Part 357: The Footballers' Football Fanfic
Wednesday night in a trendy postcode of East London, where there were still gaggles of midweek drinkers on the streets, and colourful bursts of life punctuating the late darkness of the city; he moved through it with a certain swagger in his step, this inflated confidence only momentarily paused by the need to check his phone screen for directions around the complicated street layout of the Hackney district. Eventually though, the Safari app on his device seemed to lign up with the recognisable landmarks around him, and he thought he could see the squat ultra-modern extension looming beyond a couple of more traditional ex-industrial conversions, and thought that he'd located a home that he'd briefly - visited in person only a couple of times, but entered into in a `virtual' sense on a weekly basis for lengthy online dialogues with its owner.
The 31-year-old footballer hurried on, turning a final corner and swaggering on down the last length of street, bowing his head slightly to mask his grinning face under the peak of a baseball cap and the capacious fold of his hood - after all, it wasn't best to show your face too smugly at this end of London hafter travelling the length of the country to absolutely violate a team like West Ham...!
On he sped, his broad physique covered by tracksuit and jacket, and his discreetly masked face jerking upwards to confirm that this was indeed the right building, and that he wasn't about to fight aimlessly with the wrong set of complex intercom buttons by accident. Yep, this was the place, and he paused only briefly on the street before climbing the short half-flight of steps into its sheltered entranceway; he couldn't wipe the broad victorious smile off his handsome brown features, even as he shot cautious glances left and right. Realistically, it would be just as inconvenient to stumble into a lingering pack of his own Geordie fans right now, though a much happier interruption than seeing the disgruntled East-enders who'd watched West Ham get thrashed 5-1 by the visiting Newcastle United.
Callum Wilson jabbed thick fingers at the buttons of the intercom to alert the top-floor apartment of the stylish block of three, then stepped back down a step or two to make his smug face all the more obvious on whatever hidden security cam might be beaming his grin up to Michail Antonio's pad - like the overgrown cheeky boy he was, Newcastle's successful striker smirked and gave a little wave for the camera, sticking up two fingers in a V that denoted his brace of goals against the host team, then laughing loudly to himself as a little buzzer sounded and a lock on the main door released. He could imagine the swearing mock-fury of his football buddy on the floors above, and he shouldered the door inwards to let his 5ft11 body of stern muscle in off the cool damp streets, ready to catch up with his co-host for the Footballers' Football Podcast.
They'd talked about the match at length, of course - how could they not?
Michail himself couldn't help but think and laugh about this fact as he kitted himself up for the midweek fixture, brushing bulky muscles against those of other West Ham regulars along one wall of the broad home changing rooms earlier that evening, each of them getting psyched up to walk out there and face off against the precocious Magpies who were ready to dismiss the London team as an easy win. That had been the tone of their manager's pep talk a minute earlier, anyway, painting the visitors as arrogant and entitled, and trying to rouse the West Ham lads for another teeth-and-nail scrap for survival points at the lower end of the Premiership table - not that Moyes' words would end up having much positive influence on the outcome of the match ahead.
In the blissful ignorance and open possibility BEFORE the game, however, Antonio grinned brightly to himself and enjoyed the prospect of facing up against his friend, having bantered ferociously on their BBC podcast just two days earlier. Michail himself, hooting with matey laughter, had made various threats towards his infectiously smiley younger counterpart, informing Newcastle's striker that he'd be straight in to boot and obstruct him and injure him if necessary, making wild claims that would become problematic if any serious refereeing should end up required...! And Cal himself had been brimming with playful confidence, leading him to demand suggestions for a goal celebration. Now, pulling a close-fitting under-vest against the dark heavy muscles of his shoulders and chest, the 33-year-old forward chuckled at his own quick retort, suggesting a dance of the Macarena for the other attacking player - as if Wilson was going to manage a goal, though the prospect of the other hefty lad whipping out a 90s throwback under the floodlights was enough to make Michail shake his head and laugh to himself before unfolding his fresh home shirt.
He and Callum had been close pals for a number of years now, to the extent that neither footballer was even sure where they'd first met or bonded, and their friendship had been reinforced rather than tested by their surprise podcasting deal with BBC Sounds, allowing the rival Premiership forwards to put aside club differences and embrace their mutual admiration for the wider sport. Michail got lots of doubting comments from teammates and football contacts about managing to balance playfully neutral punditry on this side-hustle alongside his full commitment as a regular Premiership performer... but he and Callum found it easy enough to detach the roles and enjoy rather than avoid the little conflicts and competitive elements it sparked in their two-man show.
It seemed to be the first time in a while that the two forwards were likely to share a pitch, with injuries on both sides tending to prevent that dilemma in the past, and so tonight's game had provided plenty of enjoyable tension and laddish abuse in this week's recording - and Michail grinned even more, yanking his shorts up over his meaty black thighs, to think at how the banter and threats had persisted off-air, with the podcast wrapped up and the two footy pals just mouthing off over webcams without their producer or tech left in the call.
Callum, he thought, was much funnier and more lively than people might expect, often dismissed as a big-muscled pretty boy poser and a striker of fairly inconsistent standards, but Michail found him hilarious and entertaining, often very dry and surprising. He could be so vanilla and basic, and then come out with the most ridiculous stuff! Point in case, sitting there over the web-call and starting to mouth off that the winner or loser between them would need to do forfeits before the next podcast could possibly be recorded - and that whichever of them managed to net a goal would be absolutely dominant over the other, making Antonio's eyes water with mirth as he tried to come up with suitably shaming activities he could foist on the cocky Magpie.
