Part 382: New Year, Old Ghosts
An upmarket department store in central London, Christmas Eve - the shop floor thronged with tourist huddles, last-minute panickers, forlorn partners dragged around, time-wasting youths. He did his best to weave tactically through the forest of bulky coats, laden bags, and festive ire. He had his baseball cap pulled down and the collar of his own chunky jacket lifted high, minimising his chance of recognition and attention as he whizzed about to do the last of his own shopping - after all, the visiting family that he was hosting would be weaving their way through outer London traffic right now and he needed to be back before them.
It was exciting, in a way, to be the one hosting his family's Christmas celebrations at his West London place, though largely he would prefer to be up in Liverpool like old times. But such was a footballer's life, his new club having trounced visiting Newcastle yesterday for much-needed points, and another fixture lying ahead on Boxing Day, where Luton FC would be travelling north to Sheffield. It was a peculiarity of English football to ruin players' Christmases like this, but it was one most players embraced, Ross Barkley included - perhaps his brief spell in the French league had changed his view, or he was just feeling particularly nostalgic for his Everton roots.
So here he was, the strapping midfielder, weighed down by a host of hasty gifts and edible treats, readying himself for hosting slightly more guests than his roomy bachelor pad could realistically accommodate. Ross was yet to fix himself on the outskirts of London in a better location for his new club, and was still living in the flashy penthouse that he'd bought with the last Chelsea paycheque, sitting empty for the duration of his Nicois adventure.
Just one last thing to get, he thought, trying to make himself more compact and agile, navigating the ground floor of Liberty of London. There was a particular perfume that his Scouse mum loved more than any other, and somehow everywhere else he'd visited was entirely sold out. The fragrances section here was expansive but chaotic, and the Premiership footballer was loathe to engage a sales girl and risk some excitement when anybody realised he was a celeb - although such high levels of recognition in day-to-day life were increasingly rare for Ross, whose football career had been wavering for years, but with some slow upward trajectory in his valiant efforts for struggling Luton. He grimaced at his own mixture of fears - being recognised and NOT being recognised - and got on with it, muscling his way through the perfume counters and trying not to knock anything or anyone flying with his shopping bags and bulky layers, until he spotted it, hawkeyed with urgency and determination.
Forward he hurried, and he paused to put down the carefully balanced shopping bags at either side, then reached to take a box of the overpriced scent from the shelf, bumping arms with the next customer as he did so. Ross mumbled out a perfunctory `Sorry mate' in a hurry, unable to soften the Scouse inflection of the phrase, and he was vaguely alarmed when a hand grabbed him by the arm, as if there was about to be an outburst of Christmas Eve retail road rage - he turned sharply to the other shopper, expecting some red-faced husband who was ready to fight him tooth and nail for the arbitrary gift.
`Ross,' came a gaspy voice, thick and masculine and more ambiguously accented than his own Merseyside tones - it might have taken him moments to recognise the man next to him, given that the other senior footballer was making the same half-arsed efforts to go incognito as he... but the husky beard and rugged features were instantly recognisable to him, even with a beanie hat pulled low and a heavy scarf wrapped about half of his face. Eric.
Taken by surprise, Barkley froze, clutching the box of perfume. `Oh, hi,' was all he managed, wooden and heavy, blinking a few times at the bloke next to him.
`Er - Merry Christmas Eve,' the Tottenham player said quietly after a similarly awkward moment of seeming to be startled - there was something shifty in his icy eyes and his posture, but then Barkley was the same, wanting to grab his bags and barge away towards a counter. He was conscious of the crowds and of the time, but it wasn't just that urging him to hurry - he wasn't sure what to say or do about being face-to-face with this fella for the first time in... how long, exactly?
