Part 318: The 10.42 to Manchester Piccadilly
Tuesday morning in Euston Station, and the First Class lounge was pretty quiet - still, he was keeping his head low, or as low as it was reasonable to do at 6ft4. He'd made sure he was wearing pretty bland grey jeans and hoodie, all of his England-branded gear gladly handed over to staff members at Wembley after the game. If it had been more easily doable, the 29-year-old football player would have travelled home straight away, fleeing London for the Cheshire hamlet where his family awaited him - a couple of squad members had done so, he thought, as it had been far from the full line-up who attended the muted celebration drinks in the private room of a West London bar.
Harry Maguire had only gone for a couple, and even then just as a way to get out of his lonely hotel room a couple of streets away - but a few of his teammates had been celebrating the Germany result as if it was a terrific win, treating the 3-3 stalemate as a dramatic upturn to a bad run of international form. They weren't totally wrong, given the string of goalless losses, and the show of resilience that many of the men had exhibited in the latter half of the game... but still, he'd felt almost embarrassed for the guys at the bar who were closing the international break with toasts to themselves, ignoring their Nations League humiliation and the poor omens for the impending World Cup.
Young Mason Mount, drunk at the bar and singing a song about himself being the future of English football, was forgivable - he was young and foolish, and full of self-deprecating humour alongside the boasts; but it had been more cringey to see big Harry Kane getting boozy and smug, very pleased with himself for his own contribution to the draw. Older and more experienced players like him, Walker and Trippier, propping up the bar and hollering at one another about how they needed to show the young guns how to live properly. But the third goal-scoring player of the Wembley game had been missing from the party entirely... and Harry wondered how far he was responsible for that fact.
For all that energy and bluster, the party had been winding down when Maguire finished his second pint and made a few quiet goodbyes before slipping away from the bar, hunched over with his hands in his pockets. Newcastle United's Kieran Trippier had been trying to beg a karaoke machine out of a barmaid, and Kane was photo-bombing a cluster of younger lads, but mainly the crowd was thinning - the under-21s kids who'd joined them were heading home to a sober night in preparation for their own Germany clash, and many of the players were exiting the bar in fits and starts. Half of them lived in different corners of the capital, after all, and he saw the likes of Dier and Chilwell skulking off in their different directions without even really saying goodbye to anyone.
Harry himself had almost been begged into staying put, pinned down briefly for a heart-to-heart with a stonkingly drunk Kyle Walker - the right-back was a bit emotional, as he had been from the minute John Stones was felled by a German player late in the first half, and he was declaring his undying friendship in between more discreetly confiding how he'd almost had to storm the pitch and break a few legs once he saw his boyfriend injured and collapsed on the turf. It seemed that Stonesy was laid up in a shared hotel suite nearby, but had almost forced Walker out to have some drinks so he could rest alone - and Maguire had almost stayed for a third and fourth drink out of empathy for the strangely shaken fellow Sheffield lad. He'd never seen such a vulnerability on the 32-year-old's face. But then Walker had become distracted by Trippier getting in a plank of shots, and Harry had slipped away before his arm could be twisted.
Back to the hotel, low and alone, and a night of fitful sleep. He'd been grimly awake and ready for check-out long before his booked taxi turned up to deposit him here at Euston for the train into the North-West. And the grim thoughts that had kept the 29-year-old brute awake all night were materialising before his very eyes: one of the few other passengers in the lounge, all of them suited businessman in the same dour grey as his casual fit, had their tabloid newspaper spread wide in front of them as they read, and he could see his own mug on the back page. He'd passed a few of them in the hotel lobby after skipping breakfast, and he didn't like the headlines.
Inevitable, really. There'd been enough noise about him being called up full stop, and then he'd failed to keep either clean sheet after Southgate put trust in his centre-back strength, giving away last night's penalty as the icing on the shitty cake. So... yeah, he could hardly be surprised to see himself surrounded by bold question marks on the lower half of the back page, whilst an image of red-clad Mount and Kane celebrating occupied the space above. He stared sadly at the page for a moment more, then slumped forward and hung his head more, arms pressed across the platform of his knees.
Even at the little party last night, he'd felt self-conscious - how many of the players there were giving him looks of doubt or even ridicule? How many of them agreed with the gaffer's insistent faith in players like himself, despite a lack of match time at club level, or any substantial evidence in recent fixtures...? Harry could feel his World Cup place hovering in the balance, and even if Gareth somehow kept the faith, how much hate and mockery would his place in that tournament bring to him as United's toothless captain? Impotent, he thought bitterly, recognising the physical dullness that had come over him in recent weeks, the total loss of a once-rampant appetite.
Maguire reached up one large hand of grazed knuckles and tilted the baseball cap a little lower over his face, half-expecting the London businessman to look over his newspaper and clock him at any minute, football's new favourite punching bag.