Now, rolling socks halfway up his calves and starting to tune in to the pre-game chat and aggression of the lads around him, Michail could only smirk and roll his eyes to think how quickly THAT strain of banter had gone downhill, spiralling rapidly into the gutter - You'll have to let me have a go on your missus after I get my hat-trick', the 33-year-old Jamaica international had found himself belting at his friend over their laptops, whilst his friend only stapped laughing long enough to match this, And what, I get one hour with your momma...?'
In the present, it was Declan Rice's turn now to try and rouse a fighting spirit in the West Ham ranks, following on melodramatically from the gaffer's speech; the team's young skipper was red-faced with passion and standing up on one of the benches to address the guys, but Antonio found himself less intent on the moment than the lads either side of him, Benrahma and Soucek, and certainly not hollering enthusiastically along like Bowen or Zouma, nor readying to hoist up and crowd-surf Rice like Fabianski and Paqueta. With a slight guilt towards his squad, Michail over-compensated, slamming his large hands together in staccato applause and hollering `Rice Rice baby!' at the captain once the speech was over - he hadn't actually listened much to Declan's specific words, and had been thinking with a mixture of amusement and embarrassment about how that webcam banter and rivalry had specifically ended.
It crossed Callum's mind too, both in the cheery confidence of the away rooms before kick-off, and in the heavy excitement and joy that followed - the NUFC players went into the game with their Man Utd revenge fresh in everyone's mind, and they came out of it almost laughing at their own confidence and superiority, nobody quite able to believe how well the win had gone. Not least Callum himself, who'd gotten the perfect opportunity to dance his Macarena, and then had to come up with a second celebration too, contributing heavily to the 5-1 win that made his team's Champions League dreams that little more substantial.
By the end of the game, Wilson was less conscious of his joky rivalry with his co-host, because there was so much more at stake in the match; he was just full of excitement for his team, pride in the other lads, and personal satisfaction in a night that might silence some of his critics. Hugging bare torso with a couple of others at one end of their traditional post-match team photo to mark the win, the 31-year-old was just riding the wave of triumph and daring to imagine himself playing in some of the top stadiums of Europe next season, fighting it out for real international silverware.
But by the time he had prised himself away from the giggling euphoria of Bruno Guimaraes and the tight hugs of Jacob Murphy, his thoughts did turn back to banter with Michail Antonio, first as part of the recording, and then one-to-one over their video call... He'd got a bit carried away, he supposed, but imagine Mic's face now if he called him out on the dares that had been boasted over that web-call...! Fucking hell, haha...
It had been one thing when the two burly football lads were making inappropriate jokes about each other's stunning girlfriends, or lewd insinuations about other mutual acquaintances, but quite another when Callum himself had brashly told his old pal that the one who scored first between them would be getting their balls polished by the tongue of the other - the West Ham forward had shrieked with laughter at this and hung his face in his hand, jokily pleading forgiveness from Jesus at having enjoyed the outrageous suggestion between them. And something in Antonio's mirth and enjoyment had just driven Wilson on, drunk on the playful mood of their conversation, and liberated by the fact they weren't being recorded and produced for an audience of football fans - Yeah, absolute mouthful of nut for the loser!' he cackled at his counterpart. I hope you like your food salty, brother?'
It had spiralled from there, the wise-cracks and throaty laughter rocking on for a few more minutes before one of them had the sense to end call - Callum mouthing off about how he couldn't wait to empty his balls in East London, and Michail joining in, wondering aloud whether Big Cal W would be such a pretty boy with his face painted in streaks of man-sauce. Two well-built blokes shaking with laughter in the view of their webcams, prodding and provoking each other with dirtier remarks until one of them - it was Callum, in the end - insisted on clicking off the call and getting on with cooking dinner.
Now, stepping into the steam of the showers, Wilson thought about it with a mixture of silly amusement and vague self-conscious shame: he couldn't help but wonder if he'd joked too hard, been too crude and literal, and maybe given away some of his past experimentation to a friend whom such things should perhaps never be confided...? In the warm fug of the communal shower block, the tall broad striker looked around him, as if expecting the diminutive figure of his Bournemouth buddy to be among the glistening wet bodies and echoey laddish voices... but nah, it had been a while since Ryan Fraser had been part of the Newcastle first-team, and that thought brought a fresh guilt and awkwardness to Callum's otherwise jubilant mood tonight.
Rubbing soapy palms across his face and letting hot water cascade from his shoulders and pecs, the 5ft11 footballer thought briefly about the private spats between he and the small Scottish lad, the souring of their long friendship - a strange intimacy between the Bournemouth and Newcastle teammates, under Howe at both clubs, that went back as far as that beach-front stag do. So many fierce little episodes of closeness, he thought, remembering his own domineering hands pushing Ryan's head under the covers, and the ways he'd used that greedy mouth... In spite of the hot shower covering his body, Callum shuddered: he'd put a stop to those fumbles a long while ago, frightened by their loose nocturnal experiments, and wary of the way the Scot alluded to it in front of others. After a long period of cool, Fraser had become impatient and bolshy with him, and many arguments had ensued, mostly in private, but some on the training ground... until the angry little man from Aberdeen had begun picking fights with everyone from the youngster Elliott Anderson, seeming to particularly resent the Geordie kid, and their de facto captain Kieran Trippier, big mistake. Ryan now trained with the Under-21s and was expected to be sold as cheaply as possible come summer - and Callum knew some responsibility for that downfall lay at his own front door, or somewhere between his thighs.
