Part 337: La Albiceleste
He could picture the room so clearly: the square walls of pale blue, the smooth off-white of the ceiling, and the square window that was a little frosted by condensation. He could still feel the warm press of dark leather under his body where he lay, the raised comfort of the massage bench and its gentle curve where it propped up his head and shoulders onto a more cushioned segment. He could feel the hot air and the faint perfumed tickle of oils against his nostrils, something woody and masculine but also faintly medicinal... were all of these details still accurate, a couple of years later, or was he starting to augment and invent them to fill up the gaps in this... reverie?
He could feel the hands against his strong legs, and the same faint surprise and admiration that had come over him at the time: the lad was just an amateur, jokingly helping out, should he really be this good with his hands? In some ways it felt better than the professional physiotherapy that a player of his stature and experience was used to. If not quite better, then just... softer? Slower? A little more tender?
It was all so clear, even now, floating to him in his fitful sleep: the way the massage went on, up and down each olive-skinned leg, and against his flat strong tummy, and on some of his hairy arms at his sides; where the vision of memory became a little less clear was on the turning points, such as where did the massaging hands begin to move too close to the point where his thick thighs met? And when did they begin to brush against the large heavy bulge in the front of his sports briefs, tight and rather sweaty from the day's rehab work that he'd been pushing himself through to recover from a nagging injury...?
He could remember risking a look down his body, and could still picture the look on the English boy's face, the way his pink tongue jutted a little between his lips in concentration, and his shifty eyes narrowed carefully, whilst his hands swept unctuously in against his inner thighs, and then cupped him down there, and then... at some point, he remembered hazily, his briefs were coming off, and it was hands on his more private skin, and then not just hands. Here in the fitful nightmare on the boundary between sleep and wakefulness, he could picture it: the sharp angular features of the boy's face, catlike and eager, moving down between the rich tan of his shaven smooth thigh muscles... those soft pink lips circling about his shaft, but only after one tender hand had already rubbed vivid life into his member, and then...
This was always where the dream ended. Dream, or nightmare? As usual, he woke in a hot rush, sweat on his face and his chest and under his arms, and a panicky vibration ran through his entire body. For a long few moments, the details of the dreamed memory, the horrifying vision, stayed with him, and it was like he was still there in that physio room of Manchester City, with young Phil Foden crouched against the side of his bed, leaning down curiously between his slightly parted legs - but the moment of climax eluded him, thankfully, and the nightmare always ended just before the peak that he knew must have been reached, before he pushed the younger football player disgustedly away from him and stormed out of the treatment room, disgusted and embarrassed. It hadn't been longer after that strange incident that Sergio Aguero had made his swift exit from Guardiola's champions, and made his brief unfortunate pit-stop at Barca before an early and unexpected retirement loomed on the horizon.
The 34-year-old former pro lay there, drenched in this uncomfortable sweat, and lifting his head gently to look around the details of the siesta bedroom, reassuring himself that the Man City absurdity was a world away. His white t-shirt stuck to his chest and his pits and his shorts felt chafing and irritating between his chunky thighs as he began to coax his sleepy body into movement. Kun lurched from the bed and onto his bare feet, grabbing at the front of his t-shirt and pulling it up to smear against his neck and face, then whipping the thin garment up and off entirely, tossing it clumsily towards a small laundry basket in one corner.
This sparse room was only one of the spare quarters of the luxury apartment complex he and his entourage had hired, though it had seemed the perfect nest to nap in; an afternoon nap! This was the sort of aged decadence one could fall into, leaving the sport behind in his early 30s, and if he wasn't so unsettled by his dreams, the South American player might have laughed out loud at himself... drinking a little too much in the midday sun with a barbecued lunch, and then crawling away into a darkened room to sleep it off. He was becoming an old man at 34, transforming into his father...! Where was the steely discipline of the striker's playing days?!
Trying to dispel the Man City memory from the front of his mind, Aguero staggered through the dark room and into its small adjoining bathroom, where he leant over the sink and splashed a little cold water on his face and onto the back of his neck, before reaching across and knocking on the shower. Like the tap-water, he set it straight to cold and shucked off the loose swimming shorts that he wore, peeling their mesh lining away from his sweaty privates and arse cheeks, and then strutting in to douse himself in the low temperature of the water, refreshing and reinvigorating... and cleansing.
By the time Sergio was emerging from this guest en suite, dabbing his firm body dry with two different towels, he had banished the recurring nightmare into the shadows of sleep, and thoughts of naughty Phil Foden were cast away! It was a ridiculous thing to fixate on, a surreal incident in the twilight days of his illustrious footballing career, and not something that should haunt and bother him a couple of years later...!
No, especially not tonight. Cooled-down and fresher, the former striker strutted from the guest bedroom with one towel about his waist and another draped over his shoulders, heading in the direction of the apartment's master bedroom and his own travel wardrobe; tonight his country would face off against Croatia in the first of the World Cup's Semi Finals, and Kun needed to be fresh and alert for the event. That was why he'd crawled away to nap, he reassured himself, feeling less old and incapable - he'd felt himself getting drunk and lazy in the luxury of lunch, and he'd begun to worry about being fully present for tonight's huge Argentine moment, where he would travel to the stadium to support his boys.
Waving indistinctly at the huddle of friends and family still relaxing out on the roof garden, Aguero swaggered past and through the doors into his own proper bedroom, where he took only a moment to examine his still-athletic form in full length mirrors before beginning to pick through his capsule wardrobe for the right items. That nap had been a waste of time, he told himself, dismissing the nightmare end entirely, and just focusing on the benefits of a refreshing cold shower - he felt great now, and as ready for tonight if he was still joining his fellow Argentines out on the pitch!
The Qatar World Cup had been a strange experience for Sergio, and yet one he just could not miss... His closest confidantes had made cautious remarks to him throughout the year, reminding him that he could spend this winter anywhere, doing anything, he didn't need to drift into Doha and hang about the football tournament like a moth to the flame. He was retired and free! And yet, he'd argued repeatedly, he could not abandon Argentina and the lads, not at this big moment, one he really ought to be joining them for properly!
