Part 347: What Benjamin Saw
Saturday morning, he thought through a yawn, as the gates of their North London training camp came into view and the team bus swung off the B-road and down the sparse lane then in through those familiar gates. It had been a smooth journey across the country, but the young footballing lad was as restless as anyone else to disembark and disband - home and the licking of wounds, private recovery rituals and a break from the training schedule at last. As the big coach ground to a halt at one side of the broad car park, the 25-year-old clamped hands over his knees and readied himself to hurry up out of his seat and not be one of the last off the vehicle.
Mind, it was hardly the sombre mood you'd expect from a squad returning from FA Cup knockout, to be fair; there was nothing like being comfortably top of the Premier League to take the edge off some disappointment, even in a tournament as iconic as the FA Cup, one solidly treasured by the club and its fans over the years where league success had seemed so distant. They were all of them a bit horrified to be pushed out of the national tournament, for sure, but they were all pretty measured and sanguine about the pay-off - their battle for the Premiership title had drained them and left them unable to really fend off Man City last night, and now they were to some extent freed to just fully focus on that one singular goal after all. Their Spanish boss had been brutally clear last night in the Etihad's away changing rooms: no tears or recriminations over failure against Guardiola's lot in the cup, just resilient and determined focus on the big win ahead.
Like the rest of them, Ben White bought it, and he felt oddly liberated and unconcerned about being absent from last night's failed defence. He wasn't even wasting any thoughts on the notion that being subbed on might have allowed him to improve matters. Instead of being gloomy and downtrodden, the tall handsome player just felt keen to get some rest and then get back to work tomorrow afternoon with everybody else. He wasn't going to mope over watching the City pricks take their place in the latter stages of a cup that they had great history in, nah.
Now, he braced himself to get up, fidgeting on his seat, and looking back down the aisle of the bus, then leaning heavily into the backrest and rising up on one knee, waiting for the coach doors to open and to be able to spring lightly down to the exit ahead of the rush. But next to him was a light scoffing sound, and he glanced to the left.
That desperate to get away from me?' chuckled his neighbour in the next seat, and his roommate as usual for last night's Manchester trip. The rhetorical question was light and jokey, as was Aaron Ramsdale's dimpled grin and bright eyes, and yet the mock offence carried it with a certain awkwardness that made him twitch and grimace, and force out a laugh as he set out quickly to explain himself: Just need to stretch my legs and-'
`I was kidding,' Aaron assured him quietly, though his smile faded a bit and he averted his eyes, glancing out of the window and then seeming to find something very interest in the small backpack on his lap - and Ben too looked sharply away, trailing off in his explanation of why he was so desperate to be off the bus, any reason but to get a break from the warm and companionable presence of the Arsenal goalkeeper.
Once he was up and off, shaking his 6ft1 body and waiting to be handed his small wheeled case form the luggage hold, White was feeling a little bit awkward and uncomfortable about that momentary friction with Ramsdale. It was nothing, just a little moment of poor communication, but it was the kind of little off-moment that now seemed to happen daily between the firm friends, and it wasn't hard for the Arsenal lad to know where it had all begin, just as he knew his pal must be conscious of it too.
As it had throughout the Christmas period and this first month of 2023, Benjamin's thoughts turned to the sweaty heat of Doha, and the couple of days before his controversial exit from the England camp. He'd dealt with any number of questions about his departure in the six or seven weeks that had passed, though now more from friends and colleagues than the initial media scrutiny, and he knew that half a dozen different rumours were floating about the footballing world, none quite sticking to his name. Thank fuck that none of them were any close to the truth, he thought, and rubbed instinctively at one of his puffy eyes, a gesture that any onlooker would mistake for the obvious tiredness of the blokes, aching from last night's game and from an early start to be driven down the country.
Around him, other men collected their things and began to dissipate, a ragged thin crowd trailing from the bus to the other end of the car park, or in some cases towards the scattering of expensive buildings that housed the Arsenal training facilities. He was grabbed in brief hugging and handshake gestures by two or three of the nearer guys, bidding goodbye to newbie Trossard and to the likes of Holding and Gabriel, offering weak praise to the other defenders who had been bested by last night's opposition.
For a moment, the Dorset lad was about to head directly for his own car, but then he remembered the few things he needed to drop off and collect from his locker inside, and he trundled in the direction of the main building, joining the thin stream of others who were also popping indoors for various reasons. Halfway across the tarmac, he couldn't help but pause and look morosely back in the direction of the idling bus: big Ramsdale, a hefty 6ft2 looking even more bulky in his hoodie and puffer jacket, was deep in conversation with Turner, the 2nd keeper who had unsuccessfully taken his place last night.
Benjamin thought about the coldness between them in hot Qatar, that night and day after the conjugal visits went a bit wrong. Aaron's prank, Ben's fiancee's temper, and the ill-fated mischief that followed that evening. He blinked and winced and thought angrily about how silly and immature they'd both been. Once he'd got the gross stuff in his eye, he'd felt utterly ridiculous, and point blank refused to show his face amongst the rest of Southgate's men - he'd feigned various vague allusions to illness and bullied Ramsdale into supporting his lies, disappearing out of the hotel base as quickly as he could and catching that flight back to London, shrouded in gossip and controversy. But at least none of the headlines had read `Arsenal defender catches pinkeye playing about with joke dildo', and Ramsdale seemed to have successfully kept their secret for the remainder of the tournament - and, as far as he could tell, his female partner's indignation over the prank dildo had completely disappeared during a festive season of him lavishing every expensive gift on her that his limited imagination could stretch to. That afternoon in the Middle East, the stroppy girl had threatened to end their engagement over Aaron's joke and the idea that Ben might tell a soul about their sex life, but now all was forgiven and forgotten.
