Part seventy-six: Sunshine on Merseyside
It was early, but it was already hot. The April sun filtering through the treeline felt more like high summer, especially by Liverpool standards. It cast streaks of dappled gold on the grass beneath his feet as he pounded along on his run, and warmed his bare arms and the back of his neck unnecessarily; his body was overheating already as he pushed himself on towards the peak of his jog, determined to beat his time from two days ago and really keep his top fitness in spite of these limited circumstances.
Ross Barkley bounced from foot to foot on his powerful run, soaking up the early heat and enjoying the quiet of the Merseyside parkland as he did so. In his ears, little Apple pods thrummed with the hip-hop he was listening to, and his hands clenched, one about a water bottle, and the other about his iPhone. The sleeveless navy training vest was almost glued to the tight definition of his lean upper body, and the undersized running shorts below clung to the girth of his thighs and backside with comfortable closeness as he ran, panted, sweated.
Coming up north had been a good move. The London flat he and his girlfriend shared was nice, but small, and without outside space. Hunkering down here in Liverpool with some of his family had been a smart choice, though he'd felt a certain reluctance to abandon West London in a time of crisis. But here he was, and quarantine was largely treating him well. Ross was too disciplined to whinge, too kind-hearted to resent the restrictions. He got to spend quality time with his partner and some close family, and he could really refine his fitness regime. Actual football was a tantalising memory on the edge of all this, of course, but he was sure the season would resume before long, it had to.
His favourite thing about isolating up here on Merseyside, though, was the familiar terrain of his runs. Whether shorter-distance trips around Wavertree or Sefton Park, or longer runs like this down the riverside, he was enjoying seeing corners of Liverpool that he hadn't visited in years. His exercise regime often felt like a time warp into his Everton years or earlier in his youth.
Today he was pounding his expensive trainers against a rough riverside path through a stretch of scrubby parkland that was much lower on joggers than the proper city parks; this was good for social distancing, but also for letting him get completely absorbed in his physicality and switching off from the worrisome world right now. Soon he would reach the peak of his longer-distance jog, and make his way back: the rough terrain of this old parkland would give way to industrial estates and urban environment once again, and home to a cool shower and whatever lunch was concocted by the ladies in his fairly traditional family.
He was pretty surprised then when, veering around a bushy corner overlooking the riverbanks below, he almost collided with another runner hurtling down another path and joining his. Barkley, holding his hands up apologetically, bounced back a few steps to keep distance, and blinked in surprise when the panting, sweat-shiny face of the other runner became suddenly very familiar to him.
Whoa,' the native Scouser exclaimed, hands held up and chest heaving with exhausted breath, is it really you, lad?'
Gasping for air, the other bloke stumbled to a halt a little way down the path, wheeled around and gave him a look of parallel surprise. Ross mate,' said Alex Oxlade-Chamberlain with wide-eyed shock, rolling his rounded shoulders and taking a greedy slurp from the water bottle he held in his right hand. Jesus – how weird is this? – mate, good to see ya...'
And in polite, friendly instinct, both men made forward to go in for what would have been a really sweaty hug, but stopped themselves. `Ah, strange times,' Ross remarked in vague cliché, pulling himself back and letting out an awkward laugh. He smiled warmly at his fellow 26-year-old footballer, his teammate from a number of England national call-ups over the past few years. It felt surreal to see the Ox up here on his home turf, though of course it made sense, Alex having played up here for a good few years now with the triumphant Merseyside club. The pair had almost swapped places, London and Liverpool, if not the same teams.
`I had no idea you were back up here at the mo,' Alex said through his wheezing breaths, clearly in the midst of a big strenuous run just like Ross.
`Just while everything is locked down,' Ross said, stabilising. He wiped a forearm across his sweaty brow and tugged a few times on the nylon of his vest, wafting some air up his six-pack. He felt dirty and unkempt in the middle of his run, though Oxlade was the same: his tshirt was plastered to the curving muscles of his torso and beneath the hem of his longer baggier shorts, his pale brown legs were covered in snaking trails of sweat down the hair of his shins.
Cool, cool,' Ox said. God, this is weird.'
It is a bit,' Ross chuckled back. Of all the riverside paths in all the world. Well, good to see ya, but –`
`You running on this way?' Alex asked him thoughtfully.
`Er, yeh, I am – you too?'
The Liverpool player nodded, and he looked almost shy as he suggested his plan. `We can run on together if we keep safe distance, I guess. I'm only going another couple of K down this way then starting back – what you think?'
