Part sixty-seven: The Last Training Sesh
Fucking hell,' the Aston Villa captain groaned, looking about at the other lads by him. Can you believe that? Last training session together for so many weeks...' he sighed on in his heavy Brummie accent and shook his head sadly.
`It's for the best,' said Conor Hourihane, to his right, and Jack nodded his head.
There was murmur of agreement amongst the other lads. They were all sat in a large meeting room of the team's training ground, about to go out into what it had just been announced would be their last communal session for quite some time. In front of the gathered men, their manager and chairman were stood with severe expressions, the difficulty of the decision written on their faces.
Not everybody looked so gutted, admittedly: some were more worried about the Corona pandemic than others and were even relieved by the news. But for Jack it just felt like the latest blow in a grim couple of weeks.
Out on the training ground, he found it hard not to let his alternating frustration and gloom show. The squad's last two games had felt disastrous, losing 4-0 to Leicester only a week ago in their last game, and before that... well, it hadn't just been the Cup loss to Manchester City that had left Grealish feeling low after that night, that was for sure.
Dribbling his way through a few quick drills with the coach, he questioned his own behaviour for the dozenth time: had he enjoyed being so submissive to other lads that day, or had he been really taken advantage of? He pictured the dominant smirk on Kyle Walker's stubbled face, the dirty grin on John Stones' lips. He pictured himself, gutted by the defeat, entering into that bathroom and letting three different guys use him as...
`Oi, Jacko, you fucking listening?' called the coach in half-mocking annoyance.
A thrown football smacked Grealish in the chest and he caught it instinctively, a little winded by the intervention, drifting back into the present away from his uneasy memories. A vivid flashback of being on his knees in that cramped cubicle dissipated from his mind's eye and he looked about the field at his hardworking colleagues. Sort yourself out, lad, he told himself irritably, get your head back in the game. Although, at the moment, WHAT game? Nobody knew when proper matches would resume, he remembered sadly, and the cancelled training programme here had to be a sign they were in for the long haul with this disrupted season, this national crisis.
But... he was captain. That had to mean something, at a time like this.
As the strange, subdued training session wound on, Grealish tried to rise to the occasion. He scolded his wandering mind and kept it on the moment, and reminded himself to force on a confident grin. He thought about the plucky spirit and easy people skills that had got him the skipper's arm band at such a young age, and did his best. He moved around the field swiftly and dished out some encouragement or praise to his teammates and even to the coaching staff, offering thank yous and big grins as often as he could. His mood caught on and by the end of the afternoon's training exercises, there was a resurgence of laughter amongst the men, albeit less physical contact, as they milled their way indoors and left the spring sunshine behind.
A hand clapped to his shoulderblade as he neared the edge of the training pitch, panting a little from putting in so much energy in the last half hour of the afternoon. He looked over and Tyrone Mings was joining him, and he felt a surge of mixed emotion. He felt closer to Ty now than he had done before, and certainly the rift between them after Dubai had been completely demolished. But the tall defender was part of aa memory that troubled him. He knew Mings had been there to help him, protect him, but also...
As he looked at Tyrone, walking along beside him, he pictured himself on his knees again, head buried in the bigger guy's crotch, tasting his load. Again: mixed emotions. There was a little tingle somewhere in his bollocks, held in the tight under-shorts beneath his kit, but there was also a queasy sensation in his tummy and a hot burn in his cheeks. Kyle Walker had called him a `bitch' afterwards and he was finding that hard to disagree with. And then, of course, there had been what the two City blokes had walked in on and discovered, before it got really filth; his butt-hole tightened and his cheeks clenched, and he looked hotly away.
Well done mate,' Mings was saying to him. Real fucking leader out there, then.'
`Hmm? Oh, cheers.'
`I mean it – I know how down you've been, was great to see some of the old you back on the field.'
`Hmm, yeah...'
Real quality leadership,' the tall Somerset lad continued admiringly, I dunno why I ever questioned you...'
