Part 352: Return From Injury
He lifted the under-vest up about both wrists and then wriggled it down his arms, over his head and shoulders and then dragging its clingy fit across the lean olive-toned muscle of his upper body. Over it went the Barcelona training shirt, layering up his lithe body and tucked neatly into his baggy shorts. A moment at the mirror confirmed that his almost-black hair was neatly in place and the light dusting of stubble looked good about his sharp jawline and mature young features, then Pedri was joining the others in jogging outdoors, getting out of the air-conditioned changing facilities and onto the cool bright pitch for the day's work. Just a standard day of training, really, except that it was the 20-year-old Tenerifian's first session back in amongst the guys, returning to full first team training after his minor injury. Minor, but a few weeks out of action, pretty much the first and only interruption to the Spanish prodigy's consistent career action since coming of age.
The March sun was vivid and low in the sky, and would already be bringing fierce spring heat come midday, hence the early starting hours of Barcelona from this point in the year onwards; long shadows added drama to the training ground as the men hopped and stamped and got their feet comfortable in stiff studded boots, and young Pedri breathed in the excitement and opportunity of returning to his beloved team.
It had been frustrating and difficult for the young star to watch from afar, especially given some of the results in his absence, and today he knew he would be torn between desperation to prove his readiness, and the sensible caution of his physio team who said he still needed to take it a little easier. He was not a typical 20-year-old and the committed professional in him was likely to side with that caution, rather than to throw himself around and push himself to catch the manager's eye - as young as he was, Pedro Lopez was hardly someone who needed to prove himself to the footballing world any more.
Ambitious but thoughtful and cautious, that was Pedri's way; unlike some other young talents of the diminished La Liga giants...
The 20-year-old smiled knowingly across the ground at the team's 18-year-old firebrand, watching as the other Spanish youth engaged in some furtive passes with Ansu Fati and Jules Kounde; he was playing pretty casually just now, warming himself up for the day's first formal skills session, but even now he had that almost comical expression of outrage on his boyish face, as if about to start a fight with the ball itself. Pedri smiled, but it was a smile not without concern, and he'd been one of many who pulled the boy aside this week to call him stupid for risking head injury in that tackle last game - images of Gavi's headfirst plunge into the boots of another player had gone viral instantly, and affectionate banter at the teenager's dedication and ferocity had sizzled through the team breakfast and changing room conversation this morning. Pedri was torn, of course: as a teammate, he certainly admired the other central midfielder's aggression and boldness, and could almost join in with the half-admiring jokes of the other guys... but as someone who loved Pablo Gavira, and not just `Gavi', he had hated to hear from one pundit on TV how the foolhardy dive could have been a career-ending mistake at the tender age of 18.
And... well, the pictures of Gavi trying to head-butt someone in the studs wasn't the only moment from that fixture that had blown up the internet this week, or scored brash blokey banter between the Barca players on Pedri's first day back in the gang. GIFs and memes of Gavi almost losing his golden shorts had flooded the player group chats and in a little over twenty-four hours, the brief incident had exploded into a major joke across the training ground, so much so that Torres had started calling the teen `Pablo Booti' and Araujo had been chanting at him to do some twerking while he was in the middle of changing into his kit fifteen minutes ago.
Thinking about these twin images of a fiery upstart trying too hard to make an impact on La Liga, Pedri could only roll his eyes and shake his head as if he was much older and wiser than his own 20 years; he'd probably been a bit severe when he rang Gavi up about the head-first thing, but then the kid had to learn...!
With ease, Barca's 20-year-old star-boy manoeuvred himself closer to his fellow midfielder before the training session got up and going for real. The young besties were inevitably placed together in almost every drill, but it was still good to make sure by sticking close to him, and maybe Pedri had a little bit to make up for, after shouting at him so protectively, and with the moody teenager facing so many jibes and jests from across the squad.
`You gonna take it easy today?' the 5ft9 central midfielder teased quietly, nudging arms with the slightly shorter player.
