Part 395: Beaten (Off) at the Last Minute
The quiet bar of a mid-range but conveniently located hotel, its windows overlooked the motorway out of the south coast town - commercial radio droned in the background and few customers remained to sup beer or wine in its dated decor, rendered gloomy by the heavy rainfall on the misty windows. But one figure was propped up at the bar on his own, elbows to the counter in hunched posture on his stool, pint nursed between his resting hands; the single barman on duty tonight had given up his attempts to strike up conversation with the football manager who had lingered on here after dismissing the rest of his cohort with a curfew.
Now that barman was instead turning his half-interested attention to a different strapping athletic guest who was sauntering hesitantly into the bar area and approaching one end of the same bar - the shift worker wasn't interested enough in his hotel's relatively famous occupants tonight to note that the tracksuit-clad bloke strutting up to him and ordering a pint should actually be away in his suite as per said curfew. He was interested in pouring the pint, taking payment, and accepting the Scouse-accented man's generous tip, and then relaxing by the till and texting his girlfriend.
If he'd looked up, he might have noticed the alarmed awkwardness on the 6ft2 footballer's face, realising that he'd just bought his contraband pint and was now stood a few stools away from the hunched gloom of his Luton Town manager; he might have noticed a similar look of faint embarrassed guilt on the silver-edged features of the club manager as he looked up from the dregs of his pint and acknowledged the arrival of the other sportsman at this small dated bar.
Ignored by their barman, the player and manager gave each other knowing nods that spoke volumes about how neither of them should still be up, though it was clear that the manager held the power over this state of affairs - but 41-year-old Rob Edwards looked slightly too dejected and fatigued to offer any criticism of seeing Ross Barkley out of bed and sneaking into the bar at ten to midnight, given that the players had been dismissed over an hour ago by their beloved gaffer.
`Can I join ya?' the 30-year-old midfielder asked simply, hovering close to the next stool, pint in one hand, and other shoved into the taut pocket of his Luton tracksuit pants.
A simple wordless nod from the handsome young manager of their Hertfordshire club, gesturing at the stool as if to acknowledge it was a `free country', then turning quite gloomily back to his pint; with a little gesturing wave, he also caught the attention of the barman, not without some difficulty, and motioned that he was ready for another. The hulking Liverpudlian shifted until comfortable on the next stool and stared down at his drink with a similarly heavy manner to the Luton gaffer, who drained the last of his and awaited its replacement.
`Some night,' Ross offered quietly.
`You're telling me,' Rob agreed grimly.
It was being touted as a great Premiership comeback by their Bournemouth hosts, since the Luton visitors had been 3-0 up - Ross himself smashing the third into the back of the net - before a stellar performance bringing Bournemouth first level, 3-3, and then stealing all the points, somehow ending 4-3 after all; insane. But a closer onlooker might have begun to suspect that there was a little more on the minds of Edwards and Barkley, the two broad-shouldered footballing men who now sat elbow to elbow, nursing pints with the manner of mid-afternoon alcoholics in a local Wetherspoons.
Still,' the retired centre-back now said in the same low growl of dismay, some fight from you lads. Cheers to that, or something like it-' And he raised his glass to Barkley's, the plastic pints clanking blandly together for a moment, and making both men smile ironically at the low-rate accommodation their newly promoted club could manage this year, certainly compared to what the gaffer supposed his midfield signing might once upon a time have been used to at Chelsea or Everton. And with a little shared look of resigned grumpiness and what-the-hell acceptance, the two men raised glasses to their lips and took another swig of intoxicating lager.
For Edwards at least, the problem had begun shortly before the match even begun, and the 3-0 lead at half-time might have done little to soothe his worry. After all, it had been a really embarrassing scene that the Luton manager had created, and he supposed what really bothered him now was the silence, the uncertainty, the hovering threat of what might be said and done as consequences to his slip of judgement.
The former Wales international had left his team to warm-up under the instruction of his vice, keen to be part of the hospitality going on elsewhere in Bournemouth's stadium: it was a special evening, Luton's out-of-action captain returning to the scene of his health crisis to pay his thanks to the medical staff who had essentially saved his life. A heavy jacket over his quarter-zip sweater, Rob had found and shadowed Tom Lockyer upstairs in part of the stadium's events space; Rob wanted to support his favoured centre-back on what might be an emotionally charged night, as well as making his own thankyou gestures to the Bournemouth staff who had intervened so effectively that day.
