Part fifty-seven: Champions League Dreams
In the bar of the hotel on the fringe of Madrid, the mood was electric. The City lads had been ecstatic in the changing rooms after their first leg victory, the first English team to best Real Madrid at their home ground in many years, and after briefly tailing 1-0... Celebrations had begun on the pitch, spilled down the tunnel, and raged in the showers. And now the bosses were turning a blind eye to some free-flowing pints of lager and open wine bottles, though tomorrow's flight was early and there were bound to be sore heads on the plane back to Manchester Airport.
Phil Foden hadn't even made it onto the pitch, in the end, but he felt as caught up in the excitement as if he'd been the one to score that winning goal, not his big ginger mate, Kevin De Bruyne. The 19-year-old was well into his third pint and huddled near the bar in a thick throng of the lads who had all played their part in the big win. Tipsy and excited, Phil looked around in a blur at the respected blokes about him who had all done their bit, absorbed in the triumphant mania even in spite of his regret at spending 90 minutes on the bench once more. It was becoming a running joke to the fans, and some of the lads on the squad, how under-used his young talents were, but he had faith in Guardiola's intentions and schemes for him.
Goal-scoring Gabriel Jesus was mouthing off in some frantic speech in broken English to anyone who would listen, whilst his Argentine pal Nicolas Otamendi was making a mess pouring out large glasses of wine at the marble bartop, shouting out in Spanish or Portuguese. Next to Phil, Raheem Sterling had burst into song. It was all a dream-like blur of heated passions, glistening marble and brass surfaces, and the strong scents of male aftershaves mingling with sweat.
The teenager backed away from it, suddenly dizzy, and instantly crashed into the big, burly arms of his senior teammate Kyle Walker, who was grinning wickedly down at him. Phil,' he cried out, I've been looking all over for you!' His grin was feverish and his hands gripping firmly at Foden's lean upper arms.
`Huh?'
Are you still up for it?' Walker demanded in a rush. I've called that whore I was telling you about on the flight, mate.'
Phil blinked confusedly. A prozzer?' he asked. Again? I mean...' He rubbed at his face and blinked at the older lad shaking him out of his trance, then felt one strong hand tug his wrist away across the hotel bar. He could still just about hear Sterling's falsetto: what the hell was he singing?
Kyle was dragging him out into the foyer of the hotel, where two others were waiting for him. It was Kevin De Bruyne (hadn't he just been at the bar a second ago?) and Rodri Hernandez, both lads hopping about with the same wildness in their manner as the sleazy Yorkshireman pushing between them. Nearby, the lift doors were opening, and Foden felt himself rushed towards it by De Bruyne. The usually serious-faced Belgian was cackling enthusiastically beside him and wrapping a long arm about Phil's slender young shoulders. Inside the lift, Phil found himself staring into his reflection dizzily, and listening to a blur of voices around him. Were there just the four of them in here, it felt like a dozen?
There was a ping like a microwave and what had seemed like a mirror wall was sliding open, lift doors, into the corridor that stretched beyond, door after door after door. And Kyle Walker was standing in the centre of the hallway in just a skimpy towel, hands on his hips, his big body on show – wait, wasn't he in the lift, or back down in the foyer, but – `Come on,' the big lad barked and then burst out laughing, and Phil hurried forward with Kevin. The nearest room door was ajar and he was rushed through it, Rodri coming along behind him and shoving him in the back.
Inside the room, a naked mixed race girl was writhing expectantly on one of three double beds, her legs wide open. Kyle was tugging his towel off and Rodri, brushing past, was ripping open his stripy shirt. Phil wavered on his feet, suddenly feeling just how drunk he was. He could barely seem to control his legs as he crossed the room, which seemed to stretch ahead of him so that the bed got further away as he tried to approach it, his eyes drinking in the toned caramel skin of the waiting girl, whose legs and tits were being pawed by his male companions up here...
