premiership-lads-135

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Subject: Premiership Lads part 135: Return to St James’ Park (Away) Part 135: Return to St James’ Park (Away) Phil Foden looked at the football ground rising ahead, dominating the city’s skyline as the Manchester City coach ground through the quiet early afternoon traffic and uphill to St James’ Park. The 20-year-old midfielder hugged his hands across his lap and needled his shoulders at the seat behind him in a frustrated little self-massage. He was staring out of the window not in any admiration of the city’s sandstone architecture or mighty bridges, it was just a good distraction from the past couple of hours, spent mostly staring at a semi circle of perfectly tanned skin rising from the seat ahead: the restful crown of Pep Guardiola’s head, sitting so close to him, but occupied for much of the way by heated Spanish conversations with two of his assistants, or over the phone with business representatives at the club. Important work, Foden quietly assumed, but not without a little bitterness or envy. Stop it, he told himself firmly, stop fretting, stop being a dick. Think about the match. Think about the FA Cup. It’s just what this club needs, what all the lads need, what beautiful Pep needs right now; he’s had a hard few months, he needs you to fight for this. With Liverpool claiming the league, the pressure was on for City to show their mettle in the FA Cup and bulldoze their way into the semi-finals. Phil knew that he was not on the starting line-up this evening but he was on the bench with a strong chance of coming on in the second half. Keep your mind on that, he told himself, as the coach swung into the shadows of the looming stadium and its special car park, keep your mind on putting in a good shift and doing papi proud. With that in mind, Foden mustered a serious, confident expression as he and the others filed off the team buses and out onto the tarmac, awaiting instructions and donning their face masks. The slim young midfielder hopped from foot to foot, stretching his legs from too long on a coach, unable to stop himself watching the calm and masterful way that their 49-year-old manager directed each man individually from the vehicles and barked out smooth instructions to his aides. It was hard not to watch and admire the way he slipped between languages and the way his bright mind could be seen working behind his shining eyes; for Phil, this devoted attention had gone on long before they shared a hotel room and their relationship took a different turn. In small groups, the City players were directed indoors, guided to the common rooms where they would be able to relax for a while before heading down to get changed and warm up. Phil hung back, hands in the pockets of his slim-fit City tracksuit, watching closely as Guardiola finished up a quick conversation with a Newcastle representative then fell into step behind the team. Their paths crossed and, for what felt like the first time today, the middle-aged Spaniard addressed him with a vague half-smile and a quick pat to the shoulder. `Filipe,’ he breathed with a hint of his usual fondness. `Journey felt long,’ Foden commented aimlessly, having to quicken his step as the manager hurried after the rest of the squad. `Hmm, perhaps,’ Guardiola said non-commitally, flashing him a thoughtful look, the most attention he’d had in days. `You are feeling well, my boy?’ `Yeah, grand,’ the Stockport scally responded quickly, glad to be asked but embarrassed how important it was for him to hear that question, that epithet. `Just…’ He stopped in his walk, in the broad draughty corridor they were following into the labyrinthine football ground, eyeing the distance between them and the rest of the men travelling indoors. To his pleasure, Pep slowed and stopped too, looking back at him, albeit a little impatiently. Guardiola looked ready for action in his slim grey jeans and Puma hoody, none of the formality and stuffiness some other managers his age brought to the occasion. `Filipe? What is it?’ he asked in a measured voice, tapping a clipboard of notes against his leg. Phil stared at him, and a resentful sullen part of him was it irritated by the question itself. Wasn’t it obvious what was bothering him? He found it hard not to let this thought show in his frowning expression as he stood there, adjusting the bag strap on his shoulder. `Guardiola, sir,’ he mumbled, `I just… well I wondered if at the hotel tonight, we might…’ His wandering comment died in his throat and he stopped, looking at the intense thoughtful expression on Pep’s face, very distracted; as he stopped speaking, the City manager was glancing ahead of them and judging how far behind they were being left, then looking at his watch. `No,’ Phil said then with a sudden burst of petulant annoyance, `I guess not. You’re too fucking busy.’ He didn’t mean to swear. It just fell out. `Pardon?’ the older man responded quickly in a clipped tone. `Nothing,’ Phil grumbled, annoyed at them both, `nothing important anyway — you’re making THAT obvious…’ He tugged at the bag on his shoulder and began to step forward but the taller older man was suddenly barring his way, moving closer to him, looking down at him with an intense but not entirely pleasant expression. `You’re annoyed with me,’ the manager diagnosed in a quiet and gravelly voice. `Not annoyed,’ Foden backtracked quickly. `Because we have not… spent time.’ `No, I mean, yeah a bit –` It sounded churlish and his voice sounded reedy and weak. He had to look away, Pep’s eyes were almost burning into him now. `Forget I said-` `You have no idea,’ Guardiola said, cutting him off, `the pressure I am under.’ Phil began to speak again, to protest this sudden and harsh accusation. `There is so much business, so much strategy, so much at stake right now…’ He was shaking his head, the silver-grey of his beard catching the light. `You dare to whine at me on the way into battle like this? To sulk with me like child?’ The words, all of them, felt like a slap in the face. They stung. Foden rocked on his heels and gawped at this special man who had become so central to his life ever since he graduated to the adult teams of Manchester City. This man who had helped him to become a star. And so much else. He quickly regretted his silly frown, his needling comments, his bad attitude in yesterday’s training and the mock matches the days before, and- `You think I not notice your mood?’ Pep demanded. `You think I not notice you GLARE at me in team talk this morning? Filipe…!’ The manager realised his voice was getting louder and took a step backwards, shaking his head. Phil was about to make a wheedling attempt to undo the damage, but again he felt that burning glare and an almost threatening posture form the 5ft11 man, looming ahead of him and squaring his shoulders in that close-fitting hoody. `You are silly child, Filipe, you have no idea — damn it –` something inaudibly Spanish, and then, `you get yourself up there to relax with the team or you will not even make bench this evening, understand?’ Phil just stared at him, shocked and shook by his tone, his words, his body language. It felt so sudden and harsh that he wanted to cry, an irritating youthful sensation that made him feel even more emasculated and infantilised than ever he often did around all these older men. He searched for something to say, his mind swinging between a pathetic compliant `yes sir’ and a sullen sarcastic `si signor’. He said neither, bunched his arms together and marched rapidly past his boss, hurrying after the disappearing footsteps of the others. In the `Away’ changing rooms of St James’ Park, their star midfielder’s 29th birthday became the main source of discussion. The pale redhaired Belgian grinned happily at the various cultural jokes about his pipe, slippers and walking stick as he neared 30, stood at the heart of the busy changing rooms in the middle of pulling a City shirt over the thick trunk of his torso. He was, quietly, a good sport, never the loud joker of the close-knit squad, but always happy to be the butt of others’ humour, secure in the knowledge of just how gifted and successful he was now. To some extent, Kyle Walker envied him these qualities; clearly, Kevin De Bruyne had never been an insecure weed of a young teenager who needed coarse humour and a bit of vicious sarcasm to ease his way through social situations. Which, in Walker’s narrow view, was a surprise, given that he was a big ginger bugger. Walker, long before he was bulging with muscle and tattoo, had picked up the jester qualities to ingratiate himself in youth teams in Sheffield and since, always needing that attention of laughter and praise to validate him. `The one good thing about when you’re an old cunt like me,’ he told De Bruyne loudly, sitting on the bench a yard from him and unfolding his own City away shirt to pull on, its garish sherbet colours spread out on his thick thighs, `is that your carrot-top hair will turn a sexy silver — you know, like Papi Pep’s, haha… or Gary Lineker, haha…’ There was a satisfying ripple of laughter at this, from the other lads around them. Kevin himself, the birthday boy, just grinned his thick pouting lips and shook his head, used to the lame banter about his fiery pubes, letting Kyle’s insults fall past his broad shoulders as he carried on getting changed and ready. Next to them, Sterling was hooting almost sycophantically with laughter, a trend Walker had noticed more and more in the weeks since his own 30th birthday; no doubt the cute Jamaican lad secretly wanted a rerun, even if he did loudly proclaim to have zero memory of that night at EVERY occasion. Gundogan and Mahrez hooted like hyenas, always Walker’s biggest fans, and Mendy was cackling cheerfully too. He grinned at his audience. But then, as the changing room banter progressed, he had to take his own share of abuse. Not from KDB, who was placidly lacing up his boots, but from grinning Frenchman Aymeric Laporte, swaggering cockily past still in his tight blue briefs, half his arse on show. `I think at least Monsieur De Bruyne will keep his hair for the whole of his 30s, no?’ chuckled the centre-back playfully, shooting a challenging wink his way. This was the problem with the banter that Walker always started, because now he grimaced back and had to laugh along, while in truth he was wondering just how many of them had noticed the beginnings of a bald patch in his short curls. Conversation moved on, thankfully, but to more gentle mockery of him, this time for his love life. Word had quickly got around of his engagement, and the photos of the mad flower displays he had paid for to pop the question were being volleyed back in forth in a squad group chat, laughing at their very own `Casanova’ or `Romeo’. As the topic came up again, cheeky Sterling launched into snatches of love songs whilst pulling up his socks, and even dull, safe Kevin dared to ask him whether his own wife was safe at the next team barbecue, or if she would risk becoming a bigamist. Walker laughed it all off until he saw the beady blue eyes staring across the room at him. John Stones was against the opposite wall, pulling the tracksuit bottoms up over his long legs and baggy coral pink football shorts, but glaring fully at him as the hot topic bounced between the variously dressed and undressed lads, repeated jokes at Kyle’s expense about his infidelities and tendency to think with