But survivor Lockyer and the medics themselves were the stars and so Edwards kept fairly quiet, a strong but silent presence, and the recovering football pro gave him plenty of grateful looks as he remained close by and interrupted only when it seemed right - Rob was someone who took his duty of care to his men very seriously, it was a big part of his managing ethos, and nothing had proven that to himself or others quite like the experience of Tom's cardiac arrest, surgery, and recovery. By the time the meet and greet and photoshoot were over, he felt as emotional himself as if it was back at that previous away fixture and the turmoil that followed - he actually felt himself tear up in one eye as he and the 29-year-old Welshman descended some stairs. Tom could have bundled off towards the hospitality box where his family were waiting for him to watch the game, but of course he wanted to come down and mingle with the preparing players, as dedicated as ever to the team - Rob felt a fresh surge of affection and admiration for his chosen captain, and he threw a sturdy arm about the younger man's shoulders as they rounded another landing.
The pair of them tried to chat lightly, but both found themselves choking up, and the 41-year-old quickly apologised for his own emotions, feeling silly compared to the trauma that the football player had experienced first-hand - but Tom dismissed that as stupid and began to thank him profusely for his constant support since the event, trying to capture in words just how present his manager had been for him and his family in a difficult time... and of course this just set them both off, and soon both masculine athletes were shiny-cheeked with cheers and, after a minute, laughing embarrassedly at themselves as they hugged and patted one another's backs on the landing.
`God, the things we go through,' huffed the Cardiff-born defender.
Together, though,' Rob assured him, squeezing him tight about the shoulders and briefly cupping the back of his head in one affectionate hand, and lingering in this intimate hold of manly friendship - always together,' he pressed, really urging Lockyer to lean on him and the others, and wanting to reassure him that the support wasn't going anywhere. And the 29-year-old smiled back at him with shiny eyes, remaining close in that hold, his own puffy-sleeved arm draped about Rob's waist.
Looking back on it tonight, halfway down his third pint, Edwards really couldn't understand what had come over him - perhaps he was just so unused to holding another man so intimately to him for a moment too long, perhaps he'd acted on some stupid autopilot or instinct that had been triggered by confusion and emotion. Sure enough, like some lost madman, he'd leaned in closer to the hug, and really held tightly onto the recovering player, and angled his face in towards his - the two 6ft1 athletes so close together that their breath mingled on their lips - had Rob even known he was going in for a kiss before that breathy near-contact and the sharp intake on Tom's part?
Suddenly Lockyer was yanking away from him, his face a thunderous frown, glossy eyes blinking rapidly, lips parting in a question that he didn't know how to phrase; an the gaffer jus stared at him, open-mouthed too, hunched forward in that embracing posture, but no longer holding anyone - he slurred his words as he began to say, What was that?', but Lokcyer's angry accusation slapped him across his reddening face: Did you try to kiss me, boss?' Tom continued to blink and frown furiously and stare harshly at him, squaring up and taking another step back, whilst Rob just stared confusedly at him and rubbed a clammy hand across his own bristly face - `Er, what?'
It seemed like only hearing it worded by Tom was enough to make him appreciate what he'd instinctively begun to do, but he shook his head and stopped mumbling, staring down at the ground and shifting foot to foot - he tried to speak again but Tom's voice cut angrily across his, `What the fuck, boss?'
Tom,' he began, and then more firmly, Lockyer!' - but the out-of-action centre-back was spinning on his heel and heading back up the flight of stairs, hands thrust into pockets, leaving his manager stood embarrassedly on the landing, dry-mouthed and damp-eyed, and trying to understand what the hell had just happened.
For Ross, on the other hand, the bother had begun last week - or was just the latest in a series of unfortunate events in another sense, given his hard work to reclaim his spot in the Premier League and restore his lost reputation as a powerful up-and-coming player when leaving Everton for Chelsea - but it was not entirely disconnected from the plight of the handsome young Luton manager.
The interview had taken place at Luton's training ground early last week, and Barkley had assumed it was largely triggered by some good stats and the idle chat that he might finally get a fresh call-up back to the Southgate club at St George's Park - and to begin with, it had been just that, generic but positive questioning about his career highs and lows, and what his gradual comeback at Luton had meant to him as he turned 30 and entered his supposed `prime' as an attacking midfield threat.