Ross paused but nodded, too taken aback by this unexpected reunion to question the plan or really give much worry to the company. Realistically, both men had been tested for the virus at the cost of their clubs, and in strict lockdown as long as anyone else. Two metres apart,' Barkley breathed with half-jokey seriousness, and gave a little salute to the other footballer. Good idea.'
And off they went. Alex ran a couple of feet ahead and as far to the left of the rough path as the undergrowth allowed, and Barkley felt himself politely reducing his powerful stride ever so slightly to accommodate the other guy. The Ox certainly wasn't slow, but he wasn't pushing his body to the edge in the way Barkley had begun to in these solitary jogs. Instead, the two muscular 26-year-olds pounded the path at a reasonable pace, dripping sweat and panting the occasional encouraging jibe at one another as they ran: a 2-0 win against the Scousers had been one of Barkley's last exploits before the season's hiatus, and though it felt a lifetime ago, he enjoyed rubbing it in a little to his hypothetical enemy as an Everton kid.
The company was surprisingly welcome. Ross had hardly realised just how tiny his world had become: mum, sibling, cousin, aunt, girlfriend. Video chats to the same few pals. A few strange, brief conversations with his manager: impatient, frustrated Frank, saying nothing about what he really wanted, but somehow conveying it in every vague question about Barkley's wellbeing. A bit of contact with lovely young Mason that seemed to be petering out to his half-troubled surprise. And now this, a fellow national squad member to train with, however briefly, and a bit of the light banter of the footy pitch between them as they ran.
They reached the point where Ross would have called his distance and turned back, and went on a little further; he extended his route to accommodate Alex, though in the end, their plans had been similar. Five minutes later, the woodland thickening around them, the stocky 5'11 defender slowed and stalled and leaned on a pine tree to catch his breath. Ross stood a few metres away and stretched one leg then the other, really feeling the strain of the tiny extra distance. He would be aching by the time he got back to the house.
`It's so fucking good we can still get outdoors,' Alex commented through his thick pants.
`Agreed.' Ross hadn't really considered how he would fare under harsher lockdown, though it had been a factor in getting the hell out of London. He continued stretching his sturdy legs, and then noticed as he lifted up from a lunge that the other guy was watching quite intently. Perhaps Oxlade-Chamberlain just felt the slow relief of new company in the same way he did, a refreshing extension to the bubble of his quarantine; but there was something lingering and assessing in the Ox's look that Ross felt he could now recognise in another guy. Nah, he dismissed, not Alex, you dick. Not EVERY bloke fancies you!
I was just thinking how great it would be to invite you over!' the southerner remarked, pulling his stare away and leaning one sturdy arm to the same tree to begin stretching his own legs. You know, except for the fact such bullshit ain't possible. I just mean – be good to hang out. And Perrie loves us entertaining.'
Ah, yeh, Alex's popstar girlfriend. They were so public and cringey, though Ross tried not to judge, he knew other lads craved much more media attention than he'd ever want. He smiled gratefully and straightened up. `Aye, that would be great, under different, er, circumstances! Never mind...'
Another time,' huffed Alex with a grin. In safer days.'
Ross pulled on one arm then the other and rolled his neck a little. `May they come soon,' he prayed back, and cocked his head a little as he tried to figure out the thoughtful look on his friend's broad face. There was definitely a thoughtful glint in Ox's eyes there, but he couldn't assume that other teams housed such hidden lusts as Chelsea: after all, nobody could be more surprised than Barkley at what had gone on for him this season. There had been those others in Dubai though, a little voice at the back of his mind reasoned. Grealish, Chilwell, Maddison... He felt a flush of self-consciousness at the memory that those three lads had witnessed his first time fucking a bloke, stepping over another red line. He didn't regret pounding Mason Mount, not really, but he did regret the fact that he'd had an audience!
He looked away shyly at these thoughts and noticed, in the corner of his eye, the watchful little smirk on Alex's face as he stared on at him, more openly now.
We should move,' Barkley grunted without enthusiasm. Before our muscles seize up.'
Alex nodded. `Lead the way, Ross the Boss.'
Barkley set off, but the mindless pleasure of his usual running was disturbed... Not so much by the little glint of mischief he'd seen in the other guy's face, he didn't seriously believe anything was brewing here, but at the complex blur of his guy-on-guy antics. The calls and messages from Lampard, as innocent as they were on the surface, were pushing him towards an ultimatum on that mess. He just couldn't keep dipping his toe in that messy pool, not if he wanted to keep his cool and focus on his game. He knew without question that the older man expected more and more of him, was restless and aggressive beneath Ross's tentative control. Sporadic blowies and rim-jobs were not going to keep the Chelsea manager's obsession in check forever. No, when things kicked off again with the League, he HAD to end that, even if it meant a difficult conversation with his agent.
