Subject: Premiership Lads Part 225 Part 225: Victorious Blades he certainly didn’t recognise her as anyone’s wife, but then this was a fairly select gathering, so who…? He blinked stupidly at her as she fluttered her lashes and flicked back her long straight hair before taking the beer from him, letting their fingers brush over the damp condensation of green glass. `Thank you,’ she trilled. `No problem,’ he grunted back with a lopsided grin, thinking that perhaps tonight was getting a bit more interesting than expected; it was not just a bittersweet toast to a rare and inauspicious win for the struggling Sheffield team. No, maybe tonight would be more than just a few beers with the lads after all, the frustrated lockdown singleton told himself, trying to give her a more sophisticated grin, and picking up a bottle opener to sort them both out. He felt his biceps bulge in his sleeves as he uncapped both bottles and then clinked them together. `To our host Billy,’ he toasted quietly, meeting her sultry dark eyes. She nodded her agreement and then put her lips sensually to the bottleneck. It was far from a party in the hotel of tonight’s opponents, where there had been little said between any of the guys since coaching from Bramall Lane to the outskirts of the city and the quiet, comfortable venue hosting them tonight before an early drive up into the North East; there had been nothing but sullen silence and darting looks of disappointment or accusation between the guys, much of it redirected at Ryan Fraser himself. Enough to make him quite glad to be subject to curfew and already locked away in their room, stomping his feet out of some trainers and throwing his short stocky frame in against the bed. The 26-year-old Scotsman let out a long whistling breath of weary frustration and rested his hands on his chest over the hooded training top, staring at the ceiling for a minute and then turning to watch his roommate match his ritual of shoes off and sliders on, rummaging for a TV remote and then curling into a seat by the window rather than reclining on the parallel bed. `Anything good on?’ Fraser barked aimlessly at his long-time companion, edging himself across the bed a little and propping his head on one hand to get a better view over at the screen angled on the far wall. No particular answer came from the other Newcastle player in the room, just a soft disinterested noise, and so Ryan flared his nostrils and stared pointedly over at where the well-built striker was stretched out from the chair with his feet up on a desk. `Some late night comedy shit would be good,’ Ryan yelped quietly now, a flicker of hopeful question in his tone. He watched the bigger guy for reaction but saw none, and frowned irritably at the silent treatment he was receiving; it had been bad enough downstairs from the other lads, but here in their shared room, with this big bugger?! `Oi,’ the winger called forcefully, grasping one pillow in his short strong arms and tossing it across the distance between them, crashing doughily against the seated figure of Callum Wilson. `What’s this, nobody-speak-to-Ry-night, for fuck’s sake?’ He pushed himself up by the elbows and sat out, feet sticking over the side of the bed. `Talk to me, aye?’ Wilson glanced languidly this way without shifting in his seat, elbowing the thrown pillow aside and giving him an odd, withering kinda look. `Can I just rest my feet and chill for a minute, Frase?’ He turned agitatedly back to the screen as if paying close attention, while his thumb tripped him lazily through a series of obscure channels. Ryan huffed. `Right,’ he said, `you too, then.’ Callum glanced at him for a moment more. `Well — what do you expect?’ `Huh. Okay, I show some passion and go a bit hard, I get a red — whoa, what a fuckin’ scandal. At least I brought some fight to the game, aye?’ He spoke with feeling, the cold shoulders and quiet tuts of every one of the squad haunting him from the minute they left the pitch, down 1-0 against the unfortunate Sheffield who had taken so long to bag a win. It had been a particularly poor night for the Magpies and it showed in every man’s mood tonight. People were always on the lookout for someone to blame and, red carded for his aggression, the tempestuous little Scot was the popular choice. `You were out of order, and it fucked things up,’ Wilson snapped without looking at him. `And don’t talk to me about bringing the fight. If anything else could put a run in or make an opportunity, I wouldn’t be absolutely fucking battered right now. Jesus. I’m sick of this team, and I don’t wanna hear any whingeing from you, Ry, you were out of order tonight.’ Fraser went to speak with some huffing protest, the resentful comments that had been building up in him since he stood miserably under the away rooms shower and soaked sweat from his dense 5ft4 body of blocky muscle. He huffed again and shifted a bit on the bed, some passive aggressive wind removed from his sails and Callum’s quiet rage more provokingly upsetting than his words. He resolved, briefly, to drop it; the other guy was kinda right, he knew he’d been sloppy and difficult on the pitch tonight and fully deserved his sending off, and that knowledge was what really riled him now that it had cost his teammates so much in the terrible outcome. It was disappointing for this fella, the only guy on the squad he really knew closely, to snap at him and call out his behaviour, but it was also very difficult to fight back at; having played side by side at Bournemouth for a good six years before their mutual transfers to St James’ Park, the lads were closer to brothers than friends. The problem with Ryan’s fiery temper, the same temper that had ruined the game for him, was that no sooner was he up on his feet, intending to change into his bedclothes and load up a game on his laptop, than he found himself making a delayed retort to the moodily quiet striker on the other side of the room. `It’s a bit much, having it from you,’ he pointed out crossly, `we go way back, Cal, don’t you forget that.’ A sulky little sigh from Wilson, who swung himself up from his seat in a confrontational manner. `I know that,’ he said, `and I don’t want anyone here thinking Bournemouth taught us nothing but how to do a horrible fucking tackle like that, mate. Don’t get funny with me.’ Fraser, never one to pay attention his diminutive height, walked across and squared up to the 5ft11 forward instantly, ignoring the gulf between their chins as he stood belligerently in front of him and puffed out his chest. `You wanna make something of it, do ya? Ye fuckin’ started it, Cal!’ In the quiet mirth of the underground Sheffield party, another of the match-weary players cast his eyes amongst the scattered assembly of the team’s harder drinkers and more discreet female partners — aha, there she was! He had been briefly confused about the whereabouts of his latest girlfriend — a lot less casual than the last few — and found himself stood dimly to the side unable to quite follow the patter of two younger men. At 38, Phil Jagielka was almost a dinosaur to some of the Sheff Utd players here, crunching slowly towards the inevitability of retirement. Largely, he didn’t mind that, was just grateful to still be picking up Premiership minutes as he approached the big 4-0, but standing by and hearing two youthful players comparing how many TikTok followers they had just seemed to pronounce the growing gulf between him and the current generation. So Jagielka gladly crossed the room to press a greedy left hand against the taut bottom of his current young love interest, squeezing her rump and taking his place at her side before even registering who was currently distracting her from him. With the self-confidence only possible in a man of his experience and success, Phil threw an arm loosely across her back and just smiled charmingly down the bar at his fellow centre-back. `Ahoy,’ the Mancunian ageing footballer called, simultaneously making it clear whose partner this spare beauty was, and signalling his friendly greeting to the charming Irishman. `I hope I’m not interrupting anything too exciting here, eh?’ `What? Er, no — just saying hi and…’ There was an amusing rush and slur to the 6ft1 defender’s speech as he jolted on his feet and pulled his half-drunk beer in against his broad chest. Jagielka just smirked complacently at him and pecked a kiss on his partner’s neck, giving Egan a little wink of authority to cool off his nervy energy. `Relax, Lucky Charm,’ he joked at him, releasing his soft grip of the beautiful woman beside him and smiling at her instead. `Oh, a beer for you but none for me, I see how it is, Charlotte.’ She curtly pointed him to the fridge, kissed him once on the lips, and slid discreetly away without a word of goodbye to either of them, off to mingle more and make new friends among the Sheffield WAGs. Phil paused to enjoy the covetous look on John’s face as he followed her exit, then crouched to fetch himself a drink and, while down there, a fresh one for the younger guy. `Here. Mmm. She’s a bit of alright, huh?’ `Er,’ was all Egan could muster in response. The big 28-year-old was amusing youthful and innocent by comparison to the more rough-and-ready blokes that made up much of this experienced team, and he could often become the butt of jokes in the changing rooms or on the away coach. Jagielka was too long in the tooth for such `banter’ though and he just laughed approvingly and punched him in the arm with a gentle fist. `You daft mucker,’ he told him. `You think I’m possessive? You don’t get kicked out by your wife of 10 years and hold on to that sorta shit, mate. Here. To a good win. How are ya doing…?’ He grinned winsomely at the team’s staple centre-back, the rightful holder of a position he would have claimed himself a few years back at the end of his Everton prime, though now he was a bench-warming spare dragged out for extra power when the going got tough. It was all fine — it’s just how the career path goes in a young man’s game. The 38-year-old patted his Irish friend on the shoulder and laughed happily with him, gladly explaining how he had stumbled into the arms of his latest hot girlfriend, and why this was one felt more of a `keeper’ than the string of other obscenely young models he had played about with in the couple of years since his separation from Mrs J. A mixture of professional disappointment, physical exhaustion and the special kind of personal spite one could only feel for a close friend letting you down, burned through Callum as he stared down at the short angry figure of his maligned teammate — it was unlike him to turn on a friend and fellow player like this, but Ryan’s pushing and prodding had fired up his resentment and now the cocky little bastard was trying to make insults about HIS contributions to the game. HIM! Pretty much the only bloke in this damned team making a real effort and achieving anything this season! `I think you should be careful who you’re criticising here,’ he said with a warning frown, jabbing a finger in the air and squaring his broad shoulders. `You can get away with chatting shit in here but don’t let some of the others overhear you chucking blame around, short-stuff, or you’ll be getting REAL stick off the guys, yeh?!’ Callum shouldn’t be engaging with this, he knew too well how moody and quick-tempered Fraser was, especially when it came to criticism, but it had been a particularly draining and painful night, watching shite Sheffield claim the 3 points with so little resistance from the ten-man team of Magpies. The big 28-year-old was finding it harder and harder to feel positive about his move up here, now that the novel rush of being welcomed as a hero was over, and the season really seemed to be coming to nothing… tonight had just been a series of disappointments to him, and he had little patience for Fraser, who just couldn’t accept responsibility for his bad performance. `God,’ railed Ryan Fraser, looking ready to swing a punch at him, `it was a mistake, a single fucking mistake, and everyone acts like-` `It was a shocker,’ Wilson told him firmly, pushing the accusing finger down against his sternum and glaring at the 26-year-old, sick of his moods and his bristling attitude being directed pointlessly at him, like any of it was his fault! `A daft mistake,’ Ryan said back, batting his hand aside and shaking his head. `What, like you’ve never made any fucking mistakes on the pitch before, Cal? Nah?’ Callum made to talk over him, needing to end this stupid little spat that was doing neither of them any favours, but Ryan went on, something vicious in both his voice and expression. `Never mind on the pitch,’ he yelled up at him, `what about the stupid mistakes you make off it, eh, big lad??? Yeah, you know mersin escort what I’m talking about!’ `Ry-` `That fucking night before your wedding…’ `Mate, nah-` `YOU were the one out of order THAT night, Wilson!’ `Ry, just-` `And you called that kiss a daft mistake,’ the angry Scot ranted at him, stepping even closer in belligerent challenge, calling him out and throwing the long-buried memory in his face in response to the justified criticism of his behaviour. Wilson stared miserably at him, his heart skipping a beat and his stomach lurching, his own quiet strength utterly deflated. `It was a daft mistake,’ Egan added quickly as a conclusion to the story he had just shared, speaking in a rush of whiskey-fuelled confession to the fella next to him on the couch, curled in one corner of the quietened party room a good couple of hours later. At what point the bottles of beer had been swapped for short measures of whiskey and ice, Egan couldn’t quite say, but he was rather glad of it — the fire in his throat and the relaxing comfort of his battle-sore body on the low retro furniture of Billy Sharp’s basement. He’d whiled away most of the night now with the reassuringly experienced figure of Big Phil, the seasoned `old man’ of the Sheffield locker-room — an England and Everton legend who had once started his career at the Blades and now returned to end his playing days there too. As solid central defenders, they had a lot of common and John looked up to the Manchester bloke even more than most, perhaps. Well, especially having seen the gorgeous twentysomething stunner he was now entertaining as his girlfriend — what a fuckin’ legend! How had they got on to this topic? Well, it was to do with the drink, wasn’t it. Jagielka, lounging sideways on the coach in a shirt that popped open a little down his front, clinging to his broad heavy torso, had questioned Egan’s very un-Irish hesitation to switch to spirits — and he’d had to explain his recent efforts to cool off the celebratory drinks and behave himself. He’d quickly blamed other players, captain Sharp included, and somehow ended up starting to share the heady nights of last summer living it up with absent teammate O’Connell… those had been the messy wake-up calls that had made him want to rein in his boozing. Phil was quite an easy guy to talk to — it wasn’t just his age and his worldly football experience, but something in his relaxed and confident manner, the expansive assurance of his tanned face and ocean blue eyes. It was a mix of that and the first couple of whiskeys that got John shouldering his way closer on the couch and muttering confidingly to him about that particular night. `It was a mistake,’ he repeated, and then laughed quite hoarsely. `The silly things a guy will do to chase a bit of cunny, y’know?’ He looked almost nervously at the more experienced centre-back, awaiting some proper response to what he’d admitted: that he and absent Jack had openly snogged for the two northwestern ladettes that night in the hotel, keen to secure their cheeky shag with the two babes, appeasing them with man-to-man kissing in order to earn a little lesbo entertainment. It wasn’t as if the night’s taboo had exactly haunted Irish John, he wasn’t THAT prudish or self-reflective; but it certainly seemed a solid example of a bit too much drinking during the first lockdown and the excitement of the season re-start in summer 2020. It was only now, having voiced he and O’Connell’s shared transgression to a guy he deeply respected but perhaps didn’t actually know that well, that the big muscular Irishman felt a little rush of shame and fear. He’d kept his voice jokey and testing as he shared the anecdote with Jagielka, but now he feared some judgment or sternness from this pillar of masculinity slumped beside him with whiskey in hand. Phil laughed then, just a couple of simple barks of mirth. `I shouldn’t stress over that, John lad,’ the former England defender grunted simply, knocking back a mouthful of Ireland’s finest. `These things go on. Like ye say — the things lad will do for a bit of fanny! And you both got some, I hope, after a bit of tonsil tennis between you…?’ John smirked, overcome with relief. `Of course,’ he boasted simply, choosing for now not to remember how good the sweaty shagging had been as they enjoyed those pleasure-seeking young ladies, and how one of them had planted a kiss on his mouthful with way too much jizz still on her lips… urgh. `It was a good laugh,’ he evaluated with strained lightness. `But yeah, I was just getting a bit messy on nights then, bad hangovers, that kinda thing, so…’ He stared down at the whiskey in hand, realising how much he had drank even whilst preaching to the older guy about his changed diet and lifestyle beyond training to ensure tiptop fitness in the rest of the season. Well, so much for that, he’d feel like hell tomorrow. `Jack O’Connell,’ Jagielka was chuckling. `Where is that ugly bastard? I know he wasn’t on the squad but he could have come and joined the party, eh?’ John shrugged. `With his bird I guess,’ he concluded. `Hmm… speaking of which.’ Here she came: the Irish siren who had caught Egan’s attention earlier tonight, appearing above them and then folding down into the narrow space between them, curling against Phil’s physique but in doing so letting her curvy bum rub John’s knees and one of her stockinged legs slide over his ankle. John gulped and sat upright a little, making more space for Charlotte to occupy between them, scratching at the neck of his jumper and finishing his whiskey with a sudden flush to his cheeks. He was embarrassed by his flirting gambits with the attractive brunette when he had stupidly thought she must be single and interested, not already smitten with this legend. `And what were you two boys talking about just then?’ she was asking. `The blush on Egan’s face here would cook bacon.’ He blanched at that accusation, sat primly beside the couple with stiff posture and a little stirring of his hidden prick. `Er…’ `Oh, you, always you,’ flirted Phil in a lazy drawl, pulling her in against him and nuzzling at the side of her neck, seeming to pause to sniff her glossy hair or the perfume on her jawline, then letting his dark pink lips rub the skin briefly there before turning properly to kiss her on the mouth, a very public display of affection with John sat awkwardly right beside them on the awkwardly sized couch. `What else could we be talking about but the hottest girl in the room?’ Jagielka was demanding calmly of his intensely attractive new partner, while one of her legs strayed to the side and rubbed excitingly at John’s own denim calf. The hotel bar was closed, but it still provided the right spot for the Scottish footballer to sulk, his elbows pushed moodily against the counter as he sat on a high stool and kicked his toes against the wall idly, morose in isolation after eventually storming out of the hotel room rather than stay and be jibed at for his rusty playing style by the talented striker. He’d been stupid to bring up the stag do hedonism of the night before Wilson’s wedding, it had been harsh and reckless; it hadn’t exactly silenced their pointless snappy arguing at the end of a long wintry night, it had just fired the Coventry-born footballer to volley more insults and criticisms at him, most of them quite justified and accurate. It had quickly started to become more hostile between them and Ryan could feel them both itching to fight, so he’d taken an unusually sensible decision and removed himself from the suite, leaving Cal to stew and swear alone. It had been a long difficult injury break for Fraser in the middle of his first Newcastle season, and he’d placed himself until a lot of pressure to prove something in these returning games, a lot of hyped-up ambition and testosterone, as had exploded in the Sheffield clash tonight. He knew full well that he’d fucked up and let everyone down tonight, he could see it in all their faces: in the manager’s forlorn sighs and the arsey body language of Paul Dummett and DeAndre Yedlin, in the scowls of young Karl Darlow and the overwhelming gloom of the entire busload. Craving a fresh pint on the counter in front of him, Fraser sulked silent and alone, wondering how he would apologise to Wilson for his snappy little comments and for crossing that line with the particular `daft mistake’ he’d chosen to reference, having never once brought it up or even joked about it in the years that had passed since. It had been an odd moment, printed in his memory despite the drunken blur of the particular night, partying in a south coast strip club to mourn Callum’s bachelorhood — he was marrying his childhood sweetheart the following day and the two of them were among the last men standing on a vodka-soaked celebration at some swanky Bournemouth bars. Somehow it had ended up just the two of them, propping up a bar, downing shots, and then exiting together in a leery fumble for the taxi rank — diverting then for the seafront to enjoy the distant prospect of sunrise, chatting shite and bantering happily as they always did back then, solid experienced teammates. Ryan could remember the mismatched pair, the ruddy little Scotsman and the tall handsome black lad, squashed against each other at the railings, cackling back at the pre-dawn gulls, though he couldn’t actually remember what they were talking about: football, probably. But what he did remember was the strangely silent moment, there by the Channel, with one of Callum’s long tatted arms draped about his low shoulders, pulling him in, and then- `Mate.’ He started, twisting a little on the barstool and looking down the deserted space of the hotel bar, surprised to see the tall, handsome lad taking slow steps towards him, kneading his hands in front of him and his face drooping with regret. Ryan pushed his flat palms against the bar and sat back, taken aback both by the appearance of his roommate, and the mournful look on his face. `Cal,’ he said gruffly, too surprised and confused to hide the nostalgic emotion in his voice. `Look,’ Callum said heavily, his whole tall bulk drooping with the weight of apology, `I’m sorry for ragging on you mate, it was a bit much, wasn’t it…?’ He brought one hand up to scratch the back of his neck, hovering a few metres from him, muscles bulging a little in the Newcastle tshirt he wore. `Nah, don’t matter,’ Ryan muttered uncomfortably, swinging his chunky legs on the stool and giving him a sheepish look, dredging up the will to make his own much-needed apology, unsure that Cal really ought to be the one saying sorry here. `You were pissed off, you’re disappointed, I know that. I know everybody is. It’s been a night.’ `It has. Fuck Sheffield, huh?’ `Fuck `em all.’ Ryan fought again to spit out an apology, fiddling with the cuffs of his hoody and patting his legs uselessly, still a bit in shock. He opened his mouth and lifted a hand to scratch at the blond wire-wool of his hair, twisting on his stool and looking anywhere but up at Callum’s expansive honest face. `So you’ll come back to the room and stop sulking, eh?’ Wilson asked rapidly, before Fraser could vocalise the regret and embarrassment he felt. `I promise not to mention the words “red” or “card” once, okay? I just can’t promise you won’t get a bit of stick over breakfast in the morning, Frase. You know I’ve got your back, always, but you need to just shut your trap and keep your head down a bit this week, alright? People will get over it, they’re professionals.’ The moment for speaking up and making his own apology seemed to have skidded by already and he found himself just scowling and nodding as he slid from the stool and threw a loose handshake at his old pal, the guy he’d played with as he first made a dent on the south coast and began establishing himself, an attacking duo on their second Premier League team together. `I buggered it, didn’t I?’ the winger said mournfully, shoving his hands in his pockets and shuffling into place beside his roommate as they walked slowly out of the bar. `What a mess. We need to sort this lot out, don’t we? Otherwise this was NOT worth moving to Tynemouth for, ha.’ `Agreed,’ sighed Callum, politely agreeing with him not to bring up the barb that had really broken them apart up there in the room, their argument spiralling out of control. Ryan grinned gratefully back and together they crossed the silent reception area of the hotel and entered a lift — by the time it was five flours above, the tension between that had at least partly dissolved and they were walking down the corridor with deep laughter at an old in-joke. It was kind of them to let him stay. Well, kind of Phil, this place must be his — the new beauty couldn’t actually have moved in with him yet escort mersin after a few months, could she? Well, maybe, lockdown did funny things to relationships. It had certainly dampened any hope of one for him, that’s for sure! Egan found himself standing in the centre of the hall that took up the middle of the Jagielka mansion, a meandering twenty-minute walk from the Sharp residence where they had finally been turfed out of the secret party by Billy’s wife. John’s car was left to frost over on the snowy driveway of the skipper, but Billy’s wife had seemed far from keen on any of the fellas staying the night, and so he’d gooseberried along with Phil and Charlotte, assured that he could crash at Phil’s place any time, centre-backs sticking together for life! The tall 28-year-old staggered through the big entrance hall with his cold hands dug into his jeans pocket, shivering beneath his overcoat and trying to blink away the nagging little headache of excess. While the loved up couple muttered and giggled somewhere behind him, he passed through an open arch into what seemed to be the home’s big main lounge, a beautifully wintry room with a faux fur rug or blanket on every available surface. Cool, looks cosy and comfy. He eyed up one of the three massive sofas as his probable bed for the night, unless his inebriated host wanted to show him to a handy guest bedroom before vanishing off to fuck his woman. The two of them had barely kept their chilly hands off one another on the snowy walk here, which had mildly irritated Egan as he clomped along after them. Third wheel. He realised things had fallen quiet behind him and he paused, twitching his big shoulders and thick arms at his side, and then turning slowly around to look away from the cosy lounge back through the big archway into the dimly lit hall. The couple now slid into view, moving onto the threshold of the rooms and both fixing him with an odd look. Unlike him, their coats were already off, shucked at the door, and Phil had both arms curled down around the girl’s waist, kissing between her neck and shoulder — a zip or buttons on her simple dress had been undone and now it hung open down her side, exposing a lot of tanned skin and the glittering silver-white of some lingerie. John stared awkwardly at this teasing sight, seemingly incidental, then let his dark eyes drift back up to her curving grin and lazily hooded eyes. Phil looked up at him and smirked over her shoulder. For his part, his shirt seemed to be open already to expose the lightly tanned and shaven smooth expanse of his chest where he loomed over his leggy beauty. He grinned and chuckled and kissed her again, cuddling her to him and letting the dress fall a little more open. `Mmm. John, mate. I think we’ll be heading upstairs.’ `Right,’ the centre-back said vaguely. `I’ll sort myself out. No worries. Looks comfy in here. Plenty of cushions and blankets, erm.’ Charlotte, grinding herself casually back into her footballer hunk boyfriend, tittered for some reason at his bland comments. `I’ll be grand,’ he added quickly, patting uselessly at the sides of his coat and feeling stupidly in the way here. `Thanks for letting me crash here, guys, it’s pretty cool of you, yeh.’ `John, mate,’ cut in Jagielka, running his hands up the sides of her body and letting one of them grasp sideways inside the dress and onto her tit, `You ain’t sleeping on the couch, fella. Come on. I said — we’ll be heading upstairs.’ He paused, fixing him with a look of pleasant surprise and novelty. `All three of us, yeh?’ The Irishman stared blankly back, his mouth falling simply open, and his hands pausing just above the baggy pockets of his winter coat; the couple, giggling and touching, began to back away from him into the hall, and with slow deliberate steps, he followed. It had shaken him, when he did it. It had come out of absolutely nowhere, the urge that made him do it: turn around, squeezing his arm a little more around the body heat of the other lad in the dawn chill, the waves crashing down against the concrete below their feet, and leant in to press their lips momentarily together in quiet breathy communion. He had been insanely drunk, of course, and there had been a bit of the old magic dust shared among them a few bars ago. Callum had barely done coke before and he supposed it had funny effects on you, snorting that rubbish on top of too much hard liquor. No wonder, he thought, he’d lost control and pulled his mate to him in the cool of a dying summer night, and kissed him bang on the lips in such a weirdly affectionate way, not even quite joking until he knew what he was doing — and then bursting out into stupid laughter as Fraser wriggled out of his arm, swearing loudly and elbowing him in the ribs while he gruffly demanded to know what was going. Callum had laughed, because what else could he do? Gripped the railings and laughed, hooting with stupid laughter and joking on about how he’d mistaken Ry for his bride for a second there — ha ha ha etc. Now he lay sleepless in bed, thinking about the condition he’d been in when he made it back to the AirB he just moved one arm out of the way to avoid it being squashed beneath Ryan’s cool goosepimpled skin. Quite abruptly, he was here right beside him, on his side, and even in the dark he could make out his facial features more now, eyes adjusting: the gently curling tufts of his hair, shaved much closer on the sides, the square-jawed hardness of his face and deep-set eyes that caught the light. `I know it was a daft mistake,’ Fraser said very quietly, his voice a gentle growl, `but still…’ `Mate?’ He could hear the shivery stammer in his voice, the struggle over each consonant. `Here,’ Ryan murmured, and one of his hands came sliding between Callum’s bicep and the heavy sheets, holding gently against his arm as the other man, shirtless like him, came sliding quite close, and then very close, too close, and then… it was he, this time, on the receiving end of the slowly questing lips, uncertain on his, a little tickle of stubble on his chin and dimple. Wilson held his breath and allowed it, eyes fluttering uncertainly in the night-dark. `What was that?’ he dared ask as he breathed out, their mouths parting dryly. `Me saying sorry,’ his Scottish pal whispered. The master bedroom of the house felt as hot as a sauna, at least compared to the icy Yorkshire winter they had traipsed through to get here. John was quick to follow his host Phil in losing his top, pulling up the sweatshirt and the vest beneath it in an initially smooth move that became clumsy and tangled