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Subject: Premiership Lads Part 195: Hard Cash Part 195: Hard Cash A yellow card was flashed by the nearest official, but Harvey Barnes was seeing red. He glared furiously across at the referee and joined some of his nearby Leicester players in roaring out his protest, their voices carrying in the emptiness of Walkers Stadium. Surely not, cried the sentiment of their garbled voices, you must be joking ref! Barnes glowered and huffed at the centre of a sudden congregation of Leicester City men, watching the raised yellow card and the almost dismissive reaction of the Aston Villa player it was directed at. It had been a rough and snatching tackle, a heavy manoeuvre from the speedy Villa player as Barnes began to breach their defence and push for a decisive goal for the home team — he’d been making a much-needed push for his side, dribbling into the Villa half and making progress, then the opposition player had cannoned into him and snatched at his kit. And not just at his kit but at his SHORTS, almost ripping the blue material from his body as he cannoned forward — as the other young footballer yanked stupidly at his shorts and tight matching under-shorts, Harvey had tumbled painfully forward and crunched his knees against the lime-green turf. A petty and vicious tactic from a fucking inflated Championship player who didn’t deserve to be in the Prem! Barnes glared from the yellow card to him, furiously eyeing the young Villa transfer who had cut short his movement and was now laughing off a yellow with a brief interaction with his captain, young Jack Grealish himself squeezing at the taller lad’s shoulders and slapping his back, upbeat and supportive rather than censorious or irked. Fuck’s sake, Championship-level team, Harvey thought, barely deserved to scrape through last season, and now just ideas above their station cos they got lucky against Liverpool last weekend…! The red-haired boyish Leicester player pouted and jogged backwards, readying for play to resume, late in the first half of a currently goalless clash between the two Midlands sides. Barnes needed to forget the little tackle incident with that prick, Matty Cash, a jumped-up nobody who’d traded in Nottingham Forest for the currently unbeaten underdogs of the Premier League. There was something particularly irritating about Cash himself: a flashy poser with a similarly excessive hairstyle like his goateed captain, what a pair they looked, vain queer pricks…! What a dumb fuckin’ tackle, the Burnley-born Leicester winger distanced himself from the opponent who had crashed into him, sick of being marked by that rough-and-ready Premiership new boy who had got so keen and vicious; pulling at his shorts, almost tearing them off, what a dick! It was just a good job Harvey was wearing quite long and covering blue under-shorts of lycra beneath his main kit, if he’d been in skimpy undies like some of these douchebags then he would have been embarrassingly exposed on the pitch, fuckin’ hell! Stupid fag. Harvey, flushed with anger and exertion, narrowed his eyes and jogged into action, rejoining the to and fro of the football teams as they battled on for the remaining minute or two of the first half, battling to end 45 minutes on a decisive goal that could swing the match in Leicester’s favour! That goal did not come, not for Leicester City anyway. It was a last-minute fluke from that brutish thug Ross Barkley that secured Aston Villa’s away win, and underlined Harvey Barnes’ hot-tempered dismay at how the game had gone. The game over and the home squad marching hotly indoors to the familiar hall of their changing rooms, he squeezed and un-squeezed his fists in a foul mood, having failed to calm or focus ever since the 40 minute mark and that first dirty tackle from a particular prick of a Villa lad. He’d clashed with Cash two or three more times as the game went on and been roughly tackled by a couple of other scum-bags on the away side, never finding his footing and getting lucky with any of his energetic runs. By and large, the home team were taking the loss well, philosophical about a relatively well-matched clash and a late fluff that had allowed Villa’s Chelsea loan to get lucky in their box. The Vardy-less squad were disappointed but magnanimous, an almost casual oh-well-better-luck-next-time atmosphere dominating the noisy locker-room as blue Leicester shirts were dragged off and athletic bodies were bared all over the room. Biceps and pecs and flashes of red nipple, scratchy patches of chest hair and exposed ugly tattoos. On a less than conscious level, the sweaty slideshow of the male body was as aggravating to Barnes right now as the match result or the violent little outbursts that had marred his efforts to score for his precious team. It wasn’t something that took clear form in the 22-year-old athlete’s heated mind, but it was a notion that had been bothering him since he returned to the East Midlands