Slaps on the back as Trippier himself passed him by, and a meaty fist-bump as Fabian Schar came next, helped to stir Wilson out of this guilty little reverie - stupid of him to start mulling over that broken friendship now, he asserted mentally, and stupid to imagine that Michail Antonio would read any such nonsense into a bit of banter...! Like the two hard-bodied defenders who were strutting past him, Wilson reached for his hanging towel and threw it about his thick waist, following them out of the showers in the same damp muscular waddle, and reminding himself to be glad that Ryan Fraser's demotion had removed a lot of conflict and nervous tension from his football days - things between he and the little guy had just become toxic, and had needed distance. Maybe when Ry got his transfer out of Tyneside, they could meet up and rekindle their friendship? He knew he was kidding himself.
Towel-clad and muscles steaming, Callum moved through the away changing room in a slight daze, the smile of a winner still plastered over his face, but a niggling seed of embarrassment remaining at the back of his mind: he could see himself reflected in the footage of his webcam, shoulders shaking and face deadpan, informing Michail Antonio, `I cum loads, by the way, so hope you're thirsty on Wednesday night.'
No sooner had the 33-year-old pressed the buzzer to unlock the entrance than he was off to the fridge of his open-plan kitchen, yanking open the Smeg door and retrieving two icy beers for them. He'd left the inner door open and in tramped his visitor, lifting the visor of his cap to reveal the insufferable smugness of his big open face. I could smack you for that grin,' he informed his fellow striker simply, before grabbing him in a half-hug instead and forcing the cold open beer into his hand, then pushing him roughly in the direction of the main lounge space. Sit yourself down and try not to look so fucking pleased with yourself, or you can find a new co-host to shithouse, yeah?' And in spite of his brunt words, he laughed heavily and smiled, glad to see his friend and to have some reason to see anything amusing in what had otherwise been a terrible night's work.
Michail supposed that being here with Callum was some slight betrayal to the relegation woe that had gripped the West Ham men as soon as they were off the pitch, and he would certainly not be rushing to inform any of his teammates that he'd met a Magpie for a drink on the night of their humiliating defeat - but the whole point of the podcast work that the two blokes did together was THIS, he thought, this brotherly friendship and appreciation that transcended the corporate competition of their league. They were football fans just like their readers, and if Michail put aside his fears for his club, he could just enjoy the fact that a hardworking footballer like his younger pal was getting success and recognition, and that some beautiful goals had been scored... and, he was planning to rib his buddy, some really fucking lucky ones too.
Beer in hand, the Londoner joined his friend at this other side of the flat, sliding down into the other L-shaped retro couch that bordered the large space with its city views; he sank into the corner of it so as to face his mate, taking a long glug from his bottle, and wondering why this was his first beer of the night. He should have been drowning his sorrows from full-time onwards, like Rice and Bowen and a couple of the others.
`How did you get away?' Michail demanded first, conscious of the heavily controlled world that they occupied, and aware that Callum would be setting off for the North East at sunrise tomorrow - he supped more of his beer and made himself comfortable in his corner.
Rooming with Manquillo,' he was told, and the kid was just too buzzing at getting some minutes to even question me when I said I had someone I needed to see whilst in town - he was straight on the video calls with his family back in Spain and in no mood to be ratting me out to the bosses for skipping curfew. Left him to him it and got out of the hotel without having to explain myself to nobody.' A pause and another smug look from the match-winner: `Why, were you worried I'd stand you up, chief?'
Michail smirked at this, shaking his head. I knew you wouldn't miss an opportunity to rub it in,' he said simply, but I did think you might be a prick and try and bring a couple of your teammates along just to troll me - I bet they're all as fucking smug as you tonight, eh!'
`Varying degrees of smug,' mused Wilson in confirmation.
Blood money pricks,' Antonio chided mockingly. You lads couldn't have just left it 2-1 and got on the bus home, for fuck's sake...?'
`Buddy - half of your players were trying to help us make it 10-0 by the end, including your retirement-home goalkeeper...'
Ah but it was never gonna be 10-0, given that your mates couldn't keep a clean sheet if they were wearing nappies,' Michail attacked, ignoring Newcastle's defensive record, and waving an accusing finger in his pal's direction, then laughing into a gurgle of glugged beer, his bottle near empty already. Five winning goals is great, but I know that one concession will piss off Trips and Big Daddy Howe, haha - we can analyse that West Ham counter-attack in the podcast next week, what do you say...?' And giggling to himself, the bulky striker lifted his tired body up off the sofa and he gestured in Cal's direction with the bottle - `Another one of these, bud?'
Callum nodded and then monologued at him about how shite and lucky that goal had been, whilst Michail fetched and opened two more bottles of San Miguel. Approaching the sofas again with one in each hand, he saw that his visitor had made himself more comfortable, stripping away his jacket and hoody and lounging into his corner with his t-shirt riding up his six-pack, a hand tucked there in the space above his waist, as if to show off some of that sculpted muscle which both beefy men liked to mock each other for. And as he reclined there, the 31-year-old was shooting him another ultra-smug look, enough to make Michail momentarily dread their online meeting where they would plan out the next episode of the discussion show - this bell-end was going to be insufferable all spring!
Before Antonio could reach him to pass over the beer, Callum was calling him out in a voice that was almost a complacent yawn, and stopping him in his tracks. So we won,' his visitor said in a sigh, and one of us got a brace of fine goals - so what about these forfeits, Micky boy? What about our agreement?' A long simmering grin shone from that arrogant expression, and the yawning voice turned into a low chuckle - `What are you waiting for, big lad?' - Michail's heart skipped a beat and his stomach lurched.