A loud voice cut through this scene, a loud barking sound of authority. Phil whirled around in time to see the boss come sweeping through the door, Pep Guardiola seeming to fly in his urgent dash. Phil could hear him shouting but couldn't make out the words. It was like a aural flashback, the gaffer's angry words from last time echoing about the room or inside his head, or both. Phil staggered forward, and saw that Pep was not shouting angrily, and lecturing Kyle or anyone else. He was peeling off his blazer and tearing aside his tie, and now his trousers were down, and he was leaping at the girl on the bed. Oh my... Phil reached the edge of the bed in a hot sweat and leaned forward just as he saw his iconic manager mount the prostitute and begin to fuck her hard, making loud howling groans that...
Phil Foden woke with a jolt. His mouth tasted sour and stale, his head throbbed a little, and the bedding over his near-naked body felt heavy and overheated on his bare skin. He blinked dry eyes and shook himself out of the vivid dream with a shudder of confusion.
He rolled over and sat up a little, letting his head settle and his eyes adjust to the dark of the spacious hotel room. His mouth tasted of stale beer and the sweat that glossed his pale skin was partly from the over-heated hotel suite, and partly from the excessive quick drinking he had indulged in upon returning from the Bernabau victory with everybody else. THAT part of the dream was accurate...!
Why the fuck are you dreaming about your football manager fucking a hooker? He laughed at himself and lifted a hand to rub at his clammy face, then sat up properly in bed. Had he even brushed his teeth when he got up here? Probably not, no wonder his mouth felt like he had been eating moss. He pulled a face, retched gently, and groaned the beginnings of a hangover. How long had he even slept? What time was it?
Foden pulled himself out of bed and out into the space of the sixth-floor hotel room, a little unsteady on his white-socked feet, just as he had been in the silly dream. The teenage footballer steadied himself, got his bearings, and let his eyes more fully adjust. The other double bed in the big suite was empty, surprisingly.
He hadn't expected a second trip sharing with the gaffer. He'd assumed he'd be back with KDB or somebody else responsible and focused, but no: Pep had pulled him aside at the airport during security checks and bluntly remarked that he felt it was a good idea to repeat the rooming from the previous trip, as he was worried about how some individuals would behave once in Spain. And so here Phil was, rooming with the manager for a second time, and under vague but severe instructions that he should keep this fact more or less to himself, as it was a little unusual.
Phil didn't mind, of course, though he knew there was something odd in it, and memories of the previous outing had left him a little... wary. No wonder he was having absurd, chaotic dreams featuring the charismatic older man, after that slightly awkward wank-off in their last shared hotel room, from which this one was almost indistinguishable, really. He found he was staring at the empty other bed, its sheets and pillows undisturbed. Odd. He pulled his legs away from the bed, moved to the dressing table where he seemed to have dumped his stuff, fished his mobile phone from the heap of his tshirt and hoody. Barely gone 1am, apparently – how early had he come up here, exactly?
It had been fun, the celebrating, but it had been hard to really feel part of it, a benchwarmer next to his Madrid-beating colleagues. What Phil would have given for a shot at some Champions League glory out here, rather than just grinning and clapping along in the dugout with the other substitutes. He fought back this nauseating frustration, knowing his youth and inexperience made him a risk on such occasions. His time would come!
Regardless, it had been a long night in the bar listening to other guys re-live the match he had merely observed; and the drink had quickly hit him hard. He was a slight young man drinking alongside bigger, older blokes, and he really wasn't as rough-and-ready as many people seemed to assume. While a lot of Foden's scally schoolmates had been drinking in parks and fingering girls in back alleys, he'd been putting in double shifts at youth academies and battling to get his football career going from an early age. Heavy drinking had yet to really feature in his life in a way it seemed to for some of his older role models. So between the simmering jealousy and the rapid drunkenness, Phil had found it hard to stick the lingering celebrations. Curfews forgotten, pints being poured, bottles uncorked... but he'd sneaked away earlyish, perhaps 11pm, and collected his room key to head up here.
He headed into the en suite bathroom of the hotel room, which again seemed so much more capacious than the pokey shower rooms these generic hotel rooms usually adjoined. As last time, he was struck by the different class of suite the Manchester City manager seemed to be afforded in comparison to the young lads a few floors below... but then, this was Pep Guardiola, a legendary figure who the club were utterly desperate to retain amidst their recent scandals and sanctions. No wonder tonight's victory had meant so much to everyone involved!