Tonight, as every night they had played, he was here in the stadium, ready to cheer them on from the VIP section of the stands. Behind him, a wall of sound from the travelling Argentina fans, and in front of him, the early minutes of the Semi Final match, the latest battle on Messi and company's road to hopeful victory.
Largely, it had been an enjoyable experience, and Sergio had alternated between being the honoured guest of the Argentina national squad, happily welcomed by coaches, players, and staff, and playing at high-profile tourist in the Arab city, attending numerous media and state functions as one of the controversial tournament's noted ambassadors. The time away from football had just been frothy nonsense to the 34-year-old, nonsense he had to accept now that he was no professional footballer any more - the visits to the Argentina camp at their hotel and stadium base, however, had been thrilling and beautiful experiences, and he had thrown himself into his strange new role as mascot and cheerleader, ultimately grateful that his former national teammates were so glad to have him at their side.
These beautiful experiences came at a price, though, and tonight at the Semi, that price felt weightier than ever: as passionately as Sergio would cheer every movement from the blue-and-white clad players in front of him, it was all tinged with a strand of bitter envy, and a deep primal urge to run out there and join the fray. This cup would be Argentina's, he felt deep inside, having maintained that belief even during their shocking opening defeat, and it would be Messi's - and it should also be his. This, he thought, should be his last dance, the international tournament to close out his playing years as a world-conquering hero and record-breaking striker...! Instead, this: another heated fan in the crowd, pumping his fist in the air and yelling out excitedly as a 34th minute penalty put Argentina 1-0 up over Croatia, and the players on the field crowded around his good friend Lionel.
Accompanied by his wife and some of his closest friends, Aguero beamed with a confident smile and embraced the strange new role as observer and fan-boy, and held the quiet regrets and resentments inside his chest, unwilling to waste any negativity on this beautiful night, or to taint the rising success of his countrymen. Within minutes, he was leaping up and down again and cheering for a second goal, seeing young Alvarez, his Argentine `replacement' at City, make it 2-0. By the time the 3rd goal, another joint venture between Alvarez and Messi, had secured the Semi Final win, Aguero was roaring from his vantage point and joining the rippling chants of the hoi polloi stands above and behind his VIP segment.
It was towards the end of the match, with the win inevitable, that a member of the Argentine football set-up shuffled along part of their row and beckoned him again, just as he had at the QF game. Grinning like a competition-winning schoolboy, Sergio bid adios to his clique and disappeared from the luxury VIP section, following the football official down several sets of steps until he was down pitchside, joining the dugout encampment of Argentina coaches, and exploding with every bit as much joy as them when the final whistle blew and their place in the grand finale was confirmed. Sunday was only days away, and either France or Morocco would fall before Argentina's juggernauts, and their country would secure the trophy...!
In those celebrations, Sergio felt none of his occasional self-interest. He was just another Argentine, ecstatic with his footballing representatives, and part of the joy and triumph as if he was a fully employed member of the team's extended personnel. The 34-year-old bounced around in his trainers as if he was just one of the ball-boys or mascots, leaping from hug to hug, all tactile manly kisses to the cheeks of the other men, and unable to stop himself from swarming towards various key players to congratulate them on their big moments in the victory.
Inevitably, however, Sergio made repeated beelines for the team's undoubted star, and his own best friend in the entire sport. Even when Leo was standing about looking humble and relaxed to receive his Player of the Match accolade, Kun couldn't keep away, and he ended up informally presenting the brash red trophy to the other football star, posing repeatedly next to him and beaming for the international press. Only then, standing side by side with Messi and the trophy, did any of his uneasiness return: this was insane, he told himself, to be here in his casualwear and salt-and-pepper beard, prematurely retired and exiled from the career that he'd loved...! His smile became a little glassy and false in front of the latest camera snaps, and he hunched awkwardly next to the panting joy of the other short muscular Latino.
And then, gone in an instant, the media frenzy in front of the two football men was being redirected, as other interview moments were lined up at the edge of the pitch, though the scrutiny and attention never QUITE left Lionel Messi alone; still, the posing trophy winner was suddenly more truly relaxed and hugging at him, shaking the ugly red thing in one hand and planting a damp kiss against Aguero's cheek. This is yours, truly,' the PSG forward informed him simply and earnestly. This trophy is yours, YOU should take it, you are our secret weapon, even off the pitch...!'
Sergio smiled and tried not to feel patronised by this claim, fending off Leo's efforts to push the prize into his hands. He grimaced and laughed and pushed it back into the sweaty arms of the football player. Not quite,' he said stiffly, and then laughed a bit more forcefully. You deserve this, Leo, always...! Another incredible game. The big win is all ours, can you feel it...?'
Next to him, Lionel's grin was a little hesitant, but he nodded his head, and suppressed his own laughter. One more game, one more game,' the footballing legend murmured heavily, and he bumped shoulders with him. You will come back to the hotel with us, Kun...?'
More celebrations?' Sergio chuckled. Just try and stop me, my friend!'
Tsk,' scoffed Messi, wrapping one arm about his shoulders and pulling him tightly into yet another hug, proud and comradely in front of the cameras. Friend? Brother!' The two hugged tightly, and in Messi's strong embrace, Aguero could feel that he wasn't the only one heartbroken that he couldn't be a more active part of the campaign; nobody had been more closely there for him in the heartbreak of diagnosis and retirement, and nobody had felt his pain more tangibly. Leo had been the most supportive and generous friend a man could ask for, every step of the way since, but especially now, always the first to include him at every opportunity.
As they briefly parted, Sergio smiled gratefully at the 35-year-old, and patted him on his shoulders before pushing him away and directing him back into the glare of the media lens. `I will see you at the hotel,' the ex-striker barked loudly at him, unsure if he could be heard, and just mouthing the promise instead as Messi backed slowly away, being pulled towards another post-match interview, beaming from ear to ear with pride and joy.