Look,' Jack snapped at him suddenly, I appreciate what you're saying, but give it a rest, mate, okay?' He fixed him with a steely look, pausing at the touchline before they caught up with the others and his tone could be overheard. `You don't need to keep bigging me up just cos of what those City cunts did to me, okay?' he snapped.
Tyrone stopped, thrown by this response, but a guilty look on his face. `Jack, buddy...'
Leave it,' urged Grealish impatiently. I'm the skipper and I did my job. That's all.'
A long silence from the other guy, who stood there shifting his arms uncomfortably and tugging idly at his Villa training kit. Well, yeh,' he said slowly, okay. You're a fucking true leader around here, Jacko. That's all I wanted to say.' A long pause. I'll never tell anyone about that day,' he promised in a lower, softer voice. The hint of pity or intimacy in the voice stung Jack more and brought him back to the scene, three men's cum on or in him and his own dick aching in his pants. Jack,' Tyrone began again, and reached a hand towards him – but Jack looked at those long brown fingers and pictured one of them finding his hole, and he tensed up.
Go on in,' he grunted dismissively, I'm gonna go talk to the gaffer. In you go.' He grunted again and nodded meaningfully forward, dismissing his teammate and avoiding the intense memory that was playing on his mind; surely Tyrone would be thinking back to it too?!
The 27-year-old centre-back gave him a last look and wandered on, loping after the other Villa lads and heading indoors to get showered and changed. Jack watched him go and felt some persistent suspicions rise. More than anything else, he worried that Mings was so pally and friendly with him now because he wanted a replay. As protective as he'd been that night, Tyrone had still gone on with it, still enjoyed himself, still... unloaded. Jack felt himself subconsciously lick his lips and he grunted his annoyance and wiped the back of a sleeve across his gob, torn up with uncertainty about his feelings here. He'd never even THOUGHT about another lad before... Well, where had it all started?
To distract himself from that question, to which he knew the answer all too well, he did as he'd claimed to his teammate, and sought out their manager. He didn't really have much to say or ask of Dean Smith, but it seemed worth getting some quick one-to-one with the boss man before joining the other lads. As it turned out, Smith agreed, and took him aside for a chat on a bench to the side of the field. The manager started spouting the same stuff as Tyrone just had: praise for his resilience, his leadership, his commitment to the team during a really difficult period... Jack found himself getting more and more emotional as he listened to it, and his voice was almost choking up when he eventually replied.
`Cheers boss,' he mumbled, and got a reassuring pat on the shoulder.
Look after yourself as we go into isolation,' Smith told him quietly. You're a real hero, Jack. If we lose you to a big club this summer, then fine, we'll all understand... But you are LOVED here, you know that?'
Jack gave him an earnest look, and nodded. He'd been trying not to think about the question of his potential transfer. Since the pandemic scenario had started to take over, it had felt like a minor issue, not the constant headache it had been just a month or two ago. Everybody wanted a piece of Jack Grealish next season, if his agent was to be believed.
In he went, much delayed by the heart-to-heart, turning over in his head the tough weeks ahead, the questions of his career direction, the confused semi in his tight compression shorts – jesus, what was he even getting horny about now?! Just misplaced tension and nervousness, he supposed.
Inside, he was surprised to find many of the guys already departing. He passed Samatta and Moraes heading out, already showered and in fresh tracksuits – quick, unemotive goodbyes, instinctive hugs withheld – and Mings was in just as much of a hurry. They didn't say anything to each other, just a knowing look; Jack felt some regret at speaking so harshly to him if they weren't going to see each other for a while now, but he wasn't about to run after him apologising and making himself look even more of a `bitch' after all.