And then there was Mason... Ross had a huge soft spot for his younger teammate, an almost brotherly affection that had crept up on him in recent months. Except not brotherly of course, he told himself, remembering that intimate night together eating takeaway pizza in bed, watching the goofy kid nibble dropped pepperoni off his own abs. There had been a closeness and excitement there that had taken Ross truly by surprise, but now... Well, something was off there, but he wasn't sure what. He'd heard, from others, that Mount had moved himself in with Rice and his family on the edge of London rather than go back down to the South Coast and his own family. Ross knew how close the two younger lads were, of course, but still...
It was as his tired head reworked these uneasy thoughts that he lost his balance for a moment, and one foot struck an unseen tree route at an awkward angle. A tiny slip of his powerful stride, but enough to jerk him out of balance and go tumbling off the side of the path into some rough bushes that both caught his fall and scraped his exposed limbs with barbed scratches. `Fuck!' he yelped, catching himself with both palms scraping across rough ground.
`Jeez, buddy...!'
And social distancing abandoned, the Ox was with him, helping him out of the tangle of bushes, hands on arms and sweaty bodies close together. Ross flinched in pain as weight settled on his right foot once again, and then he let himself crumple to the leafy ground once again, sitting rather than falling, and reaching down to test the sprain. Shit,' he snapped irritably, shit shit shit.' A tiny injury was the LAST thing he needed right now. These runs were too important.
Alex was hunched down at his side, his broad face and pouting lips full of concern. Shit man, how does it feel?' he asked with gentle urgency, resting one hand on Ross's shoulder and the other on a grazed knee. How the hell did that happen...? One minute you're pounding along like a machine, and the next...'
Fuck knows,' groaned Ross in dismay, twisting and flexing his ankle and foot and trying to work out if it actually still hurt or he was just a little jolted by the embarrassing ball. He winced a little as Alex's hands moved to the offending leg instead, giving his tensed calf a feel and reaching down towards the ankle with amateurish inspection. Careful,' the Chelsea powerhouse grunted warily.
Just checking,' Alex said by way of apology, staring instead and running his hand across the ankle for a moment. How does that feel?'
`Er... well, fine...'
`Hmm, I reckon you'll be okay...'
`Oh thanks, Dr Chamberlain...'
A hoarse laugh. `Fuck off, I'm just trying to help.'
Ross bit back his sarcasm. `Sorry. I know. Cheers.'
Alex lifted his head and smiled graciously. They were hunched together on the edge of the path, their faces less than a foot apart. Once more, Ross was a tad on edge at the unreadable expression, the little crease of smile by those rich brown eyes. He felt one of Alex's paws slide up from his ankle, up the muscular side of his calf again, resting just where it creased with his thick fluffy thigh. He sat very still but didn't say anything, felt the other hand lift up from his trainer and rest back on his shoulder instead, squeezing gently.
`What?' Ross demanded a little aggressively, trying to break the spell of the moment. That soft golden sunshine of the April morning was leaking down through the tree cover above, making intricate patterns on any exposed patch of their glistening skin, pale chocolate and deep tan.
Nothing,' mumbled Alex a little shyly. Are you going to be okay getting up?'
I think I'm fine,' Ross said testily. Just... er... gimme a hand.' He pressed a hand each to Alex's thick, muscled shoulders and leant into him as he went to stand, testing his own weight on both feet and feeling a little burst of surprise when the ankle felt fine after all. Still, he swayed a second on his feet, tired and dehydrated, keeping his balance through a tight grip on the other man's body.
`You sure you're okay?' the Ox asked lightly, patting both hands to Ross's sweaty flanks.
I'm good,' he confirmed, his voice a little brittle and tense at the sudden intimacy. Just...' He looked about to see where he'd dropped his water, and bent down to snatch it from amongst another tangle of spiky branches. When he stood back up, guzzling from it, he looked at the other player, and saw the intent angle of Alex's eyes, where they had been staring down at his body... his body? His arse... fuck's sake, for real? He stood there, licking drops of water from his lips, and feeling that odd mix of self-conscious shyness and egoistic enjoyment...
Sorry,' Alex suddenly blurted, I wasn't staring at you, just...'
