Part 320: Recovery Day
It was recovery day at the Nice training camp, simmering beneath the Riviera's lingering autumn warmth a few miles inland from the Med - and it was recovery day in more sense than one. It was the designated light training day after yesterday's fixture, and it was also the morning-after-the-night-before of the players' celebration drinks following a 3-2 victory over their visiting opposition at the Allianz. There had been a few drinks at the stadium bar as a treat from the French side's management, and then an impromptu party extension at an expensive seafront restaurant-bar that had gone on far longer than the footballers would be happy to admit to their coaches and nutritionists this week.
Ross Barkley had felt many worse hangovers, and was quietly developing the opinion that guys here were lightweights compared to his own social circle back on Merseyside, especially during his first few years of adult football at Everton. He did, however, have a pernicious headache and that slight heat and ache in his limbs, and he was making an extra effort to guzzle down the h2O as he progressed through his morning ablutions and made his arrival at the training ground, kitted out in the same bright red and black fitness gear as every other bloke on site.
After the initial sign-in meetings with the coaching personnel, Barkley was quick to get to work, whereas many of the Nice players were dawdling and procrastinating, lounged about the meeting hall and complaining in an assortment of European languages; it wasn't just that Ross didn't feel so markedly hungover as some of his colleagues, but he still felt on that new transfer probation... that sense of being watched and tested, with his place in the squad line-up far from guaranteed. The 28-year-old attacking midfielder was quietly frustrated with his slow integration into his new team, and adamant he would be in the gaffer's starting roster before the World Cup hiatus rolled around. By the end of the season, he needed to be making a real impact on Ligue 1 - and beyond that? Ross didn't know whether he ought to be hoping for Premiership bosses to start taking notice of his French antics, or if he should be seriously knuckling down to a long-term future away from England... but being ambitious and determined for this debut season was enough for now.
The 6ft1 Scouser made his way into one of a number of gyms, seeking quiet and isolation so that he could grumble through his morning's work, rather than moaning about his headache and lolling about with other players - not that his current French proficiency would allow him more than a cursory cliche on the subject, to be fair. He was hammering the language apps on his phone, but he tended to it late in the evening when he was tired and distracted, and it really didn't feel like much of it was sticking in.
Knocking back pleasant French beer last night had really begun to draw attention to the problem, he thought. Ross had enjoyed his brief performance in the home win against Troyes, and been as keen as anyone else to share in the team-building celebrations that followed... But in reality, he struggled to communicate much with the bulk of the squad, and he'd spent the more formal and official part of the evening with a plastic smile dimpling his rugged features as he tried and failed to follow group conversations in several corners of the hospitality bar.
At the seafront venue after, it had become a little easier, but only really because he gravitated once again to the Nice squad's other Premiership imports: Schmeichel, Ramsey, and Bryan.
It was hard not to do so, though he was vaguely aware he should be making a greater effort to connect with the more established team members, and not just the other three English-speaking newbies who had been signed shortly before himself. They were good guys too, he thought, as he moved sluggishly through a few free-weight exercises and then perched his tired body on one of the machines - there was a lot of shared experience and culture with the other three Premier League alumni, even apart from the ease and convenience of language. It was also a bit reassuring to Ross that the other three weren't exactly ingratiating themselves in the wider group either, though Joe was clearly a bit more confident on his French lessons, and big Kasper seemed basically fluent, a typically multilingual European from his Danish background. Only Aaron seemed to be on his own level of poor vocab and clueless grammar, but the Caerphilly-born star would slip playfully into his natural Welsh whenever he could, and claimed to have picked up pretty decent Italian during his Juventus years.
Alone in this particular gym suite, Ross worked his powerful leg muscles at a lazy pace, hardy remembering to keep count of his sets; he wasn't quite working hard enough to bring on a sweat, but the exothermic hangover was prickling at his skin and making his red shirt itch against his lean upper body, and his black shorts chafe between his thick thighs and about his slim waist.
It had been good to hang out with those three last night, he reminded himself, rather than worrying about how little he'd spoken to anyone else during the meal or following barrage of wine bottles. For a while, the four of them had started discussing England's top-flight rather than life in Nice, particularly bemoaning the performances of their various former clubs, and the highs and lows of close friends in that league, some of whom connected them loosely in the mutual circles of footballer cliques.
It had gotten a bit weird towards the end, though. Ross frowned slightly at the hazy wine-soaked memory, wiping one hot forearm against his brow. Most of the Sunday evening social was vivid in his memory, both in its moments of tongue-tied awkwardness and the more relaxed camaraderie with the English speakers... but just before it ended and a taxi took him home to his duplex, he'd found the conversation suddenly strained and unwelcome, and found it hard to really control what he was saying, too much alcohol in his veins. Caution had made him clumsier and more stammering than ever, and hurried him to book his cab, keen to break away from the other fellas. Everything had been pretty chill until-
Oh come on,' boomed a hearty voice just to his left. You can push more KGs than that, Barks...!' One of his teammates and last night's wine-swilling companions loomed sideways into view, hanging one hand from the frame above them and grinning broadly down at him where he sat on the leg extension press.
