premiership-lads-202

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Subject: Premiership Lads part 202: Spurred On Part 202: Spurred On The late afternoon outside was a dark grey-blue, but the atmosphere inside the team coach was bright and jubilant; a 1-0 win over the likes of West Brom was not an obvious triumph for the North London club, but the 3 points had put Tottenham Hotspurs temporarily atop the league table, and the players were taking it as a great excuse for celebration. Their eccentric Portuguese manager had dragged out a surprising half dozen cooler boxes of bottled beer, since the lockdown rules meant there was no other way of relaxing and socialising for the squad once they were home in the capital. Harry Kane, swigging heartily from his second green bottle, had his own more specific triumph from the Sunday afternoon away game: his lone goal that had secured them the win was his 150th in the Premiership, an achievement that put him in true elite of strikers in the league’s history, only the legendary Alan Shearer and the impressive contemporary Sergio Aguero having reached the accolade more rapidly in their playing careers. The personal victory and the team’s temporary supremacy had him in a comfortably warm mood, his face-mask tucked below his jutting chin and a little red flush in his bearded cheeks — he was quite content to sit back quietly and bask in the boisterous enjoyment of the other Spurs men, too tired out to make a spectacle of himself enjoying his latest statistical accolade, just enjoying the winning mood and the upbeat energy of the other lads as their coach approached the edges of the city. Somebody somewhere — Welshman Ben Davies by the look of it — was blasting tinny music from a portable speaker whilst a few of the other players danced in their seats or the aisle, pulling their best dad-dance moves and guffawing self-deprecatingly while filming stupid TikToks. Eric Dier was in amongst them, Kane could not help but notice, grinding his tall body in a daft limbo move to the amusement of Matt Doherty and Giovani Lo Celso, a little party of Premiership talent. Kane let his beady eyes rest a moment on Dier’s best disco moves before the tipsy laughing defender lumbered back into his seat with a whoop, quickly averting his gaze in case his ex looked over this way in his noisy celebrations. The 27-year-old striker did his best to suppress the little well of feeling, determined to move on from that fraught romance that he’d pressed self-destruct on; there had been a little moment between the pair of them today that had been helpful and encouraging, a real look of respect and support as they passed each other on the way onto the pitch. Not that Dier had ever let his feelings spill into their game in any obvious way, he was a good guy like that, but today had been the first time where Kane felt able to look him in the eye as respected colleagues in a long while; maybe it was just in his head, but there had seemed a difference in the way Eric treated him on and around the pitch today, a returning warmth or decency. There might have been a time lately where Harry could have misread the little look as something more alluring and optimistic, but he was learning to accept the reality that their previous intimacy was eroded and gone. He had to shoulder the responsibility, having sacrificed their budding relationship to protect his own marriage, even if his brief determination to keep his dick clean and eschew any `extra fun’ had been quickly derailed by insatiable appetite when the opportunity last arose. He was ambivalent now, on both counts: as sad as he was when he sometimes looked at Eric in his prime, he was quite sure that the other England ace needed and deserved something more than he could give him; and while he worried about the risks and the impact on his happily married home life, he regularly caught himself thinking longingly about the sexual deviance he’d learned since those hot Russian nights with Dier. Or he had done, he supposed, until the Maguire incident. The thoughts were still there, perhaps even more excitingly than ever, in the darkest moments or the night or in the middle of making love to his missus, but the longing itself was dulled; that exciting fuck from two other Harrys had come at terrifying cost and risk, and made him understandably cautious about ever branching out again. Winks, the adorable young bloke he was, had sought him out to apologise profusely two or three times at the Spurs training ground, and Kane had chosen to react blankly as if he barely knew what the younger Harry was even talking about. That afternoon in Surrey, the real excitement for Kane had come in the brutish attention of the Man Utd captain, not his twinkish teammate; besides, he didn’t want to make himself any more submissive to a fellow Spurs regular, not again! Fortunately, young Winks was not among the jubilant Spurs players on this particular Sunday trip, which made it easier for Kane to relax and soak up the good vibes. He drained the last of his second beer bottle, relaxing his shoulders against the cool glass behind him, turning to watch as another hyped-up man began to karaoke to Davies’ boombox. It was today’s spare goalkeeper, former England legend Joe Hart, one of the year’s new signings, making everybody laugh with a terribly performed power ballad. Harry heard his own deep laughter mingling with the voice of the guy nearest to him and he looked to the left a little, found the man in front up on his knees, elbows propped on the headrest so he could lean over and watch the louder end of the coach from this comfortable distance. It was another newbie, or in many ways a true oldie: Gareth Bale, returned to the club that had put him on the map. It was odd for Harry to be reunited with him now, having once watched him as the club’s main