Part 325: `Calvins or Nothing!'
As soon as he stepped out of the broad arched doorway into the hotel's terrace dining area with a tray of breakfast in both hands, there was a burst of surprising applause, and sudden hollering of his name. He paused, almost dropping the wooden tray with his muesli, toast, and scrambled eggs on, glancing immediately at the other man next to him before casting his eyes about the assembly of fellow England footballers, seated in twos or threes at the small outdoor tables scattered across the courtyard.
`Woo, there's our supermodel!'
`Yes lad! Get yer pants out for the ladies, haha!'
`Trent Beckham, there he is...!'
`Calvin fucking Klein himself, innit!'
He stood there for a moment, gawping at the chorus of throaty cries from his fellow Lions, and then burst into bashful laughter of his own, shaking his head, and advancing from the archway towards one of the few clear tables. He turned and stared meaningfully at his roommate who had followed him at the breakfast buffet, and Jordan Henderson looked as embarrassed as he was, red cheeks and brow showing against his dark brown hair and the frame of his manly beard. Trent shook his head as he moved through the gathering, met with a few more shouts from the fellas.
`Here, did they pay extra for the briefs shot?' demanded Kyle Walker's raised voice from the far end of the courtyard, sniggering into his corn flakes with John Stones and Kalvin Phillips.
`Or have you just been paid in a lifetime supply of white panties?' shouted Jordan Pickford, who was seated in an informal assembly of the squad goalkeepers at the next table.
`Why've you got your tracky pants on this morning?' heckled another voice from closer by, Jack Grealish hunched over a pile of buttered toast and joined by muffled laughter from awkwardly grinning Mason Mount and Declan Rice.
Alright, alright,' muttered Trent through his embarrassed giggles, but at that, another loud voice cut across the terrace and interrupted the ripple of fresh laughter and table-banging from the England players. Oh, come on, don't be sour just cos you didn't get the call from Calvin Klein, mate,' chortled the voice of Harry Maguire, lounged back in his seat at the next table, in the centre of the room; he smirked as everybody laughed at this addition, joined there by fellow United defender Luke Shaw. It's about time the media went a bit mad over someone but sexy Jack,' tittered the 6ft4 Yorkshire bloke, but then adding in a lower voice as if not meant for the room, or a break from slagging me off, either way...!' Everybody cracked up at the big man's self-deprecating humour and between that and the deflection to Jack's ego, the brief furore over Trent's modelling seemed to die down and he could settle into his wicker chair with just a faint rose blush in his cheeks.
He should have known one of them would see it and that they'd all have to make a comment on it! He'd been a bit self-conscious about agreeing to it, and hesitated for a couple of weeks over the handsome modelling fee that was proposed to his agent; and he'd almost quit the promo job for CK even on the way to the photo studio in Manchester where he'd been snapped in a selection of their tight underpants for the new football-based World Cup campaign that was pushing the iconic pants to the world.
Hendo, who had been as shocked as anyone to find out about it with this morning's launch of the campaign, looked concernedly at him as he settled at the next seat, but Trent Alexander-Arnold just smiled reassuringly at the older man - the attention and banter of his teammates had taken the young Scouser aback, but he could hardly complain about it, and nobody was actually being a total dick about it. There was such a friendly atmosphere between all of Southgate's men, and Trent was smart enough to appreciate that he was just being included in that banter, one of the lads, and that nobody really thought anything negative about him posing on billboards in boxers or briefs.
Trent rolled his eyes and peeled back the lid of a fruit yoghurt. `Well, there's that out of the way,' he chuckled weakly, hearing the rising buzz of conversation around them as the different team members returned to their own morning conversations, peals of fresh laughter at topics other than his bulge and six-pack.
They didn't need to make a big song and dance out of it,' Jordan grumbled quietly, spreading jame on a triangle of toast in a manner that seemed to capture the flash of aggression he felt - Trent could only smile at this protective streak, and he looked adoringly at the Liverpool captain next to him, taking a moment to thank god or fate or whoever that they were both called up to this World Cup squad together this winter. It's all good,' he said brightly, taking a sip of grapefruit juice. `It's all just a bit of a laugh, ain't it?'
Jordan made a vague noise, nostrils flaring in a huffy noise, but Trent let his smooth lower calf rub against the hairy skin of the other man's, and let him know that all was good. The two Anfield players shared a private look in the midst of the noisy team breakfast, and both of them were clearly thinking back to the way their day had begun.