Huh,' Ross laughed hollowly back, a little startled to be joined and interrupted, but shrugging his shoulders and kicking slowly out against the resistance of the machine. I think we're all takin' it a bit easy this morning, chief.' He met Kasper Schmeichel's lazy expression and smiled faintly back, before bringing the weighted platform back close to him and bending his knees so that his strong legs bulged up against his midriff. In one slow movement, the large Danish man reached across and shifted the dial at his side, hitching up the weight setting on the machine, and then patting him heavily on one clammy knee. `That looks more like your kinda strength, legs like that,' the goalkeeper announced quietly, then laughed.
Barkley made a slow quiet huffing noise. `Who are you now, the head coach?' But rising to the bait of this gentle banter, he pushed his leg muscles intensely back at this more challenging setting, keeping the rest of his body poised and still, and meeting the blue glow of Kasper's sleepy-looking eyes.
Something like that,' Schmeichel junior chuckled lightly. How are you feeling...?'
Not the best,' he admitted through a little grunt of exertion, his legs almost fully extended, but... could be worse. I think I remembered to knock back a load of water when I got in, y'know. Er, you?'
The the 6ft2 keeper nodded slowly, still leaning heavily against the side of the machine, and now scratching at the rough silvery growth across his strong chin and jaw. `I regret the last bottle or two, ha ha. It was fun though, huh?'
Ross nodded, breaking their eye contact and just focusing his weary body on the simple repetition of the task, before loosening the push of his calf muscles and letting the machine clank back into its neutral position, pretty sure he'd done enough reps over here. He hung his arms against the tops of his lifted thighs and felt slightly self-conscious, thinking that perhaps the other football player had been looking too closely at his legs. But now Kasper was shoving out one massive hand to grab his and help him out of the undignified squat of the machine's saddle, supporting him up to his feet and clapping him once on the back.
`Good times,' Barkley murmured, stepping away and shaking off each heavy leg, then turning to watch as the slightly taller and broad-shouldered goalie clambered in against his sweat stains to replace him, yanking the setting up another two notches as he did so. Ross watched this macho showing off with an idle expression, feeling no need to compete with the former Leicester captain.
Yup,' huffed Kasper, getting comfortable before planting the soles of his trainers against the platform, and then grinning and shaking his head. Still - poor Joe, eh, getting so hot under the collar over... well, not much at all, haha.' It was a warm and friendly smile, but also suggestive and knowing, and Ross felt himself blush slightly as he returned it and ran his fingers through the soft short curls of his hair.
`Yeah, that,' the Scouser mumbled evasively, still flexing and stretching each of his tree trunk legs and watching as the other Nice player stretched out his own powerful limbs and then slowly retracted, his shins glossy with hairs of that that fine Scandi blonde.
`Funny bugger,' the 32-year-old chuckled gruffly at him, and Barkley nodded his awkward agreement, backing away from the machine.
Joe Bryan was in no position to downplay or cover his hangover when he arrived at the training ground, ten minutes later than he was due; in the short clustered meetings, the Englishman sat close to a table and folded his bulging arms against its surface so that he could nestle his pale green face in against the muscles and try to stop the room from swimming. Far too much wine, the 29-year-old defensive player told himself bitterly, wondering how the hell he would be getting anything done all day. He'd skipped his usual morning sea swim and al fresco coffee breakfast, and the buffet of healthy snacks along one side of the meeting room were making him bilious.
He'd felt pretty shit when he woke up in the hot tangle of his bedding, the sheets all soaked with his body sweat, but he'd felt worse when the memory flooded back to him on the drive here, unsure if he was below the legal limit behind the wheel. The last memory of last night's socialising slapped him in the face and he had to pull over for a grim minute, wondering if there was any chance that the other lads might have forgotten it.
The Bristolian had been ploughing through the beer and wine all evening, just like many of the others, quickly reaching a plateau of merriness where he could practise his French without feeling too foolish, and where he might be a bit more confident in starting to build connections with some of his new pals here on the Riviera - but nope, he'd somehow ended up skulking with the more familiar faces from the Premiership after all, even if his own career had yo-yoed in and out of that top league on a regular basis, and he was a pretty unknown quantity to the other three, all capped senior internationals.
He wasn't sure how he'd got on to the topic of that night with the prostitute, but suddenly he'd been alluding to his conflicted certainty that his ex-manager Scott Parker had a crush on him. That idea had brought great merriment to Schmeichel and Ramsey, the Danish and Welsh blokes cackling over the suggestion of Parker being on `the other team', though poor Barkley had just looked prudishly mortified; after all, the whole squad had been discussing the Casillas tweet and U-turn, and the subject of gay footballers had rippled through the different spoken languages of the party. That, he supposed, was why that night in West London had preyed on his mind, and why it had ended up burbling out of his drunken lips, once it was just the four of them.
Barkley had been muttering his comeback at a joking suggestion of whether his managers had ever taken too much interest in him (Fuck off, Lampard barely spoke to me, and Tuchel wasn't much better') and Ramsey still tittering over the idea of Mikel Arteta working his way through the Arsenal roster, when suddenly Joe Bryan found himself asking the big question: Lads, lads, seriously though, seriously lads, has anyone else ever - I dunno - like had a guy try and do stuff with them, er-'
And then suddenly it was all spilling out: that sweaty half hour on the sofa of his Fulham apartment, with marriage trouble Tom Cairney at his side, reaching for him, and paying him back for a few nights on that couch after being kicked out. Wide-eyed and drunk, Joe had stumbled to a pause, realising that his confession of letting his mate wank him off was suddenly out there in the air, and he couldn't take it back - and there'd been a moment of sticky quietness whilst nobody laughed or bantered, and he'd felt like running across the terrace and chucking himself in the Mediterranean.