weapon while he was just a gawky youth in and out of the squad on loan deals. `What are they like?’ chuckled the older footballer, slouching forward and yawning slightly. `Bunch of kids, really…’ He grinned, acknowledging his own `old man’ status at 31 by the harsh terms of football life, lifting a beer bottle to his lips. `Yep, and I love every one of them,’ Kane responded with a grin, lifting his empty to clink with Bale’s. In response to that, the burly Welshman disappeared backwards and then produced a freshly opened cold one for him, having somehow landed one of the cooler boxes on the spare seat beside him. Harry thanked him and supped on his third drink, glad of the winger’s company as he began to compliment him on his goal and talk about the match. `A really great achievement,’ Gareth concluded, starting a fresh beer himself and chinking their bottles together again in another toast, resting his chin on his broad hairy forearms and guzzling back the beer. `Here’s to that, pal, here’s to that.’ The dynamic between them had been a little odd in the last couple of months; Kane wondered if Bale was as conscious of the role reversal as he was, the switch since before 2013 when the Welsh beast was in his prime and the England goal assassin was a spotty young nobody. Now, Harry Kane was the established hero of this club and his national team, and Bale was the plagued loan player whose Spanish club seemed to be described as `cursed’ for the media. Their quiet cheerful chat turned inevitably to Bale’s slow progress, with Kane keen to reassure and praise his experienced wingman on his efforts this afternoon and his possible contributions to the club’s bid for Premiership top spot. Gareth seemed to appreciate it but he laughed off Harry’s slightly overstated positivity, seeming philosophical about his stalled career. `It’s just good to be back here,’ the Wales legend told him openly. `Do not miss the Spanish league whatsoever.’ He almost shuddered. `If you guys don’t make this move permanent, I’ll be shopping around — I ain’t playing for that cunt Zidane or his dirty Spanish fuckers ever again.’ Beer and the Cardiff accent made his statement sound all the more firm and aggressive and it took Harry aback, sipping his beer and raising his eyebrows. Bale just chuckled again. `Seriously, don’t do it, Kano, don’t sell your soul to the international market, it is NOT worth it. Trust me.’ The 27-year-old shrugged, sitting up a little to feel closer to the other man. `Well, I’d be lying if I said I hadn’t considered it. Came pretty close, earlier this year.’ Since Bale was being so honest, so would he. `Wife got a bit funny about a little side-thing I had going, so she was pushing me to get out of London — had all sorts of maybe deals on the table, y’know.’ He regretted his dismissive admission of infidelity (and to diminish Dier as `side-thing’) but he was already feeling half-drunk. `Ah, it happens,’ Bale grunted back, `and yeah, sometimes moving on is best, but… they love you here. You’re king. You don’t need to go nowhere, big man.’ Harry smiled at him. It was refreshing how down-to-earth the Cardiff man actually was, given his years at Real Madrid. But, hah, he was probably just getting pissed and charmed by anyone of Bale’s age and status referring to him as `king’ of anywhere! Bale was talking rapidly on, much less reserved than he usually seemed, filling him in on the latest nonsense around his wife’s mad family, confiding in him like they were old friends who had played together in all the intervening years since they were last fellow Spurs men. By the time the coaches were parked up at the suburban training ground, the Sunday night was inky blue overhead, and most of the players were loudly drunk as they tumbled out into the frosty cool of the car park, zero social distancing in their matey hugs and back-slaps as a successful away day was brought to an end. Bale swung himself off the stepped entrance of the coach, digging his thumbs into the shoulder straps of his back-pack and taking a few bouncing steps onto the concrete, beer-warmed enough to ignore the cool night in his thin branded team tracksuit. Earlier on, he had felt a sudden awkwardness in sharing in another Spurs victory of the League, conscious that his own hard work in the match had yielded no real results. He’d been sweating into a chair with the substitutes by the time Kane scored the winner, despite throwing all of his muscular efforts into the 78 minutes of play he’d endured. He could share in the excitement of briefly topping the table, but his patience was running thin on his big Premiership comeback. It was a malaise that had been easily drowned by four or five beers on the road, he and his neighbouring striker taking more than their fair share from the cooler box towards the end of the journey, resulting in a fuzzy head as he blinked across the floodlit car park and realised that he was in no state to drive his own luxury car back through the London suburbs to his new rented mansion. Around him, other players were perhaps making similar realisations, though in reality most lads had only downed one or maybe two of the bottled beers — there was some obvious fuss and negotiation of car shares and pragmatic solutions going on, from which Gareth felt vaguely excluded, less bonded with his new teammates and fairly oblivious to who lived in roughly the same direction as him. Kane was suddenly beside him, pink-cheeked and swaying a little on his feet. `Taxi for me, I think,’ the London bloke slurred deeply, patting him on the arm and tottering next to him as the gathering of athletes slowly dispersed. `Huh, yeah,’ Bale agreed slowly, momentarily regretting knocking back so much drink but ultimately too complacently relaxed to think it in earnest. He squinted at his fellow forward, hugging his thick arms across his broad chest and shrugging. `Unless we can pile in with mersin escort someone, er, I dunno quite where you live, Harry…’ Kane was about to answer in a slow bleary fashion, but then a third big tall player was suddenly between them, clapping especially large hands together and elbowing each of them in a matey bustle. `Fellas!’ barked Joe Hart loudly. `Am I the only one too pissed to risk his BMW right now…? Haha. How are we doing, gentlemen…?’ `Good,’ said Kane drunkenly, grinning broadly from behind his long pale-bearded features at the new substitute goalkeeper, another deflated legend in Bale’s eyes and therefore a natural ally. He smiled at the bigger man, a towering 6ft3 over them as he draped one arm about each of their shoulders, and nodded his agreement. `A bit tipsy,’ he chuckled. `I think all three of us. Crying shame there ain’t no London pubs open right now, eh…!’ `Yeah,’ Harry agreed readily, `could so happily go to some local boozer and toast to my 150th goal…’ Bale jokily rolled his eyes. `Oh, give it a rest, champ,’ he boomed, shaking free of Hart’s heavy arm, and adjusting his tightly tied locks up into their bulging topknot. `You two are men after my own heart,’ Hart said very firmly, rolling his eyes regretfully. `It’s one thing partying on the coach, it’s another thing being back at the dinner table with the wife and kids by 6pm…!’ He groaned, tapping his rolex as if to prove the point. `Criminal, really. I mean, we could…’ `What?’ Harry barked with a beer-soaked impatience. Bale grinned uncertainly and watched the tall goalkeeper’s smirking expression. `What are you gonna suggest, old man?’ he demanded playfully. `You don’t know somewhere?’ `Well,’ drawled the big Englishman slowly, `I do know a little place…’ `Where?!’ today’s successful striker asked incredulously, an excited little glint in his small eyes. `He’s talking shit,’ Gareth found himself chuckling with drunken bluntness. `Nowhere is open, it’s fuckin’ lockdown part two, lads, it’s-` Joe Hart was laughing again, a booming confident sound, and rubbing his palms together in a big gesture of mischief. `Okay, let me be clearer — I’m talking about my own bar in the outhouse.’ He shrugged his impressive shoulders. `Look, I know it’s, er, bending the rules, but — our garden is ridiculous. Wife won’t even know if I have you two over for a couple of nightcaps before I turn in.’ He had dropped his voice quite confidentially as he said it, grabbing again at their shoulders and leaning in. `Just between us blokes, eh?’ Gareth found himself looked hesitantly at his new pal Harry, unsure if Hart was even being serious and even more unsure if the plan was too needlessly transgressive on a Sunday night when he could soon be curled up in an armchair being waited on by his missus. But the reality remained that he’d sank a few beers already and had caught the infectious cheer of the team, even if the news of the Leicester score had already displaced their spell at the top of the League by the time the coach parked up here. Kane met his eyes, a conflicted smirk on his lips, but Hart just slapped their backs enthusiastically and took the pause as a distinct `yes’. `It’ll be good, serious, nobody need know,’ big Joe promised eagerly, glancing about them at the thinning gathering as individuals and pairs piled into their expensive cars or growled out of the gates at the far end, the scene quickly emptying as the excited match-winners departed for their homely evenings. `We just need to bagsy a driver,’ Hart murmured as he stared around them. `Taxi might look dodgy,’ Kane murmured in agreement, but he did something odd as the goalie hoisted one arm and began to mouth a name, gesturing to the nearest bloke just disappearing into his motor. `Di-` began the `keeper, but Harry had dragged his arm down and hissed silence at him in a strange little intervention that dully registered in Bale’s tipsy mind. `Nah,’ he was telling the other fella, `not Eric, he’ll… I mean, he’ll not feel comfortable with the rule-breaking, so…’ `Right, right,’ Joe murmured, shooting him a bemused frown. `Here,’ Bale said quickly, dismissing the odd moment and nodding in the other direction, spotting another of their colleagues just unlocking his 4×4 and waving a goodbye at a passing coach. As one, the three men ambled that way towards Toby Alderweireld, the Belgian defender, who turned to give them a jokey salute and then a smirking nod as he guessed the unspoken favour. `Need a ride, boys?’ the other tall senior player asked, standing with his driver’s door open beneath his hands. `How’d you guess?’ laughed Hart, fist-bumping him and then leaning in to share his plan with the well-established Tottenham player, who didn’t seem to hesitate for very long. He shouted out something about `How did you read my mind?’ and then they were bundling into his vehicle, four respected players sniggering like teenage boys as they shared the Jeep and listened to Joe Hart waxing lyrical about his little party cabin and how it had swung the house purchase when he and his family moved down here at the end of summer. Bale stretched out on the back seat, feeling drunker already at the prospect of illegal further booze, spreading his thick tired legs and fumbling about with the seatbelt while Hart continued to boast and Alderweireld made loud howling laughs of appreciation; in a little slip of balance, Bale leant down to the right in an effort to belt up, and planted his right hand down firmly on another leg, momentarily seizing the muscle of Kane’s thigh as the younger man hunkered down next to him on the back seat of the car. The Welshman grunted out a breathy little apology, pulling his hand away, freaked out for a second but also just amused that the ample backseat was so fully occupied by two tall muscular players like themselves. He glanced sideways at Harry and found the striker blushing slightly and making a little tittering laugh as if quite uncomfortable with the accidental contact. `Relax,’ Gareth said forcefully, punching him in the arm, `I won’t be groping you again, king.’ `Fucking hope not,’ mumbled the English fella with strained humour, looking away and faffing with his own belt, while Toby started up the engine and sped them out of the cold car park and onto the winding road, directed by the excited goalie in the passenger seat. Kane sent a clumsy text to his wife as they were shifting from the car to Hart’s little man-cave, excusing his absence and advising her not to wait up; there would be an angry earful over breakfast, but drunk-Harry was in no mood to make concessions for the wellbeing of tomorrow’s hangover-Harry. They had parked up at the bottom of the host’s impressive garden and entered the little detached block beneath the trees. Joe was true to his word: it was a veritable chalet, set up with a huge bar dominating one wall, overflowing with stock. It was obvious enough that the 33-year-old had been aching to show off his manly little escape almost since moving here, gesturing madly about as he showed them it and muscled behind the bar to start mixing up some drinks. He was boasting about the sound-system that just been installed but then making embarrassed apologies that they needed to keep the noise down to avoid alarming his wife or the other wealthy neighbours. Kane didn’t care, he didn’t need any music to enhance the taboo thrill of his lockdown socialising, tipsy on beer and his own success — on that, and also on the oppressive hypermasculinity of the tight gathering, all deep booming voices and swollen chests, the blokiest contingent of the Hotspurs squad right now. All peeling off their heavy puffer coats and bulging muscularly in matching pink and blue polo shirts with the Tottenham crest on one pectoral, shuffling about the bartop and admiring different aspects of Hart’s cliched man-cave. Lubricated by beer, Harry allowed his eyes to rove — after all, how the hell could any of these blokes guess his secret penchant for prick? — as he leaned sideways on the bar, playing with the collar of his polo shirt and watching Joe Hart show off his stupidly comprehensive cocktail kit. It was a process that showed off the big guy’s physique, biceps bulging as he worked the shaker and beamed vainly at his laddish guests — he was obviously someone Kane had played with before through their overlapping England prominence, though he’d never noticed how attractive his boyish looks and spiky blond hair were back then, hadn’t had his eyes opened by a certain someone else. Joe looked a lot older than he remembered him on those early England camps of his own international career, but it just made him more impressive and physical, a solid tower of manliness now pouring out some strong martinis for them all. Those massive capable hands, Harry thought, so skilled and receptive on the football pitch, imagine the things they could do if put to other uses… And next to him, the brooding European figure of Toby, thumping his fists appreciatively against the wooden top and congratulating the self-appointed cocktail waiter in his slightly broken, faintly London-accented English. He was not necessarily Harry’s type — he blearily questioned himself when he suddenly had a `type’, when for the past couple of years his `type’ had only been `Eric Jeremy Edgar Dier’ — but the tattoos on his thick arms just seemed to accentuate their latent strength and the man’s forceful masculinity. He grinned stupidly and made a pantomime of enjoyment, knocking his martini rapidly back and baying for a second. And past him… Harry focused on Gareth and thought back to those days when he was desperately trying to make a name for himself in his late teens, desperately sick of being loaned out to minor teams and just wanting to be given a proper chance at playing for Tottenham in their first team… he remembered brief encounters with the then-iconic Welsh lad who had become something of a role model for him. The four years between them had seemed huge back then, different generations of talent, but now Bale was an `aged’ sidekick to his and Son’s attack force. Harry was a little startled to find Gareth looked directly back across him over the bar, their eyes connecting again for a little puzzled moment like on the coach, then pulling apart as Bale pushed away from the bar and began to inspect the footy memorabilia adoring the other walls of Hart’s generous cabin. Harry, flushed and stupidly excited, slurped from his martini glass and tried to remind himself to calm down, he was just here with the blokes, this wasn’t some seedy lad-pad orgy…! But his head had been turned by the events in that Surrey hotel, the electrifying realisation that Harry fucking Maguire was capable of swinging this way… in his taut tracksuit bottoms and dark briefs, his arsehole clenched and throbbed for the memory of that intense fucking. He turned his back to the bar to watch Gareth, admiring the chunky build of the 6ft1 winger, warrior-like with his man-bun and bunched shoulders, commentating loudly in his Cardiff accent about various England souvenirs decorating the walls around the large window facing towards the silent house. He was a sexy fucker, Harry’s liberated thoughts rambled, excitedly deciding that Bale was his best counterpart in a way, the Welsh equivalent of his goal-scoring prowess for the Three Lions — two big manly married blokes, national heroes, but… Calm down, Kane, calm the fuck down! Gareth meant to suggest leaving after the first cocktail, meant to insist on calling a discreet taxi after the second and third. After the fourth, he’d given up on those thoughts and, unlike Kane, hadn’t escort mersin even been sensible enough to warn his wife and fend off