`Mate,' Ross sighed softly. He looked down himself, and saw the gentle tenting visible even in the baggier shorts Oxlade wore to run. He pursed his lips, took more water, and stood on the precipice of a decision.
The Liverpool champion scratched his stumpy chin, pulled idly at the chest of his translucent tshirt, and let out a few little nervous coughs. Ross found something enjoyable in his sudden awkwardness, but he pretended to ignore it, lifted and flexing his problem ankle for a moment to check it really was free of pain. Then he looked silently up and down the path: abandoned, silent, peaceful. He could feel a fork coming in the more metaphorical path, and he took the road less travelled.
Check it again,' he muttered in a low voice, it feels weird.'
Er, it does?' Oxlade asked. Okay then.' And he got back down to his knees on the edge of the path, kneeling in front of Barkley, and laying both hands on the right leg. Ross stood there, feeling gentle fingertips brush his shin and calf, and the other hand, more firmly, taking hold of and exploring his ankle as if looking for swelling. He smiled indulgently and looked down and reached to gently squeeze the loaded front of his tight running shorts; Alex's eyes darted immediately up to watch him do so, poised expectantly in front of him.
`Best check the rest of that leg,' Barkley said, his voice almost a growl. Alex's hands ran shakily up his calf and past his knee, and rubbed experimentally along the thickness of his thigh. Ross just gave a little nod of assent and one exploring hand went up the outside of his leg and the fingers disappeared an inch or two up the outer leg of the shorts. Ross reached down and again squeezed gently at his own package: Alex took the invite and did the same, his other hand coming up and lightly tracing the bulge that rested there. He let out a ragged breath and swayed on his knees, spellbound.
`Not on the path,' Barkley said, after another lazily cautious glance up and down it. With a little bit of caution on the foot he'd twisted, he backed off the path and into the undergrowth, and the Liverpool southerner followed him instantly, eyes wide.
Ross retreated into the thick woods about the path, though fuck knew what cover the tree trunks and mounds of bush actually offered. It occurred to him that a single jogger or dog-walker was all it needed for this to spell disaster, but the nervous thought came from a distance. He wasn't thinking with his brain any more, but with the heavy contents of his running shorts. He backed himself against a particularly sturdy tree trunk, grabbed the bottom of his vest, and peeled it teasingly up and off. As he let it fall to the ground, Alex was sinking back onto his knees in front of him, eyes upwards, and hands resting on the thunder thighs.
You're gonna suck me cock,' Ross drawled in arch Scouse. Yeh?'
Alex, excited by the crudeness, nodded and licked his lips. Fuck. Ross flexed his bare lean torso and felt his dick twitch and swell as the other guy tugged down on his shorts – they peeled down and took with them the mesh netting briefs inside them, letting his semi and low-hanging balls flop free in the warm woodland air.
`God,' murmured Alex admiringly.
`Suck it,' Barkley ordered with a burst of dominance, thinking back to the ways he'd carefully managed obsessive Lampard in these situations, the way he'd turned the tables on the older perv and won his security at Chelsea this season. Could he really give that up? Wasn't it all worth it, and fucking good fun anyway...? Mmm... He felt Alex's lips and tongue brush his sweaty nob, and knew with confidence that this handsome defender had done it before: so the beautiful girl-band partner wasn't enough for this stud after all? Interesting...
Ross pulled his body back against the rough bark, scratched and irritated but excited. He groaned out and felt his dick stretch and stiffen against the hot wet mouth. Alex's lips and tongue felt fuller and softer than he'd had before, though he would never have thought to critique either Mason or Frank's sucking technique at all. Mmm... Aching and tired as he was, he began to put his own effort in, working his strong hips back and forward, feeding his sizeable meat to the muscular lad one stroke at a time. Alex responded greedily, slurping and slavering and letting his hands massage at the furry thighs on either side.
It was easy to lose track of time here in the woods. The sloppy blowjob might have gone on for a couple of brief minutes, it might have been half an hour. Ross just worked his hips in slow rhythm and let the roughness of the tree scratch at his naked back and cheeks. He reached down to play with the sweaty curls of Alex's hair, and to knead at his thick strong neck, and to slap his cheeks playfully when the sucking and licking momentarily stopped... but soon he needed to cum. To bring himself to the edge, he held Ox's head by his slightly sticking-out ears and fucked his mouth in the same way he had once pumped Mason's face in confused revenge. Alex was not new to sucking dick, but he seemed to new to THIS: he gagged and grunted and struggled a bit but soon Ross was emptying in his gob, spilling hot cum on his flat tongue and gasping out to the woodland.