Gavi paused, his resting frown switching to a gentle smile at turning to look at Pedri - the way his face, and his eyes especially, lit up to see him, well... it was pure magic to Pedri, and could make him fall for his friend all over again several times in a day.
Sorry, isn't that what YOUR doctor said?' quipped the increasingly confident 18-year-old, puffing out his chest and shoulders. I hope you'll be taking it easy on that leg of yours, old man,' muttered the youth through a bitchy snigger. `Since you turned 20, you're just starting to fall apart...'
Pedri sniggered pleasantly along with him, pulling his sleeves down over his bunched fists, and spinning a little on the spot to stretch out his hips and abdomen. `Oh, alright - give it a rest, kiddo.'
Gavi started talking cheerily about the team's next fixture and Pedri decided, to his relief, that there was no resentment or unease from his lover over how severe he'd been with him about risk and common sense when it came to head injuries; things were as comfortable and right between the two of them as ever, even if Pedri's own injury setback had meant a little less time in each other's pockets than usual in the last three weeks or so.
Ah,' he sighed, half to himself. It is good to be back.' He flexed one arm and then the other, and then added, `Back in the team, and back here to keep an eye on you - to keep you out of mischief and trouble, you dirty rascal!' He turned his broad, winsome grin towards the other young football player, and paused in surprise - rather than smiling loyally back in that charming way that seemed reserved entirely for Pedri, Gavi's face had blanched and his mouth hung slightly open, eyes looking widely at him for a second.
Almost on autopilot, Pedri laughed. `What's wrong? I just meant the head thing - not - I mean, it wasn't a joke about your attempted striptease, buddy, it was...' His awkward tinkling voice trailed off and he paused, hands clapped awkwardly together, studying the oddly grave expression on Gavi's young face; there was no other word to describe that look in his eyes than guilt, and the articulation of the thought made Pedri's blood run cold.
What?' he demanded, getting no answer from the grimacing teen. What?!'
Nothing,' Gavi half-said, but his voice was dull and his face looked almost tortured; instinctively, Pedri reached a hand for his arm, a reassuring touch that became a more insistent grab. What happened?' he asked, thinking about how quiet and off the 18-year-old had been on their last date, a few nights back - `just tired', supposedly, but what if...?
And still the other Spanish boy was just staring grimly at him, a player without the slightest of poker faces, every emotion always flashing on his almost cartoonish good looks. Gavi opened and shut his mouth. A whistle was blown somewhere and all around them, players were breaking into motion, moving out of the shadows and into the early morning sun; but the two young men stayed where they were at the edge of the pitch, even when a second impatient whistle sounded several yards away.
`What is it?' Pedri demanded in a fierce whisper.
Oh god,' Gavi groaned. I'm so so sorry.'
It had been after the Copa del Rey semi, where they defeated Real Madrid 1-0, and Pedro Lopez had been stuck at home after the assessment of his leg injury. A pretty rowdy night of celebration in the Madrid hotel, by the fairly reserved standards of the Barca circle anyway, and definitely a few more cervezas than average for a triumphant young Pablo. Gavi had started and played a full 90 minutes in the decisive win, and was being widely applauded in the squad for the yellow card he'd earned fending off their rivals' attempted attacks.
Having only turned 18 last summer, the diminutive midfield warrior was still working his way into the inner clique of the high-profile squad, despite the plaudits that came his way, especially since the winter World Cup. And when it came to team celebration, Gavi was still pretty fresh to being offered alcoholic drinks, and clearly couldn't yet handle it the way some of his older pals could.
Midnight had seen the teenager with a glossy and glassy face, cheeks shiny with sweat and eyes glazed over with the steady buzz of the free beers. He was propped on a bench at one side of the hotel's bar, barely able to offer anything to the loose group conversation of the players around him other than inane laughs or a few shouty approvals when somebody else said something funny or interesting.