tomorrow’s lectures about being a drunken rule-breaking idiotic fucker. It wasn’t even that late, he realised at some point, watching 9pm come and go, draped across one of the two huge retro sofas angled across the cabin, knocking back some fancy mixed drink that he couldn’t name, barely able to focus on the Tottenham Hotspurs documentary playing on the wall-mounted TV. He and Hart had thought it was a hilarious idea to insist on watching it so that they could cringe and mock their two well-established teammates, but he could hardly follow the snippets of dialogue between the Spurs men on the screen, or keep up with the other guys’ humorous interjections about what was really going on when Amazon produced the series behind-the-scenes at Tottenham. At what point did Hart insist that they all stayed over here? It seemed to go from a vaguely suggested idea to a firm reality very quickly, nestled on the sofas as they were, Alderwerield’s big socked feet pressing sideways into his thigh as the Belgian lad got comfortable where he was, half-asleep and chuckling at himself up on the screen. Bale blearily accepted another drink, unsure how many he’d had now, and stared at his own iPhone in indignant confusion as another missed call from his angry wife bleeped through. Hart was making a noise at the bar, singing to himself as he mixed, and opposite him, Kane was gesticulating at the screen, criticising his own clumsy monologue as he was interviewed and then — making Gareth blink and squint — featured in his underpants in the changing rooms with a couple of other guys. It all felt suddenly very surreal and confusing to the Welsh stud, and he had to squint back at the striker on the other sofa to check he wasn’t indeed just sat in white briefs exposing himself to the room. The documentary and reality were blurring a bit in his alcohol-shaken mind. Gareth tried to sit up straight, laughing dizzily to himself and stroking the side of his face, his eyes roving over the walls at framed goalkeeper gloves and big framed photos of Hart posing with other English icons of the last decade, all of the big moments of his dwindling career. Through the drunken confusion as the night descended into grunted half-conversations and four men slipping into their own exhaustion, Bale felt a stab of pleasure and satisfaction, so sure of his decision to return here, even just on loan; it was just such a different atmosphere and camaraderie here in the Premiership and in Tottenham in particular, another world to the glaring synthetic world of Madrid and Ramos’ kinky kingdom. Ugh, thank god he’d left that filth behind, those secret perverts and their fucked-up expectations of each other, Ramos and all his cronies, those dirty dirty fuckers… good riddance! Better off here in London, here with big solid blokes like Hart and Kane and this Belgian dude, so much safer and calmer and… he slipped into comfortable sleep, scratching at his body in the heat and rifling at his Spurs tracksuit in a mission to relax and settle on the soft expansive couch. When Kane awoke, it was still dark outside, and it could have been any time between midnight and 5am. The cabin felt hot and oppressive but his body felt oddly comfortable where he was draped, the position he’d somehow dug himself into as the boozing turned to yawning and then sleep. He was angled back into — wait, not just the couch, but another body, oh how awkward. He was leaning half against Joe, that must be it, he could feel the hard muscles of the bigger man to his left, catching half of his own weight while the rest of him pushed into the saggy cushions of the couch, his long legs jutting out ahead, one ankle up on the arm of the sofa. Beyond the silhouette of his own foot he could see the TV, glowing faintly on a streaming service menu where the stupid embarrassing documentary series had timed out in the dark. He tried to angle himself carefully away from the body he was slumped against but decided he couldn’t really do it without disturbing the other guy more; he could hear the shallow sleepy sighs of Hart’s breathing and daren’t break that stillness. Head throbbing and eyes feeling dry and sore, he twisted his head a little, glancing at the window and the first hint of dawn light starting to materialise out there, or was he just imagining it? His mouth felt tender and tasted sour, how much shit had he actually drunk from the host’s over-the-top home bar…? Ugh. He felt queasy and wired and impossibly physically comfortable where he was. Though Joe’s breaths were shallow and soft, even though he could actually sorta feel them purr through the hard body of the 33-year-old beside him, they were almost drowned out by snoring; his eyes drifted below the window to the other end of the adjacent sofa, where Alderweireld was sleeping sat almost upright, his head lolling at a funny angle and his mouth wide open so his buzzsaw snoring cut painfully across the intimate space. Where Kane had tumbled asleep still in his full clothes, though both the polo shirt and tracksuit bottoms were twisted and uncomfortably about his torso and thighs, he noted that Toby had stripped off at some point, his shirt half-off and curled about one shoulder and bicep, his softly hairy chest bared and the other sleeve-tattooed arm propping him as he snored obliviously; his trackies were bunched about his ankles where he had maybe tried to undress and then drifted off, leaving his chunky legs on show and… Harry’s eyes fixated irresistibly on the way the sleeping Belgian had stuffed one hand inside his pink-and-blue striped boxer shorts to adjust or fiddle or play with himself, and left it there, sleeping in a pose of masculine self-assertion with his legs wide open. Harry blinked, headache momentarily cured by the sexy pose. His eyes flickered to the left, realising that Bale had partly stripped too, though