Strangely, the hotel party for the World Cup finalists was a tougher environment for Aguero to face than the stands or sidelines of the Lusail Stadium. Being a fan at a match was pure and liberating new experience for the South American, as much as he still craved the adrenaline rush of competing himself - but loitering around the private bar of a luxury Doha hotel and clinking beer bottles with players and coaches alike made him feel far more conscious of his distance, and of his obvious absence from the line-up of the Final itself in only five days' time.
He didn't need to be there, he reminded himself, and in fact he ought to be joining the late meal and drinks that had been booked by his family and crew, at an exclusive joint not far from their month-long holiday home by the beach. Nobody would resent his absence, of course, all of the friends and family in his entourage here understood his fringe position at the edges of Argentina's bid for World Cup glory - not even his dear wife, football royalty herself, would question his decision to be at this party instead, and so there was no need for him to rush away... not unless the sense of alienation and jealousy became unbearable, that is.
Though he spent much of the night glued to Leo's side, just as he had when they were actual international teammates, he did circulate and do his best to soak up the winning atmosphere from as many familiar faces as he could. After all, much of the staff around the squad were unchanged from his own last campaign, and even the younger members of the roster had been making their first steps into global football under his supervision and mentorship in previous summers; and they were all full of respect and admiration for him, even if it was tinged with a slightly patronising pity and deference that made him feel 74 rather than 34.
He spent a good half hour at the bar with one arm slung over the shoulders of goalkeeper Martinez, celebrating the man's efforts at fending off any rare effort from Croatia; he joined defenders Molina and Otamendi for a rousing burst of their national anthem on the terrace area, posing between the defensive pair and grinning for numerous informal cameras; he got caught in heart-to-hearts with Tottenham's Romero and Brighton's Mac Allister, delivering sage but drunken career advice to the two Premier League players, regaling them with anecdotes from his own run of victories under Guardiola. He danced a silly jig with the handsome Italian-Argentine Rodrigo de Paul, and then applauded further folk dances between the team's drunkest members, celebrating substitutes Foyth and Dybala. He took care to spend time with some of the squad's less prominent boys too, offering counsel to players like Rulli and Pezzella who had seen little action yet.
But over and over, he couldn't help but seek out Messi's company, and hover in the virile glow of the debated GOAT. By sticking close to his best pal, he could feel more included and involved, more than just a wise old bugger in the background, a spare coach to offer pep talks and ego boosts. Lionel, more than anyone, hugged at him and clinked drinks with him as if he were really still one of the guys, his name on the score-sheet with he and Alvarez, and as if he had a major role to play in Sunday's finale. Oh, Messi.
The two attacking players were incredibly close, both professionally and personally, and that was part of the tragedy of how Kun's own career had ended. Even before the health concerns and forced exit from professional play, he'd encountered a horror: moving all the way to Barcelona for the final stage of his senior career, only for financial obstacles to see the club's greatest asset shipped away to Paris Saint-German, for fuck's sake... Aguero had been close to tearing up his contract with the La Liga club, denied his fantasy of a few final seasons side-by-side with his friend and hero. He may as well have remained at City...! Of course, fears over his own safety had soon replaced that turmoil, and he was glad that everybody around him had simply respected the depth of his friendship with Leo and understood how distressing the changed circumstances actually were... It was only in retrospect that Sergio dared to wonder if he'd overreacted, and if it was a little cringe or odd for him to be so fixated on one partnership.
Standing here at Leo's side, the both of them swigging bottled beers and bantering happily with the top management of the Argentine football camp, such worries disintegrated - it was clear to see that his friend was the greatest player there was, and that their friendship was truly special. Sure, he was missing dinner with his beautiful wife, but there were always more dinners and family occasions, whereas for much of the year he didn't get to see anything of his fellow hero, busy and stuck in the French capital.
A couple of the others were joining them, muscling in on the conversation, since Sergio was far from the only guy who sought to be as close to Leo as possible at all times - it was practically a national obsession, he was their talisman and everything else. The 34-year-old Premiership legend could just grin smugly at the side of his friend and hero, very aware that none of these other players could boast a close relationship with the GOAT like his; was Messi godfather to any of their fucking offspring? Hah, nope.
It was Dybala and de Paul, two of the more high-profile Argentines, and both were vying for Messi's attention by attempting to predict the score of their Final against France - Morocco, it seemed, had already been dismissed. The 29-year-old Roma signing was going high with his guesses, and bumping fists with Leo as he proclaimed that their glorious leader would secure AT LEAST a hat-trick in the destruction of the French; Rodrigo crowed at these expectations and began to banter about whether Paulo would make an appearnace or spend 90 minutes on the bench, slightly killing the mood and making the two senior managers next to them suddenly a bit uncomfortable. Sergio smirked and broke the tension: `Are we just forgetting about Morocco, then...?'
Next to him, Lionel cheered for this respectful point and clinked bottles with him, beginning to make a couple of sensible points about how well the African underdogs had done so far, and particularly praising his PSG colleague Achraf Hakimi, whilst Sergio himself pitched in with a few criticisms of Benzema-less France. We have to be ready to face either of them,' he told their small gathering with a broad gesture. We don't know what we'll come up against until this time tomorrow night, right?'
Messi was nodding sagely, and Dybala murmured a begrudging Too true' - but de Paul, stood head and shoulders over the rest of them, scoffed quietly and downed the dregs of his beer in one deft movement. What's this "we", grandpa?' teased the Atletico Madrid midfielder in a chuckling undertone. `Have you been cleared to start playing again, Kun...?' There was a broad grin on the tall athlete's infuriatingly handsome features, but Aguero couldn't help but read it as one of challenge and mockery, rather than simply playful and respectful jest - was the pretty-faced prick really so jealous that HE was stood with his arm about Messi's shoulders, or what?