But then suddenly the tension broke and the other lads were chipping in with allusory descriptions of their own experiences, and somehow that was worse than their quiet judgement. He wasn't sure why - it should be reassuring, but the whole conversation haunted him this morning, nauseous and uncomfortable as he strolled through the overly bright indoor spaces of the training centre, wondering where he could curl up and die in peace.
Schmeichel first, his booming laugh and expansive arm gestures, saying that he knew the sort of thing Bryan meant, and he'd be lying if he said he hadn't received the odd helping hand in the past. Ramsey immediately began joking about which Foxes star he was referring to, throwing Vardy's name around playfully and making them all laugh, before conceding that their Danish fwend' was probably talking about stuff on the international front. Open-minded buggers in Denmark, huh?' the Welsh midfielder had sniggered, before going on to his own vague admissions of a different vibe and culture in Northern Italy, managing to showily imply but never confirm that even Cristiano Ronaldo was not 100% heterosexual - Joe could remember laughing uncomfortably at this strangley unsurprising scandal, but still unsure if the lads were making it up and just trolling. Though it was a wine-soaked blur to him, he could remember little bursts of the banter, as Kasper and Aaron dropped hints about things they'd got up to, and then suddenly taking more interest in Barkley, who shifted about in his seat and kept trying to change the topic, before suddenly relenting and grunting out that `Yeh, I got a few handjobs and blowies, what the fuck does it matter?! Nothing more though,' the former Chelsea player was loudly insisting, almost the last thing Bryan could remember before the night blacked out in his memory.
Even now, holding one hand to his throbbing temples, the 29-year-old felt a bit unclear - were the other guys talking in earnest, or were they just ripping the piss out of him? Why the fuck had he told them about that little episode with Cairney?? It really didn't matter, it had just been a silly little thing, a stupid moment between pals, and neither he nor Tom had brought it up in the short period before he signed his loan contract to come here...
The left-back paused, his other hand pressing into a wall to steady his dizzy balance, as he heard his name called down the passage from behind. Gurning, he turned around and blinked sheepishly back, expecting one of the coaches to be following him to ask what his recovery plan was for the morning session... but no, it was an irritatingly sprightly Ramsey, bouncing on his heels as he travelled down the corridor, swinging his arms at his sides, and grinning cheerily as he approached. Joey,' he yelped again, drawing closer, god, you look awful, matey.'
Joe grimaced at the other lad and nodded. `Yep, thanks, sure.'
Ah, don't be a grump,' sniggered the Wales international, slowing down and stopping just in front of him. You drank enough to sink the best of us last night, JB.'
`Ugh. And - ergh - why do YOU seem quite so healthy, eh...?'
The former Arsenal hero laughed and shrugged. Oh, hangovers never did catch up with me, y'know. Welsh blood, I think? We're made of stronger stuff in the valleys I come from, matey. Just you try drinking Gareth Bale under the table, you'll see.' He beamed. Fuck, are you actually about to vomit, Joe...?'
He grimaced again and rubbed his dry eyes. `I feel like death,' he admitted quietly, trying to look at the other football player without picturing the four of them at their separate little table on the terrace, drinking and vaping and losing track of the night. He pictured himself and his startling blunt question to the others, letting slip his recent indiscretion, and what he'd allowed his captain Tom to do with his prick...
Here,' suggested Aaron in a winsome tone, let's go for a swim, shall we? I don't suppose you got your morning one in, for all your banging on about it yesterday. Come on. The pool's this way. It'll sort you right out, matey.' Ramsey reached out and gave his shoulder a squeeze, and nodded back down the corridor encouragingly. Bryan groaned and nodded slowly, accepting the idea as the only logical solution to his current state.
Like lots of many men, nothing gave Kasper Schmeichel a more inappropriate horn than the restless heat and self-indulgent lethargy of a hangover, and as he worked his way around a few gym machines in a loose partnership with the brutish English midfielder, the Dane's mind did a bit of adventurous wandering.
At first, he was bringing up last night and the Joe Bryan revelations in idle amusement and friendly banter - it was pretty cringey and ridiculous that the four blokes had ended up sat there discussing such a topic together, going on about saucy past exploits as if almost competing, and quickly losing hold of the initial effort to reassure and calm down the paranoid Fulham defender. Schmeichel had felt himself almost trying to one-up cheeky Ramsey, whilst quietly marvelling at the hints the Welsh player was dropping about the things that might go on at Juventus and the Cardiff training camps. It was all very stupid, as if trying to intimate to his new friend that HE was the one who'd had the most male interest in his crown jewels somehow made him the supreme alpha of their little pack, the one who all their new French buddies should be fawning over or something...
At first, anyway... Now, Kasper found himself looking contemplatively at Ross as he repeatedly turned their quiet and interrupted chatter back towards the content of that conversation last night, the pair of them now taking turns on the heavy black ropes that would work their upper body fitness. Barkley crashed on through another loosely timed set, his face a reddening picture of concentration and commitment, losing momentum several seconds before the Danish player called out, `Five, four, three, two... yep.'
