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Subject: Premiership Lads, Part 299 Part 299: For Club he meant everything he had typed, altough moreso the first half. In truth, the week so far had been too exciting for the young forward to really miss East London life and home life with the missus – he’d been way too wrapped up in the honour of his first call-up and the laddish buzz of days on an international training camp. It was different to club life, Jarrod Bowen thought to himself. On a superficial level, maybe it was the lack of language or cultural barriers in the international lucky dip of the Premier League, though it couldn’t just be that, since the men spoke as much with their feet as anything else. It was really a sense of shared boyhood dream, knowing that everyone here had aspired to wear the Three Lions from before they could remember, and the thrill of taking on the challenge was unanimous. And for Bowen, it still felt a shock, even after the stellar season he’d experienced at West Ham – it still felt like yesterday that he was a youth player at Hereford United, and his journeys to Hull and London were a giddy daydream for the down-to-earth West Midlands boy. For a few moments, Jarrod stared at the phone on the palm of his hand, waiting for one tick to become two, and then blue, but the response to his girlfriend Dani went unseen and so he clicked the device into lock mode and put it face-down on the canteen table and got back to eating his hearty lunch of pasta salad, elbow to elbow with good friends, old and new. On one side, his club captain, Declan Rice, almost the only guy here who he’d previously known very well; and on the other, Leicester’s James Justin, his roommate and fellow debutant. Jarrod glanced between the two other young guys, glad of their welcome and companionship, and wondering if they knew how nervous he’d been and that he’d have really struggled to relax and get involved in the training without such immediate allies in the ambitious squad. They were hardly the only two, though. Bowen looked up, crunching through a mouthful of vegetables, and considered the other lads at their circular table, one of several that made up the players’ dining room as they continued their lunch break from a hard day’s work. Rice’s much-touted bestie, Mason Mount, was holding court with some jokey narrative about the ins and outs of Chelsea this season, and was being greeted with cheery laughter from Jack Grealish and Trent Alexander-Arnold, who completed their table of laddish twentysomethings. On first arrival, Bowen had been vaguely worried about Mount, taking on some of the banter about how his inclusion in the England team might upset the alliance between the two youth academy best mates – there had been a lot of joking about it even back at West Ham, and around the St George’s Park training centre when they were arriving on Monday evening. Rice himself had led some of the joking, but it was only once Mount began making wise-cracks about it that he could relax – Mason, who he had met a few times before through their mutual buddy, had been nothing but welcoming to him, and had made it obvious that the jokes were just jokes. In fact, Jarrod thought, probably nobody had been as friendly or as complementary to him in training than his captain’s pal, and Mase had been regularly asking him how he was doing and if he had everything he needed – he was really starting to see why Dec valued the Chelsea star’s friendship so much, and why people were always queuing up to praise the midfielder’s maturity in their League. The other two… Bowen’s opinions were more reserved. He took a moment to study Jack, who was laughing heartily at Mason’s latest line, and shovelling food into his face; the mercurial Brummie had actually been quite sheepish, almost surly, for the first couple of days’ prep. Jarrod suspected that the Villa-turned-City star was actually just on a massive hangover/comedown from his celebrations and brief Ibiza holiday, and he didn’t want to read too much into his aloofness and occasional rudeness – it seemed like he had stuff going on in his private life, and friendly Mason had even apologised for him behind his back after he was short with everyone at the first evening meal. Trent, he would admit, was way more open and friendly, but he was similarly `absent’. Even right now, he noticed, the team’s lone Liverpool star was only half-invested in the group conversation of their circular table. He had his phone out, though admittedly Bowen was resisting the temptation to briefly check his own for a response from his girl; but the Scouse lad was almost never off his, often grinning fondly at the casually hidden screen in his hands, blatantly lost in the early stages of some romantic liaison he didn’t wanna discuss. Mount and Rice had chided him for it a bit on the first evening, and the affable defender had grinned and blushed, but continued to spend a lot of their down-time seemingly lost in a text conversation that nobody else was privy to. He’d asked them if they knew who he was seeing, but nobody had any idea. `Honestly,’ Mase was chuckling at the end of his story, `you’d be surprised how much of a joker our Pulisic is, he’s way less quiet and shy than he might seem. Our Captain America, haha.’ At the Marvel reference, Grealish immediately began roasting the 23-year-old for his alleged Spiderman fetish and some TikTok of him in the lycra outfit, which had totally passed Bowen by. He cracked up at the image of the young midfielder in such a daft get-up, and joined in with his buddy Rice in adding to the mockery, light-hearted and playful. Three days into the England camp, Jarrod was glad he already felt part of the banter, able to jibe playfully at a guy like Mason, and join in with the jokes and chatter of guys who had bonded in last summer’s Euros crucible and, in most cases, many games and tournaments before that. Though it would take longer, he knew, to share that camaraderie with some of the squad’s older members: the captain, iconic Harry Kane, had been friendly to him, but in a perfunctory way, not exactly the meaningful mentor he might have hoped for; England stalwarts like Walker, Trippier and Pickford seemed slightly inaccessible, so loaded with their own in-jokes and history; even putting all that aside, there were so many guys who were haunted in different ways by the barely finished 21-22 season, such as the deep doldrums of Harry Maguire r the exhausted relief of Kalvin Phillips. Jarrod hoped that by the end of this short Nations League camp he was making some headway with all of the blokes – but he knew he was not here just to make chums, and the timing of these few games meant that Jarrod was essentially playing for a stake in the impending World Cup. He was trying to ignore that lurking pressure, the scale of the opportunity at his feet, but Southgate had already alluded to the bigger tournament three or four times in their meetings! Speaking of which… the other tables were already clearing, the kitted men dutifully lining up to tidy away their dishes and cutlery and thank the catering ladies with a dollop of flirting (Kyle Walker could be heard complimenting one on the quality of her buns, joined by his