İçeriğe geçmek için "Enter"a basın

premiership-lads-290

Ben Esra telefonda seni bosaltmami ister misin?
Telefon Numaram: 00237 8000 92 32

Flashing

Subject: Premiership Lads, Part 290 Part 290: Out on Loan Lunchtime, and already the Wembley Park area was swimming with fans; he had to have the brim of his cap pulled low and a pair of pretty ostentatious sunglasses over his face to maintain some discretion as he moved among the army of Liverpool fans who had made the journey here, knowing the fuss his appearance might make. The couple of mates he was with, old school pals who had caught the train down last night, had ribbed him in the taxi here for his weak incognito persona, but they understood and respected his need for a jot of privacy, and ambled through the milling crowds with him, winding through the broad street between the restaurants and outlet stores and the rising bulk of the national stadium itself. `We just need to get in and then we’ll be sound,’ the 21-year-old Welshman told his fellow Liverpool-loving pals, leading them across another road and in the direction of a heavily-guarded side entrance away from the busy gangways that sloped up to the stadium; he was trying to remember the detailed instructions he’d been given for their easy access, trying to seem smooth and in control in front of his buddies, his VIP guests. He wasn’t sure he’d be able to get them in to meet any of the LFC players this time, but they were to enjoy a pretty luxury box with some other club guests, and up there he could strip off the stupid cap and shades and be less shy about his identity. `You sure they’re gonna let us in, Neeks?’ sniggered one of the other young lads. `Fuck, I feel like we’re secret agents or summat,’ cackled the other, jabbing him in the ribs, all fizzing with pre-match excitement for the FA Cup semi-final. Neco Williams sped ahead of the other two a little bit, lifting the brim of his cap and swiping off the oversized sunglasses – there was a nervous half-minute as he approached a few burly guys in high-vis, and then the crack of strong relief as one of them rapidly recognised his face and brightened up with interest. There was a crackle of walky-talky, a fairly excitable whispering among the heavy-set blokes, and then he was receiving a firm handshake and being welcomed: `This way, Mr Williams!’ He turned and grinned brightly at his two buddies – they were in. It had all been a bit last-minute, the plan for today, as he hadn’t quite known what his Fulham schedule would look like this weekend. But a bit of contact with a few key figures back at the club who still owned his contract and his heart had done the job, not least a flurry of messages to the skipper himself – who Neco was desperate to try and catch before the big game – had secured them seats in today’s corporate box and this sneaky entrance to Wembley away from the masses outside. His mates, already quite thrilled to be visiting him in the big city, were over-the-moon at his ability to pull strings, the bunch of them all still young enough for his professional sports star status to be novel and absurd. One of the security fellas led them into the bowels of the stadium, and the grim underground car park ambience was quickly replaced with the slick decor of this footballing fortress, all lion-decorated murals and big framed photographs of England stars past and present – but then their paths diverged, with Neco rapidly explaining his plans to link up with teammates briefly, whilst a member of stadium personnel warmly greeted and guided away his two VIP guests. `I’ll see you upstairs,’ he called to them with a thumbs up, a little apology in his eyes – they’d been fuming last night when he explained that he couldn’t actually get them into the changing rooms pre-match to hear Klopp’s team talk or out on the pitch to join in a warm-up with all the big names. Neither lad looked bothered now, he noted, excited to be led away by the attractive female staff member, whilst Williams was shown down another passage and directed towards the changing suites that his beloved Liverpool would be occupying before their imminent match against Manchester City, ready to battle for a place in the Cup’s finale. The 21-year-old footballer almost bounced on his chunky Nike trainers, dark skinny jeans clinging to his slim legs. Above that, he wore a printed t-shirt and a loose-fitting corduroy shirt, though the heat outside had already made him wish he’d dressed more simply – it was embarrassing just how long he’d spent in front of the mirror this morning getting himself ready, his bedroom floor cluttered with the sleeping bags of his visiting pals, crashing with him at the West London house-share he occupied with a few other young Fulham players. Dressing in front of his mirror, Neco had felt a degree of anxiety about showing up among the Liverpool squad after all these months away, and a lot more anxiety about being reunited with one obvious bloke in particular. `Here you are,’ one of the security guys told him cheerfully, `you probably know the way from here. Oh, here, take this visitor badge – do you know your way upstairs to find your pals once you’re done? I don’t think you’ll be allowed to stay down here for long, yeah?’ He nodded feverishly, taking the lanyard and pass, and thanking the 30-something bloke profusely for being so helpful, then scampered on ahead through visitor changing rooms that were vaguely familiar from an excited previous visit. Neco rounded a corner and was greeted almost instantly with loud `heys’ and a scattering of men rising to their feet – he was entering not the main locker-rooms, but a sort of relaxation lounge with scattered comfy seating and a lot of big screens, and a gaggle of familiar faces abandoned their PS5 to get up and greet him – they were less than surprised, word of his visit clearly having done the round, but they were definitely pleased to see him. Grinning, the young right-back fended off hugs and grabs from his good academy buddy Curtis Jones, and Irish goalkeeper Caoimhin Kelleher, then a big firm handshake from Joe Gomez and a warm embrace from Trent Alexander-Arnold himself, the hero of all Liverpool academy graduates of recent years. `Sight for sore eyes,’ the other right-back told him warmly, slapping on the shoulder and taking a step back. `God, we miss your banter, kid,’ the 23-year-old pro told him, and Neco was surprised to find his tone ever-so-slightly patronising – there was only a couple of years between them, though perhaps a lot more in Trent’s experience and status at the club. It occurred to Williams, as it had before, that there was room for him to resent the Scouse bloke, the dominant right-back of Klopp’s choosing – and in that sense, part of the reason he was being farmed out to Fulham to earn his stripes. But this was Trent, one of the most likeable fellas in the sport, and an icon to young Neco. He chatted eagerly with the four of them, glancing jealously at their paused FIFA game and thinking back to such behind-the-scenes moments as he’d emerged in the Liverpool senior team over the recent seasons, before his London exit. Temporary exit, of course, he had to remind himself, still hopeful that he’d be re-called in the summer and start staking his place in the team of his dreams for more long-term consistency. He’d been doing bloody well at Fulham in their promotion battle, and in his international outings too; he was optimistic that Liverpool bigwigs would be following his progress with great interest. `Really quality to see ya,’ Trent emphasised a few minutes later, arms folded across his increasingly broad chest, and bouncing a bit on his heels in the loose red tracksuit they were all wearing pre-game. `You’ll be wanting to see everyone else though, I imagine…?’ `Sure, sure,’ Neco said, trying and failing to sound casual. `I don’t think Harvey’s here this weekend, is he?’ he asked brightly, delaying the more urgent query. `Nah, kiddo didn’t make the cut,’ Gomez said, and Curtis made a stammering joke of it, `He’s f-f-f-furious about it, but only us real stars got the Wembley call, hehe.’ Neco and he shared a grin, both too close to Elliott to be really mean about him. Kelleher and Trent laughed along, and Neco pushed on, asking airily, `Have you seen the skipper about, lads?’ He scratched briefly at his tight dark curls of hair and let his eyes roam questioningly from lad to lad. `Oh yeah,’ Kelleher said breezily, gesturing over one shoulder, `I think he was just having a word with some of the others through that way, I just saw him five mins ago.’ `I’m sure he’ll be chuffed to see you,’ Trent said – it was an innocent enough comment, but in the months before his loan signing, Neco had become attuned with a special paranoia to anyone’s remotest interest in his links to the team captain, which was tough given that everyone knew he had lodged with the Hendersons for a good six months. `I’ll c-c-come with you,’ offered Curtis, the other 21-year-old youth graduate shuffling over and putting a hand at his elbow, beaming gladly at their being reunited. But Neco wriggled aside from the gesture, smiling brightly at his friend of many years, climbing up the youth ranks together. `Oh nah,’ he protested quietly, nodding to the pause icon on the big screen, `I don’t wanna be interrupting this fierce contest, lads – you get on with that and I’ll be back through in a minute, yeh?’ He grinned from Curtis to the others, and was glad that Joe Gomez was already loping back to the comfy seats and picking up a remote, initiating a general move of the young players and freeing Neco up to wander past them, following Kelleher’s direction and seeking out his Jordan. It’s not that Neco hadn’t found his eyes wandering a little bit, separated for huge stretches of time from his captain Jordan – and even when he DID make it up north, visiting family or friends in Wrexham or Liverpool itself, he had struggled to find easy ways of getting alone with the skipper. The absence had added a new fire to their intimacy when they did manage to scrape an hour alone together, of course, but they were rare moments over a season of challenge and change. Lost as he was in a big new city, it had been hard for Williams not to gape curiously now and then at the new men around him – which was odd, he’d thought, as he didn’t think he’d ever felt remotely attracted to a man before he lay down with Henderson and submitted to the beautiful physicality of his captain. For the intense months of living at Hendo’s home and stealing secretive fun together in the guest bedroom, Neco had been quite sure that it was unique to Jordan, that he wasn’t gay or bi, but just smitten by one perfect individual – as the London months ticked by, he started to dismiss that as a teenage delusion. And yet he’d still been slow to really accept these moments of manly attraction, party because of their deep inconvenience and taboo to the Wrexham lad, but also because even looking at another fella in the Fulham locker-room felt like ambiguous adultery on the special thing he had with his Liverpool skipper back home! For example, how many times had he found himself checking out Joe Bryan and denying it to himself? How many times had he clocked the jarringly perfect physique of the 28-year-old Bristolian from across a changing room, his eyes weighing up the dense pale muscle of the older man’s body, somehow so surprising when layers were peeled off from the oddly bookish and reserved left-back player in his owlish spectacles. A dozen times or more Neco had these little moments of appreciation: a sideways glance as sweaty Joe tugged a Fulham shirt away from his ripped upper body a few posts away down the side of a locker-room – or both in one of the recovery pools playing a casual round of volleyball at the Fulham training park on weekday afternoons – or worst of all, from the perspective of this inconvenience and subtle betrayal, sharing a sauna from time to time, Neco unable to stop his eyes from shifting back and forward to the sweat-soaked architecture of Bryan’s chest, six-pack, arms… terrified that one of the other dehydrated players in between them might notice and comment on his admiring glances. But it had been only a month or two ago that the sexual awakening of watching the 28-year-old really cut through Neco’s defences and left him unable to deny how attractive his fellow Fulham defender was: he’d been sat lacing up his boots before a game where they were both on the starting line-up, almost kitted out and ready, but Joe had been much slower and running behind, emerging from some loos to come and kit up next to him… at that point, wearing nothing but his white briefs. Because Neco had been bent over lacing up his footy boots, he was perfectly level with the shorter stud’s waist, his face tantalisingly close to the loaded off-white package in the front of the briefs, framed by the pale golden tan of Bryan’s muscular stomach and thighs. And the big bulge bounced and jerked as Joe wriggled into a footy shirt to cover up his perfect torso, while Neco remained bent over and transfixed, practically drooling for an awkward moment. That night, he’d had to wank himself off furiously, struggling to limit the rustling sounds as he normally might when room-sharing with another player. If his roomie on that away trip, fellow defender Antonee Robinson, had heard anything, then the 24-year-old must have just politely snored on through it, pretending not to hear Neco’s frantic fist rub against the duvet as he pulled himself off whilst visualising Joe Bryan’s body in action – and even his orgasmic groan was poorly stifled, his back arching and his curled hair rubbing against the pillow, whilst his seed was wasted against the sheets and dribbling across his own knuckles. He’d felt instantly guilty and silly, as if he’d just cheated on Hendo with some random lad, and struggled to contain the mixture of seedy regret and cynical bemusement with his own emotions – and for weeks after, he’d struggled to look hunky Bryan in the eyes at training, to the extent that the Bristol-born left-back thought he’d done something to offend him. Nope, Neco had thought privately, you just happened to be the latest star of my wank fantasies. Oh god, how pathetic. When he found Jordan Henderson, the Liverpool captain seemed to be locked in some quite serious discussions with the gaffer himself and a cluster of key players – Salah, Mane, Thiago and a couple of others – but they paused hesitantly when Neco came wandering close, and much to his pleasure, the whole pack of big names seemed overjoyed to see him. Just as with the initial bunch of lads, and the rogue two or three more he’d greeted on the way back here, he was grabbed in tight manly hugs and welcomed excitedly – there was not much mention of Fulham in the snatches of conversation, which tickled him with worry that perhaps the Liverpool guys were less aware than he’d assume of his exploits and successes away from home, but there was so much goodwill towards him, and plenty of `see you in the new season, we hope!’ He was pleased, albeit intimidated, to catch up very briefly with Jurgen himself, and with such towering Liverpool heroes as Mo Salah, but he mersin escort was immediately relieved when the skipper broke away from these fellas and steered him by the shoulder. `You guys carry on,’ Henderson called to the other Liverpool elite, `I’ll just check in with the prodigal son, haha.’ And then the 31-year-old midfielder turned a gorgeous smile on him and steered him more quickly away, throwing a strong arm about his shoulders. `So good to see you,’ the older man said earnestly, and Neco resisted the instant urge to lean across and pluck a kiss from the sturdy muscular man, just gawping and nodding gladly in agreement instead. `Thanks for helping me get sorted in the box upstairs,’ he said in a polite rush, `and for making sure security knew to let me in. They said you’d reminded them five times.’ He laughed nervously, conscious of how much effort Hendo had potentially taken to ensure he could be part of today’s battle in his own way, when no doubt the Premier League skipper had plenty else on his mind. Spending time at another club was just giving Neco fresh appreciation for what a great leader Hendo actually was, how well he looked after team members, and all of his community outreach work beyond that. He found himself staring dotingly on the older bloke now, with more than just the expected physical desire of being so close to him in his muscle-hugging red tracksuit. Without stopping their slow purposeful walk, the two of them spoke quickly and warmly, but ultimately blandly – `How’s your shared house going?’ `How was the journey down?’ `You got any score predictions?’ `Did you see City getting all lary with Madrid?!’ – until Jordan had directed him away from the labyrinthine changing rooms and into a recess between doorways, dipping out of any direct line of sight, but still in a risky public spot. Their conversation fumbled and paused, and then Jordan lunged in, scooping that muscular arm about Neco’s waist and onto his back. The 5ft11 man’s solid body pushed at his fractionally taller slim physique, bearing him back against the firm wall, and then locking lips with him in a furious kiss. The tracksuit top was zipped all the way up to his stubbly chin and it scratched against Neco’s smooth neck as their tongues tussled. Jordan moaned softly into his mouth, and his roaming hand pressed meaningfully at his lower back, threatening to edge lower and cup his pert buttocks through his jeans, but stopping shy of what they both clearly wanted. Their mouths parted in low gasps of relief. `I’ve needed that,’ growled Henderson softly. `I could tell,’ he replied through a slight chuckle, his voice becoming weak and wobbly in his immediate lust and devotion. `Fuck… you look so hot, Jord…’ `Shush,’ laughed Jordan soothingly, hugging at him and nuzzling their faces briefly together again, pulling so close to him in this small discreet corner that could be so quickly rendered pointless if anyone wandered through the doorways to either side. `I’m just glad you’re here,’ the Liverpool captain said softly and wistfully. `I will feel even stronger out there, knowing you’re watching us. Supporting all your brothers here. You’re a good lad.’ `I wouldn’t miss it,’ Neco insisted. `Er – when you win – not IF, you know, haha – is there an after-party or something? So I can see er, everyone properly, and er – well, see you a bit more, or… heh…’ He grinned bashfully, unsure if he was pushing it too far. Jordan’s smile was tight-lipped, showing hints of nervous caution as he released their embrace slightly, his hand lingering and brushing at Neco’s down at their side. `You know what hotel we’re at, I already texted you,’ he said quietly. `I’m sure there’ll be a few quick drinks there before we travel north, if you time it right. I’ll… message you, as soon as I can after the game, okay?’ They locked eyes, lost for several risky moments in staring at each other, and Neco was about to lean in for kisses, but the captain pulled cautiously away. `I should be with the boss,’ he said apologetically. `Of course, of course,’ the young defender told him in a rush, squeezing his hand briefly then pushing him encouragingly away. `I just need to see a couple more people and then I’ll be out of here – best go check my friends aren’t causing any chaos with the rich buggers we’re boxed with, yeah?’ He gave his captain and the man who’d broken him in a cheeky but wistful smile, resisting the urge to try for one last kiss – and then surprised as Jordan lunged in and claimed that very kiss, brushing their mouths roughly together and holding him with both hands to his head for a moment. `Now get out of here before I lose all control and have to fuck you,’ Hendo whispered, backing away from him and disappearing back quickly the way they had come, leaving Neco stunned and aroused in the doorway, and in the mood for much more than watching a semi-final. If only the odd cheeky wank about Joe Bryan’s muscles or Harrison Reed’s ginger smirk, or Tim Read’s heavy American accent and Michael Hector’s massive shoulders… if only they were the only dirty secrets of Fulham life that Neco now carried with him as he embraced Jordan Henderson on a Saturday morning at Wembley. If only he hadn’t allowed himself to get so drunk on that recent away trip, when the points tally had begun to look so convincingly like Fulham were entering the Premier League in August – he’d drank way too much, as had so many of his teammates, noisily occupying the ground floor bar of a Barnsley hotel, then shifting upstairs to a more secretive set of drinking games in somebody’s hotel room once the manager’s curfew had passed. It had been a fun night, a really bonding experienced for the ten or twelve footballing blokes crammed into one room, mixing mini-bar spirits with bottles of cheap pop from a corner shop, and playing daft card games whilst fantasising about their Premiership salaries next season – and a highlight of the action had been loud rallies from the gathering about how important it was that Neco, their defensive secret weapon, stayed with them instead of shooting back to Merseyside! He’d been drunk on both the alcohol and this praise when he eventually tried to make the journey back from that room to his own, somehow losing sight of his particular roomie on the way – and ending up instead drifting into a totally different hotel suite instead, guided and steered by a burly arm about his shoulders and the leering chuckles of the Championship club’s star striker. Aleskandar Mitrovic had mixed them each another drink, and Neco remembered noticing that the room’s other occupant, Bobby Reid, was already fast asleep and snoring like a chainsaw. The pair of them cackled about that, the 20-year-old loanee and the 27-year-old Serbian striker, whose record-breaking goal tally was clearly going to his head – he was boasting loudly to Neco in the lamplight about how he would be challenging Mo Salah next season and making the Premier League his bitch. Drunk as he was, on both vodka and attention, Neco had readily agreed, betraying his Liverpool roots jokingly, and agreeing that Mitro would be the Premiership’s top goal scorer in just a year’s time. But then, the pair of them slurring their words and sitting on the bed, the joke had slid and shifted, just as the mood had, with their growing sleepy drunkenness. Alesandar went from joking about making a League his bitch, to teasingly asking Neco whose bitch he was, and telling him what a pretty mouth he had. In blurred moments, the bulky 6ft2 forward had his top off and was showing Neco some of his tattoos, then taking his hand