At 18, Gavi was of a generation largely too cool and poised for excessive drinking, too social media savvy to make fools of themself in public - and there was nothing like the early professionalism of their youthful sport to kill the teenage rebellion in a boy. He was far from an experienced drinker, and he had already pushed past his usual limit, giddy and insensible from the amount he'd thrown back.
Somehow, half an hour or so later, this had resulted in the loss of his room key, and Gavi padding the pockets of his sweatpants in the corridor, trying to work out if his roommate Marc Casado was asleep or still out enjoying a drink. This left the 5ft8 midfielder tutting and swearing to himself, repeatedly exploring the zip pockets of his sweats, and then patting uselessly up and down his chest and tummy, through the thin grey t-shirt that fitted close to his lightly tanned skin.
That's how the other player found him, he supposed, looking absolutely fucking clueless at the door, and apparently unwilling to take the easy step of walking back down to the bar to see if he'd dropped the key-card. Instead, he just swayed on his feet and stared expectantly at the centre-back giant who'd joined him, expecting 24-year-old Ronald Araujo to magic a solution out of thin air for him - that, or to simply kick the hotel room door down with one of his powerful legs, mainly on show since the guy was still wearing skimpy gym shorts below a baggy designer hoodie.
`Come crash in mine,' Araujo offered after a few moments, a helpful grin on his lean face. The 6ft3 defender strutted away down the corridor with the same casualness with which he'd approached, and Gavi went scampering after him, struggling a bit to walk in a straight line and certainly to patch the tall South American's relaxed pace.
So that's how he ended up in the other bedroom, a couple of corridors away from his own shared suite with (presumably snoring) Casado. He wasn't sure where Araujo's own roommate had been, or who the big man was even sharing with on that away trip. It was just the two of them, and that was what had become significant. Dazed and losing his buzz, Gavi had flopped into a loose sitting position on one of the beds, and Ronald had disappeared into the adjoining bathroom, humming along to some music that he'd switched on to a portable speaker at the side of the room. When he returned and reappeared in Gavi's hazy line of vision, the hooded top was gone, and the 6ft3 Uruguayan was in just those skimpy thigh-revealing gym shorts, coming to pause in front of him - a tower of caramel-brown muscle, including one of the most intensely defined six-packs Gavi had ever seen in his life. He must have stared quite meditatively at it all, taking in the mountainous figure of the defender who loomed over him, until he was looking right up at him, into the man's lean grinning features, cocky and pleased beneath his crown of bleached afro hair.
Honestly, Gavi didn't know how it started: had he made the move, reaching out to stroke one of those golden-brown thighs and then working his hand up inside the tight-fitting black shorts? Or had it been Araujo himself, reaching down and gently moving his head forward until his face was dangerously close to the loaded front of the shorts, and then... Well, it didn't REALLY matter, did it, how the shorts had ended up down at his knees, and the grey-and-blue striped briefs below, until that big brown cock was out and hard, and wet with Gavi's spittle - in fact, his memory of all of it was hazy from then on, other than a few key things. One, the depth and vigour of Araujo's groans; two, the way he'd been made to gag and choke on it, a hand on the back of his head; three, the taste of guilt that overpowered the salty tang of the Uruguay man's jizz.
Still, the Barca teen had slouched there in a satisfied daze, gripping his pre-cum-leaking cock in his sweatpants, whilst Ronald rang down to the hotel staff and secured assistance to get him back into his room; even on the staggering walk back to his own room, where a suspicious-looking hotel employee opened it up and let him join the other young player's snoring... It was only in the morning, waking up with a banging dehydrated headache and the urge to throw up in bed, that the real guilty knowledge thwacked into him, and he understood what he'd gone and done... cheated on his boyfriend.
Pedri shoved his foot against the pedal and drove on in silence.
