Part 362: England Camp, Day One
No sooner had the bag dropped from his hand and onto the beige carpet of the hotel room than he was grasped by the other man, hands slipping about his waist and face rushing in against his. Hot breath and soft lips and then the crackling electricity of a much-needed kiss. He gasped into the mouth of the younger footballer and grasped him back, more tightly and aggressively, snatching handfuls of his England t-shirt in tight knuckles, and kissing him all the more roughly. `Trent,' he growled when their mouths briefly parted, unable to say more without snatching another throaty kiss and locking lips with the Liverpudlian 24-year-old, then encircling his arms about the increasingly muscular mass of his upper body.
His Trent.
He hadn't been sure that there would be any such passion between them today, though his messages to the younger football player had tried their best to subtle hint so - after all, messages had been all that passed between the 33-year-old England stalwart and his younger man, not a single phone call or voice-note managed in the weeks of their separation. Short anodyne messages between a former captain and the rising star of his old club, and not much else.
Arriving at the buzzing foyer of their training camp, Jordan Henderson's eyes had scanned the assemblage for any hint of the defensive midfielder, but Alexander-Arnold had arrived shortly after him, just as he finished signing in and collecting his usual allocation of kit and merchandise. His heart had skipped a beat when he saw that he and the Anfield lad were still roomed together after all, and he'd had to do his best not to rush over and hug the player liaison officer who took care of such details for Southgate.
Downstairs, surrounded by a mixture of their national teammates and the familiar faces of the Three Lions entourage, Trent had been cool and distant, as feared or expected, not quite looking the defected Liverpool skipper in the eye; and yet here they were, across the site in one large room of the older hotel wing, and mouth to mouth, hands against firm muscles, reaching for heat and strength through the layers of England gear.
They didn't have long, Jordan was conscious of this - they were due at an informal lunch and then a Day One training session for the cameras, and were up here just to drop off their belongings and check their rooms were okay. They didn't have time for any real action, he scolded himself, even as he began to pull irresistibly up on the clingy t-shirt that covered Trent's stocky torso. The thoughts went unheeded and the top peeled away from the caramel brown of the youngster's developed muscles, exposed and delicious, scented faintly with the sweat of travel on a hot day and the traces of a familiar aftershave. Grabbing the 24-year-old stud about the hips, Jordan stooped to kiss his upper chest and then roll his tongue against one nipple, before pulling up and grazing his bearded mouth against the smoother features of the handsome Scouser.
`I've missed this,' the married 33-year-old hissed excitedly.
Alexander-Arnold had nothing to say, but a look of feisty determination in his eyes. He stumbled back a little against the force of Jordan's eagerness, before the pair of them tumbled straight onto one of the beds. They didn't have time for this!
Time, though, was forgotten: Jordan was intoxicated by the closeness of the 5ft9 right-back, topless and bulging with muscle, pinned beneath him on the bedding. He kissed his cheeks and his neck and scratched fingertips over his shorter cut of hair, wild with released desire for a young man he had not seen since his transfer went through. He moaned as one of Trent's hands slid under his tee and into the elasticated waist of his tracksuit bottoms. Trent's fingers massaged his already-aching hard-on through the grey trunks inside and he rubbed forward with his crotch to make the most of this, grinding on top of the well-built smaller bloke, making his lust as obvious as he could.
`Get it out,' came an almost snarled urgency in Alexander-Arnold's Merseyside accent, a bit more fierce and demanding than Hendo was used to - but this was not an instruction he intended to ignore, as his cock leaked pre-cum on grey cotton and some pragmatic corner of his brain reminded him that they should be downstairs any minute. Staying on top of the other player, the ageing midfielder pushed himself up onto his knees and pulled his own blue t-shirt away in one rippling motion, baring the ripped definition of a body that he'd spent the summer break sculpting. Everybody thought he'd been working double-hard as some sort of self-promotion for the megabucks deal that had taken him to Saudi Al-Ettifaq... but it wasn't as if he could admit to anyone that the extra gym hours had been spurred by some age insecurity and the prospect of reunion with his younger lover.