and encouraging him to rub his bulge through his tracksuit bottoms, chuckling in his ear and calling him a `sexy little English bitch’. Neco’s clearest memory of the encounter was politely correcting him with `Welsh’, then sinking his head willingly into the older man’s crotch and beginning to mouth at his hard-on through the nylon. Neco could see it now as if he’d just been an onlooker, rather than a participant – Mitro sprawled out on the hotel bed with Reid asleep just two metres away, and Neco crouched between his heavy legs, pulling his thick cock out of his black trunks and slipping his mouth hungrily around it, sucking him. It might be an edit by force of wishful thinking, but Neco could remember fantasising it was actually Hendo’s cock in his mouth, though this was shorter and thicker than the Liverpool captain’s – and the cum, when it flooded his mouth and the big Serbian striker grunted out his pleasure in language that Neco couldn’t understand, tasted very different. More sour and pungent, tinged with regret. Afterwards, Mitrovic was another teammate that Neco found it hard to look directly at when sat across the breakfast table from in the hotel, or across the aisle from on the team coach across the country – but whilst gentle Joe Bryan had wondered if he’d said something to offend the young right-back, big burly Mitro just gave him knowing leers and the hint of a wink, a hand sometimes straying close to his crotch as if wanting to remind Williams what he’d done in those drunken 2am moments of desire. The first half of the game was electric, more than enough to occupy Neco’s attention and remove him from such guilty reveries – albeit with a few distracted glances down towards the dugout, where he could just make out the silhouette of the team captain lingering on the bench behind the manager, uninvolved in the first 45 but more wildly cheering on his men. Neco sipped reservedly at one drink while his mates ploughed through three or four pints, since they didn’t have Championship training on Easter Sunday morning like he did – he didn’t mind, as loud and excitable as they were as three goals went in and Liverpool took a convincing lead by half-time. In the break, without the game to fixate on, Williams did find himself slightly strugglign to engage with the chat in their box, he and his mates mingling with the guests of some high-paying sponsor who was mainly occupying the VIP Wembley space. It felt odd and wrong to be up here, he reflected, rather than down below in the changing rooms, at the heart of the action, with his brothers. He wondered if they would let him in at a time like this, let him be part of the fray – but it was a senseless question, it would take him the length of the half-time break to make it down there, and he’d look ridiculous traipsing in with them in his casual designer gear, them all sweaty in their kit. The second half quickly brought tension, Jack Grealish’s goal for City provoking a murmur of discontent mingled with admiration. The masterclass first half that Neco’s team had put on was being slowly chipped away at, and he found himself hugging his arms across his chest and uninterested in the rest of his second beer. `They’re holding strong,’ one of his mates commented hopefully, and there was a rustle of agreement amongst the men in the box. Neco kept staring fixedly down behind Klopp and at the bobbing heads on the subs bench, willing his captain to be called on to bolster this flagging lead – and around the 70 minute mark, he saw his wishes come true. Jordan was up and changing clothes on the touchline, ready to step onto the field – the team needed him, Neco found himself arguing quite passionately to his mates, telling them that they had no idea just how influential the Mackem bloke really was at midfield. He calmed himself down, worried that he’d sounded a bit TOO passionate or devoted there – but nobody seemed to have found anything odd in his words, every one of them as passionately Red as the other. But Liverpool wasn’t the only red that the three mates would often don – they were Welshmen too, and it was life in Neco’s OTHER team that most regularly surfaced to pain him and make him feel terrible about his disloyalty to his captain. Or one of his captains, at any rate. Almost a month ago, and Wales had just bested Austria 2-1 in a World Cup qualifier, leading to ecstatic scenes in the national squad’s suburban training camp where they returned after the match in inner Cardiff – things were always so much more raucous and drunken out in the Welsh team life, Neco had quickly realised, although such late-night antics on the road with Fulham were challenging that. Back at Liverpool, he reflected, things were so much more sensible and controlled – such professionalism under the big-money pressures of the Premiership. These thoughts had struck him as he was encouraged into doing another three shots at the bar, coddled and championed by the likes of Tottenham’s Ben Davies and Joe Rodon, big established Wales players now excitedly embracing him as one of country’s leading men – even Neco’s yellow card whilst playing on the left-wing that evening had earned him as much kudos with the other Welshmen as if he’d contributed to the goals! The clubhouse bar rocked with the squad’s celebrations, and their coaches and management team were in amongst them, everyone knocking it back and singing in Welsh to celebrate that their `tiny’ country were almost definitely heading to the World Cup. Neco drifted from group to group, happy to strengthen his new friendships in the senior squad, having started to cut his teeth with them in the last couple of years – he had praise heaped on him, and there seemed to be a consensus among the guys here that he was better off at Fulham than Liverpool, that the more regular hard-fought Championship matches were boosting his skills more than being a second-choice sub at a top four Premiership side. He wasn’t sure he agreed, longing for Anfield (and longing for Hendo), but he was swept along with the boisterous mood of the night, and it had been a couple of weeks since he’d last swore `I’m never drinking again!’ whilst waking up with some Serbian cum crusted on his collarbone. Neco ended up spending the later part of the night with Harry Wilson, fellow Fulham player, and smoking cigarettes out on the terrace now that the bosses had drifted off to bed – the younger players were congregating out here, blaring rap music from their phones and convincing themselves they were gangster. Inside, Neco noticed, a lot of the more senior Wales players were thrashing about the centre of the bar to indie music on somebody’s portable speaker, centring around the head-banging enjoyment of the night’s big hero, Gareth Bale. It was impossible to overstate how central the big man was to the spirit of this team, and Neco was as in awe of their Welsh champion as anyone else – he grinned distractedly, peering through the glass and watching as the Real Madrid man bounced and bopped with the likes of Joe Allen, Jonny Williams, and Aaron Ramsey. Seeing these men in their late 20s and early 30s so full of life made Neco question the languid cool of the younger lads out here, making him restless and bored. Across from him, Dan James was laughing sycophantically at some tale by Nottingham;s Brennan Jonhson, and Bournemouth’s Chris Mepham was rolling a couple of joints for himself and Joe Rodon. After a moment’s indecision, Williams, escort mersin still just 20 then before his recent birthday, separated himself from the table. `I’m getting another pint,’ he announced quietly, unsurprised when everyone around him was too drunk or stoned to properly respond, and he moved down the terrace to let himself back into the bar, grinning inanely at the dad dancing of the men he passed. The clubhouse bar staff had given up for the night and Neco stood awkwardly at the bar for a minute, wondering if it was okay for him to go behind there and fetch himself a bottle from the fridge – until suddenly he was surrounded by the hot sweaty figures of the men who’d been dancing to Mr Brightside. Bale himself was suddenly right beside him, throwing a big sweaty arm about his shoulders and kissing him on the side of the brow, calling him a `warrior’ and wondering if `fucking Liverpool’ even knew what they’d sent away to London town this season – Neco laughed but wriggled against this physical closeness, whilst handsome Aaron Ramsey frog-jumped the bar and began pouring them pints of Welsh lager from the taps, putting on a high-pitched barmaid voice as he did so. `One for you, and one for you,’ the new Rangers man giggled playfully, spilling froth and booze across the bartop, whilst Ben Davies called him a `sexy wench’ and Joe Allen demanded to see his `tits’. With that, Neco was briefly and drunkenly one of them, a slender 6ft youngster in among the seasoned brutes of the Welsh national team, rather than lounging outside listening to Soundcloud rappers and trying to be too cool to party with the others. It was Barnsley all over again: the 20-year-old footballer was too drunk, restlessly horny, and surrounded by brash sporty men who made him long for his captain, or for the strength and intensity of a man like him, at least. And everybody kept referring to Bale as `captain’, as `chief’, as `skipper’ – and the rest, perhaps, was inevitable. He was rooming with Wilson, but he accepted the invitation to come back to Bale and Ramsey’s room for a last drink without any hesitation, giggly and swaying as he did. Not that the two older men weren’t just as pissed as he was, of course, the three of them – how was it suddenly just the three of them? – staggered and bumpered their way down a second-floor corridor to the big corner suite that two of the squad’s biggest stars seemed to be occupying for this international break. Almost as soon as Neco was lounging on one of the beds, he was touching himself through his skinny-fit tracksuit bottoms, sensing the testosterone and need in the air – it wasn’t as if he hadn’t seen or heard evidence that either of these burly married blokes wasn’t open to a little bit of `fun’. He knew that Dan James had noshed off half the squad, basically everyone did – and he was glad now that the Leeds player was nowhere to be seen, because he was suddenly eying up the bulges in Ramsey’s skinny jeans and in Bale’s olive chinos, and he wanted to be made `a bitch’ just as he had by Mitro a couple of weeks before. Too inebriated to really navigate conversation, Williams just sidled over to the closest of the two, 31-year-old Aaron, and began to rub at the crotch of his dark blue jeans. The Rangers midfielder laughed and hugged him and called to Bale, `Yup, you were right – he’s up for it.’ But Williams found himself drunkenly disinterested in what the two international stars had to say to each other, instead wrestling with the buckle of a belt and the tight zip fly of the skinny jeans – but soon he was sucking Aaron’s cock and sliding off the bed onto his knees, and his hair and neck were being stroked and scratched by another hand as Bale moved over to join them. Like the Fulham away night eating Aleksandar, it was a beer-soaked and vodka-singed blur, a series of sensations as much as clear memories – and it would ricochet through his hungover brain the following morning and for the next month, still bothering him on the way into Wembley on the day of the FA Cup semi. One minute on his knees, sucking the long curved tool sprouting from Ramsey’s bushy brown pubes, and the next being forcibly fed the chunkier proportions of Bale’s equipment, gagging on it but begging for more when it was pulled from his drooling mouth. He felt like a slut and, in the heat of the moment, he loved it – he called Bale `skip’ as if it was Hendo feeding him cock and pre-cum after all, and in some way it may as well have been. Big athletic bodies next to his own slimmer physique, dragging off his t-shirt and helping him out of his tracky bottoms – lots of laughter and groaning from the older men, and Neco just moving from one cock to the other at speed. At some point, Ramsey went from clothed to naked, and he basked in the striking physical attractiveness of the lean midfielder’s body – the Caerphilly star was up on his knees at one end of the bed, and Neco was crawling to him on hands and knees, only his socks left on. He lapped at the long pink rod, licking and mouthing its tip and then taking it as deeply as he could, his skills gradually trained by all those nights and early mornings sucking off the Liverpool skipper last year… and then he could feel Bale’s enormous hands on his buttocks, pawing hotly at his cool skin, spittng into his crack and then rubbing it into the fine dark fuzz of hair that lined it. Neco hadn’t been fucked since a rushed New Year session in the back of Henderson’s car down a country lane, and he hadn’t known how much he was craving it until one of Gareth’s big fingers was sliding up and down between his cheeks, and more of his lukewarm spit was shot down against his quivering hole. He pictured himself in the scene, spit-roasted then by the two prime hunks of the Welsh team, who he guessed had been getting up to mischief like this for years – he wondered if that whore Dan James had ever enjoyed both at once or not, pinned between two big Welsh cocks like he was that night. His hole spread and stretched by the girth of Bale’s cock, and his arse fucked for the first time by anyone other than Jordan Henderson – his mouth alternating between Aaron’s gorgeous cock and his tight hairy balls. Once or twice, the 6ft Cardiff striker and the 5ft11 ex-Juventus player swapped positions, but Neco remained the centrepiece, two different cocks jabbing deeply within his stinging arse-hole, fucking him with none of the patience and gentleness that he’d experienced pinned beneath Hendo’s body. The comparisons only came to him in the hazy pain of morning, not in the height of drunken passion – in the night, the beautiful 20-year-old just relished being used and claimed like this, more than happy to be their toy. He wasn’t sure if he came or not, his cock becoming limp with the alcohol in his system, and his arse eventually too sore from the rough humps of the Real Madrid villain. He didn’t remember taking their loads, but he must have, unsure if their seed had been spilled over his toned body or on his pouting face, or if he’d swallowed it – or if it had been deposited deep inside him whilst he was fucked, a ragdoll between their powerful bodies. He woke up on the floor between the two double beds, wrapped in spare sheets and pillows, aching all over – he managed to dress himself and make it back to his own room before the inevitable hungover vomiting began, his arse stinging all the while from the action it had taken in the early hours of the morning. This had been weeks ago now, but little flashbacks to the scene struck at him now and then, often late at night when he was aroused and pleasuring himself – but he would always feel ashamed afterwards, lying there with sweaty pits and crotch, cum trickling over one thigh, to think of how he’d thrown himself at those two