In the bathroom, he didn't pop the light on, dreading its harsh blare in his eyes, but fumbled his way to the sink and found his toilet bag on the sill. Toothbrush, toothpaste, rush of cold water. He scrubbed bristles against tooth and gum to eradicate the sour aftertaste of his post-match drinking, wanting to refresh and cleanse himself of the drunkenness still clouding his head and thickening his thoughts. He noticed then for the first time that he was a little more than semi-hard in the saggy grey boxer briefs he was wearing, a nocturnal `morning wood' phenomenon after his snatch of boozy sleep. He tittered at himself, too hot and irritable to want to do anything about the growing erection, but amused at the restless energy spilling out of him tonight. He spat minty froth into the sink, adjusted the bone in the front of his grey underpants, and began rinsing the brush under one tap, squinting at his dim reflection in the dark mirror.
For a second, he was flashing back into his dream, stood in that blurred elevator shaft, surrounded by other lads, sleazy Kyle leading the way, and that naked girl waiting for them in a random room, legs open-
He was jolted from this giddy reverie by the sound of a key in a lock and the opening of their hotel room door. Phil stood still, toothbrush in hand, running the back of his other hand across his damp lips, and listening to the unmistakable sound of someone trying and failing to enter a room quietly: rustling fabric, heavy footsteps, loud breaths, and then a yelp of Spanish as Guardiola called a goodbye to somebody in the corridor, probably one of the assistant managers. And then the slight slam of a closing door and the gasp and mutter of self-chastisement from the failed stealth of the drunk man in the bedroom. Phil stood there and suppressed a giggle: was the big boss drunk?!
Guardiola was a gregarious figure, but he was hardly known for joining the lads in such celebratory piss-ups, usually keeping his distance once away from the dressing room inspiration and training ground rigour. Phil squinted and tried to remember his last sight of the Spaniard downstairs before he'd slipped away: Pep had been drinking with a couple of the older, Spanish-speaking players and his closest coaching colleagues, but hadn't seemed inebriated. Mind, that was hours ago now, probably.
`Sorry,' drawled the deep, warm voice of the football manager beyond the bathroom door, his footsteps dragging across the room.
Phil smiled to himself, enjoying the thought of the 49-year-old `sneaking' in like a drunken teenager and himself, the prematurely middle-aged lad supposedly already snoring. He shoved his toothbrush away and splashed some cool water on his overheated face, and twisted the door handle to return to the bedroom. As he did so, there was a loud clatter just to his left: Pep had tried to switch on a single lamp to find his way about and send the expensive-looking ceramic base tumbling off its perch. It was smashed on the laminate floor and the manager was stooping over its remains. A bulb flickered then went out, washing them both in darkness again as Phil stumbled awkwardly into the centre of the room.
`You okay, chief?' he asked cautiously.
Guardiola flipped about in surprise, still on his haunches. He looked alarmed but then a perfect white-toothed smile broke his face as he lurched up onto his feet, dropping some shards of ceramic from his hands and beaming at his young roommate. `You are awake, Philip,' the tanned man exclaimed in bleary surprise. He was wearing tight, dark jeans and a short sleeved black polo shirt, an oddly youthful looking outfit on him right now. The outline of his bald tanned head seemed to glow against the very faint light leaking between the curtains, a little halo for the 5'11 figure of middle-aged masculinity.
Phil took a step towards him, suddenly self-conscious of his own lack of clothing, and then remembering the outline of his semi in his pants, but hoping it would be invisible in such little light. Er, I'm sure the lamp doesn't matter, gaffer,' he said. You had a few too many eh, Mr Guardiola?'
A rough chuckle. I've told you to call me Pep,' the manager insisted, and he lurched towards Phil in the dark, reaching a hand for his shoulder. Yep... too many Spanish beers... but they taste so much better here, eh...' Another toothy grin in the shadows. Tonight has been fucking fantastic.' A few other slurred expressions in Spanish. He squeezed Phil by the shoulder. I am sorry you did not play. You could have been fantastic out there.'
Oh,' Foden said, a little surprised by this sentimental little comment. Don't put any store by it, he chided himself: he could smell the booze on the older man's breath. But he smiled in spite of himself and enjoyed the warm grip on his bare shoulder. Thanks chief,' he said in a low voice. He could see Pep swaying a bit as they faced each other, wondered just how much drink the man had put back in the last few hours... he stunk of red wine, come to think of it.