permanent comedy partner John Stones) and several already hurrying outdoors ready for the next round of drills; Bowen hardly wanted to be the killjoy who pointed this out to the rest of their young circle, but Grealish was now regaling them with some of the finer details of the Man City celebrations, beginning to comment on some Manchester rooftop that the guys had booked out, and- To Jarrod’s relief, it was Trent who cut that off, a touch of Scouse bitterness as he exited the private world of his phone messages, and told Jack to save his storytelling for the journey to Hungary when everyone needed some help sleeping; the Premier League rivals wrestled and play-fought as they got up from their seats, and the rest of them laughed on, picking up their stuff and joining the queue. Jarrod braced himself for a long afternoon of hard work, intent on securing that starting position on Saturday night in Budapest. By the end of the day, the 25-year-old’s sturdy body felt like it had been hit by a train, and he even had to pit stop on his way through the hotel, taking a pause on the first floor before continuing on into the modern extension where his and 24-year-old JJ’s shared suite lay. At this very moment, Jarrod was crashed out across the foot of one bed, rubbing sweaty palms over his blotchy face, and wondering if he’d ever experienced such a challenging day’s work in his pro career to date. Mason, ridiculously, still seemed full of energy: the 23-year-old Chelsea ace was hopping about the spacious room, snacking on Ritz crackers, talking about the holiday he and Declan had booked for almost immediately after the last England fixture. His fellow holiday-goer was lounged wearily on the side of the other kingsize bed, and Jarrod rolled his head to one side to share a playful look with his West Ham buddy, as if to question whether Mason ever tired out and switched off from high-energy mode. The 6ft1 Southwest Londoner laughed gently, catching his eye, wiping a forearm over his sweaty fringe. `Give it a rest, Mase,’ he barked warmly. `I don’t think Bowie here needs to know our flight details and the name of our hotel barman, do you?’ He grinned, that easy confidence exuding from his slouched lanky form – he was an easy guy to respect and admire, and Jarrod had never had any trouble looking up to the young skipper, as loyal and comfortable with the fledgling leader as with West Ham’s outgoing hero Mark Noble. As it always did, Jarrod’s mind turned quietly to the question of whether Dec would still be in that position come mid August, but he had been explicitly banned by his friend from bringing the transfer window up at any point during the camp! It was not an easy promise to keep, especially with guys from so many of the big clubs included in their party. `Alright, alright,’ conceded Mount cheerfully. `Sorry, I can go on.’ He directed his apologetic grin straight at Bowen, who just shrugged as if he hadn’t noticed. `God, my clothes are sticking to me. I can’t wait to shower.’ `Same,’ Jarrod yawned back, resting his thickset body against the starchy white sheets, and then slowly hearing the social hint in his new friend’s comment – oh yeah, this wasn’t his room, and he’d just tumbled in here wit the pair of them because he was soaking up advice from them both on how to really catch the England manager’s eye tomorrow morning ahead of the squad line-up for Budapest. `Yeah, go shower,’ Dec was calling to Mase, `you stink, mate!’ Mount was peeling away his England training shirt, baring the surprisingly ripped muscles of his compact torso, and then making a panto of sniffing each of his lightly haired pits, re-enacting a deodorant ad that had earned him a sizeable sum, and chatting hyper-actively to them both about how weird the filing experience had been; Bowen laughed along, but he began to pick himself up from where he’d collapsed on the bed, easing back up to his feet and stretching one limb at a time. He needed to leave these guys to it, really, and not out-stay his welcome – besides, he’d need to shower too, he could smell the sweat pouring from his own skin and muscles. `I’ll head, then,’ he announced casually, interrupting the stream of chat between the 23-year-old lads. `Oh, no rush,’ yawned Rice contentedly, patting hands against his flat tummy with his shirt pulled halfway up his torso; Mount didn’t voice the same sentiment, busying himself by rifling through his suitcase with his back to them. `You guys need to shower,’ Jarrod said vaguely, stifling another yawn himself. `And me too, fucking hell.’ He blinked a little wearily, glancing down and worrying he’d left sweat stains on the bright clean bedding below – it didn’t particularly register with him just how neat this nearest of the two beds was, though the one Dec had lounged on seemed all wrinkled and loose with several nights’ use. Why would it? `Well, maybe catch you in a bit?’ Dec was offering. `Give us a shout on the group chat, or something – maybe play some FIFA down in the rec rooms before dinnertime, or something…?’ `That’d be sweet,’ Mason called from inside the en suite, before returning in just his bulging blue sports briefs, the sound of a shower echoing out of the adjoining bathroom behind him as it heated up. `See ya, JB!’ The West Ham forward gave a big smile and grateful wave to first Mase and then to Dec, infinitely glad to have two such likeable dudes on his side, and then he made his exit, out into the quiet cool corridor beyond, and then heading on in the direction of the landing that would take him across to his wing of the hotel. The Herefordshire lad whistled to himself, rolling his shoulders and feeling the satisfying aches of a solid day’s prep work ripple through his stocky 5ft9 physique. He was reasonably confident that he’d made some impact already over the past few days, and he thought that a few good moves tomorrow morning would seal the deal – he was ready to represent his country when the whistle blew on Saturday evening. It was only when he was a few feet from the door to his own hotel room that he realised he’d dropped his backpack on the carpet of the other lads’ suite, and with it the keycard that would let him into his own – and only as he stood awkwardly in front of the door, rapping his knuckles against the wood, that he picked up on the muffled dance music on the other side, and realised that JJ was not going to hear anything and let him in. Oh, for fuck’s sake – it was hardly a long walk back to Rice’s room, but he could do without it, and he was itching to undress and get in the shower or bath. Bowen kicked off his trainers, walking back through the hotel passages in just the dirtied white football socks on his sore feet, listening to the assorted raised voices and varying music that blared from alternating rooms in the quiet halls. It’s odd how homely the initially intimidating accommodation already felt to Jarrod, this special place where England teams had been basing themselves for many years now. A few more days, he thought, and he might stop feeling so fucking nervous! Reaching the door to the room, some impatience or over-familiarity made Jarrod just reach for the handle, rather than calling Declan’s name, or knocking his fist on the door in the way he had