from the tainted excitement of his first international duty. It wasn’t that Harvey was unappreciative of his brief, minimal contribution to the England team this month; it was what had gone on between he and a more lauded debutant in their shared hotel room, that dull private night. Sometimes, when Harvey was lying in the bed of his oversized Leicester penthouse, he would picture himself nudging against the Everton prodigy and crossing those taboo lines to `help each other out’, but always fixating on the horrible ending: Dominic Calvert-Lewin leaning over and blowing his load messily upon him like he was some dumb porno slut…! He’d been horrified, if a little dazed and accepting in the moment, and he’d given DCL nothing but the cold shoulder for the remainder of the week, too embarrassed to risk asking Southgate or the other coaches for a room swap or to give Dom a talking to. Even when Calvert-Lewin had tried to apologise to him towards the end of the training camp, Barnes had opted for loud bluster and cocky banter to avoid addressing the shame and distress of being treated as the tall striker’s cum-rag in the heated moment. The young Lancashire lad had spent enough of the summer and autumn ruing his minor part in that hotel orgy of his Leicester teammates, scandalised and homophobic towards the fluidity of his teammates — revisiting that seedy kink with Dominic had been a rush of overexcitement in the new surroundings of the Surrey training camp, England duty going to his head and the apparently very different lifestyles of bigger League stars influencing him… He shuddered when mates would ask him for inside gossip on life at the England camp or even here at Leicester now. He’d already made it clear to his agent that he was well open to a rushed transfer in the January window if possible — out of Leicester and even out of England if possible. So the anger that Barnes now felt for Villa and for Matty Cash in particular was somewhat displaced, a professional and laddish outlet for emotion and anxiety that was more specific and difficult to put into words. The passive acceptance of the other Leicester players was galling to the muscular 5t9 youth, stood in the centre of the Home changing room still in his mucky blue kit, staring around him and looking for a pal as pissed off and competitive as he was, someone to moan to and rant with, but no… the air of casual never-mind was all-consuming and totally offensive to him. Fuck this lot, he kept thinking, I need out of here, bunch of batty-boys and weaklings… Even Schmeichel, that Scandi beast of a goalkeeper, was sat shirtless at the wall already laughing with Tielemans and Praet about an incident from training in the week; Maddison and Justin were blasting some tune from one of their phones and rapping pathetically along to it like they were about to record a mixtape together; others like Evans and Fofana were just rushing to undress and head into the showers with bland expressions, as if this was just a shift at work to be put aside and escaped, clocking out into their `real’ lives. Barnes scowled and clenched his fists and flared is nostrils, still pink-cheeked and blotchy. The trigger that made sparked him and made him shuffle quietly out of the oppressive space was the thought that the team were shite and apathetic without their fiery talisman Jamie Vardy here to lead them and smash in the goals; the notion that VARDY was so integral and essential just made Barnes more angry and desperate on some level, since it was that working-class hero and retired England ace that made him more uncomfortable than anyone else! It had been his machinations and perversions that put that roomful of them together and led to the dirty behaviour at King’s goodbye party… fuck him, the old pervert! Barnes did not need to be stuck at a team centred around HIM. His socked feet slapped against the linoleum floor as he marched back out into the tunnel, needing to be away from the apathy of the lads and their defeatist attitudes. He burst straight from the changing rooms door to the opposite wall and slammed one fist into it, a tightly-packed bundle of muscular energy. He reeled back immediately, a stinging pain consuming his right fist, which he shook in the air then bit his lip and swore to himself. Just down the corridor to his right he could see at an angle through to the visitors’ changing room, flashes of their team colours and bared skin of different ethnicities, making him turn angrily away and stomp further down the tunnel towards the big square of light looking out into the floodlit evening stadium. Into that frame of green and gold came a weary kitted figure, presumably delayed coming into the tunnel by some interview or conversation, or — probably laughing along with his cunt captain or whatever about the outrageous tackle he’d got away with, yellow card my arse! It was Matty Cash, his newly appointed nemesis based on one unreasonable incident in one unfortunate match. Harvey