23 Ağustos 2022



Subject: Premiership Lads part 117: The Wrong Harry Part 117: The Wrong Harry They’d been strolling out in bright morning sunshine to train when he first got the whiff of something strange. It was nearing the end of the second week back training in the Hotspurs fitness centre and the general mood amongst the lads was one of jovial determination, but Eric Dier seemed to go against the tide. He’d been quieter than usual and less involved in the rambling speculations about how football might progress next month; none of this had particularly occurred to Harry Winks until this bright morning, though, when he made an innocent comment about general fitness on the squad, and the sour-faced lad next to him gave a dismissive nod across the field and contradicted his remark. `Some people have been piling on the beef,’ Dier commented moodily, nodding very clearly in the direction of the team’s tall, gentlemanly striker. The 26-year-old Londoner was jogging out at the head of the assembled men, his glossy dark blond hair bouncing with each stride. Winks had looked his way with a laugh forming in his mouth, then realised how serious Dier’s expression was at his side, the pair of them jogging along with the bulk of the Spurs players, out onto the yellowed grass ready for a warm-up being barked out in harsh commands by José Mourinho. He sized up Kane, who was swinging his long arms about in dedicated mimicry of their chief coach, and figured he had perhaps been leaner in the middle of a busy season, but still… `Beef is a bit much,’ Winks chuckled quietly, brushing his elbow at Dier’s arm and dashing after him into some more open space, training his eyes on Mourinho to see what they were supposed to do. `But maybe he’s had a few snacks too many on his days off, haha, haven’t we all…?’ Grinning brightly, the 24-year-old looked Eric up and down, trying to figure out his fussy mood and strange comment. `Huh,’ Dier grunted dismissively, grabbing and dragging back his left leg to stretch up against thigh and buttock, his dark blue Spurs training kit pulling taut over his own thickly muscled body; it looked like the bloke had been lifting plenty of weights in his home gym these past months, Harry thought, and really focusing on shredding to make them even more pronounced. Well, good for him. `It’s Kane,’ Harry pointed out in a cheerful whisper, echoing Eric’s leg stretches and letting his eyes wander thoughtfully from severe-faced Mourinho and his ballet of warm-up exercises, to the heavy-set figure of their star striker nearby. Then, as if he could overhear this quiet exchange across yards of patchy dry grass and limbering footballers, the blue-eyed England ace lowered both powerful legs and trained his gaze in their direction, seeming to find them on the periphery of the distanced gaggle of men. Harry felt an illogical rush of guilt: of course Kane couldn’t hear a word they were saying, and they’d barely said a thing, and HE certainly hadn’t made any digs about the big fella coming back just a tiny bit bigger, had he?! Still, he started a little at the icy blue stare, and then started more as, balancing on one leg, Dier suddenly leaned over his way and through a shapely arm about his own lean shoulders to rest against him, letting out a conspiratorial burst of laughter in his ear. `Don’t you think he looks a bit gone-to-seed?’ Eric demanded a little cruelly. `Mind, everyone knows he’s given up on the club, huh?’ One of Eric’s big flat hands was patting for a moment at the back of Harry’s neck and then pulling away as he rebalanced and swapped between thick tanned legs to stretch out, making his navy shorts bulge and grip. Winks looked from him back to Kane but found the striker had lost interest in them, if he had ever really been looking this way; he was a little red-cheeked but invested in Mourinho’s next exercise of helicopter arms and a slow jog on the spot. As we should be, Winks thought distractedly, shrugging off Eric’s oddly tactile exercising and getting his own legs moving, relaxing his muscles into the day’s challenges. Three or four days later, though, things got a little odder for Harry, who had always maintained a comfortable and casual friendship with the rugged 26-year-old defensive midfielder, a double colleague here and on the national team. He’d never before had cause to think his behaviour a bit weird or out of line, and certainly never known him to make any trouble with lads at the club: sure, big Eric had a little bit of a temper, he’d shown that earlier this season over that family issue in the stands, but he was a real team spirit, an encouraging figure, a future captain. So Winks found it really weird when a few of them were hunched over an outdoor table enjoying a healthy mid-training lunch, and Dier began to loudly badmouth Kane — not just openly to the guys around this table, but surely aware that big Harry himself was seated only a little way away at the edge of another six-man table. Somehow, absent friends had come up: some hesitant, respectful discussion of Troy Parrott, the teenage Irish sensation who’d impressed everyone last week in training, fresh from the green grass of home and clearly determined to earn some first-team starts once matches were up and running. `He really is quality,’ Dele Alli admitted, with an earnestness of praise he never really used to anyone’s face, far too cool and detached for that. `He’s gonna go places, that one.’ Ben Davies, the Welsh defender, had made some vague but enthusiastic comment of agreement and Winks himself had spoken up with his own approval. Argentinian sensation Giovani Lo Celso had chimed in with keenly and then made a joke. `Perhaps our King Harry should be worried about a hot new striker in the ranks, haha!’ the young midfielder had barked playfully, slapping the tabletop and spearing a fork at his three-bean salad. They’d all laughed, sure they had, but Eric had really hooted, squeezed in next to Harry, between him and Davies. `Fuck yeah,’ Dier had declared, `fat Harry really SHOULD be worrying, shouldn’t he?’ There’d been an immediate chill. The guys were still kinda laughing, the Argentinian’s jokey little comment rippling through the huddle of six as they got on with their meal. Winks shot a questioning look to his left, at Eric’s broad grin and tanned cheeks, seeing a wicked smirk to his lips; he noticed Jan Vertonghen and Lucas Moura pause and look at each other in surprise too, so it wasn’t just him picking up on Dier’s odd vibes. `Good job Parrott is laid up,’ Eric had continued in the same overly loud voice, when nobody picked up the discussion, `since our one-time ace is running at about 50% speed and breaks a bone every time he tries a penalty…’ Dier broke off into a wheeze of a laugh and it seemed, for a moment, that his joke was more teasing and innocent. But Harry looked past him, at the other Harry, and saw him sit up stiffly, surely having overheard; on that table, the other guys around Kane also seemed to pause and look this way, and the laughter from the lads here was muted and odd. Lo Celsio forced a heavier chuckle, guilty of starting this, but there was question mark hanging in his voice. `Well he won’t be out for long,’ quipped Ben in a rather hasty voice, giving Eric an odd pat on the back and clearly trying to steer the conversation on, `so we’ll all be trying to up our pace when that Irish bugger is back on the turf, you know…’ And he quickly went on, moving on to question Lo Celsio about his family back on South America, while Moura started quizzing Winks himself on things at home and Moura, he saw from the corner of his eye, stared curiously over at the quiet of the other table, seeming to watch Kane for more reaction. Dier fell quiet, peer pressured out of further laughter or comment, just staring sourly at his meal. It was weird. Conversation quite quickly turned to the random fast-paced mix of professional chat, gossip about each other’s partners, showing off about expensive purchases, the dull worried speculation of the entire country about how lockdown would end. But it was if all five of them, sat around Dier for the meal, spoke in a strained and try-hard manner, dancing around an almost-conflict that nobody quite understood. When they got up from the table to stretch out and start the unconventional yoga the boss was trying out to help reduce injuries in the upcoming return to proper football, Winks kept his eyes on Dier, a little concerned. He also watched Kane, seeing the stern silence of the way he broke away from other guys and took position on the grass near the gaffer, avoiding any of the light-hearted banter that spread through the guys in this relaxed, low-effort end to their day’s work. `You were a bit harsh there, pal,’ Winks said quietly, steering his path past Dier. He wasn’t the most outspoken young lad on the Spurs team, but he had a strong sense of justice and he was a bit perturbed by this change in his slightly older pal’s attitude. Eric, sinking down into a sitting position, gave him a faintly amused look and lifted his neat brown brows with a half-smile. `Oh, it was just a bit of a laugh,’ he commented dismissively, crossing his thick legs, stretching his posture. `You know he heard you?’ Winks said a bit more firmly, getting into position a few feet away from him, studying Eric’s disinterested expression beneath the rugged cropped lines of his hair, shaved into an almost mohawk formation on his blocky head. `I guess he must have.’ `Well…’ `What’s your problem, are you in love with him or summat?’ Winks started and scowled a little at the immaturity of this. `Buddy,’ he insisted, `you need to chill out, dunno what’s got into ya.’ He looked away from Eric’s silent chuckle, weirdly offended by the jibe, puzzled by the shift in player politics. He looked ahead at the gaffer and the female yoga instructor he’d brought in, testing the pull of his abdomen and leaning a little from side to side. Just as he was trying to relax his mind and ignore the odd outburst at the lunch table, he heard another low snigger from the 26-year-old, and his voice just loud enough for him to hear. `You’re not really his type anyway, so don’t waste your time,’ Eric muttered under his breath, then laughed at himself, as if this was a really hilarious little joke. Harry ignored him and trained his eyes on the yogic instruction, ready to lose himself in gentle stretches. This played on his mind: Dier’s odd mood, Kane’s apparent detachment, the pointless little jibe of homophobia as if HE was taking an odd interest in a teammate. It didn’t stop Winks enjoying himself, as the hot days of training rolled on towards the end of a third week, preparations stepping up and the proposed re-start date of mid-June crawling closer and closer. It didn’t particularly bother him away form the Spurs training ground, at home in his newly refurbished suburban townhouse, or on days off returning to the sprawl of the family home back in Hemel Hempstead. It was only at work, at these short training days, that it would strike him again: catching sight of a sullen and distanced Dier, avoiding conversation with the other guys and, as a result, seeming to make a beeline for him with his sour mood and sarcastic little remarks. Eric was always a bit tactile, Harry supposed, but it stood out now, since he wasn’t engaging very much with the other Spurs men, and since people