Forgiven and forgotten - was that true between him and Rammers...?
Well yeah, pretty much. His own sour resentment to the other fella had been cooled by how helpful and discreet Ramsdale was in helping him to get away from England training, and as soon as the big fella was back from the winter sun, they'd been thrown back together by Arsenal training regimes, and hung out plenty in between December and January fixtures much as before. But it hung there awkwardly between them, or at least over Ben's head: the knowledge of the silly shit they'd got up to in that hotel room, and how it had led to such vicious words between them once that clumsy twat got cum in Ben's eye. It was easier, subconsciously, for White to fixate on that little injury than to really acknowledge the full details of what had gone on between them; and yet all of it hung there at the back of his mind and made him that little bit more reticent and shy with his clubmate, that little bit distant and removed even when they hung out just the two of them.
Not to mention his England prospects being in tatters, of course - a bit like last night's loss to City, Benjamin found himself curiously disinterested in something that should be a significant blow. Did he really care that he was unlikely to get another call-up from the Three Lions? It hadn't been much fun, and he'd never felt like he was being seriously considered to replace any of the gaffer's defensive faves. Sod them. Here at Arsenal he was valued, and their young-ish club hero manager had been quick to remind him of this as soon as he returned to them with his pinkeye faded away.
The 25-year-old mulled over his dented friendship with Ramsdale and his limited national prospects, muddling through the cool quiet interiors of the training centre, pausing only to greet a couple of staff who were pleased to see him. The lean defender made his way to the players' main locker-room, then unzipped his case to leave a few items here, then fetched and packed away a few random pieces in the other direction: a couple of beanie hats and some clean underpants, then his Nintendo Switch and some spare headphones. The case was zipped back up and he lingered for a moment in the locker-room, still distracted by questions of his closeness to Aaron, and whether he would ever get to don an England shirt and represent this country on that stage.
His thoughts were disturbed by the jaunty humming of another player strolling in beside him, and he glanced up to notice Granit Xhaka coming in, striding past with a large bag slung over one shoulder. White gave him a curt nod of acknowledgement, slightly keen to get away and not get drawn into any analysis of last night, but not wishing to disrespect the former captain and stalwart motivator of the squad. Unlike he or Aaron, Granit had put in a full 90 minutes against City, and was taking the cup defeat a little less brightly than the other league-topping lads.
`You alright?' Xhaka asked, a slight frown on his face in spite of his fairly cheerful humming. He stopped at a locker a few spaces down, and White nodded again, fussing with the zip of his case, which had got slightly stuck.
All good,' Ben told him, when his nod was apparently not enough. You? Hope you're not too worried about last night, big man, it was just tough luck, y'know.'
The Swiss international nodded, unzipping his tracksuit top and beginning to riffle through the contents of his own personal locker. Ben was vaguely surprised to see him pulling out some club-branded gym kit, and he raised his eyebrows mildly. `You're going to have a workout?' he asked quietly, thinking again how desperate he was to get away from this working environment for the majority of the weekend, and he hadn't even made the pitch last night at the Etihad.
The tight-muscled 30-year-old nodded quite fiercely, beginning to pull away his more relaxed travel clothes to change into the slim-fit gym top and some fresh shorts, briefly pottering about in just a pair of pale grey briefs. `Why not? A short session before home to Mrs X. I have to keep my routine.' He seemed to be a bit preoccupied in his thoughts, and Ben supposed that the cup loss was still weighing on him, Arteta's team talk somehow passing him by. Or maybe the fella just really cared about his six-pack, which was fucking admirable to be fair. White watched him idly, wondering if he should be showing the same level of commitment as the Albanian-Swiss player... but concluding that, nope, he really didn't have it in him this morning. He needed to be out of here.
We needed you on the field,' Xhaka grunted, pausing in the middle of tying up the drawstrings of his short shorts. We should never have been playing a fucking B team against CITY. Ugh.' His face creased with unhappy lines, and then he seemed to shake it off and remember himself, and he rolled his shoulders and threw a few imaginary punches at the air. `Well, I'm going to go blow off some steam.'
`Don't do too much,' White found himself advising faintly, although he was more resentful of the older lad's energy and commitment, rather than actually concerned for his match fitness. He high-fived one of his hands weakly as the other 6ft1 player passed him by, and then he looked over his shoulder to see the midfielder disappear through open double-doors to find his way into the fitness rooms. Bold bastard, but good for him.
Left alone again, the 25-year-old pushed shut the locker door and twisted the key, then pushed it into the pocket of his heavy over-shirt. He was about to take a grab of the raised handle of his case and make a quick exit, but his thoughtful mood continued, and a third troubling idea had swirled in to join the Qatar memory and the lack of a future under Southgate: he couldn't help but slightly over-think what the Swiss fella had just said to him, and finally ask himself just why he HADN'T made a second-half appearance to help a comeback against City.
