Part 336: Licking Their Wounds
It was tempting to punch the wall, but the 27-year-old football lad had done that many times before in his Villa days, and he knew that the grazes and bruises on your knuckles weren't really worth it; instead, he kicked aimlessly at a standing lamp by the door, and then lurched stupidly across to catch and correct it as its tall stem threatened to go crashing over on the tiled floor of the air-conditioned hotel room.
Jack Grealish stared balefully at the stupid Qatari lamp as if it was somehow responsible for tonight's defeat and the end of their dreamy World Cup experience, his second major tournament wearing the Three Lions on his chest. He briefly visualised the lofty light feature as the low-grade referee from the unsuccessful France fixture and prepared to kick it over properly with one muscular leg, but then chided himself and dragged his feet across the bedroom instead, the few doleful beers by the pool sloshing through his system and doing nothing but depress his mood further.
This was a crashing low like the football stud had experienced only a few times on professional terms, much more dull and numbing than the climax of losing in a final at the Euros, or any of his club endeavours for Aston Villa or Man City. This felt absurd and wrong, as if he could blink enough times and England would be back in the competition again, and progressing to a Semi Final against plucky underdogs Morocco. Despite the bitter defeat against the French and the hours that had passed since in stadium and transit and hotel, none of it felt real, a dull anti-climax that left all of the men quiet and sombre, unable to do much more than share snatches of bitter conversation and slide into soulless platitudes, or try and force some jollity by discussing their plans for Christmas once back on British soil. Maybe he SHOULD punch a wall after all?
Jack went into their adjoining bathroom and took a long piss, frowning aimlessly down at his weighty cock as he did, and then at his own grave reflection as he slowly washed his hands and ran damp fingers through the disturbed fluffiness of his loose hair. He took a moment to grimace critically at the beginnings of crows' feet and a few unwanted lines on his handsomely tanned and freckles features, then moved back into the main suite, where his roommate was occupied with the sensible chore of starting to tidy and pack his things for tomorrow's unwanted departure.
He watched Phil: he could see the same sense of defeat and injustice in the younger lad's sharp features, his frowning eyes and tight lips, the jerky stop-start motion of his fussing over personal belongings and the excess of England merch always foisted on them at St George's Park. But he also watched Phil Foden more closely: he could see the pert swell of the young midfielder's strong lean butt in the black tracksuit pants he wore, and the slim but defined strength of his pale arms as he shoved a few things into a case, the rough boyish handsomeness of his quiet face.
Never a man to have his desires or instincts dulled by sport, as horny in disaster as triumph, Grealish found himself stroking loosely at his tummy, one hand under the blue England t-shirt, the other stroking briefly at the soft hair of his chin. Then, quietly, he proceeded to approach Phil's bed and throw himself on it sideways, sprawling alongside the neat organisation of the Stockport lad's belongings, head propped on one hand, and Lil Philippa's dark eyes flickering questioningly at him as he frowned over his open suitcase.
`You don't need to do that tonight,' Jack commented morosely, but he wondered if maybe everybody else was doing the same - nobody had been keen to hang around for long in the bar area below, after the coaches dropped them off here at their base-camp. Maybe every room in the hotel was full of quietly unhappy young men folding sportswear away into their luggage in the same downbeat meditation of Foden here.
`Better tonight than the mornin,' was Phil's sensible yet sulky response.
Jack made a non-committal noise and pulled about his hair, then ran the same hand down the front of his t-shirt and shoved it idly into the front of his grey sweat-shorts in the casual crotch-fixation of sporty jocks everywhere. Fair play,' he mumbled. But you can leave it for now.' He nodded at the bed underneath him. `Relax a minute, will ya?'
The 22-year-old paused and gave him a heavy look, in the middle of folding up a chunky hoodie for his cabin bag, and then he shrugged one shoulder stiffly, and pushed some of the stuff aside so that he could sit his arse down on the bedding next to Jack, who smiled weakly as he did. `Giz a hug, will ya?' the Brummie footballer demanded more softly, lifting one open arm invitingly, and tilting his head; full pout and puppy dog eyes for his Man City little bro, who hesitated but leaned in and scooped an arm at his side to join the embrace. Jack breathed in his mixed scents of oddly cheap aftershave and soap, closing a strong arm quite firmly about the slighter lad, and tugging him in until he was down on the bed next to him too, in a better position to cuddle at and pin. Jack moaned a little as he did, lifting up one heavy thigh to plant over the side of Phil's leg, beginning to bury his mouth in the crook of Phil's skinny neck, not quite kissing him there but letting his nose and lips brush on the warm pink skin, until-
`Enough,' muttered Foden sourly. He yanked away, almost kicking his own suitcase off the bed in the effort of disentangling from Grealish. Jack, surprised by the sudden pull of this, blinked lazily and gave him an irritated look, then reached for one of his arms - he was stunned when Phil batted the paw away and jerked his body right off the bed and back onto his feet. Back to him, he cleared his throat and immediately set about reorganising the things he'd knocked about from his organised little system. Jack stared at him, already semi in the front of his loaded shorts, and the brief warm hug lingering on his chest and arm.
`What?' the City winger demanded in a sharp yelp.
Can't have it both ways,' Phil muttered ominously, setting the case back up on the bed and prodding Jack's leg with one corner of it in an uncomfortable manner that said get off my bed'. Jack, never the quickest on the uptake, stared impatiently at the younger lad, and he knocked the case shut with one hand just as Phil was about to start piling things into it. What?' he asked again, more firmly. What's this about? Was just a hug...'
Foden nodded, something bitter in his eyes. `Right, yeh.'
`What's that mean?'
Foden's nostrils flared in one huffy breath, then he glared right at him, and there was a little hurt in the grey of his eyes. `I thought we'd cooled off all that stuff. That's what you said, mate. Nowt changes just cos you're feeling a bit low.' He spoke with difficult composure, as if he'd been wanting to get something off his chest for a while, but he wasn't quite managing it right now. He zipped his lips and concentrated on his packing, and Jack just stared at him with soulful eyes, unable to stop himself from pushing and pulling a bit at the bulge in his shorts, his body and hormones thrown by the lack of reciprocation.
Come on, relax,' the Brummie guy muttered. It's not that deep-'
When I tried to give you a cuddle the other day it was,' his roomie pointed out quietly but fiercely. So what's different now, mate?' Phil shot him another dark and vaguely vulnerable look, and then turned away to sort through the things on his bedside table. `I think you were right - we should keep it profesh, mate.'