back at his own shared space; he cursed mersin escort his own laziness when he realised the hotel room door was not QUITE fully closed, resting on the latch in the position that he must have left it as he exited and trudged homeward. As a result, the door swung an inch inwards, and he called out apologetically `Hey guys’ as he barged hesitantly through – stepping back inside the sweat-scented room where he had temporarily crashed out on the way up here, exhausted and comforted by his closer friendships. Oddly, the first thing that struck him was the continued dim roar of water, the sound of an ignored shower running in the en suite – this sensation then connecting with what he saw, the two near-naked bodies still in the main room together, not getting washed. Mason was on his feet, stood with his back to the door, very close to one of the beds; his back muscles rippled with the damp of sweat and his socks stretched up his calves, but his blue briefs were peeled halfway down rounded bum cheeks, where pale fingers were locked at either hip. Very suddenly, Dec’s shoulders and head were visible peeking around Mason’s body, staring this way in alarm, wide-eyed and shaggy hair sticking to his brow. Unthinking, Jarrod took a couple of short steps forward, staring at the two of them, and slowly piecing what he saw together. It was the jolting separation of their bodies that confirmed it, the Chelsea player shuffling to one side and turning at an awkward angle so that his glistening prick was very briefly visible; Jarrod’s own trusted captain staying seated on the edge of the bed for a second longer, his shirt off and his shorts about his ankles. As he got up, an alarmingly obvious shape was visible in the tight white of his trunks, and he was rubbing a hand over the slightly shiny dampness of his lips and chin. Jarrod shook himself. Averted his eyes, quickly. Snatched at the strap of his backpack where it rested by the wall. `Sorry lads,’ he mouthed uncomfortably, hugging the small bag up to his sweaty chest, then backing towards the door. `Shit,’ Mason was cursing loudly to himself, whilst Dec lunged upright from the bed and took a long stride forward, his horrified expression locking this way. `Shoulda knocked,’ gibbered Bowen, backing further away, reaching behind him for a door handle. `Soz, sorry – er-‘ He hurried backwards and yanked the door shut after him, his heart slamming inside his chest. His head span. Had he really just seen that? He could hear loud footsteps and indistinct voices through the door behind him and he dreaded having to look his club captain in the eye, and so he jolted across the corridor and span down the stairwell – not hurrying away towards his own room, but escaping downstairs and further away from what he’d just witnessed. It was still light outside, the early June sunshine making it look more like high afternoon than well into the evening. Jarrod stood for a while out in a courtyard to one side of the hotel, breathing deeply and calming himself down: his entire perception of the younger teammate who had valiantly led so much of West Ham’s campaigns these past couple of seasons, one of his best mates in London, and… He felt a bit nauseous, but mainly just shocked and confused. After the long day and the disorienting experience of the week’s novelty, he couldn’t adjust his brain to take in the bombshell he’d just clumsily walked in on: Rice and Mount, a bit more than just Premiership besties. The bromance every joked on about really was a bit more than platonic friendship, then. Fuck. He dragged his hands up his face and fingered his soft blonde hair, then shook his head. He was already criticising his own clumsy behaviour, including his hasty and uncomfortable flight from the room. The thought of how judgmental and unpleasant he was being jarred and jostled with his instinctive displeasure at the truth, his vague sense of betrayal at finding out Declan just wasn’t quite the lad he’d believed. Bowen would hardly have labelled himself as homophobic, but he’d grown up on the fringes of a small town in Herefordshire, and spent years in the macho depths of English football. His brain was experiencing jet lag at the rapid flight of perception it had just taken. Declan Rice and Mason fucking Mount, two of the League’s brightest young talents, and they were… Dec had been busy… ergh. He blinked his eyes and swore under his breath several times. And then the 25-year-old drifted back indoors, his backpack slung over one shoulder. He should make his way back to his room, he knew, but he couldn’t face Justin right now – he felt as if his stunned face would say everything, and in seconds he’d be passing on this weighty secret to his fellow England newbie too. So instead he moved on through to the empty unmanned bar area, enjoying the cool quiet of the hotel communal areas, and thinking that he might stay for a while down here to collect his thoughts before dinner. Dinner, he thought then with fresh panic, where he might have to sit right next to the 23-year-olds, and look them in the eye. Oh god. Bowen passed through the bar and into the pool room on the far side, and then jolted to a pause when he realised it was not quite as empty as it had seemed. A tall brooding figure was leaning at one of the pool tables, as intensely busied with his smartphone as Trent Alexander-Arnold had been all week. Jarrod had to cough awkwardly to alert the distracted figure of their national captain, and then when a flash of annoyance passed over Harry Kane’s long face, he slightly regretted it. `Oh – hiya – Jarrod, mate, how are ya?’ For a moment longer, the heroic striker continued to stare at and thumb at the screen of his phone, then it was pushed into the pocket of his sweatpants, and the 6ft2 Londoner was flashing a PR smile this way, acting very glad to run into him off-duty. Jarrod blinked a few times, unsure how to answer that at first, but walking further into the room and letting the dividing door swing shut behind him. He unhooked the bag strap from his shoulder and let it dump by his feet, then walked over to one of the other tables, where he pushed and flicked aimlessly at the scattered pool balls. `You look shattered,’ Kane remarked, not unkindly. `Tough day, huh?’ He was glad of the generic comment and question. `Really tough,’ he agreed gruffly. `Southgate really pushes us, right?’ `Sure does. He’s a very focused guy. Different to what you’re used to…? I suppose I’ve played for quite a lot of managers in my time, mate.’ Big Harry still sounded a little distracted and like he was being polite, but this was a bit more openness and sincerity to his voice than in their limited conversation so far. The tall guy was lifting away from his spot and joining Jarrod at this table, where he stopped a yellow ball that had been sent spinning away by an idle shove of his fingers. `What’s up?’ the national captain asked, his voice warm and quiet. When Bowen looked up, he was quite surprised by the sensitive and worried expression on the striker’s face, and there was something very reassuring about the Tottenham ace that almost made him spill the truth immediately. But he hesitated, and rubbed at his chin and his nose. `You’ve seemed nervous all week,’ the 28-year-old admitted, but continued, `but you’re doing great, and the gaffer has made it obvious he wants you on that pitch come the weekend, okay? Don’t lose any sleep over it tonight, bud.’ Jarrod nodded vaguely – in his sudden alarm at what he’d walked in on, that question had evaporated, and he didn’t mean to sound arrogant or presumptuous as he mouthed his agreement: `Sure, yeah, I hope so.’ He flinched, hearing how that might sound to the seasoned team leader. But Harry was just smiling reassuringly at him and edging closer to him along the side of the pool table. `There’s something else?’ Kane pushed in the same low voice, thick with his North London accent. He rested a hand on Bowen’s shoulder and stood right beside him, emphasising his 6ft2 height superiority. It was crazy to share anything with the captain, but he found he couldn’t help himself. `I just walked in on something I shouldn’t have,’ he blurted, and felt immediately terrible – was he really gonna rat out one captain to another? He saw the gentle lift of Kane’s eyebrows and the uncertain lines of his mouth. `I mean – er – I just had a weird moment, right, with Deccers, and so-‘ `You walked in on Declan?’ the England captain asked gently. Again, the honesty just poured out of his mouth. `And Mase,’ he added, immediately feeling worse. What was he doing? He hadn’t processed any of this, his brain was still trying to reshape around the information, and here he was, spewing it at perhaps the worst person he could – what would the Walthamstow working-class lad have to say about this shit going on in his team?! But he hesitated, watching the cogs turn and wondering if Harry was even piecing together the implications of what he’d just said. But Kane just let out a light snort of laughter. `Those two,’ he said in a knowing way that caught Jarrod entirely off-guard. `Not sure that surprises me.’ He laughed again and the hand of his on Bowen’s shoulder gave him a light squeeze. `Did it really surprise you…?’ Jarrod stared at him, almost angry for a moment. The casual tone and vague approval from this national hero was as unwelcome and surprising to him as what he’d seen, but he controlled himself, trying to suppress the unfair judgement that he felt. He let out an indecisive huff of breath and picked up one of the smooth shiny pool balls, turning it against both palms and clutching it like a precious egg. `What the fuck?’ he asked the world in general, and when Harry laughed again, he joined him, letting out the exasperated sound. `You walked in on them?’ his new captain asked in a low voice. `You KNEW they were a thing?’ he snapped back warily. Harry shrugged again. `Not exactly, but – Well, I think it’s a possibility that’s crossed everyone’s mind, hasn’t it…? The way they carry on. They’re like an old married couple.’ Again, both of the footballer lads laughed, Harry sounding very relaxed but Jarrod sounding wary and uncomfortable. He corrected his harsh tone. `I just don’t know what to think,’ he admitted. `I mean – fuck, I must have seemed so rude, I just walked in on them and then immediately buggered off, like… Oh, god. I just… Dec’s my captain, you know? I didn’t need to see that. I’d never have… I’d never have thought he’d ever…’ He fell quiet, dropping the heavy ball loudly against the green baize. `I feel sick about it.’ `What did you catch him doing, exactly?’ He glanced up, irritated by this question over specifics, and Kane just shrugged one shoulder and raised his soft brown eyebrows a bit. `Well, just asking. It seems to have really shaken you. Must have been something really bloody kinky, hah.’ He squirmed. `Well, not exactly. It’s just- Damn it, I don’t mean to be such a prig about this, but it’s really thrown me, that’s all. I mean, I’m not homophobic or nothing, seriously.’ He thought about the Pride Month rainbow band that Kane would be donning in each of their fixtures as captain, and he felt particularly grim about his reaction, but no more able to suppress it and change the situation. `I’ve nothing against gays,’ he grunted dimly. `Are they gay…?’ He huffed, irritated again. `Well, aren’t they? I know what I saw.’ `Which was…?’ He grimaced. `I think Rice was-‘ He paused, unsure why he was being so candid, but feeling a little trapped in it now. `I think he was sucking off Mase. I mean, I was only in there for a sec, so…’ `Oh, just that.’ `Just that?!’ The 25-year-old studied his fellow attacking player, aghast. He still felt hot and clammy, having not washed or stripped off since the last of their late-running final training session, where he had been working closely with Kane and the other forwards to perfect their set-pieces. He shuddered under the clammy training shirt and stared concernedly at his senior, baffled by that dismissive reply. `I’m having trouble getting my head around all this,’ he grunted evasively. He was tempted to hurry away from Kane now too, and go hide in his own bathroom taking a bath so long that he could skip dinner. `Well,’ the Spurs player said slowly, `that doesn’t really have to mean much.’ Jarrod stared at him, blinking and breathing slowly, and then breaking the stare and pushing impotently at the nearest balls on the gauze, letting them roll away and clack pointlessly at each other as their paths crossed. `It’s just stuff that happens,’ the captain said distantly, `when lads like us are away from our wives and girlfriends a bit too often, that’s all.’ A long pause, Jarrod turning this logic over in his head, and then, `Mind you, with those two, who knows. Like I said. Pair of old romantics, those two. Old married couple, worse than me and my missus.’ Bowen gave a hollow laugh to this assessment, and lifted his thick arms to hug over his chest, feeling his heartbeat and his breathing cool. `I dunno what to say,’ he admitted aloud, staring at the final gentle rolls on the random pattern of balls, and then at last looking earnestly back at his new captain. `You mean loads of footballers are at it? Hardly. I don’t think I believe that, mate. This is…’ `You’d be surprised,’ the 28-year-old muttered, and his expression was light, amused. It made Bowen frown and shift uncomfortably. `You’ve never had a teammate help you out?’ the striker demanded now, his voice quiet but confident. `Help me out!’ he echoed, ridiculing the idea. `I’ve got a girlfriend, thanks.’ He glanced back at Kane, accusation in his own eyes. `And you’ve got a… a wife, and kids.’ He stared hard at him, reading his relaxed posture. `You’ve… done shit like this, Harry?’ Kane didn’t properly answer. He just smiled in a way that was almost wistful, and then stroked and pushed some of the balls on the table, starting them off with another clacking domino effect, drawing both of their eyes down to follow the gentle action. And then one of his patient hands was back on the bulge of Jarrod’s shoulder muscle, holding him there. `I don’t think you should let any of this get to you, or change how you see your mates,’ he advised sagaciously. `I promise you, there’s madder things going on all the time. Nowt wrong at all with footballing lads experimenting a bit, or looking out for each other.’ His escort mersin tone changed slightly. `Unless it gets too serious.’ Jarrod glanced sideways at him, trying to read his pensive expression, and then noticing the insistent hand on his shoulder. It made him tense and he looked back at the final rolls of the red and yellow balls in front of his hands, which were white-knuckled as they gripped the edge of the table. Kane’s hand squeezed and then rubbed his shoulder a bit. Like him, the 6ft2 captain exuded the musty heat of an unshowered sportsmen at the end of a long day, though the striker seemed to have swapped his damp kit for clean grey sweatpants and a loose-fitting white t-shirt. But Jarrod could smell his physicality, his effort, his masculinity, laced with an aftershave that he couldn’t’t name but was sure he owned. The hand on his shoulder squeezed a little more against his muscle. `Like I said,’ he muttered. `I ain’t homophobic. I won’t hold it against Dec. I mean – I love him, he’s a great player, he’s a great captain. He’s my mate.’ `Exactly.’ `Hardly gonna change anything, if he IS seeing Mase, it’s just-‘ `It mightn’t be serious,’ mused Kane, close to him, and finger the neckline of his England shirt just a little. `It might just be a tour thing, something they do. I shouldn’t give it much thought. Guys have needs.’ But it was Dec sucking off Mase, part of him thought bitterly, trying to process that. Would he be less shocked if it had been the other way round? Perhaps not, but the details were sticking with him. Mason just stood there casually by the bed and Declan stooping forward, not quite visible, presumably attending to that cock which had been glimpsed – He shuddered again, and the feel of Kane’s fingers now closing about the back of his thick neck was relaxing and welcome against his own tension. `Don’t you have needs too, Bowie?’ the England skipper asked gently. `Huh.’ `You’re very tense.’ `Oh yeah?’ `You need some help, don’t you?’ Bowen’s ears and brain cells closed clumsily around the word `help’ and he remained there, strong arms locked forward to grip the edges of the pool table, but his back melting against the soft massage of fingertips on his nape, pulling and shifting at the neckline of his top. Then the same fingertips were scratching up the back of his head, which he let loll forwards, and tickling against the sweaty fluff of his blonde hair. He let out a long frustrated sigh, trying to square his shoulders, but feeling them sag and relax. One of Harry’s hands descended on each of them, and then something else was touching the back of his neck, something warm and moist – lips, kissing the very top of his spine. He felt gripped by sudden conflict, shuddering in unease, but melting forward in physical relaxation. He stiffened his body and made to shift to the side, but he stalled as Harry’s voice sounded gently. `Let me show you,’ murmured the Tottenham star, and Jarrod stared warily at him. Harry smiled confidently back, and nodded across the room. He followed his eyes to the gendered toilet sign in the corner, and he bit his lip hesitantly. The suggestion was obvious enough for him to grasp, and he had no idea what to do. Later, he would tell himself that it was some sense of obedience or fealty to his new leader, to the nation’s football captain and his tentative position in that international squad – but in the moment, he knew otherwise. His sweaty and tired body had reacted to the tender touch, and his thoughts were a muddle, still trying to understand what he’d seen Rice do to Mount. When he slowly followed Kane between the pool tables and through the door into the gentlemen’s, he knew he wasn’t even sure what `help’ was coming, and yet part of him was very ready to receive it. Inside the small toilet, it was Kane who instantly slid the lock into place and helped him out of his clingy shirt, peeling the material away from his smooth thick torso, and then draping it over the sink. The 6ft2 striker stood over him and it made him feel short and stumpy, but the height imbalance was quickly irrelevant, because his teammate was gliding down, settling on his knees. Then the same mouth that had very softly kissed the back of his neck was doing the same a fraction below his belly button, kissing the soft trail of golden hair there, and those big hands closing about his hips, rubbing him through the thin material of his new England training shorts. As it happened, the acclaimed West Ham player felt like he was watching it happen to somebody else, an out of body experience. He felt his shorts removed, pulled about his thick thighs and then dropped, and then his tight grey boxer briefs too. He felt himself guided back so that his chunky buttocks were pressed down on the cool white plastic of a toilet seat cover, his legs gently parted to make space between the thigh muscles, and the hand then fondling and weighing his damp sweaty balls, rubbing the underside of his soft meat. `Close your eyes. Just give it a go.’ And from then, it wasn’t even a third-person experience, but just an absent fantasy. He willingly obliged, squeezing his eyes shut and reclining into the tiled wall. The toilet seat and the wall were cool on his clammy skin, but the mouth that now enveloped his prick was soft and warm, and his skin prickled and responded. His balls retracted a little as his cock tickled and woke, and he slowly let out the gasp, feeling his dick enclosed within a mouth, and his closed eyes allowing him to displace the sensation from the tall tanned sight of Harry Kane, disappearing to his own bedroom in a trendy neighbourhood of East London, and either pair of open lips from his girlfriend. `We’re screwed,’ Rice groaned, his head buried in his hands. He was sat between the two beds, hunched over and wearing only his boxer trunks. Mount was next to him, cradling his bigger body, kissing the side of his neck, nuzzling him there. `I’m fucked,’ Dec groaned now, the point becoming even more personal. `I can’t stay at West Ham now whatever they throw at me, that’s it ruined, that’s it properly fucked.’ `Shush,’ murmured Mason in his ear as he kissed and stroked him. `Relax, babe…’ Dec rubbed at his face and then scratched his fingers through his hair, and pushed himself into a more upright seated position, becoming resistant to the tender hold and kisses of the lad next to him. He elbowed some distance between them as he groaned. `Why did he have to barge back in like that? Just as I was going down on you, for fuck’s sake, what must he be thinking? Oh shit.’ The West Ham captain groaned and grimaced, almost a whimper of dismay escaping his lips. There was a sharp sigh at his side, and then Mason was wriggling a little away from him. When he spoke, his voice was less quiet and tender. `Right, then,’ was all he said, and the tone more than the meaningless words caught Rice’s attention and made him glass attentively to his partner. `Cos obviously it’s the worst thing in the world, you being seen sucking my dick,’ the other 23-year-old sportsman muttered at him in a quite cold tone. Dec screwed up his face, and snapped back at the other lad. `Oh, don’t be like that, Mase, you know exactly what I mean. You know how bad this might be for me- for us, for what we’ve got. You can’t just be a dick about it, babe.’ `No, no, cos you’re so ashamed to suck my dick,’ Mount went on, pushing more distance between them, then pulling his bare legs up onto the bed and hugging them as he sprawled back against the loose mound of pillows. His eyes were resentful. `What a disgrace for you, to be caught like that.’ Rice just frowned. `A disgrace for us both, potentially,’ he said, but the ferocity had gone from his voice, as he heard himself talk about their love in those terms. He grunted miserably. `I don’t get what you’re saying, why you’re being like that.’ `Plenty of people on my team know what I’m into,’ Mase told him tartly. In spite of his love and loyalty, Dec sneered back at this. `Yeah, the ones who’ve fucked you,’ he retorted, and he regretted it as soon as the words left his mouth, seeing the jolt of annoyance on that handsome face, and the tightening of his lover’s crouched body. He reached out, grabbing one of those bare knees. `I didn’t mean it like that. It’s just different, you know it is. I’m captain there, Mase. And Jarrod isn’t so… I dunno, so open-minded. He’d never be okay with anything like that, with…’ `So is he a friend worth keeping?’ the Chelsea player snapped at him, and the hurt look on his face was intoxicating for Rice – suddenly, his boyfriend’s feelings resumed their importance, shoving away the usurping insecurities. Declan pulled himself more fully onto the bed and lunged at him in a hug, closing arms about his middle and pressing his face to his chest. `Sorry, sorry,’ he muttered quickly. `I didn’t mean any of that. I love you. Nothing we do is a “disgrace” – I never meant that. I promise.’ In response to the sweet words, Mason cuddled him back, and found his mouth to kiss him. `It’s okay,’ he mumbled contritely, his momentary sulk gone. `I do understand, I’m just worrying too, that’s all. We’re both freaking. Let’s not take it out on each other.’ `Deal,’ Dec quickly agreed, squeezing him close. `But what do we do? Like seriously, what the fuck do I do, Mase?’ `Well… for the rest of tonight, and the rest of our careers, I haven’t a clue, baby. But in the short term: we both need a shower. You stink, I stink, we stink. And ideally, in the shower, you’ll clap my cheeks and make me cum, but I’ll settle for a snog and a backrub. And then, fresh and clean, we’ll face whatever we got to face. Okay?’ Dec sighed and twisted his head to make eye contact with his beautiful lad over his smooth chest. `What did I ever do to deserve you, Mason Mount…?’ The cheeky Chelsea player grinned back. `Fuck knows, Dickhead Rice. But that shower will be good and hot by now, if we haven’t used all the water. So let’s get soapy, eh?’ Jarrod didn’t mean to open his eyes. He was really getting into it, feeling the sloppy lips slide back and forth over his short thick erection, enjoying all of its girth and tending gently to the sensitive head. He liked the tough rub of the hands going up and down his inner thighs, and he didn’t even mind the shorter hair on the scalp as he dragged his own fingers over it, unconcerned that it didn’t feel much like his babe’s hair extensions. But he was lost in the blowie, letting his aching cock be serviced, having not enjoyed even the briefest or most discreet of wanks since his driver deposited him at the training campus on Monday evening. But his eyes did open, and the fullness of what was happening did hit him. None other than his new fucking captain, England’s prolific striker, was on his knees for him, his head bobbing up and down and his golden brown hair mussed up beneath Jarrod’s guiding hands on his skull. The bigger man’s shoulder muscles bulged through his t-shirt, and the back of his neck shone with fresh sweat. He moved with speed and skill, pausing only to suck in breath and to spit messily upon the shaft of Jarrod’s chunky prick – and then back on it, taking in its full length but gagging somewhat on its thickness. Seeing it so vividly, Bowen tensed up, pushing back against the cistern and the wall, locking his thick thighs on either side of Kane’s questing face. This was madness. Initiated into his first international squad by the captain himself, shown a whole new underworld to the sport that he loved. Harry’s words drifted through his minds, his comments on `needs’ and `help’ and how `surprised’ Jarrod might be if he really knew what went on. Fucking hell. Now that his eyes were open, it was hard for the 25-year-old to close them, but it was also hard for him to stop the rollercoaster he was on. His bollocks, tight against the base of his wet cock, tingled and burned, and he knew he was getting close. The older man’s mouth moved ceaselessly up and down his short shaft, and the tongue was serpentine in its fluid strength against his bulging cock-head. He grunted vaguely, his hands still locked about Kane’s head: he could push him away, he could shove him backwards, but all he was doing was pushing his head down, dragging that long bronzed face in against the sweat of his crotch, holding it there and even thrusting up, squeezing his glutes and jolting his crotch forward from his seated position. And then he was riding that wave, feeling that overwhelming tingle from head to toe, and still he clung to the tight cut of Kane’s hair, holding his head in there, locked over his cock as he spilled his load, creaming inside a mouth that very much was not his girlfriend’s. `Fuck fuck fuck,’ the Herefordshire lad swore in a slur of gasps, shaking Kane’s skull and pushing his thickness into the tight wet mouth. `FUCK FUCK FUCK!’ The tensin left his body and he collapsed back against the cistern and tiles, letting go of Harry’s hair and head – his bare strong arms dangled at his sides and his thighs loosened apart more, and he felt his cock and balls tingle. He let out another groan, wordless now, and closed his eyes, his head throbbing. The sound of Kane’s mouth leaving his dick was wet and gasping, the tremble of lips and an unholy little gurgle. `Yes, lad,’ sighed the captain quietly. He sounded like he had a mouthful. `Fuck,’ Bowen groaned one more time. He brought an arm up against his eyes to screen the view, feeling the rise and fall of his body with each breath. Harry’s breath tickled his inner thighs and the sticky wet tip of his cock, and he felt one last suck run over it, as if every last drop of his seed was being consumed – oh god. Then his thighs were being patted in a robust, businesslike fashion, and he heard a lighter more jokey sound to Kane’s voice. `You’ll feel better for that,’ the captain was saying – it was both an assurance and a command, he thought. It meant: shut up and enjoy it, you git. Jarrod stayed slumped on the toilet while he felt more than saw Kane’s presence move away from him. When he lowered his arm, the striker was at his side, washing his hands and face in the sink, splashing flecks of warm water and soap this way. He was laughing a bit, and muttering to himself under his breath, and then pulling out and checking his phone. Jarrod’s shirt was passed to him and he snatched it cautiously from the taller, older man. `How do you feel?’ demanded Harry. There might have been mersin escort bayan an edge of worry to his voice, but he largely sounded fucking delighted with himself. When Jarrod finally looked at him, he half expected to see dribbles of his cum over his face, but the 28-year-old looked fresh and alert, rosy-cheeked, quite tanned. `Exhausted,’ he muttered evasively, starting to drag up his undies and his shorts before clambering into his shirt. `I really need to shower.’ `You do,’ Kane murmured, standing over him again. `So sweaty.’ Bowen grimaced. `But it tasted good.’ There was just a lewd smirk on the other forward’s face, and the confines of the men’s toilet held them together but separate, an uncomfortable heat all around them. Bowen just groaned, and pushed past to get to the sink so he could wash his face too. The captain said more words, but he didn’t catch them, just relieved when the door was unlocked and the 6ft2 bloke left first, allowing him a few moments of privacy whilst he rubbed cool water over his burning face and then adjusted his damp kit about his chunky body, waiting for his cock to recede and jut less obviously in the white. When he left the small cubicle, there was no sign of Kane in the pool room or the bar, or of anyone else. That was some relief. He felt light-headed and overwhelmed, just as he had when he rushed down those stairs. He found and picked up his backpack, lingering in the empty bar and considering pouring himself a comforting pint of ale, but deciding that could look bad if caught. If caught! As if what he’d just done in the toilets wasn’t fucking mad and risky, or as if Declan and Mason weren’t taking huge risks in hotel rooms with the doors half-open. It all made him feel queasy and anxious and he was suddenly desperate to just be in Budapest for the game, making his debut, not caring about anything else. That’s what he was here for, he reminded himself, nothing else. With that in mind, he stomped his way up to his room. He passed a few other players on the way, having paused and glanced grimly at the door to Rice and Mount’s suite. Coady and Phillips bounced happily past him and tried to involve him in hugs, but he shrugged rudely away from them, and then an equally cheery Stones tried to engage him in conversation at the next set of stairs – but Bowen powered awkwardly on, glad to get into the room and find Justin busy on the phone to family. It meant he could lock himself in their bathroom and stand under the shower for ages, washing away both the sweat and the shame. At dinner, he couldn’t help but avoid taking a seat beside Declan, even though he knew it would be conspicuous – he’d been pretty inseparable from his West Ham skipper since hugging him in the foyer at arrivals. But he tried his best to look relaxed and upbeat, figuring that if there were any remarks, he’d just point out that he was networking and trying to break out of his West Ham bubble – if pushed, he’d even maybe make some sarky comment about Dec as an ex-teammate now the season was over, provoking the inevitable speculation over where Rice would actually play in 22-23. He spotted a gap at the end of the table, and took up his position there. `This spot free?’ he asked brusquely, hurrying into the chair before he could be corrected and end up in Declan’s orbit. Harry Maguire turned morosely and gave him a briefly puzzled look, then nodded. `Sure,’ the 6ft4 centre-back grunted quietly at him. `Have a seat, buddy.’ The Manchester United player tried a smile, but it just came across as a twisted sneer – the big Sheffield bloke had been noticeably unhappy throughout the past three days, clearly quite unable to distance himself from a season of disappointment and intense scrutiny. `Long time no chat, Slab,’ Jarrod said, deciding to focus all of his attention on the dour giant, rather than risk making eye contact across the table to where Dec was taking his seat between Mason and Jude Bellingham. Maguire gave a low laugh at the shortened nickname, and nodded. It wasn’t strictly true that Dec was Jarrod’s only existing friend on the England line-up when he arrived, but it had been years since he and Harry had spoken outside of a football pitch. The several three or four seasons they had shared at Hull City seemed like a lifetime ago to Jarrod, and he suspected the same for the 29-year-old brute. He realised that the big United captain was giving him a long look, perhaps reflecting on that same shared past. When he spoke, his question jolted him with surprise and worry. `So, why is Mason Mount staring daggers at you across the table?’ the bigger man asked in a soft growl. `Is he really as possessive about his Rice-cakes as everyone jokes…?’ A rough chuckle. Bowne frowned then forced a laugh. When he dared look, there was no accusing stare from Mount, and Rice was engaged in talk with Bellingham. But he didn’t disbelieve Maguire, and he felt a pang of shame – he was being a dick, he needed to make sure things were okay with those two. They’d been such good friends to him. But it was gonna be tough, and a bit humiliating, in some way. He still felt uneasy and stunned by what had taken place when he confided in Harry Kane. `Or is it summat else?’ pushed this other big Harry. `Hmm? Oh – nothing. Just… a difference of opinion. A few words out of line earlier. My fault,’ he added swiftly. `Right. Hmm. Well – make your peace, mate. Cos you’re definitely in the squad Saturday night, and you don’t want any little tensions fucking that up, lad. Rice and Mount will both be starting, you don’t want any problems there, huh.’ This was a calmer and more mature Maguire than he remembered from their Hull days, and he paused to consider the big hunched man next to him – in fact, he thought, it was a different Maguire to the one he usually saw in his Red Devils shirt. The 29-year-old seemed aged and deflated by his experiences in a doomed Old Trafford, worn down by pressure and scathing review. It made Bowen a little sad to see, but he appreciated the kind words. `Trust me,’ Maguire muttered, as if talking to himself, `it’s never worth letting rivalries or personal problems get in the way of your form. If I’ve learnt nothing else this season, it’s that.’ He made a hollow grunting laugh, and then seemed to sag back further in his seat, a man defeated. Jarrod looked past him, briefly catching Declan’s eye over the table. He smiled weakly in his friend and captain’s direction, hoping to signal his loyalty in that gesture, whatever private reservations he had. He’d seek him out after the meal, he decided firmly, and make sure things were okay. He knew Harry was right, and they all just needed to be close and friendly, focused on shared goals. There was no room for bullshit and tension. And Declan Rice was a fucking great bloke, whatever else he might be getting up to. Across the table, Dec hesitantly returned the smile, and Jarrod braced himself for what might be a fairly awkward heart-to-heart with the 23-year-old. Rather than end up locked in a longer staring contest with the other West Ham player, he scanned the rest of the table, and then gave a puzzled frowned. `Wait,’ he said, looking at a gap down towards the far end, `where’s the skipper?’ Next to him, Maguire just made a vague noise of disinterest. `Running late?’ he guessed dismissively, immediately more interested in the arrival of some serving staff and the dishes being laid down at the far end of the table, around where Harry Kane should be seated. `Probably another cringe interview with the American press, or some shit.’ The United captain sounded resentful and bitter. `Right,’ Bowen said uncertainly, wondering if his own action or inaction had anything to do with the skipper’s AWOL status at the meal, and how he would feel when he next had to interact with the tall striker. That, he suddenly thought, would be far worse than making peace with his teammate buddy. `Fuck yes,’ whined the boy, and Kane lapped at his second sticky load of the evening, holding the big curved member at its base and running his tongue messily over the head to taste more of the silvery goo. `Fuck, fuck, yeahhhh…’ Now the youngster was holding his cock and pushing it at Harry’s dirty lips, slapping it weakly against his mouth and letting out a sour victorious laugh. `Eat it up, you Hotspurs slut.’ `Yes,’ the 28-year-old groaned with a shudder, pushing out his tongue and letting the tip of the fat cock sweep against his mouth, smearing the last frothy traces of the spilled load against his palate. Spent sighs from Emile Smith Rowe, and short sharp breaths from Kane himself, recovering from the heated excitement of bringing the 21-year-old player to climax. He remained crouched on the rough grass, letting his heart slow down, and hanging his head for a few moments whilst the younger player pulled away from him. He thought that the Arsenal starlet was busying himself with pushing his fat cock away and yanking up his pants, but nope – he lifted his head to look and saw only the pink-white blocks of Emile’s glutes, the lad turned away from him and angling at the base of one tree. A watery rush announced his business, pissing casually into the tree roots whilst Harry picked himself up and rubbed dirty marks from the knees of his grey sweatpants. The spot was risky in such bright sunset, though they had been will hidden whilst crouching down on the ground. Now he was stood up, the 6ft2 England hero felt conspicuous and ridiculous, unsure why he’d taken the risk of meeting so early. Last night and the night before they had waited until almost midnight before creeping here to this spot where the different sectors of the St George training campus connected. Smith Rowe finished pissing, shaking his cock and then stuffing it into the front of his underpants and tracky bottoms. He turned and shot one of his smug, contemptuous looks this way, a solid 5’11 and looking more full-bodied and muscular every month. It had been obvious all week how annoyed the winger was to languish in England’s U21s side for this camp, part of their Euros qualifiers, rather than playing with the big boys. He’d been pretty blunt in his complaints when Kane admitted that he didn’t have enough influence with Southgate to push against that decision. They both knew the truth: Emile’s skills were needed to get the U21s through into their tournament, and the Nations League games for the senior squad were the bottom of everyone’s priorities – that fact did not seem to comfort the impetuous Arsenal upstar whatsoever. `Was that good?’ Harry found himself asking in a shaky mutter. He heard how pathetic he sounded, asking that, having just slurped and snuffled over the young stud’s restless cock and savoured almost every drop of his salty deposit. But he had to ask, he had to know. He’d think about it while he wanked himself off in the hotel room later tonight. Emile just grunted. His dismissiveness, his aloofness, his arrogance – it was all part of the fun. Harry understood himself well enough to know that the submission was half of the pleasure. Still… This one was so young, and so overly confident. There was an edge to Smith Rowe that made him so excitingly uneasy, especially after he’d got what he wanted from him each time. Harry stared at him for a moment, licking his salty lips. `What?’ the 21-year-old grunted. `Did you want my piss too?’ Harry blinked slowly. In a very small voice, he asked, `Would you-?’ `Ugh,’ groaned the Arsenal winger immediately, breaking from groan to harsh laugh. `I’m gonna forget you almost asked that, big man.’ He winked. `Wish me luck for tomorrow’s match then, Tottenham scum.’ The kid would never dare speak to him like this in front of anyone else, he thought, and that was why he enjoyed these moments so much – he loved to be treated like this, and perhaps even more so from some jumped up youth who’d only spent five minutes at the senior table. Kane remembered that hotel scene after their last away match, the way Maguire had tried to urge him into being more dominant and in control. And all that had happened, well apart from Maguire and Bellingham exposing Pickford as a greedy sub, was that Harry had fallen for Emile’s beautiful tool, and he’d been obsessed with servicing it ever since. `Good luck,’ he said to the 21-year-old, in a voice more like himself. He was shaking off the greedy sub in him, ignoring the press of his semi in his underpants. He couldn’t believe he’d blown them both – first that tense stud Jarrod Bowen, and now his snarling 21-year-old regular playmate. He knew without looking at his watch that he’d be late for dinner, but it had been worth it. `I don’t need luck,’ Emile murmured, despite having just asked for it. He too was rubbing bits of dirt and broken twigs off his pants, backing further away in their dubious little spot of cover in the hotel grounds, a bit of red still in his cheeks and neck. `And… good luck to you lot in Hungary, I guess.’ It was a pretty kind and tender comment, as far as the Arsenal player went, and Kane nodded respectfully back, easing himself back into captain mode. But he didn’t say any more, stuck between roles. He just let the younger sportsman jog away, heading back to the different wing of the hotel where the Under-21s were based this week, then made his own slow walk back down the path in the direction of his own team meal. It was tempting to skip it altogether, and hurry upstairs to jerk off thinking of Bowen and Smith Rowe’s weapons and loads, but he was not someone to take his duties lightly. He headed for the hotel restaurant, checking his reflection in some windows to make sure he wasn’t too dishevelled, and then racing in through the foyer just in time to see his dish being served at an empty space. Kane hollered his apologies and hurried on into the dining room, not daring to look across the table and seek out Bowen; he just had to trust that the humble West Ham bloke would have recovered from the shock and got on with his evening. He’ll be grand, the Londoner promised himself, glad that he’d initiated the naive newcomer and opened up another possible playmate in this squad of unbelievable studs. The captain sat himself down in their midst, no longer paranoid or worried about his sexual needs: they were two different men, he decided, the Harry Kane who won those penalties and led the campaign, and the Harry Kane who had submitted to about half a dozen different men at this table. They were both him, but different, and he was learning to accept that. ‘Writer guy’ – Premiership Lads on Nifty fty//gay/celebrity/premiership-lads/ Amazon Wishlist here if you wanna say thanks LOL https://www.amazon.co.uk/hz/wishlist/ls/26BW3WSABBHNM?ref_=wl_share
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