He stood on the spot, hand on the case handle, cheeks suckered in thoughtfully as he stared absently into the red of the locker door. Then, with a moment of decisiveness, he pushed the case into the wall to leave it here, and made an exit through the opposite side of the room to the gym doors that Granit Xhaka had followed.
Benjamin went a different way through the bright quiet halls of the building, and found his way up a broad curving staircase at its centre, up into the more corporate environment of its upper floor. He'd pop by and say goodbye to the boss, he thought. It's not as if he'd go in there and be unsubtle about it, of course; he wasn't that daft, he wouldn't actually blow his top and go barking at Arteta about why he'd spent the whole game on the sidelines when he might have helped to boost the resistance after their rivals went 1 up. Nah, nothing like that! No recreation of the supposed argument with a coach that most people believed had ended his tenure at the England camp, anyway!
He'd be subtle about it, and just casual, pretend he was just passing by to wish the 40-year-old ex-Arsenal player a good weekend. Mikel would surely make some mild comment to him about forgetting the FA Cup, and he'd be able to steer the convo lightly to the squad line-up, or something, and... halfway down the corridor towards the big corner office that housed the club manager, Benjamin lost some of his confidence in the plan, and felt just a bit awkward. He was sure that the gaffer would be up here by now, and also that he would not already have exited the campus, but he was suddenly not so sure that he had the knack and conversational skill to broach this topic without sounding like a sulky brat or an angry primadonna.
The doubt slowed his pace and he faltered a few strides from the door to Arteta's office, pawing at the lapels of his waterproof jacket, and then fumbling with the buttons of the corduroy over-shirt beneath it. But he took the last few steps, because turning back at this point felt more silly and embarrassing, and he propelled himself to the office door, surprised that thin slats of blinds covered its small square window, and only half-conscious of the little thud and scrape noises that sounded within when he rapped his knuckles lightly against the wood below that panel. When there was no immediate voice, he knocked his fist again, a little more firmly, and stepped back, hands on his hips, kinda hoping that the boss would be busy on the phone or something, and he'd have to-
`Who is it?' sounded Mikel's voice, sounding a little muffled and strained.
He wasn't quite switched-on enough right now to pay much attention to the odd quality of the head coach's voice, but he was still hesitant enough about his own agenda to pause and not shout immediately, just hovering there in front of the closed office door, one hand at his side and the other rubbing his knuckles softly against the fuzz of his goatee. Hello?' barked Arteta's voice again, a little more clearly, and definitely impatient. What is it, for god's sake?'
The irritation in the gaffer's tone should have been a red flag for White, but he was still stuck in that awkward sentiment of feeling that he'd come this far, he may as well go through with it; and without quite announcing himself, he gripped at the door handle and found it obviously unlocked, pushing it open to let himself sharply in to the managerial office, calling an awkward Hey chief' and then a sheepish, mumbled It's me, coach, Benjamin' as he took a couple of steps inside and stalled.
The Arenal manager, still dressed in the full club tracksuit as he had been when they left their Salford hotel, was stood sideways in front of his desk, turning his face away while he raised his voice - `Did I ask you to come in?!' - and he wasn't alone, which was what surprised and stalled White as soon as he was inside the office. On the far side of the desk, standing up, was another masculine figure in the same close-fitting tracksuit of all Arsenal coaches, though it hugged a little more tightly at the short and thick-set muscle of this other bloke.
Oh,' murmured Ben faintly, blinking away his surprise, hey, Jack...'
Across the office, the Arsenal youth coach gave him a nod and a lopsided smile, seeming to adjust the fit of his muscle-hugging dark jumper, and reaching down to finish by also adjusting the waist of his thigh-gripping tracksuit pants, standing there in a strangely powerful stance, looking more amused than anything else to be interrupted in this... er, whatever this meeting was. Howdy,' Jack Wilshere called lightly his way, good to see you, Whitey.'
Mikel's face was less bemused than Jack's, although it was hard to read his expression properly; as he turned fully this way, the manager seemed to be wiping at his mouth and dark stubble with one shaky hand, his eyes narrowed a little seriously, and one of his hands pulling awkwardly at the front of his tracksuit. He cleared his throat loudly. Did I ask you to come in?' the head coach demanded again, though a little less hotly this time. Why ask if you aren't going to wait to be invited, hey?'
`Er...' The defender didn't quite know what to say to that. He blinked stupidly at the two Arsenal coaches, two club heroes who were respected by every single member of the club community - the prematurely retired 31-year-old, a stocky 5ft8 in his tight blue tracksuit, and the glowering 40-year-old legend. Arteta cleared his throat again, still rubbing at something on his face, as if he'd been caught eating something he shouldn't, and then pulling at the neckline of his jersey. Behind him, beside the desk, Wilshere just smirked a bit and scratched on stubbled cheek, then shrugged his shoulders, as if a question had been asked, one that White couldn't hear.
Well,' Mikel demanded, what is it?'
This was odd. The Spaniard was a fiery character in his own way, but his open-door policy was famous throughout the squad, and he adopted a very warm and friendly manner in all of his dealings with individual players on the first team. The friendly and supportive coaching style of the former midfielder was something that White had particularly loved about his time here so far, and he was used to being able to pop in quite casually to see the boss before training, always able to have a quiet chat about his progress and his recent form - it was odd to be standing here and glared at like this, although clearly the two had been holding some kind of a meeting, and he'd gone and interrupted it... `Er,' he said lamely again.