The Scouser had begun to feel more comfortable in these scenarios lately, especially when pre-recorded rather than on live telly, though he was still not the most articulate or self-assured of media personalities in his sport - he still tried the anxiety management techniques that Eric's therapy self-books had taught him whilst lounging on his boyfriend's couch, but they only worked half the time.
He sat there, man-spreading his hefty thighs on a small chair, socked feet tucked into comfy sliders, training tracksuit clinging to his taut body, and did his best to answer in detail, and attempt something approaching charm and humour with the interviewer from the sports media channel; that was until one of the interviewer's questions really caught him off-guard and made him stare awkwardly back at him, reduced to a monosyllabic reluctance that felt like regressing several years to his later Chelsea years.
I just felt like I had a lot to prove,' he continued to the man on the next seat, resting his arms on his thighs, the baby-blue training top tight against his arms and shoulders. I've not played that much over the last few years...' And he'd been the one to mention the manager, he supposed, and his supportive style being an attractive quality as he considered a move to Luton Town; but then the comment from the interview was such a curveball! Well, speaking of the manager...' Ross had leant in - fair enough - ready to talk about the gaffer, before the reporter guy suddenly remarked, He's constantly being told he's a very good-looking lad - how does that feel to play for a manager who's always being called so handsome, haha...?'
It took Ross a few long moments to answer, his face going subtly red, leaning across the chairs and staring uncomfortably at the visiting reporter - Ross's first thoughts were to question what the nosy fucker knew or thought he knew, and who'd been saying what about him - but those anxious thoughts were pushed back enough for him to force a laugh and remark, Yeh... he's a charmer, isn't he...?' He mumbled something else about the staff saying Edwards was the best-looking manager in the league', rubbing a fist across his clammy red face, and then forcing another heavy laugh.
It wasn't a big deal, really, just a momentary confusion and embarrassment - such an odd thing for a footy reporter to ask about! - and the interview concluded soon afterwards with several other slightly random questions about current controversies of the league, and then Barkley found himself dismissed and able to the rest of the afternoon's training circuit. He quickly forgot about the whole conversation and his discomfort at being grilled on his gaffer's good looks by that TV loon.
Until a couple of days when clips of the interview circulated on social media and caught the attention of his teammates. Big brash Carlton Morris had been most vocal about it, always trying to set himself up as the squad joker, cooing over Barkley and his crush' on the boss, but others joined in, from Townsend to Kaminski, from Doughty to Hashioka; like the interview itself, it didn't need to be a big deal, but Ross still had many hang-ups about his recent years of bi-curiosity and then full-on gay romance (and heartbreak), so being associated with the ongoing banter of handsome' Rob Edwards was hardly what was needed for his peace of mind...!
Jokes about their gaffer being a footy heartthrob were from new on the Luton training ground, but Ross being the butt of them was an unpleasant twist; and nobody seemed ready to point out that the same interviewer had asked two other lads on the team the same question that day. Perhaps it was just cos Barkley was such a hulking beast of a Scouser, looking like a much more aggressive yob than he ever lived up to, a scally accent that the other Luton players loved to impersonate - or perhaps it was just because he got so visibly uncomfortable when the joke was raised, especially once they began barking it at Edwards himself, players taking turns to show the gaffer the clip on their phones. Rob Edwards was predictably cool and dismissive about it, but Barkley suddenly found he could hardly make eye contact with his own head coach, even though he knew he was entirely overreacting to the little gaff.
And it might have faded away like any other bit of club banter, he supposed, if some shitty tabloid rag hadn't published that stupid poll yesterday - some clever sod smuggling numerous copies of it onto the team bus as they travelled down from Luton to Bournemouth for tonight's rescheduled match. You're Fit & You Know You Are!' read the chant-based pun of the headline, with a dimpled-smiling Edwards in the centre of the photo-spread - the apparent No.1 winner of a tabloid poll on the sexiest managers in the Premier League, beating off' all the competition as loud cocky Morris put it when he stated passing the newspapers up the aisle of their moving coach.
Ostensibly, it was a bit of affectionate banter for their boss - Edwards seemed unfazed and even uninterested, the jokes like water off a duck-s back - but it didn't take long to segue into a few jokes about Ross himself voting in the poll, and his pre-match mindset made the 30-year-old Merseysider even less inclined to laugh along with it. He sat and sulked heavily on his own and must have radiated annoyance, enough to stop the banter, but also to ostracise him as a grumpy loner, and by the time they were warming up in the Bournemouth stadium, he just felt ridiculous - he was supposed to be making pals here and settling in for a good few seasons of establishing Luton in the top flight - not making enemies and behaving so pompously over a bit of banter...!