Trent wasn't 100% sure why he hadn't initially told his secret boyfriend about the Calvin Klein photoshoot. To begin with, it had been more about embarrassment or hesitation, unwilling to share the decision with even his closest loved ones, but at some point in the weeks that followed it had turned into a kind of sexy surprise... a desire to shock and excite the married older man, push his expectations of the humble Liverpudlian lad. And recently, knowing that the underwear label would be pushing their new models on the eve of the Qatar World Cup, Trent had simply returned to embarrassment: he was somehow as nervously dreading Jordan seeing the images and clip as he was for elderly members of his own family back home on Merseyside.
He was on his way to wakefulness when Henderson's exclamation snapped him into consciousness, against the background hiss of a flushing toilet in the en suite of their shared hotel room. The 24-year-old defender blinked a few times and scratched at his face, pulling some stray locs out of his eyes before sitting up. Across the room, Jordan Henderson was standing in the doorway between rooms, one hand fiddling with the drawstrings of his pyjama bottoms, and the other holding his mobile phone in front of him, which he was staring at quite intently.
Just like whichever of the other lads had delightedly shared a screenshot of the CK campaign in the team group chat and triggered the breakfast banter, Jordan had apparently opened up his social media after waking up and scrolled upon a post of the exposing photoshoot very quickly. He looked astonished and confused, frowning at his device some more before taking a few slow steps back towards the bed, scratching at the little trail of hair to the bottom of his taut tummy.
Trent let out a sleepy laugh and shifted in the bed to make space, watching as Hendo folded back down onto it, still clutching the phone, and giving him a questioning stare. What the hell?' the 32-year-old man asked, almost a little sharply, surprise making him seem moody. What's all this? Is that actually you?' he asked stupidly. Trent smiled at each question, feeling relaxed and safe in the warmth of their shared bed, then trying to stifle his instant laugh in case it made Hendo even more wound-up.
`Surprise,' the right-back trilled playfully, reaching out to stroke at Jordan's arm and then shoulder, their bodies adjusting over the sheets and pillows, and Jordan settling back down into a comfortable position, and turning the phone screen towards him to share the Instagram post of CK images, as if Alexander-Arnold needed to see them to believe they were really him.
Surprise!' retorted Henderson. That's an understatement...'
`What, don't you like it?' Trent demanded, prodding him in one lightly hairy pec.
`It's not that, just - What the actual fuck, haha? Where did this come from?' He prodded at the screen of his phone, sliding between the images, and shaking his head in disbelief. His face was lined slightly with almost worry, grizzly beard settling about the ambivalent expression on his mouth.
Trent might have felt somewhat worried by this reaction from his lover, after the weeks of indecision and slight regret, but he felt so totally secure and cosy in bed with Jordan, especially after spending most of this week with him away from their usual Liverpool life and commitments. He'd fallen asleep and woken up with him five nights in a row, making the World Cup training camp feel more like a romantic getaway than anything else.
In this mood, he pushed cheekily away from the confused slump of the Sunderland man, and scampered out of bed instead, up onto his bare feet on the cool tiled floor of the room. He was, of course, wearing the same white CK briefs he'd donned for the raciest of the promo shots, and he paraded them now at the foot of the bed, hooking his thumbs into the tight waistband and twanging them against the pale caramel of his skin, drawing Jordan's attention away from the glossy social media version of the gorgeous reality.
Yep,' he exclaimed boldly, posing where he stood, take a good look, here I am...!'
`Well I can see that,' Hendo chuckled softly, and at last he let the phone drop from his hand, sliding across a fold of duvet; the Liverpool captain was sitting up a bit, pushing his strong shoulders back against the stacked pillows, whilst Trent grinned stupidly down the bed at him and struck a new muscle pose in the clingy white undies.
Your own little private viewing,' he joked in a teasing murmur, one hand still stretching and dragging at the waist of the pants, the other running gently up his own bulky six-pack, then turning slightly to give his boyfriend a good profile of his bulge and butt. What do you think, reckon it'll sell a few pairs of under-crackers...?'
When did you do it?' Hendo demanded. I just- When did this all happen?'
Trent pouted at him, lifting up one leg and resting his knee on the foot of the bed, shifting his body into a new pose that accentuated the package in the front of the CK briefs, and folding his increasingly thick arms across his chest. `I think you might be asking the wrong questions, skipper,' he chided quietly and playfully.
`Oh, alright...'
`You really wanna worry about when those photos were taken?' Trent asked.