Heading into the dressing rooms still in his own sweaty kit, he was high-fived by Danny Drinkwater, the Chelsea loan who he had also been, ahem, `intimate' with this season... but Drinkwater was all private scowls and disinterest right now on his way past. He'd been in a bit of a row and a physical bust-up with Jota at the end of last week, and as well as two weeks' wages in a fine, there was talk that his loan spell would soon be terminated. Jack turned to look over his shoulder as the bulky Mancunian lad headed out on his own, seemingly shunned by a lot of the others for his recent aggression. Jack pictured the look on the other lad's face as they'd shared the plunge pool that quiet day together. Fucking hell.
He pushed on into the dressing room and pulled his long-sleeved training shirt up and off and flung it irritably against the tiled wall above his other things, then did the same to the thermal vest beneath. Shirtless, he heaved a sigh and rested his hands against the wall for a moment to steady himself. Around him, many of the others were drying off or dressing or just emerging from the shower. He might have expected more of a lingering group chat in here, given the circumstances, and following the cheerier banter he had stoked throughout the training sesh.
But no – the players were nervous and wearied, keen to get back to partners and families. Jack could hardly blame them, but he also felt a surge of loneliness, thinking of his empty apartment. He wouldn't stay there for long, he'd already spoken to his parents and joining the bigger family home he'd bought them if a serious lockdown came along. But right now... he felt lonely, confused, and a lingering humiliation that had begun in the Cup Final that night. He was nobody's `bitch', was he? He'd enjoyed dabbling in dirty guy-on-guy fun, but in control, in power, a captain amongst men – he hadn't expected to find himself taking loads and groaning greedily in front of... Fuck, get out of my head! He pictured the smug look on Walker's face all over again and almost punched the wall.
Hey,' came a gentle Scotch purr to his left, are you okay, skip?'
He glanced over his bare shoulder muscle and found John McGinn joining him at this quiet side of the changing room. The 25-year-old Glaswegian was almost naked, only a pair of black briefs on over the pale sunless skin of his lean body, striding about ready to take his shower. Jack scowled at him, unable to lose the aggression he was feeling, and immediately sensing the tension that had settled between the friends in recent times. John looked at him with an uneasy concern, and Jack pulled long strands of hair out of his eyes and straightened up his posture.
`I'm fine,' he said unconvincingly in a growl.
You were about to go Anthony Joshua on those wall tiles, mate,' McGinn said very quietly, forcing a smile. Now you look like it's me gonna get the smack. What's up?'
Grealish stared at him, struggling to focus his thoughts, but also surprised. The Scotsman had largely avoided him in the past couple of months. There had been a time earlier this season when the likely lads had been almost inseparable around the Villa grounds and on away trips, almost always room-sharing. But things had cooled, and Jack knew it was his own fault, though he suppressed that thought right now. He looked away, unsure this was a conversation he wanted to get into.
`We're all tense,' was all he said by way of explanation, and he shoved one leg up onto the bench to undo his laces and roll down his footy socks.
Aye,' agreed McGinn, we really are. But...'
`It's just the whole situation,' Grealish insisted, cutting him off.
Right.' A long sigh from the Scottish lad, his fellow midfielder. It'll be weird not seeing each other much for a while, yeah?' A pause as Jack undid his boots and stripped his socks and then stood back up, thumbing the waist of his playing shorts. `Not that we've spoken much lately as it is,' McGinn pointed out gently, and the two lads stared each other down. Behind them, the room was slowly clearing; white towels whipping about as lads in various states of dress got on with their sombre exit, the club's imminent shutdown in the air.
Jack tried to read John's expression: was he being blamed for this frost in their friendship, or was this an apology? It was hard to say. He couldn't tell quite what the sadness in McGinn's eyes actually was, or why he was lingering there in his tight black briefs and not fucking off into the showers when everybody else was pretty much ready to leave. Grealish broke the stare and pulled anxiously at his hair again, slicking it all back, and letting out a little huff of breath.
That's true,' he agreed in a mumble. Thought you were sick of me, or summat.'
Jack,' McGinn said a bit whiningly. You know it ain't that, big lad.'