stared at him and squared his mersin escort strong young body, unable to think clearly or rationally right now in the fiery aftermath of a difficult game. Spotting him, the other young player just raised his neat dark brows and ran a hand through the long slicked mop of his brown hiar, pulling it back away from the fade-shaven sides and his angular handsome face. `Er, wotcha,’ Cash barked, swinging his limbs as he staggered wearily into the tunnel, still in his full kit and boots, panting a little and headed past Barnes for the noisy winners’ changing rooms — before he knew what he was doing, Harvey was strafing to the right and barging into him, blocking his path and shoving one flat hand into the chest of his Villa kit. `Oi!’ grunted the right-back, blinking in surprise and batting at his shoving arm. `You dickhead,’ the Leicester youth exclaimed. `Grabbing my fuckin’ shorts like a fanny…!’ `What? Oh, mate, chill — oi, just need to… hey, get out of my way mate, what are you…’ Harvey grappled madly at the front of his shirt, snatching the maroon chest of it and its sponsorship badge, tugging it away from the toned muscle of the taller bloke’s chest, pushing back at him with his knuckles. `You dirty bastard,’ he accused. `Yellow card? Fuck that! Who do you think you are? Jumped up little Sunday league bell-end…!’ `Whoa…’ With controlled strength, Matty broke his hands away form his chest and pushed him roughly back, lifting to his full height and returning his angry glare. `Back the fuck off, boyo; what the hell are you playin’ at?’ He took imposing steps forward, chest puffed out, facing up to Harvey who tried and struggled to make himself taller and wider as he faced this rough response. For some reason he was a little surprised by the aggression and belligerence he was getting back to his own attitude, perhaps had just wanted to rail against this idiot without really starting anything — but now Cash was taking a fighting stance and bringing his face angrily in close to his own, his anger was stoked even more and he was on his tiptoes, leaning menacingly close to the other lad. `You wanna make something of it, you fag?’ he griped. `Huh, whatever, Barnes, you tiny tot… what the fuck, can’t you take losing fairly…?’ `Back off loser, who let you into the Premiership?’ `Who let you into a football stadium you absolute little squirt?’ growled his opponent. Cash shoved him in the shoulders, forcing him clumsily back then gritting his teeth. `You think you can take me in a fight do you, dickweed…?’ `Easy,’ Barnes challenged, voice thick with anger and his Burnley accent. `Here and now-` `Here and now?’ scoffed the other lad. `Nah, see you in the underground car park where nobody can break it up, I’ll knock your fuckin’ lights out you smug little prick.’ Again, the heat and intensity of the ex-Championship player struck him by surprise, much more pugnacious and resilient than your average Premiership primadonna. `What you say to that, little wannabe…? Come see me in the car park if you wanna get punched, yeah? YEAH?’ `Yeah!’ Harvey shouted at him, backing off slightly. `Easy. Take you in seconds, you jumped-up nobody. Only fuckin’ playing cos of your dad, you tosser.’ `Oh aye — let’s prove it then. Ten minutes, you daft little prick. Be there or I’ll know you’re a wuss and a bender.’ `Definitely mate, just get ready to have that pretty face smashed up you-` `Stop flirting and fuck off,’ Cash told him dismissively, `I need to celebrate with my boys. See you in five, cunt.’ He pushed roughly past him and Harvey tried to grab at his sleeve but was shrugged away, leaving him reeling on the spot with spittle about his lips and chin, his chest heaving and bloody throbbing in his head. He stood panting, then glanced behind him as one of the older assistant coaches leaned out of the door to the Home changing rooms: `Everything alright Harvey lad? Who you shoutin’ at out here…?’ The 23-year-old strutted into the subterranean quiet of the coach park beside the Walkers Stadium, a tracksuit top pulled over his long-sleeved thermal under-shirt, official No.2 Villa shirt ditched in the locker-room before sneaking down here. He cricked his neck and rolled his shoulders, squinting into the half-light of the lofty concrete space and hearing his bare feet pad quietly against the dark grey flooring as he rounded the corner and looked down the roomy space. Already, fifteen minutes after sparring with the Leicester player in the mouth of the tunnel, Villa’s 2020 signing had convinced him the blow-up was nothing, just a bit of banter-gone-wrong from a lad he didn’t know very much about. He was aware of Barnes as something of an up-and-coming talent, a youth who’d made his name in Leicester’s squad last season with a few breakout performances next to their more experienced men. He was also dimly aware that Barnes had earned some minutes for England just lately, the kind of opportunity that a Championship graduate like Cash couldn’t help but