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Amber Lynn

Subject: Premiership Lads, Part 289 Part 289: After the Brawl Officially, the 21-year-old midfielder was away because of a head injury – it made him smirk that in reality he was up here just getting head. Of course, he’d tried his best to do the opposite, having been commanded here away from the informal celebrations of the main squad; elsewhere in the Spanish hotel, Foden’s teammates were exhaustedly celebrating their progression to the Champions League semis, following a tense and overheated second leg with their Madrid hosts. Tempers had flared throughout the goalless second part to the quarter-final fixture, not least towards Phil himself. The bandage around his head was testament to that, and the reason that his attempts to slide down to his knees and nuzzle at the crotch of Papi’s black slim-fit jeans had been completely rejected. Instead, the Stockport youth was now spreadeagled on the large bed of the managerial suite in their Madrid hotel, his briefs and tracksuit bottoms in a crumpled heap somewhere else, and his t-shirt and jumper rolled halfway up the slim compact muscles of his midriff. His legs were spread, and the tanned knuckles of his head coach stood out against his milky skin, whilst the gleaming pate of Guardiola’s bald head bobbed up and down in the centre, pleasuring his cock with pouting lips and letting silvery beard hair tickle against his balls and the very insides of his thighs. All the 21-year-old could do was groan, his arms lolling at his sides, a little dizzy now with pleasure – though he wouldn’t dare mention that, as he could imagine the fit of protectiveness it might bring out in the 51-year-old football manager. `I could have stabbed him,’ the older man had hissed when they were finally alone in here together, Pep having summoned him from the pre-curfew drinks that had been permitted in the hotel bar – perhaps the only reason the tactician was allowing this bonus couple of hours of beer was so that he could steal his Filipe away for privacy; the thought had crossed Foden’s mind. He’d been checked out by a number of club doctors and he’d done his best to reassure and calm down the ferocious Spanish man as they kissed and cuddled in here before, Pep wild with worry and fury. `I could not properly react,’ he had apologised, `if I let my emotions go in the stadium, there would have been blood on the grass.’ His fists had shaken and his whole body shuddered as he admitted this, before grasping Phil into a tight embrace and whispering more soothing words in his ear. When Foden had successfully convinced Guardiola that he was NOT about to pass out and fall into a coma at any given moment, he had been overcome with desire for the attractive middle-aged man, pawing at him through his thin jumper and his tight jeans, nuzzling at the warmth of his neck and trying to slide down into a submissive position at his feet – but Pep had held him tightly and refused such attention, forcefully but gently easing him onto the bed and insisting that he must relax and be looked after. Looked after, Phil thought with a wicked grin – some euphemism for… mmm, such pleasure! He writhed against the bed, feeling more of his thick young shaft disappear into the wet mouth of the older stud, feeling the strong coil of tongue work against his shaft and head. He reached down, stroking fingers against the stubbly sides of Pep’s head, but his hands were grasped tightly by his Papi’s, and thrust aside, pinned down on the bedding at the outsides of his thighs. Guardiola clearly wanted his mouth alone to be the source of pleasure, and the control of Foden’s inevitable climax. It had been such a fraught international trip to complete the quarter-final, and such a frantic game in which Phil knew he’d been pretty slippery and provocative, though still shocked by the physicality and unprofessionalism of their rivals. It had left him strangely horny, and he knew he wouldn’t be able to last much longer with this attention lavished upon his cock – and the tight grip of Pep’s hands over his as they pinned them down, that strength and control so fucking intoxicating for the young scally. In a different part of the hotel – a couple of floors away in the private bar that had been made their base – much of the squad might still be toasting to the hard-fought win, their gritty progression into another set of UCL semis, but here in the generous suite of the City manager… Phil’s balls emptied in several waves of agonising delight, cumming freely against the wet warm mouth of Pep, a sensation he had rarely experienced so one-sidedly. The young player gasped and moaned out a loud drawling `Papiiiii’, then felt the soft lips pull away, more tickling of beard hair on his nether regions. He trembled and gasped and then lay still, feeling Pep’s kisses instead upon his thighs, his waist, his knuckles… then he lifted his head and met eyes with the beautiful older man across his own body, grinning weakly in gratitude. `That was amazing,’ he told him earnestly. Guardiola just nodded his head once, simply, and planted a last kiss just above his belly button, then started tugging down his t-shirt and sweater, and slipping from the bed to fetch his discarded items. `I should not keep you here too long,’ the head coach muttered to himself in his syrupy accent. `Questions might be asked.’ Phil nodded vaguely at this, sitting upright and lazily allowing his dominant lover to slide skimpy briefs about his ankles and pull them up his legs, then help him to step into his tracky bottoms as if he was a proper invalid. He grinned foolishly, enjoying the attention, and wondering how long he could milk it for. Once his pants were up, Pep held him firmly at the waist and kissed him on the lips, his mouth tasting salty with Phil’s own seed. `I am glad you are okay,’ Guardiola whispered lovingly. `I promise I am,’ Foden mumbled back. `But I must let you get back to your room, and Jack.’ `Oh, er yeh…’ `He might be wondering where you are.’ `Hmm.’ `It is still going well? He is still happy?’ `Oh? Mmm. Yeah, I’d say so.’ `You should go to him.’ `He’ll probably still be having a beer…’ `It is almost curfew,’ the boss said dismissively. He was serious now, distracted from all the fondness and attention that had been lavished upon Foden in the previous hour of fellatio. `It is vital that the whole team is focused and ready for the next few games, Filipe,’ he muttered quite darkly, worry in his aged eyes. `Especially him, and especially you.’ A loaded pause, and then, `Remind him you are injured,’ he said, and Phil knew what he meant when he added, `You must sleep well tonight, before the flight home tomorrow.’ Foden nodded, lifting a hand to pick fussily at the bandage about his brow from being trampled during the game, and pulled reluctantly away from Guardiola’s warm embrace. `Yes sir,’ he said quietly, taking one of Pep’s large warm hands in both of his and lifting it to kiss the knuckles, kiss the chunky face of a signet ring on the little finger. `Yes, Papi.’ He grinned coquettishly and the manager stroked the side of his head and kissed him once on the brow like a horny pope. `Go,’ chuckled the Spaniard, as if overcoming some internal battle to keep going – Phil could see the unattended hardness in the older man’s skinny jeans, and knew that he could conflict his man more if he reached for it, but he held back, ambiguously satisfied and still a little dizzy. `See you tomorrow, boss,’ he said on his way to the door, pushing his feet into chunky Nike trainers as he did so – his voice had become wooden and clunky, the more formal manner in which he always addressed the gaffer in front of teammates, scared of letting slip any of his more private adorational and sexual need for the 51-year-old. `In the morning,’ Guardiola agreed quietly, not quite looking at him – Phil paused in the doorway, feeling a familiar chime of confusion at how hot and cold the manager could seem with him, burning with lust and yet enacting an icy discipline when he needed to just focus on his job and put their sex life to the side. It was a strange relationship to be stuck in, he knew, though it never occurred to him that he might seek another. That is, until the moments he caught himself daydreaming about Jack the lad… `I wonder where the little dive artist is,’ he heard Kyle Walker demand curiously next to him at the crowded table of drinkers, and John Stones had to suppress a laugh at this cheeky epithet about their own gifted teammate, jutting a sharp elbow into his buddy’s biceps and giving him a warning glance whilst the older defender just cackled to himself – there were reserved laughs from the other guys around them, but the general mood was far too anti-Madrid to reckon with such acknowledgements about their own sportsmanship tonight. And for John, who seemed partly to have been handed Man of the Match for keeping a cool head in the near-brawl conditions of the 90th minute, it was best kept that way, for team spirit, and the narrative as they progressed into the next crucial stage. Across the table from them, one lad looked particularly unimpressed by Kyle’s remark, though he didn’t say anything. John was about to shout over at him and draw him back into the chat, but the other England player was pulling himself up and away from the table near the bar, shoving his hands into the pockets of his tracksuit top. `I’m gonna go see if he’s okay,’ Jack Grealish muttered quietly, clearly talking about his assigned roommate. `Well,’ Stones said, `give him a hug from me if you find him.’ Other than that, Grealish quietly exited the relaxed group of drinkers that remained of the team’s brief permitted celebrations tonight, slipping away without much fuss. After all, everybody was too busy ranting on about whichever hot-headed member of the Atletico squad had pissed them off the most, including their toxic head coach – and that conversation was enough to keep the whole huddle of macho lads occupied, never mind any concern for injured teammates. Speaking of injuries, John glanced aside a little bit at Kyle, having clocked how much the other City defender was limping at the end of the game and on the way back here to the hotel – he suspected Walker was in more pain than he’d admit, and worried that his lover and defensive ally might miss their next game, a crucial semi against league rivals Liverpool. But right now, the 31-year-old Sheffield bloke showed no signs of pain, quipping and bantering away with the others – Mahrez, Laporte, de Bruyne, Sterling, Carson and Dias – about how sour things would be in the Madrid camp when they next trained. `Bunch of thugs,’ he grunted critically. `Ought to be ashamed of themselves, after tonight.’ He hoisted up his pint glass to lead a toast – `But we fucking triumphed, as we do, and on to the semis to fuck up the next lot, ey!’ The conversation spilled on in that manner, Mahrez in particular becoming vocal about how exciting it was going to be to get City’s long awaited European victory under Guardiola. Stones listened as intently as anyone, full of renewed hope and ambition after the dark phase his career has gone through in his mid-twenties, and excited now for what he could still achieve in his prime – and then he started slightly at some physical contact, and had to steady himself not to show this reaction to the assembled players. A hand was on his leg, firm but not tight, and sliding gently up the inside of his thigh. Lifting both bushy eyebrows, the handsome 27-year-old stared to the left, where one of Walker’s muscular arms disappeared down under the table to grab him like that – okay, unseen probably by anyone else at the table, but still…! Stones laughed vaguely at someone else’s comment, to cover up his little flinch and squirm as he felt Walker’s hand wander further until, oh bloody heck, the right-back was feeling him up in his sweatpants right in front of several teammates, not to mention lingering bar staff and a huddle of coaching personnel at the next table. It made the tall Barnsley lad hunch up and tense, even as he knew his cock was responding to those wandering fingers. `Are you okay, John?’ broke in Kevin’s innocent-sounding Belgian accent. `All good,’ the centre-back coughed awkwardly back, feeling Kyle really take hold of his loose big privates down there and give them a squeeze, making him straighten up his posture and gurn uncomfortably. `He’s just had too much beer already,’ chided Walker’s own teasing voice, provoking much laughter from the others, who began glancing at their watches and shifting apart slightly. Kyle’s hand withdrew quite suddenly and John sat there tingling, his dick stretching out lazily in his pants and his bottom lip quivering for a moment as he wished for Kyle to take hold of him again – even though Kevin and the others were getting up around him and offering handshakes and hugs of goodnight, a general consensus murmur of `curfew’ and `last beer’ rippling through the small gathering. `What?’ demanded Kyle Walker hotly when they were stood together at the bar, having politely carried across handfuls of emptied and deposited them there for the grateful barmaid, who in a different circumstance either of them might have began flirting with. The burly Yorkshire bloke couldn’t look innocent at the best of times, but his grinning face was full of deep mischief now as he leant heavily on the bar and leered at John. `You know what,’ mumbled Stones with a poor attempt at sounding annoyed, though he was rattled by the other’s risk-taking – `grabbing me like that under the table in front of everyone!’ `Everyone!’ mocked the other lad with a hearty laugh. Stones dropped his voice to a further whisper as figures drifted about them, the bar staff finishing up and the other players making their way out in search of their hotel rooms. `Wait til we’re back in the room,’ the centre-back scolded his best mate and lover, shifting uncomfortably from foot to foot and self-conscious about the likely prominent bulge in his black sweatpants now. Kyle pulled dangerously close to him, rubbing their arms together and leaning in. `What if I just can’t, sexy?’ growled his low voice. John elbowed him forcefully away, laughing and flustered, and glancing about them in case anyone had seen. Aroused and annoyed, he glared archly at the other man, flashing a grateful smile at the Spanish barmaid and then waving a goodbye to some of the coaches who were departing ahead of them – Kyle limped after him as he made his way across the bar area to the stairwell, and he stared pointedly at this. `You’re injured,’ he pointed out quietly, but the short stocky guy just shrugged his rounded shoulders. `That was stupid,’ he said quietly, out of the bar area and standing in the carpeted landing area beyond, glancing to the stairs they needed to follow upwards, and then back at his smirking accomplice. `What, you gonna spank me when we’re back in the room?’ The right-back was refusing to quite drop to a whisper, his flirtatious retort calling out quite casually in the communal area as if he didn’t particularly care who heard. `You’d love that,’ grumbled John, pausing at the foot of the stairs and glaring warily about them, still a mixture of amused, excited, and nervous. `Come on,’ he insisted more firmly, `it’s curfew time, and-‘ `What if we don’t go back to the room?’ hissed Kyle’s voice – the stocky guy’s firm hand had landed on his own on the bannister, closing over his knuckles and fingers, mersin escort hot and heavy, making John shudder with constant longing for his more-than-playmate. But he sniggered quietly at the question and rolled his eyes. `Fuck off,’ he murmured, beginning to pull away – but then Kyle’s other hand was grabbing his arse, squeezing one muscular cheek through his sweatpants. `Come on,’ his lover purred. `It’s a warm night out there, Stonesy.’ Phil drifted across the hotel in a daze, unsure how much it was a symptom of the manhandling he’d received in the night’s game, and how much it was a hangover of lying back and being so intensely pleasured by the boss. He felt light-headed and fuzzy, but in a pleasantly vague way, and he knew he would sleep well when he eventually crashed down into his hotel bed. He’d suffered some pangs of uncertainty lately, and of guilt – was he lying to both Guardiola and Grealish, in his current position? Fucking with both men and not being entirely honest with either of them, that was for sure. Dishonest with lovely Jack about the cynical reason he had been tasked with pleasuring him, that is, and dishonest with Pep in… what, exactly? His casual disinterest in the physical fun that had taken up much of the past three months…? But then, what was he ACTUALLY hiding from either of them, when he was giving them such open access to his lithe young body? And whenever he’d spent time alone and intimate with his Papi, Phil always felt better about everything; Pep’s warmth and passion gave him such a buzz of security and belonging that other worries often felt silly. At the junction of main corridors on which most of the players were based, his mind idly turning over such thoughts, he almost walked straight into one of his many heroes here, his face bumping into the broad covered chest of Kevin de Bruyne. `Whoa,’ Phil mumbled, stepping back and instinctively lifting a hand towards his head. The 30-year-old fellow midfielder looked dazed and bewildered to crash into him, but upon seeing Foden’s reaction, looked as instantly scared and concerned as Guardiola had when caring for him upstairs; a heavy pale hand grabbed at one of his shoulders and the big red-cheeked face of the Belgian was staring intently at you. `I’m so sorry,’ the other City player intoned seriously, `did I hurt you…? How are you feeling…? Everybody was a bit worried when you skipped the drinks…’ Phil blinked and shook himself and laughed lightly. `All good!’ he chimed at the older man, taking a lazy moment to appreciate Kevin’s understated attractiveness to him; someone he often stared at curiously on the pitch. `All good,’ he repeated, `I was just getting a last once-over from the team doc, just in case, that’s all.’ How easily the lies could slip from his lips these days, he thought distantly. `Oh, good,’ huffed de Bruyne, standing over him and frowning a little, slightly red in the face and pulling at the front of his dark hoody as if he was too warm. `Still – sorry. I should look where I am going.’ He seemed on edge, but Phil was tired and unconcerned, sliding away from him to carry on down the hallway. `No worries,’ he called vaguely to the big guy, scolding himself for checking out the broad chunk of Kevin’s rump in his close-fitting sweatpants for a moment, then just suppressing a horny giggle as he strode on down the passage towards his own room, not really pausing to wonder what KDB was up to at this time or seeming so flustered about. Passing by Foden made him much more conscious of the risk he was taking – far more so than the disinterested questions of his actual roommate when he had announced he needed to nip out before he called it a night. He thought of Aymeric Laporte’s big toothy grin and honest curiosity as they spoke, Kevin himself fumbling through his excuses in his unpractised French, and wilting a bit beneath the Spain international’s solid but incurious gaze on the way out of the bedroom. Of course, he reminded himself, big amiable Laporte could have NO possible idea why de Bruyne was really quitting their room for half an hour at the end of a strange night’s celebrations, and yet the Belgian football star found himself glancing anxiously over one broad shoulder all the way down the corridor – but no, the only other figure still wandering the halls of this Madrid hotel was young Phil, clearly just returning to his room after the over-cautious medical checks of their manager, who had looked ashen with worry when Kevin noticed him attending to the young Englishman on the way out of the Atletico stadium. As it often did, looking at the 21-year-old prodigy made Kevin yearn nostalgically for Foden’s pal, one of the other youthful talents that had lingered on the fringes of the Man City squad a couple of seasons ago – but whilst the golden boy Phil Foden had climbed the ranks easily and now regularly started in Guardiola’s line-up, young Tommy Doyle was away on a second or third loan spell to a minor club to develop his talents, and Kevin de Bruyne had barely clapped eyes on the other red-haired fellow in well over a year. Stomping on down the hall and rounding a corner onto the landing, the 30-year-old panged for that handsome young lad and the little connection they’d fostered for a precious spell – more than his own selfish yearning (he thought about the several times he’d simply lain back and allowed the fluffy-haired ginger teen to take him in his mouth shakily), Kevin felt a pang of hope that Doyle was happy and comfortable, hoped that as he grew in confidence, young Tommy would be able to find a guy in their world who could love him properly. Not a confused waste of space married dad with a frigid wife, Kevin added bitterly. He was returning to the bar area, deserted now except for a solitary figure, and the other tracksuit-clad man looked up slowly as he approached. Without speaking, Raheem Sterling slid away from the bar and stalked on towards the toilet door signs at the far end – he hung his head slightly with the usual air of private shame, and his tight-fitting Nike bottoms clung attractively to his short thick legs and the impressive swell of his rear end. Kevin followed him silently at a slower pace, casting cautious looks about the empty bar area where half an hour ago he had been knocking back a pint of beer and chuckling along to the laddish banter of Laporte and other teammates, whilst making meaningful glances at Sterling whenever he had the chance. In the vestibule of the bar toilets, he followed the Jamaica-born England star through into the Gentlemens’, and pushed it shut firmly behind him, sizing up the cubicles to the left and the row of urinals on another wall. Raheem wasn’t bothering to sneak through into one of the two cubicles, and his indiscretion gave Kevin a nervous thrill – instead, the 27-year-old winger was simply folding down to his knees in the centre of the small room, and whipping off his tight black t-shirt, baring the compact dark muscle of his upper body. De Bruyne advanced on him in knowledgeable silence – so little needed to be said between the two repressed men, these dirty interactions almost a monthly habit now between them, when the Belgian hunk’s simmering desires became unbearable, and whatever private battle fueled Raheem’s secret appetite swung this way. Without saying anything, City’s captain for the night and the scorer of the single goal that had taken them through to the next round undid the cords at the front of his sweatpants, and he pushed them down at the front to let loose his heavy floppy dick from a thin bush of red-brown pubes. Raheem’s mouth was on it almost instantly, eyes squeezed shut and lips shiny and moist. Kevin just rolled back and sighed as his dick was taken care of again, reaching down and holding on to the winger’s firm shoulders – so wrong, he knew, and yet… so right. Inside their shared room, Phil was almost immediately grabbed at by Jack – the older attacking player burst across the room in a fluid movement and grabbed both of his upper arms, his handsome face lined with worry and eyes bulging in alarm. `Where have you been?’ the 26-year-old winger demanded in gruff Brummie tones, his obvious worry strangely gratifying and almost arousing to the younger City player. Phil laughed a little, making it obvious how overwhelming this greeting was, and the pressure of Jack’s thumbs and fingers on his biceps released and the slightly taller man edged away from him, joining in with a tinkling gruff laugh of his own. `Sorry,’ Grealish said immediately, running one hand through the oily mop of highlighted hair, pushing it back away from his brown-freckled face, `I’ve just been sat here worrying, that’s all.’ Again, the warmth and wariness in his voice were nice to hear, though Foden suspected he was being a bit conceited in enjoying it. (And what about Pep’s concern, demanded a cynical voice at the back of his head, you were enjoying THAT too.) `I thought you’d just be having beers,’ Foden mumbled vaguely, pushing the hotel room door properly shut and moving through the shared suite. `I had a couple,’ the Brummie footballer mumbled sheepishly, `but everyone was speculating about whether you were okay so I came back here to check.’ His voice trailed off as if he felt foolish admitting it, and when Phil turned to look at him, the former Villa captain had a hangdog expression and was writhing both hands in front of him with lingering anxiety – rather than stoking Phil’s young ego, it made him feel bad for keeping his mate worrying like that, and he frowned apologetically. `Couple of medical checks, just precautions,’ he explained in a rush. `Quick meeting with the gaffer,’ he added, feeling that some nugget of actual truth in the story might assuage his sudden confusion of multiple guilts. `Right,’ said Grealish, a bit less worriedly. `Well, glad you’re looking well, dumbo,’ he huffed more playfully. He lifted a half-empty beer bottle off a bedside table and swigged from it. `I wasn’t so worried that I couldn’t bring a celebratory drink or two back here, obviously.’ He winked and produced a couple more beers, looking around for something to open one for Foden. At this, the young midfielder grinned affectionately and sat himself down on one of the beds, trying to regain the lush relaxation that had overcome him as he left Guardiola’s embrace. He watched Jack fuss about opening the beer and passing it this way – come to think of it, the talented winger had been more aggressively concerned about him than anybody else on the pitch tonight, hadn’t he? Grealish hadn’t even left the subs bench to play a minute of the second leg game, but he’d been as involved in anyone else in the Madrid scuffles near the end and in the way out of the stadium – specifically with Foden’s own aggressors. The thought intrigued him and excited him and he distracted himself with a few quick swigs from the bottle, fiddling again with the bandage strapped about his head and looking at himself in a nearby mirror – he looked like some junior incarnation of Frankenstein’s creature, for fuck’s sake. But then Jack was coming over this way and sitting heavily down on the bed next to him, smelling strongly of both beer and aftershave, laced with sweat – he hadn’t played, so he also hadn’t showered. The smell caught at Phil’s attention and gave him flutters of interest, even in the sluggish post-orgasmic chill of having been sucked off by his Papi. One of Grealish’s pushy hands was on his neck and shoulders. `I guess I can’t be throwing you around tonight,’ chuckled the expensively purchased star. `Not after a knock to the head like that. Wouldn’t like it to go banging off the headboard, y’know.’ He grinned sleazily and chuckled at his own crude implications, the pair of them sitting closely and enjoying their smuggled beers. `Guess not,’ was all Foden could find to mumble, briefly lost in a familiar mental image of himself being railed in multiple hotel rooms by the athletic stud, a tingle in his crotch in spite of his already satisfied prick. `Shame,’ grunted Grealish, `but I think we’ll cope.’ And with that, he finished off the bottle in his hand and got back up, strutting over the room. He was still in the tight-fitting training gear he’d worn on the City bench, looking more ready for a match than bedtime, and now he began to peel it off – layers of slinky lycra that clung to the wiry muscle of his 5ft9 physique. Phil watched, entranced. His cock was still numb from the pleasure and peak of being blown, and yet he could feel his privates thrum with longing, and he coughed awkwardly to himself, pulling at the collar of his relaxed t-shirt and jumper. Jack paused, seeming to notice he still had an audience, topless now and in the middle of sliding down the shorts and leggings he wore, exposing white CK trunks beneath. He grinned, letting the elasticated waists hover and tease against his sizeable bulge at the control of hooked thumbs, and giggling stupidly. `Stop perving on me,’ he jibed playfully, visibly tensing up his six-pack and arms as he stood there, and Phil grinned and laughed nervously. `Stop making it impossible not to,’ he flirted awkwardly back, his lips playing about the neck of the bottle as if it was Jack’s massive rod. `What are you like, kiddo?’ teased Grealish, twanging the elastic and then relaxing the bottom layers back up to his waist, covering up the bulge slightly. `I need a shower, I stink,’ he announced, and Phil silently contested this, sucking in a mouthful of air and thinking how lovely the other lad had smelt sitting next to him. Grealish disappeared into their en suite bathroom and he sat alone, sipping wearily at the beer and dwelling on a resurfacing discomfort: Jack Grealish was just so fucking hot, he mulled, and it was hard not to become excited in his presence. But physical attraction and that excitement were OKAY, right? That was his… mission. He thought guiltily about how Pep had been with him upstairs, so tender and conscientious… and yet also controlling and inflexible, some nasty seed of cynicism in his brain pointed out. There was never anything rigid or controlled about being with Jack, that dangerous voice argued. The 21-year-old frowned and gulped down the rest of the beer bottle too fast, making himself splutter and cough, then pat at his own chest muscles as he recovered. It didn’t matter what he felt, he told himself. You’ve had your fun and your attention from Papi, and now it’s time to sleep – and Grealish is clearly too scared to touch you whilst you’re injured anyway, so…! He plonked the empty bottle down on a table and began stripping off for bed, taking his time and whistling tunelessly to himself as he did so. In just a pair of fresh pyjama shorts and a thin white vest, he clutched onto a toothbrush and paste from his case, and dipped into the adjoining little bathroom for a moment, steamy with his roommate’s hot shower and filled with a cocktail of noise – the rattle of an extractor fan twinned with tone-deaf Robbie Williams lyrics over the hiss of water. Phil grinned briefly at this, standing at the sink and mirror and brushing his teeth, noting again how ugly and excessive the headgear looked across his scruffy dark hair and lean features, trying to be quick and discreet so as not to ruin his mate’s shower karaoke. But then, just as Grealish was spitting out the last mouthful of frothy water and rinsing the head of his brush, the water noise stopped and the singing escort mersin trailed off, and the frosted glass door of the shower cubicle slide aside. Foden glanced irresistibly to the side, and looked at the perfectly framed image of a naked Jack Grealish emerging close by him – his entire tanned and softly haired body rippling wet and exposed as he reached for a towel, that meaty cock and ridiculously large balls nestled between hairy thighs, whose muscular density was almost rivalled by the damp calves below. `Oh, `ello,’ trilled the winger, flashing a big grin and pausing there, one hand on the towel rail, whole naked body on shower. `Hey,’ murmured Phil softly, unable to tear his eyes off him or close his drooling lips. A short scoffing laugh from Grealish. `Just tell me what you want, Fodes. I’m game.’ It was clear that Kyle was partly just riled by the night’s aggro, as everyone was – the atmosphere between the City men had been electric since they left the pitch, all raring for a fight that had not quite got started, even though they were the winners in almost every sense. It was mainly that, John thought, that had got the sex-mad 31-year-old playboy so frisky and bold tonight in Madrid – but not just that. `Remember the first time we did it,’ Walker murmured tenderly in his ear, the pair of them walking through the dark hotel gardens, disappearing between patches of lighting and the high plant structures. As he spoke, the older Premiership defender was gripping and squeezing at John’s bottom, his hand slid inside the sweatpants and fumbling at his sturdy cheeks through his clingy Hilfiger undies as they walked. `What, and thought we’d got fucking discovered?’ Stones mumbled back through a nervous laugh, excited but apprehensive about their outside stroll before bed, breaking curfew. `Huh, yeah,’ Kyle chuckled back. `We were bricking it for weeks. But… remember how exciting it was? Getting you up against that tree, out by the motorway…’ John shivered. `I mean, I was fucking turned on, yeh, but-‘ `Then let’s not go back to the room,’ shuddered the other man’s voice, a finger pressing in at his crack through the thin blue material of the Hilfigers, `let’s just have some fun out here in the night, shall we?’ `Haha… I dunno, Walker, I just think…’ `Here, feel how fucking hard I am for you, babe.’ `Oh, shit…’ `Yeah, rock fucking solid. You know why that is?’ `Er, what…?’ `Watching you tonight, after I got subbed – seeing you so fucking powerful and in charge, y’know. The way you handled all of them Madrid cunts, keeping it cool, not reacting. Fuckkkk. Never wanted your cock so much as then.’ `Huh, aw mate, erm… mmm…’ `Wanted to drag your shorts down and suck you right off in the pitch,’ growled Kyle’s voice, the pawing becoming more insistent – one of his hands trying to finger John through his undies, the other rubbing John’s own hand against his incredibly thick hard-on, slowing their walk, pausing between two pools of risky light. John turned to him, shivering with excitement despite the warm Spanish air. `You were so fucking sexy tonight,’ Kyle growled at him, straining up to snog him as John simultaneously stooped, always slightly too tall for his thickset brute. `Oh fuck,’ Stones whimpered, giving in to the mood in the air. `You mean all that?’ `Fuck, like I’d say it if I didn’t…?! Come on. See that dark patch there, behind the bushes? I’m gonna fuck you so hard, Johnny boy, okay?’ Their faces still close, Kyle leered and bit his lip, his eyes narrowed sexily and his tongue poking out at one side of his mouth – John could feel his cock leaking in his trunks, and he squeezed the other man’s erection through the fabric, no longer concerned about the risks of some outdoor action. `Fuck yes,’ he whispered eagerly. `I want you inside me NOW.’ They didn’t bother drying Jack’s body before stumbling through into the main bedroom, sharing quick pecking kisses that had crept into their play after much initial hesitation from the older stud. Phil grabbed and pawed at his wet body, running hands over smooth and hairy muscles and wanting to grab and rub ALL of him all at once, dragging him with him onto the nearest of the two double beds. Jack’s body and hair splashed at the sheets and left little damp patches as the writhed and tumbled into an embrace, briefly locking lips in little kisses before Grealish began to snog him on the neck instead, which he seemed to much prefer, whilst pushing a hand inside his silky PJ shorts. Normally, Foden realised, the Brummie lad could be quite rough and dominant with him, but his carefulness now was conspicuous. His concern for the knocks Phil had taken on the pitch was affecting his playfulness, making him coy and hesitant as they fumbled about together – he kept pausing to reposition himself, to make sure Phil was comfy on the bedding, or to check his own pushy motions and give him quizicial little looks as if to say `Is this okay?’ It wasn’t what Foden was used to from him or from any of his male playmates in the past, and he wasn’t entirely sure he liked it. And yet, he understood the need for it – Jack’s hands kept grabbing at parts of his arms or shoulders or his sides and then pausing when he flinched, and they’d both looked down and see that he was starting to bruise from some on-pitch scuffle. `I ain’t gonna fuck ya,’ breathed Grealish in his ear at last, when the pair of them had settled into fairly comfortable side-by-side positions on the dampened sheets, slowly jerking each other off – Jack’s hand still buried in his shorts, pulling on his semi, and Phil giving more urgent strokes to the big hard cock between Grealish’s meaty legs, its tip glossy with pre-cum already. `Please?’ Phil murmured at him with what he knew must sound a pretty needy tone, but unable to help himself. His arsehole had ached for it while he was pinned on the bed upstairs, Pep’s mouth going to work, and yet he hadn’t dared suggest his need for it to Guardiola, who he knew would balk at the prospect of fucking him in such a state. But Grealish was giving him an uncannily similar look now, a little patronising really, but full of warmth and affectionate concern. Foden continued to stroke at his cock and his balls with talented fingers, whilst Grealish’s pushy hand drew reluctantly away from his crotch and just patted affectionately at his bare pale tummy. `You should be taking it easy,’ the older football player told him in a soothing voice – then, as Phil made to wriggle away and try to swap hand for mouth, he found Jack’s caring hand against his jaw and blocking the move. `Nope, I’m not letting you,’ the charismatic 26-year-old insisted, `you’ve had a rough night.’ `But I’m so horny,’ Phil mumbled at him – which, oddly, was true, even though he’d blown a load barely twenty-five minutes ago. He also had to check himself and made sure he’d kept his comment so neutral there, because the thought that went through his head was: `But YOU make so horny, Jack.’ Grealish seemed to take a very serious pause, and Foden fully expected him to clamber out of the dampened bedding and really pull away from him now, despite their mutual erections and the obvious little frenzy that had taken them from steamy en suite to here. `Look,’ Jack huffed, `why don’t you just fuck me instead?’ He raised an eyebrow, his expression patient and experimental, and Phil just gawped silently back at him for a few moments too long. When he didn’t actually reply, both lads burst into uncertain giggles. `Really?’ the 21-year-old asked slowly and disbelievingly. `Why not?’ Jack laughed back simply. `Been wondering for a while how that big tool of yours might feel up my jacksie, mate.’ One of his cheeky winks and leering grins. `That way you can take it at your own pace and I won’t get too… rowdy, y’know. Haha.’ Clearly he meant it, and he looked pretty excited at the thought. So was Phil, especially his cock, now straining against the front of his shorts as if it had not been satisfied once in the last hour already. `Yeah,’ he exhaled keenly, pulling closer to the slightly bulkier athlete, squeezing him by the fat cock. `Yes please, buddy.’ `Fuck me,’ spluttered the other man, slurring and greedy. Kevin hesitated, one hand reached out to steady himself against the nearest porcelain sink. He stared hesitantly down, often unable to look properly at the round handsome face of the London lad on his knees – Raheem’s mouth wet with his own drool and with some of Kev’s pre-cum, his eyes a little red-rimmed and hazy as if he had to smoke a joint before he could face these private encounters – and de Bruyne’s own thick cock, swollen with pleasure and glossy with spittle, aching to finish and shoot its heavy load. `What?’ the 30-year-old midfield icon groaned, though he had heard Sterling well enough. `Fuck me,’ the young England hero grunted from where he kneeled, his hand now wrapped around Kev’s shaft and his lips playing lightly against his sensitive tip as he spoke. `Bend me against the wall and FUCK ME,’ the younger man pleaded in a hot shameful whisper, not looking up at him as he said it. Kevin let out a long sigh and dragged his free left hand against his clammy, blotchy face, unable to glance sideways at the mirror and catch his shameful reflection. His other hand gripped tightly at the rim of the sink until his knuckles were white. `Raheem,’ he mouthed gently back in a heavy voice, his chest rising and falling under the hot weight of his hooded top – but then he gasped and shuddered as the lips and tongue played against the head of his big Belgian tool, and he clamped the left hand against his reddened face. `I’ll be tighter than your wife,’ Sterling grunted, between taking him in and out of his delicious wet mouth, fingertips stroking at the hairy swell of de Bruyne’s ballsack. `No,’ the older City star heaved from behind the hand over his face, `not that.’ `Fuck my hole like you fuck my mouth,’ his regular secret playmate whispered. `I can’t do that. My wife.’ `Please?’ This was not a new development. This was perhaps the third time the Jamaica-born star had muttered words to this effect, often turning away and offering up the smooth brown globes of his backside – though he had never been so pressing and specific as he was being tonight. `Just shove it up me and make me your bitch,’ Kevin heard his rasping voice declare from waist-height, and he couldn’t help but visualise the other footballer’s sordid fantasy – he couldn’t quite say why he felt that being sucked off by the winger in the dead of night was somehow okay, but giving him what he clearly wanted was a dangerous new territory that he couldn’t enter… it’s just how it was. With an awful battle of will and desire, de Bruyne pulled away, taking his cock in his own hand, pushing Sterling’s fingers and lips from it. He staggered back, still leaning heavily on the sinks and now – ugh – catching sight of his red-faced gingery reflection, overheated and anxious-looking in his dark hoody. His blue eyes sparkled back at their reflected image and he began pushing his hard-on into his tight sweatpants. `I should go,’ he groaned unhappily. Instantly, Sterling was back up on his feet, wiping the back of a hand on his mouth. `No,’ he murmured awkwardly, `stay and finish, I need your load…’ The sexual language made Kevin feel nauseous now and he leaned over, fiddling with a tap to get cool water in his palms and splash it against his face. When Raheem reached for his arm, he shrugged him away quite aggressively. `This was a mistake,’ the 5ft11 midfield star uttered heavily, not turning to look at him. `This is really wrong, Raheem.’ `You gave me the look,’ the other man said, quite bitterly, backing away from him. He heard the rustle of the other sportsman pulling his t-shirt back on, and when he glanced over, the 27-year-old was now facing away from him, an emotional tremor to his voice. `Fucking time-waster,’ the goal machine muttered under his breath, and Kevin pulled further away, feeling queasy and confused. For an awkward moment, the big Belgian hung there, leaning at the sink and feeling the sting of heat in his cheeks against the cool water he’d splashed on – he wondered how he would bring himself to leave these toilets and travel back to his room with Laporte, given the ridiculous outline of his wet erection in the front of his pants. But Sterling at least saved him that indignity – still swearing under his breath and clearly upset with how this had gone, the other player barged past him and out of the door, hurrying away and zipping up his tracksuit top over his t-shirt. Kevin almost called after him, but what could he say? How could he explain himself or apologise? How many times now had he let the closeted man suck his cock in hotel loos just like this, never even pushing to share a room with the fellow midfield player because… well, the intimacy of any alone time with the man who regularly serviced him was just too anxiety-inducing. For all his kind hopes for young Tommy Doyle, Kevin felt much less clear on his own sexual needs, and sometimes what he really longed for was the filthy confidence and charm of the Hazard brothers back home in Belgium. The 30-year-old heaved a big sigh at the empty space around him and then wiped cool palms over his burning face, feeling his erection gradually subside within his trunks and sweatpants, still damp with the feel of Raheem Sterling’s mouth on it – his unemptied bollocks aching dully where they rested in his pants, even a solitary wank now feeling sordid and wrong after the moment’s awful clarity in front of his playmate. He just hunched there alone, regretting both the secret encounter with his colleague… and the unsatisfying anti-climax it had reached. In the tropical undergrowth of the hotel gardens, there was no chance of anti-climax – John Stones was cumming already, Kyle Walker’s fist wrapped about his tool in a tender reacharound whilst the bruteish right-back pounded him down into the soil and greenery, cock buried between his cheeks. The 27-year-old gasped and panted, his knees and elbows planted heavily into the shifting soil, and his arse pushed back up to meet the rapid violent thrusts of the heavy-set Sheffield bloke fucking him into the ground, and squeezing every last drop of spunk from his massive tool. The pair had fucked so many times now, in so many cities and countries, and yet… every time… it may as well have been that first time, that first aborted thrust, up against a tree on the side of the road, disturbed by strangers from the truckstop… or those long laddish days of living together, when they had first explored each other’s powerful bodies. John whimpered in the languid thrill of his orgasm, feeling Kyle get quicker and heavier against his backside. `I fuckin’ love you,’ growled the other bloke’s voice in his ear, `I really fuckin’ do…’ `Yes,’ Stones agreed in a desperate yelp, `oh yes…’ He felt it too, he totally agreed, and yet it was getting harder to say – what did it mean? How long could they keep it a secret? And what would happen if and when one of them left Manchester City?! It was all too much to wrap his head around, even now after such a long intimacy between them, and so all he could concentrate on was the sensation of Kyle’s thick meat inside him, smashing against his G-spot, over and over, consumed by lust and, apparently, love. Phil Foden had not yet fucked another man. He’d come kinda mersin escort bayan close, sliding his fingers into his old academy pal Jadon Sancho, but he’d held short of doing the deed, hampered by a number of factors – the United lad’s obvious