Too bad about last night, huh?' interrupted Wilshere, sitting against the corner of the desk, and folding his arms a little bit confrontationally across his chest. Still - not as if you can take any of the blame, eh, Benjamin?'
At this, the actual manager seemed to turn and glare at his first office visitor, still fiddling oddly with the zip of his tracksuit jersey, and then pushing his hands into the pockets at the side. He glared from Wilshere to White, and then moved rapidly around the side of the desk to go and sink into his chair, whilst the youth coach remained perched at the edge of the desk as if he owned the place. Still unable to think of anything to say to either of them other than `Why the fuck didn't I play last night?', Ben just gawped from ex-midfielder to ex-midfielder, and then shut his mouth.
Sorry, chief,' he said quickly. Didn't realise you were in a meeting.'
Mikel looked briefly confused by this apology, then suddenly alert. `Ye-es. A meeting. We have a lot to discuss here - is this something important?' He looked arch and villainous in his big leather chair, flattening his palms across the top of the desk. To the left, Jack Wilshere's smirk deepend and his eyes sparkled with interest.
Er, no,' Ben admitted, deflating. Any chance of suave chat and indirect questioning was gone now. He felt stupid and out of place. He ran fingers through the curling fringe of his hair, then toyed briefly with an earring. Sorry, boss - I just - it doesn't matter. Some other time. Sorry, sorry-' And he nodded respectfully at Wilshere too, sharing a lot of the other players' general awe of the ex-player, even if Jack's once-promising career had led to so little. Then he just looked apologetically at Mikel himself, who still seemed very tense and on edge, and was staring right at him with eyes full of impatience and question. And so White shuffled backwards and exited the office, pulling the door shut behind him and trying to decode what exactly had seemed so odd about the scene he just interrupted.
It was only halfway down the corridor, hearing the vague click behind him that might be the turning of a lock, that the fact really registered in his confused brain, and nagged at the beginnings of a long-shot suspicion: why the fuck had Wilshere's jumper been on back-to-front...?
He returned to the main locker-room to collect his case, and on the way he bid a couple more goodbyes, passing two younger players who were finishing up medical appointments, and almost bumping straight into Odegaard and Martinelli as they emerged from another door on that corridor of physios and nutritionists. He was curt and agitated with these encounters, the oddity of his failed visit to the gaffer plaguing him with new uncertainties as he came down here to fetch his luggage and return to the car park.
As odd as Arteta had been, though, it didn't bother White as much as that lingering look he'd taken at Ramsdale in said car park. He'd looked over at the big goalie, perhaps to give him a light wave or just catch his eye, to bid farewell to his buddy before they parted ways for the majority of the weekend... and yet Aaron had been so engaged in talking to his fellow keeper, not even looking up and acknowledging him. Which, he told himself, was totally fine and normal, they were best pals but they weren't joined at the fucking hip...! He was overthinking it, as he seemed to do with all their interactions now, paranoid and insecure about what they'd allowed to happen in the hotel.
Forget it, he told himself, stomping his way through the large empty locker-room. Forget about it, and just be cool. Everything's okay. Stop over-thinking, it don't suit you. The tanned handsome football lad scolded himself for being so restless and paranoid, deciding that this was just a surplus energy from having travelled for an away game and spent it on the bench - no doubt Rammers felt the same, the two of them having been stuck on the sidelines with nothing to do but applaud their losing teammates.
White's attention was hooked vaguely by the reminding sight of Xhaka's stuff, some of it left loosely on the shelf below his closed locker, making him think again of how determined and committed the well-built midfielder was to be putting in a fitness shift today when they were free to get home to their personal lives. But, he thought, that's not just Granit's stuff - there was another bag on the next segment of shelf, and he tried to remember whose locker was next to the Swiss-Albanian's. It wasn't just this dull question that made him shrug off his jacket for a moment and hang it over the handle of his case to go wandering into the gym - it was some hopeful admiration for any teammate who was working on their muscles this morning after the hours on the motorway. Conscious of his own lack of minutes last night, and the pretty abrupt way the gaffer had just addressed him at his office, the 25-year-old was suddenly thoughtful about his own form and whether he'd slacked off a bit since all the distraction and weirdness of his England World Cup experience.
In he went, dressed in his overshirt and black sweatpants, following the series of doors that took him into the well-lit gym suites that dominated this half of the building, lined with photographic murals of successful Arsenal players, teams, and trophies. The first main room was empty, overhead lighting crackling into life at the motion of his steps, and he turned one and then another corner, drifting slowly between unused machines, starting to wonder if actually nobody was hard at work in here after all.
If not for a slight shifting of light through the next doorway, he might have turned back, keen as he was to go home and see his fiancee, to collapse on the sofa and indulge himself lazily, to plan their afternoon and evening together - but he hesitated on his trainers, poised halfway down the long room of weights machines. The next room was more for free weights than this array of machinery, and so one whole wall of it was mirrored - ostensibly for working on form and precision, though obviously really for posing and vanity - so that from where he stood, he could now make out the reflection of the room's occupants. Except that the two men in the next room weren't actually busy hoisting dumbbells and working on form, precision, posing OR vanity... Nope. They were... cuddling?