After a few more minutes' discomfort, the big defensive player got up from his seat and shouldered his single small backpack, padding to the quiet info desk and finding out which platform he needed to be on for the 10.42 train, glad when the Polish-accented young lady behind the desk made no sign of recognising him. On the platform, at least one of his slim hopes was realised: the mid-morning train up the West Coast line was clearly not going to be very busy, and maybe his First-Class carriage would be free of football fans who might want to ask about his defensive mistakes last night in the national stadium. He'd felt very honourable and worthy when he'd refused the FA offer of a private vehicle to drive him home today, but now he felt sick about being on the edges of this busy central station, and facing a couple of hours on public transport between him and real privacy.
Before long, the doors onto the train were unlocked, and Maguire lumbered to the far end of the platform to let himself onto a blissfully empty First-Class carriage, finding his comfortable seating and dumping his bag in the spacious rack overhead before dropping his weighty centre-back body into seat itself. He rested his large head against the window and stared mournfully out at the slate-grey guts of Euston Station, an aptly gloomy setting for his mood, just as the drizzle on his taxi had been as it winged him from hotel to concourse.
A ticket inspector or some other train staff bustled past him and he was relieved to find it wasn't yet another passenger. It was too good to believe that he'd have the coach to himself, but the platform had been sparse with passengers, the train timed neatly after the early rush but before the afternoon tourists. Still, he kept on the cap, shifting about in his seat and trying to get comfortable, and frowning regretfully about more than just the short international camp and its further knocks to his reputation.
Harry made a little snort of dismay when he heard a carriage door hiss open somewhere behind him, and the light steps of another passenger making their way down the carriage, some weighty luggage knocking sporadically off headrests as they clumsily approached down the aisle. He looked away, resting his craggy brow against the window again, and expecting the carriage's only other passenger to move on to the far end, nearer the next vestibule between compartments - but no, a flash of pale colour and a heavy manly breath, and it became clear that this only other passenger was booked in for one of the seats opposite him. For fuck's sake, he thought, look at all the free space this git is ignoring to come and sit here...
As keen as he was to melt discreetly into his corner, a mean feat for a man of his proportions, Maguire turned and shot a critical look at his First-Class companion, about to try and communicate with just one broody stare that the dickhead should reposition himself to literally ANYWHERE on the train but this booth of four- and stopping as his deep-set brown eyes connected with the bright blues of the other football lad's. Harry blinked once, his face twisting awkwardly, as Luke Shaw heaved another sigh and settled down into the opposite set of seating.
Luke Shaw had skipped the little England party, despite the insistent invites of his good friends Declan and Mason, who had been largely responsible for booking the little venue and mustering up some end-of-camp morale for a little knees-up. Luke wasn't entirely sure what he was avoiding in his desperation to skip the event - well, someone in particular, but not just him, not just that. He was itching to be away from the tight-knit gang and the constant scrutiny, and for some reason even the plaudits for his goal against Germany were not putting a healthy shine on the end of the week's activity. Just before guys starting heading out from the Wembley hospitality space where they'd assembled for a debriefing with Southgate, he'd been jostled by a grinning Raheem Sterling, inviting him to stop at his rather than at a hotel, if he needed somewhere to crash before heading to Manchester. `I've got a huge guest bedroom at the back of the new place, where you could sleep and-' Luke had stopped him there, and been as cold as he could manage with the bright-eyed Chelsea signing, brushing him off as bluntly as he had every morning in their hotel rooms.
But Sterling had got one thing right: he DID want to avoid the hotel room that a Manchester United liaison had arranged for the club's players before their transport north tomorrow, where Dean Henderson and Harry fucking Maguire would be accommodated. Luke had ditched that room of likely luxury, and instead jumped straight into a cab south, returning to Kingston-upon-Thames to stay with some family friends instead, almost wishing he could take a week off and kick about his old suburb at leisure, though he'd moved away from the outer London commuter town at a young age to chase his first youth contract.
The journey from Kingston to Euston had been far longer than the quick taxi it might have been across the West End, as planned for him, and he'd almost missed the 10.42 as he huffed and puffed through the busy concourse, a thick beanie hat pulled low to minimise his visibility and obviousness to the London crowd.
He'd made the train, just, and had to stalk up the aisle through several different carriages to reach First-Class and search for the tickets the booking app had assigned him - unlike the hotel, this journey had been booked independently, after he'd scoffed at the prospect of sharing a hire car with his United teammates. Luke had balked at the idea of a three hour drive in the backseat with Harry, and felt even worse at the prospect of Deano ending up squashed awkwardly between them!
`Hey,' the 27-year-old exclaimed weakly now, shifting from buttock to buttock in the booked seat, his large bag dumped at his side in the other space, and Harry Maguire glaring at him over the dividing tabletop after all. Well, on the plus side, Dean Henderson wasn't here to complete a threesome and cringe in the social awkwardness.
Hey,' returned Harry, his voice level but hoarse. I didn't know...'
No,' Luke murmured, when that sentence trailed into nowhere, me neither.'
He looked thoughtfully about them. Was the carriage totally empty, but for them? That meant there were any number of other four-person booths he could shift himself over to, but that somehow felt... very wrong. It was one of those strange bits of human magnetism. Surely neither of them wanted to spend the next two hours together right now, but this was where his booking had taken him, and some invisible law now bound him politely to it. To get up and excuse himself and drag his bag down the aisle to another space... It felt so un-British that the London scenery flashing by in the window-frame might just implode.