He didn't quite know what to say to de Paul's jibe, but he didn't need to respond, because the others did so immediately. Rodri,' was Lioinel's short growl, almost like an owner chiding a troublesome guard dog, and Paulo had shoved an elbow in the taller man's side before frowning around at him. The two middle-aged suits gawped a little at the controversy of the comment, and seemed to eye Sergio expectantly for his reaction, which... as it turned out, was a loud hollow laugh and a shake of his head. No, no,' he told Rodri in consoling tones, `you will not be graced by my talents, sadly...! So you might have to settle for JUST 10-0, like Dybala was predicting... ha ha!'
And almost as soon as he could, the former City striker left them to it, making his excuses and slipping away through the busy crowd of the extended team and personnel. He went straight to the free bar and swapped his warm near-empty beer for a fresh one, smarting from Rodrigo's casual comments. He wasn't very clear on how malicious or callous Rodri was being, or if he was just taking a joke badly himself, but either way, it stung, and it really did make him feel out of place at this party for the match-winners. He ought to be in some fan-zone of travelling Argentines, just another bystander, or even better, he ought to be with his gorgeous fucking wife...! She was a patient saint for letting him waste his night here, the poor angel.
For a little while, Aguero hung at the bar, an artificial smile on his face and cold beer clenched in one fist, debating whether he really ought to be here or not. Inconclusive, he decided that he just needed a little air, some space and perspective before he got overheated and said something he regretted to that smug prick Rodrigo de Paul! And so he took himself and his beer away from the bar, not out onto the main terrace drinking area but down a flight of stairs into the hotel gardens, dark manicured green spaces below this balcony, overlooking another sheer drop down to one of the outdoor pools. Here, he could wind between the palm trees and find a spot to sit and cool off in, even if the night was incredibly humid and oppressive against his skin.
He was just padding over another manicured lawn in his fresh sneakers, looking for a bench or somewhere that he could perch awhile, when he picked up the sounds. Voices, he thought, or at least human noises. He paused, instinctively stealthy, and able to hear the harsh rustle that his sports shoes made on the artificial turf below. There they were again, he noticed: not quite fully-formed voices, but something between a giggle and a whisper, and more papery rustles of bodies moving amongst the forced tropical plant life of the hotel grounds. Sergio paused where he was on, only mildly intrigued. After all, his mind was still dwelling self-pityingly on retirement life, and the prospect of merely watching a historic win for his friends and countrymen, rather than contributing a penalty of his own.
Following his ears, the 5ft8 ex-footballer roamed left, away from the path, pushing through the fronds of several low squat palms, and towards the gentle tinkle of a partly-hidden fountain. The voices became somewhat clearer, interspersed with more giggles, and the curious wanderer paused, pressing one expectant hand against the rough trunk of the nearest palm. Just through the blocky screen of fronds, a contrived rockery rose up from the equally artificial grass, and against its side were two bodies. It took his eyes, drunk as he was, a few moments to adjust and clarify, but once he realised what he was looking at, it was all he could do to suppress the immediate gasp of scandal...
Two young men locked in embrace, both wearing the matching dress-down activewear of the Argentina squad, pale blue loose sweatpants and oversized tees. One was almost seated on the stone rim of the fountain area, with the other bearing down on him, and even from this angle, it was obvious that they were kissing, faces pulled in close so that Sergio could not immediately see who they were. The hands of the seated young man were disappearing up under the t-shirt of the other, pulling it up and away from his skin, exposing the thick muscles of one dude's back. He, the taller of the two, was manhandling the other quite roughly, tugging at his hair and kissing his neck now, the pair of them really writhing at one another, and then twisting about on the spot - as they did, their faces flashed more clearly in his vision, and he recognised both of them in an instant, and he was crashing forward through the heavy palm leaves before he knew what he was doing.
The two young Argentina players sprang apart almost instantly, alarmed by first the crashing sound of leaves, and then the breathy voice of their former role model barking angrily at them. What is this?' Sergio found himself yelling quite aggressively. What the fuck is going on?' he was stupidly demanding, even though the answer was pretty obvious, and he had literally no grounds to object to their private intimacy.
Kun,' hissed one of the exposed two, the shorter young player who was scrambling up from his seat on the rim of the fountain, almost falling over himself; Julian Alvarez, 22-year-old forward and tonight's double goal-scorer, was 5ft7, but he looked very small and vulnerable as he stared wildly this way and almost toppled straight back into the clear blue water of the fountain. Standing over him, t-shirt halfway up his midriff still, the taller of the two youngster gawped this way with equal horror: Holy shit,' cried Benfica's rapidly departing midfielder, Enzo Fernandez, pulling one hand into his scruffy hair.
Aguero, having crashed noisily through the ornamental plants and into this clearing, stood awkwardly still a couple of paces in front of the pair, now unsure what to say. He was in one of his most hot-blooded moods, brought on by alcohol as much as psychological unease, and now he was entirely triggered by the madness he'd walked in on, returned for a stark moment to the alien discomfort of waking up from THAT recurring dream.
What the fuck?' the striker barked, looking from one boy to the other. Are you stupid?' he asked harshly. `This is not a place for messing around and joking, boys. Honestly! Are you fucking stupid?' He growled and glared at them, arms bunched heavily at his sides, wanting to swing for one or the other mad idiot.
It's not what it looks like,' the forward of his own former Premiership club began to protest, but the other young Argentine contradicted him: We can do what we like down here, it's a private spot!' proclaimed 21-year-old Fernandez in an almost chivalrous manner, adjusting his t-shirt and his hair, and stepping partially in front of Alvarez, as if to defend him from attack. Confused and overwhelmed by their different answers, Aguero took one step closer to them, wagging a warning finger at both. This is madness,' he declared simply. Get aay from each other, boys.' Was he just shouting pure homophobia at the apparent young lovers, or was he really just worried for their wellbeing in this homophobic emirate?