The Chelsea reject was working up quite a sweat now, his muscular legs glossy beneath the tangled hems of his black shorts, and his red training shirt really sticking to his upper body. He shifted aside, gasping, and the goalie picked up the ropes to take over, but didn't rush to begin thrashing them, and not just because his shoulders hurt like hell. He let the ropes loll from his grip whilst he grinned thoughtfully at the Liverpudlian lad.
Come on then,' he grunted simply at him. You tell me who tossed you off at Stamford Bridge, buddy, and I'll let you in on a few Leicester City secrets.' Too hungover and horny for his usual Scandinavian reserve, the 6ft2 keeper leered curiously at the other player, giving the ropes a few gentle shakes.
But Ross just grimaced. `Let's move on from that, eh...?'
`Pft. Spoilsport. I was just having a laugh, huh.'
`I know, I know, just-'
It was Mason Mount though, wasn't it?' he muttered gruffly in a moment of inspiration. I mean, everyone can see that little cub is gagging for it all day every day, you just have to look at him and...' He caught sight of the baffled embarrassment in Barkley's features and he burst out laughing immediately. `I fucking knew it, I fucking knew it.'
What?' grunted Ross evasively. Dunno what you're on about...' He was still panting and wiping sweat from his face, but he had certainly got redder, and Kasper grinned to himself before taking the ropes like reins and really thrashing them against the gym carpet, glad to feel the other player watching him as his arms bulged and flexed, and he dropped his squatted posture a little lower, before quickly burning out and throwing them to his feet with a loud moan of exhaustion.
Just a moment's pause, and then Barkley's thin hoarse query: `Why, who have you been messing about with at Leicester, then...?' The lad was scratching his stubble sheepishly and avoiding eye contact, red training shirt pulled halfway up his torso as he pawed at his sticky wet six-pack. Kasper smirked at him, glad to have stoked his curiosity.
`I thought we weren't sharing any secrets,' he said mildly, planting his big hands against his hips, and allowing himself a moment's nostalgia as he remembered his first wandering hands moments with the charismatic Jamie Vardy - how that leering troublemaker had teased and chided him as a prude, before encouraging him to play with his alarmingly long piece under the covers, and then... his thoughts turned to his last day in England, and the sight of Harvey Barnes emerging from the Vardy outdoor pool, wet and bare and available, his goodbye gift.
Ross laughed nervously and Kasper joined him. Maybe you're right,' he muttered conspiratorially. Maybe it's better if we don't drop names, eh?' He licked his bottom lip and folded his big arms over his chest, taking a couple of steps closer to the Scouser. After all, what's in the past...' He loomed an inch or so over the other tall athlete, a bulkier and broader physique against the slim definition of Barkley's upper body. He inched very close to him and stood there, matching the slow panting breaths of the other player. It's what's in the present that matters, I always think.'
Ross looked him in the eye and made a vague grunt of agreement, his arms pulling up against the front of his body and mirroring Kasper's guarded posture. But whilst the Danish goalkeeper smirked interestedly across at his teammate, Ross had a very awkward look on his features, and was saying nothing more.
I'm wondering if you need a hand with any more exercises today, is that I'm wondering,' the Copenhagen stud shared in a quiet purr, looking Ross deep in the eyes, and not inching away from him at all. Cos I think we've done enough work in here, don't you?' At last, he broke the stare, shifting a few slow footsteps back, and feeling the 6ft1 midfielder almost tilt after him to follow his gentle movement, a quiet eagerness revealed beneath his grouchy facial expression. It made Schmeichel laugh faintly, and scratch again at his thin beard, before nodding towards the door. Come on,' he grunted simply. You've got me a bit worked up, pal.'
The air was tinny and unpleasant with chlorine, but the water was cool and relaxing. Not that either of them had bothered with much of a swim, and Aaron was now just leaning casually against the edge of the pool, bare strong arms stretched in either direction, watching the clumsy splashes and turns of the other footballer in the water ahead of him, the stop-start efforts to start doing lengths of the pool, turning repeatedly to wading and floating and groaning dismally at his evident headache.
Ramsey watched and admired him quietly, telling himself repeatedly that to try anything would be silly. He had a fresh start here, another one, and he didn't need to get entangled in anything silly, like he had at Juve, or worse... back at Arsenal, when he'd become so fucking infatuated with that pesky Spaniard. He and Bellerin's night of reunion in Spain was fresh and a little painful in Ramsey's mind, a strangely powerful clash of long-neglected passion, and a terrifying admission of how he'd once fallen for the younger man, at the risk of his marriage and family, and reputation.
But... life here had proven relatively dull and wholesome so far, and would any of them be sticking it out for long at the French club...? Wasn't this really just a gap year' season for the four of them, trying out Ligue 1 life whilst waiting for a better end-of-career offer in the Prem? That's what it was for Aaron, anyway. Or, he thought, a place-holder whilst he waited for Bale to engineer a place for him in LA at the same American soccer' club, so that the Wales cronies could see out their playing years in tandem.