No, Jack agreed mentally, it was not that. He saw the parallel between them, and realised how McGinn must have felt after what went on with the four of them that time. Now he knew: the weird shame, the powerlessness, the sense of being a plaything... and yet, he remembered distinctly, the Scottish bloke had been so willing, so quick to get on his knees. So were you, he told himself coldly, then batted the thought away. John was still standing there, an almost pleading expression on his freckled face, eyeing him anxiously as if there was more he wanted to say.
Big lad,' he echoed in a mumble, is that my new nickname, McGinn?'
John coloured a little in his cheeks and across his exposed chest. Well I ain't gonna call ya wee lad, captain, am I?' he responded awkwardly. We're neither of us competing with Ty in the height stakes, but you are taller than me. A good inch.'
Jack found himself smirking in spite of his mood. `And you would know all about a good inch,' he muttered, pulling down on his claret shorts and stripping to the black Nike compression shorts beneath, hugging his hips and thighs and sizeable package. He looked at the reddening complexion of the wiry Scotsman and wondered why he'd gone for such a mocking little joke there, when he knew just how desperate John had been to forget what he'd done for the other lads.
`Jack mate,' grumbled McGinn, but then he laughed, a strained, pitchy laugh, and backed off a bit in his briefs.
Grealish could see a solution opening up to himself, a way of not feeling like a `bitch' any more. He looked around at the emptying dressing room, the door swinging shut behind El Gazhi and Konsa, just a couple of others left. One was sitting down to tie up his shoelaces and the other was drying his hair in front of a mirror. Soon there would only be the two of them left. The air between Jack and John suddenly felt... electric.
I thought you agreed you wouldn't bring that up again,' McGinn commented quietly, but lingered nearby in his state of undress, rubbing one hand against the back of his neck and pulling uncomfortably at the waistband of his briefs with the other. I'm gonna go shower,' he said then, taking a step back, lowering his eyes, seeming to give up on whatever olive branch he'd approached with just now.
No,' Jack breathed out suddenly, watching as first one of the other two footballers exited, and then was quickly followed by the other. No,' he repeated, `not yet.'
`Not yet?' McGinn said back.
I don't want you showered,' Grealish told him in a low growl, not just yet.'
`What are you on about?' McGinn asked, but there was something in the widening of his eyes that said he had a fairly good idea.
Jack felt consumed by a newfound purpose. Okay, okay, he'd let himself be used, he'd given in to those pushy cunts, he'd accepted his place as `loser' that day, but... That wasn't HIM, not Captain Jack the Lad, champion of Villa, hero of this sinking team... He felt fired up now, the forced energy and authority of his play in the training session still simmering in his lean muscles. He looked John up and down, mentally comparing their bodies; the pale smoothness of John's torso and limbs compared to the faint tan and furry covering of his own bare legs, the slightly better definition of his own chest and abs.
`Why are you looking at me like that?' McGinn asked.
Why am I looking at you like what?' Jack teased back. He smirked, and their eyes met again, and he took a step closer. John looked anxious but instead of retreating, he did the same, and they were stood a couple of foot apart now, in the abandoned musty air of the dressing room. Jack smirked more widely and hooked both thumbs inside the front of his tight shorts. Get in the toilet cubicle now,' he said.
`What?'
`You gonna ignore your captain?' he asked wickedly.
John's face was hot red now and the Scottish lad looked on edge, glancing along the wall to the toilets branching off from the changing room. He turned back and opened his mouth to speak then stopped. He was trembling a little bit, flushed and restless looking. Jack took an extra step forward and gently rested one hand on the other footballer's forearm, and the trembling stopped.
You sucked dick so well,' he purred. Was that really your first time...?'
John nodded and squirmed. `I dunno what came over me,' he said rapidly.
Three blokes, that's what,' Jack quipped, and he pushed aside the parallel. You loved it.'
I lost my head,' John mumbled. I got carried away. We were...'