It was Rob who suggested a couple more drinks, although he knew it wasn't the most sensible idea - but the hotel bar was closing and he was enjoying the chance to talk more socially with one of the squad's most introverted Englishmen. At first, he thought Ross was just embarrassed or even offended by the invitation, because he was slow to answer, but then he was nodding heavily and rapping his knuckles idly on the bartop, slurring a `Yes, gaffer!' with some vaguely sincere enthusiasm.
And so they'd left the empty bar behind, the barman looking bored and impatient, and Edwards had led Barkley up one floor to where his own suite awaited - he was pretty much the only member of the travelling away entourage who had a suite to himself, and it was an aspect of football management that Rob found vaguely difficult. He missed the camaraderie and banter of room-sharing when he'd been an active centre-back, a chequered career roaming between various Northwest and Midlands footy clubs.
He said as much to Ross as he removed first a pair of frosty beer bottles from the mini-bar, and then a couple of vodka miniatures which he poured like shots into glass tumblers - he explained to his midfield player that management could be a bit lonely at times, and then he laughed off his own self-pity and apologised to the younger guy for becoming maudlin. He'd already explained to Ross how he'd got a bit over-emotional later on over the Lockyer scenes, but with one crucial detail missing from the anecdote. Ross, he was pleased to find, was an open-hearted and understanding listener, although this was helped by the fact that both men were a little bit pissed now.
`Think your room is bigger than our shared ones,' the 30-year-old pointed out to him as he kicked and scuffed his way about the suite, unzipping his training jersey and letting it hang open over the taut white t-shirt below.
Well, lonely with perks,' Rob chuckled back, standing at the other side of the large room and playing with the TV remote to see what channels he had access to it - Ross had been less forthcoming in sharing his woes over their pints, and yet Rob had stumbled across it without trying, telling him that the silly jokes about that Sexy Manager' poll would die away in no time at all - `bloody stupid nonsense', he called it, and he loudly chastised the more vocal players who had been trying to wind them both up on the coach.
`I don't really care,' Barkley told him, but it was obvious he was lying.
It's a load of shit anyway,' the 41-year-old groaned, giving up on the TV and picking up his beer; he followed Ross towards the open windows and looked down on the blurred headlights of the still-active motorway lanes. I mean, sexy, me? Haha. For fuck's sake, not even my missus thinks that...' He wasn't fishing for compliments, not knowingly, he was just sick of trying to look cool with the bizarre line of chat whenever he had to deal with the less football-focused avenues of the British media - and as a younger man he'd never seemed to generate much fuss as anything other than perfectly average. Load of bollocks,' he declared, I dunno what they're on about.'
Oh, I dunno,' slurred the slightly taller lad at his side by the windows, looking thoughtfully out at the wet night - You're definitely up there.' He sounded sincere but half-interested, rather than affectionately jokey, and Rob immediately turned his way to frown curiously at his approval - Ross caught his eye and glanced back, looking rueful, and then forcing out a familiar throaty laugh as when pinned by that interviewer - Rob had seen the clip several times, of course, because almost everyone he knew on social media shared it with him with a slew of laughing-crying emojis.
`Well, thanks,' he laughed.
`You know what I mean,' Barkley insisted, less casually.
I really don't,' the football coach insisted, but-'
You're a good-looking guy,' Ross told him, almost snappish, I just dunno why that bastard felt the need to ask ME about it...'
Well, probably cos you're a bit of a looker yourself, mate,' Rob chuckled back, nudging him at the elbow - he was trying to diffuse any embarrassment, but he also meant it, and he found himself pausing to study the Scouse lad's looks in the reflection on the glass, and then in the flesh at his side - he WAS a good-looking guy, in a more rough-hewn style than his own soft friendly manner, and he was certainly an impressive muscular build. Rob shook off his own inner monologue of appraisal and clinked their bottles. Here's to two sexy bastards, eh?' And then they were both laughing more openly, brief tension gone, both quite drunk and relaxed compared to the moping moods that had connected them at the bar an hour ago.
