Part 343: DILF-to-be
Someone had knocked some music on, via a low-powered portable speaker, but the tinny tunes were drowned out by the voices of the football players in the home changing room, whether they were doing a bad job of singing along, or just chatting loudly in the glow of their Saturday victory over the visitors; he didn't really have the energy to get up and join the cringe dancing of the lads at the other side of the locker-room, so he just swigged some more of the lukewarm beer he'd been given, and relaxed where he was, towel draped over bare shoulders and fresh BoohooMan boxer briefs pulled snugly up about his crotch and backside, the tracky bottoms left lazily at his knees as if he couldn't be arsed to finish dragging them up to his waist.
Jarrod Bowen guzzled as much of the beer in one mouthful as he could, really keen now to just be rid of it - whose idea were these unpleasantly warm cheap beers anyway? He couldn't remember who'd sneaked the crate of contraband from their locker and started cracking them open, but when the gaffer had noticed and laughed along, the 26-year-old player had gladly accepted one and started on it once he was fresh out of the shower, but in his head he needed something iced and stronger to round off a fucking great night.
Everything was a team effort, of course, but Bowen's own brace of goals in the first half had secured the much-needed win over Lampard's Everton boys, and so he felt like he should be drowning in champagne and carried aloft on the shoulders of his fellow West Ham lads, rather than supping sour warm Bud and feeling too tired to finish getting dressed, ha.
He put the dregs of the bottle aside and yanked the tracksuit pants right up his chunky legs, hopping up from his arse to his feet, and looking about for the clean socks to pull over his bare feet. Desirous of a wilder party as he was, Jarrod felt a real warm buzz, especially as he checked his phone again and saw the shared images of his pregnant-with-a-football celebration, promised to the missus as a follow-up to breaking the news of their unborn twins; JB himself didn't care so much for social media and public attention, but Dani had been insistent, and now he was just embracing it. They were booked in for a massive photoshoot with a glossy magazine later in the week, not the kinda thing that Jarrod would seek out for himself, but he felt oddly excited, maybe just because her enthusiasm for showing off their happy news was so infectious. He felt proud that he'd bagged a pair of goals for the two incoming kids, and announced his father-to-be status to the world in the best way possible for a footballer.
His messaging app and social media was abuzz with tagged and shared images and messages of congratulations, but he locked the device to save them for later, grinning happily to himself and dragging the towel through the soft damp of his blonde hair, then searching through his personal items for a comb.
`JB!' cooed a very familiar voice, and suddenly his friend and captain was at his side, gripping him by one shoulder then pulling in for a quick manly embrace, bare chest to bare chest as towels slid away. But Declan Rice was fresher from the communal shower, and hot steam rose from blotchy pale skin, the 24-year-old England star breaming proudly at him and fussing with the folded towel that was slung over one broad shoulder.
`Rice Rice Baby,' Bowen trilled happily back, and the two close teammates exchanged a half-arsed secret handshake of grabs and fist bumps, before he turned to snatch up the located comb and run it through his dark blonde fuzz.
Less of that, Bow-Bow Baby now,' chuckled the tall defensive midfielder, who was just in a pair of stretchy white CK boxers as he stood there with the towel over one shoulder and his cheeks pink with the heat of the shower. Right, where are we going to celebrate?!'
It was like Deccers could read his mind, really, since the 26-year-old expecting father had just been wondering if this warm beer was all he could toast the big win with - and yet, he had to give a slightly awkward half-smile back to the bright-eyed younger skipper, hesitating in the act of combing his hair and then dropping it back into his toilet bag. `What? Tonight? Oh, er-' he began, and Declan nodded enthusiastically in front of him, clapping hands together in front of his chest and bouncing from foot to foot, whilst a change in music track elicited a ragged cheer from the other side of the room.
Loads of the lads are up for it,' Rice said quickly. Some mate of Antonio's has just opened up a new club in Bethnal Green but thinks he can get us into their VIP section from about midnight - and even Zouma and Paqueta are up for a bevvy, for fuck's sake, it could be a really fucking good one-' And the other Premier League man paused, apparently starting to read the conflicted expression on Bowen's boy-next-door features.
Look,' Jarrod said, that sounds fucking brilliant, but...'
`Maaaate-'
It's just I promised,' he pleaded, finding and unfolding the plain white t-shirt that he'd pull over his muscular upper half, backing an inch or two from the almost violent enthusiasm of his friend. Look, she's a bit vulnerable at the minute, we're still kinda getting used to the idea that it's twins, and- Mate, I don't think it'll go down if I ring her now and say I'm-'
Buddy,' moaned Dec loudly, disappointment oozing from every pore; and he wasn't alone in this reaction, because a towel-clad Johnson was just passing them by and joined in with a boo' that was picked up by a couple of other nearby guys, making Jarrod squirm and hide his face in the process of pulling on the tee.