Having fun,' Grealish said very faintly, rubbing his fingers gently up and down the other lad's forearm, then lifting it up and suddenly tweaking one tight little bullet-like nipple. And it was really fucking fun, wasn't it... John, lad...?' He squeezed the nipple tightly, enjoyed the little suppressed yelp, felt John's body pull gently closer. `Now, I'm tellin' you again... get in that toilet cubicle, McGinn...' The Scottish 25-year-old pulled sharply away, his cheeks scarlet, the front of his black briefs a little swollen, and he skittered across the changing rooms and round the corner into the toilets, and Jack followed.
He hurried, looking to the doors in case there was any disturbance, but confident the other Villa lads were on their way out, and nobody else would come poking in here. He felt a real excitement grip him, just as it had when Tyrone toyed with his backside after the Cup defeat; just as he had when he'd pushed his cock in against Drinkwater's plump pout to exploit the newbie; just as he'd emptied his load on John's neck and chest in the nearby showers not so long ago. Just as when... another scene came to mind, as he hurried into the toilet area and followed John into the furthest of the three narrow cubicles, and the memory of it drove him wild. He pictured himself, doggy style, on his bed, in a dimly lamplit bedroom, with Ben Chilwell settling behind him...
`This is crazy,' John was hissing, backing into the cubicle.
Yeah,' Jack said with a naughty grin, it's crazy, but it's gonna be good...'
`What are we doing?'
`Get on your knees!'
Jack pulled the cubicle door shut behind him with a rattle, undoing the shameful memory of his own submission. Nah, this was more him, right on top! He could see the eagerness in John's nervous body language as his Scottish pal got down on his knees, his hands reaching quickly for the full meaty thigh muscles. Jack pushed down at the waist of his tight compression shorts and let those pale Scottish fingers do the rest: down they came and out flipped his semi and low-hanging bollocks, sweaty and musty from the afternoon's exertions.
Come on,' he growled, get to it...'
`Yes, captain!'
McGinn must have been thinking back to this ever since, judging the relish with which he got going, pushed his lips in and sniffing at Jack's trimmed pubes, then lapping his thin tongue out and beginning to kiss and lick the thick snake, still rubbing and grabbing at tensed hairy thighs. Grealish put his hands to the partition walls on either side and purred his enjoyment, feeling powerful and in charge once more.
That's it,' the Villa captain said, beginning to push his stiffening prick into the thin-lipped mouth of his older mate, have a suck of the skipper's stiff one, you bitch...' He saw a flash of surprise in McGinn's eyes at the harsh word, but also felt himself buzz and get harder as he said it. `Yeh, be my bitch,' he muttered aggressively, and John did so with relish, sliding his lips up the stretching length and running his hands up his hips massagingly.
But this wasn't enough, he thought. He'd had his dick sucked before. He needed more. Below, John was lapping at the pink tip and pushing back his foreskin. He moaned and rolled his neck. He needed to feel even more in charge, to go further than that punk Walker and his stupid crony had, or... He needed to not feel like he was submissive to that giant Tyrone, or just a silly mug being manipulated by Drinkwater's thick tongue... He pushed McGinn's face away from his crotch, his dick quivering and wet with saliva.
`Captain?' gasped John, running his tongue along his lower lip.
Get up,' Jack grunted, lifting a hand to again pull loose strands of hair out of his eyes, sliding it back and feeling how sweaty it was all over again, his forehead beading with it. Get up and turn round you Glasgow bitch...'
`Yes sir,' breathed McGinn submissively, using Jack's strong thighs to pull himself upright. He leant in for a kiss but Jack twisted away; he saw the disappointment but ignored it, and roughly manhandled the other footballer round away from him, pushing roughly forward at his back so that John tumbled forward against the cistern and the wall.