Very slowly and quietly, Benjamin eased himself forward, padding lightly over the sprung floor and past the row of big weights machines, until he was poised a few feet away from the blocky doorway, and staring intently through it into that wall of mirror, and the vivid reflection it portrayed of the view around the corner: tall burly Xhaka, kitted out as he'd been in the changing rooms before, with his muscular arms pulled about the hunched figure of the other fitness enthusiast, screening him from this mirror as he did so. The uncertainty made White take one more stealthy step forward, and he leaned in a little bit, staring into that mirror view, and recognising the shorter build and dark brown hair of the other kitted figure in the weights gym, who looked a bit upset and red-faced.
Their voices were low and private, but he could hear them clear enough from here.
Oh, it's okay,' murmured Granit with his softly purring accent. You don't have to be embarrassed in front of me. Just tell me about it.'
It's nothing,' sniffed Kieran Tierney, another of last night's disappointing performers who had failed to hold a clean sheet at the back of the squad. The 5ft10 Scots bloke was still hunched slightly, being gripped and hugged from the side by the midfielder, one pale hand rubbing at his eyes and red cheeks. Look at me - blubbing in the gym like a twat, what am I like?'
Just tell me,' purred Granit again. What's wrong? Is it lady trouble?'
Visible in the mirror, Kieran screwed up his face. `Something like that.'
`Man trouble? Ha ha ha...'
`Mate,' the left-back muttered testily.
Oh, come on, relax, I was joking,' insisted Xhaka. In the reflected view, White couldn't help but notice the way he grabbed and stroked at Tierney's neck and shoulders as he spoke, standing by and over him, so tactile and physical with him, weights forgotten about. Here, let me message you, yeah?' And hands were on shoulders, the 6ft1 European man pulling up behind the Scotland star to knead at his shoulders through his sleeveless training top, which bared those lean pale arms.
Standing at his vantage point around the corner from them, Ben didn't particularly stop to question his own stealth. He didn't need to ask himself why he was pausing here on the edge of the room, peering at them in reflection, and hiding the squeak of his stylish new trainers against the springy gym flooring. He just stood there, looking and listening, keeping his breathing low, as one teammate began to massage quite vigorously at the tense shoulders of the other, making his fellow defender let out a long moan of begrudging relief that echoed around the corner between the fitness suites. `That is pretty good,' growled Tierney's rich Lanarkshire accent.
`You gonna tell me the problem?' Granit asked him, voice so low that White only half-caught his words, partly lipreading in the vivid reflection.
`I wouldn't know where to start,' Kieran grumbled back - his head lolled as he relaxed into the other man's touch, facing the mirror but not really looking at it. Perhaps, Ben thought, if he had, he would have caught sight of a glimmer of Benjamin White, hunched awkwardly at the edge of the doorway, leaning out to stare through the doorway... and why? Out of what nosiness or curiosity? He wasn't sure, couldn't name it. Nor could he pinpoint the excitement he felt, the way he pulled a little at the collar of the corduroy shirt, or at the baggy crotch of the soft black sweatpants, as if the room had just got a lot warmer.
`Who's breaking your heart, Tesco?' Xhaka grunted, invoking a little-used nickname from the Celtic youth graduate's early days at Arsenal, carrying his things to training in a plastic bag from the supermarket.
Nobody,' Tierney mumbled through another groan of relief. Well - not that they know about, anyway...'
`Who is she?'
`Oh, it doesn't matter, honest... Just a... Not even a relationship, just a... thing, so...'
`But you're feeling crap about it?'
`Well, yeh - clearly, ha. Being a right soppy fuck, ain't I? As if...'
`Do they know how you feel?'
A hollow laugh. `Nah. Ain't told them anything like that-'
`Well? Why don't you?'
`You don't get it, they... they don't even live in this country, and I never see them, so...'
A vague curious grunt from Granit there, but he was more busy with his hands, and Ben was watching every move: the intensity with which the footballer's paws worked at the other lad's neck and shoulders and upper arms, the closeness of their bodies, the way Kieran lolled and relaxed against the 6ft1 bloke, and... oh. The way that Granit's hands now slid onto the chest of the Scotsman, and the way he bowed down to rest his brow against the back of Kieran's head, their bodies standing so very close now. Too close? Benjamin was too busy asking himself this prudish question to even notice the way his own hand kept going back to the crotch of his black sweats, which was getting a bit less baggy.
`Now, now,' grumbled the gruff Caledonian accent.
What?' purred the 30-year-old. Doesn't it feel good?'
Should I be letting this massage carry on...?' mused Tierney's voice - he sounded uncertain, but quite happy about it. I dunno where it might go...'
I think you do,' came the former captain's throaty chuckle. And you know I can improve your Saturday.' A mingled sigh from both men, one that made White edge a little closer into the doorway and stare very hard at the mirror, so intrigued that he wanted to pull right around that corner and stare into the room properly, look at the two football players in front of the rack of dumbbells - Xhaka's wandering hands moving up and down Tierney's sides now, and beginning to pull up that sleeveless dark Arsenal vest, pulling it out from where it was tucked into the Scotsman's baggier shorts. The 25-year-old let out a ticklish giggle at this, but his body remained relaxed where it was, lifting his arms and allowing the vest to be pulled up and off, allowing those massaging hands to stroke over his pale bare chest for real, and down onto the softly defined six-pack below... Ben sucked in and held his breath, and realised that his hand was holding his semi through the sweatpants - jesus, why would any of this be exciting for him?!