I mean it,' Guardiola continued in a quiet growl of a voice. You are special, Philip.'
The 49-year-old began to pull him forward into a hug but Foden resisted, conscious of his skimpy grey undies and his slight excitement down there, suddenly uncomfortable, but unable to extricate himself from the warm hairy arms of his roommate pulling on him. He felt himself pressed in against the broad warmth of Pep's chest, arms closing about his thinner back. Simultaneously, his crotch clashed with one thigh of the other man's, his fat bulge brushing the dark denim of one leg, no obvious reaction from the hugger.
Boss,' Phil sniggered, I think you ought to get to bed and sleep it off...'
Pep let out a little huff of ambivalent response, squeezing his arms about him and inadvertently brushing the short salt-and-pepper of his beard against the side of Phil's face. It was coarse and tingling against his own clean-shaven cheek and he let out another awkward little giggle of reaction and tried once more to pull away, without being too pushy or rude.
`You Englishmen hate to hug,' Guardiola remarked, but loosened his grip.
I'm sorry,' Phil mumbled, it's just so late, and...'
Gosh, what is that?' exclaimed the Spaniard, pressing his thigh forward and then aside a little. His firm leg rubbed firmly against the bulge in Foden's grey undies. A Spanish curse muttered under the breath, and Phil instantly could tell the manager had felt or sensed his growing erection down there – fucking hell! He lurched back awkwardly, self-conscious and glad of the darkness. Philip?' demanded Pep's voice.
I'm sorry,' he muttered quickly, I'm just going to hit my bed and...'
`Are you excited?' The manager's voice was a bemused laugh, deep and warm and kind.
`Sir...'
Philip,' wheezed the City manager, moving closer towards him in the centre of the hotel room, reaching once more for his shoulder. I told you... you are young, hot of blood... You do not need to be... ashamed!' More low chuckles. `You English men... hah!' Phil began to turn away, but the hand squeezed his shoulder and pulled him in as if for another hug. He squirmed and laughed and found his mind turn irresistibly to the climax of his beery dream, before he'd jolted awake: he thought about the groans of his superior in that dream sequence, which really had just been an echo of the very real noises he'd heard Pep made when they wanked in parallel beds a matter of nights ago on that last away match...
`I'm not... ashamed,' Phil protested.
No, you should not be!' Pep responded, and then, to Foden's complete shock, he was reaching down, and wrapping fingers about the front of the grey boxer briefs. Nothing... to be... ashamed of!' Pep laughed and his rioja-flavoured breath washed at Phil's shocked face. His eyes made out more features of his manager's face in the dark, not just the bright white of his grinning teeth or the rough outline of his goatee, or the halo of his bald crown... but the lines about his kindly eyes, the sharp line of his aquiline nose... the little dimples forming in the silver fur of his beard. Phil stared down at where the older man's fingers lingered briefly about his bulge, and he remembered to shut his own gaping mouth.
`Boss!'
Pep, please,' insisted the Spanish man with a groan of frustration. None of this... sir, chief, gaffer... hah... you make me sound so... ancient, young man...'
For all his dizzy discomfort, the City teenager couldn't hold in his laugh at this. `Young man?' he teased quietly, contemplating the 30-year gulf between them, and already doubting his senses: had Pep Guardiola really just grabbed his package and then acted as if this was nothing? God, how drunk WAS the old bloke tonight? He half-noticed his cock throb and twitch at the thought and then pushed this idea away, knowing it was mostly hormones and lager and not getting to spend his energy on the pitch like most of the others...
Si, young man,' slurred the Spaniard. Young man... but... lucky young man!' There it was again: that big firm hand was reaching against the front of his underpants and feeling the (now even more prominent) outline of his prick, tracing its shape with one finger. `Jésus Christo... hah... no wonder you are father at young age... hah. Philip!'