slightly resent. After pushing away the other bloke’s stupid aggression, he’d stomped into the Away changing rooms and mingled with the Villa lads who were cracking open some beer cans and already starting their showers. He’d been tempted to stay there, confiding his confrontation in some of the others and laughing it off; but that wasn’t how he’d been raised by his dad, a former pro footballer himself from very humble roots, who’d always prepared Matty to fight for himself. He was finding it hard to see the tackle in question as a big deal. And he’d got a yellow card for it anyway so fair enough, price paid. That style of tough and aggressive football was how things worked for Matty, was exactly the manner of play that had allowed him to become a regular fixture as a 19-year-old at Forest and stay that way for four seasons; the same resilience and attacking spirit that had earned him this year’s profitable leap into the Premier League with underdogs Aston Villa! He was hardly gonna apologise for being a tough defensive player who stood for no bullshit from opposition attackers… what the hell did Harvey Barnes want, treated with kid gloves or some sort of special opportunity to score?! Ginger prick. So here he was, marching on into the draughty dark space of the coach car park as agreed, staring around him and suspecting that Barnes had done exactly what he’d almost wanted to: stuck with his teammates instead and abandoned this pettiness and immaturity! But nah, there he was, leaning against one of the concrete columns like he was some cliché character in an old gangster movie; a redheaded and pink-cheeked rebel without a clue, surly and pitiful and still in the bright blue of his Leicester kit. `You’re late,’ came Harvey’s opening shot as he crossed the space between them, moving between the dim pools of light from above. `You’re early,’ he returned pointlessly, holding himself tall, enjoying his 6ft1 advantage over the other lad. Small man syndrome, was it? He crossed the space in a couple more strides, eyeing up his opposition and partly regretting his decision to come down here; not out of fear, but in knowledge that he must be tougher than this pipsqueak and that he might struggle to control himself if things got really going. Yeah, he’d had a slightly privileged start with his footballing family, but he’d cut his teeth in the lower leagues and fought his way up, none of this Premiership diva nonsense; he’d left many a Nottingham game with a bust lip or a black eye and a new enemy on his list. This ginger twit was not going to threaten or intimidate him! Fifteen minutes had allowed Harvey’s anger to simmer rather than cool. Now, that arrogant nobody storming up to him, he felt it begin to explode. He punched forward with a burst of energy, lunging for the other young footballer and aiming a solid punch to his face; Matty swerved and Harvey caught him with his other fist instead, punching into a rock-hard six-pack and then feeling a clash of arm against his chin. The pair fought like angry schoolboys, swinging blows and ducking and twisting away from each other, barely getting a proper blow in because their arms clashed and bashed and they both pulled back defensively every other moment. But Harvey was in no mood to fight like a gentleman. He was shorter than the other guy but he was sturdy with gym work and he had learned to fight on the streets of Burnley before a lucky football signing saved him from a rougher crowd. He squatted lower and lunged at Cash in a rugby tackle, wrestling him hard back into the concrete pillar then twisting at his tall lean body until both of them tangled down to the ground in a roll of rustling nylon and tensing muscle. Harvey spit and grabbed and attacked in a blur of angry energy, an eruption of frustrated young masculinity that had been mounting since he washed himself clean and cried in the mirror of a Surrey hotel room, wiping Calvert’s cum off his ripped six-pack and squirming at the thought of how he’d just tossed off another lad. The crushing injustice of almost having his shorts yanked down in the middle of a Premiership game sent him into a frenzy now, shoving a knee into Matty’s stomach and trying to roll on top of him so he could punch him in the face — but a vengeful knee dug up into his crotch painfully and he was thrust back and off his opponent, tumbling away and scrabbling up to his feet as Cash launched back at him with the same aggression. Again, the two young men met in a hurricane of movement, matching each other in ferocious determination in an awkward flurry of caught fists, badly judged headbutts, and slippery feet against the rough concrete floor. Harvey felt himself land a strong fist against the tight muscles of the other guy’s abdomen, and a twist at his arm that he thought might really hurt, and a kick to his shin; but he also took another bash to the crotch that made him escort mersin shrivel in pain and a glancing blow to the cheek that made his left eye