Mate, trust me, I'd love a few drinks,' Bowen insisted, wriggling comfortably into it and then grabbing up the bunched socks that he'd lost before. But I seriously promised, straight home to the bird. Look - scrap tonight, say, and we'll do a Sunday session in the afternoon tomorrow after recovery, or summat? You reckon anyone'll be up for that...?'
But Rice was barely listening to this suggestion of compromise, backing away and joining in a fleshy hug with passing Flynn Downes, then pulling back this way and offering him the most hangdog expression of pouting lips and wide babyish eyes. Come on,' pleaded the young Premiership captain. His voice lowered as he added, Mase is out of town with the Chels, isn't he, up in Scouser-land - so I'm off the leash, so to speak, and I fancy getting wasted and pulling out some Vanilla Ice moves on a sticky dancefloor, so-'
`I'm a man of my word,' Jarrod grunted at him with an air of finality, half-turning from him because he knew that Declan's pleading and playful banter would convince him if he gave it half a chance. He frowned to himself and ignored another moan of protest from his friend, lifting one leg at a time to yank the socks over his large feet, then shuffling away to go through his things and find his jumper. He thought that Rice might go on, trying to coax and guilt him, but then was almost disappointed when the West Ham skipper moved on almost instantly, leaving him with just a light pat to the back - he was straight on to one of the 50-something fitness coaches by the door, shouting at him that he should come out and show the young lads how to drink like a real bloke.
It was the mention of Mason Mount, he supposed, that brought him a little discomfort and uncertainty, pausing in the act of unrolling his sweatshirt and staring thoughtfully through the melee of football blokes to watch Rice in action, gregarious and attentive to every guy around him, the consummate team leader and club representative - and yet, Jarrod thought, pretty much nobody here knew the truth about him, knew that he was shacked up with his `best friend' in West London, living in a relationship more happy and functional than most straight marriages Jarrod had observed in their world of big money and flashy lifestyles... He'd often suggested double dates to Rice, but the 24-year-old didn't like the idea of Bowen's celeb girlfriend being in on the secret, and got very nervous if he suspected that she already knew. She didn't, of course, because Jarrod was fiercely loyal to his West Ham bestie, and had guarded the secrets of the England camp even once he was snubbed from this winter's World Cup drama.
After all... it was hardly just Declan's secret that needed to be kept, was it? He cringed to think of his own dabbles, and gulped down the very last of the sickly beer, chucking the bottle into a recycling bin and sitting down to pull on his trainers. As he tackled the laces, he pushed aside hazy memories of St George's Park and the risks he'd taken, and thought instead of the wholesome picture that awaited him on the Essex border, home to his pregnant girlfriend and whatever rom-com she'd chosen for them to watch in bed - he didn't need some messy laddish night out in East London to feel happy with the goals and win, not with such domestic bliss at the other end of the drive...!
`You giving it a miss too, mate?'
Bowen paused, sitting up from lacing the second trainer, and finding another squad member positioned next to him; the bigger bloke had dumped a backpack heavily down on the slatted bench next to him to riffle through it distractedly, and his casual remark had cut into some conflicted thoughts where Jarod's mind's eye had flickered between a cosy cuddle with Dani and an image of himself marching authoritatively into that bathroom stall with none other than the England captain, Harry Kane reduced to his knees and opening his mouth wide to initiate him into the national squad.
`Huh - oh, this night out? Is everyone actually going into Bethnal Green? Well, I just promised the girlfriend, y'know, and we only just got this big news, and-'
Sure, sure,' grunted the London club's latest acquisition without looking from his bag, clearly a bit concerned about the whereabouts of something in there. He paused in this task and shot a knowing smile this way, before quietly adding, They get like that when they're up the duff, fella, so get ready for a lot less freedom from now until forever, ha - but fair play to ya, bagging a Love Islander and bit of East London royalty, and knocking her up with twins. Must be some fucking crazy swimmers in ya.' He was being a bit crude, but his smile and eyes brimmed with warmth and comradeship, and Jarrod couldn't help but let out a muffled laugh at this ambiguous compliment.
Thanks, Danny,' he said a little uncertainly, resting his hands on his knees, and then glancing uncertainly over the room - Rice, already a bit more fully dressed, was doing his best to rouse a party crew and the crowd in the home changing rooms was already thinning out, someone somewhere shouting about ordering taxis - before leaning over and patting the older bloke on the arm. Fucking solid debut there, buddy, it's great to have you with us. Look forward to many assists between us, big man, yeh?'
A gruff laugh from the 30-year-old transfer, and then one large rough hand was pushed out for a shake, which Bowen gladly grabbed, though he had to hide a slight wince of surprise as Danny Ings gripped it a little too enthusiastically as if he had a point to prove. In his heart of hearts, Jarrod had been a bit wary about the purchase of the Aston Villa spare, because everyone knew what Ings could be capable of at full fitness, and Bowen wasn't desperate for competition on the front line of the West Ham squad - but he'd been pleased by how humble and team-spirited the seasoned striker was, and how neatly he'd fitted into their team dynamics during the past few days of training. He seemed a really sound bloke, a good addition to the gang.