Callum stared at him for the sofa, and registered the shocked look across his silent face - for a moment, just a moment, he let the question hang there, provocative and bold, tipsy after several celebratory drinks with his fellow Newcastle players, and clutching the warming dregs of another beer in one hand, now reaching out to claim the fresh one that Michail had been about to offer him. The moment's silence stretched ominously between them and then, lifting his body off the L-shaped sofa and reaching to take hold of the offered beer, Callum's big grin twisted and he winked one bright eye, bursting into fresh gleeful laughter as he dropped comfortably back against the soft leather. Your face!' the striker concluded, slapping one thigh of his club tracksuit pants, You should see your face!'
Stood over him, Antonio's laughter was deep and gruff and just a little hesitant. You're a wrong un,' the Wandsworth-born footballer told him between chuckles. A pure wrong un, Cal.' And down flopped the other 5ft11 man, an air of definite relief in the drop of his muscles as he joined Callum here on this sofa, shaking his head in the same mock disbelief that he'd pantomimed on their web-call. `Drink that beer and shut your filthy mouth!' the West Ham forward exclaimed with a frustration that seemed only half performative.
And Callum himself just sniggered and smirked and finished one beer then started the other - how consciously had he thrown out that challenging `joke'? How much had it turned over in his head as a thing to say on the half hour walk here from his team's hotel? He wasn't even sure, really - he'd been embarrassed and regretful about the banter earlier tonight, wary and paranoid about being so crass with his burly mate, and yet... Swaggering in here and bantering with the losing man, well, their jokes and dares and forfeits had felt like an elephant in the room! And at least he'd had the balls to break the taboo and laugh it off - what was Michail gonna go, forget those jokes were even made? The Newcastle player shifted where he sat, hot under his grey t-shirt, and glad - mostly glad - that he'd broached the dirty joke and gulled his mate for a moment there. A joke, most definitely a joke, just a matter of seeing Michail's gullible gawp...!
Jesus,' the other player muttered. Imagine we'd left the call recording that day and left that footage with the production team, ha ha.'
Callum had shared that same worry once or twice, but he grinned foolishly and shrugged one big muscular shoulder. Be great content for an end-of-season wrap-up,' the Coventry-born man sniggered, taking a long swig of cold beer. Even if every other word would have to be bleeped for the BBC.' He tried to grin warmly and casually at the other forward, in case his joke had pushed Michail too far, and he did see some seriousness and discomfort in the other fella, but he wanted to push past it. I had you on there, didn't I?' he demanded, reaching his arm across the top of the cushions and punching very lightly at the edge of the other man's arm. Did you actually think I was...?'
Here for that?' sputtered Antonio. Do you think I'm that daft...?'
`You looked like you'd been visited by three ghosts at Christmas, for fuck's sake.'
`Nah, just the one clown - tsk, what's got into you, daft lad? I'm gonna ring your missus and warn her, she should know how dirty you've got in your old age.'
Cal read nothing serious into this plan, and yet he did feel an anxious twinge, a return of that worry that had ran down his spine whilst basking in the hot shower water with his teammates. He hesitated, sipping beer when he couldn't settle on what to say, and he watched Mic's ambiguous expression for another long moment. And I'll be on to your bird,' he countered, so I can tell her that her fella doesn't keep his word on promises and bets... ha!'
A roll of the eyes and a stretch of those big shoulders, the beefy muscled football player shifting position on the edge of the sofa. Right, I see - that IS what you came here for,' drawled the West Ham player in a mocking, affected voice, now planting one hand over Callum's. You were looking for a romantic tryst before you have to head up to the Northern wastelands, why aye...?'
Cal pulled his hand away instinctively even as he laughed. All I'm saying,' he blurted, is that I don't go back on my word, a man's honour is all he's got, buddy.' He didn't think about what he was saying, he just shot it out, and then sensed the thoughtful frown that it left on Michail's dark features. An awkward moment of quiet. Just messing,' he added lamely, suspecting that he'd milked this joke too far, but then unsure where to go from it. We both know you're a wuss who can't take a dare, that's all, but I'm the bigger man and the winner. Two goals say so, and I'll still podcast with you when you're in the Championship and I'm in the Champions League, deal?' And he stuck a handshake in the other man's direction, across the diagonal of the L-shaped sofa - but Michail seemed to reject his hand, making a loud huffing noise and kicking back into the cushion, thick arms golding across the chest of his polo shirt. Callum stared at his moody silence, hand in the air, unsure if it was a joke, and then added in a strained voice, `If Newcastle had bombed 5-1 to the Hammers and you'd scored a couple of bangers, I'd be sure fulfilling my part of the bet - straight on my knees like your mum, for fuck's sake.'
Again, he wasn't really thinking carefully about his words - he was tipsy and over-excited, and really as frustrated as many of his teammates that the travelling Magpies hadn't been allowed a fuller celebration of their win, but ushered strictly to bed with an intense training schedule taking them into the Easter weekend. A strict curfew that he was breaking to be here, face to face with his mate. He felt hot under his clothes and embarrassed at his jokes, and he found that Michail was givng him a very measured stare.
That so?' the West Ham player demanded, and for a moment Callum didn't even follow what he was being asked, having to remind himself of his own ridiculously bold retort. He shrugged both shoulders and downed the rest of his bottle in one go. Well I don't go back on my word,' he asserted roughly. It's just basic rules of the bro code, or whatever.' He scratched at his neck and forced a laugh. Jesus, why are you looking so serious, brother? I'm getting another beer - you want one?'