Jordan shut up and just smiled at him across the bed, biting his lip at one side, and giving the pose in front of him the attention it deserved. He chuckled a bit and Trent laughed too, feeling as silly as he did sexy. He pushed his other knee onto the bed, edging forward and locking his hands behind his head, accentuating his biceps and stretching out his broad young chest, a well-built 5ft9 of compact stocky muscle now. Jordan just nodded approvingly and that made Trent laugh again, reaching down to pull at one side of the briefs, over his strong hip, pushing them down a little as if to strip off, and loving the way Henderson's eyes lit up and he inched forward hungrily.
`The photos don't do ya justice,' the football captain muttered, his voice throaty.
`Nah?' Alexander-Arnold murmured at him, edging forward knee by knee, and pulling down a little more at his left hip, stretching the white cotton against his upper thigh, and showing the edge of his trimmed bush below the waist, then letting it all twag and spring back into fit, enclosing his throbbing privates where they settled between the thighs.
`Hmm. Let me check.' He liked the unusually playful tone of Hendo's often serious voice, now pretending to reach across the sheets for his phone so he could inspect the CK promo against the burly physical reality on the bed. In response, Trent slid his knees forwards, shuffling over the bedding in a manner that was quickly shifting from sultry to clumsy, and he couldn't help but shake with laughter.
`Calvins or NOTHING,' the young Scouser quipped in an exaggerated accent, parodying the tagline of his little underwear ad, and fixing his Blue Steel look on his team captain in the same way he had been coached to do to the camera during that shoot. He was close to Hendo now, kneeling next to him, thrusting his crotch forward a bit to show off how well the pants fitted, and flexing one bicep whilst his other hand slid down the front of his strong athletic torso.
The 32-year-old scoffed. `Well, I choose nothing,' the Mackem joked, and he pushed himself forward until his strong hairy arms were wrapping about Trent's waist, and he could feel the tickle of that beard as he was kissed in the centre of his six-pack. He giggled and sighed, relaxing into Jordan's hold, and reaching down to run his fingers through his bed-hair and down the warm muscle of his neck and shoulders. The ticklish kisses roved about his tummy and up against the swell of his pecs, Jordan flashing a good lick across each nipple, before sliding his hands down the sides quite roughly and beginning to forcibly remove the advertised underpants.
Despite Trent's muscular weight, the 6ft man held him tightly and spun him with apparent ease, until the 24-year-old was tumbling down against the bed with his briefs being dragged down his chunky thighs and past the knees. Breathless for a moment but still laughing, he relaxed and spread his body, delighted with the strong control of his man, and looking down his own bare body as his cock sprang free and Jordan's face hovered over it, bearded and manly and gorgeous.
Their eyes locked briefly, bodies pausing in the position on the edge of pleasure, and then Jordan heaved forward and took the long curved prick in his mouth, sliding his lips over it and sucking on him as lavishly as he first had in the pool-house that first night together. Trent closed his eyes and groaned loudly, letting his thighs be pushed further open to give Hendo access, and feeling his cock disappear between hungry lips, feeling the tickle and stroke of beard hair on his skin.
Jordan was heavy-handed with his legs, pushing them up and open, but his mouth was all tender and loving, such surprising delicacy for an older married bloke, and it melted and unwound Trent deeply, making him relax so much and just forget all about the posing and seduction of what he'd been up to for the adverts - he didn't need to force sexiness for this man, who just seemed to be totally devoted to him behind closed doors, his loving captain. He gasped wordlessly and reached his hands down his front and then around the back of Jordan's head, running his fingers and thumbs through his soft messy hair again, oh god yes.
Hendo,' he moaned now, my captain...'
Jordan pushed him back even more firmly, hands roving up his abdomen, and mouth sucking all the more furiously at his dick, and-
The flurry of knocks at the door cut through the sensual pleasure between them and both men froze in a moment of the same internal question: They had locked the bedroom door last night, right? The muffled voice of Harry Kane blurted through the door to them, not the clearest of diction even without a few inches of door in the way: `Breakfast time, guys...!' Another couple of knocks and the voice was gone, and footsteps and banging doors could be heard in all directions.
The two men had frozen, but Jordan's mouth was still clamped about his shaft, and Trent stared between his light brown thighs at this oddly amusing sexy sight, and he had to suppress more laughter. Jordan's eyes were fixed questioningly on him: Should I finish? Trent, shuddering with conflict, sighed and smiled and shook his head, pulling gently back; in response, Jordan lifted up, licking his lips and wiping a fore-arm across his beard, then resting both hands on Trent's knees.