Instead, Shaw turned his awkward and slightly sleep-haggard face towards the other player, meeting his eyes, and not quite smiling, but giving an expression of such awkward helplessness that Maguire's frown softened a little. He still looked defensive, and Luke wondered if the other guy thought he was actually here to harass him, intentionally joining him on the train home, rather than thrown against him by the ridiculous machinations of fate and ticketing algorithms.
`This is weird, huh?' Luke breathed.
Harry didn't immediately react, just rubbing his knuckles across the front of his strong nose. I thought you mighta gone last night,' he grunted, without much apparent warmth. Didn't see you at the bar, or about the hotel, so...' There was some hint of accusation in all this, and instinct made Luke colour in the cheeks and avoid eye contact, shifting against the back of his seat, pulling at the collar of his t-shirt and sweater.
Visited friends,' he said, vague and evasive, and then suddenly clocking that he was feeling a surge of guilt or anxiety as if HE was the one in the doghouse here - and he gave the other man a puzzled frown of defiance, sure he didn't have to explain himself. I didn't fancy it,' he said, and his voice sounded quite cold and dismissive, he couldn't help it - he was certainly not looking for an argument, it had felt a long morning already, but...
Well, you could have let us know,' Harry suddenly muttered, staring out of the window as they whizzed by the Arsenal stadium and out towards the northwest of the city. Me and Dean, I mean, we didn't know if you were alright or whatever.'
Luke opened and shut his mouth, restraining himself against the barbed comeback, which somehow involved a nasty question about whether Harry had resolved that worry by offering up his arse-hole to the reserve keeper. Instead he just scowled quietly and tried to get himself comfortable in his seat, and then stared at some of the other seating options around them, doubting his British politeness. For fuck's sake, this was not what he needed today, tired and a bit headachey - he'd only had a couple of drinks at the family friends' house, but now he felt almost hungover, probably with the dehydration and the general physical intensity of the past week.
The training and games, he thought guiltily, but also the fucks.
A reluctant peacekeeper, he told Maguire that he'd just needed to get away from the bubble, and he thought he'd said so in a group chat - he hadn't - so had assumed he and Hendo would think nothing of it. With the same strained friendliness, he asked about the squad drinks, but got little warmth from Harry, just vague grunts and murmurs about this or that, and so he sighed and looked away, crossing his arms across the chest of his pale tan sweatshirt. Out of the other window, their view of London's outskirts was slowing somewhat, but Wembley itself was still in view, the setting of last night's battle - Luke was annoyed that he couldn't feel more pleased or relieved about his own vindicating performance there, given the flak he too had received for his international summons, but the whole thing felt tainted, and he knew he'd forever associate this camp with lying atop Raheem, and picturing a different muscular coupling that haunted his imagination, his captain and his striker.
Why the fuck am I getting this cold front?' the left-back was snapping before he could stop himself, annoyed at being annoyed, annoyed at the flare of guilt when he'd been so badly betrayed. What exactly have I done wrong, eh?'
The 6ft1 blonde leaned forward, elbows to the table, and deep frown aimed harshly at the other footballer, as Harry stiffened and puffed out his chest, looking conflicted but aggressive. And here comes the stupid argument, he thought, the vain recriminations that he'd been avoiding all week as he and the centre-back circled each other at St George's Park.
`Don't start,' growled Maguire.
`Right, no, why would we talk about it?'
`Fuckin' hell, Luke... here?'
`Here, wherever - maybe we could actually chat about it and-'
`You been up for a chat, have you? Avoidin' me all fuckin' week, and...?'
`Can't think why, mate.'
A tense pause.
You let him fuck you,' Luke put it bluntly, his voice a harsh whisper. Why? Go on, try and explain it away for me, like all the other fucking problems. Come on, smooth talker, tell me why you had to bend over and let that absolute twat do you like that, eh?' His whisper had raised to a growl with every syllable and now he could feel himself shaking slightly, fists pushed against the table that divided their seats. At his bluntness and crudeness, Harry was staring frostily at him, not saying anything, and the pair of them just hunched uncomfortably there like that, facing off across the booth, and separately hoping that the carriage was still as empty as they thought.
`I've said I'm sorry,' muttered Maguire after this long pause.
Oh, great,' mocked Luke very quietly. That helps.'
`Luke...'
`Just don't, mate.'
The train continued to slow, rolling through the outer boroughs, on its way past Watford and out through the home counties, but neither of the United and England players gave this diminishing speed any thought. Their eyes barely left each other, deep stares of mixed emotion, after so many days of completely avoided contact, even on the field of play.
And what were you and little Jadon up to?' came big Harry's grumbling mutter, after another icy silence, and Luke stared at him in disbelief. I mean, how the fuck did THAT topic of conversation come up, eh, for the kid to be telling you about how he supposedly saw...'
Supposedly?' Luke bit. So what, are you actually denying it now, you liar?'