He'd had to wait half of the day to get any real explanation out of his boy, but shortly before the communal lunch, Gavi had spilled, and been disarmingly honest, telling him what seemed like every detail he could remember from the drunken transgression - and then Pedri had just had to get on with work, trundling through the afternoon's three indoor sessions, and at one point teaming up with Araujo himself as if nothing was wrong, but wanting to kick the giant centre-back in the balls and set about him with a goalpost as a weapon. And by the end of the day, when Gavira had tried to talk to him again in a quiet corner outside the changing rooms, he'd simply refused, unsure he could stomach hearing any more. When Gavi immediately suggested that he would find other transport home from the training campus, Pedri had found himself snapping at the younger player - `Why the fuck would you do that?'
So here they were - in the car together as usual, hounded and photographed by Barca fans at the car park gates, but now whistling along the faster roads on the fringes of the city, seated parallel in the same moody silence with which they'd exited the training ground.
Layered up now in dark brown tracksuit of his own, the 20-year-old didn't even glance across into the passenger seat of his motor, whizzing the expensive boy racer vehicle out of Barcelona and towards the suburban settlements in the outlying hills, one of which contained his apartment block and the nearby family home where Gavi still lived with his mom and sisters.
But when Pedri reached the turn-off for that particular neighbourhood, he ignored the sign and drove on. Next to him, a quiet but pronounced Huh?' from the otherwise silent and awkward passenger. Half a minute passed in silence, and then, Ped, I think you missed the...' Pedri didn't actively cut him off, but something in his icy silence did so.
Another possible turning came up on the right, another route which would get them quite swiftly back into the luxury streets that they both called home. Again, Pedri ignored it, his thick dark brows knitted as he stared intensely ahead on the road, both hands on the wheel, upping the speed unnecessarily.
`We've missed the turning,' Gavi said stupidly after another minute. Pedri didn't look at him yet, but he could imagine the frowning worry on that face, the deep brown eyes wide in confusion, the pouting lips that exuded innocent pleasure.
No, Pedri didn't say a thing, not until they were on an empty stretch of road well beyond all of the suburban turn-offs into the rich satellite towns on this side of the Catalan city. And then, still without saying a word, he pulled over onto a dusty space at the side of the road, the kind that should be occupied by a rogue food fan or something, and found a narrow dirt road branching off it into the grey-green woodland of the hillside. Still at some speed, Pedri pushed the car a dozen yards onto the dirt track before jolting it to a halt and sitting there in the same brutal silence, listening to the nervous pants coming from his right.
Where are we?' he heard his boyfriend ask in a thin voice, but he spoke over him: Just get out of the car.'
He didn't know what the other Barca youth was thinking or worrying, though later he would feel bad about the ominous nature of it all, and he'd struggle to shake the image out of his mind: Gavi on the other side of the car to him, his face as white with worry as the guilty moment when he'd been unable to hear himself called a `dirty rascal' without needing to confess everything. The two young men stood there on different sides of the motor, but Pedri looked at him in that moment with pure focus and purpose, no wasteful pathos or hesitation.
He moved quickly in front of the car, the hot spring sun filtering down on them through the olive-coloured foliage overhead - seeing the commanding look in his deep dark eyes, Gavi did the same, stumbling around to meet him. There was something combative in the 5ft8 lad's stance, as if he thought he was going to have to defend himself - but Pedri just reached for him at the sides, still saying nothing and twisting him towards the bonnet of the car so quickly that he fell back against it, exactly where Pedri wanted him.
He stood facing his own car for a moment, Gavi sprawled awkwardly back over its front, his light shirt hanging open over white tee, and baggy khaki pants tangled a bit at each of his bent legs. He looked horrified and full of dread, splayed against the vehicle with his limbs spread, a look of real fear on his youthful face - what the hell was he actually expecting?