Let's not rush,' the 24-year-old said quietly, against his every physical instinct. I didn't realise it was that time already. We don't want to piss off the gaffer.'
Jordan nodded silently, stroking him sensually on the knees, and making his hard-on twitch and throb, then pulling gently away; the outline of the older man's hard-on in his pale grey pyjama bottoms was obvious and gorgeous, and there was a very small damp patch where his pre-cum had stained the cotton. Trent bit down on his desire to grasp for the prize and finish what they'd started, but an alarm was jangling on the discarded phone in the folds of bedding, and they both knew that it was time to get ready and head down to breakfast; today was a big one at the training stadium, after all.
There was a little bit more banter on the way to the Al-Wakrah football ground where the squad were doing most of their training work, but nothing more than a few jokey comments, and ones that were intermingled with bashful compliments: Phil Foden across the aisle of the coach transport, giggling a bit as he told Trent it was a really cool photoshoot and it was great that he was getting that exposure' at the minute; Mase, away from Dec and Jack, giving him a playful hug over refreshments, and demanding to know when he was shooting a full feature-film in his Calvin Klein keks. Jude Bellingham, working closely with him in the morning session, bantering that he had a back-up career ready for when the defensive criticism got too grating, but then coyly and awkwardly telling him he looked seriously stacked' in the promo, the Dortmund teen unable to make eye contact as he delivered the man-to-man praise on the way across the hot pitch.
Alexander-Arnold could now hardly believe that he'd worried about signing up for the advert, and felt entirely smug and satisfied with the outcome and the reactions he was getting. Sitting in the hotel room after his morning shower, he'd had a good look over the finished images and the online comments, and felt his ego inflate at the sudden pin-up status he was receiving, even compared to the handful of other international stars who'd been selected for the same collection of ads.
`Thanks,' the Scouser slurred at Bellingham, glad to hear such clear praise from his younger pal, and then automatically seeking out Henderson elsewhere on the field, unable to stop himself from unconsciously tracking the older guy when they were in the large gathering of the full national squad, and kinda wishing he was by his side at all times. It was harmless romance, but it was also a mild danger, given that he had so much to prove in this debut World Cup.
He was interrupted in that thought; there was a slight commotion at one side of the pitch, and he had to lift a visor hand up against his brow to peer past the bright midday sun to see what was going on. A couple of other middle-aged men in tracksuits were stood chatting to Southgate and one of his assistants, not fellas that the Liverpool player recognised - but he could also see a bunch of red-clad blokes of varying ages emerging from one of the buildings, and then lingering awkwardly on the touchline... oh, another squad?
`What's going on?' young Jude asked bluntly, getting up from tightening his laces.
`Dunno,' Trent murmured, but he was beginning to think he recognised one or two of the distant figures at the far end of the pitch, but...
Hey, is that a Wales flag?' Bellingham asked next to him, arms folded and face a mild frown. Yeah, yeah, it is, isn't it? Is that the Wales squad? Hah, what are they doing here...?'
Trent peered at the commotion but didn't move. He could see a few of the senior players making a beeline to join and back-up the gaffers, and it was obvious enough that there was some kinda scheduling problem or double-booking - it looked as though the Wales national team were also expecting to use this same mediocre football stadium for a Saturday practice base today, and there was much frustrated gesturing over there in the centre of the hubbub, whilst the Three Lions ground to a halt out on the vivid grass and the Welsh guys just hovered by the empty stands.
One of the older men who had gone to find out what was happening was Henderson, of course. A captain was still a captain when they were taken out of their team, Trent supposed, and Hendo was among the few oldest team members at 32. As always, he felt a surge of pride and devotion when seeing Jordan be all responsible and serious, but there was a prickling unease rising in his chest that barely needed explanation; he could see Hendo, along with Kane and Maguire, interacting with some advancing members of the Wales squad, and Trent's narrowed eyes were scanning those ranks for someone in particular.
What a mess,' muttered Jude critically, distracting him. We were here first.'
`Mm. Dunno if it works like that. Mmm.'
`Fucking Welshmen,' laughed the squad's youngest member, self-consciously laughing at his own silly xenophobia, then ignoring the scene altogether to fetch the nearby ball and start doing some keep-ups. Trent ignored him and took a few ambling steps forward, watching as the polite argument unfolded between the team bosses and a suite Qatar FA rep who had appeared out of nowhere.