his big thick cock. Walker paused in the middle of zipping up his tracksuit mersin escort top, tensing at the dangerous expression on the younger defender’s face, then starting a little bit at the sharp movement of Stones rising up to his feet and darting past the other guys at that side, making for the door. Luckily, nobody seemed to notice this speedy and unannounced exit, this drama queen behaviour, in Walker’s opinion. He sighed begrudgingly and got himself up. On the way past the others, he quickly deflected the group chat with a single comment. `Never mind my engagement, you dickheads, all anyone wants to know is how many Stockport lassies our Foden actually got pregnant last season, right…’ He waved dismissively at the 20-year-old, who was sat sulking in the other corner, and passed on by, escaping the ensuing laughter and following his tall Barnsley boy out into the tunnel. `John,’ he hissed, following him away from the changing room doors and the nearby Home ones. `Fuck off,’ snapped back Stones’ voice, `I just need a minute.’ Kyle followed him quickly down the corridor to a blunt junction of stairwells, grasping his elbow firmly and tugging on the sleeve of his matching tracksuit top. `Oi, John, mate. We need to talk about this, you’re just being a-` `Leave it out,’ Stones grumbled back at him, shaking off his hand, `I’m not in the mood, we’ve got the game to think about…’ The 6ft2 centre-back carefully avoided meeting his eyes, backing into the quiet square of passages and folding his long arms across his chest, inadvertently pulling the tracksuit more tightly about his thick shoulders and lofty physique, quickly capable of making Walker feel a bit stumpy. `What are you mad at?’ Kyle demanded in a hushed voice. `The fact I got engaged or the fact everyone is taking the piss out of it? Eh? What, is it cos I never bought you any fuckin’ flowers…?’ He leaned in close, almost aggressively. `It were YOU who had me move out of the house and back to my fuckin’ flat, before you…’ `I don’t want to argue,’ John said firmly, pronouncing each syllable with care. `Leave it.’ `You’re being a total dick,’ Walker told him. `Oh right, great,’ Stones snapped back, `thanks for that, love…’ `John, what the fuck?’ he demanded. `You know the plan. We gotta do this. We gotta lay low. Just cos nowt has come out yet… those fuckers saw us, right, and-` `I know, I know,’ John repeated erratically, pulling away from him, his voice a hissing whisper, `so you keep fuckin’ reminding me every day, and… jesus, you think I wanted you out of the house…?’ `Well I don’t know, you can’t seem to fucking look at me since then…!’ And then, just as he worked out what to say next, where to start with what a melodramatic diva the 26-year-old was being, he could see the alarm in the taller footballer’s face, and sense the presence behind him. He twitched his neck and felt a stab of annoyance at the black-and-white kit of the Newcastle player looming ostentatiously into this very public space. While John made some vague, quiet greeting to the Toon striker, Kyle just scowled and looked away, worried by how much his anguished face might reveal now. He hoped for a minute that Andy Carroll was just rushing by on his way somewhere, that they would be able to talk properly, but then he really thought about this spot, where of course they would be interrupted and overheard… But John was moving away anyway, strolling back down the tunnel. Kyle glanced irritably at the Newcastle player, deciding to blame that long-haired prick for everything that was going on, and rushed after John back down in the direction of the changing rooms. `We need to talk about this,’ he insisted in a mumble, but John left him for dust. He watched him go, that big over-sensitive dumb-arse, so moody and needy just because Kyle had the sense to put a plan in place and protect their fragile time together; that big idiot, that total drama queen, that… he looked at the broad stretch of his back and the stomp of his strong long legs, the way his layered tracksuit hugged his pert buttocks as he stepped moodily around the corner, his curly mop bouncing with each movement of his long neck. Fucking bell-end, Kyle thought, fucking beautiful bell-end. Phil hadn’t spent a minute alone with Guardiola since the night before their first game back from the break; that night, so terrifying and beautiful in its intimacy and novel experiences (Foden had literally never heard of rimming before) had left him shaken but enraptured. Then, from the following day, a complete freeze in contact or signals from Pep. When the City squad travelled to London to lose to Chelsea, he’d even been left at home, in Manchester, on the grounds that he had a young kid and there was no point taking him away if he wasn’t in the starting 11. For the confused young lad, the hot-and-cold shift in mounting tensions with his club manager had been too much to bear, and the frustrations had built up, leading to his pretty sulky antics in recent club training sessions and so on, and climaxing in today’s confrontation. Sitting on the subs bench, he had time to turn it over, and really think about how busy and pressurised the handsome older man had actually been in that period. He’d felt some of the pressure too, of course, but mostly he’d been fantasising about what had gone in that executive apartment, and desperately wondering when it could happen again. The Newcastle game was ticking along in its second half, 1-0 up thanks to a beautiful penalty from the birthday bloke himself. Guardiola was sat not far away to the left, distanced for now in a seat of his own, stroking his beard and watching the players in action. Foden braced himself and decided now was as good a time as any. He