Jack stared crossly at him, picking up on the passive aggression and slight flavour of resentment or vengeance in Phil's tart mood. He made a scoffing sound and rolled the other way, springing from his friend and playmate's bed and giving his own bulge a good feel once on his feet, hoping to catch Foden's eye with the intimate touching, but nope. He scoffed again and then rolled his shoulders. `Whatever, kid,' he muttered dismissively, trying quickly to cover up his surprise and distress at such a cold shoulder from the little bro who normally worshipped him and jumped at his slightest hint of mischief. When did that change?
An inner voice raised a hand and tried to point out the many times he'd tried the same cold shoulder in reverse, suppressing Phil's interest and giving the younger lad some tough love and indifference... but ego and bad mood drowned out the self-awareness and Grealish just scowled unhappily at his roommate, then snatched a hooded jacket off the back of a chair and stomped his socks-in-sliders feet across the suite. Whatever,' he repeated. Enjoy yer packing, saddo.' He slammed the door behind him like he was half his age, and swore to himself on the way down the passage: `Stuck-up little fuckin' chav.'
Jack Grealish wasn't the only England player having his quiet advances snubbed at that very moment, only a few rooms away and up one floor: though if the City winger felt low and disappointed by tonight's outcome, this was nothing compared to the slouched figure of his captain, standing in the doorway to his room's ensuite, and watching the nocturnal ablutions of his roommate and fellow Spurs man.
As captain alone, Harry Kane had to carry a greater weight of responsibility than the average England lad on the squad, but as the top striker and the man whose penalty failure had cost them a chance of extra time and further contest... well, his breakdown on the pitch for a few minutes had said it all, and the 29-year-old Londoner had really struggled through the rest of the night, barely able to raise a weak smile for his crushed team, or for the encouragement and approval of his coaches. Even the comfort and support of his loved ones in the stands had been difficult to accept.
But... there were other kinds of comfort, different to the wholesome kindness and understanding of his missus and his family. As Kane had found before, beginning in the throes of his LAST World Cup campaign, there were different comforts, ones that a man like him could get really properly lost in, and forget about all his professionalism and duty, and just... lose himself, give himself up to something, to someone else. Times when he could let another man be the alpha, the leader, the fighter.
Eric Dier caught his eye in the mirror, in the middle of smoothing some thin white moisturiser onto his face, shirtless at the sink of their shared bathroom area. Harry stared soulfully at his Tottenham colleague via the mirror, leaning his own tall form against the doorframe, and rubbing a couple of fingers over the golden-brown hair of his beard. The two men, the two former lovers, held each other's gaze in the reflection for a long and significant moment, and then Eric was busying himself with his process, wiping excess cream from his handsome features and then squeezing toothpaste out onto his brush.
Kane lingered there in his t-shirt and shorts, as if lounging in the main room on his own was too lonesome and depressing, whilst Dier quietly readied himself for bed in here. But his eyes left the mirror, and moved instead over Eric's big shoulders and powerful back, and to the way his bed-shorts hung against the curve of his sturdy backside and on the soft golden fur of his thighs. When their eyes met again in the mirror, there was something not unlike a smirk on the bearded good looks of the slightly younger player, one that lit a full grin on Harry's own face, the first such expression he'd worn since his penalty flew way over the French crossbar.
`You okay there?' gurgled the 28-year-old hunk through a mouthful of toothbrush.
Kane nodded his head, his brief grin fading somewhat. `I will be,' he said with vague optimism, reassurance for himself more than his close footballing friend, once so much more. He pulled at the neck of his t-shirt and stared with open longing at the other bloke, who stooped now to gargle and swill water and spit it out in the sink. The posture just defined his back and arm muscles more and made the shorts cling that bit more invitingly to the rear of his strong legs. Unable to do anything else, the England captain inched forwards into the bathroom and its dark tiles, making the space feel immediately cramped as he approached the other over-6ft bloke.
As soon as Eric was straightening up and wiping his mouth on the back of a hand, Harry's touch was on his lower back, feeling the downy hair there at the base of his spine, and sliding slowly upwards in a tender movement. He lowered his mouth to kiss the bulge of muscle atop Eric's left shoulder, and left his mouth there, letting his beard hair tickle on the smooth tanned skin. A sigh of sorts came from Dier, who froze in his position, alloiwng him to nuzzle his shoulder and stroke up his broad back, but then, `Harry...' His voice was heavy and loaded, and Kane knew the tone well.
His hand had reached near the top of Dier's spine now, and he reached to grip and squeeze his other shoulder, whilst his lips roamed further in, moving to kiss against the side of Eric's neck; but the defensive player twisted carefully away, firm but not rough as he pushed decisively back. For a stupid second, Eric's little moaning sigh replaying in his ear, Harry resisted it - tried to reach more properly for the shirtless stud, tried to take a hold of him and pull in for the longed-for kiss, but this was stupid and Eric was no pushover. One of his big hands planted against Kane's chest and pressed back, and their bodies parted - he saw the look of disapproval and awkwardness on the other man's face and he replayed his own imperative movement, pushy and unwanted, and he cringed. Colour flooded his face and the night's crushing lows returned in full force, only briefly held at bay by the stirring in his shorts: the desire for his ex.
No,' Eric said, his voice firm but quiet. I've told you.' And he had - enough times, surely, even before they were roomed together here in Doha. Harry had made similar overtures in September, and had his answer then - that intimacy lay in the distant past, and their renewed friendship was far more important. He knew that, agreed with that, but tonight... he just needed comfort, and this looked like 6ft2 of it, behind that gorgeous but now angry face. He hated to be looked at like this by Dier, that mix of anger and pity, and he shrank back, rubbing a hand over his face and slurring his apology.
The other footballer sprang past him, silent and perhaps really offended, and Kane paused in the doorway with both hands on his face, silently cursing his own lack of discipline, his own neediness. He turned around and moved back into the room, expecting to face down his friend, and apologise properly for pushing it a bit there - but as it turned out, Eric was pulling a long-sleeved top over his bare body and shoving his feet into his trainers, ready to leave the room. He was halfway to the door before Harry could gather his wits and bark out a `Sorry, mate, Eric...' The other Tottenham player shot him an odd look from the door, one that was mainly pity, but not without an ounce of... what, blame? For this, or for more? For losing them the game...?
And then his roomie was gone, and Kane was alone at last, with nobody to distract him from replaying that penalty against his own club teammate, veering away from target and letting down his team and country.
But in other rooms, comfort was more readily available. They had climbed straight into bed upon coming up here, pulling shirts off but leaving shorts on, and wrapping the comforting duvet over their bodies as if there was any chill to protect against in the Qatari night. Little had been said between the two Liverpool allies since leaving the stadium, but what was there to say?