against all odds seemed to have sourced some kind of blanket. His big bare feet pressed into the side of Toby’s bare thigh and Gareth’s face was buried in the arm of the couch, his whole big body in a foetal hunch where he lay fast asleep, though how anyone could sleep in close proximity to those hog-like snorts and breaths from the Belgian, jesus christ… Harry’s eyes skipped back to the accidental posing of Toby, this big defensive player who was `not his type’ but right now looked so fucking rugged and slobbish and sexy and inviting and… his own cock twitched in his tangled layers and he touched it awkwardly, giving it a peremptory rub that he knew was starting what he couldn’t possibly finish here and now, not like this… Some odd instinct made him pause, one hand on his crotch, the other folded numbly beneath his side, and turn his head sideways to look properly at where Hart slept. Or had slept. Joe had one eye open and a huge knowing smirk on his lips, lounged sideways towards the end of the sofa, his one open fixed on Harry’s gawping face. His grin seemed so rich in dirty knowledge and suspicion and it made Kane both tense with fear and tremor with possibility. He averted his eyes away for a moment, letting them fall again on the ogled prospect of Alderweireld, but then sharply back at the surprisingly conscious heap of the goalkeeper he was laying against. There was no hint in Joe’s smile or posture that he objected to being used as part-pillow and part-mattress, but Kane suddenly felt painfully aware of their closeness, the immediate presence of the bigger man as painful to him as the throbbing in his temples. Hart let out a long quiet sigh and shifted — at first he thought it was a hint that he should move, but then he felt it. The twist of Joe’s body to adjust the contact of their frames, the fleshy mound that was being suggestively rubbed into his shoulder, the size and obviousness of it… he tensed more and lifted himself a little and become very acutely aware that the way their bodies now interlocked, he was lying with his face hovering just above the splayed crotch of the former England no.1 who, like Toby and Gareth, seemed to have shed his tracksuit bottoms, and was bulging wildly in a pair of pale blue boxer briefs that clung to the insides of his blond furry thighs. It was a surreal, dreamlike moment. Perhaps, Harry thought, it WAS just a dream. It could hardly be real. Joe was smirking at him, both eyes lazily hooded, almost half-asleep still. One of his huge hands came rubbing down his front over the folds of his top, and when it reached the waistline, a thumb was hooked inside the band of those pants, pulling them forwards so that, yep… out came the cock, fleshy and pale and smelling sickly-sweet with hangover sweat. Harry lay sideways against his supportive body with his head around his midriff, staring down into the exposed lap beside him, and then back up at Joe’s face; the belligerent mischief in those hooded eyes and the little twisted grin of his pink lips. Kane was dizzy and sickly and overwhelmed but instinct responded to desire more than thought and quickly he was stooping, lowering his face close to the man’s crotch, breathing in his odour more, letting the tip of his nose rub against the chubby shaft of his meat, prodding and rubbing over it, letting the moustache of his beard tickle and stimulate it… exhaling warmly over the form of it and parting his lips to rub a gentle kiss against its base. No real noise of delight from the prone man but a slight deepening of his sleepy sighs. Kane kinda forgot where they were, kinda forgot the pulsing hangover headache. He kept his lips open and rubbed them dryly against the cock, which felt monstrously huge now but he had no real sense of its proportions compared to its own or the others he’d played with. It tasted of sweat and martini and hangover; it felt big and thick and increasingly firm. He adjusted his head a little, leaning his left side more fully into Joe’s body, and resting his right hand just above one of his knees. Then he dipped his face forward, opened his mouth fully, and took the lolling head of it inside his gob, ran his tongue over it and finally heard the faintest of discreet moans from his host. In Bale’s dream, the sound of the other man’s snoring had been like some infernal machine, some nightmarish dystopian scenario he was lost in; as he awoke, its blunt reality felt just as painful and invasive to his aching head, and he resisted opening his eyes for as long as he could. God, what time was it? How long had he been here? Where was everyone? His whole hunched body ached and twinged, what a shitty position he’d curled into, far too big for this sofa even without sharing it with the snoring beast of Alderweireld, and… ugh… The semi-conscious Welshman twisted his face away from the arm of the sofa, knowing its ribbed texture would be imprinted on his cheeks and brow, and gradually opened his eyes, shifting his body silently between the useless thin rag of a blanket he’d pulled over himself at some dizzy moment in the night. His bare knees rubbed against each other where he’d, for some reason, needed to strip off his trackies, and he twisted himself a little, and- The sight in front of him blurred into existence like an accidentally clicked porno of the totally wrong genre, jarring and uncomfortable and very much there before his eyes. Two men sprawled lengthways on the other couch, angled away from this one, displayed fully to him as his eyes adjusted and his brain loaded like an ancient PC; the sprawling decadent form of Joe Hart, one big hand resting halfway up his tummy, pulling his polo shirt mersin escort bayan away from the lower rungs of his white six-pack, and below that… the ruffled dirty-blond combover of Kane’s hair, dislodged where his face pressed in and out, mouth