Subject: Premiership Lads Part 268 Part 268: Everybody’s Talking About Jack Tuesday night and back in Wembley, but with a lot more hope and expectation — after all, he was about to start for his country in a major tournament at last, rather than warm the bench and sit on the edge of Southgate’s plans. Grealish was doing his best to stay calmly ambitious and just enjoy tonight’s run out against the Czech Republic, but when he caught sight of his tanned face in any changing room mirror, he could see the nervous boyish grin play on his lips, giving away the tempest of emotion inside. He’d waited a long time for this, and he was putting a lot of store in how tonight went to make his mark on the international stage. It would have been easier to put on a façade of cool confidence if the pre-match time rolled on more typically — it had begun normally enough, the selected squad busing into northwest London and warming up on the hallowed turf of the national stadium, full of banter and private jokes as they kitted up and posed for photos. They were heading back indoors from said warm-up, captain Kane doing his inarticulate best to deliver a string of rousing speeches, when the odd thing happened, and the 25-year-old Aston Villa hero found his evening a little distracted. He first heard about it through some whoops and laughs from the distinctive Yorkshire accents of Walker and Stones, the inseparable brick shithouses of England’s defence; Jack was strolling indoors side-by-side with Leeds’ Kalvin Phillips at that point, arms swinging at his sides and body feeling comfortably ready in the snug fit of his tracksuit. And then, yards from the door to the home changing rooms of Wembley Stadium, he heard Kyle’s nasal voice call his own name teasingly. Jack hurried the last few steps, his curiosity aroused by what had got the two City besties so amused and loud — he pushed past a couple of other players and into the changing rooms and started at the bizarre display in his corner of the locker-room. `It’s like Chelsea fucking Flower Show in here,’ remarked Phillips behind him in his gruff Leeds accent. `What the hell?’ Grealish murmured, pausing in the middle of the room. Walker made a showy wolf-whistle and stopped elbowing and slapping at his partner-in-crime long to swing over and punch him in the arm. `What’s this then?’ the 30-year-old defender demanded. `Who are you poking to get all this delivered in here? And how the fuck did they even manage it?’ Jack glanced dumbly at the older player and then back at the monstrous explosion of colour. His corner position of the square changing room was dominated by a collection of ridiculously large bouquets, an obscene mass of flowers interspersed with flashes of lush green. It genuinely looked like the shop window of a florist, and was totally obscuring his neatly arranged kit and personal items. He gawped dumbly at it, and the immediate obvious suspicion wavered in his head — nah, Ben wouldn’t try this, would he…? Around him, the laughter echoed and the jokes rolled, and inevitably someone bantered on the exact worry now prodding at his head. `What, is Benji missing his bro that much from isolation?’ he heard Jordan Pickford remark loudly and bluntly, causing various flurries of laughter — the laughter was perhaps layered, since several guys here knew the truth of Jack and Ben’s stalled relationship, whilst others were just amused by the very public bromances. But then, like a punch to his muscular stomach, he heard Calvert-Lewin unthinkingly answer his Everton goalie — `Nah mate, Ben won’t be missing Jacko, he’s got his new pal Mason in iso with him after all, ha ha!’ It was all Grealish could do not to turn around and thump the tall Everton striker, though there was no chance Dominic knew how close his words would cut. Jack continued staring worriedly at the floral display until the huddled players behind him shifted and the boss himself was marching through, gesturing wildly at the bouquets and then nudging him to ask what the hell was going on. Grealish, desperate to be liked by Gareth, stammered and mumbled his own confusion and uncertainty, and found that the England coach was bewildered rather than angry; he started barking quick polite orders at other guys to move it out of the way, to shove them into the showers for now and clear some space. Jack nodded quietly and did some himself, finally noticing the prim white card nestled at the centre of the display, which his laddish colleagues were now hoisting up and quickly ruining — petals and heads fell to the changing room floor as Harrys Maguire and Kane attempted to delicately shift huge collections