Grealish grabbed the back of the tight briefs that hugged that pert backside and yanked them down, pushing them right over the strong lean thighs with their light dusting of pale blond hair, exposing firm white cheeks and the fluffy shadow of the crack. Yes, this was it. This would make him way more than any bloke's fucking bitch – if only Walker could see him now! His and John's breaths were ragged now as he tugged on his boner with one hand and used the other to grab and squeeze the tight cheeks of his friend's arse.
`Jack, are you gonna f-?'
Yes,' he snapped, yes I am, so hold on tight...'
`Oh, sir...'
`Yeah, call me sir, call me captain...'
I'll call you anything,' pointed the midfielder in a tiny voice, I love you, Jack...' This proclamation rang an alarm in Grealish's confused sexuality but he only cared about his own pleasure now. He slid two fingers in between the tight cheeks and poked and rubbed at the virgin ring, hearing the little whines of desire and discomfort. He pulled his hand back and spat on the fingers, then tried again, a mix of spit and sweat lubing his fingers as he pushed it into John's hole. The groan was loud and he saw McGinn steady himself on the toilet cistern and bend forward more. Oh, SIR,' the 25-year-old moaned for him, yes...'
`Take it,' Jack grunted, pushing in one finger deep, feeling the heat on his skin, then trying to force a second. It wasn't easy, so tight, but he wasn't giving up, and John seemed to be liking it, whimpering his name and title and looking over his shoulder with wide eyes. He pushed the two fingers in and felt the lad's hole expand for him.
Fuck me, sir,' John begged. Please, captain...'
`You think you can take it?' He brushed the slick wet head of his nob against one cheek.
`I don't know but I want to try...'
Jack hadn't actually had sex in a while, a rare dry spell in his usual quest for cunt. So the furry crack of his friend's pale backside was incredibly enticing. He spat more on his hand and slicked it across his shaft then pushed in. John tensed up but he rubbed one hand up and down that pale toned back and felt him relax a little, then pushed more, finding the tight hole with his tip and pressing gently forward. He'd imagined this being much easier, like a pussy, it was like pushing his dick into a brick wall – well, not THAT painful.
Relax,' he grunted, open up...'
`I'm trying,' whined McGinn, his submission both pathetic and arousing to Jack.
He gripped both hands to the lower back and pushed a bit more forcefully. The tightness felt so great against the tip of his dick as he began to break in. He felt John tremble and make a yelp of pain, so he slid his hands up that back and reached to massage the shoulders as he went further, forcing his cock into the tightest hole he'd ever experienced, and... ohhhh... Yes,' he gasped, oh yes, buddy...'
He leant in closer and held John's thin pale body to his and pushed with his hips and glutes, burying his meat into his close mate and nuzzling the back of his neck, their bodies pulling close together. John was almost crying from the pain of it, but still mumbling his name and clinging to him, hands reaching back for his muscular sides and arms. The toilet creaked and rattled beneath their weights and Jack began to thrust, unsure how much of his nob was even inside the arse, just rotating his hips and feeling the tight grip so much better than any mouth or fanny. He couldn't even form words, the pleasure was so intense, god... he couldn't help but wonder how it must feel for John, who seemed to writhe in pain but also whisper his pleasure (`oh yes, captain, deeper...'). A tongue had felt so sensational and new, he supposed, but what about a...?
No, he told himself, you are nobody's bitch, you are a top dog, an alpha, this is your position...
But still...
Captain,' moaned John, you feel SO BIG... oh god...'
`I AM so big,' Jack laughed hoarsely, and he thrust a bit deeper, a bit quicker.
`Ohhh...'
`Yes, yes...'
`Sir, sir, yes!'
Jack was cumming before he knew it, spilling his seed inside his mate's arse, and grunting wildly into his ear, gripping his body so tight he suspected he would leave bruises. He let out a long breath as he pulled back, withdrawing his cock and smearing cum along one buttock. He backed off, returning his sweaty hands to the thin walls of the cubicle to balance himself, catching his breath, his flat pecs rising and falling as he recovered. He looked at John's arse and saw a smear of his white load dribbling down his inner thigh.