generally were keeping mersin escort carefully to themselves much of the time. But there came a frantic Friday of close-contact training where the burly fellow defensive player was always at him: a hard but friendly slap to the back, a grab of his shoulder, a brief but tight hug after a skilled manoeuvre between them. It only bothered Winks because he was conscious of the odd outbursts and the general downturn in the lad’s mood, but he found himself shrugging it irritably away then shooting apologetic scowls his way. The publicness of Dier’s physicality suddenly bothered him. At one point, he saw Alli looking very intently their way, perhaps alarmed or curious. Normally he and Dier were all over each other, Harry remembered faintly. Kane though barely seemed to acknowledge them, though, in fact Harry realised he hadn’t seen the slightest communication between the two tall 26-year-old players in days, maybe weeks? In the showers after that little mock-up football match, Dier’s physicality reached a new level. Harry strutted into the communal shower block, eager to rinse away the grime and sweat of a hard-fought defensive session. He hung his towel up at the wall and made his way through the steamy landscape of bare backsides and soapy chests, eyes respectfully up above the shoulders to follow the unwritten code of all gentlemen. Winks found a spot between the taller figures of Davies on one side and Kane on the other. As a younger lad making his way in the big North London team, Winks had been a bit more self-conscious about baring all and squashing up next to other athletic blokes, everything on show, but year after year of Premiership slog had broken that. He resisted the latent urge to compare size, that self-defeating psychology, and bashed life into the showerhead, drenching his lithe 5ft10 figure and reaching for the squeezy soap dispenser between he and the other Harry. He found himself looking for a moment too long at Kane’s big tanned figure beside him, simply because Dier’s daft comments had lingered on his mind. Actually, the big striker looked in good shape, 6ft2 of muscle — if he HAD been a little fuller about the waist after over two months away from the pitch, then it had rapidly burnt away, but perhaps weird moody Dier had invented it all anyway! To his embarrassment, Kane noticed him looking, and turned his head this way with a shake of his wet hair, dull blue eyes a little puzzled, the hint of a frown on his long features. Winks met his eyes, in the middle of pressing soapy hands to his smooth young chest, and he just gave the vague nod of respectful acknowledgement then looked sharply back to the wall, rubbing a lather up his faintly defined pecs and onto the broad platform of his shoulders. Fuck, he thought, he’ll think I’m a right weirdo, checking out his physique like that for a long moment! There was a flurry of movement behind them, distracting Harry from that brief moment’s paranoia, the wet slapping footsteps and echoey chat of men coming and going from the communal showers; nope, more than that — the familiar laughing boom of Dier’s voice, actually, in the middle of some joke with another bloke, and then Harry felt the intense sting of a slap strike his backside, wet and tingling for several hot seconds after. He looked back over his shoulder, seeing Kane do the same in alarm, and saw rough-bearded Dier pause beside them for a second, abandoning his conversation with whoever. `What a booty on you, Winky!’ laughed Eric with a manly sense of authority, and then, to Harry’s complete shock, his hand reached back — not to spank again, but take a firm grab of Harry’s right buttock, an audacious squeeze. He instinctively pulled away, ready to laugh at what was clearly a piss-take, but totally bewildered by Dier’s tactile antics in this crowded steamy space; anybody could see and misunderstood, though between the steam and gushing water and scrubbing down their own sculpted abs, perhaps nobody did…! Well, except Kane. Dier strolled on, finding space at the other end, and Harry spun idly on the spot, smearing shower gel down the faint lines of his under-developed six pack, still feeling the mild tingle of a slap on his butt cheek, far more freaked by the cheeky squeeze — then noticing Kane looking his way. He thought the big guy might be laughing at the daft little incident, or rolling his eyes at Dier’s sudden enjoyment of coarse humour, or even a sympathetic frown at the weirdness of the grab that he’d clearly witnessed. But no, the striker was glaring coldly over at him as if HE was the freak touching up his teammates in front of everyone. Fucking hell! Winks glared back, riled by the oddly accusing stare on Kane’s face, and now irritated by them both and whatever trivial disagreement was making them act so strangely, this past few weeks. He dragged soapy hands over his face, shutting out the echoey noise of the shower room, the intense physicality of all these glistening wet bodies at every angle. So many arses, so why did his need a slap and a grab, jesus! Somehow, the apology when it came was more intense and unnerving. It was the end of the next day, a carousel of group sessions that thankfully took Winks away from most of the defensive and midfield guys, so no working with Winks, though he had been in the gym at the same time as Kane, and noticed a couple of sharp looks via the mirror. He’d dismissed these, deciding he no longer really gave a fuck about whatever moody rifts and dynamics were going on amongst the lads around him; he just needed to focus on his A-game and remember that once the matches began, everybody would be too busy and tired for such bullshit and melodrama. He was shower-warm and feeling