Yeah,' Ross said slowly back, Happy holidays, I suppose.' He wasn't sure why he added that phrase, and he felt rude and foolish, but then one clear thought shot through the muddle of emotions and memories that were threatening to explode in his head - `Congratulations,' he said heavily, leaving it vague - he could just mean on Eric's summer marriage, but it was more than that. He'd seen only today on Instagram the picture of Dier's wife cradling her bump, and he knew that married life was going well. He stared blankly at him, trying not to let all of his outrage and horror show on his lean face, but suspecting a guilty twitch in the movement of the other man's face.
Er, thanks,' the 29-year-old said to him vaguely, as if unsure which bit he was being congratulated on, or what exactly Ross knew - he looked like he had more to say but was having trouble getting it out, and Barkley wasn't feeling patient or inclined to give him time to do so. I need to buy this,' he blurted. `Last thing, then home, y'know.'
Right, yeah,' murmured Eric very faintly, then a bit more decisively, Did you get the gift I sent you for your 30th this month, mate...?'
A brief mental image of a small jewellery box and some stupid fucking cuff-links, which had gone straight into the bin. Ross didn't answer, just giving a quick frosty look at the other fella, and then clutching at his bags. I'm in a bit of a rush,' was all he said, then very begrudgingly, Have a good one, lad.' And then he beetled away as quickly as he could, rushing so much that he almost darted out into Carnaby Street without paying, before the presence of a wary security guard reminded him and he joined the nearest queue - he glanced once over his shoulder with a mixture of fear and hope, but saw no sign of Eric Dier in the crowd of shoppers any more, as if the Christmas Eve encounter had been some sort of Scrooge ghostly apparition and nothing more. Ross bought the perfume, shoved it into the lighter of his many bags, and fled the store - back to his car, back on the stagnant roads, back to the flat, ready to play host.
But Christmas already felt a long time ago, now that 2024 was underway - and Luton's scrabble away from the bottom of the Premiership table was ploughing on. Tonight, an irritating draw was being treated almost like a win, given that fellow relegation fodder Burnley had led for most of the 90 minutes, and Barkley's late assist had allowed his teammate Carlton Morris to equalise in the 92nd minute. Points stolen back from their close contenders made the Friday night draw at Turf Moor feel victorious, and the mood in the away changing rooms reflected that, so that Barkley's thoughts were far from the ghosts of Christmas past - especially with the solid chode of a Player of the Match award sitting heavily among his things as he peeled away damp cold footy kit from his 6ft2 physique.
He was enjoying his season at the newly promoted side far more than his first post away from Chelsea life, and certainly more than his joyless latter years at Stamford Bridge itself. In many ways, he was enjoying his football in a way that hadn't been true since he abandoned his boyhood club, or since his forays into international football in a previous England squad. He quite liked feeling like a big fish in a small pond, and the lads here were all sound, full of hope and ambition in spite of a rocky few months - everyone had such great faith and respect in their equally optimistic and high-reaching manager, Rob Edwards, and the recent unity he'd seen in response to their captain's health crisis made the 30-year-old football hunk feel all the more committed to Luton Town.
Down went his shorts and off came the long-sleeved Under-Armour vest, down now to just the stretchy grey briefs. With the deftness of a shy man who's been in locker-rooms for most of his life, they were off in the same instant the fresh towel wrapped about his slim waist, and Ross picked his way through the busy room to join the showers, one of the last to do so since and Morris had been stuck out in the cold for interview duty. If he let himself, self-conscious Ross could overthink the things he'd said and the way he'd spoken and convince himself it had been a disaster, but he was trying not to be that anxious guy any more, trying to be happy-go-lucky and match the plucky energy of the men around him here, many of whom were buoyed by their first taste of Premier League life, even after a real struggle to pick up Premier League points.
Ross undid the towel and hooked it up at the side, shuffling through the hot damp air and gleaming bodies, finding a space to one side, and immediately punching the button to douse his cold achy form in lukewarm then scalding water. `Ross fucking Barkley!' boomed the voice next to him, and Carlton Morris elbowed him roughly with a deep laugh of appreciation. Grinning, Ross leaned across to high-five the goal-scorer and reminded him that the goal was in his name, then set about soaping up his chest and shoulders and getting on with his shower, always one to rush through such ablutions these days and minimise the time he had to be naked and shimmering among other athletic fellas.