Behind him there were more crashes, similar rustles and slaps of heavy leaves, and then another figure was bursting onto the scene, clad in the same pale blue layers as the two youngsters. Aguero saw the expressions change on Julian and Enzo's faces, and he looked over his shoulders just as Leo Messi clambered past the trunks and fronds and came up at his side, frowning anxiously.
Instantly, Sergio was barking urgently at his friend: Leo, you should have seen these fools...' And he turned to wave a dismissive hand at the kissing boys on the fountain. The heat or the drink has got to these dirty bastards...'
But Leo, he realised, was frowning at him, and not at the young offenders. Kun,' the 35-year-old hissed at him. Keep your voice down.'
Leo,' began Julian's anxious whine; Weren't doing nothing,' came Enzo's contradictory muttering this time, and the youthful pair shrank awkwardly back against the rockery, whilst Sergio turned confusedly to square up against his angry-looking friend, whose behaviour wasn't quite following what should be happening. In fact, Messi hardly seemed fazed at all by the obvious closeness of the younger men, and he looked entirely annoyed at Aguero for alerting him to it - perhaps, he thought, he hadn't understood the implications of the scene, was so naive or conventional, and-
Let's leave them,' Messi snapped impatiently at him, shooting cautious glances at the two younger players. Come on. I came out here to find you - it's time for speeches, and the boss wants you to-'
Leave them?' Aguero snapped back at his best friend. For real? The two fools were KISSING, and-'
Lower. Your. Voice!' The good mood and relaxation of minutes ago was gone from Messi's face and stance now, and it was the diminutive aggressor of the football pitch again, the little over 5ft6 man squaring his broad shoulders and standing head-on with marginally taller Aguero, as if ready for an unwanted fight. Come on - we'll leave them in peace.'
Peace,' Aguero couldn't help but snarl derisively, or sin?'
Sin?' spat the Barca legend suddenly, stepping right up to him and prodding him in the chest. Don't talk like a child, my friend, and stop raising your voice. Leave Julian and Enzo to have a moment, they have a right to that, even here.' And suddenly the other icon was grabbing him quite roughly by the wrist as if to drag him aside, and Sergio shoved roughly back at his old friend, breaking apart from him and squaring up to fight himself.
`The trouble these two dirty freaks could cause if they're caught-'
`Is - none - of - our - BUSINESS. Now-'
The Argentine forward was on him again, reaching for his arm, and Aguero shoved back quite roughly at his dearest friend, overheated and full of aggro, and sending the other stocky Latino staggering awkwardly back, almost falling, making him yelp out angrily and swear at him, and come diving back as if to seek a REAL fight - the two of them were instantly grappling with each other, and out of the corner of his eye, he was very aware of the two younger Argentina players just staring awkwardly on, but HOLDING HANDS, wow, and-
The fifth man in the clearing charged out of nowhere like a bull, smashing between them and pushing Messi firmly out of harm's way before whirling on Aguero, almost 6ft of blistering muscle, hands pulled into fists and face full of confrontation. `Don't touch him again,' yelled Rodri de Paul, standing firmly between them and sinking into a slight crouch as if he was about to compete for an MMA trophy rather than the World Cup - and Sergio took a couple of awkward steps back, dazed by the interruption. He looked the 28-year-old midfield player up and down, and then stared around him at Messi, and then at the two young kissers, and then back at Rodri himself - he had the same pale blue sweats on as the other guys, the uniform loungewear of the squad, but he was shirtless, his long ripped torso on show and his inked arms bulging with balls of muscle. And... they all glanced to one side, a sixth figure sidling into visibility from between the palms, rubbing an arm over his mouth and faffing with the way his t-shirt was tucked into his sweats, all pink-cheeked awkwardness as he stumbled in amongst them from wherever he'd been hidden in the bushes. In sudden comprehension, or at least suspicion, Sergio glared back at Rodrigo, really clocking his shirtless state and the way his sweatpants were pulled a few inches too low, exposing his white undies where they slid away from his waistline - and the prominent shape in the front of both layers, the pale colours emphasising its shape and proportions even in the low lamplight of the fountain.
`Back off,' de Paul barked at him.
What the fuck?' Aguero hissed back. What the fuck is wrong with you all?'
`Nothing wrong with us,' came the voice of angry Fernandez.
`Kun, leave it,' was Messi's shouted contribution.
`You're all sick or mad,' the 34-year-old yelled awkwardly at them, his head swimming with confused suspicions and hasty conclusions, awash with lifelong prejudice.
`It wasn't like that,' moaned Alvarez mournfully.
`Get out of here!' roared Rodri de Paul.
Away from the throng of noise and confused masculine rage, Sergio Aguero found himself rapidly complying with this shouted instruction; he backed hastily away, shooting judgmental eyes at Julian and Enzo, and then staring contemptuously at Dybala, who was still wiping at his lips and chin, his eyes wide with cynical guilt. Scowling and spitting on the floor, Aguero glared back at de Paul, sizing up the sweaty muscular torso and the awkward guilt on his chiselled facial features. Last but not least, he stared darkly at Messi before disappearing backwards into the palm trees, meeting his friend's eyes but saying nothing - why, he found himself asking urgently, was Lionel Messi defending the perverse actions of their teammates? Why was he sticking up for any of this nonsense? Lunging sharply away from them and smashing through the ornamental plant life, Kun almost went reeling over the short cliff-edge into the pool, but steadied himself and turned right, heading through and back onto the path, from which he could quickly scurry onto some descending steps that took away from this seedy little jungle of sin, haring out of the hotel's grounds and out through its huge glassy foyer, the same one where not so long ago, he'd awkwardly bumped straight into the figure of his nightmares, Phil Foden, suspiciously close and intimate with his Leo.