N-no,' returned Harry awkwardly, his sudden little explosion of blame fizzling out, but the angry look on his stony face going nowhere. I know you've not exactly been keeping to yourself since, have you? You think I don't know where you fucked off to the other weekend, do ya?' He shifted uncomfortably but indignantly at these comments, shaking his head dismissively, and refusing to engage with it - they'd had a deal, of sorts, once upon a time, and he knew that he hadn't broken things anywhere near as much as the bigger guy, he knew that for a fact.
He felt himself about to lash out worse, and he stopped himself short. His fists turned to tight flat palms against the table and he gave Maguire a real bitter look of contempt before pushing himself up to standing and edging out into the aisle, grasping at one strap of his backpack. I'll leave you to it, big man,' he snapped at him. I don't think we're ready for this big chat, do you...?' But as he stood there, about to storm away and find another seat in this carriage or the next, or as far as away as he could from the presence of his so-called captain boyfriend, he was almost thrown off his feet by an unexpected jolt. Luke steadied himself, holding onto the headrest of the seat still occupied by his bag, glaring up and down the aisle and then back at Harry's angry face.
The crackly tannoy voice barked over their heads, announcing the temporary delay. `There is a tree on the tracks,' a bored voice was explaining with flickering inconsistent clarity, going on to apologise uninterestedly for any inconvenience or delay that might be caused whilst they waited for the green signal.
The train's pause became interminable and oppressive, even as an announcer's voice thanked Harry for his patience and assured him that they would have an update very soon. His face set in a rigid frown, the 6ft4 Yorkshireman pressed back against the support of his seat and stared balefully out of the window at the bland outer London backstreets, unsure how close they even were to the journey's first stop.
This First-Class compartment was still empty, and in a way he ought to be glad of that - not so long ago, he'd been anxious on the platform, expecting a lot of polite and awkward greetings with people who recognised him on the public journey, and so the deserted carriage was a miracle. Except that Luke's presence filled it oppressively, the weight of their damaged relationship, the albatross of guilt about his neck. And worse, or equally bad, the vague feeling of inescapability about his career crisis, though it was harsh to attach any of that misfortune and disappointment to the lad who struggled along beside him at both club and country.
He wasn't sure exactly where the other footballer had perched on the row of identical booths, but he hadn't heard the mechanical hiss of the connecting doors since the stoppage, and he'd definitely heard Shaw's voice swearing under his breath at one of the several apology announcements that had transpired in the past twenty minutes.
Maguire muttered his own pointless curses, shifting his weight and position in the chair, which had seemed luxuriously comfy for about one minute of the journey, but now felt impossible stiff and misshapen against his battle-weary muscles. As he sat there in this foul mood, he couldn't help but revive bursts of the disastrous conversation, in two ways: one minute he was thinking of whip-smart comebacks for Luke's remarks, furious in his suspicions about the other lad's recent antics, and then he'd be rehearsing dead-end apologies that he should have thrown desperately at his left-back lover. After all, he'd been rehearsing those same apologies since he did the dirty deed, before Luke had even found about that day in the Carrington gym, spreadeagled on the weights bench and submitting to Cristiano with a defeated whimper.
Given the stationary vehicle and the surprising privacy of their coach, it was pretty apparent that he could get up and give it a second attempt - after all, Luke hadn't even switched carriages in his indignant escape, and if Harry sat down near him, they could switch the convo back, and try again. Harry could say all the right things, and make some amends. But he hardly trusted himself. It's not that he was ever the most articulate bloke, but there had been a time when he was sure he could say the right things to the curious sexy lad and wrap him around his finger... though he'd quickly fallen from this manipulative upper hand, he supposed, when he'd fallen head over heels in love with him. Recently, Harry had been thinking a lot of some of their early memories, and the way Luke had loyally looked out for him, waited for him, persisted with him, overlooked his behaviour, all of it... They'd lost that, he thought bitterly, there was no way his baby could still feel that loyalty now.
Moody and increasingly sad, Maguire opened up his phone to distract himself, playing for a couple of minutes on a gaming app, and then shooting a few self-pitying messages to his wife about the disruption on his journey. There were a few friendly messages from other England players there, Hendo and Dier included, and absent Pickford, along the lines of `chin up'. Well-meant, but not what he needed to see now - he hated the truth that his teammates were surely thinking about his shit performances and his tenuous place in the upcoming tournament of tournaments.
Harry wasn't stupid enough to start googling himself and reading media, but news notification on his homepage were harder to swerve, and he quickly clocked his own name on a scroll of news items as he was about to go to a different website to do some online shopping for family birthdays. `Maguire takes more criticism than-' began the truncated headline on a bbc news tab, joined by a pig-sick photograph of his own consternation mid-game. Unable to resist, he thumbed at the link and brought up the full article, which turned out to be a report on another bbc outlet's morning interview, and-
He stared at it, stunned.
Luke looked up with a start as the two seats on the other side of the booth became occupied, Harry falling heavily across both of them with an urgent breathy noise, staring blankly at him and looking on the verge of speaking for several moments without managing a noise. Another tannoy announcement interrupted him as he finally blurted out a syllable, and then paused until the weak apology had finished, before: You were talking about me,' he exclaimed in a voice that sounded stupefied and almost accusing, his broad face just full of confusion. Luke stared back, genuinely confused about this latest swipe, and psyching himself up to really tell his centre-back to go fuck himself, but then: To 5 Live,' grunted Harry, still sounding breathless. `Yer interview, this mornin'.'