Down Pedri went, pushing his knees into the brittle and scratchy surface of the track - so much for taking it easy on his recovering leg. Down on his knees in front of the car, in front of Gavi. He grabbed the outer side of the boy's thighs, taking the khaki material in tight bunches, and yanking down. Some difficulty. Up went his hands, finding and undoing the knot of white drawstring. Now the pants came down more easily, sliding down chunky pale thighs, past blotchy red knees, down into folded bunches at the ankles over his fresh sneakers.
Next, Pedri dealt with the underpants, taking those broad white boxer briefs down and down in one fluid motion, much more easy and twanging than the pants. Undies and khakis about the ankles, legs spread, sitting back on the bonnet of the car at an awkward ankle. Gavi's wide eyes stared down at him, and Pedri stared intensely and silently back at him, and then took his cock in one hand, pulling on it in slow firm tugs, and gently moistening his dark pink lips in several full licks. Quickly, Gavi's small floppy meat was growing and stretching against his fingers, rising up form the shaven pubes and the tight large balls below.
Well,' Pedri snapped, quite resentfully. It's what you wanted, isn't it?'
He took a deep breath before putting it in his mouth, taking Gavi's cock in between his wet lips before it was even quite hard - though in seconds of his amateurish sucking, it was rock hard and strangely hot against his tongue and the insides of his cheeks. Eyes closed, hands resting just above the lad's knees, Pedri tried his best and gave cock-sucking a go, finally returning the one-sided favour to the gasping fascination of his petrified boyfriend.
It took many minutes for Gavi to seem to relax - and in this time, the older of the two starlets felt flashes of panic and insecurity. He must be terrible at this, on his first go, when Gavi had blown him dozens and dozens of times over the beautiful months of their intimacy, since those first fumbles last summer. Pedri's mouth was probably awkward and difficult and he wasn't sure how best to use his fierce tongue, as oversized as it was, once he had a stiff mouthful of meat, which overwhelmed and freaked him out a bit, his boundaries falling away as he equalised the nature of their antics.
But Gavi DID relax, and his nervous breaths turned into appreciative moans, and Pedri felt soft fingertips rub down one side of his face and play with the short dark fuzz of his hair. He heard his name, gasped out in between moans, and he knew that he'd stunned his apologetic cheat with this response. But it was only right, wasn't it? Pedri had been lazy and selfish with him, when he'd known what Pablo wanted from him for months, so of course the beautiful boy would stray if he didn't get treated right - sucking him off like this, as weird and uncomfortable as it felt for Pedri's awkward mouth, was the right thing to do.
Still, he gave up on it, breathless and unsure if he'd been doing it right, and just wanked the thick cock instead, pulling on it and kissing the inside of Gavi's thighs, his knees digging in painfully against the rough track. The car made a few tenuous creaks as the 18-year-old shifted his weight and spread his legs more, lifting up off the ground and making the bonnet dip with his muscular weight. Still Pedri wanked him, and moved his kisses in, planting smooches on each tight bollock, and then pushing past them to lick at the fuzzy gooch - okay, this was where he knew what to do.
Pedri hooked hands under the heavy thighs and lifted up, moving aside so that he could get under and between those legs - and he pushed his face right in, the angle of it not perfect, but able to squash his nose into the balls and dart his tongue underneath, at the edges of the boy's crack, close to his hole, not the best rimming he'd ever given him, but a flickering service from his powerful tongue, until- `Oh god, Ped, I'm gonna cum-' and Pedri knew what to do. He knew he had to. Back up, planted between those open thighs, and wrapping his open lips bout the wet head of it, taking as many inches of his boy's cock into his mouth as he could, even as he heard Gavi's panicky breath and gurgle and then, ohhhh - well, it didn't taste as bad as he'd expected, but it WAS kinda bitter. And fuck, there was so much of it, such a mouthful!
Fucking yes, he thought as he turned to the side and spat the cum out in the dirt without a trace of dignity; fuck yes, I bet Araujo wouldn't do that for you, the big ugly bastard!