Ah, cheers,' chuckled the more experienced footballer, going back to the frowning search through his backpack; he was all tracksuit-ed up and looking like he was ready for the off, as if he too had things to hurry home for. Bowen hesitated to ask, because a little part of him was still wondering if he could give Dani a quick ring and suggest to her that he join the lads for one drink' a bit later on; there was an excited buzz in the changing rooms and guys were getting dressed in a real hurry. Michail Antonio was always a reliable one for good social plans, and if he was hooking them all up with some VIP shit, then-
Damn it,' Ings was muttering to himself. Could swear I put them in here.'
Jarrod scratched at the thin sprinkle of blond stubble on his jaws, and turned back to the hunched bloke next to him, while more lads exited the changing rooms, including a happily cheering Declan. Again, he thought a little grumpily that his good friend might have made a BIT more effort to convince him to come out, and pushed him a bit further - he was the star of the game, after all!
`What's that?' he asked Danny distractedly.
Car keys,' the Winchester-born football ace mumbled. He let go of the bag and started packing at the pockets of his coat and tracksuit, frowning through his thin dark beard, and then staring down at the lino floor as if he might have dropped them here. Jarrod frowned and followed his frantic gaze from floor to bag, making a sympathetic hmm' and the generic pantomime effort of trying to help find them, though his mind was elsewhere - really, he DESERVED a night out, after those two goals, and he hadn't had a proper drink in WEEKS, not since before New Year, so-
Fuck knows,' Ings muttered. I swear I put them in here but I'd lose my head if it weren't attached to my shoulders, haha. Fucking hell.' He rolled his eyes and gave the various pockets of his winter coat another going-through, whilst Jarrod got to his feet and began packing his personal things together, whilst tossing his dirty kit into the nearby laundry bin to be dealt with.
Jarrod shoved all the stuff into his own kit bag and stood by it, looking over thoughtfully at the far end of the room: Antonio was on the phone to someone, presumably the mate with the new nightclub, cackling along happily and estimating numbers and arrival times in a jovial voice. Then he was heading out, bag slung over one shoulder, and a couple of others were following him. Right, Jarrod thought, perhaps if he got home quick enough and dropped a few hints of FOMO to the missus, then SHE might actually be the one to suggest that he needed to see the lads and miss movie night...? After all, the details would all be in the squad group chat, or a quick call to Rice, or...
Taxi for me, then,' came a weary laugh from the newbie behind him, reminding him that Ings was still there in his predicament. But the bearded 30-year-old was zipping up his bag now with a perplexed expression on his slightly lined face, though he seemed more amused than distressed by the situation. They'll be about somewhere, some bugger will find them cleaning up, or tomorrow... and I'll just head back in after the recovery sessions, and...' He smiled quite optimistically. `Should I take this as a bad omen for my time at West Ham, eh?'
Jarrod suddenly had the strong sense that he was being a bit rude to his newest colleague, distracted as he was by his own indecision. He smiled encouragingly at the other man and then had another aimless look about their corner of the room, as if the dropped keys might suddenly turn up - Nah,' he told him firmly, this is just you getting old, Ings mate. Haha - taxi, you said? Nah, nah - you want a lift? Whereabouts are you staying at the moment? I'm sure I can drop you before I drive out into the burbs.'
`Oh - well, if you're sure, fella, that would be nice. Just renting a place in one of the wharfs, for now, til I figure out a more permanent plan. You sure you don't mind?'
Bowen shrugged. `Nah, no worries buddy, can't take long - you sure we shouldn't look about a bit more for your key though? You not a bit worried?'
A hefty shrug from the striker in his winter layers. `It'll turn up. Car will be fine here overnight, right.'
On the way out of the stadium's underground car park, he must have looked a bit too longingly at the sight of several teammates piling into Rice's Land Rover together, seemingly off to his flat for pre-drinks. He wouldn't have realised how obvious his indecision was if Danny Ings hadn't laughed at him and told him that he would be missing a lot more nights out once he was a daddy, and he should just treat tonight was a warm-up for the boring domestic life ahead - it was a harsh comment, but said with a smile and a laugh, and Jarrod just sighed and shook his head with a nervous laugh, steering them out into the secured roads that zipped them out of the Olympic park area and into normal traffic of East London, the apartment address already punched into the navigation app.
Is this the voice of experience, then?' the 26-year-old goalscorer asked at a red light, looking wryly at the comfortably slouched figure in the passenger seat. How many kids you got, Danny boy?'
What? Oh, no - not me. Well, not officially,' he chuckled. I think there might be a few little lads about the south of England with my ears and playboy eyes, but it ain't my name on the birth certificates.' He smirked, and Jarrod laughed at him before steering them out onto a more free-flowing route down towards the Thames. No, childless here, but got hitched last year in Barbados - tamed beast, you might say.' A gold band was flashed on one hairy hand, and Jarrod tried to think of something politely interested to ask about the wedding, but Danny went on: I'm just talking about all the mates I've lost to boring fatherhood over my 20s, that's all, you know how it is.'