sting badly. He was breathless with the hot rush of the little fight but still he found his voice: `You dick, you smug wanker, you absolute pussy, why don’t you — fuck off — just… get the fuck back, and…’ Both hands on the slippery Villa training tracksuit top, he slammed the taller lad backwards away from him and against the expansive flat wall of concrete, shouting: `Get on your knees and suck my dick you stupid bitch, I’ll show you who’s top dog here…’ He saw the flash of alarm in the other guy’s eyes at this and glared at him: his angular tanned features and grey-blue eyes, his exposed little teeth and the blood slurred from his lower lip, down his chin and into the short dark hair that grew there. Harvey launched angrily into him and, with the same mindless violence with which he’d started the fight, took it in a different direction: he reached his lips for that bloody mess and roughly kissed the other boy, bearing into him against the wall and feeling his tense strength beneath his mitts. `What — the — fuck?’ He hammered the heels of both hands into the strong chest of the shorter footballer and hurled him backwards, pulling his face away from his mouth, seeing the stunned boyish expression on the 22-year-old’s pale pink features — a smear of his own blood over his lips and chin where they had, briefly and horrifyingly, kissed. `What?’ he repeated breathlessly, pulling his pained body away from the concrete, staring dizzily at his attacker, hearing his stupid words again: `Get on your knees and…’ What the actual fuck? Harvey looked stunned, his brief upper hand in the rugged tussle was over as he staggered backwards, blinking and gawping and almost slipping over until Matty snatched at his forearm and pulled closer to him, snatching the collar of his Leicester shirt with his free hand. `You nutter!’ he yelled into his face. `What are you doing…?’ Harvey stammered meaninglessly back at him now, looking suddenly weak and confused rather than maniacal and aggressive; Matty pushed at him, sending him toppling almost off his feet, but watching him reach out and grab at the pillar to support and still himself. Matty lifted an arm and wiped the back of a hand over his throbbing lips, pulling blood from his skin and hair and fixing his eyes moodily on the ginger lad — but not just on his pale face or his heaving chest, but… further down, in the creases of his tangled shorts, he was… jesus christ, he had a hard-on?! `YOU get on your fucking knees,’ he shouted back at him, pulling in closer and bunching his hands into tight fists that he knew could do damage if he let them, feeling his own worked-up masculinity rising inside him. `You get on YOUR knees and suck MY dick you stupid Leicester pussy boy…’ He didn’t know what he was saying, he was just stupidly echoing the other lad’s nonsense and aggression; the words spilled out meaninglessly and freely, he was so angry and confused by the fight itself and what his pint-sized opponent had just tried to do to him here in this quiet corner. So when Harvey did exactly as he said, for a second he thought he’d just really winded him — the Leicester player was just sliding down the firm corner of the pillar in pain or breathlessness, nothing else. Matty was still confusedly blinking away the image of that diagonal rigid presence in the folds of blue. But once Barnes was on his knee, still leaning half of his bodyweight against the concrete, and reaching for the sides of Cash’s shiny white shorts, the Villa defender was too mystified to properly react. He numbly considered slamming one of his firm legs against the crouching 22-year-old in a petty kick, so annoyed at him for starting this and drawing out his pugnacious side for no real reason… but the lad on his knees was pulling his hands down over the glossy sides of his shorts, feeling the bulge of his thigh muscles and the hemline of the briefs beneath. Matty, heaving with pained breaths and feeling the sting of several bruises and marks on his body, just hovered there over him, perplexed by the tug on his flesh as the shorts were dragged downwards and he saw the bulge of his white briefs emerge plumply over the descending waistband. He saw Harvey reach for and fondle it as if in a nightmarish scene, instantly pushing one of his own hands against the pillar to steady himself and opening his mouth in a silent cry of alarm. In an eerie moment of slow-motion awareness, Cash heard his own voice rather than Barnes, barking out the filthy threats: `You get on YOUR knees and suck MY dick…’ But he hadn’t MEANT it, he didn’t REALLY want that, he wasn’t one of THEM, he was just… Harvey’s face was staring at him where he crouched, glossy with sweat and all of his reddish hair standing on end, ruffled and spiky. His hands were both pulling down further on the shorts and his knuckles were pressing into the fleshy contents of the white briefs, while Matty’s chest still rattled with long awkward breaths and he felt a drop of sweat leave his goatee and drip onto the ginger fella’s face. They both stilled and remained in this position, the fight over — or transformed. `Go on,’ Matty Cash found himself barking, caught in the moment, `you heard me.’ Then it was his briefs coming down, at the front, not just his shorts — an exposing of his wiry dark bronze pubes and the flopping of his thick soft prick into view, handled immediately by the grazed pink knuckles of Harvey’s fist. A firm pull of his dick away from the contents of his shorts and briefs, and immediate hot breath tickling his foreskin as the lad’s face pulled in. He saw his mouth open, his eyes go from staring blankly upwards to hooded by soft red lashes. And then his mouth was about Matty’s flaccid dick, warm and moist and sensuous, and he felt truly confused and exhilarated — but also powerful, the dominant one here, the winner. The 6ft1 right-back stood there, pressed up against the pillar, resting all of his tightly muscled bodyweight into the single hand that held him up, staring fixedly downwards as the gingery head of hair pressed in close to the bottom of his tracksuit top, swallowing his meat into his soft warm mouth, aahhhh… he could feel himself getting hard, quickly and inevitably, a rapid and ridiculous stirring of hormones and blood-rush. It had all happened so fast, was still happening so fast. His dick was getting hard in there, in against that tongue and those soft lips, oh — he looked sharply upwards into the dark grey and the sight of his own bloodied hand splayed against the concrete, unable to look any more at the lad crouched in front of him. Instead, the 23-year-old Villa newbie leaned forward, folding his arm into the hard support and resting his face in the bend of it, feeling his skin hot and prickly against his eyes and the bridge of his nose. He became very aware of the little injuries inflicted on him in this scuffle — the burn of his split lip and several points down his torso, the ache of a hip and scrapes on the sides of his arms and legs. But it was all numbed by the magic sensation of his erection, contained in the most beautiful dragging motion of a mouth (not, in his head, a lad’s mouth, but someone’s mouth, genderless and safe and so fucking satisfying). He began to move with the rhythm of it, propping himself up against the pillar and rolling his sore hips, moving his tall wiry body and letting his dick slip back and forth against tightly puckered lips, fucking against a writhing tongue and hitting the back of a mouth like the softest cunt he’d ever entered back in the heady single days before he met his current girlfriend. Oh yes, he thought, oh this feels good, this is it… all of that testosterone and defensive rage, exercised and massaged by this blowjob now, the only violence of his body the slow steady thrusting of his pelvis to push more and more of his dick into her mouth, their mouth, HIS MOUTH… The reality of the moment returned to him just too late, his balls tingling and throbbing and his cock jerking with momentum. He pulled back, pushing himself away from the pillar with his right hand, then pushing his left hand down to squeeze the base of his nob as if that could stop it or was needed to get the lad’s lips and face away from his member — but it was too late, his penis was convulsing and the long veiny shaft of his sizeable erection was spurting his creamy, days-old load forward onto the open, wide-eyed face of the ginger youth. Staring down, Cash saw his hard dick empty his load over the pouting pink lips and bruised cheeks of the boyish Leicester winger, smearing streaks up his brow and in his copper fringe, some of his jizz drooling down the sides of his chin. Still those wide brown eyes stared up at him with — what? Fear? Satisfaction? Relief? A stray thought returned to Matty: the lad had been HARD in his shorts after they FOUGHT! Suddenly he was reeling back, his dick dribbling a little more of his juices onto that pink-cheeked face and down the tight chest of his Leicester shirt, dropping his seed onto the jarring `Thailand’ slogan of the club sponsor. And as he staggered backwards, dick wavering from side to side, he saw Harvey scrabble sideways, coughing and spluttering — it suddenly seemed for a horrible moment to Matty as though he’d forced this on Harvey and done something wrong, but that was hardly true, he’d never wanted a lad to choke on his dick, that had been… but… what… why… He backed off at speed, reaching with both hands to pull on the tight elastics of his briefs and shorts and thrusting his aching hard-on into their confines, knowing it was visible and obvious but dashing away, shaking and aching and needing to be out of here, away from this weirdo, back in the safety of his new team and their recent victory. mersin escort bayan On the screen, the lads parted: the one in blue still crouched down, the Villa player backing rapidly off. The screen was fuzzy and pixelated but the scene was clear enough to be exciting, the