He pushed the trackies and his undies down together, over his hips, his strong glutes, down his soft-furred thighs. His cock sprung free, angry red at the tip, and he clutched at Trent's big shoulders as the lad swung up and stooped down. Jordan knelt there and suppressed the loud gasp as that soft mouth brushed and then sucked on his aching member, meeting it with a tender kiss and then a few sloppy sucks.
How had he left this behind? What cowardice and caution had spurred him into the Middle East? Had his wife really been so close to a discovery, or had it been his own violent paranoia? It was hard to say now - everything had happened with such alarming speed, taking him from the pre-season beginnings of another year for LFC, straight into the synthetic paradise and air-conditioned alienation of his new life. But it was hard for the 33-year-old Mackem to ask himself big questions about his career's final chapter when his cock was being caressed and enjoyed by the bobbing head of his gorgeous mixed-race lover, allowing him to fall backwards and part his heavy thighs, the pants slid past his knees and towards his ankles.
Trent sucked him and looked this way, and their eyes met. There was an intensity there, but it wasn't just passion - the first tingling sense of fear rippled up through Jordan's strong 6ft body, and he felt all the more desperately grateful. Enjoy this moment, he told himself, and let nothing else mattered.
Their expensive watches and a clock on the wall ticked on, the team gathering in the hotel restaurant calling them silently down from their suite... but Trent kissed his hairy balls and wanked his wet cock, and then kissed up his tummy and let Jordan's greedy hands massage his neck and shoulders and those bulging brown biceps.
Fuck,' the Al-Ettifaq player groaned quietly, fuck fuck.' He wished he could find the focus for more passionate or meaningful words, but his body was on fire with relief - how much had he thought about this possible reunion of their bodies, flying back into Heathrow last night and then toying with his cock in the suburban hotel last night?
`Fuck me,' Trent was gasping as he kissed further up the trunk of Jordan's body, and he nodded eagerly, wanting just that - there was no cautionary voice in his head warning him against that, and reminding him that both of them had places to be. He just nodded and blinked and dragged Trent's body up closer so that he could kiss him on the mouth and then more on the neck, almost roughly enough to leave a hickey. He panted and gasped and rolled them over to be on top of his lad again, pinning him and snogging him and rubbed their crotches together.
They paused intimately for just a moment, Jordan's hand curled about the back of Trent's neck, and his other hand reaching down to stroke the firm outline of that hard Scouse cock. Their eyes locked for an eternal second, and a second judder of panic troubled Hendo's strong physique, almost quenching the fire of his lust. Almost. He broke the meaningful stare and pushed back, fighting away his trainers and the bunched undies and tracksuit pants, naked now but for ankle socks. Trent was turning over away from him and he grasped at the backside to pull down at his pants, baring the smooth globes. Like an animal in heat, he was on top of the other strong man, pushing him down into the bedding and kissing the back of his neck. He parted those smooth cheeks and spat on two fingers which could slide between them to rub the familiar warmth of his lad's hole.
`Fuck me!' growled Trent's voice again, harsh and forceful, if a little muffled by bedding and breathlessness; and Hendo complied with a kind of urgent desperation, feeling the transience of the moment, of the intimacy. He pushed his cock in against the wet hole, somehow shocked again by the resistant tightness of a man's arse, the long weeks stretching away since he'd last been inside his right-back. But moaning Trent pushed back too and that precious entrance opened up for him, so tight and clasping, and Jordan pushed roughly - he held his arms about the hefty muscle of the shorter lad and pressed down upon him, entering him further, deeper, and already thrusting.
You feel so good,' the former Liverpool captain moaned, but he heard his own voice as a whine, something begging in its tone - Trent just grunted and gasped, sounding pained but determined, and Hendo pushed deeper, harder. You're amazing,' he whispered, sounding faint, and then, `I've needed this!' Still, just grunts, hard physical breaths, and a kind of forceful pushback from Trent's strong arse and back muscles, and- Henderson let his lust burn free, and he pushed really hard with his hips and his core, and he powered his long thick cock into the tightness of the Scouser's rump.
Panting roughly now like his lover, Jordan just gasped and pumped, fucking the right-back down into the bedding, fast sharp movements and wordless gasps to match them. Sweat was beading all over his freckled skin and in the rich hazelnut brown of his hair and beard. Still, Trent pushed back against him, sinking low but lifting his magnificent arse, and the ex-captain pounded it as powerfully as he could, until his motions began to falter with a kind of emotional uncertainty that translated into physicality.