And then the problem seemed to be resolved as quickly as it arose, because the male figures were dispersing. Captain Harry Kane was striding this way on his long striker's legs, and calling out unclear instructions as he did. As he got closer, Trent pulled his eyes away from the ragged Wales line, and focused on what his England captain was telling him: `Over this way, lads, we're just gonna have to share - this half of the pitch is ours, alright? It'll be fine, we're moving on elsewhere for the afternoon anyway.'
Trent nodded quietly, positioned on the wrong half of the now bisected football pitch, and feeling other vest-clad England players drift past him one at a time. He had his hands loosely on his hips, arm muscles bulging and glistening slightly with hot sweat, and he was watching as Jordan Henderson and a couple of others finished communicating with the lead figures of the Wales squad, starting to jog back this way.
There he was: Neco Williams.
In the same way that his Liverpool skipper always caught his eye and held his attention more than he ought to, so now did the dark curly-haired figure of the young Wales and Nottingham Forest player... former Liverpool youth. The Wrexham lad was in amongst the rest of the plucky Wales side, ambitious underdogs in this contest, and they were quickly up and running with their training session alongside the England camp.
In the final hour of the morning session, Trent found his focus pulled three ways, with the football itself becoming the third and final priority in his mind's eye. He kept picking out the Welsh youth, battling away in defensive drills with the back line of the Wales team, and he kept looking out for the position and action of England midfielder Henderson. What did he expect to see? What did he hope to see? What was he afraid of?
When, minutes from the lunch break for England, he found himself staring directly at Williams just as the 21-year-old also stared this way, Trent felt a moment of extreme awkwardness. He knew what he knew, but he had no idea what the Welsh lad was actually aware of since his exit from Anfield, first on loan and then more permanently. But... the two of them were relatively local graduates in the Liverpool programme, only a few years apart in age, and had been teammates on numerous occasions. Neco waved first, and then Trent felt silly and petty, shaking a bare arm and signalling his greeting across the glimmering grass stretch, acknowledging his ex-teammate and Hendo's ex-lover.
At that moment, a misjudged hard pass crashed into Trent's side, the football slapping against his arm and flank, and bringing him back to the England session he was in, instead of their home national rivals on the other side of the halfway mark. `Sorry, sorry!' NUFC's Trippier was barking as he ran this way to collect the ball, but Trent paid him no heed, looking around again for his captain, and... Ugh. Not far away, the bearded 32-year-old stud had paused with a ball in both hands, turning away from the other members of his midfield group, and staring over the halfway line instead, eyes fixed unambiguously on the hard work going on in the Wales camp. So close and yet so far away, the sun beat down on the red training kits of the Welsh blokes, and on the bouncing dark curls of one tall lean youngster in particular, Neco Williams crashing along after a team-mate and stealing the ball skilfully from under his feet. Hendo watched, and so did Trent, but what was the skipper thinking...?
Lunch took place in the sweaty kit of the morning's work, in a refectory at the stadium, and its windows overlooked the half where the Welsh dragons were still hard at work. A number of England players were ignoring their light lunch and clustered at the window with the coaches, loudly critiquing the form of their group stage rivals. Trent was trying his very best to ignore this entirely, munching quietly on his bowl of salad, and getting himself ready for the afternoon of more intense fitness work that had been lined up for them at the hotel's local luxury gym.
A hand rested gently on his shoulder, making him stiffen his posture. `Hey.' Henderson, to his chagrin, had been one of the first at the window, stood shoulder-to-shoulder with Kane and Southgate, making worried remarks about a few big names in the Wales ranks, but also pointing out their obvious weaknesses compared to the well-oiled England machine. But here he was now, next to his body heat, and risking a slightly intimate stroke against his bare shoulder at the edge of the refectory.
Hey,' Trent returned, hearing his attempted cheerfulness sound brittle and false. He looked up from his lunch. Are they looking dangerous?' he asked politely, blinking rapidly, and then returning to spark his fork into some chargrilled vegetables.
Hendo folded down into the seat next to him, where he'd left his untouched lunch, and it was just the two of them at this round table. Callum Wilson and Nick Pope had gotten up to go and join others at the window, and so Hendo could lean over slightly and stroke the middle of his back, firm touch against the slightly clammy blue material. Trent couldn't help but react to the manly touch, and glance warily at his captain and lover, then about the room.