`Fuck,' came Tierney's gentle growl.
Just relax,' Xhaka was saying. You remember how it was?'
`That was ages ago,' the defender mumbled.
`But you remember. Hehe.'
White watched, and listened. He couldn't pull himself away. It was too risky now, he said to himself in his head - his trainers might squeak, or he might knock into the weight machine behind him. He might make some noise and alert or panic this secretive pair, these two friendly teammates who were giving him such a shock and a thrill. No, he couldn't move now, he'd sneaked too close, and paused too long - now he had to stay still, he insisted in his head, and just see what was going on! Erm.
`Don't,' he heard Kieran moan, but Granit just laughed: in the mirror, he could see one large manly hand pushing down into the front of the dark blue shorts, disappearing and yet bulging through the glossy nylon. He could see Xhaka's strong tattooed arm reaching down the front of the Scotsman's torso, and he could see the lad's face too, eyes closed and mouth drooping open. He was just standing there, relaxing back into the strength of the other player, whilst Granit fucking Xhaka reached inside his shorts for a grope, shit. This was mad shit, and yet what was madder... for a moment, White looked down, seeing how tightly he was holding the stiff outline in the black cotton, his own hard-on throbbing. He didn't know what to tell himself, so he just looked back up and concentrated on the image in the mirror instead, where the players' bodies were shifting.
He could feel his surge of irrational panic as he wondered if they might move out of sight, but no... They were just turning around, weren't they? Instead of looking head-on at Tierney's relaxed form, the shirtless Scot was leaning back into the rack of weights, supporting himself against it, and Xhaka was pulling his own shirt off, baring the strong toned muscles of his upper body, all a little shiny with the sweat of his interrupted workout. They both looked so strong and masculine, and Ben shivered as his hand began to stray back and forth over the outline of his erection.
`Just you relax, Tesco...'
`Mmm, we should stop.'
`Do you want to?'
`Mmm.'
`Huh. Thought not. Just relax. Stand like this.'
`What are you gonna...?'
`You remember, mister. You remember.'
Ben watched, paralysed with a heady cocktail of horror and arousal, as the mighty warrior of the Arsenal midfield began to stoop low, bending his knees. The man's short shorts pulled tightly about his muscular glutes and upper thighs, taut over his backside as he hunkered down behind the resting frame of 5ft10 Kieran. What was he doing...? Oh. He was pulling on the sides of Kieran's shorts. Down they were going, inch by inch, and now the big white undies below were going the same way, disappearing downwards - the view was less clear now, more obscured by Granit's head and shoulders, but the glimpses were vivid and startling, the peachy curve of Tierney's broad backside, exposed and pushed back a little. One of Xhaka's hands pushed and guided at the man's hips and the small of his back, making the Scotsman bend further forward into the rack of dumbbells, whilst behind him, the Swiss midfielder sank lower in his squat, and then placed a hand each on those plump sturdy cheeks, and...
In his hand, Benjamin's cock leaked pre-cum against his boxer shorts and seeped through to lightly dampen the black of the sweats. He gripped his stiff one hard, almost too scared to shift his hand at all, wondering what sound that might make. He just hunched there at the side of the doorway, barely moving, and staring wide-eyed across into the wall of mirrors, his entire attention and his thundering heartbeat focused on the sight of it: the arching of Tierney's back and the tensing of his biceps as he held onto the metal racks, whilst the back of Xhaka's head bobbed and dipped a little, seeming to be kissing between those chunky cheeks in a violently passionate way - what the hell?!
He moved an inch forward, and another. His hand gripped with more uncertain tightness at the shape of his hard cock, and his breaths came in and out with almost no noise at all. Gripped by stealth and excitement, his other hand clutched at the doorframe, and he stared incredulously across at that mirror image: hunched leaning Granit, burying his face in the presented backside of moaning, panting, sweating Tierney. However distressed the Scottish lad had been five minutes ago, now he was enjoying himself, though his growling voice was wracked by uncertainty: `Oh fuck, don't, you'll get me going - oh god, mate - fuckkk, this is wrong - not here, not here - ohhhhh yesss' and so on and so forth.
Even after his recent near-adventures, with his curious missus and his prankster roomie, Ben was confused, naive, oblivious - he didn't really understand what he was seeing. Was Xhaka really licking the man's arse? Was that a thing people did? His mind was blown. And yet it was when the action turned around and became more obvious that he finally gave in and pushed his hand inside the sweatpants and his boxers and gripped his long slim cock properly to begin wanking silently under cover.
`Your ass tastes as good as I remember,' he could just about hear the 30-year-old pant.
`Suck my cock now,' moaned 25-year-old Tierney, a sudden excited authority in his growl.
Now Ben couldn't stop but wank himself, pulling hard on his cock, the tip rubbing against the insides of his boxers. His eyes barely blinked, glued to the reflection of Granit still down on his haunches, head bobbing back and forth with a different rhythm, and the occasionally glimpses of a shiny wet cock as it escaped briefly from his mouth. The Swiss man's hands, roving up and down Kieran's abdomen and up towards his hard dark nipples. The rolls and lolls of Kieran's face, eyes still shut and mouth wide open, as he pressed arms and shoulders back into the shelving, but pushed and thrust forward with his hips, clearly enjoying the illicit blowjob even more than the strange act that preceded it.