Trent stared across the room, at the half-open drapes on their French window, through which he could make out some slight glow of city lights, but mostly a pale reflection of the interior of the room - the shared room that the pair of them would need to bid goodbye to in the morning, like everyone else. The shared room, he thought, where he had paraded in his CKs and given his sexy captain a private show of his designer underwear campaign, only to waste time falling out with each other for half of the international session. Now that it was over, the 24-year-old Scouser could sigh and roll his eyes at his own overreactions, and wish he'd been a little more chilled and focused on enjoyment in this his first World Cup - though he was more level-headed than most, and already privately turning his thoughts to the next, where he hoped to be a more established defender in the national line-up, and not just a benched contender.
The thought of a brighter future was one comfort for the Scouse lad, but the other was the muscular body heat of his skipper at his side, and he ran his fingers over Jordan Henderson's chest, letting one digit circle a hairy nipple, and then find and rub softly over the other. The older man didn't react properly to this wandering touch, his face leaning back into the pillows and staring out towards their balcony windows in the same way that Trent just had. After a minute admiring his handsome profile, Trent nudged at the other man's resting body, and mouthed question. `What's on yer mind, skip?'
Hendo turned his head back this way, half-smiling at the affectionate respect, and then blinked a few times before murmuring his honest answer. `You think Jude;s okay?' the Liverpool and England midfielder asked in a worried undertone.
Lounged there on his side, Trent raised both eyebrows slightly in surprise at the question, though he wouldn't be able to say what he would have guessed was on the 32-year-old sportsman's brain. He played his fingers gently over Jordan's pecs some more, and made a thoughtful noise. Yeh,' he murmured eventually. He will be. He's 19-going-on-44, for a start...'
A soft half-laugh from Hendo. `I know, he's so mature, but - got to be had for the younger lads to take, this kinda disappointment, even against a team like France... I just wondered, that's all, and...'
Trent, rubbing one knee against Jordan's leg, couldn't help himself. What do I have to do to hold yer attention, eh?' he drawled in his Merseyside accent, pinching one of Hendo's nipples with a bit of force. Here I am, rubbing up against ya, and you're thinking about another younger lad all over again...'
The 32-year-old Sunderland man's face was all panic and anxiety in a second, turning sharply this way and frowning worriedly at him. The memory of their bickering and distance was too fresh for Jordan, it seemed, and Trent immediately regretted the soft jibe, seeing the fear and worry in his handsome captain's eyes. It's not like that,' the Mackem man grunted hoarsely. I'm just looking out for him, that's all. You know he needs that, and you're his friend too, so I just- It was YOU who suggested I take him out for breakfast the other day, that was YOUR idea, so-'
Trent laughed hesitantly and stroked more softly over Jordan's chest, until he could cup a hand against his beard and pull him in, quieting him with a kiss. Calm down, calm down,' the Scouser insisted. I was only messing, wasn't I? I know all that, Jord, skipper. I wasn't - what are you like, old man?' He kissed him again and left their faces close on the pillow. `It was a joke, alright? I know I've been a jealous prick, but... this is okay.'
Looking unsettled by the joke and the apology, Hendo just frowned at him across the pillow, and gently reciprocated his touch, rubbing one strong hand over Trent's thick upper arm and leaving it there. `Good,' was all the older bloke had to say, still looking troubled, perhaps now by the double worry of his protective instincts for the 19-year-old, and for the turbulence his love affair kept flying through. But Trent smiled encouragingly at him and blinked his heavy-lashed eyes slowly and contentedly, feeling a million miles away from World Cup disaster with Jordan's body next to his.
Maybe,' the 24-year-old teased quietly, we should have MADE SURE he's okay and invited him to chill with us for a bit, in here...' He sniggered uncertainly, trying to get a good impression of Hendo's mood, watching the flickering lines of his frown and the hesitant smirk through his beard. `What do you say about that, old man...?'
Jordan made a little scoff of laughter. `I don't think Bellingham would want in on this hug, do you...?'
`You never know,' was Alexander-Arnold's quietly speculative answer, and he meant it: he really didn't know. Who could guess what any man was into, or up for, or open to...? Life had thrown many surprises his way since his first nervous dabble with Joe Gomez at their 2020 party, out on the fire escape with him and young Harvey Elliott.
Hendo scoffed again, but the nervousness of his laugher betrayed some seed of interest or mulling it over, and it made Trent smirk. He rubbed at his older man's broad chest and then kissed softly above one nipple. But again, joking,' he chuckled. Reckon Jude's been through enough coming-of-age experience this tournament without seeing a beast like you in private, he he - that sorta shit can wait until he signs for Liverpool...?' He held back his giggles and watched Jordan's briefly earnest thoughtful face, then both of the men were laughing, and kissing, and stroking keenly at one another's muscles, legs locking under the covers, and short-clad crotches beginning to rub.
Harry Kane was thinking about Jude too. Specifically, he was staring at his grinning profile photo on the messenger app, waving at a camera in the black-and-yellow of his Dortmund kit. The chat thread between them was, of course, empty - Kane was wise enough to delete the exchange they'd shared the other night, and one-sidedly since, but now he was staring at the blank app screen and letting his thumb hover back and forwards over the touch-keys, not able to form the words of the message but also not able to switch the device off and shove it into the pile of his things on the floor by his bed.
He was alone in the room now, and it was a good twenty-five minutes since Eric Dier had seemingly stormed out. He'd tried putting on the telly and flicking through the international channels, but it had irritated him when he came across sporting reports in several languages about both England and Portugal crashing out of the Cup. He'd almost thrown the remote at the big screen when footage was replayed of smug young Kylian Mbappe laughing outrageously as his second penalty missed the mark, the froggy cunt.
So instead he was just lying on top of his covers and holding his phone in both hands, and failing to send the quietly curious message to the 19-year-old breakout star of the Three Lions campaign. It wouldn't even be hard, would it? He was captain, and it made sense for him to reach out to the side's most junior member after tonight's difficulty and dismay, it would be perfectly natural and obvious. He didn't have to be too weird or cunning about it, he could just send off any old `hey u ok' message to the teenager and see what he got back... and there had been plenty of signs that Bellingham was keen enough on a repeat performance of the night by the swimming pool, so he didn't find it hard to imagine that simple enquiries might quickly lead to very specific suggestions. Kane was craving comfort, sure, but he also knew his capacity to offer it.
So, what was stopping him?