Making himself at home in his co-host's flat, and really just escaping the thoughtful look on his pal's face, Wilson got up and padded across into the spacious kitchen, opening the fridge and taking too long to locate the obvious beers. He was glad of the cool glow on his face and on the chest of his tee. He heard steps behind him and the slight clink as empties were placed on the counter. He felt a strong warm hand on one shoulder and then the other player was in so close to him that it made him flinch, but then one of Michail's incredibly thick arms was just reaching past him to nudge aside a yoghurt pack and extract the one remaining beer, which was then pressed between his palm and his chest. The hand on his shoulder squeezed and the other man pulled away slowly, leaving him to shut the fridge and turn hsi back against it.
There's more,' his host told him quietly. But they won't be cold.'
`Right.' He clutched this solitary beer and then held his hand out whilst Michail supplied a bottle opener; in order to use it, both of his hands had to clutch warmly against Callum's clenched fist. The lid clicked and rattled on the kitchen floor and they just stood there in the low warm lamplight. Thick and strong, the other man's fingers wrangled against his, and it made him tense... but Michail was just pulling away and claiming the beer, holding it to his lips, and leaving Callum's hand floating limply between them, empty.
Callum blinked, slightly flustered. `Wow, great host,' he muttered, ironically bitter.
A long glug, and then bottle handed over. `I'm okay at sharing.'
Callum drank from it, but self-consciously. Watched by the other man, he felt self-conscious of the way his pink lips spread fully about the neck of the bottle, and the pursing of his large moist mouth as he knocked back and glugged some of the Spanish beer against his tongue. He swallowed with some difficulty and then held the beer between their standing physiques, incredibly aware of the rash things he'd said on the sofa.
So,' his podcast pal said in a low growl of a voice, tell me what mighta happened if Newcastle had lost...?'
Antonio didn't know what he was doing, but pushed to put it in words, he might tell himself he was testing the extent of Wilson's supposed honour; here was this brash cocky winner, throwing his victory around in Michail's face, acitng like he wasn't a professional athlete whose club was facing painful relegation, and he needed bringing down a peg or two! Who did he think he was, pushing stupid bets and forfeits and making wild ridiculous claims about how honourable he would have been in defeat...? Pft, as if a losing Cal Wilson would even be HERE, sharing a beer, and not just sulking in his hotel with Trips and Joelinton and the rest of them...!
Yeah, he thought, this is just a game of `chicken' - Callum was making big claims, his smug mouth writing cheques that his weak-ass personality couldn't cash - THAT'S what Michail was doing right now, testing and pushing him, that's all.
So he needled him further: `You were saying, if YOU were the loser, then you would have kept your word and...?'
Wilson made a gruff sound in front of him, seeming to flex and shift under his tight grey t-shirt, his tattooed arm muscles bulging as he did. `Well, jesus pal, we were both saying a lot of shit, weren't we? The things we'd do if we won, and that! I mean - bloody hell, I'm not actually asking to shag your missus, am I?'
That what you meant, then?' Michail found himself demanding. He took the half-drunk bottle and just placed it away on the counter behind him, then folded his arms against his own bulging chest. Before, when you said you were a man of honour - were just chatting about THOSE bets and dares, were you? I see, I see... Not... the other stuff?'
Pushed far enough, the West Midlander snapped. `Fuck's sake, are you wishing West Ham had done less shit so I would be on my knees sucking you, fella?'
And Michail just laughed, enjoying the sudden discomfort that was replacing the brash smugness that his friend had, inevitably, brought into his flat - with a touch of confused sadism, he liked the little beads of sweat on Callum's handsome brow, and the uncertain forced smile which now met his own thoughtful grin. And so, wanting to relish the stupid jokey authority of the moment, he pushed, `What if I am, mate, what if I am?'
Full of bravado on just two beers, the West Ham loser stared his pal down, feeling an upper hand and a sense of his dominance - the older and more experienced of the pair, always the more measured and assertive in their wide-ranging football debates and more generalised online arguments for their fans. And then, after this long quiet pause, Callum said, Fuck' in a breathy voice, and broke the eye contact, lowering his face in a slightly submissive way, and just as Michail was about to boom with winning laughter in his face, the other football lad looked sharply back at him and spoke in a near-whisper - You won't fucking tell anyone, will you?'
The 33-year-old seasoned football pro froze on the spot, but did his best to maintain the look of cool dominance on his face and in his folded arms. Rather than speak, because what the fuck was he going to say, he tilted one bulging shoulder very slightly and raised his eyebrows in one slight movement. In front of him, Wilson blew out a long awkward breath, and then rubbed his knuckles over his sweaty upper lip. Yeah,' he muttered now, his voice quiet, I think I would have, buddy - you gonna make me prove it?' His voice was full of tension and, staring him down, Antonio found that his whole thickset 5ft11 body was too, tension that he had wound up quite deliberately to get one over his triumphant friend, sour against his deserved success, pushed by his gloating, and now... What the fuck?
Not gonna make you do nothing,' Michail mumbled, voice low, but then, but not gonna tell anyone a thing,' surprising himself with the soft intimacy of the promise, and the volumes it admitted between them. He reached behind him and took the beer, taking down several gulps before passing the little that remained to his guest. Drink up,' he muttered at him. I think you're gonna need it.' And then, bristling with the invented conflict of the night, as if they were back in their kit in the London Stadium, he made for the bedroom.
Wilson followed him to the bedroom in a daze, his big muscular arms just hanging at his sides. A single lamp glowed on a table near the low bed and its dark sheets, casting a murky light in the windowless room; the door fell shut behind him and enclosed the two attacking footballers in this half-light and warmth. Callum felt as if he was sweating from head to toe, and he pulled loosely at the chest of his grey t-shirt. `Take it off if you need to,' came Michail's ambivalent mutter and, sure, yeah, that seemed a good idea - off it came, pulled away from the thick strength of his torso and dropped lightly on the wooden floorboards by his trainers.