Bowen smiled awkwardly and thought about this for a moment, then laughed it off. `We'll see what happens with you and the new Mrs Ings, then, eh?'
Both men laughed easily and fell quiet, moving slowly through the Saturday night traffic, following the navigator down into one of the slick riverside wharfs where Danny's apartment block rose among its neighbouring towers. They chatted some more, Jarrod asking a few polite questions about where Danny and his missus might settle properly, recommending his own suburb and a few other patches of the Essex hinterland where a football wage could buy a veritable palace or two. Caught up in a bit of friendly talk with the new signing, Bowen actually lost sight of his FOMO - he'd stopped thinking enviously about huge vodka bottles and buxom barmaids in a swish VIP section, and was set to reprogram the navigation to carry him right out into the quiet suburban peace where Dani awaited him. Until, that was, his calmly chatty patient made a last remark on the matter.
We won't miss out on much,' Ings announced, apropos of nothing, as Bowen pulled up on the kerb near the foot of an almost brand-new looking apartment block in one corner of the wharf. I mean, you know the drill with footy lad nights out, don't you? Everyone will have a good laugh for about an hour and then five blokes will pass out from too much drink, another five will get kicked out for starting fights, and another five will ruin their marriages by shagging the wrong cunt in the club toilets. Am I right, or am I right?' And he smiled broadly, dimples forming in his bearded cheeks.
Jarrod, taken slightly aback by the return to that topic, paused with both hands on the wheel, laughing as he thought through this prognosis. `Okay - you've got me there. Sounds fair. But if I don't go out, I don't get to find out which of those fives includes me...!' And again, both players laughed heartily, and Jarrod only half-regretted a joke about the idea of cheating on his beloved, the mother-to-be of his first kids.
Oh,' chuckled Ings in the passenger seat, seemingly in no hurry to get out and let him on his way into Essex, I think we both know which category you'd be in, JB.' The initials were a bit over-familiar, he might have thought, though Danny would have heard everyone call him that on the training field all week, so it was fair enough. Still, his curiosity was oddly piqued, and he stared across at this guy who didn't know the first thing about him.
Which?' he demanded, a little more loudly than he meant to. As Danny began to suppress another laugh, he scowled jokily at him and tutted. I'm not the kind of guy that pukes after three drinks and ruins a night out, for fuck's sake - I know I've got a boyish face, but-'
`Haha, that is NOT the category I was thinking...!'
`Oh, er, right, I just-'
And you don't look like you go starting fights,' Ings told him simply, giving him a light push across the front of the car, so it must be the third. Come on, you must be a bit of a shagger. Big heavy bollocks on you, getting your missus preggo with TWINS, for fuck's sake. DILF-to-be of West Ham, haha.' As Jarrod paused quietly and digested this slightly odd appraisal, Danny went on, `And we both know you'd do something you regret if you went out on that team drinks in Shoreditch or wherever it was, fella...!'
This made him stop, pressing his thumbs in against the top of the wheel, and a hesitant little frown colour his country-boy looks. The thought had crossed his mind before, but not quite in the way that this West Ham newbie probably meant. It had been in the car park, looking across at buoyant and sociable Declan, beckoning Fornals and Soucek into his motor; a jarring little imagining that he refused to label an urge or desire, more a speculation. He'd wondered if he might get so drunk that he couldn't face the journey from the city to his place, and if he'd have to crash at Rice's flat instead, and if maybe- Nah, nah, don't think about it, that shit can stay in the England camp, where it apparently belongs...!
What?' asked Danny warmly. Offend you, did I?'
`Huh, nah, nah - just - just you've got me wrong there, mate, I'm well happy with my girl, I'm not the kind to go around-'
Ohhh, I was just messing,' he was told. Don't take it to heart, boss. Right, I should let you get away - or do you wanna see the view from the flat?' Danny seemed to thoughtfully stop himself, and then pat one of those hairy hands on the top of Jarrod's arm where it still clutched the wheel. Tell you what, why don't you have a COLD beer in mine, and ring the missus, and figure out your plan for the night, instead of huffing and puffing over it like you're an old married bore?' His eyes twinkled, and though his voice had a lightly mocking edge, the offer felt sincere and helpful. Just a quick drink up in the apartment while you weigh it up, and then you can either ditch your motor here and join the lads, or bugger off into Pleasantville or wherever you two are shacked up. Sound like a plan?' Jarrod looked at him and nodded vaguely, carried along by the firm warmth of the new player's confident voice, and realising that he genuinely couldn't decide what to do.
It was a decent flat, big and airy, but very bland and corporate-looking, not Bowen's kinda pad at all. Ings seemed very excited about the views over the Thames, and he was right, with Tower Bridge the nearest landmark in the sprawl of nocturnal colour that stretched ahead. Up here, Jarrod held back from sitting himself down on any of the stiff-looking new leather furniture, unsure he wanted to be here more than five minutes, because he could feel his decision on a knife-edge, and he hadn't even texted his girlfriend, never mind called her to float the idea of his night out.