terror and inexperience, his own uncertainty about what he really wanted, and of course the oppressive loyalty he felt to Pep Guardiola. He had it in his head that the City manager would not like the idea of him taking that role, even with others, and though never discussed, the idle notion had become fixed fact in his brain, putting him off even contemplating it. And yet now, with Jack fucking Grealish bent over in front of him, it was all he wanted to do. The sexy bastard was on his knees with his body arched forward, sticking his chunky arse up in the air for him, and moaning loudly as Phil slid one wet finger in and out of his excitingly tight ring, frigging his big arse like a pussy, and wondering what it was going to feel like when he pushed his dick in there. This all seemed mad and alien to him, even though he shagged his girlfriend all the time. `Mmm, that’s it,’ Grealish groaned as Foden’s finger went deeper and more firmly inside. Everything about Jack the lad’s easy manner and casual enthusiasm told him that this was far from a first time, this was no nervous anal virgin in front of him – it was an idea that the 21-year-old midfielder was struggling to digest, never once having contemplated that this boisterous masculine show-off might have played a different role in the bedroom to what they had gradually established. Jack could be so dominant and rough in his exploits, and it was strange for Phil to now consider that someone might previously have topped him! Besides, his ring felt SO fucking tight on his finger – did all arseholes feel like this? Did his own??? Had it felt tighter before, he wondered, compared to now when he had been fucked so many times by Guardiola, and now by Grealish…? `Two fingers,’ Grealish barked greedily at him, and he complied. `It feels amazing,’ Foden murmured dopily. `For me too,’ he was assured. `God, you’re tight!’ `Really? Haha, it has been quite a while, to be fair…’ `Fucking hell, this is hot.’ `Sure is – now get me eased up and shove it in me, Philly boy, I really fuckin’ want it.’ Oh god – Foden wasn’t even sure if his excited came out loud there or was just in his head, but he trembled all over and pushed his two digits more firmly in between the big round cheeks of Jack’s perfect rump, trying to stretch and ease the entrance, his own hard dick tingling with anticipation. For a second though, doubt crept in – what would Papi say when he told him? Would he tell him? Should he tell him? Must he tell him? Did it really matter? The boss had been so clear about how happy and focused Grealish needed to be…! `I want it,’ purred Jack now, as if reading his complicated thoughts, reinforcing his duty to please the horny Brummie lad. `I want it in me SO BAD,’ the other player growled, some of his usual dominance there, even as he spread his legs further and jutted his muscular arse up from those hairy thighs, pushing it back on Phil’s exploring fingers. Doubts erased. Foden spat noisily against his rigid cock and eased it into position, giddy with sheer excitement, and ready to top his friend. On the way back into the hotel, muddy patches on their sweatpants and hoodies, it was BOTH John and Kyle that limped slightly – one with the suspected leg injury of the night’s aggressive football match, and the other with a sore ring from a vigorous and intense quick fuck in the bushes. Passing into the unmanned lobby, Kyle kept making furtive grasps at his arse, or his hand, or just about his shoulders, and John kept pulling self-consciously away, reminding him that they had to keep things secret for so many reasons. `Fine,’ Walker said a little sulkily, passing the hotel’s 24-hour cafe area on the way to the elevators, and glancing in through its huge windows. `Hey… is that our KDB sat over there on his own?’ `Hmm. Er – could be. Don’t think there’s a lot of gingers around these parts.’ `Haha. Hmm. Wonder what’s keeping him awake?’ `Dunno,’ John said, half-interested – he was still mainly thinking about just how INTENSE their sex had just been, both of them so agitated and edgy after the night’s game, but also so emotionally invested in each other now. `I’d love a turn on his fat arse,’ Kyle grunted, as they drifted on to wait by the lift doors, John doing the punching in of buttons to summon the elevator. `Bet I could make him squeal like a piggy.’ `Fuck, so romantic,’ mocked Stones quietly, watching the panel of lights and icons as the lift slid down the modern building towards them. `Is that how you talk about me when I’m not around?’ He winked slightly at the other man to show he wasn’t jealous or worried, although he WAS mildly worried about Kyle’s increasing openness about their relationship, his lack of fear for saying things like this in public places. `Heh. You know what I mean,’ the 31-year-old chuckled, making a playful half-attempt to reach for his crotch then just sniggering when John predictably blocked it. `Relax – you’re so paranoid, big man. Who the fuck would ever think we’re lovebirds, eh?’ He stared thoughtfully back over one shoulder to the faint glow of the cafe windows. `But seriously – KDB needs a shafting to chill him out, huh?’ John rolled his eyes. `And you really think that’s what Captain Cardboard is into, do you?’ `You never know,’ Walker grunted defensively. `Men’s needs, and all that.’ `Hmm,’ Stones mused sceptically – the lift doors opened and they shuffled on in. As soon as the doors were shut, Kyle was trying to grab him by his sore arse and he giggled as he fought him off, shaking his head. `You’re terrible, Kyle Walker, you fuckin’ knobhead.’ He paused, in the quiet moment when a ping announced their arrival at the correct floor, but before the hiss of opening doors onto their corridor – `But I do love you,’ he confirmed quietly, giving the other man a gentle smile in the harsh electric lighting. `I really fucking do.’ It felt incredible: the muscular tightness on his dick, so weirdly different to being inside a woman, and yet also very natural and familiar to him. The heat and solidness of another man’s body beneath him, those firm muscled buttocks pressing back against him and the strong toned flanks of Jack’s torso under his roving hands. The hot breathy moans of the strong winger, so much more slow and intense than the grunting sounds he would make as he ploughed Phil in opposite scenarios, hot and fast and urgent – the noises he was making now as Phil slid in and out of his hole were slow and luxurious, deep and greedy. Phil himself couldn’t keep his mouth shut, panting and swearing and telling Jack over and over exactly how tight and brilliant he felt on his dick. Still, Foden was going carefully, with none of the power and control that his lovers had exercised on him – he was scared of hurting Jack’s bottom, and a little unsteady on his own knees, and conscious of how bruised and sore much of his slim body now felt. He wondered how good any of this really felt for Grealish, despite his loud noises on the matter. He wondered if he would ever be able to fuck somebody with the strength and certainty with which his Papi did him – and thinking this made his stomach churn and his balls ache, because he knew was out of line, he knew this was NOT what the boss had in mind when he’d assigned him the enjoyable mission of satisfying and reassuring their £100 million man behind the scenes! But there was no stopping, not now his own thick young tool was buried in the big muscular backside of the other stud, and especially when Jack kept moaning slowly and loudly, and breathing out `Yes mate’ or `Deeper’ or `That’s it, fuck YES’, his voice so gruff and sexy and demanding – the bed’s loud squeaks adding to this mutual thrill, and making Foden keep up the gentle rhythm of his hips and tensing buttocks, feeling more aware than he ever had of his own girth and length as he put his cock to this use. `Pull my hair,’ Grealish grunted demandingly at him, and he was shocked – a bit of weird inappropriate hair-pulling had been another moment in the Madrid brawling of the night, and he wondered now if such aggro with rival players had turned his Jack on on then too – he reached one hand up the centre of Jack’s strong back and then tugged uncertainly at some strands of his highlighted hair – `Harder, come on!’ – and found a bit more confidence, beginning to push his crotch against the hard glute muscles with more force, and really wrap his fingers in among the damp oily hair. `Fuck yeah,’ Grealish groaned, head jerked back a bit by Foden’s fingers. `That good?’ the younger man yelped excitedly. `That feel good?’ `Fuck yes, fuck yes!’ `Take it,’ Foden barked, trying to sound more macho and assertive, but not liking the sound of his own voice as he did so. `Fuck me harder,’ begged the Brummie lad. `Yes,’ whined Phil, trying to. `Give it to me… pull on it more… mmm, that’s it…’ `God you’re tight…!’ `Fuck me, Ben!!!’ `Huh?’ `That’s it – harder… mmm, baby…’ `Er-‘ `Fuck me, Ben, fuck me, B- oh, er- fuckkk, yess, errr…’ Grealish was wanking himself up as he jutted his big strong arse back to meet Foden’s thrusts, and sounded now like he was spilling his jizz against the damp bed-sheets, and Phil could feel his own cock close to its second climax of the night – but all he could now think about was the muttered name `Ben’ throwing all of this into new light, replacing his Papi guilt with something more urgent and stinging: jealousy?! He thrusted almost robotically on, his hands on Jack’s hips, staring dully ahead of him into the wall, and then instinctively pulling his cock out and wanking it over those gorgeous cheeks below, painting the plump globes with thin gleaming trails of his watery second load, his breathing hollow and wordless. `Ohhhh,’ groaned Jack below, his voice choked and clumsy, a sort of tangible silence following the gasp as he bit back the name he had begun to mutter in the throes of his passion, and both athletic lads paused to recover, sweat trickling over their muscles and gasping in mouthfuls of air. Almost immediately upon waking, Grealish had congratulated him on the fuck, tugging playfully at his soft cock under the sheets and joking about what a monster he’d be in a few years when he really came into his prime – and then disappearing into the bathroom without every making eye contact with him, away to shower his naked form and perhaps even deal with the dull morning glory that had been evident at his crotch as he skipped away from their shared bed. Phil remained beneath the sheets, still and quiet, poorly rested after all, his overactive thoughts depriving him of proper sleep during the hours of darkness. They’d only shared beds because the other one had ended up so damp, he thought. Well, that’s what Grealish had made a point of saying after they cooled off and caught their breath and separated to wash down their bodies. `Just makes sense,’ the Brummie winger had muttered practically. And there’d been none of the idle spooning that had often occurred before, Phil noticed, unwilling to be the one to initiate it. He lay in bed and listened to Jack’s early morning shower, twitching only when the snoozed phone alarms went off again and he had to reach across the bed (his body making contact with the deep warmth of where Jack’s body had been) to knock off both devices and give him him some peace and quiet. It was obvious enough who `Ben’ was, of course. That had been no mystery keeping Phil awake. Everybody knew who Jack’s big England bestie was, and Phil knew enough to piece it together now, and realise how little everybody understood about that `bromance’. But he was in shock at this murmured revelation in the night, for some reason, and he was angry at himself for the petty jealousy he felt about it. He hadn’t mentioned it to Grealish in the night, as they settled down to sleep, exhausted from fucking and cumming – how could he?! He’d felt Jack’s discomfort and nervousness, though, very different from the usual sexy casualness the lad seemed to feel for man-to-man fun. Somehow, knowledge that Grealish was or had been more SERIOUSLY involved with someone, especially with that slick Chelsea poster-boy Ben Chilwell, well it just made everything… different. It was knowledge that seemed to tantalise Phil with a hint that he and Jack COULD be more than fuck buddies, perhaps, whilst at the same time forcing him to confront just how interested he had become in his City and England ally… and how different Grealish’s attitude to him might be, however protective or concerned he was last night. God, it was all such a head-fuck! The two naked footballers passed with brief interaction as Jack emerged from the bathroom and Phil replaced him in the shower. Cleaned up, he spent some time staring himself down in the mirror, and wondering if he felt like a new man after taking a different role in bed, as if his virginity had been lost all over again, a third deflowering and coming of age. Perhaps – he definitely felt heavier and more serious than he had last night, drifting through the hotel on the buzz of Guardiola’s golden attention, pinned down and unloaded in the manager’s bed. Back in the room, and downstairs at breakfast, Grealish was quiet and distant from him, apart from a few friendly questions about his head. The same concerns came from Guardiola too when, in the middle of everybody loading their stuff onto the airport coach, he was tugged briefly aside and his arse was fondled possessively by the older man – and in that moment, Phil matched Jack’s awkwardness, suddenly evasive and detached in front of his Papi, because he was worried that the truth of last night might spill guiltily from his lips at any moment. Would Pep even care? He was terrified to find out. If his oddness was noted by Guardiola, it was not commented upon – leaving his Golden Boy, the City boss just got on with ushering the men onto the coach, and then delivering a stirring team talk on the drive around Madrid to the airport – after all, their run of high-stakes matches ran on into the Easter weekend and the FA Cup semi, a rematch with Liverpool after last week’s league fixture. As the Spanish head coach said in heavy tones and carefully emphasised rhetoric, there was much at stake for them in the final chapter of the 21-22 season, and they all needed to be at their absolute best, their heads entirely in the game. Phil smiled grimly at this challenge in the same way that many of his teammates on the bus did, but inwardly he groaned and cursed himself – focused?! He was anything but that now, thinking about what he’d done to Jack last night, and then the Brummie stud murmuring another lad’s name, and… fuck fuck fuck. Things had been so much simpler when he was just Papi’s Golden Boy and nothing else. Foden stared out of the window at the flights taking off nearby, his mind racing and his teeth grinding, and he was far from the only player on that vehicle doing some intense personal reflection that morning. The Atletico Madrid brawl had been a tougher clash than most in his young career, he thought, but the season’s biggest battles still seemed to loom ahead. A BIT OF A BELATED CHAPTER AFTER THE CONTROVERSY OF THIS GAME EARLIER IN THE WEEK… BUT BETTER LATE THAN NEVER. ENJOY! ALL THE OTHER EUROPEAN GAMES THIS WEEK COULD INSPIRE MORE STORIES, BUT I’LL HAVE TO SEE WHAT I HAVE TIME FOR. FEEDBACK AND REQUESTS ARE AS WLECOME AS EVER – NICE TO HEAR FROM LOTS OF READERS AFTER A MORE PRODUCTIVE PHASE LATELY.​

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