But Carlton, the substituted striker, was the opposite, chatty and gregarious even as he reached down to soap up his bollocks - he was loudly proclaiming Ross a superstar who was going to become a Luton legend, and then reaching aggressively for the lads nearest to them to elicit their agreement. Ross just laughed and focused on himself, but burly Carl was hard to ignore at his side, reaching over to tap and prod him and then leaning back on the wall as he rubbed soap suds down his prominent pectorals. `Look at this specimen!' the tall 28-year-old boomed across their side of the showers, and Barkley glanced past him at the bemused wet faces of the other three lads, who seemed to be sizing him up at Morris' request - it made Ross tense and hunch slightly, feeling their eyes on his tall lean body, his broad back and slim waist, his tattooed arm muscles, his... well, sizeable curving rear, the powerful legs that stretched down from it, never mind the wet droop of his long soft prick and sagging balls. Probably their eyes weren't taking in all of that detail, but Ross felt exposed and examined, and he wished his goal partner would shut up.
Premier League quality,' barked the damp blond fella at the far end of the short line - another substitute who had helped to turn the tide of the near defeat, Luke Berry, an upbeat guy who hailed from Cambridgeshire like Carlton Morris. Like this one,' the midfielder was saying, grabbing at the broad dark shoulders of Andros Townsend next to him, Barkley's contemporary as one of the club's big promotion signings - and a former `next big thing' who'd played up and down the country.
Wasn't my night though,' Townsend said dismissively, these two saved our bacon.'
Between the two pairs was a fifth Luton player, a younger lad, who was nodding fervently and looking eagerly this way whilst running fingers through the dark blond mop of his hair. `It was a fucking brilliant play,' Alfie Doughty said firmly, full of admiration for how they'd equalised and earned the important point - and the 24-year-old Londoner went on, talking about what an exciting end to the game it had been.
Carlton turned this way with a smug expression that made Ross chuckle, and the big broad striker continued to lean back into the tiled wall and shift his head side to side under the blast of water, which ran down his thick neck and onto his sandy-brown pecs, stubbled with hair regrowth. And Ross could not help but notice, though he pulled his gaze sharply away, that the 6ft1 lad was rolling his large spread hands down his six-pack and to his crotch to play idly with his bits - Ross blinked away that distraction and continued to wash the froth of soap suds away from his muscular limbs.
`Stop playing with yerself, Morris,' called Berry, stupidly drawing attention to what Barkley was trying to ignore - and making Townsend, Doughty, and then Morris himself, burst out in stupid schoolboy laughter.
I scored a massive fucking goal,' complained the Cambridge-born striker. Can't I play with my big dick for a minute, you prude?'
This one,' exclaimed his friend with playful disapproval, he can hardly sit through a team talk without having a wank, for fuck's sake.'
`Yeah, it's thinking about your mum,' Carlton told him simply.
Yeah, fittest MILF going,' Doughty threw in stupidly, trying to join the easy banter of the two more confident older lads - and Townsend was laughing heavily at all of them, shaking his head in what Ross was glad to see was a disinterested fashion. He wasn't sure where this banter was going and it made him vaguely uneasy - Absolute wankers, the lot of you,' joked Andros as he strode away from them, and Ross felt that he ought to hurry to do the same - but just as he turned off his shower and shifted back, he was thumped playfully in the ribs by the next man.
`Oi, you not gonna give yourself a tug?' Carlton demanded simply, a big dopey smile cracking his freckled face, framed by the almost golden brown of his beard and short crop of hair. Ross started at this blunt question and realised, without looking too closely, that Carlton was not alone in reaching down to play with himself - smiling lazily across the steamy line of showers, Luke was doing the same, and now with the same effort at imitating their banter, Alfie had taken his dick in his hand and was trying to wank its short flaccid length in an awkward manner that looked like he wasn't sure if he was horny or joking.