So,' he called through into the white brightness of the kitchen area, how come you aren't rushing out to party with all your new teammates, mate?'
He'd been a bit surprised by the absence of Danny's wife, who was still at their Birmingham residence, having vaguely assumed that a similar situation might be holding Ings back from getting out on the lash with Rice and Antonio, especially after his debut appearance as a Hammer. The new Hammer himself came strutting back through to him, his coat and jersey off, just a tight black t-shirt left, and the tattoo sleeves of his muscular arms on show as he passed a schooner glass of lager this way.
Honest? Just can't be bothered. Been a crazy week. And - well, I'll be frank - I can't see myself turning up to a team recovery session green with hangover, puking in the ice bath, and making a shitty impression on all my new coaches. Know what I mean? Don't get me wrong,' Ings continued, supping from his own drink, I'm always the first to the bar, but I know when to keep a low profile. I need to let my goals do the talking for the next few months, rather than trying to be banter king.' They clinked glasses. `Once you pass 30 in this league, you've got to make sure you're in a good position, and West Ham might be my last club, JB - I need to do things right here.'
Bowen nodded slowly at this logic, and looked back at the view for a while, pretty comfortable with Ings' explanation, but unsure about his own. He felt guiltily at the outline of his phone in the pocket of his tracksuit pants, knowing he should give her a ring and hint at the dilemma, or... Or, he told himself, just accept the inevitable and get on the road home, like he'd promised! It's not as if Rice or anyone else was bombarding him with messages to try and convince him that he was missing out, or would be missed. Even though, a bitter little voice pointed out, it would have been a draw or worse without his goals, huh.
Seriously though,' interrupted Danny's voice, congrats on the family news, you know I'm only messing with ya. It'll be great for you both. Just because I've not given in to the dad life yet, don't let me put you off.' Smiling, he'd sat down in the centre of the white sofa, and Jarrod decided that to stay standing would look rude. He nodded gratefully at this comment and perched on the matching armchair, finding it as stiffly new and unyielding as it looked, and not quite able to make himself comfortable.
And like I say, you must be super-fertile or something,' Ings chuckled. It struck Bowen as a bit odd that this was already the third comment of this kind that his new teammate had made tonight, but he laughed hesitantly anyway, and murmured his bland agreement. Yeah, crazy spunk in those big balls,' the striker told him in the same amused mutter. `That's why I had you for a bit of a shagger on a night out, is all, no judgement of your relationship with that Love Island babe. I mean, when you've got too much spunk, it has to go somewhere.' He made it sound so simple and matter-of-fact, and obviously Bowen had grown up on any number of teams loaded with crude laddish banter, but there was still something odd here, and he shifted against the stiff white leather, not laughing any more.
`Give it a rest,' he said a little quietly, but trying to keep his voice bright and breezy.
Again, just thinking of other mates I've played with, that's all!' was the 30-year-old's cheery chuckle of response, and he slid down the sofa to one end, closer to Jarrod. Maybe you're a way more controlled bloke than all that. Different generation, you and me.'
Jarrod scoffed at this, scratching his light stubble again. `Hardly, you're only like 30 or whatever, so... I turned 26 last month,' he added, as if he somehow had to assert that he was a man and not a boy.
Aye,' said Danny in that odd voice that could be mockery or genuine support, a big alpha bloke now, even if you look like some farm-boy who's barely had his first beer or shag at the barn dance, haha. Sorry, sorry - god, can't say the right thing, can I? Keep making you do that frown, JB. Ignore me, I'm a prick.'
Bowen didn't know what to say to literally any of this and he just drank from his glass, the beer tasting so much better and colder than the bottle in the changing rooms. He wondered if the taste and buzz of it would push him to crave the sweaty excitement of the nightclub, but he found himself ambivalent. But then Ings had already offered his parking spot below the apartment block, so he could leave it safely here and even catch the Overground nearby, and... Hmm. He realised that Danny was looking at him expectantly, and had maybe said something else, probably another daft inappropriate comment. He paused, unsure what to say, and Danny just laughed.
`I said, is she letting you shag her or is she one of those nervous-bump people?'
At this bluntness, Bowen could only pause and blink and take a long sip of beer, but before he could say anything to dismiss the nosy question, Ings was chuckling to himself and going on. `That's where it must get tough, if you're a billy big bollocks heavy cummer like you, mate, and you can't even get the goodies at home, cos she's scared about the bump, or whatever - that's where a bloke could get desperate and ANYTHING could happen, you know? Next thing you know, you've fucked things up and you're shagging someone from a different Love Island scene in the bathroom of-'
At that, the 26-year-old was up on his feet, and the glass of beer was smashing on the faux wood floor. Danny rose instantly to meet his aggressive stance, and Jarrod squared quickly up to him, a switch clicked. You need to stop chatting shit,' he told the other player firmly, pointing a warning finger close to his face. I don't like the things you're trying to say about me or my missus, so just watch it, alright?'