at the top, but then it was off, dropped on a rug, as he followed the teasing siren of the Irish girl towards and onto the big bed. Next to him, Jagielka took her first, kneeling on the side of the bed and cuddling at her, kissing her deeply and noisily, then stooping down to peck and tease at her breasts instead, reaching around the back to unhook her bra. Clambering next to them, John stared apprehensively at her and then felt calmly invited in by her gently chuckling grin — he leaned close and began to kiss her too, enjoying a woman’s lips on his after a rather dry winter, and placing his hands carefully about her beautiful bare shoulders to avoid too much contact with the other man who was burying his face between her tits then sliding further down to start removing her knickers. The bed creaked mildly beneath the shifting limbs and shuffling knees, all three of them moving more centrally on the mattress, tangling and ruffling bedding beneath their bodies as they did. The room was so warm and smelt pleasantly spicy, a lingering of festive candles or incense or whatever. John’s body felt loose and relaxed with drinking, though mentally he was still very self-conscious and overwhelmed by the unexpected invitation upstairs. He went down on his side, reaching one hand over to stroke her breasts and gently pinch her nipples, finding himself lying side by side with the beauty who had entranced him in the basement. With his other hand, he undid his belt buckle and the buttons below, loosening the front of his jeans, feeling his roused semi beneath it, so excited to be getting close to her, even if it was in a strange share with the man who seemed to possess her — his worldly senior, now removing her knickers with his teeth, a roguish figure between her legs. John peered briefly at him, enjoying the dirty glint in Phil’s eyes, and then watching him confidently push his face between her legs to eat her out; beside his own topless body, she squirmed and moaned and grabbed at his thick biceps for support as her cunt was licked open. Wow. The Irish stud took his own share of the prize, kissing her happily again and playing at her breasts, still a little damp with the other man’s saliva. He happily lifted his arm to let her stroke down his tummy and inside the front of his underpants, finding the thick waking snake of his manhood. Oh yes, her hand felt GOOD. A bit more wriggling and shuffling allowed him to get the jeans off, kicking them down the thick furred muscles of his legs, a powerful row of his big socked feet allowing him to toss the denims off the side of the bed and roll sideways into her. Phil was still giving her head, her legs spread and up in the air now, and just the man’s high forehead and tufty pale brown hair visible between the fleshy feminine thighs. John kissed her neck and chest and then sucked on her nipples, rubbing her flat tummy with one big hand, and happily grinding the hard bulge of his pants into her hip until she reached in again and removed his cock with amusing grace and ceremony. The boxer briefs came off next, peeled down his buttocks and hips by both her manicured fingers and his own, then wriggled down his thighs and past his knees. His cock, now fully hard, slapped against her side and he found himself giggling drunkenly, snogging with her until their faces mashed uncomfortably into the pillows. `Mmmm,’ he moaned pleasantly, breaking in and out of breathy wet kisses with her, side by side — his hand was questing down past her navel and against the very light fuzz of her landscaped pubes into the hot wet space between her legs, woken and licked into excitement by the other fella. John slid a hand there and put one thick stubby finger inside her while they kissed, enjoying the way she now gripped at and stroked his hard curving prick for him, as if it needed any more stimulation to be rock hard for her…! With a deep bestial groan, Egan pulled away from another kiss, feeling a slightly detached burst of confusion: after all, one of her arms was curled behind his neck and shoulder, running her long painted nails over his pale bare skin in a sensual scratch, and the other was on his front, dancing her nails back and forth on the lightly haired skin of his pectorals. So how could she also be…? Lying on his back, his sides and hairy thigh rubbing close to her gorgeous naked body, the Irish defender looked down his naked body and to his crotch, and registered with the dulled amazement of someone very drunk, that it was not her hand on his cock after all. Jagielka was looming over them both with a wicked grin on his face, and a hand to each of them — the left pushing past John’s own fingers to take over the frigging of that juicy cunt, and the right reaching with muscular strength down to continue pumping on the big Irish meat between his hairy thighs. The older man gave slow happy gasps of exertion as he pleasured them both, and John just stared at him in slow, bewildered interest, before glancing awkwardly back at Charlotte for her take on this development. The Irish beauty just glowed back at him, reaching for a kiss, then yelping at a deep push of Phil’s fingers. `Oh you absolute fucking studs,’ she moaned, apparently 100% cool with the manly handjob that completed this little triangle, reaching for them both with her beautiful claws, sighing into the warm half-light of the master bedroom. `What are you doing, buddy?’ He ignored the question. He was still on his side, facing the bigger guy, invasively nestled under the covers of his bed with him, still thinking about how odd and velvety big Cal’s lips had felt as he presented the apologetic quiet kiss against them. Now, with so much tension and hesitation in his left arm, he was brushing his hand down the gently toned six-pack and at the waistband of the glossy Adidas shorts he’d worn to bed. He left it there, checking that this was (somehow) okay. `Just making it up to ya,’ Ryan grumbled at last, feeling the vibrations of his own deep voice in the bedding and pillows beneath them. `Just… let me. Okay?’ A long pause. `Okay.’ He pushed the tips of his fingers under the slack elastic waist and paused there, feeling the rough stubble where shaven mersin escort bayan pubes were, then reaching in a bit further, `til he was gently touching the base of it. He’d seen it enough times, there was almost something familiar about its soft girth against his reach; they’d showered side by side most weeks for nearly seven years. It was hardly as alien or weird to him as it might have been, if this was anyone else. He knew it definitely WAS alien or weird, but in the moment, he somehow didn’t care, didn’t need to think it through or question it. `Mate,’ gasped Callum as Ryan’s fingers closed about it, pulling on it with aching slowness inside the front of those shorts. With left-handed gentleness, he stroked and tugged it like he might his own, suppressing his own gravelly breaths and remaining stiffly on his side, poised beside the longer recumbent shape of his big footy mate, the talented goal-scorer. `Let me,’ Ryan repeated under his breath. `I’m… letting you.’ `I fucked up. This is… sorry.’ `…Okay. Okay, mate.’ And with that, he began to really jerk him, feeling the hard fullness of it against his palm and his curled fingers, feelings it heat and the veiny lines, feeling the slide of skin. He also felt the gasping trembles of Callum’s body, big and heavy and muscular alongside him, generating so much heat in the space beneath the duvet. The apologetic handjob continued, quick and private. Phil fucked Charlotte, and then John fucked Charlotte, and then Phil fucked her some more. And so on, in a series of intimate and sprawling positions across the sweat-damp bedding in the dreary heat of the bedroom. While John was inside her, first in missionary and then doggy and then lying on his back with her riding cowboy, he would feel Phil’s muted interest in him via a rough pat of his shoulder muscle, or a little ruffling stroke of his black-brown hair — or in this last position, lying on his back with her bouncing joyously atop his cock, he could see Jagielka leaning in to kiss and fondle her while she rode his dick, but he could also feel the bloke’s other hand reach behind her and down against the fluff of his inner thighs. Phil was finding and tickling the tight swell of his bollocks under her cunt as his dick was gloriously gripped and plunged in and out of her bouncing form. While Phil fucked her, John couldn’t quite match these gentle gestures of shared pleasure. He would lie on his side or rise up on his knees, gasping and recovering, his cock still raging with the urgency to climax and shoot, his whole body flushed pink and gleaming with sweat in the light of a single distant lamp, his eyes trained on the masterful movements of the fleshier and less toned 38-year-old bloke, whose intense fucking of this beauty seemed to bely and utterly delete the fact that every now and then he reached down and stroked John’s cock, or balls or, once, gave one of his big hairy buttocks a playful squeeze while he buried his weapon inside her. Charlotte, for her part, growled with pleasure and ranged excitedly between them. There was a certain tenderness and loyalty in the way she kissed and touched Jagielka that made it clear whose girlfriend she was, but there was nothing but lust and enjoyment in the way she also reached for and opened herself to Egan; she was as wildly into this three-way action as the man of the house, evidently, and whichever of them was inside her, she would look longingly and feverishly at the other, addicted to the changeover and swapping that kept both men constantly on the verge of orgasm. Either she was excellent at faking it or SHE found her orgasm every few minutes, form first Phil and then he, and then over and over. Soon, the big Irish man was desperate to cum. He was being driven crazy by the constant closeness, always approaching the golden moment when she would begin edging him away and begin to show renewed interest in Phil instead. He lay back, knees bent, gasping for air, and watching as both Phil and Charlotte Rose to their knees and fucked right beside him, the ageing ace entering her from behind and holding her by the tits as he slid into her with his powerful rhythm. John stared desperately at the pornography of this, her beautiful body stretched upright from knees to head, quivering and yelping at the thrusts from behind. Charlotte’s face slid down and her eyes met his, and she grinned hungrily. `You come fuck me too,’ she whispered. `Both at once.’ For a moment Egan just dismissed it as the dirty talk of the moment — people didn’t really do shit like that, did they? Could you really fit two in at once…? But she was giggling and grinning and rubbing at her clit even as she was fucked. And over her shoulder, carefully pulling her hair back, Phil met his eyes two, his mouth a big dopey leer of drunken happiness. `Come on,’ he said, `DP time, bud. You can do it.’ DP? What did that even stand for? Up he got, albeit shakily, his cock so hard it actually hurt. Knee after knee, he moved into position, ready to sandwich her, eyes fixed on Phil’s rather than hers, bringing himself close to her. She was between them and lifted slightly so that Jagielka could fuck her with his magnificent talent, the base of his cock and the bulging bollocks below visible between her legs. John could see her lips opening for him and he couldn’t quite imagine his own thick tool joining it in there, but… dizzy and so close to cumming, he pushed the head of his cock there — as much against Phil’s prick as against the wet opening of her — and cuddled in, reaching for her body but finding his arms really in contact with Phil’s, the soft masculine hair of their arms tickling and brushing, and his hands finding the clammy muscular sides of the other centre-back’s upper body. Between them, Charlotte whined and gulped, and to John’s shock, he felt her open for him, her loose pussy accepting double the girth into her. Bloody hell! He pressed in, the tallest of the three bodies, able as a result to look quite over her crown and be eye-to-eye with 5ft11 Jagielka, staring at one another as both of their cocks curved and buried inside the stretched vagina. No powerful thrusting now, just a careful mutual grinding of their bodies, Charlotte rising and falling gently with their muscular help, two dicks inside her. John could feel it — not just the tightness of her stretched entrance about them, but the companion. Cock to cock. Both upright in her, rubbing and squishing together in these awkward bouncing motions. He let out a little gurgle of almost dismay as he failed to hold onto it: his creamy explosion of semen inside her, but not just in her, against another cock, he thought, unable to quite cope