Fuck yes,' Tierney almost shouted. Suck it good. Yeh, that's what I remember, mate.'
Breathless, wide-eyed, crazy with shock: White couldn't stop yanking on his cock, his whole 6ft1 frame shaking with tension and fear. His palm brushed roughly up and down the shaft and his balls tingled below. His heart thundered, and his muscles ached with the tension. But all of this anxiety was just speeding his rapid self-pleasure towards the inevitable. He'd lost any sense of time whilst he watched the sordid excitement, but he was only wanking his prick in his pants for a total of four minutes before he could feel the lukewarm ooze on his knuckles, filling the front of his boxer shorts with a three-day load of White stuff. In these moments, his restraint was stretched more than the front of the undies, as he fought back the pants and gasps and moans, and just stood there like a statue, his other hand gripping the doorway for balance, his face a frozen rictus towards the mirror. He was now more shocked by his own orgasm and the mess in his pants than anything he'd actually observed from his vantage point.
Benjamin was finished, but Kieran wasn't yet, not quite. A long awkward minute stretched out in which White felt instantly dirty and regretful, but frozen to the spot with absolute fear. He needed to back off carefully, he needed to retreat from the doorway and the view - HE NEEDED TO GET OUT OF HERE. But at first, he just couldn't move, it was like his hand was superglued to the doorframe and his trainers were cemented to the floor. He trembled all over and struggled to keep his breathing silent, or not to let out a little groan of disgust as he felt the spunk cool on his fingers and the shaft of his cock.
`Fuck, I'm gonna cum,' hollered Kieran Tierney, and the strength of his voice was the jolt of reality that was needed to spur White into motion - but perhaps too late. A split-second before he yanked quickly and quietly back from the doorway, he saw Tierney's eyes open, and the ruggedly handsome Scot stare right into his own reflection in the mirror wall, perhaps enjoying the sight of his strong young body with an older man serving it on his knees - but his eyes darting and shifting, rolling THIS WAY, and - it was hard to be sure, but they seemed to meet Ben's own, connecting via the reflection like some weird mash-up of the Mona Lisa and the Lady of Shallot. But if he saw anything, Kieran didn't quite react to it, he just groaned, very loudly, and part of Ben wanted to stay and see it, the passionate throes of his fellow 25-year-old defender - but no, no, no, he needed to GO.
White slipped through the gym rooms as quickly and quietly as he could, so hurried and frantic that he almost tripped over or into several machines and weight racks and water taps. His whole body felt drenched with sweat, but he could still feel the warm stickiness of his cock as it bounced limply against boxer shorts. In the final passage between the fitness suites and the locker-rooms, he had to stop himself, leaning heavily to one side, and confirm that no footsteps or shouts were following him out of the gymnasium. Had Kieran seen or heard him? Had their eyes really met in that mirror? He just didn't know, but he certainly wasn't staying put here to find out...!
Driven by the visceral excitement of his own disgust, Benjamin stormed through the locker-room, snatching up his jacket under one arm and yanking on the long handle of his small suitcase with the other. He pushed out into a different corridor and retraced his steps for the reception and the exit, terrified of bumping into anyone on the way out of the training building now. He was just desperate to be in his car and on the road home around the North London suburbs, home to his woman and his engagement. Safety.
`Hold up, hold up - where's the fire, buddy?!'
The panicked lad was in such a direct rush for the exit that he didn't see his friend until they were almost smashing into each other on the way into the foyer, the slightly taller bloke having just stepped about the corner with a backpack two-strapping over his broad shoulders. In his hurry, Benjamin was just crashing straight into him, chest-to-chest, and now he was dropping his jacket and his case simultaneously in a jolt of frenzied panic; the big sturdy hands of the goalkeeper came up to grip his sides and steady him, and he found himself staring into the big broad smile on Aaron Ramsdale's face.
`What the fuck's up with you?' the Stoke-born goalie demanded through his laughter, patting his upper arms firmly twice, just giving him that big puzzled expression of friendly innocence.
In a rush of gladness to see his most trusted friend, White acted on instinct, and he threw his arms about him, gripping the bulky 24-year-old to him in a tight and manly hug. Whoa,' mumbled Aaron's voice over his shoulder, you're shaking - and, mate, you're SOAKED - did you go do a work-out in this gear, or summat?' He was prising apart from the hug, with difficulty, and leaving Benjamin swaying on his feet. What?' Aaron demanded. What's up? You look like you just saw a ghost.'
For a moment, he pictured the scene again, Tierney held and massaged by Xhaka in front of those mirrors, but he drove the image desperately away, and wiped one rough sleeve against his clammy bronze face. He smiled awkwardly back into Ramsdale's concerned expression and shook his head. `I'm fine,' he told him gruffly, in spite of all evidence, resisting the panicked urge to grab and hug the 6ft2 lad a second time. Instead, he reached awkwardly to each side of him, grasping up his jacket and taking hold of the case, and distancing his body from Ramsdale's.
What?' the 24-year-old asked yet again. What's wrong?'
In a thin voice, White asked him the question he'd been trying to ask for a month. `We're okay, you and me, right?' He stared seriously at his best friend, unable to look at him without picturing his troublemaker smirk on the hotel bed, taking hold of that ridiculous sex toy from some dodgy shop of Doha's seediest market; and Aaron just grinned innocently back at him, blond eyebrows raised in surprise.