Well, the same thing that had stopped him every day since, when he MIGHT have picked up on his new little bond with the midfield youth. He'd like to pretend he was focusing on honour and dignity, and not wanting to lead an open-minded young starlet astray, though there really was something incredibly senior and mature about the 19-year-old Bundesliga pro. More cynically, more honestly, it was self-preservation. He didn't need young Jude to become the next Emile Smith-Rowe, after all; one minute he was indulging a slight bit of fellatio for the cocky Arsenal lad, ironically in the same hotel where he'd once watched Jude noshed off by their goalkeeper, and the next he'd been locked in a kind of fatal attraction fever pitch with the Croydon-born upstart. For a large part of the last year, Kane had been meeting ESR in secret and swallowing his loads, pretty much addicted to servicing the cocky youngster, and increasingly turned on by the boasting, aggro and North London trash talk: Lick up my jizz, you trophy-less cunt', Emile might purr at him in the backseat of his BMW, down some Barnet side-road, after spunking on his tongue, or: Been telling everyone at my squad about the Tottenham bitch who services my tool, y'know, should I start telling them it's you, you big dirty bastard?'
Kane felt that Smith-Rowe was harmless enough, for all his bravado, but he was trying to shake off the slutty dynamic that he'd found with his young rival, and the experience had made him shy of young Jude - though not shy enough to resist him that night, when the Dortmund star had cornered him in the pool room, and called him out on their St George's run-in of a couple of months ago. Again, Kane should be more cautious and disciplined, having been clearly overheard by Bellingham getting up to no good then too!
But, the football captain thought, the lad was beautiful and intoxicating, and his cock had tasted so good...
Lost in a reverie of North London sleaze, Kane had allowed his phone to slip into dark screensaver, and lost interest in the blank message screen; but it buzzed into life now in his hand, and snapped him out of a blurred image of kneeling down for Emile in an alleyway near the Arsenal training ground, merged with the memories of peeling down Jude's wet undies in the changing booth. On the brightened screen in front of him was the message from Jude, and he stared dully at it for a moment before reminding himself that he'd wiped their interaction and the screen should be blank. He frowned in excited surprise and squinted at the new message that had buzzed into the thread even as he held back from sending his own tenuous hint:
`U up? Pool room in 10 - c u there, captain'
Kane shivered with fresh excitement, gloriously distracted from the France game.
John Stones shifted the covers aside, and looked down at the slight swelling that remained about his ankle and lower leg; the medical staff had not seemed overly concerned, and expected him to be right as rain before the Premier League ground back into action at Christmas-time, but for tonight the England centre-back was still in a bit of pain and needing to keep the foot elevated on a couple of pillows at the foot of the bed, his long muscular frame stretched out and his briefs bulging monstrously between his tattooed thighs. Fortunately, his bed-rest was made easier by the equally bulging figure in trunks who was strutting about the room fetching him his nightcap of whiskey and ice, crotch and arse cheeks gloriously displayed by the tight fit of his Armani underpants.
`Here,' growled Kyle Walker, the older defender passing the small tumbler of Scotch into his receiving hand; in his underpants and bare bulky body, the Yorkshire stud made a pretty acceptable butler-in-the-buff for the mildly injured John, although his service skills needed work - the broad bugger was glued to his phone as he handed over the drink and retreated down the side of the bed, turning around so that Stonesy could swap a view of his massive bulge for the hammock-of-melons that was his rump.
Hmm, 6/10,' the 28-year-old City player reviewed quietly, taking a good sip from the fiery liquid, and shifting his position slightly among the nest of pillows behind his bare shoulders. He grinned and watched Walker fail to immediately react to that score, stood side on with his face concentrated on his phone screen, a big bare hunk in the dim lamplight of their hotel suite. Great drink, but lack of eye contact or banter from the waiter,' John called a bit more loudly, taking a second sip and then placing the cool iced glass against his cheek.
Kyle looked up from what he was doing on his phone screen, seeming to register the comment at some delay, and then he he scratched idly at the sagging front of his dark grey undies with one free hand. Cheeky bastard,' the Sheffield man returned quietly, and he pulled a bit at the outline of his limp nob. Do you wanna adopt this fucking cat or not, mate? I'm still doing the paperwork they sent us.'
Stones took another slow pull of the drink and he smiled, mollified a little by this explanation. He watched with quiet admiration - not, for once, of the tattooed bulk of the right-back's body, not for his bristling macho energy, or the treasures in those Armani trunks, but for the effort Walker was now going into to make their joking fantasy reality, and to have Dave the Cat escorted safely to UK life via international quarantine protocols. There was nothing sexier about the 32-year-old right now than the look of stupid concentration on his face, or the speed with which his thumbs punched the phone screen, seeing him go through the bureaucracy of rescuing a random stray feline from the streets of Doha, and arranging for the veterinary necessaries that might get him allowed his pet passport. It was funny, the 28-year-old Barnsley lad reflected, what could make your cock go hard.
When Kyle was apparently done, or fed up of the form, he tossed his phone towards the other bed and moved over this way, scratching his bulge and his chest, and mumbling a `Sorry, mate' as he began to climb into bed on the side of his unharmed leg.
`No need,' John sighed quietly, twisting his body and staring lovingly at the shorter thick-set hunk who was clambering in next to him, warm muscles rubbing together - Kyle was sexy too in the care he took knock to knock or disturb John's relaxing legs, especially the raised one, the same special kinda sexy that lay with his cat adoption efforts. Catching his eye, the older man gave him an odd and suspicious look, as if he didn't understand what he was smirking at, and felt somehow mocked or derided.
`Hmm?'
I said there's no need,' Stonesy repeated, shifting his upper body a little to make more space, but feeling one of Walker's hands stop him at the waist, the other muscled defender twisting over to fit around his side and leave him with the majority of the bed. Those same inked hands then began pulling up the covers over him protectively and then coming down over his six-pack in a tender stroke. John stared devotedly at him and saw another little frown of uncertainty from the burly bloke. You're fuckin' amazing,' he told him softly.
Kyle looked briefly unsure how to take this compliment, before the usual brash bravado kicked in: `Course I am, you daft prick, I just bossed Mbappe for 90 minutes, it was you lot who let the goals in, hey?' He grinned and winked, and leaned in for a kiss - but John stopped him, holding their faces slightly apart.
I mean it,' he whispered. You're fucking amazin'. I love you, man.'
Despite their long-time closeness, Walker still looked slightly taken aback by this earnestness, and he lowered his voice to a deep chuckle as he asked, `What painkillers did they give you, soft lad...?' He pulled in for that kiss and John met his lips gladly, then stared longingly at him as they both sank back against the pillows. They went quiet, John just staring thoughtfully up at the ceiling, and imagining how they would share custody of Dave once their adopted cat was allowed entry to England.