`Fuck me!' hissed Trent's voice.
Balls-deep in his fellow England player, Jordan slowed and hesitated, skin burning and muscles yearning. He became still and quiet, cock still buried, and hands frozen about the muscled hips of the other body. He held himself there on his knees, closing his eyes, and sucking in breaths that might calm and settle him - he heard a series of frustrated gasps from below and then Trent was wrenching away from him, relaxing muscles letting go of his rock-solid cock. Freed from this interlocking of their bodies, the Saudi star wavered on his knees, dizzied with a rush of emotion - and then settled only when Trent was against him, grasping his forearms and pushing their faces close enough together. Again there was a brief locking of their eyes, but then Trent's moist hand was on his prick, and he was reaching to reciprocate that handjob too - their bodies leaning heavily in together on their knees, creaking the bed and creasing the covers.
As he neared orgasm, Jordan's mind raced. He pictured the boardroom meetings and the tense conference with his family, his agent, his former manager. He pictured the goodbyes and the greetings, his life scooped up and teleported from the Mersey to the Middle East. And as vivid as a classic black-and-white film, he pictured a look of hurt and confusion, directed at him across a training ground huddle, on the day he broke the news to the rest of the lads... confirming the rumours and letting the LFC players know that yep, he'd signed on the dotted line and was about to be really fucking rich. He could picture the drop of Trent's jaw and the wideness of his rich brown eyes, the unsteadiness of his stance and the telling silence of his trembling lips.
Still, he came, his body responding perfectly to Trent's encouragement even as his mind and heart drew back in guilty horror: he dumped his jizz across the crisp white bedding and let out wolfish yelps of satisfaction, leaning so heavily forward that the pair of them almost tumbled sideways off the bed. Eyes and mouth clamped shut, his nostrils flared with each breath, and he held firmly onto Trent's cock, tugging it fruitlessly - it already felt less hard, and the closeness of their bared bodies was dimming. As his body rocked with the deep breaths of post-orgasmic stupor, the 24-year-old pulled silently away from him, and Hendo just fell forward into stooped recovery, knees and elbows dug into the sheets, and his cooling cum rubbing against his six-pack.
When he had recovered enough to speak, the handsome bearded Sunderland man rolled sideways to sit on the edge of the bed, and he stared at the awkward figure of the other footballer, stood beyond the other double bed. Trent was staring this way with almost the exact same expression as that day on the training ground. Jordan had tried his best to explain it to him afterwards, how he'd been forced into that announcement there for everyone, his hands tied by the rattling cogs of the financial machinery - there just hadn't been time to tell him privately first. It wasn't his fault. His breath and his voice caught in his throat and his cock wilted between his hairy thighs.
Trent spoke first, his voice quiet and distant. `I don't know you, skip.'
Jordan blinked slowly, running one clammy hand against his beard, still breathy as he shuffled on the edge of the bed and cast his eyes about the familiar decor of the Surrey hotel room. His eyes found Trent's face again and his expression sagged guiltily. What does that mean?' he demanded softly. Come here. Let me finish you.'
A bitter parody of a laugh left Trent's beautiful lips. His soft cock dangled as he stepped from foot to foot, and then he reached down to begin yanking up his black undies and the dark blue tracksuit pants. When they were up about his waist, he just shook his head and spoke again in the same voice of quiet heartbreak: `Did I ever mean anything to you, Jord, can answer that?'
Henderson seemed to hear a dozen plaintive replies to this question at once in the moment before he spoke, and he could hear how empty they all were, none more so than the one he went with. `You meant everything,' the former Liverpool player said weakly. He got up from the bed in one rush of motion, tall and muscular and near-naked, his cock swinging as he navigated the room and approached Trent, who backed away slightly, t-shirt in both hands, and a new cynicism leaning into his expression.
It was bad enough when you kept going to visit Neco during his rehab,' the younger player muttered. But I thought maybe there was still something special there, at least until you fucked me over like that and ditched us all for blood money.'
