Subject: Premiership Lads Part 266 Part 266: Match Fit Wembley was baking in England’s hottest day of the year, and the Three Lions were growling and pouncing through their first game of the Euro tournament; bleached young Phil Foden had made his plucky strike and hit the crossbar, and now England were slumping into a dull stalemate with their Croatian visitors as the first half wore on, causing knitted brows and heat-weary huffs from their manager and all those watching in the Wembley side-lines, and up and down the nation. Behind the manager and his personnel sat a row of match substitutes, and then behind them were a scattering of peripheral figures in the running of the national team, and the small handful of called players who could not be selected for today’s match; ostensibly due to rules about numbers, but also because they were still easing themselves back from injury. Jordan Henderson sat stiffly in the thin tracksuit that still felt far too heavy for the weather, his arms folded across his chest and a patient neutrality on his face as he watched the young team battle eagerly against this afternoon’s sweaty opponents. The Liverpool captain was `match fit’, officially, but still he’d been left aside for now in the hope that he would be even more ready when they went on to face Scotland at the end of week one. Henderson felt no qualms about today’s snub, confident in his place in the squad and his closeness to the gaffer, but it was still frustrating to watch the lads struggle and not be able to run out and take part! The 30-year-old Sunderland man was not alone up here — fellow Premiership skipper Harry Maguire was seated a few places down the row from him, his impressive height hunched forward with his arms folded on the seat in front so he could stare almost aggressively out across the field; Jordan might have expected a bit more chat out of the other team leader, but he could tell that the Man Utd defender was more riled by exclusion and impatient to get involved. Also, Jordan had quietly noticed, he could see how much Maguire kept his frowning expression fixed on the subs bench below and the cropped golden hair of one stocky lad in the socially distanced row: Shaw. Jordan glanced repeatedly back between the two footballers, still awkward in his secret knowledge of the pair, and the post-match encounter they had once shared. Beyond Maguire, further down the row but huddled closer together in matey discussion, were younger guys: Jadon Sancho and Ben Chilwell, also victims of the limitations on Southgate’s lineup, though not for the same injury-related reasons as himself or Harry. He wasn’t entirely sure why the two bright youngsters had missed out, other than a strong roster, but he had heard whisperings about Chilwell getting into arguments with a couple of other players, and Sancho being in trouble for over-confidence. Certainly, both lads now had the look of detention-struck schoolboys, pouting and glowering in between yelling their vocal support at the pitch. Shifting uncomfortably in the heat, Jordan looked at the patchy crowds too, the celebrated return of fans to Wembley, restricted but loud. Atmosphere. He smiled a little to himself, happy to see it, and anticipating his own opportunities to play in front of this rowdy audience on Friday or next Tuesday. He was too excited and proud to mind that he wasn’t getting to kick a ball right now, feeling strangely light and relaxed here. His bladder took him away from his seat, unfolding his legs and padding to the steps down towards the tunnel mouth. He clapped a couple of young lads on the shoulder encouragingly on the way past, bumped elbows and fists with some of Southgate’s entourage, and then disappeared around the corner. Into the shade, out of the blazing June sun, hurrying his step a little so that he was not absent for too long. Jordan dared to hope for the disappointment of missing a goal, returning out here into the heat and finding that England were 1 up over their visitors. Idly, he speculated on which player was most likely to snag that opening goal, and found his way to the unisex loo that was nearest to this broad entrance. He pissed and washed his hands and found his hurry fading, glad of the indoor cool, the little draught that ran through the bowels of the stadium. Perhaps you’d be playing today, a guilty little voice in the back of his head pointed out as he glanced at his reflection in the bathroom mirror, if you’d been a bit more cautious last week, eh? After all, he’d returned to full training with Liverpool before the season closed, but then not been quite fit enough to play in England’s first friendly, merely a sub in the second; he hadn’t exactly been able to remind Southgate or anyone else just what a calm, authoritative presence he offered to a team of egos and ambition like this. Still, it had been worth it… After a little too much of a pause, Henderson backed through the door and into the broad empty tunnel, a rectangle of glaring sunshine marking its gateway onto the sides of the pitch. It made him blink a bit, patting his half-dried palms together. He was just about to lope back into that light when he heard the faint scuff of footsteps and then, much more clearly, his own nickname hollered down the echoing space towards him — `Oi, Hendo!’ He had to squint for a moment, dazed by the outer sunshine, but the face that marched towards him became rapidly clear, even in a sports-branded face mask and a big pair of designer sunglasses; he’d recognise the stocky frame and swaggering walk, the bearded silhouette and carefully parted hair anywhere. Jordan just blinked in happy surprise and opened his arms as his best mate and former teammate bowled into him with a short tight hug. `Oi,’ repeated Adam Lallana, `I was hoping I’d catch you down here, now they’ve finally let me through!’ Jordan laughed and greeted him, patting at his back and arm and returning the hug with some force, surprised and excited to be reunited with Ads; he’d known that his old wingman was here watching the game with family, but not actually expected to see him properly himself. `This is great,’ he said earnestly, delighted. `If only you were on the squad with us, it’s gonna be one hell of a tournament.’ `Sure is,’ Lallana agreed readily. `Why the hell aren’t you out there taking a lead, eh?’ Henderson laughed humbly at this. `I need to give some of the others a chance, don’t I mate…?’ The men, who had barely seen each other since the Brighton transfer took Lallana to the South Coast, spoke in a quick rush of manly affection. Obviously, there had been numerous calls and video meet-ups, alone and with their families, but it was still excited to be stood together like this in a football stadium, and Jordan actually found himself quite distracted from the England game going on only a dozen metres from their current spot. `So great to see you, La,’ he beamed. `Sure,’ Adam agreed lightly, `but it was really just an excuse to be down here and get a closer peek of the action, y’knoiw?’ He winked playfully, having slid off his dark shades and tugged the mask down over his handsomely bearded chin. `Your family?’ Jordan questioned. `Up there enjoying themselves. But of course I had to slip away and see my Hendo, even for a quickie.’ He grinned like a Cheshire cat. `I couldn’t wait til next month and the big group holiday, mate.’ He punched him lightly in the arm and then grabbed both shoulders. `Look at ya! Glad to see you fit and healthy mate, hated to think of you in physio and rehab for as long as you were, fucking terrible. And let’s not talk about how that team got on without ya, eh?’ Jordan ducked the topic of Liverpool’s lacklustre year, folding his arms again and looking back out into the panel of sun, the rapid action of both teams a glimmering fragment framed by shadows. He wasn’t sure if it was kosher to wander back that way and take Lallana with him — rules were so strict for the tournament, with all of their `bubbles’ and such; no wonder it had been tough for the Brighton player to get down here and actually see him. He zoned back in, listening as Adam chatted excitedly about his young teammate Ben White, a new addition to the England line-up, and Jordan spoke positively about what he’d seen of him at St George’s so far. Swells and dips in crowd noise told them that the game was still quite low-key and goalless out there. `Am I keeping you from it?’ Adam asked. `Oh, no — no, it’s good to talk,’ Jordan said, even as he looked over his shoulder. `I just had to get down here and give you a hug,’ Adam said, rubbing his arm briefly. `Sure,’ Henderson agreed gladly. `I just should probably show my face, you know — it’s all about the PR at the minute with this team, you wouldn’t believe the amount of media stuff and…’ `I know, I know.’ Adam grinned brightly up at him, shorter and well-built, still touching his upper arm, but letting the hand drop. Jordan smiled fondly at the guy, reminded of just how much they had shared in their long Liverpool seasons… his recent 10-year anniversary at Anfield had only emphasised that to him, since so many of the important memories included Ads at the heart of them. This thought swung at him just as he felt fingertips move past his elbow and down his side, and then inwards… the big matey grin still blazed on Lallana’s features, and he winked one dark eye before letting his half-curled fist snake dangerously in and graze the crotch of the loose England trackies, sending a shudder of stimulation up Jordan’s body. `Buddy…’ They were only yards from the outside, where dozens of people and dozens of cameras were all facing the other way, intent on ENG mersin escort v. CRO. Jordan took in a sharp breath, feeling Adam’s knuckles dance very gently against where his own fat cock draped beneath the layers of his boxer shorts and tracksuit bottoms, the most teasing but imperative of touches. Adam’s dark eyes twinkled and his cheeks dimpled about his big smile. `I just had to see ya,’ he repeated in a low growl, `because it’s been too fucking long, hasn’t it?’ `Too fucking long,’ barked the heavy Scottish growl of Robbo, slumped on a bench at the side of the pitch, leaning half of his weight against the hunched muscular bulk of the Ox; Jordan briefly started at the physical closeness of the pair, knowing what he did about what the two Liverpool stars privately got up to, but then he chided himself and realised that it was par for the course with the tactile laddish behaviour of footballers at a summery training session like this. For Hendo, his first such session in quite some time — back at last on the Liverpool training ground with his men, coming to the end of his long injury absence that had curtailed the 20-21 season for him. The main team still had two matches or so to go, but the 30-year-old Mackem had no expectations of making the cut for those games; at this point, he knew he was just lucky to be in strong contention for the England squad in the impending European tournament. Andy Robertson was making more generalised outbursts of gladness to see him on the pitch, and Alex Oxlade-Chamberlain next to him was joining in. Henderson gave them the same firm smile and little salute that he kept giving everyone else, striding on past them down the side of the training pitch; he bumped fists with several other players, enjoying the atmosphere and just a little reluctant to take up too much attention as the returning captain. He’d visited the training site many times during the past couple of months, but it was very different being here in full training kit and not walking gingerly about to protect himself. The Premiership skipper did a little pacing lap of the scattered gathering, looking about for their head coach and wondering when they training would get going. But he didn’t think too hard or worriedly about this. His eyes quickly fell on the most striking sight in that sunkissed May afternoon: the tall lean youngster who was stretching his long limbs and warming up next to a couple of other junior squad members. Next to Rhys Williams, slouching and on his phone, and Curtis Jones, both hands stuffed yobbishly inside the front of his trackies, Neco Williams looked stately and severe, standing very alert and patient as he elongated and flexed each leg, each arm. His young face serious and dark beneath the neat curls of his hair, his handsome face finally glancing this way and connecting with Jordan’s eyes across the assembly. Henderson stared at the Welsh lad and fantasised about what he might do if he got him alone after today’s training, the things he would do for him. Of course, it wasn’t as if this was the first time the pair had seen each other today. Neco was still lodging with the Hendersons, no questions asked by anyone about why he wasn’t moving back into his city apartment instead; Jordan had crept into the downstairs guest room this morning as he often did, lingering kisses in the bed with the young man beneath the sheets and pyjama-clad Jordan just lolling on top of them, close but not really touching each other where they wanted to. Breaking reluctantly apart to go through and eat wholesome ascetic breakfasts before travelling together to the training ground and parting to hang out with their different cliques of players, their different generations. But when Hendo did seek Neco out at the end of the day’s work — sliding up to him in a quiet corridor inside the training complex and giving him a gently suggestive grin — it turned out that the 20-year-old had made plans. `Just meeting some pals for a drink,’ the Wrexham guy mumbled self-consciously in front of him, fiddling with the collar of his shirt. `You don’t mind, do you?’ `What?’ Hendo laughed, just a bit too forcefully. `You don’t have to check in with me, mate. That’s cool. Who are you seeing? Where are you going?’ He stopped himself, scratched his stubble, shrugged. `Do you need a lift anywhere or are you…?’ `I’m good, thanks,’ he was told quietly but firmly, a little smile fleeting across Neco’s serious face. Jordan just grinned at him, patting him affectionately on the side, and left him to go on into the dressing rooms and get himself showered off, full of bluster and casual good humour at being brushed off by his secret lover. It was the same carefully constructed nonchalance he had presented only the night before, when he cornered Neco in the garden after a few evening drinks, whispering suggestions that their longed-for fun could start early, the night before his training comeback. `After all, I’ve been declared match fit,’ the 30-year-old football hero had grunted discreetly, his hand sliding to Neco’s lower back in the deep shadows of the suburban garden, one of his eyes trained on the kitchen windows to check his wife wasn’t looking back out at them. `But we should both be well-rested. Don’t you think? Erm.’ He’d smiled patiently at his lodger, nodded his head in agreement, and patted him once just above the swell of his rear. He’d murmured his agreement, reflecting that actually his first day back in training would be very draining and he would need a good long sleep that night to be ready for it. Of course Neco was right, they should be cautious and sensible. He was just getting carried away! So on the eve of his return to first team prep, Henderson went to bed quietly frustrated, his cock stiff in his pyjama bottoms, and his appetite reluctant to turn back to the conventional enjoyment of his beloved wife. Just as now, showering alone in a corner of the communal block, he was trying his best to quell a yearning in his low-hanging balls, a little saddened that Williams was hurrying off to socialise rather than plotting to grasp some alone time for the two of them, now that he was back to peak physical fitness, his rehabilitation completed and signed off by team doctors. They both of them knew the promise that had been made on the Welsh clifftops after Neco’s birthday lunch, that day when they had skived off and escaped together in the bright April daytime… they both knew what had been eagerly uttered up on those grasses, lost in the throes of lust and affection. Jordan knew what he had been earnestly promised, what had been awaiting him in the final weeks of his recovery to match fitness. Drenched beneath the hot cascade of his shower, Hendo huffed worriedly to himself and soaped up his pecs, trying to delay the inevitable thought: Neco had just changed his mind, and they would not consummate their affair in full. It was a worry that became more solid over the next few days and then the next couple of weeks. Jordan did not show a scrap of it in his idle interactions with Neco, simply keeping up his older brother act of supportive and encouraging input — he praised his efforts at training while they were back at the house, exalting him in front of his wife, and restricted their conversations as much as possible once at the football club; and in private, in stolen moments, he would snog the 20-year-old in his guest bedroom or in passing outside the bathroom. Twice he gave him brief, tender oral sex in the home gym, swallowing Neco’s salty juices and dabbing him clean with a sweat towel that hung by the door — and neither time did he even hint at the normal reciprocation he might have expected from his handsome lad. Jordan rationalised it ceaselessly. It made sense in so many ways. Apart from anything, what the hell were the two of them playing at? It was ridiculous. He was married! He was a dad! He was the lad’s captain! The whole thing was entirely stupid. And besides… Neco was beautiful, intensely so. Even if the lad was really into guys, why the hell would he want to waste his time with a boring old fuck like me, Jordan asked himself. It was perfectly natural that the once steamy connection between the two guys should have fizzled out by now, for so many reasons; the long period of inaction due to his own injury and surgery had only exaggerated the natural decline in their taboo lust! By the time they were arriving at the car park for Liverpool’s final training day of the season, less than two weeks after Henderson’s first day back onsite, he found himself steering their light chat in a gloomily unavoidable direction. `Had you any thoughts about where you’ll be living next season?’ he asked, gently tangential to what the pair of them had been saying, and asked with a casual tone that belied its weight between them in the front of the BMW. He looked away, out of the window and across the car park, rather than stopping to really register Neco’s response to that. `Er, no. I have to admit. Not at all.’ He could hear the stiff surprise in the lad’s voice. He looked at him, but saw only a distant thoughtfulness in his expression — maybe even a touch of relief? `I was hoping not to sort anything out until after the Euros, though…?’ `Of course, whatever,’ Jordan found himself saying brusquely and then, before he could put down the shovel and stop digging, he added, `No point letting it drag on though. You must be sick of sharing with us and the kids. So if you did want to sort anything out before we both head off to training camps, then…’ He stopped, hating the sound of his own voice. He thought he saw brief flashes of panic in Neco’s wide eyes, escort mersin a little awkward tilt to his lips. `I mean, whatever is good for you,’ the captain quickly added. `We really don’t mind if you stay on over the summer, obviously. Neither of us will be there hardly in June, I guess. Euros and all.’ There was an awkward silence then, until one by one they unlocked the car doors and stepped out onto the tarmac, drifting uncomfortably in the direction of the buildings. Several times during that day’s light training work, the last session before the team disbanded for summer holidays, Jordan sought out his young lover’s eyes or presence, but Neco seemed to artfully avoid him, to never look this way or be stood on his own for a moment too long. And so the awkward words from the car park marinated and magnified, and Jordan felt the sinking certainty in the pit of his stomach: the steamy affair was over. Now it was the end of May, a week on from that ham-fisted end to things, and Jordan was standing in his bedroom, neatly folding things into a small suitcase in a subdued mood; he was half-listening to the commentary of his wife, who was in and out of the suite, tidying up a few things and fretting about the friend’s baby shower she was about to set off for. He kept missing the point of her speech though, his mind straying idly over the plans for the coming weeks — his journey to the North East tomorrow morning to join the other Lions and get stuck in for a couple of friendlies before the tournament began at Wembley. He was trying to muster up some more excitement for the international duty that lay ahead, perhaps his last, and avoid the vague sense that he’d rather just stay here and mope in the heatwave for the whole summer recess. The group chats with his fellow England lads were kicking off with excited exchanges, the fairly young and experienced squad all ablaze with energy for what was to come; Jordan felt dully apathetic to it at the moment, had felt that way about a lot of things in the past fortnight. He stared disinterestedly at his own clothes being packed carefully into the small case, aware that once he set off tomorrow he would largely be kitted out in official new England gear, and part of that tight bubble for the duration of their time battling Europe — right up until the middle of July, if things went well, and they made that historic final at Wembley Stadium. Huh. Even that prospect, he realised, of standing proud with his national team in a tournament finale on home turf, left him cold. He was clipped lightly on the back of head for not listening properly, and then sweetened with a soft kiss on the cheek. Goodbye from Mrs H. Sheepishly, he followed her through the big quiet house and downstairs into the hallway, making bland affirmations about how good she looked and how perfect her outfit was; seeing her out of the door and into the sunny evening, waving her off as she got in the taxi and headed over to the next Cheshire suburb. Hendo shut the door after her and backed away. Halfway across the broad double-height hallway of their home, he looked in through the door of the downstairs bedroom, staring at the blank beige canvas of impersonal décor — it was as carefully and tastefully furnished as any other room his wife had got her hands on, but it now looked empty and bizarre without the scattered possessions of a teenage footballer in it. Neco had barely unpacked in his time here, but even the boxes of his things left ghostly rifts in the look of the room. Jordan lingered there at the door, then slammed it shut in a little burst of dissatisfaction. He stomped upstairs and finished his packing, fussing over what personal items it was worth taking with him on tomorrow’s trip. He wouldn’t be gone for too long this time, but he would be back only briefly before the next journey, south to Surrey and the proper basecamp for Euros operations. From then on, he might not be home properly for a while. Fingers crossed, he thought without feeling, again picturing that potential Wembley final. Later, he helped himself to a beer and then another beer, taking the lack of messages from Mrs H to confirm that she was indeed having a great time at the baby shower. Alone, he quit the house to lounge in a seat on the rear terrace, watching the last light fade over the trees at the bottom of their garden; he knocked some music quietly on his phone and hummed tunelessly to it, downing Peroni after Peroni and running in his head through the potential squad line-up that Southgate was calling on, and how strong he felt against his various midfield competition for those games. When another figure appeared on the terrace close to him, he let out an uncharacteristic yelp and hopped out of the lounger in a clumsy arc, spilling beer down his white polo shirt and onto his loose blue shorts, almost tripping over himself. Stood facing him with an awkward and gormless expression on his face, Neco just jangled a little keychain in one hand and then cleared his throat. `Sorry. I did ring the bell. But I just let myself in when nobody answered. I came to give you back this. Erm.’ The 20-year-old stood there dangling it in front of him, stood in a close-fitting black shirt and some skinny denim shorts. He looked particularly tanned and Mediterranean tonight. `Neco,’ breathed the skipper. `Is nobody else in?’ He steadied himself, dabbed at the beer stains, then emptied the rest of the bottle between his dry lips. He stared moodily at the surprising visitor hovering by the French windows. `She’s out,’ he answered guardedly. `The kids are asleep.’ Long pause. `I didn’t hear the doorbell.’ Neco said a lame `Sorry’ then approached him close enough to drop the keys into his palm. Jordan held them painfully tight in his fist and squared up to the younger man, nodding his head once slowly. `Thanks.’ Another long pause. It went on. Both men stared at each other and said nothing and, in the background, the Weeknd played quietly on, sleazy R while he did, he let his cock slap and rub against those cool cheeks, then slid it between them a few times, letting its leaking tip rub against the moistness his own finger had left in the crack. He thought about what he had seen and heard from Robbo and the Ox, what he’d once tried on Neco to encourage him, but was too scared to try again; he just couldn’t bring himself to do it, it was too naughty. So he spat heavily into his fingers and shoved them in Neco’s arse, rubbing two damp fingers on the hole with that same rough urgency. He should have taken longer, really — worked the hole more, got more lubrication in there, readied his beloved lad more for what was to come. But… too much time had passed in anticipation of this, dragged out by his own physical state and then by the silent stalemate. So he acted in a rush of neediness. He held his hands hard just above Neco’s hips and guided his cock in there, pressing it against the virgin hole. When Neco began to groan more loudly he had to lift one hand and clamp it over his mouth, conscious that they were not entirely alone. `Sorry,’ he begged in his ear, `we just have to…’ The Welsh boy nodded fiercely, accepted this, did his best to be quiet. Hendo held him dearly, whispered love into his ear, kissed his neck, soothing him even as he pushed himself painfully in there, breaking into him for the first time, the much coveted first time. A promise fulfilled. `Yes,’ trembled the younger player’s voice, `oh yes, captain…’ `Oh, oh, ohhhh…’ Inside him, deeper inside him, feeling that tightness clamp around his swollen cock. Once he had thrust his meat as deeply as he could, he just stayed still like that, gripping him and rubbing his lips against his earlobe. For a long moment, no more words or moans, just a beautiful silence. And then he began to slowly shift his lower body, bringing his weapon back and then pushing forward with slight force; back, then forward again, and again, and… with low rumbling sounds of pleasure, he began to fuck his lad, making the headboard creak and rattle a little, making Neco whimper and gasp and force him to cover his mouth yet again, even though his own growls of pleasure were actually the louder of them both. `Is this okay?’ Hendo whispered eventually, becoming more conscious of how this might feel for his partner. `Too much, or…?’ `It’s… it feels… ohhhh, god…’ The sighing exclamations were everything to him. With a brief amnesia about the risks of noise, he twisted their strong bodies and threw them into a new position, Neco crashing down across the exposed mattress and he lying almost flat on top, cock still buried to the hilt; he ground into him against the bedding, fucking him flatly across the bed in clumsy motions, then held him tightly and pulled them both up and onto their knees. He gripped and squeezed the leaner body, finding a quicker and harder rhythm with his hips and arse muscles. Now he REALLY had to hold Neco’s mouth, trapping the screams of delight and pain, hammering his hole in this mutual kneeling position. `Yes,’ Hendo growled, `yes, yes, YES…’ And he pulled back, retreating his cock, dragging Neco around and shoving him back down with that same force again, the strength of a dominant captain. He grabbed and lifted those long hairy legs and ploughed his cock back into him in a new missionary position, briefly but beautifully, fucking him more like his wife, with love and a full-face snog. And then he was pulling out again, kneeling up, and letting his cum explode from the head of his dick, a shower of thick splashes right up the tanned torso of the Welsh right-back. The groaning relief of Jordan’s orgasm mersin escort bayan twisted and transformed somehow into a yelp of pain, and suddenly he was stretching forward, pushing one arm out against the bed to hold him steady, and reaching the other down to near his groin. Neco stared at him, wide-eyed, mouth open. `Jord? Hendo? You ok?’ Henderson rolled aside, his cock still dribbling cum, and he held the scar in his side. `Fuck,’ he hissed. `I think… mm… I think I went a bit hard…’ He grimaced and held himself carefully still, feeling the odd little pains that hadn’t surfaced in weeks now, not since midway through his rehab. He let out a long sigh, trying to control and subdue the pain, or at least trying to limit how obvious it was to Neco. After several long moments of this, he turned and stared at him, the beautiful curly-headed Welsh lad lying at his side, staring concernedly this way. `What can I do?’ pleaded the young player very quietly. `Just cum for me,’ his captain growled at him. Jordan reached down between them and seized his cock in one hand, ignoring his own pain and lifting onto his side. He maintained fierce eye contact and wanked on him, feeling some of his own cum there as lube. Neco stared back, clearly surprised at his recovery and intentness; little jabs of pain continued to threaten Jordan as he wanked on, but he just growled and kissed at his lover and pulled on his cock until he had spunk all over his hand, his wrist, his tummy. And then they kissed, long and burning, their midriffs sticky with love. And the next day, dazed and relieved, Henderson travelled to Teesside and the England friendlies, and found himself withdrawing from play for the first of the two games, confiding in Southgate that he’d had a brief relapse in his injury — `These things happen,’ the manager said forgivingly, with no idea how Henderson had gone and strained his groin this time, fucking his lad — and risking his place in the Euros squad with only a brief run in the 2nd friendly. It was fine, he still had himself called up to the Three Lions team and secured his place in the big tourney… but it was a risk he gladly took, glad above all that he’d parted with Neco in such hot passion, rolling about that unmade bed and kissing cum off each other’s six-packs, fingering that raw hole he’d broken open, making them both hard again and shooting more on each other, even as the pain in his side and his groin got worse and worse. Jordan felt the knuckles push even more firmly against his soft warm cock, nudging into him, the thumb separating and tracing his own phallic outline; his body tensed, and his heart skipped a beat, his breath rushing out in an awkward sigh after being held for a moment too long. And just like that, he was nudging one hand very squarely into the hard muscle of Adam’s chest, shoving him an inch backwards and pulling himself away. He cleared his throat loudly as he did. Still, Lallana gave him that wide, dimpled smirk, hand reaching out gently to close the small gap between where they stood — but caught and held at the wrist by Jordan’s firm, tanned paw as it did. `No,’ the Liverpool captain said very firmly in the thick accent of Wearside. `No, mate.’ `Huh!’ was Adam’s sighing response to that, not tearing his beady gaze away. `No?’ `No,’ Hendo repeated very firmly. `It’s… We can’t be doing that, pal. Go back to your wife, your kids.’ A long, frustrated sigh from the 5ft8 footballer, a sound of great disappointment, but one that did not mar the handsome friendliness in his eyes or smile. He held up both palms flatly and took a little step further away, shrugging muscular shoulders beneath his retro England shirt. `Fair play, fair play. Just a thought, just… just jokin’, big man.’ Jordan shrugged too, shaking himself. `We need to leave that,’ he said firmly. `It was just… goodbye.’ `Right, right. Sure. We’re both married fellas, eh? Sorry. No harm meant to your lady wife, Hendo.’ `Yeah,’ Jordan grunted awkwardly back, having not thought of her at all in the moment of indecision before shoving his best mate away. It riled him more for her to be brought into it, this felt so separate from his marriage and his love for her — it was not THAT love and loyalty that he was snatching possessively at when he pushed his buddy away from him and exercised total self-control. He had thought briefly of he and Adam, hungover and experimental in a guest bed; but much more so, he had thought of his Welsh prince. `I’ll, erm — well, I’ll leave you to it then.’ There was a touch of sulky hurt pride and exposed embarrassment in Adam’s voice there, a little shake in his friendly confidence, but it didn’t show in his face or his body language. He backed away, flexing his arms and adjusting his mask and sunglasses. `I just thought I’d say hi while we were both in Wembley, eh? But I’ll see you on holiday next month, it’ll be a great break for all the family — yeah?’ Jordan stared after him, nodding quietly. `It IS good to see you,’ he barked firmly after a lengthy pause, Adam taking long backward steps away from him. `It really is, Adam.’ The thick dark brows lifted in a little expression of amusement. `No need to be so formal, captain.’ He did a little mock salute before turning on his heel. `I’ll see you by a pool after you’ve brought football home, you daft git. See ya.’ And off he trotted, strolling up the tunnel and its shadows, leaving Jordan alone on the edge of the sunshine, his cock still stirring a little in his boxer shorts at the surprising contact and interest of the momentary reunion. Henderson took a deep breath, happy with himself: temptation resisted. He thought of Neco, busy with his Welsh teammates preparing for their own fierce group matches and longed greedily for him. After such a long period of easy closeness, this distance was harder than he could have imagined, but it was something to be boldly endured. They both had their international duty to do, and Jordan wanted his young lad to relish all the excitement of his first Euros. He had held back from contacting him too much, wanting to leave him to bond with his countrymen, wanting him to make the most of his breakthrough — the life-changing fuck between them before they parted for the Euros still burned fresh in his memory, but he didn’t want to put too much pressure on his young stud. It could wait until they were just Liverpool teammates again. Four days and nights later, and the lack of contact from his captain was really starting to bug Neco Williams. He was sat in the window of another hotel room, the fourth of the tournament so far, roomed with another young Welshman and still riding the furious joy of last night, when Wales had smashed a 2-0 victory over Turkey in their second game of the tournament. The men were back home outside Cardiff after the trip to Baku, the whole experience something of a whirlwind for inexperienced players like Williams and his roomie, David Brooks. He knew that Hendo was busy with the Three Lions, but still… contact between them had been affectionate but terse, and though not given to paranoia, Neco was just longing to hear that Mackem voice, that Wearside growl in his ear again. Every night of the tournament so far he had found a quiet moment locked in a toilet cubicle and wanked himself silly remembering the loss of his virginity on the guest bed — sometimes slipping himself a nervous finger and realising just how far he’d gone out of devotion to his captain. And now, tonight, was Hendo’s 31st birthday. The older man would be spending it on a coach into London from the England camp in Surrey, he knew, travelling right now to whatever hotel they were using close to Wembley Stadium, bedding down ahead of their Friday night clash with the Scots. So, Neco reasoned, his Jordan would be extremely busy and under a lot of pressure. It was okay that they hadn’t spoken, all things considered. Still… he crouched by the window, straining for a scrap of breeze coming through the open pane, looking out on the hills around the Welsh capital, the music leaking from his roomie’s headphones forming a quiet tinny backdrop to his moodiness. He’d sent his barrage of birthday messages to Henderson first thing this morning and again at lunchtime, but there was no reply yet. The blue ticks told him they had been read. Williams teetered on the edge of anxiety, not wanting to read too much into the quietness he was receiving from the man who had popped his cherry. This almost-fear had made him hold back in last night’s celebrations in Azerbaijan, and now he sat staring expectantly at the phone in his hand. He was just about to climb down from the sill, just about to yank shut the curtains and prevent more buzzing insects from invading their suite, just about to cross to his side of the room and clamber into bed… when the phone on his palm buzzed gently and the screen lit up. He slid a tight thumb across the touchscreen and opened up his inbox, and there it was. A reassured smile crept onto Neco’s princely features. `Just hitting our hotel now in Wembley. Sorry — mad busy day. Thank you!’ His smile faltered. It was a bit simple. A bit generic. He felt momentarily queasy. `Miss you, kiddo.’ That was better, the second message hitting his inbox and his heart with force. `Wish I was bending you over my hotel bed tonight. Hehe. Night xx’ At that, Neco climbed away from the window, slid the phone into his pocket, glanced surreptitiously at Brooks who was nodding happily away to his music, then locked himself in the en suite bathroom. He wanked and fingered himself until he was spraying cum against the bathroom mirror, almost crying with desperation to be back in bed with Jordan Henderson. ‘Writer guy’ – Premiership Lads on Nifty fty//gay/celebrity/premiership-lads/ Amazon Wishlist here if you wanna say thanks LOL https://www.amazon.co.uk/hz/wishlist/ls/26BW3WSABBHNM?ref_=wl_share

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