Antonio had climbed onto the bed. He lay there, head and shoulders propped up on pillows, and arms brought up with hands resting behind his neck, accentuating the large curves of muscle as those dark arms bunched up there. He was a fairly dim outline in the limited light of the room and yet his pose and posture were vivid and expectant, and brought Callum stumbling closer to the bed, drawn on by his rash promises and provocative claims - and perhaps a curiosity that had been nursed behind his Ryan Fraser conflicts for some time, a question mark on what it might feel like.
Bets had been made, and forfeits set, and the result decided - and yet here he was, in a topsy-turvy world, facing the exact defeat he'd set up for his rival. Nothing made sense in the space that Callum now occupied, and yet he found himself ready to just embrace that. Moving slowly forward, shirtless and a little sweaty, and climbing knee after knee on the foot of the bed, until he was crawling over his pal's outstretched legs in their loose rough black denim. His hands pawed over the bedding to bring him into place and he rested there on all fours, poised over Michail's prone body, as if waiting for the big West Ham man to suddenly tell him the punchline of this mutual joke. But Antonio just stared at him with an almost blank and disinterested face, hiding god knows what feelings about this - and Wilson could just hover where he was in a moment's shady indecision.
He could kid himself he had a point to prove, that he was playing the same game of `chicken' as his host - he could even suggest to himself that he was trying to nudge this uptight bastard along and maybe earn his just reward, as jokingly agreed over their web-call. He could lie to himself with those thoughts, but tipsy excitement laid bare something more honest: he did want to try this, and in particular, he wanted to try it with this bloke. With several ragged breaths, he leaned in, and reached for the thick heavy buckle of a belt, tugging at the leather and metal until it was undone, and then, oh then, his hand on the shape in the thick rough denim, and the tight intake of his breath. A sort of awkward clearing of the throat by Mic. He tugged at the button fly, one at a time, to get the jeans open, and then he pushed up on the material of his friend's burgundy-coloured polo shirt - encouraged, the other man sat up a little in an ab crunch, and up the top went, cast aside like Cal's own sweaty tee. Back down on the bed, same relaxed posture, bulging arms up around the sides of his head, and an expression of sheer indifference on his face - eyes not quite open, hooded and evasive, no more intense challenging eye contact. Was Michail a bit nervous too? Was he really up for this?
Callum stuck a clumsy hand inside the open flies and felt the contents. Fuck. Huge and soft. He lurched forward a little on his knees until his face almost rested on the hard ridges of the other man's six-pack. He leaned his face in and pressed a soft uncertain kiss against the smooth skin there, while fumbling his hand inside the open jeans, giving it a proper squeeze; he might have pulled nervously back had one of Michail's large strong hands not fallen against his shoulder and rested there with a kind of encouraging firmness that drove Cal on to wrench the front of the jeans open more fully and to kiss the base of his hard tummy muscles one more time, then... slowly, as if unsure what would be revealed, to push and pull on the black elastic of the undies, and to let it out. Antonio's huge soft cock, the one seen bouncing and bulging in every West Ham kit for the last eight seasons.
The 31-year-old knew what he had to do next and yet still he hesitated, staring at the shape in the shadows; on his bare shoulder blade, his friend's hand rubbed gently, making slow progress to his spine and then onto the back of his neck, where its pressure could guide his face forward and down. Fuck. Come on,' came the rumble of Antonio's voice. Show us what you'd have done, loser.' Nothing here was hypothetical, this was real, and yet he was gonna show him - he'd won completely, and yet he was gonna show him. He opened his mouth and brought it in, rubbing his lips down the length, then jutting out his tongue and picking up the fat tip into his mouth, almost laughing at how plump and floppy it was, but opening wide and letting it in, and dragging one hand up the inner thigh of the denim and then using it to cup and hold the balls through the black cotton of the undies. And Antonio's hand, reaching up his neck and the fade cut of his hair, until it was on top of his crown and pressing forward, guiding him and his mouth - which was suddenly so very full.
It tasted like his friend smelled: rich and manly, and it felt huge between his lips. He didn't do much at first, just testing it against his lips and his tongue, marvelling at its thickness and warmth, but then he tried to suck on it, unsure of how to perform, unsure of what he needed here - until a receptive moan came from the West Ham player, and an almost tender stroke of the hand on his head. Lips pursing and pulling back and forth a little, he coaxed life into the monster, breathing in the scent of a man's crotch, and realising that his heart was beating out some serious drum-and-bass behind his pecs.
Fuck,' the West Ham forward groaned openly, because why hide the pleasure? Fuck, that feels good,' he added a little more expressively, and he rubbed both hands encouragingly in against the other man - rubbing at both the back of his head and at one huge thick shoulder, wanting him to know that he was doing right. Right? Well, good. Something good. It felt good. Michail's thoughts were a muddle of satisfaction and desire - and that same unfounded dominance, the restoring of some order between the two sporting friends, in spite of the score-line at the stadium. Something was being righted here, he thought, that had nothing and everything to do with 5-1 and Callum's part in that - fucking Macarena was one thing, but sucking my dick's another.
The 33-year-old stud could feel his cock stretch and stiffen and he loved the soft hesitant wetness of a mouth on it, one that didn't know how good it felt - he loved the slow cursory attention of the lad's tongue and the gentle brush of his lips, he even loved the shaky weight of the muscular body against his thighs and his pelvis, felt like he could reach down and hug the bulky presence of the Newcastle striker and just tell his friend how great his muscles felt here in the shadows.