randy blokes, desperate for a strong older man to hold him tightly and make him his own. Officially, Neco was going back to the big Hammersmith townhouse to avoid being tempted by booze – he thrust handfuls of £50 notes at his visiting school friends and recommended a few key bars to them in Mayfair, grinning his apologies and demanding that they bring him horrific stories of debauchery when they taxid home in the middle of the night from central London. The cash and encouragement more than dissipated their disappointment that their pro footballer buddy wouldn’t be joining them for the night out; they were already pretty smashed from drinking their way through the Wembley event, and Liverpool’s eventual 3-2 win over the Manchester side. Instead, he watched their taxi whizz away down the Wembley side-street, and then made for the luxury hotel where he knew the Liverpool camp had been based last night – he spotted their familiar discreet coaches outside and knew the squad would be setting off north very soon, were perhaps just delaying things to make the outer London traffic a little easier – and no doubt toasting to their win and their place in another cup final. Getting inside to see the squad now was a little trickier than his plans at the stadium. The hotel reception staff seemed to have no idea who he was, and he was just about to embarrass himself by having to Google his own name and football credentials when one of the junior coaches passed by with an ice bucket of champagne, and immediately took him under his wing. Neco saw the embarrassed and regretful faces of the reception staff but just flashed them a patient, polite smile, before disappearing upstairs to the private bar with the coaching personnel. Neco’s presence at the celebratory drinks was a lot less marked than his welcomes inside Wembley two hours ago, but he could hardly resent that. The guys were thrilled and boisterous, racing through a few glasses of fizz provided by the hotel, a lot of management staff fussing around and wanting to hurry things up so that the men got on the coach okay. Neco made happy small talk with his pal Curtis, and with an already tipsy Andy Robertson, the senior defender massaging his ego by appearing to be much more well-informed on his Fulham trajectory than anyone else, and most complimentary about it. But the 21-year-old was here for one person alone, in his heart of hearts, and he soon found and made needy eye contact with the captain. Henderson was posing for a few photographs with hotel staff, ever the fan favourite and community-minded skipper, but he readily slid away from these obligations once he noticed Neco. Separately, they made quiet beelines for the edge of the informal party, and then quite urgently they were stepping their way down a passage to the side and disappearing into another little private bar area, one where the sounds of Liverpool celebrations were muffled and distant-feeling. `You made it,’ Jordan breathed quickly, pulling both arms about him in a short tight hug. `Of course,’ Neco laughed. `Where are your mates though?’ `Oh, er – sent them off. Just… needed to see you, hey.’ Jordan grinned, though there was something poised and nervous in it. Neco stared adoringly at him, feeling more terrible than ever about the things he’d done lately in the absence of this calm and reassuring presence, the first man who’d made him feel any of those things – well, apart from some joint-smoking exploration with his filthy pal Harvey, that is. They kissed, more slowly and enjoyably than the furtive snogs in the locker rooms of Wembley, although the risk factor remained high. Neco chose not to worry about that, relaxing into Jordan’s grip and enjoying their mouths on each other. Again though, Hendo had his darker training jersey zipped right up, and it scratched a little at Neco’s chin, making him wince and giggle – he pulled up his hands and undid the zip, loosening the slinky top’s fit over Hendo’s muscular upper body, exposing the swell of his chest through the t-shirt below, but also… He started, staring at it, then flicking his eyes back up to meet Jordan’s. It was clear that the captain immediately knew what he was looking at: the scratchy red-brown bruise along the side of the midfielder’s neck. It could, of course, be a mark from a clash on the football field, but it looked like something far more obvious. `A hickey?’ Neco mouthed quietly. `A love-bite?’ He laughed, an awkward pitchy sound in the moment. `Er…?’ Jordan was staring quite intensely at him with an expression of indecision. Neco willed him into the explanation, readied himself to hear and believe it – a particularly frisky night between husband and wife, of course, a bit too much to drink and some old-school tunes banging, until they were acting like they were Sunderland teenagers again, and then- but no, the excuse didn’t come, and the Liverpool captain looked as guilty as sin. `Who?’ Neco found himself demanding hotly, his face stinging with heat and his stomach churning. He pulled away, but Jordan’s hands held his upper arms tightly, and the skipper frowned unhappily at him, but his eyes becoming unfocused. The seconds dragged by, and no explanation came readily from Henderson. It made Neco feel sick, and he pulled away from that grip, which had become too tight and was painful against his lean muscle. He staggered further away from the 31-year-old, shaking himself, and feeling his little world spin on its axis. How stupid had he been to think that Jordan would be chastely waiting for him back on Merseyside? `Who?’ he repeated weakly, but found he didn’t need or want the answer. `Fuck this,’ he said simply, immediately picturing his mates in a taxi on its way into the West End – why was he here, hanging about the edges of a Liverpool party, when he was a Fulham lad about to be promoted into the Premier League? He lurched back towards the passage and evaded Jordan’s hand snatching at his wrist, not even turning to look at his captain – fuck him, he thought, fuck the stupid team and their stupid cup chances, fuck it all! Friday night in a Wembley hotel, and Jordan was away from his room, sat alone in an empty bar area with a view of the mighty stadium itself – in front of him sat a blank iPad, tilted on its stand from his video call back to the family in outer Liverpool. He should now pack it away and head back to his room, shared with old Milner, but he needed some minutes alone, staring contemplatively out at the dull lighting and jagged silhouette of the national football arena that their hotel faced onto. Tomorrow the team would clash with City, trying to capitalise on the tiring week their opponents must have had in Madrid, and buy a ticket to the FA Cup final. He already knew that he wasn’t in Klopp’s starting lineup this time, but he still felt the significance of his role – had been hard at work boosting moral and organising the lads since they assembled at the training ground this morning and began the weekend away trip together. But tomorrow would also bring a flash of trouble for him, having gone out of his way to help Neco Williams attend – he was looking forward to seeing the beautiful lad, but not with a pure and simple outlook. He felt troubled by where things stood between them, and even more troubled mersin escort bayan by… well, what had gone on in Lisbon recently, giving in to his base desires and the intimate moments with Alexander-Arnold. It was as if his troubled thoughts had magic powers then, and could summon people out of nowhere. When Henderson took his eyes away from the window and began sliding his Apple tablet into its case, he saw Trent himself saunter slowly into the deserted bar, hands dug into his pockets and broadening shoulders quite hunched in the open zip hoody he wore. Trent seemed to pause at the sight of him, and Jordan sat still, holding his gaze. `How are you feeling?’ he asked loudly, aiming for friendly captain’s concern. Trent was slow to answer, standing there and watching him as he shoved the iPad case into a small backpack and threw it over one shoulder, getting up from the booth seating by the window. `Confident,’ the 23-year-old right-back said vaguely. He stopped staring at Jordan and looked out of the window instead, contemplating the football cathedral and their appointment there tomorrow afternoon. Jordan hovered beside him. He owed the lad explanations and apology, or at least… what, a tentative thank you? `Cheers for sucking me off lad’. Ugh. He scratched his stubble and the back of his head, and then Trent glanced questioningly at him, his silence loud and forceful somehow. `Look, Trent,’ he said, dropping his voice and the over-friendly captainly tone, but the right-back just sighed heavily and shook his attractive head. `Don’t,’ advised the Scouser very quietly. `But-‘ `Don’t,’ repeated Trent, and looked away as he spoke. `What happened happened, it’s cool – just, please, don’t say anything about it to any other lads, I dunno why you would. It was out of line, it was just over-excitement from the game and stuff.’ Even more quiet and shaky: `I don’t need people around here generally knowing that I’m gay, okay? And you don’t have to feel bad about what happened cos we both wanted it to, so it’s fine.’ Trent’s candour was disarming and made Jordan just feel more grim about himself. He lifted a hand to one of the 5ft9 Liverpudlian’s muscular shoulders, resting it there, but feeling Trent tense and flinch at the contact. `I just don’t want you resenting me,’ Hendo said softly, `or feeling like I took advantage of you, or anything…’ The 23-year-old gave him a thoughtful look that turned into almost a grin, something dry and ironic in his wide eyes. `Oh no, nothing like that,’ he muttered with a half-laugh. `Like I said – we both did what we did. I wanted it to happen. Sorry if it’s weird for you to hear that, skip, but I did. No regrets. Don’t make it weird, okay? Please.’ `Why would I make it weird?’ Jordan asked in a nervous hiss. `Married guys do,’ muttered Trent with a weary, cynical edge to his voice. He sounded like he had a fair bit of experience to base this judgement on, and it made Hendo squirm. `I’m still your captain,’ the Mackem bloke told him a bit more firmly, his voice more gruff and matey. He squeezed his shoulder. `I’m here for you through thick and thin, and all that. Please don’t let things be any different just cos of…’ `You can’t even say it out loud.’ Trent’s voice was teasing rather than accusing. `Trent, please.’ He pushed across a smile. `Like you said, let’s not make it weird.’ A long quiet look passed between them. `No,’ Trent agreed. The bar area was completely deserted at this time, no staff or customers, or any other members of the Liverpool entourage. That’s why Jordan had chose it to come and speak at length with his wife and kids over video call. Peace and quiet. But now… a simmering sexual tension. His hand lingered against the muscle of the younger man’s shoulder, and his eyes locked on Trent’s, wide and open and curious. Looking back on it in bed that night, and in the cold grey Saturday morning, and later on in the moment of guilty revelation in front of Neco, Henderson found it hard to really know which of them had moved first. It was like they were stood interlocked, playing a game of chicken. One minute a tense silence and light physical contact, the next thin their mouths locked together and their bodies pressed close, snogging over a view of Wembley. Had Trent really lunged needily for him, or had he grasped possessively at the attractive young defender…? He was scared to really focus on it, because he wasn’t sure he’d like the answer. What mattered, as he regretted the next day, inspecting the mark on the neck, was the animalistic passion with which they then grabbed at each other, disappearing into a corner of the bar area and grappling with each other’s bodies. Trent was like a thing possessed, though Jordan knew he was trying to shift blame by even thinking that – but still, without negating his own actions, Trent’s hads had been EVERYWHERE, exploring his body through his t-shirt and his jeans, cupping at his heavy cock and balls and bringing them to hardness against the denim. Jordan knew he had made weak defence against his own loyalties by breaking off the mouth kisses and refusing to continue, a pathetic gesture of piousness – but that had just led Trent to snog at his neck instead, kissing the side of his throat so passionately that he’d leave a bruise, whilst jerking his hard-on through his jeans, Jordan’s own hands roaming up and down his back until… That was the other guilty question – who had broken it off? Had he really pushed the younger man away, as he now told himself, looking guilty at the love-bite on his neck, or had Trent pulled frustratedly away from him when he murmured `No’, or refused to snog on the lips, or didn’t reciprocate by reaching for the obvious bulge in Trent’s sweatpants. He could remember much more distinctly the young star’s voice as he dragged his body away from the booth couch they had sprawled against, rubbing at his lips and cheeks and backing away. `Married guys,’ the young Scouser had sighed with that same world-weary disappointed, and then buggered off, leaving Hendo alone with a hard-on in his jeans and a hot red blush on his face. Henderson moved quickly, reaching the same staircase down which he’d seen the lanky youth disappear. At its foot, the Liverpool captain had to barge quite rudely through a cluster of people, whose annoyance at being bumped into was then mixed with surprise as somebody recognised the England footballer on his way past – he caught a glimpse of Neco disappearing out through revolving doors and he paused, very briefly, to question his pursuit of the young lad. Outside, Wembley would be swimming with football fans of both allegiances, and it was a bit more than Jordan was prepared to deal with this afternoon. But the look on Neco’s face was going to haunt him for the entire coach trip back to the Mersey, whatever was said or done, and he felt sick about it already. He shot forward and out through the doors, and then hesitated in the shadows of the hotel – a mixed crowd lay just ahead, nobody yet noticing him, and he realised the more practical issue of finding a handsome Welsh needle in this London haystack. By chance, he glanced to the left, and caught sight of the tall figure hunched at the corner, who then caught sight of him and vanished instantaneously – Jordan lurched around that same corner, following Neco into the thin alleyway of bins that was tucked between the bulk of their hotel and the next one, luxury towers in the shadows of Wembley itself. Williams skidded to a halt between the bins, turning to stare at him, his open shirt whipping about him as he moved. Hendo jogged the last few paces to him, breathless but urgent. `Let me explain,’ he hissed. `What’s to explain?’ the youth snapped. `You got bored of waiting. It’s fine.’ `Neco!’ Jordan groaned miserably. This exact confrontation had tumbled through his mind on repeat since what had happened in Portugal earlier in the month, since the first of two slips in loyalty to the beautiful youngster. `Please,’ he groaned. `Let me explain it, I’m so sorry.’ `Who was it?’ the younger footballer was demanding still. `Who gave you that? Who are you fucking?’ `I’m not fucking anyone,’ Hendo cried earnestly and honestly, though he knew the awkward caveat of heterosexual marriage lay between them like an elephant. `It’s not like that, I didn’t fuck him, it just- Neco, please, I need to explain how tough it’s been…’ The younger man stared angrily at him and looked on the verge of several explosive responses to this, tears welling up in bright eyes – but then he was feinting backwards and leaning on one of the bins, and then backing further when Jordan rapidly approached him. `Fuck, fuck, fuck,’ cried the 21-year-old as they pulled closer and Jordan finally took him in his muscular arms. `Neco,’ he said softly, `just stop and listen to me, please… I am SO sorry, and…’ `It’s not THAT,’ the defender grunted through a sudden jolt of tears, and Jordan found that he too had moist eyes and a tremor to his voice as he tried to speak, but shouted over now by an emotional Neco. `I’ve been bad,’ the Welsh lad snapped bitterly at him, `and I’ve fucked things up too. Jesus Christ, what a mess. Fuck!’ For some reason, it took Hendo several slow moments to really absorb what the beloved right-back was telling him, stroking desperately at his arms and shoulders, pulling him into a hug, straightening him up and then glancing anxiously back down the alleyway to check that they were indeed alone. `What do you mean?’ he asked weakly. It was hypocritical, he knew, but it felt like a punch to the gut, the implications of Neco’s bitter retorts. `What did you do?’ Neco groaned. `I thought I could be good and just wait for you, but… It’s been so intense down here, a whole new life, and…’ Bitterly, he blurted out the truths – telling Jordan stupid details about wanking over teammates here, about getting on his knees for Mitrovic, about his exploits in Cardiff with the Welsh blokes. Each word was another kick to Jordan’s ribcage and ego, and he stood quite weakly, more leaning on than embracing the younger athlete now. He hid his face in Neco’s shoulder, digesting this – he felt an unreasonable selfish anger, even at the same time as his own shame for giving in to other temptations, but… `It’s okay,’ he muttered quietly, squeezing Neco tightly. `It’s okay.’ `How is it okay?’ Williams demanded fiercely. Jordan pulled back. It took him a lot of strength to hold back his own tears, but he did it. Captain’s duty. `I was stupid not to break this off when you left,’ he said, trying his best to keep his voice level and somewhere between tender and detached. `I was stupid to think we might do this.’ `What? No…’ Neco sounded desperate and heartbroken already. `It was selfish of me,’ Hendo told him urgently, `to think a young lad like you would… I was an idiot. We need to just end this,’ he said, very quietly, trying to hide the break in his voice when he said it. Neco was sobbing at him, pawing at his sides and back muscles. `What we had,’ the Liverpool captain said heavily, `was so magic, so fucking special, but… you are down here now, and like you said, it’s a new life for you at the moment. I should never have told you to wait for me, to hold on to anything. You need to be young and free and enjoy yourself.’ `I don’t want it,’ the 21-year-old told him ina heady rush. `I don’t want any of this London shit, or any of those guys, I just want YOU – I want to be back at Anfield and next to you and-‘ He was crying too heavily to carry on, and he rubbed knuckles against puffy red eyes miserably. Jordan squeezed and held him, speaking soothingly. `I know you do, and maybe you’ll come back to that, maybe things will work at some point… but not now, not like this. You need to be FREE, Neco, I should have let you go. This is okay. This is good for you. Believe me.’ `If it’s good for me, then why does it feel like I just had my guts ripped out? Fuck!’ Jordan battled with his own emotions, beginning to pull himself away from the younger player. `Give it time,’ he said with an air of forced coolness, `give it time and you’ll feel so much better about what we’re doing now, you’ll feel-‘ `You’re just breaking it off because of some other fuck-boy,’ Neco snapped viciously, and the half-truth of it burnt Jordan deeply. He blinked slowly and avoided further intense eye contact with the young man. `Who is it?’ Williams snapped. `Is it Harvey? Curtis? Is it – Fuck’s sake, just tell me, captain!’ `It doens’t matter,’ Hendo urged, `it’s not about THAT. It’s about you, about us.’ He took deep breaths, squaring his hands against the 6ft youth’s shoulders and staring him down. `I loved you, Neco, I really did, and I always will. But I can’t limit you like this, not while you are here, not while you are finding yourself. I’m sorry – I know this hurts, but it’s for the best, for you more than anyone. Please try to understand that.’ He let go and backed off, hanging his head. A few rough sobs from Neco, but the Wrexham lad did not try to grab closer at him or pull him into another hug. The Liverpool skipper took slow backwards steps away, lifting his head and looking at the slim, handsome youngster more seriously. `Go and join your friends,’ he urged quietly. `Enjoy your night. It’s Easter weekend. Celebrate.’ Neco stared at him, his beautiful face screwed up. He looked like he might spit some new vicious retort at him, but he just nodded miserably, and they stared silently at each other for a minute. But neither said another thing, because what was left to be said right now? Jordan backed further away, and began to hurry – if he stayed here any longer he would run back to the Fulham defender and grab him, kiss him, fuck him, but… He meant everything he said, and this was about being cruel to be kind now. Tough love. He mouthed a `goodbye’, knowing that it could hardly be permanent, but for now the severance would certainly pain them both. He disappeared around the corner and hurriedly back through the revolving doors of the hotel – in reception, he was massed by randomers who were excited to see the Premiership midfielder in their hotel, and he had to plaster on the PR smile, the captain’s grin, pose for photographs and make his way very slowly back upstairs to the dying moments of the little party. Around him, everybody cheered and sang, and would do so for the entire coach journey home – Jordan moved through it in a daze, stopping only to engage with the world when, for a moment, he was helping the boss to see everybody onto the coaches beside the hotel, and he had to make eye contact with young Trent, and grab his palm in his in a congratulatory handshake. The 23-year-old eyed him worriedly, and Jordan stared blankly back, unsure what he could really offer the anxious young football star – Trent seemed to be looking for some confidence or reassurance from him, but Jordan could only woodenly echo the words of the manager next to him. `Great performance today, lad. Let’s take that Cup home, yeah?’ Trent nodded silently, and his eyes slipped away, and Jordan’s heart ached. ‘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

Ben Esra telefonda seni bosaltmami ister misin?
Telefon Numaram: 00237 8000 92 32

İlk yorum yapan siz olun

Bir cevap yazın

E-posta hesabınız yayımlanmayacak.

izmir escort izmir escort beşiktaş escort illegal bahis canlı bahis siteleri casino siteleri canlı bahis kaçak bahis bahis siteleri bursa escort görükle escort bursa escort gaziantep rus escort antep escort gaziantep escort izmir escort maltepe escort