`Nowt like a shower wank,' Carl grunted simply.
Release some tension,' Luke agreed. Don't they do that in the Prem, big lad?'
Ross felt the tingling of his low balls, the soft rush of his waking cock, but he coughed awkwardly and lingered at his spot, glancing furtively between their smiling eyes, and then across the emptied shower block back towards the noise and fuss of the changing rooms. There was something of the initiation ritual about the mood of the others, something confrontational in their light humour, and he sensed that he needed to meet this challenge, and overcome some shyness - he forced a fuller laugh and cupped his privates, shrugging a shoulder. `Depends on the club,' he said vaguely.
Always a little intense in his own way, the 6ft1 striker next to him was moving one thick-muscled arm in slow motions that signalled the serious strokes of his cock, and Ross allowed himself to look briefly down and note the girthy length that was rising to attention - certainly bigger than the weedy erection that was saluting from Luke's crotch now. Right then, this was happening! He rolled his eyes and pulled lazily at his cock, both pleased and irritated to feel it swell and stretch, realising just how horny he must be, though the Christmas and New Year period had been so furiously busy - and so crowdedly occupied at his bachelor pad - that he obviously hadn't sorted himself out.
`This is fuckin' horny,' the 24-year-old Londoner said eagerly.
Oh chill out,' Berry told him, giving him a clip across the head - and Morris told him to Calm down before you jizz already', and Barkley just laughed awkwardly, unsure of himself, unsure where this was going - unsure if he was just being pranked in a ridiculously committed fashion by the three established Luton names. They had to go get dried and changed now, surely, because they would all be due on the coach before long?
`Just get so horny after a goal,' Carl said in a grunting fashion.
`That's cos it happens so rarely,' Luke teased.
`I think I get it,' Alfie said fawningly.
Ross relaxed a little, stroking himself and feeling the firm thickness against his wet fingers, feeling the short curls of his regrown pubes, sighing a little at his own touch, and knocking the shower back on so that hot rivulets caressed his shoulders and travelled down his abs. He wanted the air to be thicker with steam so that the four of them tossing off at the wall wasn't quite so visible and obvious... but the showers were empty but for them, and so the curling tendrils of steam weren't quite the thick fog that he'd strolled into when he whipped away his towel.
Really, we shouldn't be wanking ourselves,' Carl was saying in a low growling chuckle, and Ross only half-heard - Well, who are we calling in to take over?' chittered the youngster next to him, and then throaty knowing laughs from Morris and Berry - when Barkley glanced to the side, confused by the momentary silence, he blinked furiously and raised his brows. At his side, the thickset forward was leaning his shoulders back into the wall with his hips forward, and he had one hand at the shoulders of the slim young white lad next to him, whilst his other hand was guiding his onto his cock. Come on, just give it a pull, lad,' the Cambridgeshire yob was grunting at the young winger, whilst the midfielder behind him laughed and continued to jerk off. Carlton turned his intense broad face this way and smirked showily this way, winking once - Tell him, Barks,' grunted the goal-scoring hero of the night, as he guided a gawping Alfie into slowly pulling back and forth on his big circumcised erection, `young twerps like him ought to service heroes like us who really bring in the points, hey? It's like that in the Prem, isn't it? Tell him...'
Hand pausing on his near-hard cock, the 30-year-old Evertonian just stared at them, his head full of all sorts of confused Chelsea flashbacks - the ghosts of a twinky young Mason Mount, and the intense leering desire of Frank Lampard, all of it brought back by Carlton's smirk and Alfie's nervously determined pout. He flicked his gaze past to Luke, who was chewing his lip and wanking quite enthusiastically, seeming to enjoy seeing this - what did these fellas get up to, for this to be such an obvious idea...? Well, who was Ross to judge, the things he'd seen and done... but was this really who he was now?
Here, look,' barked Morris now. Barks is waiting his turn, isn't he.'
`Yeah, Alf, you need to give the Man of the Match a tug!' Berry encouraged.