escalation of the fight and the aftermath had been clear and obvious enough. Clear and obvious enough to cause the erection that he now jerked furiously at in the front of his loose dark blue trackies, hunched forward in the leather seat with his clammy face close to the screen so he could see more details: the wet glisten on the face of the ginger lad, the bouncing piece being pushed into the white shorts of the tall other guy. He stared at all of it as he jerked himself, his 6ft2 body hunched and tense and almost shaking with the private fury of his excitement. John Terry wanked himself to completion, watching Harvey Barnes do the same: on the screen, abandoned by Cash, the Leicester lad was still hunched there in the shadows, resting against the pillar as he reached inside his blue shorts and finished himself, making gurgling crying noises and swearing to himself: `You dickhead, you idiot, why did you… fuckin’ hell… Harvey!’ He berated himself hatefully, visibly conflicted as he seemed to orgasm inside his shorts; his audience in this leather chair of a small stadium security room did the same, spurting his saved-up manly cum inside his boxer shorts and creating a sticky mess on the inside leg of his club-branded trackies. As the flickery blue form of the Leicester winger moved out of vision on the security screen in front of him, John Terry made a few more throaty gasps, enjoying and also hating the way his manly orgasm rocked his tall muscled body in the creaking seat. He slowly took his rough hand from the shape in the trackies and brought the back of his sweatshirt sleeve over his glossy face, wiping away the beads of his lusty sweat that had pricked and glistened in the moments of his self-pleasure. He sat there, cooling and recovering and watching an empty security camera angled on one quiet corner of the dark car park. When the Leicester club staff had summoned him from the changing rooms, he’d come in here out of genuine concern: a fight between one player from each team? Perhaps he’d been a little flattered — his tough guy reputation persisted into his late 30s enough for him to be the one member of management on either side that had been called on to intervene. And yet he’d sent the building manager away from him and lingered in the office alone, promising to watch and decide what action was needed. `I’ll deal with them,’ he’d snarled at the middle-aged and perhaps starstruck suit who had called him away to see what was going on. But all he’d done was stay in here on his own, hunched in the chair, getting harder and harder then needing to attend to it despite the obvious risks — anyone could have walked on in and seen him at it. Would he have heard and stopped in time? Unlikely. When his laboured breaths had quietened enough, he got up from the chair with a creak, glad that the stain of his messy load was pretty much invisible in the leg of the dark blue jogging bottoms. It stunk though, he thought, the seedy smell of his own sexuality hung around him like a perverse cloud as he pushed the chair back and got to his feet, wiping his clammy palm down the front of his sweatshirt and glancing about the security office and its arrays of split-screen action. The suited building manager appeared in the doorway, looking earnestly at him. `What happened? Are they still fighting? Thank you so much for your help, Mr Terry, I got such a shock when I saw that he was going down there and-` Terry cut him off with a growling instruction. `I need that footage deleted now. You can imagine the scandal if it got out, right? On either your side or ours. Get it deleted. Now.’ It was dealt with easily. The weirdly awe-struck fat guy in his suit got on with what John asked, wiping the car park footage entirely (`All of them, mate, I don’t want any of that fight leaked, okay? Fuck’s sake, can’t you do it quicker, mate? Jesus christ.’) — and he was marching away, aware of the damp patch in his trackies, stomping heavily back through the corridors and stairways and finding his way to the Away changing rooms where the fresh, showered troops of the Villa squad were all dressing and getting ready for the fairly short coach trip that would take them back to Birmingham tonight. JT strode among them as if nothing had happened, trying to dispel the knowledge of his voyeuristic enjoyment. The dirty dealings of what he’d witnessed, that Leicester slut starting on one of their new golden boys then weirdly submitting to him and sucking him off, well that didn’t matter much; but his own feverish excitement at spying on it and the way he’d urgently needed to attend to his big chubby hard-on in a risky public setting, well… that was some bad shit, and he was not going to sleep well tonight, was he? Around him, the Aston Villa players moved on in various stages of dressing. Whipping white towels, fresh unfolded undergarments, tops pulled down over six-packs and sweatpants up over sturdy legs. A flash of black briefs around the curved bottom of