premiership-lads-80

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

Subject: Premiership Lads part 80: ’96 Part eighty: `96 Outside the big bay windows, the afternoon was cool and damp, a frustrating disappointment after a rare spell of almost Mediterranean sunshine in the North East. Even as he surveyed it, he was aware of the light sunkissed tan on his forearms, cheeks, the red bridge of his nose, the warm glow of his near-bald shaved head. The 49-year-old local and national hero rocked on his heels and looked out onto the almost misty view of his neatly manicured gardens, then backed away from the windows with a little whistle of frustration. It had been an odd Easter weekend, but not an unpleasant one. Alan Shearer felt so incredibly privileged to be housed safely in his Gosforth mansion with his wife and grown-up children, though the weeks of lockdown were beginning to inject a dose of frustration for the quietly sociable ex-footballer. Today’s work, rather than the helpful distraction he might have expected, had actually made things worse: a group interview with a few other `old-timers’ reflecting on Euro 96, the one that got away. It had been a good laugh chatting it through with Wrighty, Pearce and Southgate for a BBC football podcast he was contributing to in lieu of his more regular punditry. A good laugh, definitely, he had enjoyed taking part � but both the trip down memory lane and the camaraderie with the other ex-pros had tickled a yearning to be out in the normal world, or even better, to be 20 years younger and in a previously normal world! Shearer dug his hands into the pockets of his loose cords and walked through the downstairs of the spacious house, sprawling but homely, the same big house he’d bought back then in 1996 when he was finally returning to play for Newcastle after stamping his name at Southampton and Blackburn and, of course, on the national squad. His wife was out doing the food shopping, it was her turn; the four of them almost squabbled over this weekly expedition, even with its risks. Ever protective and chivalrous, Alan would take the risk on himself every single time with pleasure, but he understood his wife and daughter’s need for the tiny glimmer of normality it brought, the fleeting escape. His son was less interested, but even he would perk up at the chance to be the one in that socially distanced queue. Right now, the `children’ (as he couldn’t help but still think of them now) were upstairs somewhere, he could hear music playing and a loud group video chat going on in another room. Alone, the ageing Geordie pottered back and forth between the big long lounge, the country-style kitchen and the reception hall, almost willing his dear wife to show up. He listened out for the growl of a Land Rover or the crunch of gravel, but he was being ridiculous: she’d barely left twenty minutes or go, she’d be ages. He’d wanted to drive her, but he’d had his own online appointment with the lads to get the reminiscent podcast recorded. Eventually, Shearer strolled back to his `study’ of sorts where he’d done the recording with them. It was once the garage for this 1950s attempt at luxury, but had long since been converted into what his wife called `the man cave’, especially since there was a large detached garage purpose-built for the family’s swelling car collection at one end of the gardens. Instead, this boxy room beneath the extension was a sort of office, home gym and trophy room combined. He stepped back into it and flicked a light switch, and smiled fondly at the career memorabilia that was on show almost everywhere you looked. Someone who didn’t know the humble Newcastle lad might see it as vain or showy, but nobody else really entered this room; the symbols of past success were on display for Alan’s benefit only, and he’d auctioned off much of the more impressive stuff for charity over the years anyway. The charity work was what he missed most now, more than the commentary or interviews at the studio! The laptop and stuff was still set up at the desk where he’d been in the online meeting with the other gents and the producer for their interview. He laughed to himself at a string of in-jokes that had passed between the middle-aged League icons and shook his head, trying to dismiss the weird sense of almost maudlin nostalgia that had come over him since he ended the video call and drifted off to make a cuppa. Letting the door back into the main house fall shut, the 49-year-old drifted over the stuff, fumbling at a few minor trophies and plaques, lifting and smiling at one or two framed photographs, and then sitting himself down on one of the few dusty weights machines he didn’t visit as often as he really ought to these days. He rested against the worn leather and metal of its frame and looked up at the wall, on which hung a square frame of dark wood and, behind a glossy pane of faux glass, stretched his Euro 96 England shirt, name and number vivid after all these years. He smiled fondly at it. Regret and bitterness had faded a long time ago (a main topic of the chat he had recorded with the guys) and the near miss was just a gem of ambitious adventure in his long career. They had been such a great bunch, that squad, so many of them were still close friends and golf buddies into his late 40s. 1996, what a year. He’d excelled at Rovers and signed his big contract to join his boyhood team at St James Park, and began 10 years hometown glory on that team. The lack of big victories for NUFC was another defeat that had melted into fond memory over time. What did it matter, really? He fucking loved that club with everything he had, that was why he got so passionate and angry and ecstatic whenever he had to talk about them. For a moment, he thought about that freezing cold night earlier in the year, that unfortunate, ahem, incident with the little blue pill! He laughed hoarsely and rubbed a hand across the silvery stubble of his beard, shaking his head to think of himself in the commentary box at Oxford Town � he was always excited when it came to the Toon, but that bloody Viagra he’d tried had left him rock hard and sweating his nipples off. For