Flustered and excited in spite of himself, Ross began to mumble his dismissal and laugh the idea off, but Doughty was being pushed his way, a slippery 5ft10 plaything in Morris' forceful paws. Suddenly the twinky winger was between them, the two big muscled lads who'd secured the draw, and Carlton was pushing at his shoulder, whilst Alfie reached tenderly down and held his hand an inch away from Ross' heavy meat - which had began to droop and deflate, but was twitching in anticipation of a lad's touch. Was he going to let this happen, let history repeat, fall into this situation...? He stood there against the wall, his whole muscular body tensed and awkward, but also aroused and alert, with Carlton and Luke leering on, and Alfie staring at him like a deer in headlights - would this young player really just do anything to be matey with the two senior blokes?
Ross was standing there in that state of slow inevitable acceptance, of unexpected sexual need, of vague ghostly reminiscence into the things that had happened in
Chelsea and beyond... when the other voice barked through the echoey quiet of the communal shower, slicing into his consciousness and making him flinch backwards with Alfie's fingers almost grazing the veins of his shaft.
LADS,' yelled the no-nonsense voice of their young manager. What the fuck, fellas? I hope this ain't what it looks like, for god's sake - stop fondling yourselves and get a fucking move on, we've a long drive ahead! Jesus Christ fellas, it was just a draw, it's hardly a cause for a circle-jerk, is it?' It was all spoken in a quick rush, in that strangely matey informal way that worked for Rob Edwards, the faintest hint of amusement interlaced with his authority and impatience. It was all said in a matter of moments, but Ross shuffled backwards from Alfie and Carl, and he looked sharply across through the faint steam at the silhouette of their gaffer in the entranceway - how much could he really see? What exactly had he noticed, guessed, interpreted...?
Morris and Berry were howling with laughter after their yelped `Yes gaffer' exclamations, moving already towards hanging towels - Doughty looked more alarmed, his face beetroot and a shiver of nervousness crossing his slim pale form as he backed away from Barkley, glancing repeatedly up and down from the thing he'd made to grab at his striker's command. And Ross himself, breathing heavily, snatched roughly for his towel and tied it so tight across his waist that his near-erection was strapped to one thigh.
He angled himself into a tight corner whilst drying off, willing his fat semi to shrivel up, and unable to make eye contact with anyone else until he was safely clad in clean Luton gear and joining the shuffling queue for the bus - he especially couldn't make eye contact with their 41-year-old manager as they shook hands on the way onto the coach, a swift clap to the back and an almost dismissive `Well done' ushering him aboard. Ross tried to picture the scene through the older man's eyes, the four football lads lined up and handling themselves, but one of them pushed towards himself, and reaching for his... Jesus, was it 2020 in Chelsea, for fuck's sake?
The 30-year-old grumpily ignored calls to go and sit with Carlton and Luke to join their singsong as if they'd won the FA Cup - he just put his earbuds in and sulked in a seat on his own, arms folded across his chest, thinking about all the ghosts of his recent past that had surfaced over this Christmas period - the birthday phone call he'd had with sweet Mason the other day, returning the affection of the young lad who had sent him a lovely gift for his recent 30th; the emails from Lampard, informing him of the negotiations he was in for a new management job on the continent, and how he would be looking to assemble a whole new squad once there; the invitations to various nights out and dinner parties from his former Nice teammate Joe Bryan, who played on the other side of London. He shrank away from all of these things in his head, burned by what he'd agreed to only a couple of nights ago, in a bar a few streets from his apartment...
Wednesday night in West London, a much quieter scene than the Christmas Eve shop floor - and yet the two of them had been almost as awkward, almost as unable to communicate. They sat in a shielded booth at one end of the stark, trendy bar, and Ross silently let Eric get the drinks in, half measures of craft beer - let him talk, answering his questions with little more than grunts. In the silences, of which there were many, he questioned why he'd even responded to Dier's messages and agreed to meet - was he looking for closure, or daring to harbour stupid regressive hopes? He was angry at himself for the decision, because their little tete-a-tete was as uncomfortable and pointless as he might have guessed.