Whoa, whoa,' protested Ings, without backing off from him, just holding up both hands innocently, I warned you I'm a prick, it's just my sense of humour - you're alright mate, no need to get so feisty, okay?'
Well just stop it,' Bowen grunted awkwardly, feeling a bit silly as the flash of anger receded, but still wagging the warning finger in the older man's face and stepping up closer to him, unfazed that his host was a good inch taller and a lot broader. You've been muttering the wrong things since you chatted at me in the changing room and I'm not sure I like it, mate, so watch that mouth or you won't be making such a great start at West Ham, old man, just like you feared, okay?' They stood there, close to each other, and he felt like the wrong quip or push from Danny might earn the balding fucker a punch in the face, never mind his big tatted arms and pub bouncer demanour - Jarrod wasn't scared to get physical when needed, he'd learned a scrappy and fearless style in his seasons at this club.
But Danny Ings didn't say a thing to push the wrong buttons, other than the rather infuriatingly cheery smile that still lit his bearded features as he lowered his protesting hands and relaxed his posture in front of him. No. Instead, he did something else, something that might still have earned him a knuckle-print on his cheek or nose, except that Jarrod Bowen didn't quite know how to react, and so he just stood there, fists at his sides, and mouth set into a grim frown. He let out a long deep breath and tried to understand what the hand on his crotch currently meant, paired with that leering grin on Danny's face.
Just like I thought,' breathed Ings quietly. Fucking huge low hangers, by the feel of it.'
`Fuck's sake, mate,' Bowen grunted awkwardly back, alarmed.
`And a whopper cock - how big's that hard?'
`Shit - none of yer business, mate!'
`Bet she loves it-'
`I've warned you, Ings.'
`Are they full right now? They feel it.'
`Mate, you can push me too far, and I'll...'
You'll what?' sneered Ings. Throw me down and treat me rough? I'll let you in on a secret, big boy.' The 5ft10 striker was leaning in so close that their faces brushed, his mouth coming in close to the ear as he whispered. `That's just how I like it, daddy.'
Jarrod's world spun, and for a moment, all he could really concentrate was the knowing hand on his bulge, and the breath on his ear and his cheek. It was hardly the point, but Danny was 100% correct, because he and his missus hadn't fucked since the morning she did the positive pregnancy test. And between that and the Premiership schedule, he'd barely had time to let loose with a quick tug. His cock was rising stiffly against this unexpected touch, and his fertile balls were every bit as big and full as this lewd cunt kept muttering. He stood still like a statue, fists clenching tighter, and still kinda wanting to swing one at the other man's infuriating expression. But... this... felt... good... so...
I'm gonna get it out,' Ings informed him in a quiet voice, and I'm gonna taste it. We good, Mr Fisticuffs?' He didn't answer this question, just stood there, and even closed his eyes distantly, freezing himself up as he felt Danny's hands settle on his tense arms and stroke downwards. Soon it wasn't a hand rubbing the bulge in his tracksuit, but a mouth. He could feel the club's new striker nuzzling his privates through the nylon, and he shivered uncomfortably, but excitedly, and the weight of his ignored mobile phone in one pocket throbbed paranoidly against his thigh - she would be texting soon and asking about the traffic, asking when to expect him home. He wanted to be out, enjoying himself, getting drunk in the VIP, and... and... just like Danny said, fucking some hot new thing in the bathroom, pushing into a tight new pussy, but he never cheated, NEVER - he was 100% faithful, to all his girlfriends, well unless you counted... er, Harry Kane, Three Lions icon, noshing him off in that quiet toilet stall, or... He reopened his eyes, and tried to relax the aggro fists at his sides, and he looked down: the elastic waist of his West Ham trackies was being pulled away, and with it the black BooHooMan-branded logo too, and there were the short wiry pubes, and then... out was his hard-on, short but fat and glossy at the tip where the foreskin rolled back, and then his balls too, full and heavy and hairy.
Danny Ings licked his lips and went to work, and the father-to-be shuddered.
He dragged him through into the bedroom, his body on fire. His t-shirt and sweater were off, piled on the faux wood floor between the white leather furniture, but he still had his tracksuit bottoms on, though his cock and ball bounced over the stretched waistband and glistened with spittle. In they went, Jarrod dragging the 5ft10 muscle by the arms, panting as he did so, and mouthing Shut up' at Danny's crude comments. Slap me,' hissed the striker, like he had from his knees when he paused in the sloppy blowjob. `Slap me or thump me, you fucking stud, show me who's boss.'
`Shut up, shut up-'
Throw me where you want,' groaned Ings, and call me anything you like.'
`Leave it out,' growled Bowen, unwilling to enter into this dirty talk, but tossing him at the bed all the same, pushing him down into a seated position and then cupping his head in both hands so he could lower it to his cock and hold it while he fucked his short thick meat in and out of that surprisingly talented gob, rough in a way that he never was with Dani. Never, he thought, with anyone really, except his national captain, that dark moment of temptation and curiosity, desperate to understand his best mate's gay activity.