Shaw bridled defensively, pulling at the sleeves of his sweater, and briefly averting his attention from Maguire's beady eyes, looking out of the window then back at him. And?' he muttered, throwing maximum exasperation into the syllable. They rang me up, wanted to speak, I agreed - think the other two goal-scoring buggers had refused an interview, or summat, though that's hardly like our Mase.'
The 29-year-old was just staring dumbly at him. `But you...'
They asked about you,' Luke said sharply. I didn't bring it up. I thought they wanted to chat about my goal but I think they just wanted to throw shade at any World Cup hopeful they could, so...'
`But you... you... defended me?'
Yeh. Yeah, of course I did, what the fuck? What do you think I'm gonna say? Leave the duffer at home, Gareth?' He stared crossly at the awkward-faced brute and gestured irritably at him. It was just a quick interview, I didn't know it would get passed around the whole of the BBC and Sky Sports, I just-'
`It was really kind, that's all,' Harry muttered at him, his voice small and hoarse.
I just-' Luke was repeating heatedly, the wobbly vulnerability of the bigger man's voice caught him off guard, and their eyes briefly locked before Luke looked back out of the window, folding his arms across his strong pecs, and huffing out a long uncertain breath. He matched the softer tone of the other player as he murmured, Well, it's what any one of us would do for the others, isn't it?' He shrugged both thick shoulders. `It's what a team is, it's guys who look out for each other, especially when things are tough, yeh?'
Right,' he heard the centre-back say, almost to himself. So it was just about the team, then?' An awkward little pause, in which Shaw began to register the mournful tone in Harry's brittle voice. `You were just doing what you'd do for any guy on the squad,' came the hollow follow-up, flecked with self-pity and realisation, and Luke turned to look at him properly.
He'd been surprised when his agent put through the call form BBC 5 Live, never the most publicly championed of England regulars, but he'd only been half-surprised when the focus of the interview shifted from his goal in the clawed back draw to the status of himself and Maguire as Man Utd losers and much-criticised additions to the latest national line-up... Of course he'd pushed back against those suggestions, and been quick to defend his captain, his centre-back, his Harry. It had come quickly and instinctively to him in the conversation and he hadn't stopped to pause once as he pointed out how expansive and unfair the criticism was, becoming quite impassioned as he argued this with the sports presenter over the telephone. He'd felt a little odd about it afterwards, but he hadn't hesitated or questioned himself over it - but it was only now, looking at Harry's mournful expression on that big dopey face, staring at him across the table, that a thought from earlier in the morning caught him smack bang in the chest. He loved him unconditionally, even still.
No,' he muttered quietly but fiercely, it wasn't just... that. I can't hear people talk shit about you, Harry. Shock horror: I fucking care about you, yeah?' He glared meaningfully at the other man as he said it, sounding angry but feeling quite warm and nostalgic inside. He rubbed a hand over his face, somewhat frazzled by his delayed morning journey, the pressurised phone interview, and getting on to this doomed train to find himself trapped with the man who occupied his every waking thought.
Maguire had gone silent, of course. Not exactly the man of the match on communication. He was even looking awkwardly away, pulling at the collar of his hoodie, and clearing his throat noisily. Shaw sighed - he was gonna have to do the work here if this real talk was gonna happen.
Yeh,' he said heavily, I've been acting like a prick since you-know-what. Yes, I went to Barca, okay - I don't know how you fuckin' know, but you're right. I went to him.' Maguire looked like he wanted to smack the table and blurt out a Wagatha Christie I knew it!' but he seemed to bite it back and stiffen awkwardly in posture. I was hurting,' Luke pushed in a quietly angry tone, `and I've been fucking anything I can to try and fuck the hurt away. Okay? So... like, you can hate me if you want to for it, but...'
`I'd never hate you,' Maguire professed in a rush, and one of his hands reached for his on the table; uncertainly, Shaw pulled back, conflicted.
I thought we had rules or something,' he muttered. I mean, you know I always just wanted it to be you and me, nobody else, I didn't need that, but it was you... You said that...' He screwed up his face, determined not to cry in front of Harry, not to cry here on this fucking train carriage, stuck in the middle of god knows where. `You know what I'm talking about. It was one thing, you shagging Ronaldo, I kinda got what you thought you were doing there, alright? But... jesus Harry, you NEVER bottom, you never take it! So...' He felt silly using all the sexual jargon here in the train seats and he rubbed both hands over his flushed face, unsure why he was even entertaining this discussion.
I'll never do it again,' hissed Harry, and the giant centre-back had never sounded so weak or needy, it took Luke by surprise. I promise you. Take me back and I'd never let a man touch me there for as long as I love.'
He put an uncertain hand down on the pale grey table between them and Harry grabbed it instantly, squeezing at it. Take you back?' Luke muttered, wondering if they'd ever officially split up - or, in another sense, ever officially been an item. I don't need promises,' he barked anxiously, `I just need to understand.'