In his defence, the 31-year-old thought, he would never have even contemplated making a pass at any of these macho fuckers, not without last night's suprising turn of conversation, and the truths they'd each let slip... But now, tingling with last night's buzz under his skin, the handsome ripped midfielder was eyeing up the thick muscular build of the 5ft7 left-back splashing about close by, and marvelling at JB's confession. He wasn't overly familiar with Tom Cairney, but the thought of the Fulham captain reaching over and... And all that business with prozzers and video tapes, and some wild claims about Scotty fucking Parker...! It was hilarious and brilliant and arousing all at once, and Aaron Ramsey's eyes sparkled with potential mischief.
No sooner had Bryan given up on his latest effort to push into a quicker swim of the pool length, lolling towards the far end of the rectangular recess, than Ramsey was darting his way with a few breast-strokes, and coming up against the pool's edge beside him, reaching for one of his bulging shoulder muscles. `How are you feeling...?' the once-beloved Arsenal star asked gently, giving him a squeeze.
`Better,' Joe grumbled weakly at him, dipping his face briefly below the surface and then running both hands across his lean face in a long exasperated sigh. Aaron kept his hand at the firm muscle of his shoulder, rubbing it quite gently, and waiting for Bryan's eyes to slide open and give him some warning to stop. But no, they floated and bobbed like that at the side of the pool, Joe rubbing his wet features, and Aaron gently massaging up and down one shoulder, before stroking a fingertip lightly along the side of the other man's throat.
`How much better?' Ramsey asked quietly, his Caerphilly accent singsong and up-and-down. He smiled gently as Bryan's eyes half-opened, and his posture slumped more heavily against the edge of the pool, allowing Aaron's fingers to stroke down his neck and brush at the top of his pronounced pectorals. There was an odd look in the left-back's eyes, flicking up and down; concerned, unsure, interested.
`What do you mean?' Joe muttered almost irritably, his lids drooping.
Just wondering,' Aaron sighed. Wondering what you're up to in this state.'
`Ugh. Not much.' Another fierce rub of one wet hand down his wet face, a couple of ragged breaths. Ramsey brought his fingers trailing back up that chest and he gave the thick shoulder a squeeze, before leaning in and dropping his voice to a whisper. When he'd finished his quiet message, he pulled back, and smiled casually, watching the mixture of panic and decision rioting on the handsome Bristolian's face.
I dunno,' was all Joe could grumble after a lengthy pause, but Aaron just smiled, and planted his hands against the rim of the pool, to start pulling his near-6ft frame out of the cool water, his soaked Nice shorts sticking to his upper thighs and the lean muscles of his rear, until he was crouched on the side and then rising to standing, grinning invitingly down into the water at stocky 5ft7 Joe, who looked up at him and blinked a few times. Without speaking, the Welshman stooped down, bending his knees, and jutting one offered hand over the water, waiting for Joe to grab it and take the help out of the pool, which he did in only a couple of tense moments. They were both out of the water and dripping wet, and Aaron just smirked, thinking about the simple words he'd imparted into Joe's hungover ear: Are you well enough to lie back and let someone empty those big balls, mate...?'
In a quiet warm changing room not far from the gym rooms, Ross followed Kasper without saying anything, but unable to stop grabbing loosely at the front of his sweaty shorts, or to stop sizing up the impressive structure of the goalkeeper's shoulders and back, big and impressive even to a man of his physicality.
Every muscle of the 28-year-old's body throbbed and ached, and now the long snaking one in the mesh lining of his shorts could be added to that list. It was chubby and semi against his wandering fingers, and he could feel beads of sweat travelling down the back of his thick neck. He moved on a kind of intoxicated autopilot, starting to think he was still a little tipsy from last night, and giving paranoid glances left and right to check that nobody else was already hitting the locker rooms after struggling with their morning work.
Ahead of him, Schmeichel had slowed and turned, nodding around the corner through a door into some empty physio space, nudging open one of the doors and holding it, so that Barkley could either hesitate and change his mind, or brush muscle-to-muscle past him to slip into the more private space. Tingling and giddy, Ross lurched into the latter, feeling his arm and shoulder against the broad expanse of Kasper's chest, and then hearing the gentle click of the door shut as the two large studs moved further into the shadows of the room.
`This is a bit better,' the 32-year-old was murmuring at him.
`Huh, yeh,' Ross grunted awkwardly back, hearing the doubt in his own voice.
Kasper had brought big hands up against his arms, running his palms up the cooling skin, damp with sweat, and then up to his shoulders. He suddenly felt painfully unsure where to put his own hands, now that there was just the two of them, discreetly hidden in here, and the body heat of the other man so very close to him... his hands hovered in the air at the sides in this indecision, whilst Kasper's moved in different directions: one was suddenly on his cheek, cradling the side of his face in a rather tender away, as if about to lean in for a snog, but the other was brushing knuckles down his midriff, tickling at his skin through the nylon of the Nice training shirt, and then- Quite abruptly, the goalkeeper was gently but decisively feeling the outline in his shorts, and his smile said he quite liked the proportions he'd discovered.
`How's that...?' purred the Dane's strangely Mancunian accent.
Ross couldn't find words, but he did let out a thin moan, his arms still limp and useless at his sides, and his cock gently reacting to the fingers that were tracing its length and girth through the shorts and their mesh lining, a big hand on his big cock.
`Nice,' muttered the bigger man, his voice breathy and low.