You're amazing too,' came Kyle's slightly hesitant voice from beside him, one of the man's thick strong hands finding his between their bodies. I nearly cracked the skull of that French prick who brought you down tonight,' he added in a more robust and blokey way, and John laughed warmly at the claim, even as he smiled and thrilled more at the mumbled first comment, and the fact that whatever the England result, they so definitely had one another.
Just like he had on one of the team's first nights in Doha, Harry Kane hurried through the reception areas of the hotel and through several double-doors into the cool blue lighting of the seemingly deserted pool-house. Except that night he had been somewhat panicked and naive, thinking Jude Bellingham was in real crisis, and hurrying down through their hotel with a strong sense of his captainly duty for his younger teammate - tonight, he charged through those doors with a much more open acknowledgement of his base desires.
In his boxers and shorts, his cock throbbed expectantly, and his whole tall muscular fame was restless and energetic, even though it had been sore and exhausted not long ago. His trainers squeaked slightly at his feet as he crossed the room towards the pool, his eyes darting from side to side as he tried to catch sight of the new teen midfielder whose message had summoned him down here, surely to repeat their last midnight encounter.
At first, though, there was no sight of the Brummie youth.
Kane marched bluntly into the centre of the room and then stood there with his arms hanging at his sides and his heart thundering in his strong chest. A few paranoid thoughts crept into his tired mind there: had he misread the message? Had it been more of a joke or a dare than a serious invitation to fun? Had he invented the whole communication in the fever of his dismay and defeat?!
But then he was caught by slight footsteps down at the far end of the pool, and he caught sight of the 19-year-old, lit with ripples of electric blue by the gently heated water between them. Jude looked suitably shifty and discreet, and it made Harry smile a bit to himself, recognising the awkward mix of self-confidence and trepidation that had marked the 6ft1 stud when he lured him down here last time, ready to claim his `prize'.
He was a confident young fucker, Kane thought, but he was very different to Emile Smith-Rowe: there was something more genuinely authoritative and settled in Bellingham, even now, and his place here in the England squad had been very different to the Arsenal lad's over-excited call-ups in past years. He looked at him in his tight-fitting vest and swimming trunks, and the intense expression on his long thin face. In a few strides, captain Harry moved down the side of the pool, then rounded the corner, and approached his young national teammate.
`I got your message,' the striker said simply, and Jude nodded. Harry nodded behind them back down the pool towards the wall of changing alcoves, one of which had held their bodies before as he worshipped the youth's prime cock. But Jude simply shook his head and nodded the other way.
Briefly, Harry followed his gaze. At first, he was just a little irked - the changing booth had worked perfectly well last time and he was keen to exactly recreate the ultra excitement of kneeling down there on a spare towel and sucking off this masterful young guy. But now his eye caught the faint glow of light that crept through another doorway in the direction that Jude had nodded, and he frowned with a kind of nervous interest. He looked back at Jude's wide-eyed expression, and then the younger lad's hand was shakily taking his.
`Come on,' the Brummie lad said a bit nervously, the slightest suggestion of a stammer to his fiercely spat words. He pulled back, moving towards that corner, and Kane couldn't help but follow, taking a tighter grip of Jude's mit in his own. He moved with tense uncertainty, holding himself close to the tall young lad, following him about the corner and facing up against the door of smoked glass that now faced them, and the orangey glow beyond it - aha, this sexy bugger had somehow got the sauna going for them, and wanted to mess about in that extra sweaty discretion, niiiice...
Kane lurched forward after him, more than happy to take a mouthful of cock in this safer spot, rather than out in the blue-lit edges of the pool - thinking about it, it had been insanely risky to go down on Bellingham out there, with all those huge windows facing the courtyard...! This was much, much better. He gripped tightly at Jude's hand and followed him as the sauna door was yanked open and the teenager slid ahead, already wriggling out of his vest on his way into the sudden heat of the wood-panelled room within - and as Harry dashed in with him, through that smoke glass door, he could only blink in surprise at the fact he couldn't see so much as expected of the dark wooden panels, but far more bare manly flesh instead, the tight little sauna lined with the bodies of several teammates.
Another Harry was emerging from steamy heat, rather than striding into it; the hot vapours of his late shower parted from his bare body as he passed through the bathroom and back into the suite, then pausing awkwardly as he saw that his Luke was still inspecting the broken headboard in a serious-faced fashion, similarly towel-clad to himself. Maguire frowned worriedly and pawed at the knotted wrap of his white towel, watching as Shaw surveyed the unreported damage to their bed; when they failed to mention it to the hotel staff this morning, it had been under the confident assumption that this suite would be home for another week, until they were checking out as World Cup winners. Oops.
Luke, shimmering wet in his towel, straightened up and turned his unusually dimmed grin this way. It looks fine,' sighed the other Man Utd defender, a little steam rising from his bare muscles too, and then a nervous half-laugh leaving the 27-year-old. Harry moved slowly over towards them and took up position right behind him, leaning a heavy chin on one of his shoulders and wrapping his might arms about his waist. It looks fucked,' he contradicted quietly, staring at the damage he'd done when breaking out of the handcuffs of their bondage fun, and bringing last night's fuckery to a climax.
In the throes of passion, and in the sweat-dripping intimacy of afterwards, the broken bed had seemed funny, and something easily covered by a lie. It's just that in all the busy prep and action of today and tonight, neither man had come up with that lie, or said anything to their hosts; it was unclear whether any cleaning staff had been in the room at all, Harry thought, but he was pretty sure they would have noticed the broken cuffs, blindfold and riding crop that were scattered in the space between the two beds. Hmm.
Come on,' Luke sighed to him, pushing back against his warm damp chest. Let's just use the other bed, shall we?'
Maguire grunted his agreement but stared still at the broken wood, until he was steered more forcefully across the room and pulled down into the fresher bedding, his towel unknotted for him so that the pair of the, tall muscular defensive players, were folding down naked on the clean white sheets, fresh and hot from the shared shower where slow handjobs had dulled the night's misery and brought gentle comfort to both disappointed men. Harry had taken much longer than usual to cum, grunting and huffing for ages against the sides of the shower whilst Luke's fist pumped at his crotch, kissing his neck and whispering sweet nothings in his ear; eventually, Luke's love had won out against the tension and unease of tonight's defeat, and jizz had been trickling down the plughole between their big wet feet, washed away like their World Cup dream.