of roses. Jack opened and read the card, which simply had his initials and shirt number on the front, expecting some veiled message from Ben. But it was so ridiculous and public, it just didn’t feel like Chilwell. Questions of how the delivery had been put in here and arranged made him balk and fret, and he just stared at the simple ambiguous message in the card. `Enjoy the game’ was the only thing written in fine black ink, and then printed carefully at the bottom of the card was what looked like a telephone number, a landline, seeming weird and old-fashioned. There was no sign-off, no hint of who might have sent the lavish good luck gift to him. Whoever it was, he decided, was a fucking idiot — if it was really meant to boost him and help him in this big match, then it was just achieving the opposite. He felt queasy and confused and full of self-doubt. Luke Shaw was suddenly next to him, putting one of his large flat hands on his shoulder. `Don’t worry,’ the redeemed left-back said quietly, `it’ll just be some prank from some twat on another team, that’s all. There’s a few jokers on that Czech squad. Or some bugger on the Scotland squad for all we know! Don’t let it throw you off your game, mate.’ The big handsome United player gave him an encouraging smile, squeezed his shoulder. Jack nodded, pleased with this take on it, and feeling instantly how credible Shaw’s suggestion actually was. `You’re at the centre of so much of our press,’ Luke continued thoughtfully. `They just want to mess with your head, whoever they are. The gimp.’ Having overheard the left-back, a few others were quickly agreeing, speculating on the source of the stupid flowery overload. Maguire was loudly agreeing with his boyfriend, deciding that it was John McGinn and Andy Robertson’s mischief, which set off Henderson in defence of Robbo as not someone who’d stoop so low; Walker was still howling with laughter, but Stones was over hugging him and making light of it and reminding him they had a game to focus on — and Southgate was still standing with his hands on his hips, mystified by the whole thing. Shifting one of the last big bouquets out of the way so that he could sit down beside his things, Jack made a show of laughing it off, grinning about at his teammates and pretending to enjoy the attention it had brought him. In his hands, he clung gently to the folded piece of card, thinking about the simple message and the mysterious telephone number left there. Sure, he told himself, Luke is defo right about this, what a crap stunt. It is just banter to throw me off. He laughed again, more genuinely, and pulled back at his shaggy sweep of highlighted hair. Just a silly prank. And yet still, he gently folded the card and slid it into a side-pocket of his kit bag, a little frown still playing on his features. Minutes passed, and the lads were called to attention, ready to head outside and beat the Czechs 1-0. Nights earlier, before even the Scotland match of Friday night, he had hunched in that hotel bed and stared up his boyfriend’s hard cock, taking in the crushing reality of the moan: `Mason…’ Jack had held himself quite still where he was on the bed, still gripping the base of Ben’s massive prick, his own spittle shiny on its bulbous head, and his heart thundering in his bare tanned chest. `Babe,’ Chilwell whispered then, beginning to reach again for the tussled curtain of his fringe, but Grealish pulled away and let go of his cock, sliding his limbs back down the bed. He slid off it and onto his feet, his own hard-on swinging about as he did so, and his posture sinking and hunching as the disappointment and certainty flooded through him. He stared all the while into Ben’s guilty, anguished expression, seeing the horror in his best friend and lover’s eyes. Ben came off the bed too and followed him, reaching repeatedly for his cock, and kissing his neck, his cheek, trying for his lips; Jack murmured with vague disembodied pleasure at the way he was touched and caressed, pushing his man away half-heartedly then succumbing again to more touching and tasting, almost dragged back onto the bed. But then with a shudder of resolve, he pushed the other lithe young footballer away from him and shook his head. `No,’ the young captain muttered thickly, `not after that, mate.’ He pinched the bridge of his nose then clawed back his shaggy hair. `Not after that, Ben. Please.’ He covered his face with his hands for a moment. `Stupid mistake,’ the Chelsea player told him quietly, stroking desperately at his arms. `Mmm,’ Jack agreed distantly. `I dunno why I said it.’ `Don’t you?’ `Jack…!’ `I knew you were getting close, mersin escort but…’ `It isn’t like that. I love you, Jack. I love YOU.’ `And Mase?’ The pause that followed was what really swung the night more than the awkwardly groaned name of their fellow England heartthrob. Grealish opened his eyes and looked at him, the gorgeous 23-year-old who had been his best mate for years but had really turned his world upside down one winter’s afternoon when he bent him over and rimmed him in his Birmingham flat. The handsome bugger who had slowly eased him out of his shell and made him really fall in love, from that Midlands riverbank to a sweaty Mykonos villa… Jack felt the actual physical jab of heartache and watched the guilt seep across the other lad’s neat features. `For fuck’s sake,’ he sighed, unable to express the anger he felt, only the sadness. `Fuck’s sake, Ben, really?’ The conversation that followed had been tough and Jack winced to think of the tears both lads had cried at different points — but it hadn’t been protracted or aggressive, it had been quite simple and honest, and he was trying to be as civil with Chilwell as possible as they continued to share a pitch. When they’d parted, Jack going to beg a spare bed elsewhere in the team hotel, he’d meant what he said — `I’ll always love you, buddy,’ he’d groaned miserably in his strong Brummie accent, `and I don’t want us to stop being friends because of this.’ Ben had looked really wretched then, and part of Jack had wanted it, wanted to hurt him more for his lack of loyalty — but his feelings for him really were still too strong. He felt horribly sure that their thing together was irreparably over, but that night had been difficult, constantly tempted to tiptoe back to their shared room and slip into bed and pretend nothing had happened. But it had. Ben claimed to still love him, but he couldn’t deny his growing feelings for Mason, and so Jack felt he had no choice but to pull away and protect himself. Their relationship had never been strictly faithful in a physical sense, but he was not ready or able to share Ben’s feelings like that, and so… they had separated, and soon after the Scotland game had come, and a close contact with Chelsea boy Billy Gilmour. Ridiculous rules, but some long post-match chat between Chilwell, Mount, and Gilmour had led to isolation for the pair… and now Jack had to contend with the knowledge that the man he loved was tucked away in a different wing of the hotel with only his new love interest for company. Wow. The flowers, he mused that night after the Czech game… the flowers really could have been from Ben. It was hardly typical of him but their situation was fairly desperate, and he’d seen the love and hurt in Chilwell’s eye as their relationship fell to pieces around them. There was still a chance that the bouquets in the changing rooms had been some mad wild gesture from him… and yet, the simple message and the random phone number! Jack tried it that night, but it seemed to confirm Luke’s theory of a prank: all it got him was the answerphone of some ambiguous office that made no sense. It sounded like a law firm or accountancy office, and he hung up swiftly. No, he decided resolutely, the stupid excessive flowers were NOT from Ben Chilwell. There had been others showing interest in him, to be fair. Jack wasn’t conceited about his own attractiveness it was hardly a new feature of his life — though admittedly an awareness that blokes might be as interested in him as the ladies was a very recent discovery. He didn’t like to make lazy assumptions and he couldn’t assume his own saucy adventures at Villa were in any way typical, but there had been any number of little moments so far this camp that made him… wonder. Little snapshots of his exciting England experience, one he was determined to enjoy to the max in spite of a broken heart, but moments that sizzled with unexpected sexual tension and made him contemplate what else might happen if he pursued them. Tyrone Mings, for a start — obviously the Villa mates had played about before in a couple of adventurous moments, but even the morning after Ben whispered Mason’s name, the gigantic defender had made a subtle move on Grealish. He’d spent the night on a little couch at the side of the room Mings was sharing with Coady, a blanket pulled over his near-naked body and very little actual sleep achieved. In the early hours of the morning, Jack slithered off the couch and stepped carefully around the room for a discreet piss, stalking into the adjoining bathroom and pulling his cock out over the waist of his boxer briefs. He blinked sleepily down at the jet of his own piss, then washed his hands and leaned heavily on the side