We're... we're guys under pressure,' Maguire began to mumble, dragging out the generic excuses, the same ones he'd once used to justify their playtime when he was adamant that it meant nothing. Luke groaned over his mumbling and ignored him. Stop talking shite,' he insisted loudly, not caring that someone could walk through the doors from the vestibule at any moment. `Stop blethering on and give me some fucking truths - or, or, or I am getting off the train and you'll never see me again.'
It was, he instantly knew, a ridiculous thing to say - after all, layers of contract locked the pair of them into the same United team, or at least the same United bench, and the threat was as empty as Harry's explanations. But it did seem to have some impact on the big bloke, who shut up and hung us head, and withdrew his shaking huge hands. Luke stared sadly at him, beginning to think that talking would solve nothing, and that his Harry was just incapable of this.
`What can I do?' Maguire mumbled weakly, his voice weak and tiny again, and Shaw felt frustrated by the desperation of it - he didn't need grand gestures or extreme promises, he needed... he didn't fucking know what he needed. Truth? Or something like it.
Tell me why you did it,' he said shakily. Tell me why you let him do that to you. When... when you've only ever let me do it like... three times, or... two and a half, I dunno, so... Harry, you have to help me understand it, okay?'
The sigh was heavier than anything before, and it was Harry's turn to hold his face in both hands, and Luke got up and moved gently around until he was next to him on the same side of the booth, shoulder to shoulder, which seemed to loosen something in the 6ft4 beast. He squeezed one of Harry's thighs through the thick denim that covered it. `Help me understand, Harry.'
In slow mumbled bursts, Harry Maguire told him: how much the responsibility of the captain's armband had weighed on him in the last two difficult seasons, and how that same need to be strong and unbeatable had leeched across into relationships. In as much detail and honesty as he could muster, which was not easy, he explained how he had started to feel a bit crushed by the need to be Luke's powerful dominant man. He stared guiltily across at the other man as he expressed this in strings of inarticulate apology, knowing that he was ruining something special in their shared memory.
I'm not sayin' it right,' he choked gruffly, rubbing knuckles across his chin and rubbing the fingers of his other hand across Luke's, where there two hands met on their brushing thighs. It sounds shit like I'm sayin' it, as if I never enjoyed nothing we had, or... I don't mean that, not like that at all, just...'
He stared hungrily at the 27-year-old, trying to find a better way of saying it, and explaining how what had once been beautiful and fun began to sour alongside their dropping form at Old Trafford - how the weight of being captain had become inseparable from the weight of being Luke's rough reliable stallion, and how sometimes he just wanted to be held and vulnerable. I didn't know I needed it,' he grumbled uncertainly, thinking about the feeling in him as he pulled and pushed at Cristiano that day in the gym. I went in there to show him who was boss. I wanted to fuck him senseless and remind him of what I know, how he was Rooney's bitch for years, I wanted to... I wanted to be the alpha. Fuck's sake, I know how stupid it all sounds.'
Luke had gone very quiet during his explanations, and the look on his face was hard to read. Not exactly sympathetic, but not exactly outraged or offended. Harry let their fingers rub and knead, wanting to take the hand in his, but too frightened of the way the other England defender might pull away from him if he did. He felt sick and his chest felt tight, and he was regretting everything he'd said already - it was as if he pissing on their years together, and the powerful dynamic that had turned them on so much, his raw strength and Luke's desperate need to take him. He regretted none of it, and he tried to say as much, but Shaw cut him off, shaking his head.
`I think I might get it,' he muttered, but his voice sounded a little cool and distant.
Do you?' Harry asked weakly. I don't think I'm making any sense.' He thought about how good it had felt to submit to Ronaldo as his rival and frenemy. There had been such tension between the pair of them since the day the Portuguese legend arrived back in Manchester, ready to reclaim his throne. They'd almost come to blows within weeks of the signing, and that tension had simmered for so many difficult months before his aggressive sexual challenge in the showers, before he'd claimed Cristiano as another pussy with his massive prick, now limp and defeated in his boxers. It had felt so good to give in to Ronaldo and accept defeat, and just be a hole for him - but how he could explain that bit now, to Luke's gorgeous face, without pouring salt into an open wound?!
I've ruined it,' he gasped, knowing he couldn't say these things, and feeling the tight panic in his chest burst and pour through him. I've ruined it all, Luke, and-'
Why him, though?' Luke growled, cutting across his voice. Why that prick?' He still looked so sad and angry, and Harry knew that everything he'd had to say was useless and inarticulate, and he'd explained nothing - and he deserved this anger, this judgement, he really did. He pushed his body against the window, as if making distance between them, unable now to look at the other lad... and yep, Shaw was pulling away from him, up off the seat and not even around to the other side of the booth, but across the aisle, flopping back against the parallel seats, a defeated frown on his face. `Why him?' he asked again, loudly.