`Trent,' he murmured, but he could hear all the excuses and explanations dying on their way up through his chest. He reached for Trent's arm but the sexy lad slipped further from him and Jordan stood where he was, naked but for his socks, a few greasy flecks of cum dotting the hair of one thigh. He stared earnestly at Alexander-Arnold, but the Liverpool local couldn't seem to meet his eyes again, just like downstairs in the foyer. Jordan dared for a moment to be confused and offended by the short-lived passion between them once they came up here to the shared room... but he couldn't kid himself that this wasn't everything he deserved. He'd acted in a rush of panic and suspicion, throwing himself into the Saudi offer after a series of pushy interrogations from Mrs H on a family holiday. Which one of his lies and alibis had gone wrong to make her so suspicious and sceptical? Where had he slipped up in his long-running steamy affair with his right-back, this beautiful boy in front of him...?
`I dunno what part of it hurts the most,' the 24-year-old muttered.
I'm sorry-' Jordan began, wanting to elaborate, but finding himself unable to - after all, he just didn't know what to apologise for first. With a rush of certainty and fight, he moved quickly to Trent and slipped his hands about his waist again, going in for a kiss which failed to land. Still, he felt onto the 5ft9 stud and purred in his ear. I'll fix it,' he said impotently. `I'll make you understand.'
Another of those bitter almost laughs. Trent wriggled free, pushing him quite roughly to break the contact, and then sliding into his tee. He ran a face over the sweaty sheen of his youthful face, and then backed off further. `I'll speak to them downstairs and get the room switch sorted,' he asserted quietly but severely, and this pragmatic fact smashed into Henderson like a bullet train - he knew he'd fucked things up between them, and yet Trent's simple assertion of an obvious decision was entirely crushing. Moments ago he'd had his cock between those perfect cheeks and he'd felt still connected to the beautiful young Liverpudlian, just like they had been for so long.
The 33-year-old was about to gasp and mutter his protests, but he stopped himself. He sank back, sitting his bare arse down against the bed again, and every ripped muscle in his 6ft frame sagging downwards. He caught his face in both hands and hunched there, horrified with himself. Again, the slideshow of painful moments whirred through his mind, charting the end of his Liverpool tenure and his shocking exit for the Saudi league - and his failure to break up properly with the man who'd held his heart.
Bag over shoulder, Trent paused on his way to the door, and stared back at him in the most painful manner yet. It was an almost cold look, dismissive and judgmental, and in it Jordan could still see the effort of damaged love being pushed under the surface. He wanted to cry. He opened and closed his parched lips, and scratched aimlessly down the side of his neck. `Let me explain,' he muttered.
Trent shook his head. `It's a bit late for that, skipper.'
`It isn't as simple as you th-'
I laughed at the rumours,' the Anfield player told him in a creaking voice that threatened to turn into a sob at any moment. I laughed, Jordan, I really laughed. And then I stood there like a total prick, watching you laugh and grin as you confirmed it for the lads. Shrugging off the banter and playing it cool. And not even fucking pausing to look at me.'
`But...'
That Saudi money sure buys a lot, don't it?' grunted the heartbroken younger man. I knew that, for fuck's sake, but I didn't think it would buy you, or... I didn't think it would be worth so much more than me, yeah. I was pretty fucking thick, huh?'
`Trent...'
`I just needed to feel you in me one more time.'
`We can try to-'
`No. That was it, Hendo. This is over, captain.'
He fell silent, shaken with guilt. Instead of more quiet protest, he nodded his head heavily, and sagged backwards into the bed, watching as Trent opened the door and slid out into the corridor with his backpack and mini suitcase. The door clicked shut and Jordan was left alone on the bed, hardly able to imagine himself pulling his clothes back on. This was what he deserved, he thought, and how could he have expected anything else?
Glancing bitterly at the clock, the champion midfielder dressed in fits and starts of movement, rubbing wearily at his beard and his eyes, and flinching guiltily when he saw himself in the mirror - as he had many waking mornings since he moved out of the Premiership and the UK, since he abandoned his boyfriend and swept his family safely away from such burning adultery. It had been an extreme way to end an affair and protect his marriage, but even now, racked with guilt and loss, he knew it had been his only way - he could see into an alternative reality for a few seconds, one in which he was signing divorce papers and facing public scandal, and ruining two prominent Premiership careers. The affair had burned too hot, and it had just had to end. He had convinced himself he was doing the right thing for everybody involved - and so why did it now feel so wrong?
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