Now, big Slabhead Harry pulled up against Shaw, and he hugged onto the gently damp physique of the other man, finding himself in a natural big spoon position against the big-bottomed curve of Luke's posture, but much of his body a little less cuddly now that he was so intensely ripped and defined. Not that Harry would even hint at complaining, this man in his arms was perfection. He nuzzled quietly in against him and kissed softly at the back of his neck, making his lover sigh pleasantly. I'm gutted this is over,' the 29-year-old whispered in his ear. I mean... I'm gutted for us as a team, of course, but... y'know.' He squeezed him properly, pulling their muscular forms even more tightly together. `I don't wanna leave this room, and the fucks we've had here.' Luke didn't answer, just moaned softly and pushed back into hi, his agreement physically obvious - and the pair of them took comfort in the big physical presence of the other, safe and interlocked and going back to Manchester, together.
The sauna was full of them, the wooden pews down either side almost entirely occupied by bodies; only one slim space on the right was free, and after dropping his swimming trunks in one deft move, Jude Bellingham proceeded to fill it, sitting himself down at the right of the narrow hot space, wide eyes still fixed invitingly on Kane himself, who could only stand there, hunched forward slightly, staring between them, and taking in the sight of it.
On the left, it was Jordan Pickford nearest to him, seated comfortably back with a dirty grin on his face; the England goalie gave him a wink as soon as he caught his eye, a light sheen of sweat gleaming on his cheeks and brow. The Mackem Everton player was puffing his smooth chest out to accentuate his arm and shoulder muscles as he sat there, thighs parted and hands draped between them, just about obscuring view of his bare crotch - and just beyond him, his own thickly muscled arms folded about his chest, was Kieran Trippier, another burly rock at the back of the England squad, all tattoo and tight-lipped smirk. Harry gawped at the pair of them, suddenly very conscious of how supportive they'd been in crowding him on the pitch whilst he recovered, apparently fending off intrusive cameramen who wanted to capture his loser's tears - and now the pair of them were sat brazenly naked in front of him with beads of sweat running past their temples and over their exposed muscles, eyes fixed on him.
Past these two was, to his surprise and delight, Trippier's teammate: Callum Wilson looked a lot less comfortable than the first two butt-naked blokes, the tall striker pushing his broad shoulders back against the wooden wall, and a certain defiant coolness about his broad handsome features. His tattooed bulk pressed against his neighbouring Newcastle player, but loomed over him, notably taller than the defender. And just beyond where Callum stiffly sat, the far left corner was occupied by a more immediately familiar naked sight, sat at an angle with one leg up on the pew, so that his strong body and bared crotch were more immediately obvious, frankly displayed. Eric Dier had one hand resting on his raised knee and the other on his low inner thighs, guiding attention to rather than obscuring the way his long thick schlong hung from his neatly trimmed bush. On his face, the Tottenham defender wore an eager grin, one that communicated a full understanding to an otherwise bewildered Harry Kane: no, not something intimate and private, not some false relapse back to what they'd had in the past... but THIS, this was different, and okay...
And then there was the right hand side, where Bellingham had slotted in beside the sauna's three other occupants: beyond where the Brummie lad had dropped his tall naked frame against the wooden slats, Kane was surprised to see another past exploit grinning knowingly at him from the far right corner, seated comfortably opposite Dier himself, with one long leg raised and reached across to rest his toes on the wooden pew next to Eric's thigh. It was Conor Coady, folded comfortably back into the wooden corner, his slim toned body as shiny with prickling sweat as the more tanned muscle of Eric's, and the new Everton player was giving him an encouraging salute of welcome before draping one arm about Jude's bare brown shoulders. Jude himself, Harry thought, looked uncomfortable but excited, perhaps as excited to just be here and one of the blokes, as for any specifics of what they had planned; and god how handsome the 19-year-old looked as he turned his head this way and fixed Kane with one of his steely mature glares.
And then closer than those two, completing this row on the right: Jack Grealish first, trying to ostentatiously spread his mighty thighs, jutting the glistening hair of those fine legs out into the narrow cabin to advertise his ripped body to the room, and head lolling gently back against the wooden slats of the wall. He looked tipsy and confident, his hair falling in sleek curtains at either side of his grinning face, angled this way whilst he stretched his arms out on either side, falling over Conor's arm and grappling about Jude's broad shoulders, making the younger lad shift a bit uncomfortably, but also reaching for the sauna's last occupant, the nearest guy on his right - someone who turned this way with a dimpled smile that looked way too chilled and pleasant for the sweaty scene, but seemed to be all that final handsome face could offer. There was something very hunched and uncomfortable about the broad Yorkshire lad who rounded off these eight waiting studs in the sauna, as if his City teammate had totally twisted his arm to get him here at this late hour when they were meant to be lights out in their separate bedrooms: but Kalvin Phillips still shot a broad anxious grin at him and nodded his head once, trying to settle comfortably back against Grealish's outstretched arm that enclosed his thick shoulders.
`Hey there, captain,' trilled Jack first, his Brummie accent singsong.
Shut the door,' Eric spoke over him in a deeper voice, then, and get your kit off, mate, we're all pals here.' Harry stared past the exciting ensemble and back at his ex-boyfriend, who had seemed to spurn him in private but now this... oh yes, he thought, there it is, there's the comfort I'm after. He pushed forward and peeled his t-shirt up and away from his body, then began to buckle forward, letting his knees go down against the linoleum floor, stooping down into the thick giddy heat of the sauna cabin, the men huddled at either side of him, parting their strong footballers' legs as much as they could, and beginning to advertise their sweaty wares.
Here,' gurgled Grealish again, boisterous and over-stimulated. Start with a taste of Birmingham's finest.' But the charismatic City winger wasn't gesturing at himself, just tightening the arm about Jude's shoulders, and giving him a poke in the chest with a finger, pimping the rival Birmingham graduate proudly. And Jude stared intensely down at him, his whole face already shiny with sweat, and his astonishingly powerful legs tensing and parting some more to open up a path to his soft brown cock - Harry heard the ripple of macho laughter from the other men, and he lurched that way, taking up Jack's proxy invitation, ready to suck his first cock of the night.
Declan didn't often spend quite so long sucking dick, but tonight he was happy to take forever with it, lying down here as he was with Mason's meaty legs about his shoulders, his face buried between them and his lips curled about the beautiful shaft of his boyfriend's tool, bobbing back and forward with as much rhythm as he could muster. Stretched up the bed with his arms folded behind his head and his own mouth wide open, the Chelsea star groaned and purred and called his name, excited breathy `Deccers' into the sterile air-conditioning of the room.