Olly Watkins beside him, the mixed-race youth’s upper body still on show for a moment before he found his tshirt, all toned lean flesh and rippling shoulders; Ty Ming beyond him, buttoning up a black shirt across his broad chest and the long defined mass of his six-pack; a bouncing and excitable John McGinn, doing up the flies of his jeans with his top still off, chattering away to his beloved captain Grealish, who was fully dressed but bulging physically in a tight dark tracksuit while he combed and preened his hair in a mirror, a preoccupied and distracted look on his handsome Jack the Lad features as he half-listened to his Scottish pal; and there was Ross Barkley, he saw, sitting on a bench as he pulled up his socks, a long-sleeved white tshirt tight over his upper body but his thick strong legs fully on show, a dense khaki bulge rising between them where his meat was held firm by his chosen undies. He got up, giving Terry a brief better view, then up came the tight grey sweatpants that he was wearing on his bottom half, the big bulge tucked away within them and his glorious legs covered. The Scouser grinned and beamed with the joy of his late winner, still recovering from a nervous interview to the media. `Sorry, sorry, sorry lads…’ Terry jerked his head aside as the last member of the squad to shower flitted by him, upper body still glistening wet and towel almost slipping from his waist as he buried into his spot between Watkins and Ming, dropping it and exposing his rounded hairy bottom so that Terry had to force himself to look away. He heard Cash mutter more anxious apologies, unable to explain to his mates why he’d been so delayed in showering and why he looked so worse for wear. `Rough match!’ he heard one player remark as he walked away from them, rubbing a paw over his face and sighing unhappily into his own wrist. On the coach, he idly watched Cash, conscious of a lot of conflict bubbling in the tall right-back, detached from the loud jolly banter of the main squad on the motorway from Leicester to Birmingham. He felt a vague tug of sympathy for the lad, so confused by what had occurred between him and that bitch Barnes, and he wanted to go over there and squeeze his shoulder. Tell him it didn’t matter, it was just one of those things; lads like us, he thought, we just have too much testosterone and we can’t be sated by a simple sex life. But the ageing Chelsea ace was not going to do that. Not going to expose himself with that empathy. He would leave Cash to stew and worry and deal with it on his own. He was a big lad and he could look after himself. Terry didn’t want to involve himself further, it had been ridiculous enough of him to watch and… enjoy. Instead he sat back and leaned into the side of his booth, resting his shoulder and head on the Perspex of the window and watching the English motorway whizz by. The loud chants and laughter of the team, led by an excessively merry and perhaps already drunk Grealish, faded into the background as if none of it was really happening, allowing their assistant manager to just glare at the rapid scenery and other vehicles and reflect on his problem. It had been getting worse, this lust. He thought about that mad day when he’d fucked McGinn for the first time, led on by that tool Drinkwater. And how many times after that had he ploughed that goofy-grinned Scottish twat? It had all become so overpowering for him. After several years of good behaviour, how had he fallen back into this habit? The habit started by that plump-arsed Belgian bun. He knew who he wanted to blame, though the logic of it was far from sound — but logic had never stopped the East London bad boy, had it? He’d played around a bit, yes, but it had been the friction with his oldest friend in the sport that had made it all feel so dangerous and difficult. It had been the moment his extra-marital fun blurred with friendship, and he shared McGinn’s sweet backside with Lampard; he thought about the way he’d watched Frank eat out his Scottish bitch, the way that Chelsea legend was clearly further down this path than him. He thought about the way they’d clashed in London when Frank sought him out, the things that had been exchanged… As the Villa coach rattled off the correct exit and took its course for the Birmingham suburbs and their training park, John Terry became more and more certain. The 39-year-old former centre-back felt the thoughts set like concrete in his mind and he squeezed so angrily at the pen in his hand that it snapped. Yes. He knew where the blame lay, all of it: with dirty Frank Lampard and his stupid ideas about all this. Frank had always been a little too serious, not capable of the casual playboy life that John had seized early on in his footy career. Lampard was the reason he was getting so worked up about all this, Lampard alone. And there was only one solution, he realised. He would need to confront the problem head-on.

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