got up from the subs bench and made his way over, past the drinks station ready for the midway break, and slid down into a seat next to Pep; not quite kosher with the rules, but nobody would notice for a minute, the BBC cameras would be trained on the tense action in front of them. `Boss,’ he hissed. Pep looked sharply at him, so invested in the play that he almost seemed not to register Phil’s identity or presence, just blinking through him and holding his hand against his furry chin in a pose of meditative quiet. Then he raised his dark brows and his eyes turned stern. `What is it?’ he demanded a little roughly. `Pep, boss,’ Foden mumbled, `I just wanted to come and-` `Hold on,’ hissed Guardiola, eyes flicking away as Mahrez made another shot on target and the game risked advancing. Then, back to Foden, a questioning frown on those lined features. `Well?’ `Guardiola, sir, I just wanted to say sorry about…’ He tailed off, seeing that same intensity and displeasure on the older guy’s face, feeling withered by his stare and the solidity of his presence. Foden sank back a little in the seat. `Look, maybe now ain’t the time, er…’ `Of course now is not the time,’ Pep said, not taking his eyes off him for a second. `I am quite busy, in case you had not noticed. WE are quite busy.’ And he leaned in, his voice low and quite threatening. `You really want to talk about this HERE, NOW…?’ He gestured meaningfully out at the stadium; there was something ironic in the gesture, given the lack of crowds, but the world (or at least two sets of Premeirship fans) were watching from home. Foden pulled back and lifted off the seat, stung once more by both Pep’s attitude to him and the knowledge of his own idiocy. He began to mumble an apology but Guardiola was immediately up from his seat, gesticulating wildly at a nearby winger, and shouting something to the referee. And then, just as Foden was about to slink back to his seat and watch the final 25 minutes of the game in mortified silence, Guardiola grabbed him roughly by the elbow and turned to him with an almost snarling urgency. `Get yourself together, boy,’ he snapped harshly at him, `and get those trackies off. You come on, and you play well, okay?’ Five or six minutes later, and another substitution for City. Walker bumped elbows in quiet recognition of his replacement, trudging off the pitch and grasping a bottle of rehydration fluids from the bench. He got a curt look, a muttered thank you and a pat on the back from Guardiola; the manager had certainly thawed towards him compared to the early lockdown period and his public misbehaviour, and even the months before that around the time of his other prostitution antics. Pep certainly had issues with him as a man and a professional, but he respected his contributions to the squad. Walker felt more secure in his place at the Etihad than ever before. He stretched out his arms and shoulders as he moved away from the edge of the pitch and to the spaced out substitute seats and benches, squirting the flavoured water into his mouth and blinking sweat out of his eyes. Immediately, his belligerent matchday mindset cooling to a comfortable awareness of their impending victory, his gaze fixed on the last of the substitutes, the tall defender sat stiffly with his chin cupped in his hands, eyes sliding from side to side as he followed the ball. `I know it ain’t over til the fat lady sings,’ he grumbled bashfully at the other lad, `but I reckon we’ll be in the semis now, huh…’ Stones didn’t even bother to look over at him as he took his place at the end of the row, leaning on a post and peeling his top halfway up his six-pack to scratch an itch. `Right, it’s like that then,’ the 30-year-old right-back grunted after a minute. `I’m focused,’ John told him bluntly. `I might be needed in a minute.’ Kyle scoffed at this, meaning to grunt at the rudeness of his mate’s speech, but accidentally sounding like he was rubbishing the idea of John being required by the 2-0 winners in the final chunk of action. He saw that interpretation all over his bestie’s face and he grimaced at his own clumsiness. `Stones, mate,’ he said quickly. `Just fuck off,’ John said under his breath. `Okay? I’m not up for this.’ `You’re being ridiculous.’ `And you’re being a cunt. Leave it. Go ring your fiancée. Or Raheem fucking Sterling for all I care. You’re rooming with him tonight, ain’t ya?’ `And what’s that meant to mean?’ Walker demanded. His irritation turned into bravado. `So what if I am, anyway. He’s a smug little prick but at least he can take a dick.’ This last comment almost spat into John’s ear before pulling away and stomping heavily up the steps to a row of seats a bit detached from the game, where a couple of other players had gone to cool off and wind down. He regretted the last jibe as soon as his back was turned, imagining the stung scowl on John’s face, but he couldn’t take it back now, not now it had been said… `What is his problem?’ asked the cool Belgian sigh of De Bruyne, slumping into the space beside him. John glanced briefly over at the redhaired midfielder, called off the pitch at the same time as Walker in a double substitution, but didn’t really address the casual question about the stomping sulk that had just brushed away up the steps. `Huh, you defenders — so hot tempered, eh!’ And the broad-shouldered goal-scorer leaned back in his seat, flushed red in the face but looking rightly pleased with himself. John eased his scowl somewhat, self-conscious about the generalised comment. `Good birthday goal there, mate.’ He slapped him gently on the arm. `Solid work, pal.’ `Heh, only hole I will get it in today,’ muttered the Belgian with uncharacteristic frankness, then wheezed escort mersin a little laugh and pulled his shirt up to wipe his clammy face, exposing the smooth bulk of his midriff, muscular but less defined. `Huh, on your birthday?’ the Englishman replied with an uncertain laugh, distracted for a moment for his scowling resentment of Kyle Walker and the apparent collapse of something pretty fucking special that had been going on. He peered at Kevin and frowned; it was so unlike him to make any allusion whatsoever to his sex life, he was so straight-laced and earnest. `Forget I said that,’ the birthday boy muttered. `Who do you suppose we will get in semi-final, eh?’ John ignored this too, watching his frowning red-cheeked expression as he leaned forward to concentrate on the football, intrigued by the unusual comment and the man’s swift departure from it. `Things a bit wonky at home, lad?’ he asked gently, nudging him with an elbow. `Hmm? Oh. Forget it. Silly comment. Aha — here comes another go… Ahhh, no… never mind.’ Victorious, the City team trudged into the tunnel, their voices echoing without the real crowd noise outside in the stadium. One by one the footballers made their way into the changing rooms, unhurried but happy with themselves. Phil Foden walked a little awkwardly, alert and distracted-looking against the general cheer of the match-winners, but then jerked aside from the mass of lads as his wrist was grabbed and he was pulled off-course for a moment. Kyle then threw his hand up from his wrist and onto his shoulder, steering him discreetly but firmly in a new direction, further on down the corridor, not saying anything as the young player exclaimed, `Walker, mate, what the…?’ Walker ignored him, striding on in a quick and disinterested manner, because that was always the one that attracted the least attention; but he let go of the kid’s arm, because that could sure look dodgy, and instead just shot him a moody demanding look; enough bristling tension in his features to grab Foden’s interest, the confused youth stumbling after him and breaking away from the celebratory pack. `Mate,’ Foden muttered quietly, `what the hell was that? What are you…’ Kyle had enough of his back to the disappearing figures to get away with it: he shoved his right hand down the front of his brightly coloured City away shorts to give himself a feel, his body angled just enough that Phil could see the gesture. `You want it or not, fuck-face?’ he asked. It was one of the first times he’d spoken directly to the lad since the ruinous night of fun at his own apartment, bar strained communication on a pitch. He saw the widening of the lad’s intense young eyes, and just walked jerkily ahead and shoved open the door on the right into a separate unisex toilet, confident he had his fish on the hook. He was fairly sure of the quality of his bait, after all. Foden stumbled after him into the narrow rectangular space and Walker shoved the door shut after them. `Was anyone looking?’ he demanded bluntly, clamping down the lock and shutting them in; an auto-light flickered into buzzing existence and cast long shadows down their faces. `Nah,’ Phil told him uncertainly; Kyle enjoyed the nervous tremble in his voice. `Get your hands on it then, you fucking weed,’ he snarled, full of the game’s aggression and his own resentment for that overemotional prick on the bench. Phil reached tentatively but he snatched his ankle again and pushed it down against the bulging front of his shorts, pressing forward and pinning him to the door with the bulk of his body. Phil gasped and nodded and gave him a good fumble through the material, responding exactly as he’d hoped. `Knew you want it,’ Walker grunted dismissively in his face, no interest in anything but his own satisfaction here. `Knew it when we were playing with them birds. Knew you just wanted this, you dirty little bitch.’ `I’m not gay,’ Phil muttered at him with a conflicted expression on his face. `I’m not fucking interested,’ Kyle informed him, and he wrenched his own footy shirt up and off, baring his body and tossing it at the close wall, then lifting one strong arm and grabbing the lad by the neck. `Sniff that you little tart.’ He pulled Phil’s face against his armpit, making him breathe in his strong matchday odour, holding him there and laughing quietly. Phil wriggled, a bit panicked and frightened, but at the same time pushed his hand greedily inside the shorts, in against the sweaty black sports briefs, squeezing and tugging at the mound of Kyle’s weighty cock. `Aye, that’s it, you daft twat, grab it good…’ Despite his expectations, he was impressed how quickly the slender young footballer got to it, grabbing at his body and kissing his chest, seeming high off the sweaty stink of his armpit. Kyle stopped himself from being affectionate in his touch but he held him tightly in his biceps and pulled him from the door, shoving him into the other wall with a little clattering noise, grunting his appreciation as his cock was stroked into life. With the same sluttish greed, Phil was pushing down on his shorts and his undies, quick and desperate to get a hand on his cock. There was an almost glazed look on his alarmed face and a certain angry determination that echoed Kyle’s own mood. `Go on, get down there and sniff my balls you prick,’ he said at him, but without his previous menace; he wasn’t angry at this twat, was he? He just really needed servicing right now. Phil stroked his thighs and went down, burying his face in against the front of his briefs before peeling them down fully and nuzzling his cock, touching it without the drug-fuelled hesitation of the night with the hookers; he grabbed it full on and licked it, and Kyle stared down with a measure of suspicion: what had this little gimp been up to since then…? He growled and panted and fed his stiffening tool into those soft lips, surprised and pleased by how well Foden took it, almost listening out for the familiar gagging noise of John struggling at it — that brought a sort of stabbing sensation to his chest that he didn’t want to think of as guilt or anguish, unwilling to admit how much he’d come to love the clumsy uncertainty with which the big Lancashire lad approached all of their fun. He let out a noise of frustration and smacked one fist against the tiles. Phil looked up sharply, licking his lips and staring his way intently. `What’s wrong? Did I do summat wrong? Is it not good?’ `Shut up and suck,’ Kyle told him, `you shitty little grass, Pep’s fuckin’ golden boy… suck it…’ And fucking hell he did. Kyle closed his eyes and enjoyed it; it reminded him more of the sloppy generosity of Jack Grealish’s mouth, that night at Wembley, FUCK that had been good, hadn’t it? Mmm… He moved his hips a little, pushing his cock deeper into that hungry hole and testing Phil’s appetite and talent. Then he pulled it out and thwacked it at his puckered cheeks and ran its wet tip over his lips and chin, laughing at the greedy expression on his face. `You fucking cum whore,’ he baited him in his low moan, `you proper little slut…’ `Yeah,’ Foden confirmed in a reedy voice, `yeah I am, yeah I am sir…’ Sir! Fuck yes! Kyle pushed his cock back in so roughly and deeply that he got his gagging noise after all, then laughed and pulled back, and reached down for the shoulders of Phil’s City shirt, dragging him upwards and pushing him roughly back into the wall so that he yelped. `Let’s see if your arse is as good as yer mouth, cunt boy,’ he spat, literally gobbing on the chest of his shirt, and wrenching at his top to spin him round against the wall. John Stones stared morosely at the shower wall, and ran a soapy hand over his pecs, blinking as his wet curly hair descended into his eyes. He didn’t even need a shower, he hadn’t made it onto the turf; but everyone else was and it was a good excuse to stand here ignoring everyone while the water gushed down and the soap suds trickled down his tall frame, from muscular shoulders to hairy shins to the toes of his massive feet. The only sound other than the hiss of water and pipes was a bit of muffled singsong from the main changing room, where some of the City lads were already fresh and clean and dancing about in tiles acting like the Cup was won. There was a metallic punching noise and an increase in the watery roar, drowning out the singing. He looked to the right and found he was no longer alone at this end of the shower block, the next head occupied by Kevin De Bruyne; 5ft11 of thick white muscle stepping into the blast of hot water and giving him a little nod of greeting as he did. John looked back at the wall and rubbed the soapy hands up to his neck then over his shoulders, then started at the other guy’s quiet voice, leaning over to hear him over the water as he repeated himself. `Should not have said what I said before,’ Kevin confided quietly, too quietly, making John almost lip-read over the hissing pipes. `Oh, lad, it’s cool, don’t you worry…’ `Silly issues really,’ De Bruyne mumbled, `got a good life, should not complain…’ John gave him a sidelong smile. `I dunno, bud, if you can’t get in the hole on your birthday…’ Kevin laughed, a bit distantly, reaching between them for the soap dispenser against the wall, his arm brushing John’s a little as he did. `Fuck it… silly talk, silly talk… what does it matter that I can’t get my wife to fuck me any more… barely once since our second kid…’ `Ain’t he nearly two?’ Stones remarked without thinking. He saw the embarrassed look on the Belgian man’s face, the way he looked down at their feet and rubbed soap disconsolately up his thick upper arms, seeming to regret his uncharacteristic admission. `Er, fuck it, I’m sure it’s fine, you two are great together, K, don’t you worry…’ `She thinks I’m boring,’ the penalty-taking hero of the match said more firmly, more annoyed, punching lightly at the button of the shower and increasing its spray over his shoulders, then nodded downwards, `but I nearly as big as you, so… I dunno what I do wrong…!’ John raised his eyebrows at this yet more surprising line of discussion, but took the invite to look down and compare their long pieces, his own thick sausage hanging from the neatly trimmed pubes, and Kevin’s gently curving sausage and chunky bollocks beneath a pale halo of red-gold hair. When he’d finished ogling, Stones found he had no fucking idea what to say. `I should not be saying this,’ De Bruyne said again, quite sadly. `Hey, birthday lad, don’t you worry,’ Stones said, reassuringly but confusedly, reaching over to slap a wet hand against his thick shoulder and pat it. `Between mates.’ `I… I never been… confident in that way, like… you, or Kyle, or…’ A laugh from the Belgian to cover his self-consciousness, though not apparently about looking at or comparing their generous appendages. He rubbed both hands over his face. `Some of the time I wish, er, how you say, I could learn a trick or two…! Hah…’ John looked him up and down, admiring the glossy wetness of his bare body beside him, the almost boyish innocence of his face, even though three years older than John. He did look distressed and confused and John’s mind, dirty as it was these days, leapt with suggestions and possibility — this big handsome lump, eager to up his mojo and try new things, oh my… He found Kevin was watching him, their eyes meeting, the other guy on the verge of saying something, asking something. mersin escort bayan Suggesting something? The 6ft2 defender found his mind wandering in the steam of the showers, imagining himself reaching