Part fifty-eight: League Cup Losers
Saturday night in the bright lights of London and here they were, soft drinks in hand making sober and slightly nervous banter in the restaurant of a hotel minutes from Wembley Stadium. The iconic football ground was visible from some windows of the long food-hall, and its slow-pulsing lights were both inspiring and intimidating to Jack Grealish. Captaining his beloved team in a cup final already, a heart-stopping honour and a gut-wrenching responsibility. He sat and stared through the windowpanes at the nearby loom of England's most famous pitch, glowing visibly between the high-rise apartments and car parks, and struggled to tune in on the chatter of his teammates.
He should be the one leading the banter, he knew that, but his usual bravado was wilting in the face of tomorrow's challenge. The League Cup final, the earliest tournament climax in the season, was throwing them up against Manchester City after all, and some of the greatest players in the Premiership.
The more he really thought about it, the tantalising possibility of Cup victory, the more nauseous and out-of-his-depth Grealish actually felt. Jack the lad, Captain Jack, the boisterious young hero of this struggling side, but tonight... He'd spent much of the coach journey down from Birmingham resting his head to the vibrating windows and trying to sleep rather than engage in excitable, competitive chat from the other lads, everybody trying to convince themselves of how beatable and fallible City were at the moment. The elephant in the room, and on the coach back then, was that they'd all watched some or all of the footage from City's Champions League performance against Real Madrid, and that was not a sight that looked... beatable.
Fuck it,' said 24-year-old Matt Targett to his left, clearly in the midst of some riled up conversation with the rest of their end of the table, we can't lose – we've got Jack fucking Grealish with us!' And with that, the Villa defender reached over and slapped him heartily on the shoulder of his Adidas tshirt, letting out a bolshy laugh and grinning at the other lads about them.
Ho yes,' agreed Conor Hourihane from his seat at the end of the table, grinning at them both over his glass of sparkling water and the last remains of his lasagne. Our Jack will see us right,' chuckled the older Irishman, with the same half-joking excitement: there was mockery in the exaggeration, but also a great deal of affection and respect, which Grealish was always amazed at from older and more experienced teammates like Conor. The idea that a lad of his age could lead and inspire players at a very different point in their careers was, like tomorrow itself, equally enthralling and intimidating.
Only one face at this end of the table wasn't lit up then with a warm grin or a chuckle of forced confidence: directly opposite Jack, leaning back a little in his seat with his Ralph Lauren polo shirt fitted tightly across his big lithe frame, Tyrone Mings gave him a cynical stare.
Mind,' the gigantic defender said in his low, syrupy voice, cutting through the laughter, Jacko's head could be turned, couldn't it?' There were a few uncertain laughs as the cheery, boisterous blokes all turned their heads Tyrone's way, waiting for the punchline. `After all, we all heard that interview, KDB is this mug's FAVOURITE ever player,' Tyrone drawled with a slightly mocking tone to his deep voice.
Oh, so true,' Anwar El Ghazi picked up from next to Mings, bursting out laughing, I did watch that... my days, you sounded in love with him, ha ha...' The Dutchman chuckled deeply and slapped the table. `Come on Mr Grealish, whose side exactly are you on?'
Jack felt a hot blush come into his small rounded cheeks and he pulled back in his seat a little. `What? I was just honest,' he blurted hotly.
Ah, course you were, leave him!' chuckled Targett, giving him another slap on the shoulder. Ty's just messing – who the fuck ISN'T in love with Kevin De Bruyne, to be fair? Beautiful ginger bastard, haha...'
And Grealo's right,' Hourihane put in, he is probably the best fucking player in the Premiership...' A dramatic pause. `AFTER our Jack the Lad, that is... haha!' And a playful toast of soft drinks, healthy smoothies and protein shakes was lofted to blushing Jack Grealish, who found himself staring irritably through the raised cups to the teasing smirk that lingered on Tyrone's face.
`We can smash City,' declared Targett ambitiously.
We can,' El Ghazi agreed instantly. We can and we WILL...' There was a general `hurrah', more laughter, and a burst of similarly daft toasts and outbursts echoed down the huddled tables of footballers finishing up their communal meal of the night. The mood in the restaurant, booked out solely for the Aston Villa squad and staff, was surprisingly high, full of playful ambition and defiant optimism. Manchester City were not what they were, and earlier today, the seemingly invincible Liverpool had crashed against Watford: anything was possible.