wide open… just at his parted lips, Gareth could make out the thickness of cock, the tight band beneath it where the man’s bollocks were still trapped in his undies… He stared, held his breath, observed. Kane was pushing his face in close, eyes squeezed shut, mouth wide open, sucking in slow but firm motions, making Hart twitch a little and sigh heavily. It seemed for a little while like the iconic goalie was asleep as he was fellated, his other hand resting loosely over his vacant face as he lay there, his cock buried in the other guy’s face; but then his big keeper’s paw lifted off his tummy and ran over the striker’s head, stroking his hair lazily, then clutching it more firmly to press down on, causing a very faint gurgling choke from England’s key striker. He watched it in horrified fascination, so shaken and alarmed and not a little excited. He watched as Harry twisted and shifted his weight, clinging to the bigger frame of Joe, mouthing up and down; his motions gave Gareth more of a glimpse of the goalie’s prick, shiny with saliva and veiny as fuck. Down he would go again, sucking on it like an icepop, the whole scene so public and obvious before him in the half-light provided by the glowing TV screen on the wall, everything painted a thin electric blue. He could hear the approach of Hart’s orgasm; could see the tensing of his big broad chest and bulging biceps, the little twitches of expression in his dormant face. He particularly saw the tightness and force with which that goalkeeper’s hand pressed down on Harry’s head, holding it over his crotch as his sighs intensified and got a fraction louder and then, just like that, were gone. Bale stared on as it the motions stopped and it became a tableau: just Kane lying halfway down him, face buried in his crotch, neither body moving an inch, their breaths almost imperceptible. And then, with great quietness and caution, Harry lifting his head, parting his lips from the tool, drooling a sticky mix from his tongue as he raised his face and, abruptly, looked THIS WAY… Gareth Bale met his eyes across the gap between the angled sofas, staring openly at the trickle of spit and cum in the man’s soft beard, beading on the hairs and glossy on his bottom lip. He saw his eyes widen and his brows raise. What the fuck? For a moment, the Welsh stud was back in sunny Spain, staring at Eden Hazard or at Sergio fucking Ramos, or watching himself almost in the third-person, stalking into that final pool party before he quit… No! He’d left all this behind! No, this was NOT happening… The other man burst off the couch in a rapid flurry, discarding the blanket and sweeping his big bare legs across the narrow space of floor. Harry blinked and swallowed and propped himself up on both elbows, one digging accidentally into Joe’s pelvis, but his attention was fully on the winger who had woken and observed his dirty dawn crime. He did look once more at Hart, but all he saw was a sleepy smirk of completion and a soft sigh of disinterest, his whole huge body relaxing back and his arms spreading in pandiculation. His cock flopped against his tummy and oozed cum and spit on his flesh, and Harry pulled himself away from the big man, tumbling onto the rug-covered floor on his knees and launching himself after Gareth, who had just burst at the door and wrenched it open. Out of the corner of his eye and in some calmer corner of his brain, he noted that Toby was still fully asleep, snoring like an underground train, hand still stuffed inside his undies. Kane burst out of the cabin door and into the pre-dawn darkness in a frantic rush, the same brief spurts of energy that allowed him to run a rapid attack on the football pitch. Quickly, he was tumbling into Bale, who had paused yards from the doorway, lost and overwhelmed; he grasped at the sleeves of the polo shirt the man still wore on his top half, though his bared legs seemed glaringly pale and luminescent out here among the trees at the bottom of the massive garden. `Bale,’ he gasped, still tasting cum in his mouth, `Bale, listen to me…’ `Geroff,’ grunted the Welsh wonder, pushing harshly at his body and stumbling away from him in the shadows, `geroff me and fuck off, you…’ `Mate, listen, it wasn’t what it-` `Cocksucker! Fuckin’ cocksucker…’ `Mate! Stop… shush… you’ll-` `You dirty bastard, Harry Kane,’ hissed the Tottenham returnee. `Gareth,’ he pleaded, his voice full of fear at what he’d been witnessed in, snatching at the chest of the other man’s shirt, wrenching at the fabric and squaring up to him, almost aggressive with his need for solution and reassurance, `you didn’t see anything, it wasn’t, it was just, it…’ `You dirty queer!’ Bale was spitting in his face, grabbing at him too, by the upper arms, digging thumbs into his biceps, really glaring at him, his face stormy and craggy in its outrage. `I…’ I what? Harry had no idea what to say. His breaths just wheezed out and his lips felt sticky with Joe Hart’s seed. He thought angrily of the big goalkeeper just drifting back to sleep on the couch, satisfied in his hangover and then disinterested in this little scuffle of exposure. But the two inside the cabin felt very distant from this conflict, the two big forwards grasping at each other in the darkness beneath the trees. `Get down,’ grunted Bale viciously, pulling on his arms. It took him moments to understand the command, even as his knees buckled and he felt himself give in to the pulls and pushes of the other player’s hands. When his knees and shins struck the rough grass, and he came face to face with the package in those tight blue trunks, he still thought he was about to be punched or kicked or shouted at, but no; Gareth’s hand was inside the pants like Toby’s, and like Joe’s, pulling it out, pressing it into his face, his second big sweaty cock of the early morning rush. Driven again by