You can't talk shit with a cock in your mouth,' he snarled at Ings, unwittingly falling right into the rough-and-nasty talk that the shocking guy was into - it was genuine anger and frustration from the winger, not some sleazy performance. Fucking choke on it,' he told him simply, leaning into this aggression and authority, behaving in a way that he would never dare with the daughter of the East End's favourite hard man caricature. `That's it, slobber on my cock, you slut-'
Yes sir,' drawled Danny in a moment of gasping freedom whilst Jarrod pulled back and wanked himself, but then the cock was shoved back in and only muffled gagging noises could sound from the slut on his bed. Jarrod reached aggressively over him, scratching fingertips over his bald patch and across his bearded jawline, then down at his thick neck and those bulging shoulder muscles, liking how thick and strong this fella was who was serving him, wanting to rip that black t-shirt away to see just how bullky his bitch was. He paused to do that, helping Danny out of the garment, and then spitting directly onto his face, shocked when it was caught in the mouth and Ings began to tweak his own bullet nipples, those tattooed biceps bulging as he did. Fuck my mouth,' slurred the 30-year-old, `fuck my mouth like her pussy...'
Jarrod, unable to stop himself, slapped the side of the man's face before shoving his cock into the gaping mouth. `You don't mention her, okay, you shut the fuck up about my girl, you dirty little bitch!'
When next Danny's mouth was not being slammed into, and he was just gasping and slobbering against Jarrod's six-pack instead, he grunted, You gonna fuck my man-pussy, daddy? You gonna breed me like you bred her?' And Jarrod pushed at his head roughly, slapping his cock against his cheeks angrily, but the idea struck something in him all the same, even as the striker slurred on, You gonna breed me and fill me with all that spunk like you did your other dirty Dani, eh? Cum in me, daddy-'
`Shut up,' Bowen snapped at him for the hundredth time.
Fuck me good,' begged Ings. Stick it in me and breed me!'
If there had been a single rational thought left in the young footballer's head, he'd have known that he was giving this rough bastard exactly what he wanted, but he was all testosterone and desperation, and so much spunk. Onto the bed they went, grabbing and tussling with Danny's heavy physique, until he was being pushed face-first into his own mass of new pillows, his arse up in the air, the waists of his tracksuit and undies sliding down a bit like on a fat builder, exposing the top of his hairy cheeks. With rough grasping hands, Danny helped them on their way, pushing them down to expose the big round buttocks, covered in dark hair, and spitting clumsily at them whilst gripping his dick in hand. This was madness, but he was lost in it.
That's it,' came Danny's growl, fuck me like your girlfriend, just another Danny-'
`SHUT UP!' And he pushed the man's face down more roughly into the pillows, almost smothering him, whilst he parted the cheeks with another hand and gobbed once into the crack. Then, without much ceremony, he pushed the fat tip of his cock between the cheeks and tried to enter him, shocked by the feel of a muscular arse against his neglected cock. It took him a good few shoves and rubs, but the hole gave way and he was in him, pushing into him quite violently, and shocked that he was doing it and that Danny was taking it, but just needing to punish this cocky bastard - and needing, more than anything, to empty his swollen daddy balls.
After holding Ings' face down into the smothering pillows for a little too long, he released his grip, and found that he actually wanted to hear that quivering gruff voice after all: Fuck yes, that feels good - fuck fuck, fuck me hard, HARDER, god yes!' And smut to that effect. He loved to hear it, though he slapped aggressively at the muscular back, and pushed roughly on the back of the man's head, and slammed his thick meat into him harder with every thrust, shagging him (him!) into the bed with an energy that he usually restrained and controlled, finally fucking with the same gusto and battle spirit that he brought to West Ham's tough league fixtures. Yes daddy,' the man called him, despite being four years his senior, and when he kept saying `Breed me like your Dani', Jarrod had to shove his face deeper into the pillows again to shut him up, slamming and pounding his hairy bottom with such force and speed that he knew he couldn't last for long.
It was a matter of minutes before this slutty man was getting just what he'd asked for, just what he'd muttered about all night: the emptied contents of Bowen's bollocks, a huge dirty load fired inside his hairy arse, with the more established West Ham player panting and grunting over him with his eyes squeezed shut, and his hands pressed tightly just above the hips. For a few more thrusts he shoved into him, wheezing breathlessly and feeling his whole face sticky with sweat. The red mist in his head cooling, because now Danny Ings was just letting out gasps and sighs and moans, not giving him dirty chat or making crude remarks about his missus. Danny. Dani. Danny. Dani. He'd been fucking her, in his head, he told himself, as his hands found the hairy curve of the man's arse, and he shuddered at the knowledge of the line he'd crossed. He'd been fucking this lump of muscle as if it was his beautiful woman, he told himself, because she was pregnant now and wouldn't let him in her, and... and... and... Oh, god.