with the notion. He winced and groaned and closed his eyes, holding her — holding HIM — holding both of them. Charlotte was almost screaming, kissing at the base of his neck and the top of his pecs. Phil, he could hear, was gasping and muttering and — ah, such relief as their cocks parted and left her stretched cunt — wanking himself against her back and buttocks until his pitchy cry indicated he was painting her rear in his own fertile juices. John collapsed immediately backwards, his body parting from hers and his arms spreading loosely at his sides. His head hit the pillows. His eyes rolled to the ceiling. His cock throbbed, aching somewhat from the uncomfortable feat of being shoved inside her alongside another manhood; his balls ached and tingled between his legs, and little clawed scratch-marks all over his lofty body pinged with sensuality as he lay there on the verge of drunken sleep, feeling the slippery warmth of others’ limbs over his and beside him. He closed his eyes, finding it quite impossible to look seriously at her or him, the sound of their kisses filling his ears like echoes from a distant fantasy, and he let the whiskey-flavoured mists of sleep claim him. Wilson bit back the noises that wanted to emerge. Bit so deeply on his lip that he thought he might taste blood. He shot his load, spilling it messily at the insides of his Adidas shorts, a real generous sloppy bollock-load of spunk, slipping against the nylon and — he guessed — against Fraser’s tight warm fist on his throbbing cock. He lay very still, more or less on his back, straining against the convulsions that wanted to cross his broad manly shoulders and judder down his striker’s legs, all thick brown muscle. He opened his lips and sucked in the cool air then let out a long new gasp. He tried to stretch out his aching arms, but whilst the right one curled out long and shaky, the left came brushing against Ryan’s chest, tickling at the hairy patch in the centre, bringing a vivid reminder of how he’d just creamed his shorts. The strong pull of another man’s hand. He shifted his elbow away from Ry’s skin and continued to lie there, silent but for the heavy breaths. Ryan’s were as heavy as his, alarmingly close by. Neither of them said a word, just long shaky breaths in the darkness. Callum shook his legs against the mattress to release a little tension, and then tried to shift his sweaty buttocks right to move a little bit further from him, to give him space to stretch and relax… `You want me to go?’ came the gruff Aberdeenshire accent beside him. Callum looked to the left a little, turning his head, still inching his own bulky form away to the right a little to create space, unfolding and relaxing his arm in the gap between them. He tried to make out Ryan’s expression in the darkness but his features were too obscured in shadow. His voice sounded… what, hopeful? Shy? Difficult to say. `I can get back into my own bed now,’ the Scottish footballer whispered hoarsely. Somewhere in that space between them must be his arm too, the one that had reached under the covers and did what it did. `No,’ Callum said very hesitantly. `It’s okay.’ `Huh. Right.’ `Yup.’ They both lay there, Callum choosing to stare up at the ceiling rather than at the bedding around him or the man inches away, the shapes of their bodies and legs so obvious through the rumpled layers of bedding, their feet forming little foothill peaks at the far end of the hotel bed. He listened to the sound of Ryan’s breaths become more shallow, slow, relaxed; he felt the mutual body heat marinade them beneath the covers, and the cool sticky cum in his shorts drying. And in that state, he eventually fell asleep on a night of disappointment and confusion. A bleary and pained glance at his watch told him it was still very early. The bed around him was empty, though. Just his own huge form stretched out, partly under the covers, and partly exposed. A long furry leg exposed from sock to crotch, and the sheets ending somewhere just below his nipples. He let out a series of delicate yawns, feeling queasy and uncomfortable, and confused by the solitude he found himself in: the last thing he could remember was the sweaty tangle of three bodies, that gorgeous woman sandwiched between the thick muscular torsos of Sheffield’s two strongest defenders. In a slowly rising panic, the Ireland international climbed out of the bed, naked but for socks, and slowly completed he jigsaw puzzle of finding his discarded jeans, his crumpled sweatshirt and the internal knot of his vest. He pulled it all on in slow, sighing motions, not quite steady on his feet in here. For a moment he opened a curtain but felt blinded by the white snow outside on the garden, and shut it again. Gingerly, he opened the door and crept over the landing onto the stairs, drawn downstairs by quiet music and echoing snatches of conversation. For a moment, Egan found himself once again in the spacious entrance hall, wondering if he was actually going to be sick on the hardwood floors, and then he moved through one of the arched doorways into the rear of the house, hot and itchy beneath last night’s clothing as he padded from foot to foot. He stared grimly at the wholesome sight in front of him: Charlotte’s gorgeous figure hugged tight in activewear as she contorted comfortably into a string of yoga poses in front of a huge television set. A large ominous flask of blended green juice sat beside her on the floor as she twisted from downward dog into god-knows-what. At the side of this open plan area of the house, large serving hatch windows connected it to the kitchen, from which meaty and greasy smells were richly emerging. John took a few shaky steps into the room then looked that way: Phil Jagielka greeted him, standing at one of these boxy internal windows, seeming to enjoying the view of his girlfriend’s yoga routine. The legendary guy was dressed in a silky dressing gown, casually open across the chest, and he had a frying pan in one hand and a caffetiere in the other. `Aha, sleeping beauty awakes,’ he said jovially, baggy-eyed and a little worse-for-wear looking at least. The Irish beauty on the yoga mat looked painfully fresh. Egan stared searchingly at his robed host, who was smiling welcomingly his way. `Morning, you dirty fucker,’ the ace defender told him. `How do you like your eggs?’

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