Jack quit the company of his teammates, faintly aware he wasn't quite fulfilling his captainly duties, and spent much of their remaining downtime sneaking a few laps of the hotel pool in, trying and failing to dull his anxious young mind with an intense swim. The gaffer probably wouldn't have been keen to see how much energy he was expending, but he needed to something more occupying than sitting upstairs playing darts with the lads or enjoying another fucking kale smoothie.
And more than anything, he couldn't face more mocking stares from Tyrone Mings.
Okay, so he was hardly being the BEST captain tonight, he knew he was letting performance anxiety get in his way and withdrawing as he tried to process the challenge ahead... But Mings, what the fuck did he think HE was doing? Making stupid jokes about and against his own captain the night before a cup final like this... The little remark at the end of dinner had been the first of three or four. The lads had laughed along and taken it as part of the general high spirits, but by the last joke, some daft remark about how maybe Jack's short shorts could distract his Belgian boyfriend long enough for them to sneak their first goal in, the laughter had become uneasy, and others had seemed to sense there was some tension or discord between their young captain and the big, powerful Somersat lad in defence.
Of course there was tension. Jack hadn't really managed to speak a word with Mings since Dubai. He'd been excited out there, playful and risqué, he hadn't thought that his toying with his lanky mate would be taken so... seriously! He'd really underestimated Ty's reservations after their early locker-room experiences, that daft little circle jerk he'd initiated... Everyone had SEEMED to enjoy it, he'd thought, but Mings seemed to be still uncomfortable, judgmental... And Grealish had been joking when he grabbed at the other lad's package on the beach that day in Dubai, well MOSTLY joking, he hadn't really been aiming to... Okay, okay, maybe he had, but... so what?
Dubai, Jack thought, leaving the pool with a ripple of chlorinated water and giving his whole body a shake as he stood there, dark blue speedos clinging to his pert bottom and ample package. Dubai, he reminisced: things had got fucking real under that winter sun, well, moon, more specifically. He pictured that silvery scene on the sand and shuddered with a queer mix of emotions. He remembered with a sigh where this chain of events had begun, and pictured the mocking leer on his teammate's face upstairs. Apparently Mings now really had it in for him, as if Jack didn't have enough to deal with tomorrow. Fuck's sake.
The 24-year-old reached for his towel on the rail where it had been left draped, and pulled it about his firm shoulder muscles and ran it over the floppy wet mass of his highlighted hair. He dried himself vigorously, towelling his defined calves and thighs and pulling it back up his torso before wrapping it about his waist and finding the hoody he'd dumped with his other things, pulling it back on and making his way out of the pool room with just sliders on his damp feet.
In the lift, he whistled to himself in a vain attempt to lift his mood. Ping after ping, floor after floor. Soon he was upstairs on the corridor where almost all of them had been roomed, jangling his room keys in one hand and holding his folded up joggers, tshirt and trainers under the other arm, ready to make his way down the corridor. Some of the doors were propped a little open and even through the closed ones, there was the general sound of nervous excitement and uneasy banter as the squad slowly settled down for the night.
Jack felt another little stab of guilt that he wasn't more full of beans himself, and then almost walked straight into the very person making his unease worse. Tyrone was just emerging from another couple of lads' room with a portable speaker in one hand and a rolled up magazine in the other, a hotel bathrobe on over his tshirt and shorts. The two lads pulled up their postures, backed apart, and gave each other uncomfortable looks.
`Cheers for all the "banter",' Jack remarked in spite of himself, knowing a stand-up row as literally the last thing either of them needed or wanted.
Huh?' retorted Mings, looking him up and down. Banter? Sorry, not quite physical enough for YOUR kind of banter, was it?'
Jack stared at him a bit dumbly and tried not to get flustered. Ty, pal,' he droned, are you still huffy about that...? It were just-`
Don't pal me,' Mings said, dropping his voice and leaning forward a little, making his superior stature obvious. I don't trust you any more, Jack. I know what you're up to, and I don't like it. I don't know how you're still even captain,' he added, almost spitting the last word, then thinking it further. `I'm not sure you still will be, when I tell the boss what you've been getting up to behind the scenes, laddo.'
Ty,' Grealish murmured, appalled by this. Mate, listen here, we just need to –`
We don't need to do anything,' Mings said very firmly. G'night, skipper. For now.' He barged past, shoulder to shoulder, and went on his way. Jack watched him go and looked about with shifty, darting glances, glad nobody else seemed to have emerged from their rooms and caught any of that little exchange.