out and touching that chubby soft prick there, stroking those ginger pubes — but, fuck, no… He got a very sudden sick feeling in his stomach and pulled away, tugging loose curls of hair out of his eyes and shoving the shower down and off. Kevin blinked placidly at him and still seemed to be hesitating over whatever he wanted to say. `Happy birthday mate,’ John said in a friendly but conversation-ending tone, and backed sharply away, stomping to the rack of towels and throwing one about his waste before slipping back into the changing rooms, abandoning the wistful Belgian in the steam. Just then, he’d wanted nothing more than to touch De Bruyne and show the stuffy European just how much fun could be fucking had… But no, it wouldn’t be right, not after the things he’d said and done with Kyle. They might be back with their ladies, they might barely be talking, he might be angry as fuck with the big douchebag, but… He couldn’t betray him like that. `Oh Kyle,’ Phil breathed instantly as two fingers circled and prodded his hole, wet with his own saliva after Walker had dragged them against his tongue and forced him to suck them like a cock. `Ohhh…’ His face knocked uncomfortably against the smooth wall and he fidgeted against the pain, which surprised him. The tiny touch of finger that his bottom had experienced in the woods with his dear manager was nothing like this. Kyle was rough, forceful, almost uninterested in him being there, just pushing at his crack and slapping hard at his firm cheeks. He was excited, his dick stiff in the front of his shorts, straining against them, but he was also uncomfortable. `How about that,’ grunted Walker, as Phil felt his hole open up and both fingers enter him. Owch, fuck, fuck, owch! He couldn’t make the noises he wanted to, too terrified about who might hear them. It hurt like hell but it did feel exciting, it felt a bit like what his inexperienced body had been craving whilst Pep’s talented tongue lapped down there and teased him towards a messy completion. Walker was pushing the two digits in deeper, pushing quite violently at his petite body, pressing into him; coming so close that his cock, still wet from Phil’s lips, poked impatiently at one buttock then slid against his thigh a little, and Phil thought through where this was leading. No, he thought urgently, he couldn’t. Not because it hurt or because this bullying man of a footballer scared him half to death, but because that hole back there wasn’t really his to give up, not any more. He knew full well whose it was. `We can’t,’ he whispered, wriggling back and pushing at one of Kyle’s thick, unmovable arms. `Eh?’ `We can’t, I can’t,’ he repeated, pushing the arm again, and this time feeling it relent. Kyle’s fingers were still in arse but he was pulling back a little, and he could hear the confusion in his pants. `Stop,’ he asked, and felt his hole tighten back up as the fingers retracted. He looked over his shoulder and saw the disappointed anger. `You can’t fuck me,’ he said, but he felt like something in his voice or face must betray that he wanted it, because Walker looked bewildered. `Your arse feels so good you little slut…’ `I can’t, not yet,’ Phil mumbled. `It isn’t right, not here, not with you…’ He was just gibbering, unsure what to say, but there was a sort of dawning frown on Walker’s rugged features then, and he found himself pushed back to the wall, his bare buttocks slapping it. `I knew it.’ `You knew what?’ `I fuckin’ knew it.’ `What? Kyle? Erm… you just can’t… I’m not ready, I’ve never…’ `You suck cock too good for a newbie,’ Kyle snapped. `You’ve been… it’s him, ain’t it? It’s him!’ Phil felt a rising terror in him, and he grabbed at both Kyle’s hard-on and his own bulging prick, as if that attention would stop the inevitable accusation. He pulled quickly on Walker’s fat boner and got his own dick out of his shorts, pulling back on it to calm and relieve himself. `Fucking golden boy,’ snarled Walker. `You’re Pep’s little bitch, aren’t you? That’s it. That’s why I got screwed over in the papers while you vanished, that’s why you can’t put a foot fucking wrong no matter what, that’s…’ Phil squeaked out his protests and denials but Kyle was muttering darkly to himself and pushing back into the wall, holding his shoulders. `It isn’t like that,’ Foden told him weakly, but Kyle was laughing now, looking more pleased than angry with his theory, with Phil’s struggle not to confirm it. He ran his palm along the bigger guy’s cock and shook his head. `It isn’t… he isn’t… I’m not…’ Now Kyle was dragging on his shirt again and pushing him down, and Phil went with it, miserable but horny, devastated but hungry. He kissed Kyle’s fat cock and closed his eyes and hated himself: what he done? What had he revealed? Kyle’s cock was pushed between his lips and he took it, tasting the intense sweatiness of it, eyes screwed shut and hands reaching for the comforting thickness of those strong thighs. Walker was pretty much fucking his mouth, and he struggled with it, but he lapped his tongue up and down and did his best not to choke on it. After all, he thought, Pep hates me now. I’m not his golden boy any more. It isn’t even true any more. He won’t look at me, won’t touch me. I’m fucking nothing. I may as well be used like a toy, by this big bastard, because… His self-loathing was interrupted by Kyle’s loud groans. He opened wide and pushed forward with his face. This cum was what he needed, what he deserved, he just wanted to be soaked in it. When it came, he wrinkled his face and pulled back, spunk dribbling over his lips. It tasted nothing like Pep’s. `Fuck yes, you little slut… mmm… Guardiola’s bitch, eh… fuckin’ hell… Ain’t that a turn up for the books! Haha… always good to know a few things, ain’t it, kid…? Knowledge is power, they say…’ Phil looked up at him, Kyle backing off, his cock swinging, glistening with his own saliva. He crouched against the wall, hole stinging from the fingers, his cock throbbing against his own tummy where it had been pressed upright, hard as rock. `Pep isn’t… I’m not…’ He turned and wiped his mouth on the shoulder of his City shirt. `Kyle, fuck’s sake, don’t say anything, please, you can’t, it isn’t…’ Kyle had disappeared from view for a moment but was back, wriggling into his shirt, smirking down at him, sweatier than when he’d left the pitch. `And I was disappointed not to fuck you,’ he remarked coldly. `This is much better.’ He turned, washed his fingering hand in the sink, then flicked soapy water playfully at Phil’s face. `See you in the showers, bitch boy, see you in the showers.’ And he was stomped off, boots clicking off the floor tiles, unlocking and yanking open the toilet door, disappearing into the corridor. Foden, his mouth still tasting of the man’s salty seed, pulled himself up using the hand dryer, finding he was shaking with emotion. Not at the roughness of the bigger man’s attention or the pain in his bum, but at the horror of what he’d let slip; even his denials had been revelations. If only he’d thought, if only he’d known not to… Oh fuck! Okay, okay, he thought in a panic, washing his hands and then his face, splashing cool water at himself and spitting out spit that tasted like cum. Okay, it can’t be that bad. After all, Kyle just pushed his dick in your face, he’s got his own secrets! And you never ACTUALLY confirmed his stupid suspicions, you didn’t REALLY betray Guardiola… A darker, sadder voice interrupted in his head: besides, what the fuck is Pep to you now, after the way he spoke to you today? The young footballer pulled away from the sink and the mirror, glad his erection was wilting, he was in no mood to sort it out. He pushed it into his shorts, glad his tight compression pants could keep it locked down against his thigh, and left the disabled toilet, stepping out into the corridor. He was almost bowled over by the first figure that passed him, and he backed off with an apologetic stammer. `Oh, sorry, er…’ `Watch where you’re fucking going,’ snarled Andy Carroll, stopping on his way past, shirtless with his broad chest heaving and his long hair tangled about his shoulders, a troubled look on his sharp features. The striker towered over Phil as they stood face to face in the tunnel. `Stupid City cunt.’ `Hey,’ Foden muttered irritably, recovering himself, `I said I was sorry, for fuck’s sake…’ Andy just huffed his annoyance, the big Geordie turning away, storming on his way back down towards the Home changing rooms. Where the hell had he been wandering any way, stripped to the waist and on the warpath? Foden quickly forgot him, pushing the toilet door shut behind him and wiping his hand against his mouth anxiously, fearing there were streaks of Kyle’s cum all over him or something. But then another figure was appearing beside him, this one more slowly, throwing his hands up and staring questioningly at him, concerned rather than angry. `There you are,’ Pep said, clapping both hands to his thin arms and shaking him. `I have been looking everywhere. You disappear! My boy!’ `Oh, boss… hey… er… just needed a minute to myself, er…’ Pep fixed with him with a serious look then stared down the tunnel to check they were alone for a moment, keeping his firm tanned hands against Phil’s shoulders, and cracking a smile. When he spoke, his voice was quiet and gentle, nothing like the tense outbursts today. `My boy,’ he murmured, `Filipe… I spoke wrong today, I was not good to you…’ `Oh… erm… no, you were fine, I just… I was stupid, I didn’t think, so…’ `You must forgive me,’ urged Guardiola, shaking him a little and daring to lean in almost close enough to kiss, just for a second. `It has been a… difficult two weeks, you see, just… so much pressure, my boy…’ He sighed. `I hate myself for speaking to you like that tonight. You will forgive me? You understand?’ Phil stared at him with a dismal and overwhelming sense of guilt. `Of course, sir.’ `Sir? What do I tell you about SIR…?’ Pep hugged him, warm and firm and gentle, and laughed at him, and patted him on the side of the head. `You silly boy. No sir from you. Okay?’ He leaned in, his beard brushing Phil’s cheek as he spoke to his ear, close and confidential. `Though… I admit… I quite liked… papi.’ Another throaty laugh and the City managed was pulling away from him, steering him back down the corridor in the direction of the changing rooms. But as they walked, he spoke more, his voice quiet and almost adorably anxious, for a man of his age and confidence. `I have been so busy, so stressed… but we both deserve to enjoy ourselves, Filipe…’ Metres from the changing room door, he held him in place and smiled down at him. `The Cup, it is too much, it is all the club care about, you see… but I promise you. Filipe, I promise you. When we face United next month and we make it into the Cup final… oh my boy, then it will all be worth it, and I can finally…’ His smile dimpled his hairy cheeks and his eyes twinkled. `You will finally be mine,’ he promised. `Yours,’ Foden echoed weakly, as Guardiola moved on past him and into the changing rooms, with a finale stroke of his warm back before entering the communal area and beginning to address the fresh, towel-clad footballers within. Phil stayed where he was for a moment, grabbing the arched entrance to steady himself in a moment of giddy regret: he’d fucked up, hadn’t he? He’d ruined everything… What would Pep say if he found out what he’d done?

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