Thanks?' Barkley breathed out lamely, his right hand finally settling on the firm power of a bicep, and holding one of Schmeichel's talented arms... and his hips inching a tiny bit back as the big goalie's hand tried to close about his full bulge and give it a good tug. He resisted the touch uncertainly, leaning back slightly, and biting his lip. Schmeichel let out a rough quiet laugh, their faces drawing closer even as he edged away. No...?' breathed the Danish man, fingers exploring the crotch of his shorts, feeling all of it, and making Barkley's privates throb and ache for some fuller attention, mmm.
But the rugged blonde hunk in front of him wasn't the one he'd been craving, and that jarring difference, the not-Ericness of the man touching him, hit him like a freight train. Biting harder on his lip, Ross pulled back with his hips, and his other hand planted firmly between Kasper's pecs to hold him back as the hand drifted from his bulge. No,' the Scouser confirmed in a little rasp, shaking his head and shifting slightly back. Nope,' he repeated a little more firmly, daring to lift his eyes and meet Kasper's gaze.
Disappointment and frustration blazed in the icy blue of his look, but the Dane was smiling regardless, and now chuckling gently, patting the side of his arm. `Fair enough,' was all he said, and he seemed on the verge of saying something more, before reaching down and giving himself a firm grab - Ross let his gaze track down to follow this, and he started at the firm and obvious diagonal that was stretching the black material when looked at from the right angle... oh, wow.
But no. Not Eric. Not his. He took a deep breath and shook his head again, and moved softly sideways, turning for the door. He heard the goalkeeper's frustrated sigh, but ignored it and let himself through, moving quite quickly and reaching down to readjust the awkward erection in his own shorts, proud of his own willpower after all.
More willpower, it seemed, than hungover and confused Joe Bryan, stood with his back to a wall of swim lockers in an antechamber from the echoey pool room. He could feel hard metallic lines and knots of lock press into the bare hot skin of his back and shoulder muscles, and even at the round firmness of his bared buttocks, but these sharp sensations were minor and numb, compared to the feel of the hand running up and down his shaft, pulling it into life, slowly but firmly, commandingly but curiously. He blinked his eyes slowly so that for long moments the world was plunged into cosy darkness, and it could be any hot girlfriend of the last decade who was feeling his equipment in this narrow corner of shadows... but then his eyes would prise open again and he would be looking into the taller man's firm determined smile, thin-lipped and concentrated, nostrils gently flaring with each excited breath.
`How's that?' the Welsh player whispered to him, barely audible.
Bryan could only make a faint groan back. Well, what the hell was he meant to say? Of course it felt good, just like it had when Cairney did it - it was a hand on his cock, and he was horny and loaded with spunk, OF COURSE IT FELT GOOD. He grimaced and pressed his bare muscles further back against the cool metal of the lockers, as if it would hurt him or snap him out of a trance, or-
`It's big,' murmured Aaron Ramsey during one of his slow blinks.
`Right,' was all Joe could find to grunt in a strained little voice.
`So thick,' the Wales international added in a reedy murmur.
Lubed by a little spit, Ramsey's hand slid up and down, finding its way to the base and back to the tip, really bringing Bryan's large cock into aching hardness there between his chunky thighs and beneath his neatly clipped pubes. His shorts and underpants were down at his knees, clinging to his shins and and still dripping wet against the floor underfoot. Somewhere close by were his shirt and socks and trainers, where both of them had quietly undressed before entering the pool - he'd sensed Aaron's eyes on him then, hadn't he, as if sizing him up and checking him out, and he'd said or done nothing about it, just let it happened. He'd kinda known, hadn't he, as he got in for the swim, that something else was hanging in the chlorine-scented air, the hint of danger and transgression, and still he'd followed...
`Fuck,' the 29-year-old muttered, the expletive slipping out, an expression of both the transgressive pleasure and his frustrated confusion at what he'd walked into here - why the fuck had he told anyone about last time, never mind allowed a teammate to think he might be open to THIS...?
Open to this, he thought, as if he wasn't hard as a rock and already close to cumming. Fuck, this was madness. He wasn't even drunk. Well, maybe a little bit. But not steaming and midnight like in his flat, his thigh pressed to Tom's, and wondering what the married young dad was up to, reaching for him and muttering jokes, and... why had he let it happen? Why was he letting it happen?! But then... they'd all said similar things last night, and maybe they weren't joking after all, and maybe all this was okay, and maybe-
He hadn't sensed the shift in Aaron's position in front of him, he'd left his tired and sore eyes closed for a moment longer; but the angle of the grip had changed, and the air in front of his muscular body felt a bit less... occupied. He felt the other man's warm breath on his hard tip before he felt the wet soft touch of lips on his member, and he tensed up entirely, torn between gasping out in pleasure and pushing the dirty bastard away from him. A hand was one thing, but now... a mouth?
Kasper stayed in the physio room, unmotivated to go and get any more fitness work done before the team wound down for lunch. Apart from anything, his big Viking hard-on raged in his shorts, and needed some attention. He'd hoped it might come from another man's hand, but his own strong fist would have to do. But it wasn't as if he didn't have a LITTLE bit of assistance with him, anyway...
His shorts pushed halfway down his chunky fluffy thighs, Schmeichel rested his bare butt cheeks against the leathery edge of a treatment bed, his mobile phone retrieved from one tight pocket, and held in his left hand whilst his right curled about his veiny girth and pulled his wet foreskin back and forth over the chunky head of his weapon.