As soon as he'd got him up to the room, Rice had just wanted to spoil and indulge the other 23-year-old. The sight of him on the pitch earlier tonight had almost broken the West Ham captain's heart, staring across at the abject misery of the substituted midfielder once the game ended 2-1 to France. Hugging him on the pitch, Declan had been barely able to hide the tenderness and intimacy of the embrace, wrapping strong arms about the smaller lad and holding him to his chest as tightly as he could, hugging out their joint disappointment and frustration at such an unlucky end to their run of success.
But more than that... in the stadium changing rooms and on the coach back to the hotel, Declan had never seen his Mase so flat and devoid of energy, so vulnerable and heartbroken-looking. He'd took him by the arm and steered him away from the general gathering of other dejected players as soon as he politely could, telling him that they both needed their kip, but then squeezing his bottom on the stairs and giving him a discreet kiss on the neck as they vanished up to their floor. Once in the room, he'd held and snogged him for as long as he could, then gone down on him there and then in the middle of the room, peeling down his tracksuit bottoms and briefs and taking his dick in his mouth. He'd sucked him there, he'd sucked him on the armchair by the window, he'd even sucked him sprawled across the floor among the mess of their scattered luggage, and now he sucked him in the shared double bed, not caring that it might take forever to muster an orgasm from the weary and depressed heart-throb.
Rice paused his oral task only to plant kisses up and down each of Mount's thighs, or across his waist and against his six-pack, or on his inner arms or against the palms and backs of his hands, stroking and patting and massaging as he did. Mount's moans were distant and soft, but constant, and the 23-year-old defensive midfielder just carried on mouthing at his boy's cock, focusing on this one guaranteed therapy that he could bring to the defeated weakness of the other young Englander.
Eventually, the Chelsea starlet even tried to tell him to stop: I don't think I can cum, babe, I don't feel up to it...' and Look, let me suck you for a bit...?' But Rice ignored this and pinned him back against the bed, taking another pause to kiss up his midriff and reach stroking hands up his chest. Then he wrapped his hand about the spit-lubed prick and wanked it while holding his face closer to Mason's, and told him firmly: `Just relax and let me. Just let me finish you, just cum for me. Everything's gonna be okay, baby.' And back down to suck him off, desperate to lighten his load and relax him - all he could think about was the shine of suppressed tears in Mason's eyes as he approached him for that hug in the stadium, and how much he'd wanted to publicly kiss him under the world's cameras.
When Mount eventually came, Rice took in every drop, swallowing it in and listening to the music of his boyfriend's sighs, before slowing climbing up his body and settling down side by side, rolling against him and spooning into his shivering naked form in a tight comforting hold, the taste of spunk still on his palate. He shushed and soothed at the gentle private tears of the World Cup knockout, and told him that in four years' time, the Cup would be THEIRS; he more or less believed what he was saying, but he wasn't thinking as an ambitious young footballer right now, so much as a loyal and devoted boyfriend. All he cared about was cuddling into his precious Mase and making him feel better - what did a stupid trophy matter next to that...?
It's not that Harry Kane would make the same comparison - it was simply that there was no room for thinking about stadiums and golden prizes and penalties scored or missed, not when he was lurching from man to man, cock to cock, and getting his mouth stuffed with manly meat over and again, all of it one sweaty head-rush in the sweltering conditions of the sauna. After he'd taken a sufficient mouthful of Jude's instant teen hard-on, he was on his second Brummie mouthful, taking a delicious suck on a cock he'd craved for years, and rubbing at the thick hairy muscles of Jack's mighty legs - but then over to the other side, and trying a mouthful of Kieran Trippier's Manc sausage. In a way, the cocks started to all become one mighty inseparable dick, though their sizes and shapes and colours were so varied in the hot haze. One minute he was ambitiously choking on the long thick monster that rose from Callum's striker thighs, and the next he was slurping on the shorter stubbier prick and low chubby bollocks of his loyal goalkeeper pal - but it was all one intense experience, his hands constantly grasping for more muscle and meat, whilst the hands of others rubbed and patted across his back, shoulders, or stroked at the wispy dark blonde of his dampened hair.
What he did pay particular attention to was finally grasping hold of Eric's cock and bowing down at the crotch of the man who'd woken up these desires in him in a hot Russian summer, appearing at his bedroom door with mischief in his eyes, and first leading him down this path of secret pleasure. He made intense eye contact with Dier, knowing that the beautiful stud had somehow arranged all of this for him, and wanting to thank him for it with every delicate suck of his majestic tool - he could almost picture it, a stressed-out Eric descending through the hotel and finding these odds and ends of the squad lingering in the bar, or whatever, and rousing them into action to comfort their fallen captain. There was no end to how much Kane could romanticise the idea of it, where Dier was concerned, his hero once and always, even if he'd never appreciated what he had.
The action got rougher, with the men taking hold of his head and really thrusting their big dicks into his wide open mouth, and he loved it - loved the loss of control, the surrender of his masculine power to these other alpha males, and the incredible distance it brought him from Qatar `22 and the way it had ended with his penalty. He just licked at every cock like a lion licking its wounds, finding absolute solace in the mad heat and madder passion of this cramped little space, face-fucked by a rasping Conor Coady and then having Jack Grealish's huge whopper slapped against one of his cheeks. Soon he was sucking on a nervously gasping Kalvin, whilst his hands worked like a skier's, jacking off Pickford to one side and Bellingham to the other, or so he though from the size and feel of their dicks, but the dicks shifted places so often that it was hard to tell.
He groaned and slurred and gurgled for it, less articulate than ever, just groping with hands and mouth for every bit of dick or bollock or muscular leg and tummy he could, passed between the eight studs at the centre of their sweaty wank circle. He could feel the sweat coursing down every inch of his body, his shorts now off so that someone, he wasn't sure who (Eric's? Pickford's?), could reach down to spank at his bare bottom and poke a single finger into his hole, teasing him there whilst another pair of hands dragged his face down into the sweatiest crotch and held it there whilst a huge black dick (Jude's? Callum's?) bumped the back of his throat.
And he wanked himself in a furious speed, jerking his own meat between his squatting thighs, and letting his body spin and wobble as he took each mouthful of prick in turn. He knew what he wanted, and eventually he got his first taste of it - it was Jack, he realised, groaning so loudly and really aggressively pushing his cock in the way to press between his trembling lips, having only just paused in noshing off Coady's Scouse rod. But now he was getting a sticky faceful of Jack's Brummie spunk, lashings of it on his tongue and his lips and up his cheeks, the first of eight bukkake deliveries that proceeded to spew over his sweaty physique in the centre of the sauna.