The memory of that day, when he'd simply been popping around to enjoy a chilled coffee with his best pal, played on repeat on his mind as he summoned his taxi and sped around the city limits to the beach resort area where he was based - of course, the lurid scenes of the fountain played against his sweaty imagination too, but he kept thinking about the odd tensions as he arrived at that same hotel about two weeks ago, and crashed straight into his former City acolyte, stuck in quiet conversation with the great Argentine master. Somehow, Messi had just dismissed it as an amusing coincidence, barely trying to explain why the City youngster should be at the base of the wrong competing country... and a confused and stressed Sergio had accepted it, unwilling to dwell on the topic because the flashbacks to the `massage' had been particularly prominent since flying here and seeing so much media coverage of the England squad.
Now, returning to his own condo on the waterfront, pouring himself a strong alcoholic drink and lighting a cigar, the retired pro couldn't help but pin his best friend Messi right at the centre of such sordidness - not just of his past unfortunate encounter with dirty little Phil Foden, he thought, but of the transgressions of good Catholic boys like Alvarez and Fernandez, or the corrupt dealings of sleazeballs like de Paul or Dybala! What the hell had gone on in the Argentina team since HIS days?
The place was empty. All of his little crew were still out. He had ignored the suggestions of the doorman that a car could be hired in no time at all to get him to the nightclub they were moving on to, sulkily stomping through into the apartment complex by himself. He was now in the garden at its centre, the same one where he had got tipsy at lunchtime, and he sat himself down by the unlit fire pit, puffing on his Havana and thinking angry thoughts. Honestly, what were men coming to these days? This what happened, he thought, when good Argentine lads moved away from the home country and got tempted by European ways...! Ugh. Inside, a lifetime's church-sanctioned phobia was crashing violently against what he'd witnessed tonight, and his own limited experiences.
He wasn't sure how long he loitered here on his own, pressing his socked feet down against the lumpen gravel, and tossing his discarded sneakers to one side; hoody off and just a thin black t-shirt clinging to the thick muscles of his upper body. Really, the expensive security firm that fronted this elite accommodation shouldn't be letting any non-residents into the Aguero condo, but perhaps some faces were too famous to be refused; when he looked up, exhaling a thick plume of purple-grey smoke, he saw Lionel Messi approaching him across the square courtyard garden, arms folded across the chest of his Argentina tee. Unless he'd slipped into his meditative state for longer than he realised, his friend had followed him from the hotel party at some speed, and here he now was, standing a few yards for him, a serious glower on his lean bearded face.
Hello, Kun,' breathed the active Argentina star, and the retired footballer just exhaled another grumpy sigh, and took another long suck on the heady spice of his cigar, before placing it carefully aside and rising to his feet. We need to talk about this,' the 35-year-old told him in a firm whisper, after he failed to reply with a greeting of his own.
About the mess of men that used to be my great team?' was Sergio's grunted answer, folding his arms to match Leo's confrontational body language. The visitor took another long step this way over the gravel, reaching the other side of the empty burnt-out fire pit, but Aguero remained very still where he was, his eyes wary and defensive as he followed Leo's slow movements. I can't believe you're willing to tolerate such business in your team, Leo. It's disgusting.'
Messi was giving him a ponderous stare, and it took him a while to speak. `Your attitudes worry me, old friend,' was all he eventually said, his voice a sad sigh.
`I could say the same to you,' Aguero huffed back. He unfolded his arms and let them hang more weakly at his sides. Confusion was beginning to occlude annoyance. After all, was he really angry at anyone but his former self, lying back on that Man City massage table...? Who was he REALLY disgusted at?
`There are lots of things you don't know.'
`Try me.'
`Sergio... Are we alone?'
`Huh. Yes. Am I safe with you?'
`My friend...'
`Stay where you are. I'm not sure who trust right now.'
`Sergio! This is... Why are you behaving like this? You have never been so... so conservative, or so angry... This is not you, my friend. This is not the man I love.'
Declarations of such passionate friendship were hardly new for either friend and yet, in the current context, Sergio scoffed and scowled at the words. He shook his head and picked up one of the implements to poke aimlessly at the ashes and charred wood in the firepit between them, as if it was lit and blazing, and it wasn't just the heat of his own anger and confusion that fanned his face and chest. It is not natural,' Aguero parroted, but quietly, more of a repeated doctrine than a fiery conviction. And I'm shocked. Those boys? And - Rodri? Paulo? They make me sick. Those men have wives...!'
So do you and I,' came Messi's almost distant, plaintive answer - however it was meant, it struck a painful chord for a paranoid Aguero, who threw the metal poker down against the pit with a clang and scrape, and moved sharply about the circular perimeter, shifting closer to his best friend. I'm not the one kissing boys by the fountain!' the ex-striker snarled as he drew close, shaking a hand at his friend-turned-enemy. `My wife has nothing to do with this, don't bring her name into your team's filth. This would never have happened when I was playing in that shirt...!'
You don't think so?' The other man's question cut harshly across his rant, and he paused, staring moodily at the other man, just a couple of feet away from him now. Oh, Kun,' the senior footballer sighed and tutted. `As I say - there is much you on't know. Much you need to know, before you go spitting this poison at friends of ours, or... telling anybody else what you saw. Please, for our friendship's sake, will you listen to me? Sergio?'
The 34-year-old Latino was still pumped up with indignant aggression, and if it had been almost anyone but this man, he would have swung a punch or called for security. Instead, he let his fighting stance wilt a little, and he just stared imploringly at his visitor, moving even closer to the other man, almost as close as they'd stood with the Player of the Match trophy at the end of tonight's win.
`What do you need to tell me, Leo?'
His oldest footballing friend, his ally and confidant since his first call-up to the national side as a teen, stared thoughtfully back at him, and took his while to speak. And when he did, his voice low and measured, he almost sent Sergio collapsing back into the ashes of the fire-pit. `For many years, Kun, I had a very beautiful affair with another man.' There was a long pause after that, with Aguero staring him down and waiting for the punchline, and the Argentina hero just gazing back at him with those piercing eyes, lips gently parted and breathing heavy. And then, after this long moment, they both sank independently down to sit on the circular bench that surrounded the empty fire, and the story unfolded.