of the sink while he gave a bestial yawn. When he turned around and moved back into the hotel room, he realised that Mings was awake in his bed and looking this way. Without saying a thing, the long muscular arm of the big lad was reaching for and lifting the bedding, exposing a patch of sheets and offering an unmistakable invite to join him in the warmth of his bedding. A sleepy, lopsided grin had settled on Tyrone’s attractive features below the braided fringe of his hair — Jack stared oddly back at him, a bit amused at the offer in spite of himself and the swirl of painful feelings that had dragged behind him in the night. Then he looked past Tyrone to the other bed, where the covers were half kicked away from Conor’s sleeping form, and the likeable Scouser was snoring like a buzzsaw. Grealish frowned and smirked at sleepy-eyed Mings and scoffed at the maybe-mock-maybe-serious invite and moved subtly past the bed to go back to his uncomfortable couch, sensing Tyrone’s eyes perhaps follow him on that quiet tiptoe back to his blanket and snoozing. Later, over breakfast, Mings had murmured a chuckling apology to him, claiming it was a jokey gesture, and Grealish had simply shrugged it off, uncertainly. He didn’t REALLY think his Villa teammate had arranged a bunch of stupid flowers for him in some mad gesture because he was now (possibly) single again. You’re getting ridiculous and big-headed, he told himself. There was Foden too, of course. Platinum blond aside, the City prodigy was another lad on the England squad who seemed to get masses of attention and interest inside and outside of the training camp. But Grealish couldn’t help notice how quiet the Stockport scally seemed to go when they were near each other, and how he hung on his every word. He’d often caught him staring thoughtfully across at him during meetings and team talks, even noticed it in some of the work by the team photographers — but then there was something about young Phil that could be misread, and maybe the 21-year-old stared at every older bloke on the line-up with that same reverence? (Even so, Grealish found himself momentarily wondering if the Manchester City golden boy liked a bit of cock in secret, and briefly wondered if he wanted to find out, before a return of the cold dead sensation in his crotch that came with being betrayed by his Ben.) One guy on the team he KNEW was looking at him with that more specific interest was big Slabhead; Harry Maguire had trained with them since the start of the camp, even if tonight’s Czech Republic win was his proper return from a long spell of injury. And from the day the blokey centre-back unfolded from his taxi, Jack had caught some lingering looks his way, usually replaced by stony disinterest if he caught him out and glanced back. They had brushed close once upon a time celebrating Luke’s birthday, of course, and he knew how his Ben had dabbled with his old Leicester pal before they had started dating. It was the morning after his and Ben’s falling out when Maguire had seemed to make some vague move on him, and Grealish was sleep-deprived and numb. He was standing about, up and ready early for the day’s work, ready to lose himself in the morning fitness sessions and not speak a word to Chilwell or Mount or in fact anyone other than the coaches. Jack was leaning against a pillar in the quiet gym suites, waiting for others to head this way from breakfast, his arms folded, and his head tilted thoughtfully downwards. Just in the corner of his vision, the mountainous figure of the Man Utd captain strode casually past, drifting along with his hands in the pockets of his shorts, making their dark fabric taut across the distinct muscles of his rear. This reversed things: now it was Jack looking with brief instinctive interest at just how tall and muscular Harry was, reminded of seeing him in action in that cottage garden, though at the time he’d only really had eyes for Ben. And it was Harry smirking gently from his rugged features as he caught Jack looking, their eyes briefly connecting across the fitness room floor. Jack said nothing, still lost in the sullen silence of heartbreak, unsure how he was going to stay composed and focused all day when all he could think about was the way Ben had moaned another lad’s name in front of him. But Harry was glowering at him with that strange quiet intensity he had, gently flexing each arm from the short sleeves of his England training shirt, then lifting one hand to pat his chest, while the other edged downwards. Very subtly, Harry played one large escort mersin fist against the front of his close-fitted shorts, exaggerating the way they pulled about his bulge, then cupping it slightly, knowingly drawing Jack’s eyes to the sizeable mound it created there… Was Jack turned on? Not really. He wasn’t capable of that today. He was impressed and he was interested, but his own privates felt cool and limp. He grimaced and averted his eyes from Harry’s showy gesture, glad to hear voices and footsteps of other players entering the gym somewhere nearby. He glanced back and caught Maguire’s little grin, then heard his purring murmur: `Maybe when you sign for United at long last ,eh?’ And then the 6ft4 defender was turning away, off to fist-bump and speak to the other guys, and Jack returned to his sulk. There was plenty of that, he thought — lots of banter about his future, with rumours circulating wildly about the offers and interest of big clubs, but especially the rival Manchesters. Maguire, Rashford and goalkeeping Henderson made constant remarks about how excited they were to play with him in the new season, whilst Walker, Stones and Sterling joked about who would have to sit on the bench once Grealish was at City. Saka made playful attempts at the same humour regarding Arsenal, and recently Ben White had begun to claim Brighton were making an offer too, much to everyone’s enjoyment. The only player who seemed to have made a sincere play to get his attention on behalf of their club was actually Liverpool skipper Jordan Henderson. Though not so much older than him, the calm maturity of the Mackem fella was an almost fatherly presence in the team, and Jack had found a surprisingly comforting and supportive friendship with the midfielder — later that same day, the morning after his world fell apart, they had a more formal photoshoot as a team, and it was Jordan who came and helped him figure out the knot on his tie, patting him on the shoulders and bigging him up as they dressed in their crisp M Grealish felt the tremor of arousal and an awareness of just how powerful and randy his mate was, but he planted a palm against his smooth pecs and pushed back, their lips barely grazing. `No mate,’ he said firmly but not harshly. `Stop it.’ Holding himself slightly away from him, still gripping his arm and his bulge, Dec looked horny and devious still for a moment, a certain aggressive lust in his eyes and mouth — but it quickly faded and his large masculine features were just a pitiful mask of vulnerability as he stood there, his grip loosening. Jack pulled his arm and crotch away but then threw his wet arms about the other lad’s broad shoulders and hugged him tightly. `Just cos we’re hurting, we shouldn’t do that,’ he whispered in his ear. `Don’t do stuff you’ll regret, big man. Please.’ He squeezed him and planted a single kiss on his cheek, then pushed him away. `Go swim, you big dork. Go on, fuck off, buddy.’ Awkwardly, Rice nodded and avoided meeting his eyes and shuffled away — and Grealish dried off alone, ignoring the semi in the netting of his shorts and feeling shocked by his own powers of resistance. Later that Monday, after all of this conflict and attention, those powers finally broke, and Jack let himself go. He was alone again in one of the gym areas, powering away on an exercise bike, working up a sweat and staring blankly into the panel of stats between the handlebars, glad that nobody else was around and he didn’t have to wear a fake smile for a bit. Soon it would be dinnertime and he would have to be Jack the Lad, all affable and bantering and psyching his mates up for Tuesday night’s match… for now, he could grunt and growl and take his frustrations out on the exercise bike, indulging angry fantasies about Ben and Mason cuddled up in a hotel suite on the other side of the park, cut off from the world by their Chelsea catch-up with young Billy. A gentle throat-clearing noise announced the unwanted presence of another player in the room, and he glanced away from the panel towards the wall of mirrors. It was his captain. Harry Kane picked his way across the gym, meeting his eyes in the reflection but not actually saying anything. Out of some politeness code, Jack slowed and ceased his cycling, bringing it to a sweaty halt and gripping the handlebars tightly. Kane was right by him now, laying one hand on his warm back and towering over him at the right. `How’s it going, Jack?’ he asked in his North London mumble. `Great,’ Grealish told him simply and curtly. `Sure?’ `Yep.’ `Right.’ `Okay.’ Kane patted him on the back a couple of times, stepped away a little, let his arms hang at his side. `A couple of people have said they’re a bit worried about you, is all,’ he said with some awkwardness. Jack studied his expression and his posture, seeing the reluctance and uncertainty with which the England skipper approached this apparent duty; but also maybe hints of that same interest in him that he’d been picking up for the last fortnight, from Foden, from Maguire, from poor Declan. Was big old Kane checking out his leg muscles, or just not very good at eye contact? `Who is a couple of people?’ Grealish demanded, more fiercely than he meant. Harry swerved that question. `If you need to talk, I’m always here. As your captain, as a mate.’ `Good to know,’ Jack just muttered, finding himself bitter and resistant. He rolled his feet idly against the pedals of the exercise book, but his leg muscles were throbbing and really the interruption had been timely. He shouldn’t do much more with his body today, if he was to be ready for his big start against the Czech Republic. `We’re all here for you really,’ Kane said then, a bit more confidently and sincerely. He was such a big imposing guy but his body language was all wrong right now, as if he didn’t know what to do with his limbs. He stood by closely in his fresh white top and grey joggers, and Jack exuded a cocktail of his sweat, aftershave and hair products. He suddenly felt really fucking horny, all of the teasing attention of the week seeming to hit him like a wrecking ball — the unfinished erection of the night when he’d had to push Ben away from him and end their lovemaking for painful conversation was coming back, pushing at his skimpy shorts, making him rage. `We all want you to do well here,’ Kane was saying. `This could be your big moment, Jack. Don’t push your teammates away, okay?’ `I’m not pushing you away,’ Jack said, then with sudden boldness, `I’m not even annoyed that you’re just standing there drooling over my calves like an idiot.’ He watched Harry’s long face contort in alarm, blinking slowly and gawping at him. He began to murmur some protest at this stupid accusation, but Jack ignored him and stretched up his torso, leaning back in the saddle and showing off his legs and bulge more, watching as Kane responded by staring into the pit of his lap. `Did you come here to check up on me, or cos you wanted to perv?’ Harry huffed out a concerned breath. `I’m your captain…’ `So what?’ Jack muttered. `You’re A captain. I’m a captain too. Half of us are. What does that mean?’ `I just came to…’ `You want some cock or not?’ Grealish found himself snapping, unreasonable and risqué. He grabbed Kane by the hand and pulled one hand in between the hairy meat of his thighs, pressing it on the sweat-damp crotch of his shorts and rubbing it there, not even glancing about to check they were still safely alone in there. He thrilled at the way big married Kane stepped in closer and nodded his head with heavy breaths, pawing at his cock and balls through the material and looming over him with wide worried eyes. Jack sat there, arrogant in his frustration, just patting and stroking at Harry’s arm and side, encouraging him as he played with him through his shorts and breathed in his sweaty odour. He reached for and pushed down on one of his shoulders. `You gonna suck it, captain?’ he barked quietly. Harry looked at him worriedly, as if to say `Here?!’ with his eyes, but Jack just stared him fiercely down then looked dismissively the other way, confirming how empty the gym was. Then he pushed down more on Harry’s shoulder and the tall Tottenham striker began to kneel, stooping down beside the exercise bike. Quickly, his worried face was burying in between the mounds of Jack’s thighs, and mouthing at him through his shorts. Jack just leaned back in the saddle and sighed encouragingly, letting Harry wriggle and tug at the shorts until his hardening cock was loose and free down one leg — now Kane’s long tongue was lapping over its pink head and pushing back the foreskin, tasting his sweat and making him groan dangerously. The whole thing was ridiculous and risky, idiotic really, but Jack was in a wild place — it had been such a difficult week, trying to be at his footballing best and to process the fact he and Chilwell might be over, and now he was just consumed with a bitter selfish lust. He let the shorts be prised aside and then pushed roughly at Harry’s golden-brown hair, guiding his face up and down in a furtive suck of his hard Brummie cock. He groaned and muttered and gave only cursory glances of caution across the gym towards the doors, no sign of interruption. Kane was sluttish and eager, taking him mersin escort bayan entirely by surprise — the big 6ft2 striker reduced to a quivering bitch as he licked and kissed at Grealish’s meat, his eyes begging and wide