a tiny bit damp beneath his tshirt and jogger bottoms, on the way down the corridor from the changing rooms, jacket and backpack pulled over one shoulder — he paused at the drinks fountain, needing to fill up his metallic water bottle for the short drive home, dehydrated by the air-conditioned gym suites and the sultry heat outside on the field. He sloshed icy water into the bottle with a rattling tinny noise, then bent over to tilt his lips to the nozzle, taking a refreshing messy sip himself. Then came the sudden and unexpected pat of a hand on his arse cheek through the loose grey marl of his joggers, very gentle, but an alarming surprise. He jolted forward, knocked his forehead a little at the rim of the water fountain, then straightened up sharply, almost dropping his backpack and jacket from his curled fingers. Eric Dier was standing up close to him, a bashful grin between his scruffy golden beard, eyes soft with apology. `Hey,’ he breathed quickly, `mate, can I say a quick sorry?’ `Huh, what?’ Winks exclaimed back, balancing himself against the fountain and pulling his things back up against his chest. He stared in surprise at the other guy standing up close to him, realising how much he’d overreacted at what was really a fairly normal tap to his rear, the kind of casual gesture that any lad might share at speed on the pitch. He was daft to be trembling faintly at the suddenness or unexpected brush of it. He could see the hint of a smile at his fluster in Eric’s eyes, and he repeated his question. `What’s that, mate?’ `A sorry,’ Dier said, voice low and warm, `for yesterday, in the showers…’ Winks felt a strong urge to continue in ignorance. `What?’ he asked with false disinterest, as if he barely knew what the lad was on about. `I was just joking with Moura, got carried away,’ Dier said; it was apology, but it was brusque and dismissive, as if someone had told him he should. Winks just frowned at him, still playing bewildered and unconcerned. `I thought maybe I hurt ya, the red mark I left on your glute, haha — so I just wanted to say sorry for-` `Oh, mate,’ Winks said quickly, `leave it, it was nowt, just horseplay…!’ He let out a forced laugh, pushing the conversation away. He was suddenly keen to move, to hurry on down the corridor and away, the lingering warmth and dampness that had tickled him a moment away now making him eager to be alone and away from the busy manliness of the training ground. But Eric was taking a step closer, unnecessarily, and- he barely registered it at first, but Kane was striding down the corridor with an agitated expression on his face, about to pass them by in a long-legged hurry, hugging a kit-bag under one arm and holding a phone to his other ear, but saying nothing. `I know it was just a load of nothing,’ Dier was saying in a rapid breathy voice, `but I’d hate for there to be any unease between you and I, mate, cos you know how I value you as a player and as a guy, yeah, and-` He was speaking quickly with a hint of a smile, but Winks’ eyes followed Kane marching past and stomping on ahead down the corridor, not even a smile or a nod their way. Winks didn’t even hear the rest of Dier’s weird `apology’, but he did suddenly realise that his big warm hand was on his arm just below the elbow, cradling it with a slight stroke. He pulled to the side and waved his free hand dismissively at the other England footballer. `Buddy, I got to go,’ he said with unconvincing coolness. `I’m in a bit of a rush.’ A rush back to my empty bachelor home, he reminded himself mockingly, but giving a busy smile at Dier and backing away down the passage, half a mind to catch up with Kane and demand what the fuck was up with him. But he tried to put the two of them out of his head, lugging his things with him and out into the prickly damp warmth of the late afternoon. Grey clouds pressed in above, blurring the fiery spring sunshine that had ruled for so long. A storm was coming. Then, at the end of another shower, it reached its peak — both the storm outside, rain battering the windows of the changing room, and the strange tension he’d found himself wrapped up in. He was showering in the corner; he told himself this was just a mild preference, not a deliberate effort protect his perky bubble butt exposed to any potential slaps or squeezes from the coarse banter of the other lads, or one lad in particular. A little incident like that would only bother him if he had some reason to be afraid, he’d laughed at himself just yesterday, he knew homophobia usually suggested some dodgy insecurity you were covering up! He knew who he was and what he was into, and it wasn’t being spanked by rugged midfielders, haha. Even so… He washed his hair quickly, whistling tunelessly to himself under the shower, conscious of the room emptying around him. The weather had killed the festive mood amongst most of the Hotspurs and everyone seemed in a vague hurry to get home, for once nobody boasting about their barbecue plans for the back garden. Winks scooped shampoo residue away from his eyes and shook his head side to side beneath the water, rinsing off his tufty brown hair. He didn’t realise until he turned slowly around that there were only three of them left in here. He felt a slight lurch of unease at clocking it, Dier across the corner from him, leaning elbows to the wall to douse his neck and shoulders, Kane halfway down the other side, seeming to finish up as he let the timed burst of hot water run dry to a trickle. Winks looked sharply between them then dismissed his foolish unease. He turned around though, dismissing their presences, assuming they’d both be gone in escort mersin a moment. Then he heard a couple of quiet footsteps, and Eric’s voice. `You can hardly blame me though, Kane, can you?’ he was asking, not loudly, but very firmly, emphasising each word. `Look at the arse on him — it’s like a peach!’ Winks whirled round, hiding his embarrassment with a wet laugh, pulling more suds from his eyes and giving Dier a critical look. He shook his head. `What are you on about now?’ the 24-year-old demanded firmly, then gave an appealing look Kane’s way, to diffuse the tension. But the taller older Harry had turned to look at them both with an almost sad expression on his face, as if there was a much more serious and gloomy conversation that Winks had entirely missed. `Peach!’ Dier repeated through some hoarse chuckles. `Sorry, just Kane here was a bit worried about you, I think…’ Harry Kane didn’t say anything. He stepped back from his showerhead, looked away from them again, then swept to the row of pegs and the three last towels hanging there. He grabbed the middle one, his, and threw it about his waist on the way out, long heavy strides and no goodbye or acknowledgement. Winks frowned at this and noticed Eric take a couple more steps his way, swiveling a finger in one ear and resting his other hand on the lower ridges of his fairly ripped six pack. The thickset, tanned figure was right beside him now at this end of the showers, just the two of them left, their bodies both glistening a little beneath electric minds. `What’s his problem?’ Winks asked, because `What’s YOUR problem?’ seemed too aggressive. `Oh, he’s a stick in the mid,’ Dier told him quietly, `he can’t keep up with the banter, you know that. Captain boring, our Kane, don’t pay him any mind.’ Winks looked at him thoughtfully. `Something’s weird there, mate. You and him.’ `Tell me about it — the evil looks he gives me…! Weirdo…’ Eric was so close now, right beside him, leaning one elbow against the slippery tiles of the wall, stroking at his glistening wet beard, eyes aflame with mischief. `Honestly, dunno what’s got into him lately, big Harry… he’s not the man he was, you know… Huh, not like you, I see.’ Harry stared at him, perplexed, then followed his eyes down; what the fuck, Eric was staring intently at the low hang of his cock between his sturdy young thighs. In ducking down to recognise this, Winks couldn’t help but also spot his teammate’s piece for a second, but he brought his eyes quickly back up, furrowing his brow. `Eh? What’s that supposed to mean…?’ `Oh, nowt — just a thought! I mean, there was me thinking what a great arse you had, when there’s that thing there too… I’d quite forgot. Haha…’ There was something about the laddish, raspy laughs that allowed Eric to say anything without it sounding too off. He was so playful and almost brutish in his humour and Winks laughed quietly along, more self-conscious than he’d felt in ages. `You don’t mind me saying that, do you?’ `Well — fuck, no, but Eric mate-` `I mean, I’m not saying it’s the biggest, just a really good shape, or something.’ `Good shape?!’ He couldn’t hide the alarm in his voice but he said it quietly, mirroring the secretive whisper of the other guy’s speech. His arse cheek tingled as if freshly slapped by the bigger guy, though that was day ago now. There was something almost dangerous in the curving grin on Eric’s face and the wistful expression in his eyes; the shower room felt huge, the changing rooms miles away, Harry Kane’s severe gloom a distant memory. The air was steamy, yes, but it felt extra hot, and suddenly intense. `Yeah, you know, good shape,’ repeated Dier with a bit of a laugh, `picturesque, haha…’ `Oh fuck off!’ Winks sniggered back. `Honestly, mate, you’ve gone mental lately…’ `Let me touch it, will ya?’ The volume of speech had dropped again, breathy and private. `Touch it, you daft bugger…? Why would you…?’ `Oh go on, just a little grab. You didn’t mind me grabbing your arse, did you?’ `Well…!’ Winks was aware the shower behind him had stopped. They were both stood there, naked and dripping wet, and the frustration humidity of the air made him feel like there was another layer needing peeled away. He let out a huff of breath; was Eric moving even closer or did his figure just feel more room-filling and looming somehow? `Just a little grab,’ Eric said again, and did that. His hand seemed big and ungainly against the slim droop of Harry’s flaccid dick, which tickled and twitched against those rough fingers. He looked quickly past one of Eric’s big shoulder muscles towards the empty doorway, no figures there, just their two towels, dangling from pegs. `That’s okay, isn’t it?’ Dier was saying, shifting very gently closer, and sliding his fingers more fully around the soft curve of Winks’ prick. He laughed, quietly and uneasily, and felt a tightening of his loaded balls, full of a single man’s unspent cum. He frowned from the empty entranceway to Eric’s face, that almost caveman ruggedness. Their eyes met, close and fiery. `What is this?’ Winks asked. His cock had never been touched by a lad, he thought. If he’d imagined it (he was pretty sure he hadn’t), he never would have expected a lad to cradle it quite so gently, more tenderly in fact than any of the attractive young women who’d had access to his Premiership prick. Winks giggled, as if being tickled, and looked down at the way his nob flopped against those fingers and reacted to the gentle squeeze and pull. `That’s enough, I think,’ he said hesitantly, laughter in his eyes. `Is it?’ `I dunno.’ He heard himself say it but he knew he meant to say `Ha ha!’ or `Fuck off!’ Again, he heard himself speak as if from a distance. `It’s alright,’ he heard himself mumble through the chuckles. `What’s alright?’ asked Dier, meaningfully. `If you wanna… keep on… hah…’ He blinked furtively, twisted his head from side to side. His dick was definitely reacting now, stiffening. He felt himself backing off a little despite what he said, his arse cheeks and upper shoulders brushing at the cooling porcelain of the white tiles. He was looking over Eric’s shoulder again, at the doors, as if some lad was gonna burst in any second and see more than they should, more than he could ever explain… He found himself letting out a little gasp, surprised by the softness of that man’s palm, and the way his cock stretched out against it, firm and filling up. He held his breath awkwardly. He felt like Eric was about to deliver the punchline of a seedy joke at his expense, but no, he was just pulling in close, stroking at his nob in long, lazy movements, his breathing a bit ragged. Harry’s eyes wandered to his face, seeing his eyes screwed shut, a weird determined grimace all over his handsome features, water beading on his tanned skins and falling from the grizzle of his beard. Winks looked further down, over the broad rise of his chest, down his developed six-pack, to the long thick semi that swung pendulously below his waist; it was definitely bigger than his, or at least thicker. Neither of them said any more, it was just their breathing. Harry could feel the hard tiled wall pressing at his flesh, the vague heat of a pipe somewhere against an elbow. He could feel steady drops of warm water hitting one earlobe. His chest rose and fell and his cock trembled and throbbed. His balls felt like they might explode. He brought one hand forward and rested it very carefully on the muscle and bone of Dier’s shoulder, giving it a squeeze, as if testing whether any of this was real. It may as well be some hot nightclub bombshell there, he thought, it felt so good being jerked in here, in the heat and steam, after a rather sexless lockdown period… But it wasn’t some chick, no, it was Eric Dier. He looked quizzically at him. Oddly, that’s where his head went: what is he playing at? What does he think he’s doing? Why’s he jerking me like that? He felt more baffled by this big brick of a midfielder hunched in front of him, slowly jerking him towards paradise, than his own passive submission. I mean, a handjob is a handjob, he told himself, realising just how much this weird possibility must have been floating at every tactile gesture of the other footballer in those close-contact training sessions. Well, they were both single men, deprived of their social lives, sick of their own touch…! Maybe it made sense that Dier would get a bit confused or curious, though he would have been Harry’s last bet to… ohhhh! His rapid thoughts were derailed by a tightening of Eric’s big hand, fresh waves of arousal. He couldn’t hold in the groan. `Hmmmph…’ Still, Dier didn’t say anything, he was just grunting rhythmically, almost as if he was the one being tossed off here. No, his big cock just swung there, rising a little with its own lust, but untouched by Harry Winks. It didn’t even occur to him that he might return the favour, because he could barely believe it was happening even one-way. He breathed in the soapy hot scent of them both, his ears full of dripping and vague plumbing groans. The distant echoing voices of the changing rooms had faded away, perhaps a while ago or perhaps just now. It felt completely safe and alone in here. `Ohh,’ he gasped at last, `mate… Eric, mate…’ Dier shushed him, not opening his eyes, not looking at him; perhaps he couldn’t, Harry thought, perhaps that’s how he could cope with his weird transgression, perhaps he was pretending he was just wanking his own thick nob, and…? Ohhh…! The pulls got quicker, the grip got tighter. He gasped and squeezed that sturdy shoulder more tightly in his hand to match it. His eyes lifted from Dier’s troubled face and back across the glimmering white space of the shower block, and — FUCK — he saw him there, but too late to stop his own explosion of pleasure. Harry felt his dick tremble and his prostrate bloom. His cum shot out in a little jet of excitement and his body relaxed all over at once, a huge physical sigh. And at the very same moment, his eyes took in the tall, towelled figure of Harry Kane, silhouetted in the archway, blurred but distinctive. Suddenly, Eric was speaking after all. `No,’ he grumbled, `fuck no, this is wrong…’ His hand was pulled away — oh shit, I must have jazzed on him! — and he was taking staggering steps backwards. Winks had no idea if he had even seen their trespasser, but he could feel the man’s turmoil regardless. It was as if the footballer had only just twigged what he was doing! Hell…! Winks, dizzy with orgasm, pulled away from the wall and away from Eric, letting out a hysterical little laugh of disbelief at the pleasure still rocking him from head to toe. `Just fuck off,’ Dier blurted suddenly at him, not looking up, and so he did. He hurried forward, getting a closer look at Harry Kane’s long, serious face emerging from the steam. But he didn’t meet his eyes, he just snatched his towel and bowled past; what had Kane even seen? What explanations could he give? Well, he wasn’t the one going crazy, he hadn’t touched anyone like that…! Winks felt drunk on his own masculine attractiveness, totally confused by the slick wet handjob, deeply and bizarrely satisfied to have blown his load. He rushed past the other Harry and away from the showers, laughing again as if he finally got the joke. Bloody hell! Eric Dier held both hands to his face, hunched mersin escort bayan there at the far end of the showers, the warm ooze of a man’s cum still distinctive on his wrist and forearm, even in here, in the hot and the wet. `Fuck’s sake,’ he groaned aloud, `the wrong Harry, the wrong fucking Harry…’ He slammed both hands forward, punching his curled fists aimlessly against the unforgiving tiles. `Fuck…’ He let out a sob of a gasp, regretting every clumsy touch of what he’d just done. It had been so difficult, he thought. These weeks back here, training and working, so much worse in fact than the long quiet weeks with his own family at the big Dier home. Long maudlin dog walks and lonely nights, but still… this was so much worse. Seeing him every day across a field, working with and against him, part of the same fucking team… Every day hurt a little more than the one before, and nobody he could even confide in. At first there had been Troy at least — pissed off at him over the confession he’d made on the phone last month, yes, but polite and charming and willing to cheer him up with a silly semi-nude selfie or a tale of provincial Irish life. But even he had gone, not so long ago, from Eric’s day-to-day life — the poor lad was in hospital getting his appendix out, wouldn’t be back on the training ground for some time now, ruled out for the summer. Poor kid, Eric thought miserably, but his self-pity was also overpowering. He’d never felt so isolated here, never. Had he really thought that poking some petty jealousy from his `ex’ would work? Had he really imagined that hugging Harry Winks on the field a few times and slapping his arse in the shower would spark some excitement or interest from the married father-of-two who was basically denying his very existence? Certainly, just now, he’d thought grabbing the lad’s cock and pulling him to completion would do SOMETHING to numb the pain, but… The wrong Harry, he told himself silently, the wrong fucking Harry! Then there he was: striding his way through the fading mists of the hot showers, conjured out of the damp heat like a phantom. A fresh white towel about his waist as he approached and threw his arms open. Dier lurched into him, almost surprised when he felt something physical, expecting to lurch awkwardly through the apparition — but no, his forehead rested heavily on a broad smooth shoulder and his fingertips found the knot of that white towel, and he felt hands on his back, stroking up and down, intimately interlocking their bodies here in the risky communal space of the showers. `I was just trying to make you jealous,’ Eric confessed in a whimper so unlike his usual voice. `I know,’ Kane said. His face earlier on had been arctic fury, but his voice now was soft and tiny. `I miss you so much.’ `I know… and… you know I feel it too, just…’ `How would I know what you feel?’ His anger was there in this shouted whisper. `You’ve ignored me ever since you ended it by text, so how would I…’ `Eric, you KNOW… shush, baby…’ And it wasn’t just comforting words now. One of those big strong manly hands was off Eric’s back and down at his crotch, fondling his fat hairy balls, stroking the veiny length of his semi, stroking it into full life as he spoke. `You know everything I feel,’ Kane whispered, lips brushing his wet ear, `you’ve known that ever since you kissed me in Russia. But…’ He was pulling back on foreskin, squeezing and dragging at Dier’s girthy erection. `You knew it couldn’t go on forever. This isn’t… a… fucking… fairytale…’ Dier clung to him, leaning miserably into the crook of his neck, grabbing at his firm meaty sides, feeling that loving hand slide back and forth on his nob. He loved, in the middle of his misery, how Kane did it recklessly, neither of them looking at the doors, not a care for who might catch them! He was just pulling him off with rapid soap-lubed jerks, intensely pleasurable even as he felt his heart break. He clung to the man’s body as if there was a chance he might never be forced to let go. `She found out, babe,’ whispered Harry, the right Harry now. `Not about YOU, but about… someone… I’m in the shit, man, I’m gonna have to do something… if not leave here, then… That’s what she’s insisting on, you see, she’s trying to force me into a transfer, talking to my agent behind my back, and…’ It was impressive really, that he could talk so rapidly while pulling so skilfully; Eric was already close to blowing his wad. Kane’s other arm was hugging at his back, pulling their bodies close. He could smell his aftershave. `But, you and I…’ `We both know the risks,’ Kane said through gritted teeth. `You know everything I have to lose.’ `So you’ll lose me,’ Dier growled, even as he felt his cock throb and twitch in his lover’s hand. `That’s not fair, Eric.’ `None of this is fair! Oh…’ He came, quicker than he’d ever blown his load in a shag with man or woman, spunking heavily into Harry’s palm and splashing drops of it against the crisp white cotton of the towel. He clung on for as long as he could, gasping into Kane’s neck and chest and resisting the urge to plant biting kisses there against the side of his throat. Eventually, the pushing gestures that he dreaded but expected came, the hand that had jerked him off rising to push at his pecs and separate their big bodies. Kane was backing off, leaving him hunched there. Eric’s eyes were misty with tears and he couldn’t really see what, if any, emotion troubled the other guy’s face. `So this is it?’ he demanded, but he wasn’t sure how many of the words really got out. `This is it,’ Harry promised. `I’m so — so — sorry.’ He was gone then, backing away, disappearing; Eric’s eyes were too misted and cloudy to tell quite how quickly that married coward fled. He turned and punched the wall again, hearing an ugly crack in one knuckle, then whacked on a shower and flooded his body with scorching water until the sobs dried up. Then he staggered out into the empty changing rooms, smearing a bloody knuckle against a clean white towel, and staring sadly across the deserted rows of lockers and pegs, benches and racks. He could see the double doors still swinging gently on their hinges, dropped shut as lightly as the man had dropped him, cast aside to save his precious marriage. Dier brought the towel up to his face, began crying again. Another shower, another Harry. Not the close-packed masculine retreat of the footballers’ communal shower, the verbena-scented oasis of a newly refurbished en suite wet-room in a sizeable Cheshire family home. The 6ft4 United skipper twisted a few nobs and creaked the cascade shower out of action above his head, his overgrown dark mop getting in his eyes until he scraped it back off his face and began shaking his lengthy body dry. He steered the sliding glass door open with an elbow and grabbed a fluffy aubergine-coloured towel from the heated rack, throwing it about his thick waist and taking dripping steps out onto the bathmat. He caught sight for a moment of himself in the steamed mirror, the hulking physique of his chest and shoulders, the increasingly tight definition of his abs. Okay, there was no gym for a face, and he needed a fucking haircut, but still — he’d do. A day off, up here, no training. A trip out to some country park with the missus and the little ones, that was the plan. He fastened the pale purple towel tightly about his waist, enjoying the vague outline of his manhood that still bulged through that fluffy material, then strode on through to the master bedroom of the Maguire home. The fiancée was downstairs already, preparing the picnic. A day off after a hard sweaty week was great, and the best of the weather had vanished, but he was looking forward to a relaxed day of fresh air, bonding with the kids, reminiscing of more free days with the woman he loved. The novelty of training was wearing off a little after the giddy rush of the initial return, now he was craving proper matches, proper wins. He wouldn’t miss the kicking and hard work for one day, lounging in some meadow with his nearest and dearest. Obviously, he told himself with a guilty chuckle, there would be one near and dear figure missing from the scene, but you couldn’t actually have it all… The towel-clad defender sat on the bed, slow and idle in the knowledge there was no rush. He found his phone were he’d tossed it and checked, just in case there was a new message through from Mr Shaw; but no, pretty boy Luke would be out on his own cosy family day trip, no doubt. All paternity and responsibility now, Harry’s little DILF. He laughed, too content to be disappointed by the lack of contact; they’d catch up later, when they could. He scrolled through messages and then slid through a few apps, enjoying the lack of hurry or urgency. He found himself in his picture gallery, as he did, thumbing back through the weeks and deleting unwanted screenshots or stolen in-play photography where he didn’t like his gurning facial expression. It was an idle habit, but also a careful precaution: as he scrolled back through the camera roll, he would delete certain pictures with a sigh. Shirtless selfies from Luke Shaw’s bathroom, sent on a lonely lockdown night; awkward grinning pictures of himself getting sweaty in the garden during a home workout, taken inexpertly at the gentle demands of a distant lover. He didn’t delete it all, but he would remove pictures with a begrudging sense of duty, pruning anything potentially revealing or embarrassing from his gallery app — just in case. Sat there on the bed, damp and relaxed, he found himself going back to much earlier in the year, and something lurid and inappropriate caught his eye: how had he not already deleted it! In amongst an innocuous display of footy pictures, stuff from the family Whatsapp, and screenshots of household products he’d been shopping for, was THE photo. That one! Hah, wow. Fuck, had he not deleted that ages ago?! How had he just left it…? He clicked on it and looked at the screen: a slightly hazy scene but a youngish lad bent over, his arse in the air, a little furry with dark hair, glossy streaks of cum on one bulbous buttock. Proper dirty! His fat cock throbbed beneath the towel. Who was it? Why had it been sent? How the hell was it on Eric Dier’s phone? All these questions rolled afresh through his mind. He’d brought it up several times to Shaw until he realised how much it fucked off his beautiful boy. He quite enjoyed the envy, but he knew Luke had limits, so he’d dropped it. But he was unconvinced by the younger lad’s insistence that it was stupid laddish humour, a shared dirty snapshot gone too far amongst group chat after group chat. It was just so… intimate? Harry Maguire stared it at again, intrigued and aroused. Why did bloody Dier have this sort of homemade porn on his smartphone, and why was he sending it to anyone, never mind him? Who had his useless thumb been aiming for in the contacts list, when he transferred it to the wrong bloke altogether? He didn’t know, but he suddenly knew one thing, even as he reluctantly pushed at `delete’ and removed the filthy snapshot from his phone’s memory. He was not just gonna delete and forget about it — it was too hot, and too mysterious. He was definitely gonna ask Mr Dier about it, he thought with a naughty smirk, however uncomfortable that conversation was. The next time they met, be that on an England bench, at some Premiership event, or when Manchester United next defeated Tottenham Hotspurs… he was definitely gonna find out how that photograph came to be in Eric’s possession, and how he’d sent it to the wrong Harry.

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