instinct, Kane parted his lips, and his eyes rolled up, trying to catch Bale’s eyes, trying to understand the moment, but he couldn’t, all he could see was his clothed torso and the arc of his neck as the man leant back and sighed, and brought both hands down to the sides of his head, holding him in place as that cock stiffened and grew against his tongue. Still dizzy, still nauseous, still confused, Harry sucked him off, tasting the difference between Joe and Gareth and also tasting their mixed fluids in his mouth, the leaking pre-cum of the Welsh meat so delicious on his palate. He had no real sense of where they were or how insanely stupid this was, out in the early hours in the freezing cold suburban garden of the hosting footballer, he just knew what he needed to. He mouthed quickly and furtively at it, feeling its size and strength, grabbing his hands around the tight hairy calves of Bale’s legs. This was a dream, he asserted, it really was, he was just being passed from crotch-to-crotch like a total slut, used and abused like he had been by Redknapp and Maguire and… he opened his mouth wide to be that slut, let Bale’s strong rough hands push his head about, fucking his mouth like a pussy, and he submitted entirely to the insane rush of it all. When he swallowed his second load of the day, he gasped and licked and panted greedily, letting it ooze over his beard and mix with the beads of Hart’s spunk, his head exploding with the throbs of his hangover. Bale went back inside first, his package bouncing in his tight undies, his face set in a rigid frown of anger. On one sofa, Hart made a generalised groan of hungover distress, his cock still loose over the waist of his underpants, arms stretched out; on the other, a piggish snuffle seemed to interrupt Alderweireld’s snores and he shifted and jerked awake. Bale stood between them, glancing from one man to the other: watching Hart’s hands dip down to stuff his privates away, smearing a little stain on his fingers; Alderweireld muttering to himself in Flemish and flopping sideways to stretch out and take up the whole sofa, then turning his bare back on them and seeming to disappear into sleep again. `I’m going,’ Gareth barked at their host, who barely moved, just lifted one muscular arm in a lazy wave, and made the faintest groan of acknowledgement from his closed lips. The Welshman picked his tracksuit bottoms off the floor and dragged them up his legs, which suddenly felt ice-cold from being out in the darkness in his just his undies. He tightly tied the drawstring and then forced his feet one at a time into the trainers by the side of the couch, glancing about for where he’d dropped his tracksuit jersey. He found two of them, unsure which was his since they all matched and were similar physiques, and then glancing at the doorway, picked up a second, walked over and handed it to the rather forlorn figure standing there. `Here,’ he snapped irritably at Kane, `put this on,’ and then burst outdoors past him and left the cabin behind. He walked quickly over the slippery damp grass, away from the little outhouse and the spreading lawns that led up to the main property itself. Above, the sky was pale, shifting, a wintry daybreak on its way. He could hear the scuffling steps behind him as he marched on, away from the cabin and the trees and down to the thin gate they’d drunkenly entered through last night. He held the metal bars open and glanced behind him as Harry Kane, sheepish and silent and eyes downcast, followed him then scuffled past and out onto the roadside beyond. He followed and let the metal gate clang heavily shut behind them. `Mate,’ whispered the Tottenham striker, in the middle of zipping up his tracksuit top, finally looking properly at him, all wide-eyed innocence and manly fear. `You wanna share a cab?’ Bale cut over him, not meeting his desperate gaze, just bustling past him, and past the parked lump of Toby’s big Jeep. He kept his back to Kane, marching out onto the deserted suburban road, all looming mansions and tree cover, glancing left and right and trying to remember where the fuck Joe Hart actually lived. They could be anywhere. His breathing was loud and heavy and he stood still, trying to calm it, reaching up to fiddle with his loosening locks and tie them back up. He felt rather than heard Kane’s presence draw closer and stop still beside him — then the tentative hand about his shoulder, forcing him to turn and look at him. `Bale,’ said the 150-goal Premiership hero fearfully, `are we okay?’ He scowled at him, his hungover eyes burning at the effort of being open. `Last night was a mistake, we both feel like shit.’ He turned sharply away, rubbing both hands over his face, and feeling his cock chafe and itch in his undies as it softened. `That was stupid. So stupid. Ugh.’ He shook Kane’s hand off his shoulder and fished out his phone, stepping out into the road as he loaded up the app and swiped desperately to summon a taxi. As he did so, he glanced back once more, catching the worried frown on Kane’s face as he stared back at the high walls and the gate into Hart’s grounds, back towards the man-cave where so much had been exposed. Gareth Bale paused guiltily in the middle of opening the cab, thumb hovering over the confirmation button. `Harry,’ he sighed, his voice gravelly with the hoarse dehydration of the morning after. `Yeh?’ mumbled his acclaimed teammate, turning this way. Deep breath, slow nod. `We’re okay,’ he confirmed distantly, unable to say anything more positive or specific than that. `We’re okay, mate. Come on. Let’s get the hell outta here.’ *AS EVER, THANK YOU FOR READING – LET ME KNOW WHAT YOU THOUGHT! 202 STORIES IN, STILL GOING STRONG…? KEEN TO GET SOME NEW CHARACTERS AND STORYLINES IN, SO SUGGESTIONS AND REQUESTS ALWAYS WELCOME…*

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