as they rolled up to stare at him for approval. This submission was just what Jack needed to boost his ego and keep him strong, and he pushed himself roughly in and out of that gaping mouth, fucking his mouth a little and realising that he needed to fuck him for real. He clambered off the bike with stooping hunched Kane still trying to kiss his dick and the insides of his thighs, and he looked uncertainly around, unsure where to do this. Could he really just fuck the England captain here in this gym? It was insane! He looked down, shocked at just how eager and submissive the Spurs star really was — his future teammate, according to the rumours that claimed they were both on City’s shopping list, hah! `Come here,’ Jack growled urgently. They moved over the room to a slightly more discreet corner, where the big crowded weight machines screened them a little, and he pushed the taller man towards the weightlifting bench, pushing his shorts down and letting his cock fully free, but leaving his cling sweaty top on. Harry scrambled to push down his joggers and his boxer shorts, and then he was on his back on the bench, lifting those massive striker’s legs — Jack stooped at the end of it, spitting on a finger and pushing it between the plump white cheeks into his arse. He acted quickly and roughly, desperate to get his hole. `Fuck me,’ panted Kane wildly. Jack spat more, rubbing saliva across the head of his cock. He fingered more at his captain’s crack, shoving it in to the knuckle and then adding a second. He looked over his shoulder with a little stab of panic, knowing that they shouldn’t be doing this here, but then he just went for it. Taking Kane’s calves in hand, letting them rest on his shoulders, he started pushing his dick in against that slicked hole, amazed at how quickly this had transpired and how reckless they were both being. Harry groaned quite loudly even though he was just rubbing his tip against his entrance; to solve this, he stepped back, dragging his shorts over his chunky white trainers, and then he reached over and pushed these over the captain’s face, gagging him with the damp shorts and letting his mouth and nostrils fill with their musty lining. Then he resumed his position and began pushing his cock between those large meaty buttocks, bending his knees to lower to the right height, angling himself carefully and forcing his way in. Grealish fucked Kane wildly then, fucking away his frustrations and worries. The big man jerked and writhed on the weightlifting bench, gripping its legs with outstretched arms to steady himself, his face covered in shorts, and his legs up in the air. His arse felt great, though not the tightest — Jack wondered how much this surprising man had been fucked before and by who, but only briefly and vaguely: really, Harry Kane barely mattered, was irrelevant to his selfish need for pleasure and escape. He just held him like another piece of furniture, slamming his cock repeatedly into him and making very little noise himself, just ragged little breaths of effort, getting sweatier and sweatier. Jack closed his eyes and the risky setting melted away… but painfully, it was replaced by a rural barn in Derbyshire, and he was fucking Chilwell for the first time. He thought about Ben’s perfect body and his irresistible smile, thought about all the trouble they’d endured to try and be together, only for some Chelsea pretty boy to ruin everything…! He hadn’t even realised that one of Harry’s hands had reached up to sort himself out, but now Kane was exploding with cum that splattered his own shirt front as well as pooling about the bigger man’s crotch. Mouth full of sweaty shorts, Kane just whimpered. Grealish was in no mood to stop though. He pulled out, but only so that he could pull insistently on Kane’s heavy legs and shift him into a new position, up on his knees with his arse in the air, making it an easier height and angle — Jack pushed his throbbing cock back into that puckered hole and began pounding at him with more ferocity, keeping his eyes open now so that his imagination wouldn’t wander. Why fantasise about his boyfriend, his ex-boyfriend maybe, when he could enjoy that he was dominating and topping the fucking England captain?! This big pillar of a man bent over and submitting to his cock, whining weakly and leaking cum while Jack smashed him from behind, close to unloading his balls. Closer, closer. But he wanted to make the domination more complete, so at the last minute he pulled his dick out and stumbled around the bench, angling his cock at Kane’s face and bringing himself to climax. Gasping and panting, Jack coated Harry’s face in