a car, but he relented and ordered threem, one each for them and a shared one that would take Gelhardt and Aaronson on to a party in Leeds itself.
The 31-year-old couldn't stop smirking and sniggering during the brief phase of recovery and clean-up. He was fucking delighted with himself. If he paused to think about it, he could resent that he'd hardly got any sucking action himself, despite starting the fun - really, the rugged older player had sat by and wanked on his cock for much of the episode, giddily watching as dirty Harrison was passed roughly between them like a well-worn wank sock, gasping and pink and utterly submissive. But it had been so mad to discover his teammate's penchant for such bukkake, and he'd loved seeing Bamford let loose at last, and the idea of corrupting two newer footballers too...! Although he'd dimly noticed the Yankee boy was not half as shocked or hesitant as the Scouser, who looked startled and lost as soon as it was over, lash-blinking and lip-quivering.
One by one, Dallas saw them out, the taxis arriving at rapid intervals. Bamford first, hurried and insistent, not QUITE regretful, but returning to his aloof ways, thinking he was a bit too good for the men he played alongside - that's what private school does for them, Stu thought judgmentally, and slammed the door after him before watching the taxi set off.
And then the star cock-sucker himself next; Stu grabbed and massaged his shoulders, euphemistically congratulating him even as he bundled him into the taxi and then leaned in through the door and pressed his lips close to his ears. `You're welcome in my games room ANY time, mate,' he growled happily, hoping the little slut would take him up on it.
And then, for a couple of minutes, it was just him and the younger lads, loitering in front of his big detached house, and he tried and failed to make conversation with them. Handsome Joe looked and sounded stupefied, and so he slipped an extra note to Aaronson and instructed the American to get him a stiff drink as soon as they arrived in the city centre. Brenden just gave him an odd, perceptive smile, and then said that they might skip the party after all and just get the Scouser home to his flatmates.
Dallas laughed and shrugged. `Suits yourselves.' He could see that the young lads were keen to get away, unsure what they'd taken part in, but he suspected it couldn't just be a one-off. They'd all enjoyed themselves, maybe no one as much as the cum-dump Harrison, hehe. He was almost hard in his underpants just imagining it, and he rubbed himself a little through his jeans even as he watched the forward and attacking midfielder shuffle into the backseat of the third cab. He pulled the hand away from his crotch long enough to wave them off, and then marched back indoors, glancing at his watch.
In the shower of his master en suite, the 31-year-old footballer cupped his fat balls in one hand and teased his semi with the other, grinning and humming, and picturing all of that cum landing on Harrison's pale face, drenching him in their manly seed. Fucking hell, that had been hot, and he was fucking glad to be still playing for Leeds.
'Writer guy' - Premiership Lads on Nifty https://www.nifty.org/nifty/gay/celebrity/premiership-lads/
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