Foden had no idea what to say to this, but a little shudder of excitement ran up his naked torso and down his bared smooth legs at the contact. He blinked and gawped and forced out a couple of gruff laughs, then brushed Pep's fingers away from his crotch. It's not that big,' he mumbled. Just average, I think.' He'd seen enough in dressing rooms to know this wasn't strictly true. He'd observed enough to know he was safely above average, though he'd seen others that looked likely to be bigger, on several of his teammates. His latent curiosity at the size of Pep's tool resurfaced and he reached his hand cautiously forward to find out then stopped himself.
`Oh, go on,' Guardiola sniggered then, seeing or sensing this abortive grab. His hand slid over Phil's and pulled it in against the front of his jeans. Unlike Phil, Pep wasn't already near erect, but there was a prominent mound in that close-fitting denim that bulged satisfyingly beneath Phil's trembling fingers. He realised he had been holding a breath for too long, and let it out. Both men laughed, their breaths deep and gruff in the darkness between them.
Phil swayed on his socked feet and realised there was nothing he could say that felt appropriate. He felt excited now, and a little more alert, but also scared. He couldn't quite gauge what was going on or what the older man was playing at. He pulled his hand away from the swelling front of those jeans and rubbed both hands over his face, feeling the cool damp where he'd just washed it in the sink, but his cheeks burning up with... what, midnight lust? Too much lager? Intimidation at this charismatic presence swaying in front of him.
Now Pep was pulling his top off, not without a little clumsy difficult in his drunken state. Phil had to reach forward and held a little, tugging on the thick fabric to get that designer polo shirt up and away. His eyes, now quite adjusted to the dark, could make out the thick rug of the older bloke's chest, that hair speckled with grey just like his beard. It was impressive how toned and lithe Pep's figure really looked, almost at 50, years and years after his footballing days were over... The top dropped to the floor between them and Pep was reaching for the buckle of his belt.
Phil backed off, sinking into a sitting position on the edge of his own bed, blinking his tired eyes. He was about to pull back more, retreating to the stuffy heat of his duvet and in search of more beer-addled sleep, but then... the belt was coming off and the zip fly going down, and Guardiola was thrusting his jeans down over his surprisingly thick thighs, exposing their dark-haired expanses of tan, and... the simple black briefs were revealed, their Armani waistband seeming to catch some flicker of light to pronounce their outline more firmly for Phil's eyes. The jeans tumbled down and Pep sat on the edge of his bed exactly opposite, four foot of faint darkness between them, both reduced to their underpants.
Guardiola seemed to smile at him then, or he might have just been grinning to himself and staring into the middle distance. Then he flopped back onto his bag, sprawling out over the pristine sheets of his bed, his knees hooked over the edge of the bed and his ankles still buried in a mound of creased denim. This stretched pose led Phil's eyes to one thing and one thing only, the rising black mound of the front of those briefs, framed between two sturdy dark-tanned legs, a hairy torso sprawling behind it, silhouetting its dark outline. Phil couldn't stop staring. Pep let out a sleepy contented sound, half-groan, half-laugh.
Foden got up then, and crossed the space between them, turning to sit instead on the edge of Guardiola's bed, by his side. Almost instantly, one of the man's sleepy hands lifted up and brushed his back, fingers warm and soft against Phil's spine. The teenager stared down at the bared expanse of the 49-year-old's impressive physique, but his eyes returned magnetically to the swollen, heavy contents of the black Armani briefs. He lifted a nervous hand and rested it against the bulge: an approving murmur came from Guardiola's sleepy lips. `Si, Philip,' he breathed.
Phil ran his fingers against the soft fabric, feeling the thick outline in there. He gulped. He let his finger and thumb find the outline of the base and trace it all the way to its weighty tip. It quivered and seemed to stretch beneath his touch. Again, he was holding his breath. He let it out in a long, quivering sigh, and squeezed the package more firmly. The hand on his back ran up and down slowly.
`Take my jeans off,' grunted Pep, a slightly commanding tone entering his laconic voice.
Phil leaned off the edge of the bed, gulping nervously again, and reached down to help. He eased the denim over Pep's ankles and then, one by one, he peeled off the older man's socks as those thick legs pulled up fully onto the bed. He tossed the socks away and then laughed at his own. He rolled them off, and then pulled his feet up onto the bed too. Pep was yanking back the fresh bedding beneath them, and suddenly it was being thrown over Phil's body, and a single arm was reaching about his waist to pull him in. Before he knew it, he was lying body to body with his manager beneath the crisp duvet, their body heat mingling.