But then the man across the table from him got to the point, and Barkley found himself interested in spite of his instincts - he stared thoughtfully across at the nervous fidgeting of the strapping defensive midfielder, the man who'd broadened his horizons and more besides, the man who'd shown him a greater intimacy than any other relationship in his adult life, and the man who'd dumped him over the phone as soon as he moved to France.
Bayern Munich, Eric was saying, and Ross felt the strange reversal of their fates - here he was, back in London, back in the Premiership, and off Eric was going, off into Europe, into the Bundesliga... and chasing Harry Kane, of all people. He blinked and glanced away and finished his drunk, really unsure why Dier was so desperate to tell him all of this, updating him on the whole complicated process of a loan transfer deal, as if he wasn't a fellow footballer who'd been in similar positions.
Eventually, the 30-year-old Liverpudlian just had to interrupt him, breaking across the hoarse gruffness of Eric's diluted English accent. So what, you think I need to hear all this from you?' he demanded sourly. You think now's the time for big communication, right, when it was the fucking silent treatment across the Channel when I actually needed you...?' He stared hard at his ex over their empty half-pints.
Eric bristled indignantly - how dare he? - but nodded, and shifted awkwardly. He rubbed an open hand across his face. Ross felt nasty with anger and hurt, and he hissed more at the man who'd opened him up: `Where was the heart-to-heart when you decided to get MARRIED, Eric? And are you going to mention that you're going to be a DAD?'
There was a long silence after that, and Barkley almost got up and left. He stared away for a long few moments and when he looked back, he started - there was the faint glisten of tears in those grey-blue eyes, and Dier's hands were curled into fists, white at the knuckles. Ross bit his lip and cleared his throat and shifted position on his bench. He almost reached a hand across the tabletop to grip one of those fists - but stopped himself. He made to go instead, angling out of the booth, ready to leave the Germany-bound traitor with the bill and hurry back to his apartment building...
But there it was again, Eric's hand on his arm, like at the shelf of perfumes.
In one long throaty speech, gruff and quiet, Eric spilled the truth at him - the investigators, the leak, the screenshot and photographs - the near-blackmail that had come his way out of nowhere, ready to expose him as a `gay' footballer. Eric told him in a whispered rush how he'd ended their relationship in fear to protect him, how he'd never meant to be such a cunt, how he'd never meant to hurt anyone - and a tear spilled down one of his cheeks, getting lost in that beard. It whirled through Ross's head and he just stared silently back at the other man like he was a stranger now - he was overwhelmed and bewildered, and he didn't know what to say. Eric was barely speaking in sentences any more, just blurting phrases at him, gripping his arm so fiercely.
Ross was crushed by the avalanche of emotions that hovered at the edge of his consciousness ,and he reacted the only way he knew, which was to shove them aside and puff out his chest, faking disinterest. He pushed Eric's hand away from him and slid out of the booth. Dunno why you're telling me this,' he said coldly, not meaning a word of it, but unable to look at Eric's dewy eyes or shaking lip. He could feel the sting of threatened tears in his own eyes, and he looked away to stop the other lad seeing. He pulled his coat on and didn't listen to what the Tottenham exile was saying. Good luck in Germany, mate,' he told him, talking over him, then fishing a £20 out of one pocket of his skinny jeans, and slapping it on the table between them.
`Ross, do you understand what I'm telling you?' snapped Dier, sounding almost angry.
He stared him down, pausing only for a moment more. `I understand that you got married and are having a kid. I understand that I'm playing for Luton and that you're fucking off after Kane. I don't understand what you're trying to do here, lad, I really don't. Goodbye.' He marched away, out into the icy night, feeling the cold tears stream down his cheekbones the whole way home, not looking back once - he couldn't make sense of anything Dier had told him in those minutes, nor in the sleepless night that followed, nor two nights later on the coach south from Burnley to Luton.
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