He hurried on and into his own room at the end of this passage, blinking away his frustration and embarrassment at a confrontation he'd been dreading since that lads' trip to the Middle East in the winter break. It was so fucking out of order... stupid Tyrone had joined in like everyone else when he got shit going in the showers that day, hadn't he? Jack had seen him!
Evening, Jack,' came the half-interested voice of his current roommate, who was sprawled on one bed still in his Villa tracksuit, a laptop open in front of him. How was the swimming time?' the 25-year-old Frenchman carried on in his thick Normandy accent, glancing up from his Skype call to his parents in his home village. Jack mumbled some vague positive answers, flashed a toothy grin at the other bloke, and disappeared into the bathroom to change whilst Frederic Guilbert slipped back into rapid French and spoke on to his family.
In the bathroom, Grealish hung up his towel and slapped at his cheeks one at a time to wake himself out of his moody daze. He inspected his handsome young face in the mirror and could see the fear in his own eyes: that had to go before tomorrow, you couldn't be letting the enemy see THAT! But was it still just fear of Man City, or was some of it fear of what his hypocritical teammate had just muttered in the corridor? Tyrone wouldn't really go to the gaffer over this, would he? It would sound... ridiculous. But you did initiate it, he told himself, and it could sound really dodgy to an outsider, so...
Not for the first time since the coach rolled out of Birmingham, he wished one of those other two were on this trip. Danny Drinkwater, that dark horse: so straight-laced and masculine, but... who could have expected his filthy streak? That first circle-jerk had been fun enough but that incident in the fitness pool, well... Or even John McGinn, who had been a bit withdrawn and funny with Jack ever since the game in the shower block, but who had been so immediately complicit and slutty on his knees that day. Surely if one of those two lads were with them on this trip, he'd have some support, if not some... relief. Or, he thought wistfully, even better... what if his best mate was here, Ben Chilwell? A little tug of emotion in his chest or stomach there, to think of that lad. He fought it away, scowled at himself in the mirror, tried to focus properly.
Jack dried himself properly and peeled off the speedo, dangling it to dry by the window then sliding into his pyjama shorts and a loose-fitting vest, and taking the dryer to his hair. Try as he might, he couldn't quite shake the growing desire for one of those erm, open-minded fellas to be here on this trip... Not just to balance things out against sneering, taunting Tyrone Mings, but to... He couldn't quite put his thoughts into words, but he knew deep down what he wanted right now.
Returning to the bedroom, he looked thoughtfully at Fredric. The Frenchman really was a good-looking lad, lounged there and finishing up his Skype call, pulling the laptop lid down. He had sharp features and a hint of goatee and a very Gallic look to him... he seemed to be noticing Jack's slow evaluating eyes, and giving him a hesitant smile. Grealish scolded himself and pulled his eyes away. For fuck's sake, no, he told himself. You've got one big lad stomping up and down that corridor making vague threats and glaring at you over dinner... and you're bricking it over a match you've waited your life for. Calm down!
`Is something... wrong, Jacques?' Guilbert asked, unable to stop Frenching up his name in a way that had been amusing in the past but right now felt frustratingly and worryingly sexy.
`No, no,' Grealish returned, his own Brummie monotone sounding so prosaic and gloomy in contrast to the other player. He gave him a vague grin, made his way to the other bed, and turned his back on his roommate to stop checking him out. He rubbed his hands across his eyes and fought back these growing urges and desires, which were slowly getting out of hand. He needed a good night's sleep, that's all. If he could get that, he'd wake feeling confident again, and ready to lead these lads out into battle for the League Cup. Bring it on.
It was hardly the worst that Villa could have put up against City, and as the Midlands side reached the 2-1 final minute, the lads managed to walk off the Wembley pitch with their heads held high, lifting clapping hands to the travelling fans and begrudgingly accepting Guardiola's side as the deserving winners. Grealish though, felt leaden. As he had shaken hands with his publicly lauded counterpart, De Bruyne, he had actually had to fight back some bitter tears of defeat, and now he was walking down the tunnel taking muted condolences and supportive gestures from one and all, he could feel the urge to cry burning behind his eyes once more.
It had been a decent game, in some ways, though he felt his own performance had been poor. He'd barely made an impact at any point, completely unlike his usual performances for Aston Villa this season or the last few. He'd really lost his nerve this weekend, he realised, and it was clear how that impacted on the others. There had been individual moments of strength, but the communication and teamwork had been weak, and at the centre of that had been his own lacklustre efforts... As the whole game played back in his tired mind, he felt his eyes sting and his stomach churn. Fucking hell, such an amazing day this could have been, even without a win, but he'd... pissed it away, and... Fuck!