At no point in the story did Lionel name his lover, his `papi', but the truth became quickly obvious, and you didn't need to know Messi half as well as Aguero did to to realise who the mysterious older man was in the narrative that escaped in whispered bursts and pained admissions - how a young and inexperienced Lionel had fallen for his coach whilst still on the B Team at Barcelona, only to find a special physical connection with him once he was on the senior first team and beginning to make a name for himself. Lionel, it seemed, spared him any real physical detail, but instead painted a picture of quiet romance - stolen moments and illicit meetings, brief treasured trips away to the Spanish islands, and a sense of a love that was completely separate from either man's conventional marriage or family life. Through all of this, Sergio said nothing, and he just listened, blinking slowly and flaring his nostrils in alarm at each new level of intimacy that came through his friend's stilted storytelling.
And the love story reached its tragic conclusion... an awards ceremony, a rival, another man interfering in this paradise. Again, Lionel didn't use names, but Sergio's suspicion was immediate and precise. He stared at his friend with even wider eyes, and he kept opening his mouth to start speaking, then finding that words failed him, and just letting Lionel quietly proceed. When Leo fell quiet, he still couldn't find the right question or comment, and he just rubbed one dusty hand over his tanned face, and stared into the ashes rather than at the other footballer. He could hear Messi's tense breathing beside him, and the faint haze of city noise that drifted over the rooftops and into the private courtyard.
All of these years,' Aguero grunted at last, getting stiffly to his feet. All of these years of lying to me?'
To his left, still seated, Leo looked surprised, even hurt, by this. He tilted his head and stared intently at him. Is it lying?' he demanded. We are all allowed our secrets, brother...!'
Aguero shrugged vaguely, scratching at his face. Messi got up, stood next to him, and he faced him properly, struggling to digest it all. Perhaps,' he muttered. But... This is enormous. It turns out I did not know you half as much as I always thought, Leo. Fucking hell. Jesus Christ.' He shook his head again. `Why are you telling me all this...?'
Messi sounded exasperated. `Why the hell not?! We're friends, aren't we? God, what do I say to you, Kun? Would you rather I kept on "lying"? I... I was horrified by you tonight, the way you spoke to those other men. I don't know much about what Julian and Enzo have, but... I needed you to UNDERSTAND, okay? These things happen. We can't always understand the way our hearts work, my friend, do you get that?'
He'd never heard Leo speak at such length and so earnestly, and that alone made him feel a bit lost and uncomfortable, even without the shocking content of his speeches. He let out a long angry sigh and squared up to his visitor, less aggressively, but still confrontational, still signalling a lack of welcome to him. `I don't know what to think of you any more,' he admitted bluntly, his voice coarse and unfriendly.
`No, I suppose not,' Leo muttered darkly.
`This is...'
I am still Lionel,' he snapped. Still Messi. All the same goals. Still your friend.'
`Yes, but-'
`What does any of this matter? What sin have I committed, really?'
`My brother...'
I share all of this with you,' Leo cried haughtily, and you dare to speak to me like this? After everything we've been through, Kun? After everything we've SHARED? God damn you!' It was Messi now who was becoming fired up, he realised, though his own flaming moods sizzled and rose in response - Messi was bunching up his thick shoulders and clenching his hands, looking fierce and warlike, and it roused Aguero's fighting spirit, though his head and heart felt conflicted and lost. The story had been too much, the confessions too deep - this night had spiralled beyond what he knew, and now here he was, face to face with his best friend, this sudden stranger in his garden!
You going to tell me I make you sick?' challenged Leo aggressively, pulling very close to him, grabbing him roughly about the shoulders of his t-shirt. Are you going to tell me that now, after EVERYTHING?' Aguero shook where he stood, the other man's fingers pressing harshly in at his shoulders, and he glared back at the other man, matching his aggression, and lifting his hands as if to push him away, snatching awkwardly at the front of his t-shirt, fiercely undecided in what to say. Messi made to shake him all the more aggressively, pulling in very close to him, and then very suddenly, both unexpected and utterly inevitable, pushing forward and grasping his head at either side, planting his mouth there and taking a kiss - lips suddenly on lips, body pulled forward and gripping him tight, and Sergio Aguero pulled helplessly into an embrace that was both familiar and entirely alien, enclosed in the body heat of his old friend, trapped in a deep mouth-to-mouth connection.
And his mind racing to another memory, one that had never haunted his dreams in the same way as Phil Foden between his legs, wrapping his fingers about his cock; no, this memory one that only ever drifted nostalgically back to him when he was very horny or excited, something to make him smirk and snigger in wholesome polite scenarios, to think that the pair of them had been so debauched!
What year was it? He was no longer sure. It wasn't a major tournament, but just a casual international break, at a time when Argentina was faring less well on the world stage, and both ace players were deeply frustrated by the squad around them. Was it six years ago, or eight? Or less? It was hard to say. In fact, now he thought about it, he wasn't even sure what country they were in: it was Europe, definitely, but what country? What city? Such details were superfluous to the qualities of the memory, which might tickle and amuse him as he sunbathed on a yacht, or during foreplay with his wife, giving him a little extra pep as he thought about what a wild stallion he could be!
Her... well, he remembered HER very well. She'd been a member of the Argentina staff in some way, some PR role or something, a new face on the crew as they embarked on some minor tour of friendlies or qualifiers, hotel to hotel. She'd been flirty with both of them from the first meeting, and they'd fucking joked about her, trying to banter over which of them the woman was more dripping wet for. Aguero had secretly suspected she was more into little Messi than himself, but he'd boasted and joked about her to his friend, enjoying the stupid rivalry that it provoked in them in their shared suite, the rooms they had always occupied together as international best mates on tour.