As Edwards downed more of his beer and moved about the room, he felt less of a grip on himself or the night, idly considering how unprofessional it was for him to have one of his squad up here sharing a drink - favouritism or hypocrisy, he wasn't sure of his crime, but he wondered about Barkley's roommate and the fact that he'd been so sour in refusing to let the lads stay up and drown their sorrows together, insisting on the need for an early journey tomorrow and a solid recovery day before prep for their next crucial fixture. But it was hard for Rob to give much worry to the transgression of cheeky drinks with a key player - when his addled thoughts became organised enough for worry, they kept trying to turn to that accusing glare on Tom Lockyer's face.
A second pair of beers were noisily opened, and he dismissed Ross suggesting that he ought to find his way back to his own room and try not to wake up Townsend; he pressed the fresh icy Peroni into the other man's hand and then threw himself into a lounging posture on the bed, turning the telly back on and flicking through the channels. Warm, he peeled off the grey cashmere of his sweater, just lounging their in camel-coloured chinos and a marl grey t-shirt that hung loosely from his solid upper body, riding up enough to expose a strip of midriff as he stroked absently at the soft curls of hair about his belly button.
Half-noticed by the increasingly drunk manager, Ross seemed to dawdle about the room and try a couple of seats - the stiff armchair by the windows, and the simpler study chair at the bureau - before flopping down onto the bed a short distance from him, also stripped down to t-shirt, so that his arm muscles bulged as they folded over his chest. Rob looked at them admiringly, vaguely studying the artwork of tattoos, and then the swell of a developed chest, and the sharp features of a serious thoughtful face.
Barkley looked this way, seeming to catch him staring - but Edwards just smiled limply at his player, slumped there almost shoulder-to-shoulder with him. He didn't feel the emotional intensity of staring into poor Tom Lockyer's face earlier, and he was drunk enough to start forgetting the way he'd held him and leaned in, following some instinct that had lain buried for longer than he could explain.
Rob blinked, and realised he was still staring at the lad. `Sorry,' he mumbled.
`S'alright,' slurred the Scouser, sounding as wasted and exhausted as he felt.
Sexiest manager,' Edwards blurted suddenly, a hollow laugh, what a load of shit.'
`Ah, shurrup...'
My wife doesn't even agree!' the 41-year-old complained again. He rubbed a hand across his hot face. I mean, if she did, maybe she'd give me a fucking blowjob once in a while, right?' Another strained laugh. `Shit, what am I on about...'
`Haha, I'll pretend I didn't hear that one, gaffer... Here, gimme that remote.'
`Ugh. Ignore me. Talking rubbish. Sexiest fucking manager? Biggest bloody idiot.'
`Shurrup - I thought none of it fazed you, boss?'
`Well, I can hardly ignore it, I just have too much else to focus on...'
`Of course, of course...'
And where are all these people who find me so-called sexy, eh?' he groaned. Not that I'd ever cheat on the wife, you understand, but... it might be nice to feel like that could ever be an option, ha...!'
Oh, whatever,' drawled the lad at his side, flicking through the channels. You must get offers all the time.'
Nah,' Rob insisted. Not a fucking flutter. But - like I said, I'd NEVER cheat - never touch another lass, not really - I love her, I just - I mean...' He was talking too much, and he was at that special wired stage of drunkenness where he wasn't 100% sure what he was saying aloud and what he was just thinking - he could barely concentrate on the late-night football review that Ross had landed upon, where a couple of cunts in suits were discussing their loss against Bournemouth. He barked Get this off' but Ross had already changed the channel, and both drunk men were laughing so heavily that the headboard shook behind their strong shoulders. Rob reached clumsily to the side and rested a hand on the warm bare skin of the lad's forearm. No more about footy,' he groaned. `Let's forget about that fucking match until the team talk on Friday.'
`Agreed,' Ross replied, in what sounded like a yawn - and Rob left his hand gently on top of the lad's arm, feeling the soft warmth of his skin, the thin tickle of hair growth, and just beyond his reach, the resting density of his muscular torso. But then he could feel a closer brush of their arms and it took a few tingling moments of drunken numbness to register that it wasn't his own hand now resting on the upper thigh of his chinos.
I'd never cheat,' he slurred vaguely. I'd just like to meet these people who think I'm shexy, y'know...?'
`Sure, gaffer...'