a brief second, he thought with shame about how he’d had to try and relieve himself in the stadium toilets like some ridiculous horny teenager… Try? Boy had he tried, and he would have been dry-tugging that chemically enhanced boner into agony if bloody Andy Carroll hadn’t nipped in and suggested… Well. Less said about THAT the better. To distract himself from that peculiar memory, which was only a few months ago but felt like a snapshot from another life now, he pushed idly at the handles of the weight machine, easing into a few pushing exercises on a low setting, no thought of a real workout. He was sitting in a smart-casual plaid shirt and cords, for a start, and he could do with saving that energy for later on; as odd and silly as that Oxford memory was, he was also remembering his energetic performance once reunited with his wife at the spa hotel. That drug was daft nonsense but it had led to an intense night of fucking for the Shearers, hadn’t it? Well, perhaps tonight could be a night like that, he concluded, channelling some of his nostalgic frustration into that decision. He might be too old for the sport he loved, hah, but he was NOT too old to show that beautiful woman a magical fucking time in their bed, pill or no pill. Shearer got up from the weights machine, letting the bars clang back into place, and he stepped up to the framed shirt on the wall, hands falling to his hips. He stared at the creased white gleam of the old England shirt and its no.9. He had been the top scorer in that tournament, a fact which glowed in his private vanity. But as he stared up a the pinned jersey and pictured himself striding onto a pitch wearing it, it wasn’t actually the famed Euro contest that came drifting back through the mists of time, 24 years ago in his absolute prime. No… Shearer scratched his chin and smiled fondly and found his mind turn to another game, a seemingly minor one: Moldova, September of that year, so soon after the galling penalties defeat to Germany and the crashing exit from the Euros. Back then, the loss had smarted freshly and intensely, and the England team that travelled to Moldova for a World Cup qualifier was one in a very different mood. Moldova were no threat, but there was an air of embarrassed caution to the England squad on the flight, and throughout the experience; sure, they’d smashed the opposition 3-0 and proceeded on their way to the 1998 World Cup, but… Why has he thinking of THAT game? So many great moments in the Euro campaign, even before the games had kicked off. A period where football had really taken over this host country, it had genuinely felt like every fucking person in the nation was right behind them, right beside them. Absolute glory days, Alan thought with a tight smile, and yet… His mind slipped again to Moldova. An odd trip, that. He’d got a goal, been integral to the performance, but… It had been a strange one, hadn’t it? Twenty-four years ago, fucking hell; on the short flight across Europe, Shearer’s thoughts had been more focused on the new excitement of his move to Newcastle, and the Premiership campaign he was waging there. Still, it had been great banter with the other lads, a sort of lads’ holiday reunion at points, full of in-jokes and flashbacks to the Euro battles, though the Germany semi-final and the penalty shootout was tactfully avoided by all, from the second they had departed Heathrow to the moment their return flight touched down. The ghost of that near miss hung amongst the England team like a 12th player. On the flight, he’d laughed cheerily along and enjoyed the banter, but from a safe and reserved distance. He was captain then, and he’d taken his duty seriously, often mocked by the others as pompous and officious… but affectionately mocked, he knew. He’d smiled reservedly on listening to his Geordie pal Gazza regale the boys with some ridiculous summer tales of his drunken antics; Neville and Pearce had been just as bad then, come to think of it, reformed characters now! And coarsest of the lot, Seaman and Ince had been trying it on with the all-female cabin crew for the entire three hours they were in the air! Shearer had smiled on but held back, seated next to a couple of young new additions to the squad and only a few rows behind the boss, Hoddle. Next to him was a scruffy-haired youngster with a nervous pout on his face, and at some point in the rambling group conversation, Shearer turned and gave him a gentle elbow prod. `Don’t listen to those dickheads,’ he told this 21-year-old newcomer beside him, `life on the England team ain’t as crazy as they are making it sound!’ He rolled his eyes and gave a twinkling, reassuring smile to the oddly anxious lad, who just glanced at him and said nothing. `They exaggerate everything,’ Shearer told him firmly in his heavy Geordie accent, heavier then, and patted his arm for a moment before turning back to laugh at some ridiculous comment from Gary Pallister on the other side of the aisle, tuning back into the laddish discourse. It turned out Shearer was to be roomed with this same skinny newbie that night, which seemed fair enough. He often got paired with Paul Gascoigne by dint of their almost foreign northernness, and a break from that wild card was strangely welcome. Plus, taking the newbies under his wing was clearly an important part of being England captain, and no role held more pride and importance for Alan at any point in his career. All the same, he kept to his closer pals on the squad as they unloaded their junk in the grounds of the ropey 90s hotel in Eastern Europe, which looked more like a flimsy TV set than a real complex of accommodation. Partly, Shearer was enjoying the shreds of Euro excitement that glittered between those who had been there, and partly he wanted the younger new kids to mix and bond; they were the future of this great national team, after all. Shearer was only 26 then, and halfway through his eight-year run with England, but he still saw himself as part of the `old guard’, graduates of a near-triumphant era who would soon step aside for the next batch of hopefuls. Euro 96 had made them heroes, but it had made them wary and cynical too. Dinner was subdued; Glen Hoddle’s team talk was oddly mersin escort dispiriting and gloomy. Warnings about the risks of complacency and the need for furious ambition felt harsh and jarring, and the fair-minded captain sat listening in surprise. He was a little disappointed in the tone of the message, but he was loyally careful not to show it on his handsome face, gentle nods and serious eyes throughout the talk. He mulled it over while they ate and tried to see the wisdom in this approach. On the way out of the hotel’s restaurant, though, he spotted his plane neighbour and new roommate, and caught him with a hand to the shoulder. `Don’t let any of that guff get to you,’ he said quietly to the lad, steering him down the corridor. `That was NOT the usual pep talk for an England game!’ A jumpy shrug from the kid, who forced a smile. `I guess he’s right, though. We need to put our best into every game, no matter who it’s against.’ Alan was immediately endeared by this attitude. `Good way of thinking, kid,’ he grunted softly. `I can see we’re gonna get on.’ He patted him on the back of his blue and green shell-suit top and let him wander ahead. There was an hour or two of downtime allowed before curfew, and he knew his discreet mission was to keep a few of the more, ahem, eccentric team members a safe distance from the bar, for tonight at least. By the time Shearer made it up to their hotel room, the other young player was already there. Alan had been held up by a quick conflab with the manager, and by the difficulty of prising Paul away from `just one pint before bed’. He sighed out his frustrations at the task as he unlocked the door and made his way into the room, pushing it firmly shut behind him and nodding his head in greeting across the room. `Alreet,’ he announced himself mildly. `Yeh, hi,’ answered the kid. He had a bit of a dweebish voice, really, but so did a lot of southerners. Alan pulled the heavy grey sweatshirt up and off, surprised at the warmth of the suite, and tossed it onto what he assumed was his bed, since his roomie was quietly unpacking a few things by the other one, still with that same deep expression of nervous anticipation on his face. He sat himself down on the bed for a moment, stretching his chest and shoulders in the tight fitting white tshirt he’d been wearing underneath, and then flexing his sturdy legs in their loose Kappa trackies, then edging one then the other trainer off his feet without undoing his laces. `That’s better,’ the 26-year-old grumbled like a much older man, and sprawled back on the cheap, uncomfortable bed and folded his arms beneath his head as cushion. It had felt a long day, longer for him having to travel from Newcastle to London first thing. `You okay?’ `Oh, me? Yeah, grand � just a bit knackered.’ `Huh, yeh. Long journey for you.’ `Aye. It was.’ He gave what he felt was a strong reassuring smile. `But I’m looking forward to tomorrow. You must be too.’ A quick grin flashing across the acned face of the youngster, pausing in the middle of emptying out a toilet bag onto his duvet. `Uh, yeh, just a bit,’ he laughed in that same slightly high-pitched teenage-sounding voice. He had to brush the curtains of dirty blond hair aside to make eye contact with his captain. `This has been my dream for… well… forever.’ `And every other English lad’s,’ Alan said with a nod. `Still � this ain’t so new to you. You’ve played for the under 21s and that, aye?’ He tried to sound encouraging rather than patronising, though he saw the flicker of self-doubt in the kid’s hazel eyes at the question. `I have,’ he said in his accent, squeaky Essex or East London. `But… not the same, really, is it?’ Nervous chuckle, scratch of spotty chin, fingers running through hair greasy with Brylcream. Shearer shrugged. He knew this was true, but this kid seemed seriously on edge. He propped himself up a bit from the bed, considered his new teammate across the room, and smiled with grave seriousness. `It’s a big deal playing for your country at any level, kid,’ he said warmly. `You’ve done well to score goals for England already, you have earned your place here on this trip.’ He got up from the bed and crossed the short distance between them to a lay hand on the lad’s shoulder. `Stop doubtin’ yourself. The boss wanted you here for this game.’ This young Premiership hopeful, who Alan admittedly hadn’t heard of about a year ago, nodded and looked away bashfully, as if close eye contact with the England captain was still a bit beyond him. There was definitely something of the schoolboy about this gangly southern youth, and Shearer allowed a cynical moment of doubt: was he really half as promising as he’d been hearing all year…? Did Manchester United really know what they were doing this one…? `Thanks,’ the 5ft11 blond said shyly. `Means a lot, er, coming from… you know. A legend like you.’ Shearer just huffed a little laugh. `Legend? Makes me sound ancient.’ `Yeh but, you are, already,’ mumbled his junior England colleague. The captain shrugged his broad shoulders and backed off. `If you insist. But try not to make me sound like such a grandpa, please. I’ve not hit 30 yet, kid. I’m gonna shower, I think. Wash off that grimy fuckin’ airport.’ He tugged up on his white sweat-stained tshirt and tossed it on top of his discarded sweater, baring the light rug of red-brown hair scattered on his chest and down his torso. His whole body felt clammy and warm, the rushed wash at 6 this morning a distant memory before driving south. The travel distances were definitely the main downside to having returned to Tyneside this year! `Oh yeh, cool,’ the younger player said, turning back to fuss over his things, folding some clothes for tomorrow morning fastidiously on the bedside table then rifling through his backpack for something; god, what a geek. This one needed to relax and learn some confidence. Shearer idly pulled at the waistband of his trackies and went to the window, looking out on the gloomy Soviet chic of the Moldovan capital. A dump. He didn’t hold out high hopes for the stadium tomorrow, it wasn’t gonna be Wembley. He pulled down on the tracksuit bottoms, shoved them down, stepped out of them, turned to lean on a dresser by the wall as he pulled them and his socks off his ankles, and saw an almost prudish squirm to his roommate. Shearer stood there in just a pair of saggy white briefs and frowned at the newbie. `You never seen a guy in his pants before?’ he asked, adding a laugh to dull the menace of his irritated question. `Sorry,’ huffed back the flustered 21-year-old, `just thinking I ought to have a shower too.’ Jesus, Alan thought, how had this shy dweeb of a lad made it from whatever smalltown corner of Essex he was from to one of the top clubs in the English football leagues? He must be fucking talented on his feet, he reflected, because he was about as socially skilled as a toaster. He gave a stern grin to the blushing lad and picked up his dropped trackies and socks, shoving them with the rest of his clothes on the foot of his bed, and heading through into their tiny shared bathroom. The England captain spared himself a moment’s vanity in the mirror, noting the rugged handsomeness of his features, the toned weight of his hairy upper body, the gentle blond curls of his receding but present hairline. Sex with the bird would be fucking great when he got back to Newcastle tomorrow night, fresh from an England win; she always went mad for him when he’d been representing the country, and any brief distance did wonders for the burning passion between them. He yanked down and dropped the worn briefs, then reached in to fiddle with the shower controls, getting it running and optimistically shoving the temperature dial in the hope it would heat up and gather some power. He tugged the slightly discoloured curtain back into place, glanced about the empty shelving around the sink and mirror, and frowned at the low-quality dive they were being housed in tonight; zero free toiletries? Casually naked, he strutted back out of the tiny bathroom to fetch his supplies from the side-pocket of his small case, and then remembered how shy and awkward his young roomie was; the floppy-haired blond was sat on his bed facing this way, a brick of a newfangled mobile phone pressed to his ear, his high-pitched voice breaking off in the middle of conversation (`Er yeh mum, it’s going really well here, I’m rooming with Alan bloody Shearer, and-`) and staring in obvious alarm at the moment’s nudity. Alan suppressed a judgemental laugh, lurched towards his bed, dick swinging between his thickly furred thighs, and reached down to his bag to find the little bottles of shampoo and shower gel. `Don’t mind me,’ he grunted ironically, backing off and disappearing back into the bathroom with a roll of his eyes. The blush on that youth’s spotty cheeks! Didn’t they do communal showers at Manchester fucking United? He realised that the shyness and awkwardness of the other player had made him flustered and unsettled in himself, for some reason; the prudish reactions of his roommate made him feel as he was some weird exhibitionist, rather than just an ordinary blokey bloke! He laughed this idea off in the shower, disappointed by the lukewarm piss-spray but still glad to clean off the day’s travels as best as he could. He took his time, focusing not just on getting scrubbed clean, but on settling his thoughts and relaxing. Tomorrow he needed to be calm and well-rested, ready to lead these blokes into a supremely winnable battle. This was no time for reckless error. When he exited the bathroom, steam still rising from his smooth shoulders and matting his chest hair, there was something very contrived and deliberate in the way the other guy, hunched over his bed inspecting some sort of little paper diary, failed to look up or acknowledge him. This was as depressing in its way as the shyness or embarrassment and Shearer sighed sympathetically as he took damp footsteps to his bed, marvelling at the unworldly youth he’d ended up with here, this alleged prodigy who seemed to have fallen into top-flight football and adult company. `Shower’s free,’ he announced unnecessarily, pushing the blond lad to look up from his pocket journal and flash him a shifty smile. `Thanks.’ `Knock yourself out, man.’ Alan turned round before untying the pale pink towel about his waste, loosening it to pull up and dry his tummy and chest, consciously exposing the smooth curve of his broad white behind as he did; no doubt the mawkish youngster was blushing beetroot and turning awkwardly away as if this was the most bizarre thing to ever happen to do adult sportsmen sharing a hotel room. Alan buried his face in the rough fabric of the towel, grunted at its lack of comfort, then pushed it down to give his bits a padding down. Behind him was the rustle of clothing, and then he glanced to the right just as the kid was making his way to the bathroom, his colourful Nike tracksuit shed. He was almost the same height as Alan, really, only an inch in it, but a lot slimmer; his gangly but toned body hadn’t filled out yet as Alan’s had in his 20s, though he was quite broad-shouldered and athletic. He was a bit of a pretty boy beneath those flopping curtains of blond hair, bright eyes and pouting lips, some sorta catalogue model of a footballer, Jesus Christ. The two of them stood there for a minute, Alan holding the crumpled towel in front of his crotch for practicality rather than modesty, and this young slip of a bloke paused in his black boxer shorts, hugging a folded towel to his perfectly boyband smooth chest, eyeing him cautiously. `For fuck’s sake, you need to relax,’ Shearer grunted at him, roughly but not unkindly. `You’re all jitters, David.’ The 21-year-old Manchester United starlet just gave him an apologetic nod. `It’s just such a big deal for me,’ he confessed in a rush of emotion. `Tomorrow. Sorry, sir.’ `Don’t sir me!’ the hardy Geordie snapped impatiently, annoyed by the invisible hierarchy rather than the formality of this likeable youth. `Skipper if you must but Al will do!’ He puffed out a sigh of frustration and swung the towel over his shoulder, again exposing himself without a care for any modern sensibilities. Young lads these days were so fucking precious about escort mersin what was totally normal to the outgoing generation of players! `Sorry, Al,’ David repeated with a nervous titter. `I mean… Shit. I’m being such a spaz.’ `It’s okay, Beckham,’ he sighed at him. `It’s okay. Have your shower. We can chat after. Everything is gonna be fine � you’ve won your place in tomorrow’s game, and you’ll prove everything when you need to. Get yourself cleaned up and try to relax, eh?’ He shot him that strong smile of confidence that he hoped and believed was reassuring and helpful, and the blushing new kid disappeared into the bathroom, leaving Shearer to roll his eyes and dap at his wet limbs. Had David Beckham ever been that kid? In his converted garage, the older Alan Shearer smiled with fond amusement and paused with his back to the framed England kit. What an odd memory to revisit now, 24 years later! Odder still… he could feel the excitement in the front of his corduroy pants. It was as if he’d taken one of those blue fucking pills again, which he most certainly hadn’t, not after the embarrassment and discomfort at Oxford that night in the Cup! No way. He didn’t need them really anyway, he’d just been very tired and stressed at that point; Alan Shearer did NOT need that help in the bedroom. He stood there and let a hand drift idly to the curving bulge in the front of his trousers, and his eyes found the door back into the house. God, why the fuck not? He was a man still in his prime (hah!) and he had needs. He couldn’t wait until tonight. He stepped his way quietly across the thin carpet of this converted space, and gently twisted the lock in place with a little click. He remained there by the door for a moment, questioning his almost teenaged behaviour. Was he really going to wank one off in here on his own? It had been a while. But the need was on him, with an urgency that he couldn’t remember for a good few years now. He let go of the door handle and backed away, glancing momentarily at the computer set-up on the desk. Porn? Nah, unnecessary. Men of his generation didn’t need THAT help, either. No. Instead, he moved back to the weights machine, slid his backside onto the leathery seat, and rested his back against the frame, then rested his right hand back on the bulging front of his pants, slowly undoing the buttoned fly and staring back up to the wall, to the Euro 96 shirt, his mind wandering back… back to a different version of himself, more virile and powerful, never more so than when sporting those `three lions’ and leading his country into play… Outside, darkness had fully covered the city, and it looked even more bleak. Shearer twitched the slightly grubby curtain then pulled it back into place, and turned back into the room, lit only by the flickering glow of the TV screen and a single reading lamp between the two beds. Young David was crouched on his bed with the covers over his folded legs, a remote in his hands and his eyes fixed on the screen; a crime drama of some sort in a local language Alan couldn’t name was ticking towards its conclusion, and there was no way young Becks was actually following it. Al stood there for a moment in just the baggy old cotton shorts he used for PJs on tour and scratched his chest hair thoughtfully. The young lad seemed to realise he was being watched, glanced his way again. Shearer smiled sympathetically. `You’re still tense,’ he said quietly. Beckham nodded a little, his still damp locks falling back into his eyes a little. Gentle fingers pulled them back, slicking his hair away from his face. His grin was nervous and apologetic; the more nervous he became, the more he apologised, and the more he apologised, the more nervous he seemed. Alan let out a friendly laugh and loped back to his bed, tugging aside the thin sheets. `You need to relax or you won’t sleep a wink,’ he said, perhaps unhelpfully, wrestling with the poor quality pillows and anticipating one of the least comfortable sleeps of recent years. `You’re so confident,’ David said, watching him. `So sure. How do you…?’ Shearer huffed at this, pleased by the compliment but unable to explain a thing. He kicked his hairy legs under the covers and tried to get comfortable. He knew the narrative sequence here, he was meant to say he’d felt the same five years ago when he was David’s age, and first nudging into the national team; but that wasn’t sure. A strong belief in his own abilities had been with Shearer for as long as he could remember, and looking at his southern pretty boy hunched in the next bed, he was pretty sure he had come from more humble origins than this newcomer. `I think they call it imposter syndrome,’ he said eventually. `You’re worried you don’t belong here on this trip. But… have you seen some of those messes of humans that were on the flight out here?’ A hoarse, laddish laugh. `You’re going to be great, David. Trust me.’ `Maybe,’ Beckham mumbled. Alan lay his head back, and thought about reaching for the lamp, but he felt more was expected of him. And he was certainly not going to get to sleep knowing this fresh-faced hopeful was grinding his teeth in the next bed and playing through a dozen disastrous scenarios about his England debut. He sighed a bit wistfully, wishing he had a drunk and snoring Gazza to share with like he had most nights during the Euros in early summer; captain duty was great until you really had to do it. `You need to do something that relaxes you,’ he said, his hand wavering halfway to the off switch on the lamp. `Something to turn your mind off.’ Beckham, this supposed golden-footed kid from United, was looking cluelessly at him from where he hunched in the centre of his bed, behind a scrappy fringe of dark blond locks. `Like what?’ he asked dumbly in that boyish voice. Alan scoffed and spoke with dismissive humour. `I don’t know, like have a fuckin’ wank, man,’ he told him. `Whatever gets you off to sleep at night!’ `But we can’t,’ David whispered at him. He’d turned the TV off, there was only this one pale lamp now. The shadows it cast made the handsome youngster look a little less awkward and shy, though it did accentuate his model-like looks, which Shearer found vaguely irritating and challenging. `Legend’, he quoted in his head, thinking about the way this kid only 5 years his junior had looked at him. In footballing terms, `legend’ was only a couple of steps from `has been’. `We can’t,’ repeated Beckham, `there’s a sex ban on nights before games, that’s what the boss says at United, and we can’t even-` `For fuck’s sake,’ the Geordie grunted at him from his bed, `does Alex Ferguson come round and check every bloody bedroom for it…? If a quick wee wank will sort you out, just bloody do it, lad. We both need our sleep.’ A moment’s quiet, then, `But you won’t mind?’ `Why would I give a shit?!’ His finger rested near the lamp switch and he regretted the harshness of his tone. `Look, I don’t care, you do what you need to do,’ he rephrased in a lower tone, seeing the naively bewildered expression on that attractive young face. `It’s an easy relaxer, ain’t it? Simple way to… Switch off.’ `Is that what you do?’ David asked him uncertainly. `When you need to…?’ Alan almost groaned at the constant question-and-answer, but he remembered his earlier determination to be the good role model and the comforting support to these clueless newbies. `Yes,’ he said firmly, `when I need to. We all have our needs! But…’ As he said it, he thought about his own chances of a good sleep: thin mattress, scratchy bedding, awkward roommate. He could do with the narcotic effects a good tug himself, couldn’t he? He pushed a hand under the sheets and inside the front of his baggy shorts. `I’ll be having one too if it makes you any less self-conscious for god’s sake,’ he said in a weary voice that he hoped sounded helpful but FINAL. He pushed the switch, turned off the lamp, lay back. `Right, thanks, Al.’ `Nee worries, kiddo.’ Alan’s eyes adjusted to the dark; actually, it wasn’t even that dark. Lurid neon somewhere close by their windows burnt through thin curtains and filled the room with an almost eerie orange-red glow rather than real darkness. In it, he could make out the stiff figure of the guy in the other bed, doing exactly the same as him: reaching under the sheets, finding himself, stroking the outline of his clean lazy prick, tickling at the edge of his pubes and feeling the slow rush of blood. Shearer rarely masturbated, because his wife was just so horny these days, and he did tend to try and keep his appetite for her alone when he was away; still, does any guy ever find a hand that can more quickly and easily bring their own meat to attention? He held the heavy thickness of his tool as it rose and found himself glancing over David’s way. `You okay there?’ he asked, in spite of himself. `I guess, yeh. I’m too… tense.’ `Too tense to… wank? Now I have heard it all.’ `You must think I’m such a jack-ass.’ `No,’ Shearer said quietly, `I think you’re on the verge of a really big moment. That’s all.’ `Plus,’ murmured that tentative voice, `it’s kinda weird doing it with you in the room. Hah.’ Shearer scoffed. `Oh forget that. Don’t worry about me, son. I’ve got my hands full over here.’ `Hah, I bet you do!’ Awkward silence from over there. `I mean � I didn’t look at it before, I just �` Alan cringed on his behalf and shook his head into the pillow. `Shut up, lad. Relax.’ He pulled back on his big prick and sighed aloud a little, trying to ignore the uncomfortable presence a few feet away. `You’re what, 21? You must still have mad hormones to get you going. Just chill out and wank away. I am.’ As if to prove it to himself, he squeezed at the base of his cock and sighed into the dull red shadows again. No sound other than the rustle of these thin starched sheets and a raggedy frustrated sorta sigh from Becks now. `Still not a goer?’ `Hmmph. No. I feel so daft. It’s just…’ `Ah, nee worries. David, kid, just � just come sit here a minute, will ya?’ He heard the sharp intake of breath and the tremble in the question: `Sorry, Al?’ `Sit on the edge of the bed and I’ll give you a hand.’ `You’ll er… You’ll give me a hand…?’ `Come sit here a minute and I’ll give your neck a massage,’ grunted Shearer, dancing around the misunderstanding he knew he had caused there with his hasty leap in strategy and clumsy instruction. He let go of his raging boner, abandoning what would have been a deeply satisfying wank, and sat upright, pulling the sheets about his hairy legs and patting the side of the bed. `I’m told I give a good backrub, that’s all. Come here.’ Beckham slid out of his bed into the narrow gap between them, long novelty Batman print pyjama boys adding to the sense of his idiotic youth and the generational rift between them. But faithful to the hope of his captain’s experience and wisdom, over he came, plonking himself down on the edge of Alan’s bed, bare back and shoulders to him, head hanging a little. Alan leaned over and pressed a warm hand to the soft smooth skin, smelling the freshness of the young bloke’s toiletries mingling with his own. The stiffness of his own cock, rubbing against shorts and bedsheets, made him laugh softly at the stupidity of his plan; why hadn’t he suggested this first before bringing up the idea of a wank?! Maybe subconsciously he’d needed one himself more than he knew! He lay both hands expertly about the base of David’s long neck and pressed his thumbs in. NOW the kid moaned, in a pleasured way his own fumbling jerks hadn’t provoked. And of course, immediately, Beckham was apologising for his own moans. Shearer just laughed it off, pressed deeper, and spread his touch along the thin strong muscle of those young shoulders. The presence of his own weighty hard-on pressed against his concentration as much as it did the layers of fabric, and he eased off the pressure, reluctant to go longer in this oddly intimate gesture. In front of and beside him, David let out a long cool sigh. `That is nice,’ he commented, still awkwardly, but a little more lightly. `Aye, I know,’ joked Shearer brazenly, one last squeeze to the top of the spine. `Can I get on with my tommy tank now then, haha?’ He regretted the quip, as it made Beckham’s body jolt away and another mersin escort bayan apology slur from his lips, but then… scuttling aside on the bed and reaching to push himself up to his feet, one of David’s hand planted down away from his side, and sank into the tangle of sheets over Alan’s crotch, right down until it was resting on the stiff rod of his arousal. Both men let out a sudden `oh’ of surprise. Shearer’s hand was still resting on Beckham’s neck as he tried to shift his body, surprised by the weight and grip resting for a moment on his cock, but this just tangled the men more, so that the younger guy leant into him as he tried to move away, their shoulders and upper arms brushing together, warm and soft and freshly showered. David’s hand tugged clumsily away and his face, red-lit in filtered neon, stared in wide-eyed dismayed apology. `Sir,’ he panted. `Relax, it’s okay, it was an accident,’ Alan grunted at him self-consciously. Well now the poor youth player was more tense and awkward than before! He kept his hand at his neck, pushed his fingers and thumb into the smooth lightly tanned flesh, and with his other hand, reached under the covers to rearrange his awkward erection, as if that would make it go away. In the end, he found himself sat there with one hand on David’s shoulders, and the other stroking his hard-on with the same rhythm; fuck, this wasn’t right, was it? `I didn’t mean to, skipper…’ `Fuckin’ hell, I know you didn’t, man…’ `My hand just � slipped � and…’ `Aye, I know, I don’t think you want to…’ `God no, I’d never want to…’ `Good…!’ `Not `cos of you I mean, just `cos I’m not � like that � or…’ `Well,’ Sheared huffed, marvelling at the social ineptitude of this United young gun, `that makes fuckin’ two of us, pal, cos I ain’t…’ He trailed into uncomfortable laughter, squeezed at the lad’s far shoulder, and gave up on the massage. This was becoming ridiculous. His other hand stayed where it was on his prick, and he let his chest rise and fall with a sigh. He just needed to sort out this boner now, that was all, then he could sleep. He began to sink back, but his hand was still on David’s shoulder (Deliberately? Accidentally?) so that as he did, he pulled the other guy back in the same reclining posture. Both men were stretching back down against the bed, sideways, their legs hanging off the edge, the sheets coiled beneath and around them. This was weird, but there was a youthful urgency to Alan’s excitement, a desperation to touch and tease his sensitive erection; how had he not realised how sexually frustrated he’d been all day? Had it been all that daft banter on the flight, hearing what the unmarried or unfaithful lads had been up to in the summer break…? That’s when it happened: the OTHER hand was back on his nob. Maybe it was an accident again. That was sorta possible. This was an odd position and it was a bit dark and neither guy really knew how they’d ended up on their backs sorta nestled together like some hugging couple. Maybe David’s hand slipped by accident into the space of his crotch, feeling his dick through two layers, bedsheet and shorts. Maybe he didn’t mean to take hold of the fat outline and pull ever so tenderly on it so his smooth elbow and bicep tickled against Alan’s curling body hair with electric tingles. It had been a long time since anyone but the love of his life held that prick in their hand, regardless of a sheath of fabric getting the way. Shearer lay there, trying to relax his muscles into the uncomfortable mattress, shifting his left arm a bit beneath the weight of David’s tense shoulder, allowing his hand to reach round and rest on his chest a bit just below the collarbone. `Ohhh,’ he groaned aloud, and… well… could it really still be considered an accident, then, when he’d let out that breathy approval, and still the hand played on? Shearer was a calm guy in awkward moments, that was his blessing and his curse. So he didn’t rush to react. Didn’t throw Beckham away. Didn’t overly question what was happening. A hand was on his nob, his nob was really hard and aching, his nob felt pretty good right now. No, the real problem was that… well, he was very fair-minded. There seemed only one fair response to this. Without much consideration, his arm reach further, his hand crept down the flat, gentle abs of this smooth young body, and onto the front of those ridiculous novelty PJs. `Jesus,’ he swore, when he found his roomie’s prick through the polyester, with no chance of calling it an accident. `That is… quite something…’ `Er, thanks…’ Did it really feel so huge just cos he couldn’t see what he was holding? Was it actually thicker and longer than his own? On this skinny shy dweeb? Alan had always rested quite secure in the assumption he was well-endowed, luckier than most blokes in that department. This thing, mind, was… something else. He squeezed it awkwardly, unfamiliar with the shape and sensation of a different cock against his palm or rubbing thumb, even through clothing. The hand on his own throbbing erection tightened its grip. Both of their bodies seemed to seize up where they lay. `Skipper,’ came the nervous whisper, inevitable and needy. `Aye?’ he muttered back, ambiguous and defensive. `Should we… stop?’ Alan could barely breathe the words. `Not… yet… just… a minute… more…’ He slid his hand back and forward over the the warmth of those pyjama bottoms � he felt the tension of disappointment or hesitation as his hand slid away, rested for a moment somewhere on David’s smooth tummy, but then he took hold of it again, through the black and yellow printed fabric. It wasn’t weird if you weren’t really touching it, surely. Neither bloke was ACTUALLY touching the other, not REALLY… The excuse was as thin and insubstantial as the material separating his cupped palm from the shocking girth of David Beckham’s young member. `This is okay, isn’t it?’ Beckham’s voice was reedy and tremulous. `Aye,’ was all Shearer grunted back at him. `Shush.’ In 2020, his trousers and boxer shorts somewhere about his calves, the old Geordie veteran tugged furiously on his member, feeling sweat bloom on his chest and in its pits and around his tanned brow. His other arm clutched the wrack of the weights machine to support his shaking aged muscles and his knuckles whitened with the effort of this frantic self-pleasure. He tried to think about what he would to do his wife tonight, how he would initiate it, what tricks he might pull to get her in the right mood, and… But no. It was no good. Today he’d been thrust down memory lane, and a part of him was back in 1996 in that hotel room, and… They went on. Grasping and sliding hands through layered fabric, exploring each other’s lengths. Their sighs were shivering and barely audible, as repressed as their awareness of what was truly happening here between the England captain and the promising debutant. It didn’t go on long, it didn’t need to, but the seconds felt like a surreal eternity. Though he’d been slower to get excited, too nervous, it was young Becks who came first. Alan pulled his hand away when he felt the jolt of energy and the sudden dampness through the thin black cotton. He hugged his chest instead and allowed the pace to quicken on the odd, muffled handjob straining at his privates. When he shot his load, it was into the baggy fabric of his shorts, sticky and warm against his pants and seeping through to the bedding and, perhaps, David’s prying fingers. They slid apart almost instantly, blinking and mumbling fragments of sentences. `You’re more relaxed now,’ Shearer told him. `Much more,’ Beckham told him, not looking. `Great… great… well, must get sleep…’ `Yeah, so bloody tired skipper, really sleepy, yeh…’ Separate beds. Sheets pulled about them, facing away from each other. Alan stared blankly at the undecorated wall of the hotel room, and oddly, fell almost immediately to sleep. There was a moment where he began to stupidly question what the fuck had happened, but he let it go; what was the point in asking himself questions? It had happened, that was all. Give in to tiredness, keep yourself calm and relaxed, just forget it… In the morning, not a word was said. There were humble, bashful apologies from Becks about his awkwardness and his nerves, but Shearer was benevolent and helpful in his dismissal and reassurance. They avoided each other’s eyes, topless in their stumbling morning routines around the suddenly cramped-seeming hotel room. Alan paused and looked over his shoulder to watch David dress after his quick shower, thinking again that this pipsqueak would look more at home in Take That or Boyzone than on the fucking pitch. And a few minutes later, in the middle of drying his hair and having a shave in the bathroom, he saw Beckham eyeing him up too, lingering by the half-open door; David thought he was staring discreetly, perhaps, but Alan saw his worried young face reflected in the mirror just as he slid the razor over his plump chin. When their eyes met, for a second only, David darted away and back in to the room to finish getting himself organised. They went to breakfast and joined the others, and that was that. England won 3-0 and Shearer scored the triumphant third goal. Beckham played well, but made little impact. Shearer watched the gangly 21-year-old leaving the pitch after 90 minutes, and mentally dismissed him; an interesting young figure, but too awkward and hesitant. He’d never really make it. He made sure that he didn’t have to sit next to him on the flight back to Heathrow that evening, stuck himself between the assistant manager and a PR bloke instead, rather than endure a neurotic post-match analysis or worse, awkward silence. What an odd kid. A few years later, that odd kid was married to a Spice Girl and one of the most charismatic footballing figures in the entire world. The rest, as they say, was history. Shearer never admitted to anyone his first impressions of Golden Balls, other than his wife. The story of their Moldovan experience that he told her was, of course, heavily edited. A PG version, to say the least. `Ohhh,’ the 49-year-old Geordie sighed, as his cum spilled on the carpet beneath his socked feet, and he pushed his back muscles into the supportive frame of the weight machine. `Oh yes,’ he murmured to himself, as if thanking his hand as a precious lover who had just brought him to that beautiful solitary orgasm. He let his palm and fingers linger about his shaft, teasing out the last glob of his still virile seed, and then opened his eyes to stare at the Euro 96 kit once more. It took him a while, in the fuzzy rush of ejaculation, to separate out his thoughts. Why the hell had that little flashback come to him as he played? He hadn’t thought about that night more than once or twice in 24 fucking years. Nothing but a silly moment of over-excitement in a strange environment, an encounter that had barely registered with him by the end of that week, never mind that World Cup campaign. He got up from the weights machine and cast about for a tissue, smearing one against his cock and wiping away his own mess, then glancing down at the dirty little stains he’d left on the carpet. He rubbed his toes at them to try and blend it in to the marled colouring of the carpet, then scrunched up the tissue and dropped it into a bin. He shoved his cock and balls into his briefs and did up the buttons of his cords, and flexed and relaxed the fingers and thumb of his right hand a few times, a little overcome with the speed and unconscious desperation of his sudden little wank in here, all alone and hidden like a randy teen. What the fuck? He glanced again at the kit from ’96, and rapidly moved on to a simple resolution: why the hell did he still have that sentimental garment up there anyway? A thing like that could be auctioned for a fair bit of money right now, right? Yeah, get it on the internet, sell it off to some mad rich fan, do something good with it! Stop hoarding the memories, stop reliving the glory… and forget all about that silly one-off night in Moldova with David Beckham. He cracked his knuckles and started logging on to the computer, desperate to set up the auction before he could rethink his decision. He needed rid of that shirt. He needed rid of that memory. *THANKS FOR READING…! 80 CHAPTERS IN, I WANTED TO TRY SOMETHING (OR SOMEONE!) A BIT DIFFERENT AND NEW, A BIT SPECIAL, SO LET ME KNOW WHAT YOU THOUGHT. WHO ELSE WOULD YOU LIKE TO CATCH UP WITH IN LOCKDOWN OR FLASHBACK…?*

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