And now Gavi was flopped back on the hood of the car, gasping and moaning, with his pants still about his ankles, and his dick lying to one side against his thigh, still oozing gum and shiny with Pedri's saliva. But Pedri stood over him, panting, and wiping the sleeve of his brown tracksuit top over his dirty mouth, rubbing flecks of jizz away from his dark stubble, his intense eyes gazing down on the pleasured heap of his teenager.
`Get up,' he said, his voice firm and authoritative - and not yet quite affectionate. He was still too angry for that, even if he blamed himself.
Up Gavi got, but it was a slight struggle, sliding one way and then almost tripping the other, needing to balance himself with a hand to Pedri's firm chest. Once they were facing each o ther on their feet, Pedri spun him around, stopping him as he tried to stoop to drag his white undies up his legs. He held him from behind, bringing one hand up against his upper chest over the thin tee, feeling his crucifix chain through it and the thunder of his heartbeat. With the other, he reached down his back and squeezed a pawful of that perfect ass.
This is mine,' Pedri gasped in his ear, and Gavi instantly nodded. I mean, this is all mine - whatever you did with your mouth, I forgive it, but this is MINE.' He was panting heavily as he spoke, only knowing what he wanted as he put it out loud, and shocked to hear how frantic and aggressive he was right now. I mean it - ALL MINE.' Gavi nodded, gasping out a Si'.
It was one thing,' heaved Pedri emotionally, to hear you cheated - with that big guy - when I was injured - fuck! That was one thing, and I can cope with that, okay... But... but... Everybody out there,' he gasped, seeing your bottom, seeing it almost out on the pitch like that... those pics, that video...!' He was stammering over it, almost ashamed to say it. I don't want everyone looking at it and joking about it - it's MINE.'
Yes,' gasped Gavi dutifully, pushing back in against his body for support, but trembling as he did. Yes it's yours.'
`All mine?'
`All yours!'
I'm gonna make it mine,' the 20-year-old rising star groaned in his boyfriend's ear, deep and meaningful. You understand what I'm saying, baby?' Gavi went quiet there, trembled hard against his passionate hold. Not now, not here - not like this,' he promised, his voice a lusty groan, but soon. I'm going to take your cherry, my Pablo.'
`Yes,' the 18-year-old agreed weakly, and he could imagine the tense indecision on his face; but he kissed him on the side of the neck, behind the ear, and then on the cheek, and then on the back of his neck, and then... Gavi was spinning around and holding him and the two young Spaniards were fully snogging, bodies rubbing through their clothes and Pedri's own hard-on taut at his tracksuit bottoms, rubbing against the soft spent swell of Gavi's own cock and balls, naked still. Gavi's hand reached down into his pants and began to wank him, and Pedri wasn't ashamed of how little it took to pull his trigger and make him empty creamy white cum inside his boxer shorts, all over Gavi's bunched hand. He barely groaned as he came, having felt close to the edge the whole time he was on his knees, sucking and then teasing the crack of that perfect white arse - it really did drive him mad with possessive lust to know that its masterpiece image was all over the internet now.
I love you,' Gavira whimpered quietly. I'll never cheat again. I'm so sorry.'
It's my fault,' Pedri told him simply, letting his breathing and heart rate recover after cumming in his pants ,and just wrapping his arms tightly about the slightly smaller midfielder. All my fault, I think.' They kissed again, and he guided him gently back into the car before taking the driver's seat and re-starting the engine - he felt exhausted by his abrupt orgasm, and by the stress of breaking boundaries to repay and reclaim his boy. But it had needed to be done, and it hadn't tasted so bad. The engine growled and throbbed around them, and he looked carefully over at the Barca boy before reversing them back up the track.
`I'm going to fuck you,' he told him simply, his voice low and gravelly.
Gavi nodded, wide-eyed. `I want it,' he said even more quietly, a tremor in his voice, of fear and desire and loyalty.
'Writer guy' - Premiership Lads on Nifty https://www.nifty.org/nifty/gay/celebrity/premiership-lads/
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