In his hand, the media gallery scrolled by at his thumb's control, zipping through a few sub-folders until he'd opened the little private collection from a certain WhatsApp chat thread, riskily downloaded to here and not yet deleted before his possessive wife went exploring in his device. He'd have to bin the video today or soon. Really, he ought to have sent it to recycle bin the second it auto-loaded on his screen a few nights back, but... he'd been too shocked, too alarmed, too impressed, too turned on.
The Danish goalkeeper continued to pull on his cock in long slow strokes, really gripping it when he got to the base, stretching his fingers to give his balls a little rub, then back again. He hunched forward with his chest and shoulders, face pulled close to the blue-tinted glow of his phone screen, eyes squinting into the jerky phone footage that had been sent to him with a slew of cheeky emojis on Tuesday or Wednesday of last week, though the action on the video file was dated Monday 3rd October. The night the Foxes had trounced their local rivals Nottingham Forest 4-0.
Kasper wanked himself furiously, his breath becoming ragged and throaty, and he watched intensely: the jerky, fast-moving footage swinging from face to face, body to body, the lighting terrible and inconsistent, and none of it at all clear enough... but the content obvious enough on his fourth or fifth furtive viewing, obvious and powerful, and bringing his balls close to exploding cum over the floor of the physio room. On-screen, Jamie Vardy leered and winked at him and then swung the camera angle away from his own sweaty face, down his ripped torso, down at the pale fleshy outline of Harvey Barnes' backside, past his halo of ginger hair, to the peace sign and lewd laughter of the other man powering into the shared slut, James Maddison. Muffled squeals and grunts emerged from the low-volume speakers of the phone, and Kasper wanked himself to completion, watching two of his former teammates aggressively spitroast a third.
Aaron hadn't sucked off any lad other than Hector Bellerin, and he wasn't entirely sure why he'd broken that habit now. Was it just that it had been so long and he was so bored and unsatisfied here? Or that burly young Joe was just so deeply attractive and so awkwardly reticent in his quietly masculine curiosity? Or was it that he was just so worked up by last night's revelations, by the thought that other football clubs had such sordid goings-on, so similar to the network of dominance and submission that had floated behind the scenes at Juventus under Ronaldo's stewardship...?
Whatever the reason, he'd done it, and now he was tasting Joe Bryan's salty load. He'd actually stopped when he thought the grunting beefcake was getting too close, and he'd got back up to his feet, sniggering. Okay,' he'd murmured, think it's your turn?' He'd not necessarily meant a reciprocal blowie, though that would be ideal, but he'd instantly seen the terror in Bryan's eyes, and felt the moment about to die. So he'd got back down on his knees and continued wanking the other man, his other hand pushed inside his shorts to start taking care of himself, wanking his own cock much harder to catch up - but then Joe's quiet reluctance had become a brief and fiery intensity, and the Fulham man's hands were grasping at Aaron's hair and ears and neck, and pushing his face into his crotch, and once again he had a mouth full of dick, and in moments, a mouth full of cum.
Bryan moaned more heavily and openly in the moments before and after orgasm, seeming to forget himself like men always did. Ramsey tasted it, savoured it, wondered at it - he'd never tasted anyone's spunk but Hector's, and his own, and he wasn't sure how he felt about expanding on that, but there was a deep satisfaction here at having managed to pleasure and lead the English bloke astray, and it helped him approach the cliff-edge of his own pleasure, wanking his dick furiously inside his shorts.
`Fuck, fuck,' moaned Joe, but it sounded more nervous than ecstatic.
Hurriedly, the Welsh midfielder got up to his feet, and he pressed Joe back against the lockers, half-heartedly preventing his uncertain playmate from dashing away. Tensed up and close, Aaron held a hand against one of his pecs, feelings its firmness and strength, then reaching to the side to lock fingers about a mighty bicep, needing to appreciate the solid masculinity of the shorter lad's body, and then... ahhh, yes, spilling his juices, his cock free of his shorts now, shooting lances of hot spunk, dribbling them over Joe's thighs and hips, and Ramsey's breath bursting in and out in gulps and sighs.
Fuck,' hissed the 29-year-old impatiently. Get off me.'
Bryan was lunging aside quite violently, as if he'd been really held prisoner here and not urgently involved when shoving his cock into Ramsey's mouth and releasing his load. The left-back skittered away through the locker-room shadows, trying to yank his wet shorts up as he did, and flashing Aaron a brief but beautiful view of his backside. The Welshman didn't rush to follow, collapsing forward into folded arms on the wall of lockers, and sucking in lungfuls of air, before striding out into the brighter poolside space, where Joe was standing awkwardly by the water, still adjusting his shorts.
Hey,' the 31-year-old drawled gently, let me help...'
No,' Joe snapped. Fuck off. Don't touch me.'
Mate,' he laughed. Relax, we just-'
That was out of order,' Bryan told him crossly. Ramsey glared at him. This was ridiculous. Sure, he'd made the move, but he'd hardly dragged the fella around that corner, and he hadn't been the one pushing his hot face into that sweaty crotch in the important moments, so... Just don't come near me,' the Fulham loanee was snapping at him, backing away along the pool's edge, fumbling with the drawstrings of his soggy black shorts.