`Why wouldn't we?' the goalkeeper demanded in all earnestness, and Ben felt for the dozenth time this month how stupid he was, how much he'd started to over-analyse things that didn't need it; the 6ft2 bloke exuded sheer casual friendliness and honest concern, and there was no awkwardness or distance at all, it existed only in White's feverish imagination. He didn't try to explain himself - what would he say? - but just nodded and forced out a laugh, and then stepped around the confused lad, making a quick dart into the foyer and towards the automatic doors that would lead him out to the car park.
Wait,' called his friend vaguely, is something wrong...?'
Nah, nah,' Benjamin called back. Just gotta go - running late - see ya!' And with that, he trundled quickly out of the auto doors and onto the cold mid-morning tarmac, glad of the icy air that hit his sweaty face and neck, and of the bright winter sunshine that could drown out the mental images of the weights room.
At a window upstairs, a couple of fingers brushed at the vertical blinds, pulling them gently open a couple of inches, allowing a slightly better view of the sunlit car park: specifically, of the rushing figure with his case dragging behind him and a jacket slung over one shoulder, moving rapidly for one of the few remaining cars spaced out along the far edge of the tarmac. `Hmm,' murmured Jack Wilshere, watching one of the Arsenal squad's most superficially handsome young lads bundle himself into his expensive motor, and then disappear out of the bright parking lot, away onto the suburban roads.
`What?' came Mikel Arteta's voice from close by, his tone tinged with the exhausted panting of someone who, until minutes ago, had been gagging on a very full mouth.
The 31-year-old coach lingered at the window, fingering at the blinds, watching as a few other figures drifted to their cars, curiously picking out the tall silhouettes of what must be blond Ramsdale, then the slightly less distinctive form of Xhaka a minute later, and finally perhaps Tierney. They must be the last to go, he mused, before pulling himself away from the windows and facing back into the large square office, looking down at where his once-teammate and now sort-of-boss was slumped in his leather chair, gasping as he pulled on his socks and trainers.
`Are you going to get dressed?' gasped the Spanish older man, quietly.
Stood there, stark bollock naked in the corner of the locked office, Jack just grinned cheekily, and strolled boldly around the edges of the desk, stretching out his arms and flexing his lightly haired chest, happy to let his long heavy cock swing in front of his spent balls. He paused directly in front of where the Arsenal boss sat, hurrying into his clothes, red-cheeked and glossy-browed. Jack just smirked knowingly across at the man whose dirty appetite he was now contracted to feed, and said quietly, `You missed a spot of my spunk, chief.' With faux delicacy, the Stevenage-born lads' lad dabbed somewhere near his lips, and laughed as a paranoid Arteta plucked a tissue from a box and rubbed it over his thick dark stubble, clearly unsure if he was being helped or teased.
Naked and chuckling, Wilshere reached down to toy with his exhausted crown jewels, starting to cast his eyes about the manager's office for where each items of his clothes had landed as he stripped off for Arteta's darkly adoring eyes. He spotted his briefs on a lampshade, but no sign of his tracksuit pants yet. He turned back to Mikel, scratching his balls with one hand and his chest hair with the other. The Arsenal manager always looked so frigid and resentful after he'd had his fun, and he looked up at him now with an icy expression on his face, tight-lipped and mean.
`Same time in two days,' the Spanish bloke said quietly, his voice very low and tense.
Jack gave another of his trademark cheeky grins. Maybe,' he grunted, stepping over to retrieve his Armani briefs from where they dangled, and twirling them about in his hand rather than stepping straight into them. See how I feel,' he added, stretching them at the waist and walking right back into Mikel's view, happy with the way the 40-year-old couldn't stop staring at his drooping cock.
But then Arteta's icy voice cut across his bravado, reminding him of his place in a few simple words. If you value your job,' the manager told him, you'll be here.' And Wilshere had to pause in the act of stepping into the briefs and pulling them up his short mighty legs, twanging the waistband in and adjusting his big soft bulge in the front of them. He met the stony gaze of the cock-hungry football coach, his smile fading, and a slow nod offered to the gaffer's demanding face. `Right,' Jack grunted quietly, reminded of the two contracts he had signed in a boardroom down the corridor - the official contract that employed him as a youth team coach for his beloved club, and the separate one that tied him to his former captain's service to keep that job viable. He scowled resentfully at the older man, always hating these reminders that the power dynamic wasn't quite as he'd planned it - whilst his cock was hard and Mikel was gagging for it, he felt like he had all the power in the world, the muscular little king of a Red North London. But before the act and after it, he could see this for what it was: he was back at his beloved Arsenal on strict conditions, and he wasn't really here as a promising young coach setting out on a management career. Nope. He was here as Mikel Arteta's gigolo, the big creamy load to satisfy the married Spaniard whenever he most needed it, or his contract would suddenly... cease to be viable.
The two men stared levelly at each other for a long moment, and then Wilshere continued dressing, saying nothing more until a prim `See ya' on the way out of the unlocked door, conscious of Arteta's eyes burning into his back all the way down the corridor.
'Writer guy' - Premiership Lads on Nifty https://www.nifty.org/nifty/gay/celebrity/premiership-lads/
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