streaks of spunk, seeing the agonised happiness there, confused and triumphant himself. When it was done, the men had little to say — Harry wiping himself clean and sitting for a while in a hunched posture that looked like shame or guilt, Jack going to pour himself some much needed water before he even pulled his shorts back on, strutting about the gym with his bottom half naked and his legs fully on display. At last, he pulled them back on, and then watched as Kane seemed to switch modes, going from this hunched nervous slut to the tall, broad-shouldered leader. `See you at dinner,’ was all he said though, the hint of a limp to his walk as he exited the scene of his fucking. So, Jack now wondered, had that fucking been more than just rabid lust to the captain? Was it Kane who’d lavished him with stupid bouquets on the night of a big game, trying to show his affection for him after giving up his chunky arse? Or, he speculated, was it even a bitter move from Declan Rice, snubbed and rejected and torn-up? Did Rice somehow blame him for disrupting his cutesy romance with Mount, when clearly it was Chilwell causing trouble…? He just didn’t know. But by the time England were 1-0 winners and topping their group, through to the knockout stages of the Euros, the incident of the flowers almost seemed forgettable and irrelevant. It had bewildered and surprised him, but he knew he had put in a good shift in the match, and he felt confident Southgate would make more use of him as they progressed into the last 16 and beyond, chasing that Wembley final and moment of glory — Jack was heartbroken, but he knew his worth and how much everyone wanted a piece of him, not least the slutty captain who kept glancing longingly at him on the way out of the stadium that night, remembering what they’d done in the gym just the day before. The previous Friday. England-Scotland, a goalless draw fractious with historic rivalry. Kilts and chaos in the socially distanced stands of Wembley, both national teams battling it out on the field below. Jack Grealish quietly seated with the other England substitutes, awaiting his turn that would come soon when he would be called on to replace young Foden for the final chunk of action. Everyone had an opinion on the England line-up and who should start; everybody was talking about Jack. This everybody included many of the VIP attendees further up the terrace, famous faces from sport and culture who had snagged their tickets to the England-Scotland group match. Few were more famous than the family up at the top of that section, seated comfortably with a perfect view of the game — and few felt more at home in Wembley Stadium than the neatly suited 46-year-old who now folded his arms and fixed his attention on the dugout below, watching as Grealish shed layers and began warming up to be subbed on by Southgate. Off came Foden, a grinning lightbulb of bottle blonde, and on went Jack the lad. Seated between his teenage son and a former agent who he had brought as guests, the VIP audience member scratched at the thin golden beard on his stern jawline, watching one of England’s top prospects bound into play and join the fray. Rain lashed down at the pitch, but fortunately up here only a few stray beads of the summer damp blew inwards and troubled the comfortably warm celebrities in the upper reaches of the seating. `That Grealish is really something, ain’t he?’ grunted the old Mancunian bloke to his left, swathed in coats and scarves despite the June warmth. Sitting composedly in his designer suit, David Beckham nodded his head slowly once, a light smile on his lips. `Yes,’ he agreed simply, `he really is.’ He brought the tattooed hand stroking across his bearded chin again, grinning thoughtfully. He glanced over to check that Romeo was still enjoying himself here, and then murmured apology to his old agent and friend before leaving them both to strut along the row for a bit of quiet and privacy before retrieving his phone from an inside pocket and dialling up the number of his PA’s office. Beckham watched the game proceed with its frustrating drought of goals while he spoke to her on the phone, making his instructions in a clipped, secretive tone. `Yes, the usual florist,’ he demanded curtly. `And the key word is discretion, yes? Good.’ He hung up, gift arranged. The retired football ace had been watching the young forward’s career with interest for some time, but it finally felt like time to… show interest. ‘Writer guy’ – Premiership Lads on Nifty fty//gay/celebrity/premiership-lads/ Amazon Wishlist here if you wanna say thanks LOL

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