Ross let his body relax back against the tree, even sweatier than before, and he patted and stroked at the other bloke's head at his crotch, feeling that beautiful tongue lap every drop of seed from his throbbing dick until it pulled reluctantly away. Fuck,' he groaned freely, that was bloody good, mate...'
Thanks,' panted Alex hoarsely, still sounding totally in shock. Thanks...'
Ross groaned a bit more and closed his eyes as his breathing recovered. When he opened them, Alex was stumbling up to his feet in front of him. There was a glossy stain on his chin where he'd drooled some of Barkley's spunk. His tshirt was still sticking to the wide muscular mass of his upper body, but his shorts were pushed down and he had his cock in hand. It was a good size, similar but inferior to Ross's own length, he weighed up. Alex was stroking it as he panted.
My turn,' he said throatily, come on...'
Ross, lazy in the afterglow of orgasm, snorted derision. I don't do that,' he said simply. There had been a time when he feared Frank would demand it, but never quite had. He saw Alex immediately crestfallen, and he was about to grudgingly offer a hand, since THAT he had definitely broached once to keep stupid Lampard happy, but then... Get on the floor,' he said authoritatively, and Oxlade-Chamberlain immediately began to comply.
Looking a bit confused and excited, Ox scrambled down to the thick undergrowth at their feet, down on his arse, cock still in hand, thick legs spread, mouth panting open... I can feed you this til you cum,' Barkley snapped, and he stepped forward, letting his powerful legs straddle Alex's sinking body. He let his shorts drop further down his legs and dipped into a strong squat, til he was lowering his jog-sweaty backside against the other man's waiting face. He heard the little panting cry of surprise and maybe incomprehension, but then he felt the first kissing blow of lips against the hang of his balls and then his fluffy gooch. He shifted the position of his strong squat and guided Alex's mouth into his crack. That's it lad,' he growled, `taste my Scouse arse you dirty cunt...'
He felt one of Alex's hand grip his ankle tightly as the burly bloke began to lap at the sweaty hair of his crack, and the fap fap fap noise told Ross that the guy's other hand was busy out of sight. He remained there in the dip, tensing his mighty legs, and even after cumming, enjoying the gentle stimulation between his cheeks. Such a dirty trick would never have occurred to him if he hadn't enjoyed the treatment repeatedly from Frank, and seen the wildness it brought on in that anally fixated admirer. Ross remained casually in the squat until he heard grunting whimpers and felt the spunk hit his back, mingling with his own sweat and chips of tree bark.
Slowly, he stood, and looked down his bare body, past his wilting privates, between his legs, at where Alex's head rested on the ground, lips trembling and eyes still wide with awe. The chunky lad licked his lips once, his tongue really was huge, and then let out a confused sigh. `God, Barks... that was... new...'
Ross stepped away and yanked his shorts up in one pull. He looked away, searching out his discarded top, phone and water bottle, and when he turned around, Alex was on his feet two, dick away in his shorts, looking pretty dazed and overwhelmed. The two men gathered their things and stood looking at each other for a few long moments.
`So... yeh,' was all Alex could come out with.
2-0,' Barkley teased quietly. Cock, arse. 2-0 to me. You dirty fuck.' He smiled, but kindly. `You okay, buddy...?'
Alex nodded his head slowly. `I'm not gay,' he said in a daze.
Fuck's sake. Me neither,' Ross told him, more than a little defensively. Just... guys have needs. Come on. I need to get home. You need to pick up the pace.' And he was off, before Alex could say or ask or accuse anything more. He hit the path at speed and shot away, knowing Alex might struggle to keep up and even abandon him if his pace was high enough. Sure enough, by the time he broke out of the woodland, he wasn't aware of footsteps anywhere close. He slowed, on the edge of civilisation, and looked back between the trees. Alex was running along, just within view, but the gap had opened up between them, and Barkley was glad.
Without another look at his temporary running partner, he burst off at speed and wove his way onto the Liverpool streets, a beeline for home, desperate for that shower and all the relief it would bring.
He stayed in under the cool spray of water longer than was necessarily, soaping up his muscles repeatedly and letting it wash away with an inevitable trickle. When he eventually pushed the lever and turned it off, his skin tingled and his senses were overwhelmed by repeated bursts of the herby, minty scent. He stood naked in the cubicle for a minute more, letting water drip from his limbs and cock and the scruffy little beard he was encouraging along in his lockdown life.