Outside, music was blaring and Mancunians cheering: City were receiving their medals for the League Cup victory, and of course they fucking deserved it, but still...
Ahead, the Villa players were disappearing one by one into the changing rooms. At the door, Dean Smith, the gaffer, was greeting each lad with a firm handshake and a conciliatory smile, spouting platitudes and encouragement. Grealish had a great relationship with the guy generally but today he couldn't stomach empty words. As he neared the changing rooms, he made a vague gesture to the Villa manager, not quite looking up and meeting his eyes. Just a min, chief,' he grunted, busting for the loo – I'll be back down in five.' He let his sweaty hand be grasped for a moment by Smith's chubby paw, avoided the sad consoling look from the old bloke, and hurried on down the tunnel, his football boot studs clacking on the flooring.
He slowed to yank them off, dropping clumps of mud on the floor, and almost as soon as he had his back to the gaffer, he felt the tears coming. His face was flushing hot and he knew must be bright pink all over. The back of his throat tickled and he disappeared as quickly as he could through the next door further along into a spacious unisex lavvy, pushing the door firmly shut behind him and dropping his boots to the ground.
Jack pulled his hands up against his face and tried to calm himself, crossing the room to the row of three sinks, but his emotions were getting the better of him. He had such a Jack the lad reputation, here on the squad as much as with the fans and critics, that few would ever guess what a sensitive young man he really was. His boisterous passion came from the same place: Jack was a real local lad who had grown up worshipping this club, had given everything to train with them as a child, and woke up every day thanking God that he got to play for them as a young man, never mind captain them... And so when things went badly, as he knew they had today, it really struck him deep. In moments, he was weeping at the sink, hating the undignified gulping noises he made as he rubbed at his teary eyes and flushed plump cheeks.
Jack hunched over, giving in to the wave of upset, and he didn't even hear the door. He twisted on the cold tap, pooled as much of it as he could in his hands, and splashed it desperately at the pink-red blotchiness of his face, letting out another anguished yelp before straightening up and opening his puffy eyes. He was alarmed to see the other figure in the chipped mirror, stood awkwardly halfway between his back and the door. Of course it was Tyrone fucking Mings though, of course: how much worse did this weekend trip have to get?
Grealish swallowed another visceral cry of anguish and rubbed at one eye. Oh go on,' he muttered thickly, his throat aching with the little outburst of his emotions, say whatever shit you've got to say...' The big lad took a couple of steps towards him and Jack felt his misery sink deeper. Whatever abuse you got to say, just get it out,' he snapped, turning round rather than looking in the mirror, tell me I'm a soft poof or whatever... Fuck's sake...'
Tyrone, like Jack, was still in his Villa kit, shirt and shorts clinging damply to his muscled frame, a towering 6ft5 of lean brown muscle padding slowly across the bathroom towards him. There was a look of puzzled surprise on the defender's long face, and Jack scowled at him through fresh tears. Being seen like this by a player who'd been talking shit at him last night just felt like the inevitable final stab of a miserable away trip: he'd fucked up here, he really had, perhaps he'd been fucking up a lot ever since he bent over and let Chilwell...
Captain,' Mings breathed in surprise. You... you okay?'
Grealish frowned and gripped his hands to the edge of the sink behind him, a little wary of the vague and stupid question, knowing how obviously un-okay he looked right now, a puffy-eyed crying loser in a separate bathroom, hiding from his own teammates. That couldn't really be empathy or concern on the big 26-year-old's face, could it? As always, 5ft9 Jack felt dwarfed in the face of his lanky colleague, who stepped right up to him now as he struggled to answer the simple question.
Jack, lad,' muttered Tyrone, are you actually...?'
Yes, I'm fucking crying,' Jack snapped at him. Blokes can cry, okay!'
Hey...' Suddenly Tyrone was leaning forward and planting two big hands on his shoulders. Skipper... what the fuck...? Are you okay...? It's... it's just a game, lad...'
I messed up,' Grealish burst out, losing his angry edge. I fucking messed up. The lads needed me today and I...' He tightened his knuckles so they went white, gripping the porcelain at his backside, and he leaned his head forward, unable to meet the confused, concerned look on Ty's face. I was shit,' he sobbed, I was totally shit... I let them all down, for fuck's sake. I really let you guys down...'