Right,' the Wales player barked faintly back. Right, whatever mate.' He dragged the back of one damp arm over his sticky lips and frowned irritably at the other muscular bloke, then shook his head. `You're welcome, you prude.' He rolled his eyes, ignored Joe's thunderous expression, and threw himself gracelessly back into the pool water, unwilling to waste any more time on the other man's fiery prudishness.
Tracksuit bottoms dragged over his wet shorts and a hoody zipped over his top, shaking a little with the temperature drop, Joe signed himself out with the player liaison offer and mumbled through his excuses in fragmented French. Fortunately, the middle-aged guy was a sympathetic sort, who kept trying to arrange for transport or medical attention, and didn't make any half-translated or mimed insinuations about the sickness being just a hangover - soon, Joe Bryan was escaping this awkward encounter and haring through the warm air of the car park, his hard muscular body still damp and tense under the layers of club tracksuit. He kept looking over his broad shoulder, as if Aaron Ramsey would come racing out of the building to follow him and tell him it was now his turn to return the favour, as he'd clearly hinted in the throes of their encounter.
Only once he'd let himself into his car and locked the doors did Joe even attempt to relax, his body going limp and weak against the driver's seat. He hung his head in both hands and thought about immediately ringing Cairney and confronting him - he'd half-meant to do so in his final London days before flying out here, but it had never quite seemed worth it. But now there was a stupid bullish part of him that was holding dodgy Tom accountable for what had gone on here in France... if that fucker hadn't toyed with him on the night of their curfew-breaking little orgy, then he'd never have... well... he'd never... um... The stupid line of argument ran short in his heated mind and he groaned miserably, all of the nausea and pain of the hangover resurfacing throughout his body.
It'd be okay, he told himself quickly. It's fine. It's nothing. Welsh blokes are weird. This is a one-off, erm, another one-off, and it's sure as fuck never happening again...! He started up the engine, and turned on the heated seating, still shivering against the damp material that held his muscular form. He started up the car and grimaced, picturing the angry look on Ramsey's face before he dived away into the pool - well, he thought, there's one of my three friends in this place alienated already, fucking hell.
Barkley tried a quick phone-call to Bryan on the drive home through the Riviera sunset; he'd been informed at lunch break that the other English lad had signed out sick, and whilst Ross was fairly sure that Joe was just really hungover, it seemed worth checking in. He'd grown very fond of the level-headed left-back in their weeks here, something very calming and familiar in his presence and persona. But there was no answer from the other Nice newbie, so Ross just sent him a simple and cheery text message, asking how hungover he was, and suggesting a walk by the beach later tonight if he was up to it.
And then, idling the sports car into slow-moving traffic on the peripherique, he scrolled back through his phone contacts and started up another call, the one he made most days. Eric Dier's blunt voice vibrated through the car speakers as he greeted him in forced French, and the pair of them laughed gently through a few unsuccessful phrases before giving up and reverting to English.
Ross was still unfamiliar with the roads around the edges of Nice, and he was only partly paying attention to the bland conversation with his boyfriend at home in London; their chats on the phone were pretty dull and everyday, reeling off observations about training schedules and mutual friends, and yet he always felt better for them, comforted by the cosy familiarity of Eric's voice and personality, reminded of the world that waited for him back in St John's Wood. If the traffic had been a little more sparse this evening, and himself a little less faded by last night's drinking, he might have picked up more on the pauses and slow pace of Dier's chat, the messages in between the lines.
But it was only as he broke away onto the quieter road into his own coastal suburb that Ross really heard it: the brittleness in Eric's tone, the hesitation between statements. Slowing the vehicle on the way into his own street, Barkley asked in a concerned little interruption: `Is everything okay, yeh...?'
And the disembodied silence on the other end of the speaker-phone call was just a little bit too long and meaningful, as Barkley brought the car to a standstill at the entrance to his own car park, hands on the wheel and eyes on the display screen that showed Dier's name and contact photo, a ruggedly handsome smile in a selfie. Ross stared at it. Eric?' he asked weakly. What is it?'
A manly sigh trembled through the speakers. Another pause. `Ross,' murmured his boyfriend's voice, sounding leaden and regretful.
`What?' he demanded.
He'd thought about confiding in Dier as soon as he made the call, and he certainly intended to admit his near-contact experience to his lover as soon as he was in a better position to explain and apologise - he wouldn't be hiding his almost fumble with Schmeichel from this guy who knew him inside out, and he'd say whatever he needed to say to reassure his Eric about his loyalty and patience. But today hadn't felt right, he knew he'd say the wrong thing and start an argument, and he was just exhausted, so...
But now, that deep laddish voice rumbling through his speakers, stop-start and unusually anxious: `Ross, baby... I did a bad thing last month. With the England trip, you know. When we'd argued. I-'
Don't say it,' Barkley breathed without thinking, wanting to press hang up straight away and kill the call altogether - but too late, cos Dier was speaking over him, and the confession seemed to fill the interior of the Mercedes. I cheated on you,' croaked the Tottenham player weakly and distantly, going quiet before saying it again. `I fucked up, Ross, I cheated on you with another lad. I'm sorry. I'm so sorry. I don't know what to say.'
And sat in the car park, blinking out at the view of the sea, neither did Ross.
'Writer guy' - Premiership Lads on Nifty https://www.nifty.org/nifty/gay/celebrity/premiership-lads/
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