He felt the hand creep slowly inwards across the plateau of his thick covered thigh, and he shifted his blinking eyes down to look at it - it was momentarily disembodied, an Addams Family creation, a remote hand connecting with the bulging front of his sensible middle-aged chinos - but then it was connected to that strong arm, and he was glancing across at the intense younger face which stared at him across the mounded pillows. Rob lay there, his chest rising and falling gently, and he made a vague purring of alarm as the fingers rubbed between his legs. `Hmm.'
He was drunk, but he was not totally out of it - he definitely had enough consciousness to grab and remove that exploratory hand, or even land a smack on the cheeky face of the slouching Scouser at his hand. He could throw off this unexpected physical attention, he could kick the drunk lad out of his suite, send him back to his shared room where he belonged on another floor - he could do any of these things if he wanted. He just had to want to. He looked back down at the hand, watched its slow massaging motion, and he made another uncertain `Hmm' sound. It was not fully a conscious choice though, all of these things that he now didn't do - it was autopilot and instinct again, just like before the game, holding that fragile young man to him and letting his emotions guide him. And here and now, drunk in bed, he didn't even have to let those emotions guide anything - he just had to lie still and let it happen, and so that's what he did.
Ross paused, his own breathing heavy and intense, and then he brought his other hand over. While one remained lightly clutching at the crotch of the chinos, the other gently undid the belt buckle. He let out a shivering breath and then relaxed his posture again, just the one hand at work: slowly but surely, it pulled open the flies of the trousers, and slid in for a warmer and closer grip of the older man's package. He watched as Rob closed his eyes and let out a longer and more purring `Hmmm...'
Barkley was pissed, but he knew he was a little less drunk than the 41-year-old - he too thought about what he COULD do, how he could pull back his hand and laugh this off as a near-miss, an almost-mistake, a drunken misunderstanding that needn't ever be mentioned again. He could climb off the bed and let the drunken bloke start to snore, he could creep back through the hotel and find his way into his own cool bed, start to sleep off the beer and vodka, face the inevitable hangover and get over the Bournemouth defeat in another way.
Yep, he thought dimly, that was all an option. But god, the softly stirring mass of an older man's cock, fat and warm beneath the cotton, felt so good in his clammy palm, and the latest gasping `Hmmm?' of Rob's breathy voice sounded curious and encouraging; so the 6ft2 Evertonian slid and shuffled his heavy body just a little closer on the kingsize, and he gave Rob's crotch a good firm squeeze, then began to push back at the obstructing boxer shorts and took the fleshy length in hand for real.
He lay there, almost forgetting to breath, and worked his hand slowly, pulling gently on the fat sausage until it got thicker and harder - and with his other hand he reached inside his tracky pants and inside his black trunks, and began to stroke his own chunky monster. He half-expected that any second Edwards would fully realise what was happening and pull away, or lash out, or ask him what the hell he thought he was doing. But Ross Barkley was beginning to understand why he'd become so flustered when the TV fella asked him that daft question: it wasn't just paranoid fear about his past, about that risk of blackmail exposure that Eric Dier had supposedly rescued him from before dumping him and marrying that floozy; he really had developed a crush on the strong and sensitive leader of his new football team, and he'd wanted to grab his big cock for ages.
So he lay there side-by-side with his manager and played with his cock, finding it hard and excitable, and soon he yanked his own member out of his pants, wanking them both in rhythm. The noises that escaped Edwards' pursed lips were encouraging, but more physical approval came when he stretched his right arm out and hooked it about the back of Barkley's shoulders to hold him there, tight and authoritative, manly and affectionate - and Ross took this as permission to spit heavily in his palm and wank his gaffer off with a bit more furious energy, matching that rhythm with the right hand that now slid up and down his own veiny pole. He jerked them both and let out a series of excited gasps as he did so, enjoying the syncopation and the sight of both meaty weapons standing to wet-tipped attention - and he enjoyed the heat and tremor of his manager's body at his side, the slow slurring `Mmmm' noises, the deep surprised exhalations.
`Fuck,' panted Edwards, more consciously.
`Yes,' Barkley growled.
`That feels... mmm, good...'
`Yeah? Yeah? Mmm...'
`Don't stop...'
`I ain't stoppin', boss...'
`Oh, fuck...'
`Sexiest manager,' the 30-year-old footballer purred affectionately, an ironic lilt to his groaned compliment - he thought of that stupid newspaper sheet being passed around the coach, and he pictured the faces of the other mature men who made up the poll results - and for a brief moment he thought of a missing face that might have joined the line-up if the bastard wasn't unemployed. For a moment, in anticipation of regret, Ross's hand became slow and awkward on the fat heavy prick of the former Wales defender - he was thinking of how history repeats, and of how close he'd become with his illustrious manager during his doomed Chelsea era. Would this too become something of shame and regret for him, as his kinky little power struggle with Frank Lampard once had been...?