Suddenly Mings was not just grabbing his shoulders but pulling him forwards and wrapping his long arms about them in a tight embrace. Jack let out another sob but leant forward weakly, too overcome to really question the sudden turnaround in his teammate's behaviour. He let himself be held and rested his face into the other man's pecs for a moment, sniffling and hating the audible weakness of his own behaviour. He needed to pull himself together...
Jack, mate,' sighed Mings' voice. We all failed out there, not just you.' He pulled away a bit, breaking the unexpected hug, again grabbing shoulders and almost shaking the young captain. `You didn't let us down, lad, you fucking got us here,' he said earnestly.
Grealish stared up at him and felt the stinging humiliation of it all, unable to quite process the soft consolations of his former friend's words. He could feel more tears welling up and he fought them back, uneasy with this sudden change in the other guy, or the vulnerability he now felt. He stared miserably at the taller lad and gulped for the right words. `But...' was all he coughed out. He felt Tyrone's hands rub up and down his broad young shoulders and he couldn't deny the soothing effect of it. But if anything it felt like it might just make him cry more! He shrugged the hands away and pulled his own hands up to wipe at his hot damp face.
`You've changed your tune,' he coughed, a little bitterly.
Mings hesitated before replying. `It's shit to see you like this,' he admitted quietly.
`Like what, a fucking mess?'
`Jack, mate... we all know how much this means to you. I'm... sorry.'
`Sorry I'm a shit captain?'
Tyrone stared intensely at him. Sorry I was a prick to you last night,' he grunted sheepishly. And... well. A lot lately.' A long pause, a slight sniffle from Grealish, a low sigh from Mings. I just... fuck. I just couldn't believe what we... What you...' He sighed again, and rested his hands once more on Jack's low strong shoulders, giving them a rub. You think you know guys, huh, and then some mad shit happens, and...' He looked away, clearly uncomfortable.
I can't go back in there and face them all,' Grealish whispered. I failed them today.'
No,' Tyrone said forcefully, no you didn't.' And then he leaned forward more forcefully and grabbed Jack again by the triceps in an awkward, looming hug. `Shit mate... can't see you like this... I'll be bawling next if you're not fucking careful...'
Jack made a damp laugh and relaxed into those long muscular arms, feeling a tremor run through his aching body, exhausted and sweaty from the 90 minutes, tired already from a long night of broken sleep, and too many laps of the pool that he knew he shouldn't have done. He felt fucking terrible, but right now... Well, Ty's arms felt good, supportive, warm, safe. He sighed, resting his brow on one firm shoulder muscle of the bigger man, and then feeling one of the other lad's big hands rub gently at his upper back. He couldn't help but let out a slight moan of relief at this massaging touch, though it felt wrong to do so, out of order.
Ty,' he grumbled, I... I never meant to... Piss you off, or...'
Shush,' Mings said vaguely, forget it...'
Jack felt him squeeze a little tighter. It was sort of embarrassing, feeling so short and slight next to him, but his presence was also sturdy and reassuring. And... exciting. He could feel the firm definition of the big lad's pec beneath his cheek, and if he let his hands pull forward against his sides... jesus, Tyrone pretty much had an eight-pack under there, that seemed to go on forever with washboard rigidity. He took a deep breath of the damp, musty smell rising from the other bloke's Villa shirt beneath his face, and felt that same hand rub up and down his back. For a second, the tips of Ty's long fingers grazed low, to the hem of his own shirt, where it met the top of his tight little shorts; the fingers pulled back uncertainly to rub at his lower back muscles.
`Can anyone really respect me as captain now?' Jack asked in a hoarse, drained voice.
We all respect you, mate,' Tyrone said quickly, we fucking love you, Jack mate... you know that.'
I thought I did,' Grealish said warily. He rested his hands just above Mings' hips and tugged a little on the stretchy fabric of his shirt, then lifted his head from its resting place on the upper chest of the Bath giant. He lifted his eyes and their gazes met, awkwardly. I thought we were cool, but...' Jack sighed. `I think I ruined it by getting... frisky.'
A hollow, uncomfortable laugh from the taller guy. `Frisky? Well... that's... one word for it...'
Jack could feel the man's hand sinking down his back a little again now, so he leant forward and lifted onto the tips of his toes, his damp socks stretching about his arched feet – as he did so, his shorter body pulling up, it forced Tyrone's hand curving past the bottom of his spine and across the firm, meaty curve of an arse cheek. A tight intake of breath from Mings, and Grealish sliding his hands up to the grip his shoulders as he lingered there on his toes, pushing his buttock back into Ty's broad hand.