I'm sorry,' Harry hissed, his voice deep and emotional. I just-'
Why him, and why not me?' came Shaw's gritty exclamation, and Maguire jerked his heavy head up to look across at him. He saw the ferocious passion in the younger defender's face, the wide confrontation in his sparkling eyes. What the fuck, Harry? You don't think I can do you like that? You think I'm just some pussy who needs you to fuck him over and over and I can't make you feel something different when you need it?' There was a real growl to his voice, one that caused a little spark in the hairs on the back of Harry's neck.
`I- I don't think that, I j-' He stammered uncomfortably through the words, unsure what to say, something in Luke's tone and face startling him more than what he was saying.
`I've fucked my way through three different footballers this last week and a bit,' the 27-year-old barked at him, and Harry knew that he should feel jealous at that - three?! - but he just felt intrigued, or distracted, or... excited.
I don't think you're a pussy,' the centre-back mumbled, the words feeling silly on his thick tongue, and he slid his arse across the seats, moving desperately towards the aisle - and as he did so there was a jolt, a cranking sound beneath them, and then a sudden low vibration of every surface he was touching. He stared deep into Luke's blue eyes as the other footballer looked his way, and their talk was interrupted by a crackle of static and a voice overhead: Ladies and gentleman, we have a geen signal at last, and-'
Harry Maguire didn't hear the end of the announcement, he just heard Luke Shaw's low animal growl, directed fiercely his way. `Go to the toilet now and don't lock the door, Harry. I'm gonna show you what I'm made of.'
Luke sat very still for almost a minute, one hand tightly gripping an armrest, his whole muscular body of 6ft1 poised for action, but held still against the edge of the seating, his chest heaving up and down, and muscles tensed beneath the slim jeans and the close-fitting t-shirt. He took long deep breaths, sucking in the air, and sighing it out almost aggressively - and then he got up, and dragged the sweatshirt off him in one quick movement, dumping it in a heap on his chair beside his backpack.
And then he too marched to the far end of the carriage. Under his trainered feet, the train was moving again, and you could hear a muted applause sounding from the next carriage, blocked by two closed doors. The first of these slid open automatically at his presence and he barrelled into the vestibule between them, where the motion of the train roaring out of London was all the louder, the clanks and groans beneath them, the thrum of an unseen engine.
On his right, one of the sliding toilet doors was almost but not quite shut, and through the gap was a sliver of a sight, a mere strip of his boyfriend's frame, a single beady eye fixed on him as that big shaggy head turned to check who was dragging the door aside and pressing in against him in the tight space that wasn't really meant for two athletic Premiership defenders. Behind him, Luke dragged the door shut and twisted the lock, and then he barked, `Turn around, H.'
Maguire stopped staring wonderingly at him and faced the wall, the low toilet pressing close to their right and the complicated sink alcove to the left - so close in fact that Luke's elbow set off the hand dryer as he brought both hands to the man's side, feeling his torso through the fabric of his hoody, and pressing against him from behind, just holding and pressing him, then shoving him further into the wall, quite roughly. Harry gasped but did not complain, and Luke slid his hands under the top, rubbing them up the warm skin of Harry's six-pack until they were cupping the lightly haired muscle of his chest, baring most of his back. He leaned in and kissed him sensitively on the back of the neck, moving his lips slowly against the skin and hair, while his hands roughly travelled south, back over those abs, and into the tight waistband of his jeans.
`Oh, fuck,' Maguire groaned for him.
`Shut up,' Luke snarled, and it was half and half: 50% a kind of seductive roleplay brutality, and 50% a grudge of treasured resentment. He gasped excitedly and wrenched at the button fly of Harry's jeans, pressing hard against him so that his own erection rubbed seriously against the firm muscle of the bigger man's behind.
With rough quick movements, he forced down the jeans, and then the black and grey boxer shorts beneath, and he kissed at that thick neck again. With one hand, he tugged and played with the familiar weight of the 29-year-old's fat cock, and with the other he slapped at one buttock then the other - again, his jerky movements set off the hand dryer and hot stale air brushed against them. He spat on the fingers of his right hand and pushed it between the firm downy cheeks and into the more thickly hairy crack, until his wet digit was rolling back and forward over the tight bud of his captain's arsehole.
This wasn't the attentive care he'd taken with virginal Sancho, nor the almost mechanical determination he'd applied to wide-eyed Depay, and yet it wasn't the sort of heartless physical madness he'd plied to Raheem Sterling's bubble butt. Roughly but intimately, he fingered at Harry's hole and heard him gasp and yelp at it, opening up that ring and pushing his finger deep in long strokes. His left hand still toyed with the weighty full balls and the swelling prick, and his lips and beard nuzzled against the top of his spine. Both mean breathed heavily, animals in the hunt.
The left-back stopped playing with Harry's cock and balls and used his left hand to undo his belt and zip instead, whilst two fingers of his right hand were squeezed into the muscular entrance, needing a bit more spit for lube. Feel that?' he growled. Feel that inside ya, H?'
Yeah,' groaned Maguire. Oh, yeahhh...'
It's gonna be my cock in a minute,' drawled the Kingston lad. You gonna take it?'
`Fuck yes,' came the Sheffield bloke's throaty growl.
You don't need nobody's cock but mine,' Luke promised, a touch of tenderness in his aggressive bark, close to Harry's ear. Nobody but me.'