`Is this okay, chief?' he asked in a trembling voice.
`How does it feel?' Pep asked quietly in response. His hand slid down the taut front of Phil's abdomen and grasped his aching boner in his undies. Phil shuddered, arched his back against his boss's front, and felt the man's other hand slid in against his neck and jawline, stroking up close to his lips with two fingertips.
`It feels good,' he whispered back.
Mm, yes,' Pep agreed. No more talk.'
But-
`Shh...'
Phil reached his own hand down into the body-heated nest of their shared bedding, letting his fingers tickle over the hairy trail of the man's tummy, and pushing in underneath the tight Armani waistband to get to the contents of that big bulge. When his fingers found Pep's cock, it was almost rigid, thick and veiny against his palm as he took it out. The soft purrs of pleasure from the older man were thrilling and comforting, and he pulled slowly and softly on the big, circumcised prick. As he did so, he felt Pep forcing his hand inside his own boxer briefs, and the mutual handjob began.
For many long minutes of aching late-night pleasure, the two men stroked and tugged and fingered with synchronised excitement. Phil couldn't contain his little grunts and groans of stimulation as Pep fondled his cock, and he couldn't believe how massive Pep's own member felt in his palm, though he couldn't see it for the duvet right now: as if Guardiola had complimented HIS endowment when THIS was hiding down there, shitting hell...
Guardiola's warm hairy body shifted and stretched and pulled away a little across the bed, but his arm wrapped about Phil's upper chest just below his throat, pulling him alongside and a little over him, so the teen felt the back of his head rest on one strong shoulder, his neck and own bare shoulder brushing against the rugged fur of Pep's chest... His right arm stretched down over that furred torso and held the thick base of the manager's huge erection. Phil reached his other hand for his own prick, abandoned by the older man's lazy strokes, and he began to jerk them both simultaneously, grinding his body into and against the cushion of Pep's warm muscle...
`Mmm, si, si...'
`Yes chief...'
`Philip, ohh...'
Oh yes,' Foden gasped eagerly. He could feel his abs tensing and his compact, lean-muscled legs tremble against the bedding. His ankles and feet brushed Guardiola's. Oh yess,' he repeated in a hiss, feeling his balls tighten. He quickened his left-handed tugs on his own decent-sized prick and then lengthened his strokes up and down the shaft of Pep's thick meat. Phil's cock throbbed and climaxed: he felt his juices smear his thumb and fingers and splash the bedding. He bit back the scream of pleasure he wanted to release, and tried to keep the motion of his right hand on the Spanish sausage beside him.
Pep's groans were mounting. He recognised the noise: the bestial grunts and pants, the real low moans of power. This drove him wild, even as he felt dizzy and spent from his own orgasm. He tugged and tugged on that veiny length, until he felt it stiffen and jerk under his fingers, and the grip of Pep's arm about his chest contracted fiercely. Pep growled and blew his load. Sticky goo trickled down Phil's knuckles, unseen beneath the duvet, and he panted for breath, feeling almost crushed and choke by the arm beneath his throat. Pep squeezed still tighter on him and let out another animal cry, then released him just as suddenly, his bigger body relaxing.
Phil lay very still, the closeness of their nude bodies suddenly terrifying. He gulped down cool air and felt his eyelids droop. It took a while for him to relax, pinned to Pep's body by a single gripping arm, but as the minutes ticked by, he felt drunken sleep begin to reclaim him. The other man shifted onto his side a little and Phil felt himself pulled into a spooning position, warm hairy flesh pressing up against his back (and a sticky liquid rubbing at the base of his spine, perhaps from the tip of a flopping cock), until he was drifting into sleep, lulled by the dry rustle of an older man's snoring...
At 6am, two different phone alarms buzzed and vibrated, a discordant chorus at different ends of the spacious hotel room. Milky Spanish sunlight leaked in around the edges of the curtains. Phil felt the iPhone and Android alarms drill into his head and he winced at the hangover waking up inside him like some invasive creature. For about thirty seconds, it seemed perfectly natural that an arm dangled heavily over his side and a sleepy mouth was gently snoring against the back of his neck: but then he felt how heavy and hairy the arm on his flank was, and the sleepy mouth behind him shifted and a beardy chin stroked along the side of his neck and against his shoulderblade.