Keep going,' Antonio urged, and Wilson made a sort of gagging sound - he was so tentative with it, pulling back and gasping for air, and Michail had to resist the urge to push down on his head and to really force his growing length into that hot wet orifice. Instead he just reached for the base of his cock instead, squeezing and shifting it, holding the big black rod in place for Callum's experimental licks and rubs. Fully hard now, he felt incredibly sensitive, and even more appreciative of the rub and slurp of the mouth. Oh god,' he groaned openly, and he felt Cal again try to take more of it in against his tongue, but struggle - it was even bigger and thicker now than the soft snake he'd begun with, and he heard edges of panic and frustration to the Tyneside star's heavy breathing.
As if to help him, rather than himself, Michail shifted and moved - up onto his knees and his haunches, jeans pulled halfway down his solid thighs, and one hand cradling about his tight balls and the thick base of his weapon, the other guiding Cal's head in and down. There, he thought, that's better, the man could really get his lips about it, and - fuckkkkk, it felt so good, and he realised he was growling these things out loud and not just thinking them, Fuck yes mate' and Oh that's good', long drawling gasps of pleasure for his willing sucker, the forfeiter who'd won the bet.
`Spit on it,' Michail told him, soft rather than aggressive, and Callum did so - his lips glided about the head and the foreskin and down some of the shaft, and so he spat some more, and Michail groaned more and more in response to each move of it. He reached one muscled arm behind him and gripped the metalwork that formed an ornate headboard, using it to prop up his heavy physique - the thick dark bulk of his muscles with the paler caramel of Wilson's body hunched before him. He stroked his broad strong back, running his hands side to side and then down the spine, and then - fuck, he was enjoying this too much! - even further, to drop a light slap against the round shape in the rear of those NUFC trackies. Another little smack, and then a good squeezing grip of them. Cal's arse was big and round like a hot woman's, and so fucking FIRM. Jesus. Some booty on him.
He thought this was too much, too grabby, too much of a liberty, and yet - drooling over the huge fat head of Antonio's cock, he heard a panting enthusiasm in Wilson's breath, a little moan of his too as he squeezed his behind for him, and... fuck, why not? Hand on the small of his friend's back, the other guiding his face over his crotch, and a single finger slipping down the back where the underpants were starting to come away from his glutes... into the gap between those cheeks, so damp and sweaty, digging in and... fuck, fuck, his finger finding the hot wet fuzziness, tapping loudly against a virgin hole. His cock was raging hard and his whole muscular body was tense with sudden lust. He reached both hands for the sides of Callum's face and held it there, staring hotly down at him.
Good lad,' the West Ham striker breathed, and then, come here and kiss me.'
Callum Wilson was on his knees before he knew what he was doing, unsteady but excited, and gripping both hands to the thick hard sides of Michail's torso for balance; he pressed his wet quivering mouth to the other man's and kissed him, glad of the intimacy and approval of it. He slipped his tongue in and for a delicious moment the two strikers snogged recklessly, their heavy kneeling bodies falling into each other... Michail's hands all over his arms and his back muscles and then down again, pushing the tracksuit pants and the CK boxers away form his big pale brown cheeks!
But then the kiss was broken, and Cal thought he knew why - the bristles of his stubble ripping against the more clipped and tidy goatee of Mic's beard, perhaps too masculine and real, and a clumsy parting of their damp lips. But still the other big built guy held onto him by the arse cheeks, and Callum kissed his neck instead, snogging the hot sensitive skin there and making the West Ham player groan in long tingling noises.
But then there was a real urgency about Michail and Callum found himself pushed back - for a moment, it was if this was all way too much, not just the kiss but all of it, and he was about to be thrown from the bed of this married man. But instead, the other footballer was on him, pressing him back down into the bedding and kissing him on the neck in the same excited almost teenage way. His hands were rough and greedy on his ams and his sides and then his hips - and then his arse, squeezing and pulling at his cheeks, and at last, flipping him onto his side and holding him there, spooning him and kissing him roughly on the back of his neck. By the time Wilson understood what was happening, he knew how much he wanted it, and he could just reach down and take hold of his own cock, pulling it free of his undies which were dragged halfway down, and jerk on his own hefty length, which had been straining for release and pooling pre-cum against his Calvins.
He lay on his side on the bed and felt held by Michail's mighty arms, kissed and nipped on the neck. He felt one of his heavy legs lifted and a finger in his crack again. He heard Mic spit heavily and the finger there was slick and wet, finding and pressing at his tiny hole. Fuck. He tried to help, tried to manoeuvre his strong heavy body into a better position, and left that leg more openly - `that's it' growled Mic's voice in his ear and a hand was hooked under his thigh muscle to spread his legs properly. Now it wasn't just a wet fingertip he could feel between his cheeks, but something far more huge and pressing.
Callum couldn't believe how incredibly horny he felt, spitting into his own hand and bringing his fist up and down his erection in long wild pumps - nah, this couldn't be happening, this wasn't real, this was just a mad sex dream, and - fuck, it felt so big and hard, the round wet tip that rubbed between his cheeks and passed over his puckered hole - the hot wet breaths of Michail on his neck and his stubbly cheek and the lips that nibbled at the lobe of his ear - and then the fingertip that was back down there, kneading over his ring and pushing ever-so-slightly inside him to open him up. `Fuck, fuck, fuck,' the Newcastle striker gasped over and over, lifting his heavy leg more, stretching his tall body, pressing back into Antonio's powerful grasp. He wanked himself with ridiculous speed, more sensitive and aroused than he thought he'd ever been.