`I know what you're worrying,' Henderson muttered in a low voice, and it made Trent blush just as he had when his whole national squad was bantering and jibing about his underwear pics.
What?' he mumbled showily. I'm not worried about playing Wales. Is anyone?'
Hendo just raised one thick brow and gave him a tight serious smile. `He's in the past, okay?'
Trent, exposed and vulnerable, didn't know what to say to that. He poked and pushed at the remnants of his lunch and shrugged his shoulders uncomfortably. It will be an easy game,' he said, as if that was the real topic of their conversation, unsure what to say or how to express himself right now. He could feel a mixture of silly relief at hearing Henderson say that, but also low simmering concern. It had been so jarring and odd to be suddenly training alongside the rival team, and seeing his beau and their ex in such close proximity. The international bubble of the tournament was dawning on him - there was a lot more going on in this city state than just the narrow trajectory of the England bid for a first trophy since 66.
Trent,' Jordan murmured quietly and quickly, I don't think of him like that any more. I've told you everything there is to tell about those months with him, okay?' He was all grave and earnest, and all the sexier as a result, and Trent found himself smiling weakly back at him, his strong chest surging with the same cocktail of relief, gratitude, paranoia.
I know,' the 24-year-old coughed. I'm fine. Just hot and tired. It's all good.'
Hendo nodded. `Cool. Just thought I should say.' The other two players were returning to the table to join them now, talking loudly about Gareth Bale, and this made Trent blush even more deeply, now particularly embarrassed to think how obvious and tangible his worried jealousy had been to the older guy, over a relationship that he knew had been more-or-less ended by his own distracting presence. If there was any resentment or ill-feeling about the dynamics between the three of them, he knew it should all be on Neco Williams' side. He gave a slightly clearer smile to the skipper, glad of Jordan's instincts and honesty, and he wanted to reach over to kiss or cuddle him and show his gratitude, but the two Newcastle players were flopping noisily into their seats and giving their reviews.
Jordan just grinned at him and patted him once on the forearm, and then turned round to join the conversation between Wilson and Pope.
In the gym, Trent tried to put the little strand of unease away. He had nothing to be jealous of. Hendo had made his choice. His awakening with Neco was in the past, and the pretty boy from Wales had been snubbed in favour of an even more passionate and intimate relationship between captain and a different Liverpool player. And, fortunately, Henderson had been totally candid with Trent about it all - how he'd felt weirdly attracted to the then-teen, and how an intense sexual relationship between he and his young lodger had taken him completely by surprise, but burned out into a cool distance once Williams was loaned to Fulham and the earlier months of their intimacy were over. Trent knew well how he and his captain had then fallen quickly for each other and began their own slightly more mature secret tryst, and he knew that Hendo had shown no doubts about that decision, no regrets for the past, nothing more than a captainly concern for the career and welfare of the Wrexham kid. So... it was silly to react so viscerally to sharing a training pitch with the non-existent rival, or to now worry about sharing a more official pitch when the home nations soon clashed in the third of their group stage games.
Instead of worrying about his love life, the 24-year-old tried to focus on working his own muscles. He supposed a lot of people might now guess that his recent muscle-gain had been in some way connected to getting his kit off for the CK ad, but really it was a long-term priority for the young star over recent years, turning himself from the slightly gangly youth of 2016 into a more thickset and sturdy defensive figure, a necessary journey to secure his strength in that position, and to spit in the face of his critics. Showing off said muscles in a photoshoot had never been anything more than an amusing and well-paid bonus...!
The large high-ceilinged gym space echoed with the sounds of weights machines and muscular action, and the occasional bursts of chatter or laughter. The lads were all intensely focused on priming their bodies, except for the odd interruption as pairs or small groups were pulled aside to do little bits of interview footage with an unusually reserved-seeming Josh Denzel, who apparently was under a bit of pressure to get some better online footage before their campaign fully kicked off on Monday afternoon.
Trent wasn't in the mood for being a cheery performer on camera, and he wasn't up for deflecting any silly banter about posing in his pants, so he shifted away from the free weights when he thought it might be his turn, and decided to take a quick toilet break instead. He nipped away from the big gym hall and moved through a small darker passage back into the changing rooms and towards the gents', sweat trickling down his bare muscular arms and pooling in the CK briefs under his blue shorts.
`Hey,' purred that familiar Wearside accent, and he paused halfway across the changing rooms.