Without saying anything, he pulled out, barely breathing, and scrambled slowly but desperately off the bed, his tracksuit pants still about his shins and calves. Up he tugged them as he hobbled for the door, moving slowly through the bland corporate apartment, finding his way into its oversized bathroom, where he could run his hands under cold water and then splash it on his face, his chest, his pits, his dirty cock. Oh, god. He stood over the sink and mirror in a shaky comedown, and then drifted back into the main living area and all its open-plan showhome grandeur. On the floor between the sofa and chair was his dropped clothing, but also the puddle and broken glass of his dropped beer. He picked his way past this mess and retrieved the layers of clothing, tugging them onto his tingling skin, covering up his chest and back and wiping the sleeves against his feverish face.
Then, shaken, he sat back down in that stiff uncomfortable armchair, just staring down into the slick of beer on the laminate boards, the little sparkles of broken glass in it, as shattered as his discipline and certainty. His cock tingled sensitively inside his pants, and he glanced up as Danny emerged from the bedroom. He'd pulled a silky claret robe around his body, showing just a V of hairy chest, and a flash of leg before his socks.
Right,' Ings said very casually, are you going out with the lads or driving home?'
Bowen stared sharply at him. `What?' he asked, genuinely lost.
Tonight,' the other footballer grunted simply. You came up here to have a beer and make up your mind. And... well, the beer is as fucked as my hole. So, what are you doing next?'
The 26-year-old just stared at him, somehow as shaken by his cool indifference now as he had been by his lewd suggestions and nasty provocations before. Danny looked chill and comfortable in his robe, and he was moving through into the kitchen, apparently to find stuff to clean up the beer and glass. Jarrod's eyes followed him, and he slowly got up from his uncomfortable seat, wiping clammy palms on his knees.
`Home,' he muttered, half to himself.
Probably for the best,' his host agreed quietly. You don't look up to a night out.' Danny didn't even look this way as he attacked the mess with a mop, and Jarrod drifted away from him, picking up his jacket from the back of another chair, and making his way to the door. He just felt numb and a little bit frightened of himself. As he stopped in front of the door, unsure what to say, Danny stopped in his mopping and waved confidently this way, the robe slipping and showing a bit more chest muscle. Good to hang out,' Ings called, as if they'd just shared a beer together and talked about footy. Bowen unlatched the door and hurried out into the corridor, but just before he slammed the door behind him, he heard the man's teasing voice follow him out: Come again, daddy.'
He practically sprinted to the lift, annoyed by how sensitive his cock was bouncing in his clothes, and by the prickle of the sex sweat under the layers, and he opened up his phone. He ignored the string of pleading messages that seemed to have just arrived, an already-tipsy Declan Rice begging him to join them at his flat and then on to the club, and he dialled the number to call his girlfriend instead. Traffic,' he told her through his panting, full of apology, but I will be back soon. Promise.'
Alone in the apartment, Ings gave up on the mess, resting the mop and strutting back through into his big master bedroom, all immaculate and unlived in but for the creased outline of their heavy bodies where he'd been ploughed into the bed. He wondered silently if he would need to change the sheets for before Mrs Ings joined him here, but probably not, it'd be fine.
He went to the desk in the corner, by another huge window with its river view, and picked up the spare mobile phone there, his secret one that he would never leave lying around whilst his wife was in residence. It wasn't locked, and he smirked at the app on-screen, stopping the sound recording that would have captured every filthy word and slap. Then he went into the messaging app and fired it across the network, tapping in his message of `For you to listen to tonight, sir'.
Soon, the reply came, and he hunched over the device like an excited teen with their first crush, reading the Good boy' and Can't wait' that came in rapid succession. His hole stinging from the speed and force of Bowen's fucking, the practised submissive bottom smiled at the thought of the Irish beast who'd tamed him, but now very rarely came to see him in real life, even if he managed to dominate him from a distance in spite of that. The thought of Shane Long, his Celtic king, made him weak at the knees, and his cock strain against the silky robe.
`Think I'll have fun here,' he texted to his former Southampton teammate.
`Just like Villa lol' came the response.
`Even more,' Danny typed in rapidly.
Another Good boy', and then a picture message. An old one, one that Danny might have thought or hoped was deleted by them both, a still of him on his kitchen floor with a carrot up his arse, taken for his dom a couple of years back, when he was much newer to serving hot football daddies. He grinned and responded Thank you sir' and then typed out Miss you' before wiping it away, knowing that he would be scolded for such neediness. But then, just as he was about to lock the device and put it down, the final message from old Shane slid into his inbox, and he stared at it eagerly: Maybe I'll have to cum visit lol', and he hit a thumbs-up react as fast as he could, and he opened his robe to grab and wank his cock, desperate to be reunited with the Irish striker who had broken him in. Compared to him, Bowen was nothing but a boy, he needed his original DILF back inside him, making him scream - and he wanked himself to completion looking at just the messages, desperate for that powerful man to come back and claim him for the first time in many long months.
'Writer guy' - Premiership Lads on Nifty https://www.nifty.org/nifty/gay/celebrity/premiership-lads/
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