Jack first, but Trippier soon after, standing squat over him and laughing wildly as he pumped his cock in one tight fist; the Newcastle player was hugging sideways at Wilson too, and encouraging the bigger tatted striker to cum at the same time, and Kane just stared up adoringly at the pair of the muscle-bound blokes, sticking out his tongue and awaiting more salty mess on his face. It came almost in unison, or close enough to fool him in his giddy headspace, Trips' and then Wilson's jizz painting his mouth and his face, some of it lashing across his blinking eyes and messing against his brows and fringe.
Pickford's cum hit him from the side, oozing down his cheek and neck and over one shoulder, and he took Coady's against the back of his throat, loving the taste of it and finding it very bizarre that the former Wolves skipper was here in this melee - finding it hard to believe that he and Dier were such pals these days, after what had gone on in the past! And a few high-pitched cries of ecstasy behind him signalled another orgasm, and he could feel the cum, Phillips', ooze over his back and down his spine, so much cum and sweat coating his upper body as he pulled on himself and worked towards his own climax.
Jude next, spilling drop after drop of his precious young seed onto Harry's outstretched tongue, and Eric last but not least, pushed deep in his mouth and emptying on his tongue, then slapped against each of his cheeks and wanked over his face so that every dirty drop was milked onto his dripping wet features, that Viking-like face gritted and fierce as it stared purposefully down at him. Kane came against the lino floor in this posture, everybody's spunk on him and him, and eyes locked up on every detail of Dier's mighty torso and handsome face, lapping his tongue against the bulbous head to make sure he'd eaten everything he could.
The new paranoia swept over him in the moments that followed, the heat of the sauna getting too much and the post-nut clarity bringing a terrifying new vision of life after Qatar: here he was on the floor, the squatting bitch of all these other powerful men, most of them younger and with more England duty ahead of them than his own stature. How could they respect him now, when they'd stood over him and painted him with their cum?! Were they really here to offer him sexual relief, or were they hear to dominate and punish him, their useless skipper who'd failed when they needed him the most? In a rush of overheating, Harry felt like he might pass out and collapse in the crowded space, and all he could see was him being forced to stand down as captain and then retire, snubbed and shamed by all of the other England players!
But then strong arms were reaching down and hoisting him up, and somebody was forcing the glass door back open so that cooler air sucked in against the skin; and sweaty naked bodies were against his, supporting his dizzy posture, and guiding him out into the fresher air of the passage to the pool-room. He blinked furiously through sweaty eyes, and realised that his arms were draped over the shoulders of Coady and Bellingham, and that Trips was patting him on the chest and propping him up at the front. All good skip,' the Newcastle defender was cooing. Just got a bit hot in there, huh?'
Swiftly, he was being guided and supported to the cold showers down the nearest wall, and icy tingles of moisture sprayed against his bare skin. He was still briefly crowded by the bodies of the others, but they were spreading out, a parade of masculine beauty, whilst he leant in against the wall, soothed by the shower of coolness over him. That's it, all good,' he heard Grealish huff, giving him a pat on the back and pushing the lever to restart the cold spray as it weakened. Cool off, chief, you'll be grand.'
Once he felt a bit more alert and alive, Kane turned his back against the cool tiles of the wall and he let the spray of water die off over his head and shoulders. Dier was stood close by with a towel spread wide open in both hands, ready for him, and he stepped forward so that his roomie could throw it about his body for him with a friendly laugh. As his head cleared, Kane stepped away from him and felt his free hand grabbed one at a time by Grealish and Phillips and then Pickford.
`Feeling better now, cap'n?'
`Hope you enjoyed that one, haha.'
`Fuckin' hell, you took a lot of loads there, you dirty bastard,' Pickford was sniggering, and the laughter was infectious - it had the nervous tinge of shame and transgression to it, but there was a collective air of relief and enjoyment among the men who were slowly dispersing. Towel about his waste, Kane leant on the wall again to catch his breath and let his heart rate slow down, recovering from the mad heat of the sauna.
`Night captain,' Jude said to him on the way past, grabbing and shaking his hand. One by one, the guys were parting and going their own ways back into the hotel, and Kane's explosion of earlier paranoia was falling apart: from Jude to Jordan to Kalvin, he could see the respect and approval that lay behind the nervous giggles and little dirty remarks. For all the degradation on the sauna floor, he was still somehow being looked up to as captain after all.
Trips and Wilson had gone now, and the City pair, and Bellingham and Coady, and it was just Dier and Pickford left. The sniggering goalkeeper, a pair of swimming trunks and an unzipped hoody pulled over his shiny sweaty body, grabbed him and gave him a tight hug. We'll always pull through for our captain,' the Everton keeper chuckled in his ear, before punning, or pull off, whatever he wants.' And then he slapped a single hand to Kane's arse through his towel and skipped off, and then it was just the Tottenham two, and he glanced enquiringly at Dier's quiet smirk and still bare upper body, sweat pouring down his pecs until it met the tightly-knotted waist of his own towel.
We should get back to the room,' the other Hotspur told him in a low growl. I only gave a small bribe to the cleaners to keep out of this wing, so I don't think it'll be so deserted for long...' He laughed to himself and rubbed both hands over his clammy shiny face and beard, and then threw one muscle-bound arm about Harry's shaky shoulders. `You feeling better for that, mate...?'
That night, the England captain slept like a log, not a single nightmare about facing his own club goalkeeper and sending the penalty ball shooting off into the stars; he still felt gutted when the reality of it all hit him in the morning, remembering that he didn't need to be up and ready for training today, but up and ready for a flight home instead. But he also glanced across the room at the snoring outline of Eric Dier in the next bed, and he thought about the dirty but manly communion of the night before, and the strange respect he'd been shown by all of those lads after they'd emptied their loads on him. The only shame, he thought cheekily, was that all the loads had been on his face.
Throughout the morning's slow and sad processes, there were other moments - grabbed in a joint hug by Walker and Stones at the queue for breakfast; greeted by the scampering youthful energy of Rice and Mount in the garden and shown some positive social media snippets with key pundits defending his effort - that buoyed his mood and allowed him to hold his head high on the way to the airport and ushering the whole squad and personnel onto the chartered flight back to snowy Birmingham.
Alone in his seat on the flight, a bit dazed and half-asleep as it winged across the Mediterranean and European mainland, he entertained futile fantasies of reunion with Eric, knowing they were impossible, and also of all the sexy teammates who'd come to his sexual rescue in the sauna - and he thought optimistically that he could keep the captain's armband for another two or four years, and still lead the Three Lions into their next few battles, and suck as many cocks as opportunity allowed.
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