He could feel it again, pressing in there, and all he could think was the impossibility of it - Callum hadn't before put so much as a little finger inside his arse-hole and now he had the huge fat cock-head rolling against it, the same one that he'd gagged on as he tried to take more of the fat length inside his clumsy mouth! But the more that Michail pushed and rubbed, the less sure he was - was his ring responding to it, and wanting it? Were his cheeks relaxing and parting at Mic's strong touch and grasp? Fuck,' he moaned, a tremble of fear in his breathy voice, countered by an assertive growl You can take it', Mic's mouth so close to his ear. Maybe he could? He wanked furiously on himself and tensed up, inadvertently making such entry impossible - having never given any thought to such action for himself, he had no idea what he was doing, and no knowledge that as he tensed and squeezed on every muscle of his being, he was just locking out the prods of the other man's big black cock.
But to Wilson, this no longer mattered - he could hold back no more. With the tip of a cock pressed between his butttocks and straining dangerously at that most private entrance, the 31-year-old reached his own separate climax, and spurted string after string of hot wet cum from the red tip of his cock, drenching his knuckles and his six-pack and much of the bedding beside him. He moaned loudly as he did, and reacted more sharply as Antonio ushed again, testing the locked tensin of his hole - he was less receptive now, more focused on his own pleasure, and he pulled his hips away, making Michail grip anxiously at him to keep control, but only for a confused moment before releasing him and letting him roll clumsily aside, cum still leaking for his dick.
And the two friends stared at each other, their faces shining in the low lamplight, before the West Ham player began to jerk himself off on his side, grabbing at his dick in the same frenzied way that Callum had; and Callum himself, his broad chest heaivng with each breath, brought his wet cummy hand forward and stroked it against the other man's balls and onto the base of his shaft, smearing his juices up his length and taking over the tugs for just a moment, before letting his friend finish himself off. The men brought their faces close but did not kiss, eyes half-closed, pouts almost brushing, breath mingling, as Michail Antonio gushed semen onto the bedding between them and sweat glistened on the differing shades of their muscles.
A bathrobe pulled over his now naked form, Antonio stepped around the interior of his apartment as if the floor was covered in broken glass, every movement cautious and loaded with regret. Popping briefly back into the bedroom, he stared at the sticky smears on the bedding and wondered if he would successfully launder the sheets before his wife returned from her family trip; should he just bin them all and buy new stuff from a department store tomorrow after training?
Back out of the bedroom, into the open-plan heart of the floor, where Callum was still wriggling into his hooded top and then pushing each foot inside of his trainers, not stooping to lace either one. Michail just stopped at and stared at him, his breathing still quite laboured, and his eyes finding the prodding outline of a still-risen cock somewhere in the front of those Newcastle-branded tracksuit pants. His own dick was wilting but heavy inside the loose folds of his dressing gown, and he shivered anxiously.
The 33-year-old striker said his quiet and stilted goodbyes to the other man and they hesitated over a hug, eventually deciding against it, and Michail pulling the robe more firmly about his bulky form. He let the visitor out onto the private inner landing and pressed the button that would undo the security locks down below; `See you online,' he called vaguely after his friend, staying on the top step and watching as Wilson jogged his way down the stairwell and out through the centre of the modern complex that was topped by his own Hackney penthouse.
Back into the flat, and through to the large main bathroom. Robe to the floor, and white socks yanked off one at a time. Big naked body into the wetroom corner and shower flipped into life. Cold, at first, and welcome - icy ripples against the dark muscle and shameful sweat, cleaning his cock and balls and the kiss-marks on his neck and pecs. He swore under his breath and rubbed his hands over his face and then the tight braids of his hair, picturing himself in the shadows with the lighter-skinned bloke. Madness, to let that happen, madness to go through with any of it, but madness especially to almost- Fucking hell.
Michail embraced the cold shower and let it warm gently over his skin until it was hot, at which point he switched it off and dried himself slowly, unable to look at himself in the gently steamed bathroom mirror.
Callum walked the distance back to the hotel in just over twenty minutes, even sweatier below his gear as he came within sight of the upmarket but featureless accommodation, and the blank dark panels of its windows, behind each of which would be sleeping the dutiful members of a hardworking and ambitious squad - behind one of them, he thought, his Spanish roomie would be fast asleep, delighted and proud. And Wilson himself just had to get in there without alerting anyone, and crawl into bed; his body was drenched in shameful sweat and he knew that the cold shower he craved would wake up at least his room's other occupant, if not the players on either side of them. He would just have to rest in his own dirt, and wait until the grey light of dawn, when an early departure would carry the Black and White Army up the motorway.
The married footballer played awkwardly with the wedding band on one finger as he moved through automatic doors and flinched at the beeps of his tapped key-card, making his way to his shared suite. He thought about Michail's awkward face and body language as they parted, and dreaded to imagine their video calls in the coming week as they prepped another episode of the Footballers' Football Podcast.
In bed, he gritted his teeth and found it impossible to get comfortable. He'd already been highly conflicted about his earlier experimenting - not just about those furtive nights when he and Fraser had first transferred to pre-Saudi Newcastle, or about the aggro that had developed when he cut off those illicit blowies - but about things like the England camp, where he'd been nudged into enjoying oral sex from Harry fucking Kane, or little shower escapades at Trippier's encouragement, where he'd seen Fraser gobble more hard cocks than his own, and seen cheeky Bruno go down on Big Joe. There was so much sex in the air between top-flight footballers, and Callum just about accepted that there were some needs which maybe shouldn't be talked about outside of their circle - but now, tossing and turning his big body in the sweat-stained sheets, he was thinking new thoughts, and fretting over new fears: just how many needs did he have, and how far would they take him?
'Writer guy' - Premiership Lads on Nifty https://www.nifty.org/nifty/gay/celebrity/premiership-lads/
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