Frisky,' Jack repeated quietly. Or... pushy.'
`Hmm, huh...'
The two men hovered there. After a long pause, Jack felt the firm fingers stretch and grab a little, and slide back and forth across the surface of one globed cheek. He sighed gently, and leant more fully forward. He rested his feet to the ground again, but Ty's fingers came with him, following his arse down and cupping it more firmly. Jack let his right hand slide off the high plateau of Mings' shoulder and run down the front of his shirt, circling a nipple for a moment before continuing down, up and down over those abs, and... He reached forward and found the bulge in the front of the Villa shorts, and softly squeezed.
Tyrone grabbed that bit more firmly, more aggressively at his buttock. God,' hissed the 6ft4 beast of a defender, your arse, mate... it feels like... I dunno... my bird's... hah...'
Mmm,' Jack allowed himself to moan, is that right...' He pulled his head and neck up a little, stretching to whisper towards the ear: `Why don't you feel my cunt then, lad?'
For a second, Tyrone looked conflicted, and Jack didn't know if he'd taken things too far, if this comment would be the thing that ruined it forever between them, and perhaps even ruined his whole career here at Villa... but then the tall guy seized him with a hand at each bicep, grabbing his arms so tightly he might bruise, and pushed him past the sinks and into the far wall with a little thud, but then grabbed even more firmly, and whirled him about. Jack's face, chest, shoulders were shoved roughly into the wall, and he let out a gasp part excitement, part physical pain. He felt Tyrone's hand grasp the nape of his neck, and his other tug on the back of his shorts, the back of his white briefs beneath, and yank down, exposing his sweaty buttocks to the air.
Mings pushed one long finger between those cheeks and Jack tensed and thrilled at the feel of it, reaching in against his surprisingly smooth crack, his tan arse an exception to the thick furring of his legs... Oh,' he grunted, feeling the rough inexpert prodding of the straight man's finger down his arse-crack, looking for entrance. Oh man,' he grunted again, as his tight hole puckered against that roughly forceful index finger. `Ohhh...'
`God it's TIGHT...'
`Yes mate...'
`So fucking tight.'
`Mmm yes...'
You slut,' grunted Tyrone, you real dirty slut...'
In it went, lubed only by stale sweat. Jack twisted his back and brought his elbows up against the wall to support him, feeling the rough pain of it but also the heady thrill, the power of that man behind him. Lick me, he wanted to scream, thinking of both Ben and Danny, but no longer sure what he could and couldn't ask of other blokes, what was okay and what was taboo... this was all so fucking heady and confusing... OH,' he yelped, Ty's finger twisting into his hole and going deep, oh shitting hell...'
`Don't be so loud,' hissed Mings' voice in a wise panic, but Jack couldn't help it.
Sorry,' he grunted weakly, it's just so...' Oh, and in it went, deeper and deeper, oh fuck... the hand grasping his neck twisted and massaged at his taut muscles, trying to relax. His buttocks clenched about the invading finger and he let out a long agonised moan. `Try... a... second...?' he whimpered when he found breath and voice, twisting his head a little to try and see the other guy's face, which was wide in excited alarm.
It was as he did so, eyes meeting Tyrone's, and body pushing forward into the wall to try and lift and relax his behind, and feeling the finger slide out of his ring and come back doubled, pressing and stretching at his virgin entrance, that his eyes also met... oh fuck, oh holy shit... the door to the bathroom was a rectangle of pale beige paint, but as it opened a crack, a sliver of the harsher lighting beyond glowed into the dim bathroom space, and expanded inch by inch. Jack began to whirl about but he couldn't quite, not with two of Tyrone's long strong fingers beginning to push into him, and the guy's other hand to his neck, forcing him back into the wall before he could wriggle away and fend off the inevitable exposure that was coming. The door opened with painful slow-motion, and Jack finally got out his burst of speech, `Fuck... no... Ty... the door!'
And the door opened, and in they walked: two Manchester City players, medals about their necks, stepping into the spacious bathroom and letting the door fall shut behind them as they stared over. Jack twisted round as best he could, and behind him, two fingers still an inch or two into Grealish, Tyrone Mings did the same, until both of them, vulnerable and compromised, were staring at the Premiership rivals who had just fucked them on the pitch.
`Well, well, well... what exactly do we have here?'
Jack's eyes widened, and his arsehole tightened, and he felt his brief footballing career flash before his eyes, because surely now it was over...