None other than Jordan again, following him away from the gym and snatching time alone with him. Trent paused, smiling vaguely, and look back at his approaching boyfriend. Was Hendo about to try and reassure him again about Neco being in the past? That seemed silly and unnecessary. The message had been received. But still... such a sweet and caring partner, and-
Henderson moved towards him with a kind of urgency, clad in matching sleeveless training top and loose-fitting blue shorts, and with a really determined look set on his bearded face. Trent was about to make a light joking comment to deflect the Welsh topic and prevent the need for any more discussion of the past, but Jordan was grabbing him about the sides and pulling in for a sweaty snog that took his breath away.
Hendo, captain,' he began to murmur, about to explain that he totally understood and he was embarrassed that he'd got a little hot under the collar on the training pitch, or if he seemed moody lunch, but... But Henderson was just kissing him and holding him in spite of the riskiness of the location, all fierce and impassioned, and speaking over him: Shush, we don't have long before anyone notices, but we need to finish off this morning.' A firm nod towards the door to the toilets. `In there. I'm fucking you.' Wow.
This was another slightly different version of the gorgeous Liverpool skipper, and Trent felt transformed and enlightened by the urgency and fierceness of it. He moved quickly and obediently, on into the small toilet stall, the door of which was slammed shut hard behind them. Jordan's hands were back on him, peeling the England vest up and off him, but turning him around, pushing him towards the wall. He moaned as hot kisses were planted on the back and side of his neck, and Jordan's hands found their way down his muscular sides and to the waist of his shorts.
God,' he murmured, this is...'
Shhh, we need to be quick,' Hendo urged again, and his impatience was incredibly arousing. Trent lifted his arms and pressed his hands against the rough brick of the wall, and he parted his legs slightly as the shorts were tugged loose and dropping down about his shins and calves. Jordan was grabbing his meaty arse through the briefs and growling in his ear. Mr Calvin Kein, my sexy model boy, mmm...'
Mm, yes, that was more like it - that's what he'd turned himself on thinking about after the photoshoot was over! Imagining Jordan seeing those pics and needing to wank over him! In another moment of candidness, the skipper had admitted to him how he'd once jerked off over a pic of him before anything actually happened between them, and the thought of it had driven Alexander-Arnold entirely wild. To be so desired by this macho leader, wow.
`But let's get them off you, Calvins or nothing,' hissed Hendo's voice, and Trent helped him, pushing them down at the front and releasing his erection. The branded undies went south and he felt hands on his bare arse instead, and he grinned to look down past his cock and thighs at the branded waistband, privately aroused to join the legacy of hot men who had represented the iconic pants over the decades... and so glad that it was turning on his partner as much as he'd hoped.
Hendo kissed at his neck and his cheek and at his ear, whilst squeezing and pulling at his buttocks, then sliding one spit-wet finger between them to tickle his hole. It made him whimper and growl, though he knew he should be quiet and careful. But when he felt Henderson push one digit inside him, he just had to let it out. `Fuck yes, captain, mmm...' They were rushing into the deed, none of their usual tender foreplay, and the change of pace was so thrilling. They really did need to be back in the gym in minutes, otherwise a teammate or coach would be demanding to know what had interrupted their preparation for the Iran game.
Behind him, the 6ft man was getting into position, devoting the same muscular energy to their relationship as he was to his weights back in the gym, or the football on the pitch. And now he was already rolling the head of his cock against Trent's wet hole, and holding him just above the hips. `You ready?' he breathed, quiet but intense.
`Always, captain,' Trent gasped loyally, meaning it entirely.
And they finished what started in bed with the younger lad playing underwear model against the bed: Trent buckling with pleasure and splaying against the rough wall with yelps and moans, whilst his captain's cock was buried between his cheeks and he was fucked roughly and rapidly into the side of the cubicle, feeling every muscle of the 32-year-old's body focused on their shared pleasure. He suppressed the squeals and shouts that he wanted to make, but couldn't help the ragged breaths and low moans, and Hendo was no better, a mingled chorus of their breathy pleasure, filling the precious minutes with rapid sweaty thrusts and grinds of their bodies, Trent briefly holding back before reaching down and jerking himself furiously, not wanting to delay or slow his pleasure, but simply to reach a quick safe climax and then limp back into the gym dripping with sweat.