Thank you captain,' McGinn panted, thank you so much...'
`You are very fucking welcome,' whispered Jack wearily, staying in position, throwing his head back and gulping down deep breaths.
`Can I... can I...'
`Spit it out, bitch.'
`Can I lick your feet whilst I cum?'
`Do what you fuckin' want, mate.'
Jack heard his own voice like it was that of a stranger: this was one of his closest pals, or had been until recently, and he was speaking to him like dirt. Was this really him? He lingered there, a little freaked out as trembling John McGinn clambered back down to his knees and started kissing at his shins and calves whilst reaching down to wank himself off. John closed his eyes and ignored it, and held firm, his breaths becoming less laboured, but his thoughts spinning out of control. You just fucked a bloke, his inner voice accused coolly, so much for a bit of light experimenting...
And John was licking at his feet now, some fetish thing? It felt funny, it tickled. He wasn't keen. He let out an awkward laugh and pulled his foot away from the desperate mouth, and he backed off as much as the cramped cubicle space allowed, and looked down into John's adoring eyes. McGinn was tossing himself off and just staring at him, hunched down there at his feet. And now he was cumming, spilling his juices over Jack's feet and toes. There was a look of submissive shame on the Scotsman's face and it struck Jack as unfair and cruel, but... well, he seemed to have given him what he wanted? God, the lad's arse must hurt now...
He heard John's words afresh from minutes ago. `I'll call you anything, Jack... I love you, Jack...' Oh, fucking hell.
He reached behind him and undid the lock on the door. He backed out of the cubicle without helping John up, his own dick swinging as it wilted. McGinn hunched on the floor for a moment more, catching his breath, then clambered up and followed him out of the cubicle into the still empty space of the dressing rooms.
`We should shower,' the Scottish lad mumbled.
`Yeah. We should.'
`What I said, mate... when I was...'
`It's alright,' Grealish murmured quickly, dismissively.
`I didn't mean to freak you, I just...'
Jack cocked his head and allowed himself a little grin. `Lost control, again?'
John smiled bashfully, limping a little as they crossed to the communal showers. `Something like that, erm, sir. Huh.' Into the showers they went, giving each other fleeting glances and suppressing nervous giggles. Jack looked away after a while, squeezing soap into his hands, and rubbing it against his chest and shoulders until it frothed and slid away under the torrent. Well, he felt more powerful now, certainly... he didn't feel like anyone's bitch, but... John was in love with him?!
Imagine, he thought, falling in love with another bloke, who was definitely straight and wouldn't return those feelings. He watched McGinn sympathetically as they dried off a few metres apart, wondering just how long the grinning idiot had been harbouring feelings for him.
They dressed and said some awkward goodbyes; nobody was meant to be hugging, but it seemed minor after a butt-fucking in a cubicle. Oops. They parted ways in the foyer of the training ground and headed for their cars. Jack pulled back at his damp hair and slid a beanie hat over it to keep him dry and warm. In the car, he checked his phone, and found a text waiting for him. Aha, it was form his good mate, Chilly...
"hey jack flash, hope u keepin safe n lookin after u – c u soon hopefully when all this madness dies down xx"
He paused, in the driver's seat, and stared at the phone in the palm of his hand. Imagine, he thought, falling in love with another bloke, who was definitely straight and wouldn't return those feelings... His heart had leapt in his chest when he saw that name on his phone, when he read that message, when he saw those silly little kisses at the end of it. Imagine...
Holy shit,' he said to himself, Jack Grealish, you fuckin' idiot...'
SORRY FOR THE DELAY IN STORIES... JUST BEEN BUSY AS A PUBLIC SERVICES WORKER IN A MAD TIME. QUESTIONED CONTINUING WITH THE STORIES, BUT HOPE THEY PROVIDE SOME ENTERTAINMENT AND PLEASURE IN A DIFFICULT TIME... STAY SAFE