`Keep going,' urged a tough growl from Rob's lips, his eyes closed but fluttering, and Ross stopped thinking about that Chelsea legend and those long-gone scenes - he returned to the moment and squeezed his slippery grip up and down the older man's shaft, giving more effortful attention to that than his own quivering prick, which felt like it might explode with cum if he rubbed it any more - he wondered if the Telford man was as close to spunking as he was, he couldn't tell from his fragmented gasps.
`That's it,' moaned the married man, squeezing him tightly about the shoulders - and Ross leaned in a bit closer, finding a better angle to beat him off, but also leaning his face in very close - not kissing, but nuzzling in against the shoulder and cheek of the tensed older bloke, bringing their bodies a bit closer, locking one of his own heavy footballer legs over Rob's - and he pulled really rapidly on the taut cock, sure he must be close, so close, any second now - and he licked his lips as he stared at the glistening froth of pre-cum that drooled about the curled foreskin of it, wanting to lean over and go further, use his mouth as he'd learned to do in his years with beautiful Eric.
But too late - because Rob was trembling and spasming at his side, and whilst most of the silvery-white cum shot in ugly streaks onto the camel-coloured trousers, some of its slid glossy and sticky over his own knuckles. With his right hand, he attended more aggressively to himself, pulling his manhood towards climax; but with Rob still quivering and gasping against him, he brought his shaky left hand up away from that cock, lifting it up across his tummy and chest, and then... he lapped his tongue across his knuckles and fingers, tasting that distinctive saltiness for the first time in many months, and brought himself shivering towards a peak of pleasure: he shot masses of Scouse jizz down the thighs of his trackies and spilt some of it on the chinos too, and rubbed the sticky stain of his knuckles down the chest of his white tee, trembling and gasping.
Rob already had the beginnings of a hangover headache when he saw the prime player out of his room, fumbling with the belt of his chinos as he did; he mumbled and slurred goodbyes and a vague thanks' to the Scouser at the door and then rested his whole weight in against the back of the door once it was shut and locked. He wasn't quite focused or conscious enough to even ask What the hell was that?', he just slumped there with his face pushed into his folded arms, and his cock throbbing vaguely against the stained inside of his boxer shorts, his chinos threatening to droop form his waist and down his legs.
Pushing away from the door, the drunk and satisfied football manager thought that a cold shower would do him good, but then found he didn't have the energy to cross the room and fight against the unknown bathroom - he kicked out of his trousers and then tumbled back into bed on his front, burying his face in the ruffle pillows and remaining on top of the covers in his paisley boxer shorts and saggy grey tee. He lay there, head throbbing and world spinning, and thought about how good his cock and balls felt - `Thanks Ross,' he slurred again to the quiet little world of his hotel room, with no idea how awkward and regretful he was going to feel in the morning when a sweet message from his wife would wake him five minutes before his alarm.
And Ross drifted down the corridor, still adjusting the boxer briefs and tracksuit pants, his cock still swollen and heavy in them, and the armpits of his white t-shirt drenched in sweat. In his other hand he clutched the bundle of his training jersey, which dangled from his grip and trailed along the corridor carpet. He paused at the doors to the elevator and stared warily at his own reflection in the mirror - the Barkley that glared frostily back at him seemed like a ghost from his Premiership past, not the new man who had found himself in a quiet artsy romance with Dier, nor in the forlorn exile of Nice, not the more enlightened or progressive version of the awkward Scouser who had stood there and let Frank Lampard play with his nob in exchange for game minutes.
History repeating, he thought bitterly - another frustrated older manager, another strong secret power struggle, more transgressions that weren't even knew or taboo to him any more. He wiped his cum-sticky paw down his chest again and winced, nauseous and dizzy with too much drank in a short period; his cock and balls ached wistfully for the pleasure that had ended, and he grimaced ruefully as he stumbled into the lift, punching randomly at buttons until it agreed to travel floors.
Fuck, he thought, now I've really messed up.
'Writer guy' - Premiership Lads on Nifty https://www.nifty.org/nifty/gay/celebrity/premiership-lads/
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