He tensed up, both at this alarming intimacy, and the sounds of their alarms.
Pep pulled away from him sharply, though it was unclear if he was making the same realisation, or simply reacting to the early morning alarms. A tight morning routine lay ahead of them: rushed breakfast, airport transfer, flight back to England... The itinerary spilled through Foden's hazy mind and he stretched and twitched his body under the covers, released from Guardiola's spooning grip now after hours of precious sleep.
He rolled over in time to see Pep silently leave the bed. The older man's black briefs were pulled down a little about his broad backside so a bit of hairy crack was exposed. As he turned aside, Phil saw his fat cock and balls hanging over the front where they had been left. He remembered the feel of that thick cock in his hand and clenched his right knuckles reminiscently with a sickly thrill rushing over him. He watched the middle-aged Spaniard tuck his privates back into the briefs then pull them up a bit to cover his arse properly, standing there in just these skimpy pants, staring silently about the room. His face was a thundery frown.
`6am,' the footballer manager barked impatiently, and he swore in Spanish.
Phil rolled over, groaned, and reached under the bedding to pull up his own disturbed underpants, not quite having realised his own dick hung loose against his inner leg. He tugged the grey boxer briefs up and sat upright, pulling the covers about him, and groaning painfully as the alarm sounds continued to bore into his headache. One alarm was shut off by Pep, and then his own phone was tossed his way. He received it, dismissed the alarm, buried his head against his own knees.
Get up,' Pep called over at him. You need to shower, get ready. Now. Hurry up.'
Phil found it hard to read the brusque tone of his roommate and now bed-mate. In all honesty, he was finding it perhaps harder to read his OWN thoughts. He dragged himself from the bed, self-conscious of his skimpy clothes even though they were less revealing than Pep's briefs, and obviously far more had been revealed in the early hours. He left the manager's bed, crossed the room, found his kit-bag.
`You shower first,' Guardiola grunted, still standing in the centre, looking about as if he'd lost something.
Foden nodded his agreement, began seizing fresh underpants and socks and a tshirt from his bag, then found himself presented with a fresh white towel, pressed into his arms by Guardiola, still just in his little black briefs. His chest hair was even clearer in the faint morning light, a compact forest against the surprisingly clear muscle definition of his pecs and abdomen. But the bearded face was stormy and intense. Phil found himself looking into those eyes and flinching: it was the same righteous anger he'd seen on the gaffer's face when he was caught with Kyle, John and the prostitute that night. An icy temper that was more frightening than much noisier men.
I am married,' Pep hissed at him. I am a father. I am...'
Okay, okay,' Foden mumbled quickly, I understand...'
That did NOT happen,' the City manager said sharply. You understand me, Philip?'
I do, I do!' Phil said, irked and frightened by the hostility in his hero's voice. Nothing happened...'
`Nothing,' the Spanish man echoed firmly.
`Nothing,' Phil agreed. He hugged his arms about the fodled towel and his own hastily grabbed clothes, then broke the intense stare between them, backing away from Guardiola and retreating into the bathroom. He elbowed its door tightly shut behind him and then rested his whole body against it for a moment, collecting himself, blinking away the dizzy nausea of his hangover and the shock of Pep's angry words. Nothing had happened?!
The teenager trembled and panted and let himself gradually calm before pulling away from the doorframe and dumping the contents of his arms onto the sideboard. Then he stared back into the mirror and saw himself more clearly, the pale sickly look to his face, the fear in his eyes, the smudged red rash on his neck and shoulder from the friction of a man's beard. He met his own eyes guiltily, and thought of his girlfriend back home, the mother of his child. Pep wasn't the only one with real commitments beyond this suite! Nothing happened?!
Seconds later, he was in the shower, resting beneath the blasting water before it could heat up, letting cool water rush over his tight young frame, 5'7 of lean muscle and sinew. He clenched his hands over his face and sighed into his palms, and let the shower wash away the night's experimentation and confusion. Nothing had happened!