Out of the shower, into a towel.
Music was playing somewhere downstairs, the distant noise of crockery: lunch was served. He smiled complacently to think of all his needs being met, comfortable but not unappreciative. He allowed himself a decadent memory of the encounter in the woods, a big hulking lad like Alex brought to his knees to serve him, and almost sniggered. Shit, had that really happened? He brought the soft white towel up to dry his face, allowed himself a nervous laugh, and then moved about the room, drying and dressing and anticipating a good lunch.
Then, just as he was about to head on downstairs to join them, he heard his phone ring.
He picked his way across the untidy bedroom and pulled his phone, still a little clammy with his own sweat, from the tangle of dirty running gear on the phone. He stood there in fresh CK boxers and a white tshirt, and looked in surprise at the screen. He'd wondered for a dirty moment if it might be that newfound slut Alex Oxlade-Chamberlian, calling up to shout at him and deny what had happened or – more amusingly – desperately beg for a repeat performance as soon as humanly possible. But no...
`Hey... Mason?' He stared in idle curiosity at his own reflection on the mirrored doors of the wardrobe while he waited for his Chelsea teammate to speak down the phone.
`Ross... hey... glad I caught ya...'
`Well, what can I say? These aren't the busiest times, buddy. How are you?'
`Fine, fine.'
`Good – but you sound stressed?'
`Oh, well... Hah... Um. Ross, you alone, pal?'
I am, I am,' he said in a slow indulgent drawl, daring to admire his own reflection, and to try and see what other men now seemed to see in him. He'd never been vain or arrogant about his appearance, but something about him clearly melted these fuckers right down! What's up, Mase...?'
A long sigh from the youngster. `You're gonna think this is daft...'
`Try me.'
`Well, I just think I need to tell you something.'
`Then bloody tell me, kid!'
Ross, it's just... I've...' A long awkward silence that filled Barkley with dread at what had happened or what Mount be about to confess, request, suggest. Ross, I think I've fallen for a lad,' Mason admitted, and still Barkley tingled with a strange heavy expectation: shit, he thought, he's fallen for me? He thought about that night when he'd driven him home, fucked him so hard, cuddled him close and enjoyed it way too much... Oh shit, oh shit. Friends, that was all, that was what he wanted, friends with... benefits...
You have?' he asked quietly. Well... that's cool, but...'
Yeah,' Mason said quickly, it's so weird, but – I really think – I mean – I guess I'm kinda falling in love with... it's Declan. I think I love him. Declan Rice. I've tried not to but...'
Ross paused, looking away from the mirrors, holding the phone to his hear. Oh.
You think I'm an idiot,' Mason mumbled. Sorry. I don't know why I'm telling you this.'
`What? No... No, Mase, course I don't think that! I care a lot about you. If ya feel this strongly about a lad, of course I want to know. I'm... happy. I think this could be good for ya. Have you tried telling him? Do you think he might...?'
Dunno,' mumbled Mason awkwardly. They both went quiet. You're not angry, are you? Not annoyed with me...? Ross?'
Barkley paused for only a second, but a second too long to hide some seed of truth from himself. Why would I be angry or annoyed?' he said with a bullish laugh. Mase, buddy, this is exciting. You and Dec are so close already, so if you think he might be... like... you know... the one, or whatever. That's awesome.' A sigh of relief down the other end of the phone. `But I gotta go... lunchtime, innit... We'll chat properly soon?'
`Sure.'
`Right... see ya.'
`Bye, mate. Thank you.'
Click, call ended. Ross pulled the phone round, holding it in one palm and tapping it gently to his chin. Angry? Annoyed? Hah... silly young Mason. What the fuck did Mount think he was going on? Was he mistaking him for that obsessive tit Frank Lampard...? Why would Ross Barkley, heterosexual beast of a man, fucking his girlfriend twice a night, give a crap what his sexually ambiguous younger teammate was thinking or feeling for his West Ham buddy...? Nonsense.
And then, his body expressing a frustration that his mind wouldn't, he tossed his phone so hard at the bed that it bounced off, struck the mirrored doors, and sent a shivering crack running across the whole glassy pane. The phone dropped lightly to the carpet, and Ross stared in anger and annoyance at the accidental damage he had wreaked. For fuck's sake,' he exclaimed, furious at the broken mirror and at nothing else. Absolutely nothing else. Fuck's sake,' he repeated, his voice choked with unexpected emotion.