One night after a win, she'd ended up in their room, drinking casually from their mini-bar with the two football studs in their late twenties, both of them married dads. How she'd got there, Kun couldn't be sure - would either of them have been so bold and risky as to invite her directly? They were both pretty faithful husbands, or so he'd thought, for practical if not entirely moral reasons, hyper-aware of media scrutiny on their glamorous lives. And yet somehow she'd ended up there after an end-of-break social, sat drinking and smoking in their suite, and making saucy jokes about them getting caught in a three-way - jokes about the scene being a scandal, until suddenly it was one, with her snogging them both in turns and letting them shove their hands down her bra or up her skirt.
Neither Sergio nor Leo had ever engaged anything so saucy with a fellow player, or so he'd believed, but they'd gone for it then, sharing goofy looks of enjoyment, and letting her strip them of their shirts and jeans and then tumbling with her onto one of the two beds, he didn't know if it had been his or Leo's. They'd taken it in turns to kiss and cuddle her, whilst beginning to feel themselves up through their underpants. Aguero had gone down on her first, always in a rush to taste pussy, and he'd wanted to dare and challenge Messi, who he believed to be so much more cautious and conventional than himself - hah! He'd licked her out and made her scream, before shouting at Lionel that he should fuck her whilst she was wet and ready. And he'd watched him get to work, hadn't he, pulling out his own fat hard prick and jerking on it in front of them both.
In turns, the two Argentine strikers had mounted her, fucking her pussy good and hard, and making regular grinning eye contact. Two hot football stallions unleashed, wild and hedonistic, and enjoying their power and attractiveness, making this short-lived colleague scream and yelp for them, fucking her in every position. Aguero's own tanned muscular bulk pinning her to the bed and hammering her cunt, then letting her slide over to his teammate, and bounce up and down on Messi's ridiculously large monster, all jiggling flesh and titty, riding up and down on the ripped washboard of the other man's body, until she was screaming out her repeated orgasms and both men were spilling their seed on her tits in unison, painting her cleavage with snaking messes of their fertile load...
That's how he'd always remembered it, a crazed heterosexual rush, the most risky and exciting thrill of their joint adventures - and yet suddenly now he saw it through a different lens. He saw all those shared knowing looks, and he didn't just see Leo's joy and eagerness, wide-eyed wonder and horny instinct; no, now he saw curious eyes, eyes staring at HIM, and he saw the other man's powerful muscles as threatening and predatory. He thought about Leo's hand on his bare shoulder as he fucked her, or their cocks dangerously close as they both blew their loads onto her tits. Fuck, fuck.
He could see himself slamming into her pussy on that hotel bed, pumping his strong glutes and loading her up with his cock, then lifting his head to smirk across the bed at Messi, winking at his best friend and telling him it must be his turn again. So much wicked fun they'd shared that night, and now Aguero look back at it in paranoid terror.
He broke the kiss, pushing hard on Messi's biceps to break their bodies apart, and both of them almost staggering away and falling in the break of their grip. He panted for breath, feeling his lips moist and tingling from the prolonged contact of another mouth; across from him, Messi was steadying himself and also gasping for air, moist shiny mouth opening and closing, chest muscles heaving through his pale blue t-shirt. He was staring hungrily this way with wide eyes and lunging back towards him with reaching hands; but Aguero grabbed at his hands and pushed back again, staring at him with strange fascination and horror, but resisting the reach of his fresh embrace.
He stared hard at the other Argentine, ready to reevaluate everything. Here he was, his best friend and the most respected footballer in his world, and he didn't know what on earth to say to him, what to think of him, how to be with him. Lionel lunged for him again, trying to take his hands or grab his wrists, and he pushed him away, even more roughly this time. `No!' he barked awkwardly, but even as he said it, the realisation struck him - the tight hardness in the front of his cargo pants, where his prick was rock-hard inside his trunks, straining at their elastic and the thicker canvas of the pants. For a second or less, he wondered how obvious it was, and if Leo had felt it there as they held each other close and he allowed the kiss...
`No!' he repeated, trembling as he shouted it.
Now he heard new noises. Noises he'd missed on Messi's arrival. Doors and voices from another corner of the apartment, from the direction of the staffed entrance foyer that connected the different parts of the condo. And he glared across at this unwelcome visitor, this treacherous sneaky figure who had followed him home to land these great secrets on him and just expect everything to be okay...!
Aguero spoke before his thoughts could possibly organise themselves. `Get out. You make me sick, Leo. Just... go!' He could hardly understand what he was shouting until it was out, and then he heard more noises, more sounds of doors and clicking high heels. He pushed vaguely at Leo's chest to send him on his way, and tried not to focus on the look of deep hurt and distress on those strong features. He wasn't going to tell him again, so he shoved him by the shoulder, and pointed away across the courtyard - and immediately, the other Argentine was retreating, zombie-like, moving towards the doors, and he slipped away through one set of them almost in the same instant as another entrance opened and Mrs Aguero herself came parading out in her playsuit and stripper heels, arms wide as she approached him for a kiss and cuddle.
In strong arms, Sergio grabbed and held her, but didn't look at her, his eyes fixed on the other wall of the courtyard, and the door that had closed behind Messi as he left, not even glancing back as he hurried away. He held his murmuring wife in his arms and heard her comment on the stiffness in his pants, asking if he'd been waiting for her, and Sergio couldn't even bring himself to answer. He just grabbed her, hoisted her up onto his chest to hold her, letting her legs wrap about his waist, and carried her to the bedroom.
Silent and full of rage, he fucked her, in a way that he hadn't fucked her since the earliest days of their courtship, making her scream and whine, filling her up with his manly cum, and picturing the dirty wet breasts of that random flirtatious PR worker in the European hotel, shared by he and his best friend - Aguero was looking at it all now as if for the first time, and he pictured himself looking up form her glazed tits and grinning wearily at Messi, reaching to high-five him, their clammy hands clasping mid-air, and their spent bodies falling together in a brief embrace. For a moment, he thought, their big virile cocks had touched, but he'd laughed it off, because they were brothers in arms, and they'd just had an exciting football threesome with a stone-cold hottie.
But now...
The world looked different.
TO BE CONTINUED
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