Fuck yes,' he whined. That's so good, Jordan, fuck yesssss-'
`Shh, shh,' pleaded Jordan with inconsistent caution, his body slapping noisily against his arse cheeks, and his own heavy breathing probably echoing through the empty changing room. And then he was making a strangled cry and obviously cumming, and the sound of it made Trent reach his own peak, jetting his watery cum down the pale sandy bricks and onto the lino floor. His insides throbbed with the force of Jordan's sweaty thrusts, and their quick secret fuck came to its natural conclusion, Trent's spunk dropping on the crumpled white of those now famous CK briefs.
Before dinner, the Scouser joined a few of the other young guys for a swim, though he couldn't summon the energy to join Rice, Mount, Grealish and Maddison for the round of splashy volleyball; something about taking a hard fucking in the middle of a serious weights session had left the 24-year-old drained and subdued, and he excused himself and dried off alone, chuckling at the boyish banter of the other four lads.
He watched them briefly, sliding a thin tropical shirt over his upper body and yanking some linen pants up over his speedos before pushing his feet into flip-flops and exiting the pool area to the echoes of a Jack Grealish battle-cry and loud protests from Rice, who was imploring for Trent to umpire the match, not realising he'd gone.
Smiling to himself, the Liverpool right-back drifted through the ground floor of their Doha hotel, smelling of chlorine, and he used the outdoor terraces to avoid the main reception, where a few press representatives were constantly floating in the hope of getting access to the team. In the gardens and courtyards of the hotel, he pushed his hands into the pockets of his linen trousers, and quietly greeted the few other lads he passed - a solitary Eric Dier at the sober bar, busily working on a small laptop like the wannabe entrepreneur he was; Arsenal's Ben White and Aaron Ramsdale deep in conversation by the small pond area, hunched over on sun loungers and going very quiet when he passed close; a slightly maudlin-looking Phil Foden skulking about on his own at the foot of the external stairs, repeatedly checking his phone.
Trent climbed the stairs and re-entered the hotel on the first floor, following the corridor that contained he and Henderson's room. His mood was light and satisfied, and he began to think that he might not even feel horny again come sundown and curfew, because the morning fun and afternoon fuck had been so totally intense and draining. He grinned stupidly to himself at the prospect of a night of just spooning in against his captain and enjoying his warm body, not needing anything more physical than that.
He half-detected the voices a moment before his electronic key released the door of their suite, but his brain didn't properly register them until he was inside and facing them, looking across the airy hotel room at not one but two occupants, standing very close at the centre of the room. And at that, he froze, his eyes roving their familiarity and their proxemics, and quickly interpreting the gesture that met his attention: his roommate as expected, freshly showered and clad in a thin white bathrobe, having come up here for a nap whilst Trent went for his swim with the other lads.
But Hendo was not alone. He was standing there with someone else, one hand on the other guy's elbow, and the other raised to his face, held there against it in a visibly tender stroke. The other man, closer in height to Trent than his skipper, was dressed in a thin linen shirt and a pair of denim shorts, and oddly the bright red of his `visitor' pass was the first thing that really caught Trent's eyes about him, making him stare accusingly, before zooming out and looking at the whole situation of it properly.
All that in less than a second, because now the two handsome white men were springing away from each other, Henderson retreating further back into the room and pulling the robe more tightly about himself, and the casually dressed visitor shifting uncomfortably to the side; as he moved and so did the angle, the excitement of the contents of his denim shorts was an obvious diagonal shape in the slim-fit material, and the tone of the close encounter took on even greater meaning.
`Trent,' hissed Hendo's voice, stood very still, his face reddening.
`Trent, mate,' called the other man in a tone of surprise or perhaps dismay, flashing a strange smile this way, and pulling one hand up against his neck and the back of his head. He blinked and grinned and looked between them, the two England players and occupants of this suite. Trent, his heart skipping a beat, stared back at them, his lover and the intruder, and he didn't need the rather formal-looking guest pass on its bright red lanyard to recognise his former teammate who had been so intimately close to Jordan when he slipped into the room just now.
Hi,' he said in a thin voice, staring him down. Hi there, Ads. Erm.'
Lallana took a deep awkward breath, looking at him with a guilty expression. `This isn't how it looks,' the Brighton star said in a slow, strained voice, his cock hard as a rock in his denim shorts. The handsome bearded midfielder gave another forced grin, backing further from Henderson, and Trent fixed accusing eyes on the robed figure of his boyfriend.
Well,' the Liverpool footballer and underwear model said quietly. Go on then. I'm waiting.'
'Writer guy' - Premiership Lads on Nifty https://www.nifty.org/nifty/gay/celebrity/premiership-lads/
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