He spat more on his fingers and rubbed it in Harry's tight hot entrance, then spat on his dick and rubbed it up and down the length of his thick shaft, not really much less meaty or long than Maguire's foot-long monster. He pressed the head between the cool skin of those cheeks and rubbed its end up and down the hairy crack, feeling it wet and quivering, and then rolling the chubby tip of his member into the tight hole that he'd fingered. Both of his hands grasped at Harry's arms just above the crook of his elbows, fingering at his biceps through the sleeves of his hoodie. Both of them groaned, not caring about the thin door that separated from the vestibule; it would hardly be audible over the thunder of the train itself, catching up with its schedule on the West Coast line.
Luke pushed inside him, reclaiming his man, and wiping away the image of Cristiano.
Harry pressed forward into the hard wall of the tiny bathroom space, his forehead meeting the cool metal surface, and his hands splayed against its lined hardness. There was barely room to move, no space to bend over and move into an easier position. He was held between the firm wall and Luke's powerful grip, and down below, he was stretching open for it, the thick warm presence intruding on his backside, and he gritted his teeth and took it, bracing himself through the initial pain, which he remembered all too well, and allowing the slow indescribable wave of pleasure.
More shocking than any other miracle right now was the urgent hardness of his cock, its tip almost rubbing the wall, but his hits jutting back a little to prevent this. His balls felt tight and swollen beneath the splendid shaft, woken back up by Luke's rough touch.
Standing there with so little room to manoeuvre, Harry took it: Luke's urgent fucking. In and out of him shoved that beautiful man's beautiful cock, and the grip of his hands on his arms got tighter, bruisingly so. No words, just deep guttural moans, and the fleshy slap of muscular bodies connecting in the most intimate way. Luke angling his body that little upwards to meet the difference in their heights, fucking up into his arse from below, humping against him like a rabid wolf. Insistent and rhythmic, unstoppable and urgent. Harry couldn't stop each breath escaping as a moan, and the wall creaked against the pressure of his muscular weight. He tried his best to keep his hands against the wall and not reach down for his cock, because he now felt like he'd explode at the lightest touch. He just squeezed his eyes shut and stood there, taking each piledriver thrust into his backside, his muscular cheeks clapping against Luke's bare front, and his hole getting wetter and more welcoming with every invasive push.
Yes,' he moaned, finding words, oh yes baby-'
You're mine,' came Luke's strangled cry in his ear. You're MINE.'
Luke came first, inevitably, emptying himself inside that arsehole that he'd coveted in quiet moments, watching Harry's bare arse across a hotel room, thinking about the important first time when it had been made his in an act of contrition, and then the couple of feeble efforts to repeat that dynamic in the time since - but now he was really going for it, fucking into Harry's sturdy rear even after he came, making the most of it, really riding against his captain, claiming him and owning him, giving him what he apparently needed, and what Luke had really discovered he liked to give.
In the post-nut clarity of his echoey brain, he did wonder about what this meant for the future: would he ever feel as dominated and possessed by this majestic fucker again, after this grunting inversion? Was the old way broken now, and was there no going back? Would he fuck Harry again, and again, and that would become the norm? He didn't know if he wanted that or not, but he knew that something important had changed, or returned, and he could feel an enormous pressure leaving his whole being.
Once he'd pulled his trembling dick out of Harry's tightness, he turned him around and wanked him forcibly, their faces pulling together in an almost-kiss, breath mingling, whilst Harry's cock was pulled over and over until it was shooting a sticky mess against Luke's tummy, where his t-shirt was pulled up almost to his nips. Cum hit and smeared his navel and six-pack and Harry's dick throbbed hard in his grip. Fuuuuck,' moaned the married centre-back into his face, completely drained, and Fuck yes,' Luke snarled back happily, finally kissing him on the lips.
The snog lasted for several minutes, the men grabbing at each other with mucky hands, sweaty and cum-stained and shuddering with each breath, but locking tongues and kissing deeply and hungrily. It was only the little mechanical fart of an accidentally triggered auto soap dispenser that broke the breathless passion and made them pull apart, full of throaty chuckles and self-conscious red faces, bare cocks rubbing together, sensitive and tingling from the roughness of their connection.
It wasn't easy, but they washed their hands, helping each other out a little with the soap and water, and then adjusting their clothing item by item. A few moments' cautious silence before the lock was twisted and the sliding door elbowed open, and Luke shuffled backwards into the vestibule, looking left and right, and then giving Harry the nod. Together, they moved through the next automatic door and back into their empty carriage. The windows showed that the train was slowing, and cruising in against a platform in Watford Junction - a handful of passengers were out there with their cases, presumably joining them in here. Without commenting on this, Luke led the way back to their booked seats in the original booth, settling comfortably in on one side whilst Harry folded in against the opposite chair, never breaking eye contact from him. They both breathed deeply and wriggled their muscular bodies against the cushions to find the right position, whilst lower legs connected under the table, calf muscle on calf muscle.
The 10.42 from Euston whizzed on to Manchester Piccadilly, and the two United defenders stared silently at one another, digesting what had happened between them, a fire reignited.