Subject: Premiership Lads part 81: ’03 Part eighty-one: `03 The press conference was a humble affair. After all, it was a fairly minor match: a February friendly against Australia. Not exactly lighting up the international footballing world or causing a media circus in London, but still… It was the national sports, the season was on break for the weekend, and here were some of the beautiful game’s leading lights being grilled in the conference suit of an expensive Wembley hotel. There was only one person there to whom the press conference was not familiar and really rather dull, and he was standing in a corner fiddling with the lapels of a slightly oversized black blazer. He was still not quite used to having to wear a suit, something about its ill-fitting formality made him feel like he was on his way to court for a sibling or cousin’s hearing, not mentally preparing for another football fixture tomorrow. He huffed his quiet frustration, gave up trying to adjust the baggy suit jacket, and glanced sharply down the row of his new teammates with a mild envy at their more naturally dapper figures. He eyed Frank Lampard a few places down, slick and confident in a figure-hugging cut of the same tailored suit; just beyond him, even the majestic height of goalkeeper David James seemed to comfortably accommodate this attire. The tall man looked as relaxed and at home in it as he did in any keeper kit, the suit clinging with impossible grace to his lofty, muscular physique. And there were the big guns, up on a raised dais, taking the questions from the press: a couple of super-slick PR agents at the far end, and the team’s almost reptilian Swede manager at the centre. Beside him, towards the lined up formality of the squad, was the captain, a man so naturally stylish that one might guess the suit had been designed with him in mind, and then just lazily reproduced for his mere mortal teammates to clamber into. A reporter for Sky Sports had just asked a particularly pressing question about England’s performance in their last friendly, and the England captain was leaning in to support Sven Goran Ericson with his own take on the criticism; David Beckham tilted his head, the lustrous mane of blond hair tossing as he did so, and all eyes were on his gentle mannerisms as he chipped in his quietly assured opinion on the current training regime. Yeah, he had a real squeaky little voice at times, but you could tell someone had been training that out of him, and he looked utterly composed and at home up there lined up beside management. At the end of the lined up England players who were mere decoration to the Q it would have to fuckin’ do. He switched his nervous gaze from the centre of attention to the reporters themselves, and the other staff and hangers-on lining the room. When the formal questioning was over, the soundbites and headlines obtained, they had been told they would have to mingle for a while and maybe ask a few questions individually. Rooney was in secret turmoil over this, having seen the little patronising smirks that came into media ponces’ faces when his Liverpudlian accent gurgled out and he tried to comment on the game that came so easily to his body. He toughened himself against the challenge; he would just frown and scowl and look unapproachable and slip away as soon as was realistically possible. He didn’t even have any England experience to talk about, after all � this was his first shot at the national squad! Fifteen minutes later, the teenage striker realised his mistake: he was on the eve of his England debut and every reporter in their wanted a quote from him on how that felt. By the time the tenth camera and microphone were hovering awkwardly in front of him, he was yanking so uncomfortable at the sleeves of his jacket and shirt that he popped off a `three lions’ cufflink and send it spinning to the ugly carpet. Deep blushes rose up his freckled cheeks and he stumbled mid-sentence, losing track of whatever daft question the lady from the BBC had been trying to ask him. Then, suddenly, there was a calming hand on the baggy shoulder of his blazer, and another voice was cutting in. `We are all just so excited to have Wayne down here with us,’ the mildly effeminate but coolly controlled voice of the captain chipped in. `He is such a big talent right now. I hope you appreciate that he needs to stop interviewing now and go join the coaches � such a lot of preparation to do, you know?’ Wayne looked awkwardly to his side at the slightly taller man settling there, a showbiz smile on for the camera and a charming, almost flirty, nod to the female reporter. There was something in the media-savvy charm of this older bloke that riled Rooney, that represented a side of the sport he had no fuckin’ interest in, a sickly world he couldn’t believe he was on the threshold of; but he was also massively grateful, because right now he felt like an inarticulate lump and he wanted to be away from the media rush as soon as humanly possible. `So no more questions for now if that’s okay,’ Beckham was saying smoothly, giving Wayne’s shoulder a very slight squeeze, and turning to look his way. The slightest hint of a wink flickered in one hazel eye and then the blond hero was turning back to the reporter as if snatching his limelight. Wayne seized the chance gladly. He didn’t even listen to what the BBC lady was now suddenly asking David Beckham, and backed off to try and disappear into the throng of people. He pushed hopefully through some double-doors and left the harsh sounds of the media suite behind, tumbling into an adjoining corridor where a few of the other players had already escaped and were being served cups of tea. Fucking hell, a cuppa had never seemed so appealing. The Scouse teen ambled towards them but felt stung with another difficult aspect of the weekend: everyone else was so much more grown-up than him, and everyone seemed to know everyone. Sure, he’d played against a fair number of them in his Everton appearances, but he didn’t have all the in-jokes and mutual friends that had filled their chat so far today. He hovered by the loose circle of men and hoped to be included. `Hey kid,’ Gary Neville greeted him lightly, `you made it out alive.’ Wayne flashed a nervous grin and nodded. `Yeh, just about,’ he rasped back. `Just about,’ echoed Ashley Cole in a faux Scouse accent, then all four men burst out laughing. Wayne grinned awkwardly at them, half-joining, but unsure if he was the butt of a joke or one of the lads. Rio Ferdinand slapped him on the upper back as if suggesting the latter, but then turned to Neville, Cole and Jenas with a totally new direction to the conversation. `Oh my god lads,’ the tall defender exclaimed, `remember when we were in Spain last summer and…’ The familiar conversation tumbled on, and Rooney stood to the side, wondering who the hell he was meant to shag around here to get his hands on a cup of tea, but too embarrassed to ask. Once the media circus had collapsed into thin air, there was a strategy briefing for all the players and coaching staff in a different meeting room. In a way, Rooney felt back on safer ground. He was intimidated by the robotic and unblinking figure of Erikson, but he had such a natural affinity for his sport that he followed the discussion and planning comfortably; he even had a few ideas to suggest that he had to bite down. He was starting to find a voice at Everton in spite of his ridiculous youth, he felt so loved and respected there that being a kid hardly seemed to matter. Here, he felt like a schoolboy who’d sneaked into the teaching staff room during an important meeting � he kept his ideas to himself, nodded along, and fiddled with his tie and collar every five minutes. After this, rooms were being assigned. Another awkward experience, he assumed, since so many of the more experienced England squad members seemed so pally and almost paired off based on age, experience, shared teams… but there weren’t any other 17-year-olds on this squad, and there weren’t any other Everton players either! He stared across the foyer at Michael Owen at one point, assuming some possible connection there � Owen was from near enough Merseyside and was one of the younger `Lions’, though he was also a Liverpool FC player and thus the natural enemy. He seemed quite a calm, reserved lad, and probably a decent roommate on that level. Wayne wasn’t hear to boost his profile and buddy up with some of these suave wankers, he was here to challenge his talents at a higher level. Calm and reserved would suit him for this evening. But no: he watched as Owen was handed a key by the assistant manager dealing with the bookings and ushered off with his Liverpool teammate and fully-fledged Scouser Danny Murphy. Rooney lingered where he was, amongst the muddle of suited men, a kit bag weighing awkwardly over the loose shoulder of his blazer. He was beginning to wonder if he was going to be the `odd one out’ and land a room on his own, making him weigh up the good and bad of this outcome. Convenient, maybe, but embarrassing and nerve-wracking too. Just then, for the second time that late afternoon, a hand slipped onto his other shoulder, and he was joined by another figure; he was imbibing the earthy rush of the older man’s aftershave before he was turning to recognise his earlier saviour, joined once more mersin escort by Beckham. The captain was jangling a key in his face as he squeezed his shoulder, and it took Wayne a slow moment to understand. `You’re with me, newbie,’ chirped David lightly. `Sorry about that � but at least I don’t snore! Come on.’ And before he moved off, he was reaching for Wayne’s other shoulder, and scooping the bag strap off it with ease � the 5ft11 Manchester United hero was then striding ahead for the elevators with a bag on each shoulder, chivalrous or patronising in his intervention. Rooney stood uncomfortably still for a moment, relieved of his burden, then rushed after his apparent roommate in a hurry. `Beckham, you don’t need to-` `It’s no problem,’ was all the captain shot back smoothly, punching a button the panel, `you looked like you were sick of carrying it. Come on. 4th floor is us. Let’s drop this crap off.’ Rooney felt flushed with embarrassment at being treated like this, but he didn’t really know what to say. Saying anything seemed to be an easy guarantee of looking stupid today, based on almost every conversation he’d entered into. He thought about some of the garbled lines he’d fed reporters during the mingling Q it was still creased in rigid lines form the folds in its plastic packaging. `Dinner,’ he murmured questioningly, `is casual… right?’ David, returning to his side of the room, grinned back. `What would you do if I said no?’ Wayne let out a nervous laugh. `Jump straight out of that window?’ `Good job it’s anything-goes, then.’ Beckham chuckled too. `The suits are just for the cameras, don’t worry!’ He was laughing lightly and beginning to strip off, as if this wasn’t all natural to him, wasn’t all exactly what he wanted. Rooney had seen him on some fucking catwalk on the news the other day, dressed up like a Ken Doll, fuckin’ hell. Rooney pulled his shirt away from him, baring the stocky pale muscle of his young but prematurely developed body. He was self-conscious rather than confident about how manly his teenage physique had become, including the tufty beginnings of chest hair between his flat pecs. He knew he was pale and freckly and, to the untrained eye, even a bit chubby in places, though the Everton coaches constantly assured him he was just densely muscled. Across the room, he was faced with the lean tanned six-pack of that poncey supermodel, punctuated by a few arty tattoos; Wayne couldn’t wait to get inked once he was allowed, though he wasn’t sure he would be as bold as Beckham in that department. Rooney changed in a self-conscious hurry. Nike tshirt pulled on over his upper body, then awkward-fitting suit trousers swapped for some worn pale denim jeans, and a scrappy pair of trainers yanked onto his big feet. He flopped into sitting position on the edge of the bed, pulling through the rest of the contents of his bag, and feeling the butterflies in his tummy turn into fuckin’ vultures. He’d been nervous all week: this evening, he felt utterly distraught. When he looked back up, his older and more senior roommate was down to his pants, which made the shyer teenager start a little. Tattooed back to him, David was stood tall in just the white Calvin Klein briefs that had nestled beneath his black suit, and facing up against a full-length mirror beside the room’s single wardrobe, staring into his own reflection with apparent vanity. It was an image that felt jarring yet familiar to Wayne, and it sparked a memory: it had only been last year, or was it the end of the year before that, when he’d been in that newsagent grabbing a paper and some Lottery tickets for his nan? He’d been still a schoolboy on the cusp of signing a proper contract at Everton, so recently and yet worlds away from where he sat now. He could still picture the magazine in his shaky hands, the glossy photos of David Beckham on the front cover and spread on its middle pages, stripped to his undies just like this… Wayne was jolted from the daft memory as David half-turned, and shot him an apologetic grin. `Fuck, sorry,’ the England captain said with a broken laugh, `I must look like such a posing wanker right now � it isn’t how it looks!’ Wayne felt his rounded cheeks blush red behind the gingery freckles, and he lowered his eyes as if the view of his stripped down roomie wasn’t unavoidable. He was back in that Liverpool newsagent again, gripping the magazine that he’d curiously pulled off the shelf, and staring in horrified fascination at the surprisingly under-dressed photoshoot of his footballing hero, and then � just like he’d been jolted from his thoughts here, he’d been snapped out of it then by the tinkling bell of the shop door and the footsteps of his mates coming in. He’d thrust the magazine back onto the shelf among the others, and only then read the headlines on the cover properly. Wayne hadn’t even known gay magazines existed until that moment, and when he realised he’d been pawing at one in his local shop, he’d almost ran a mile! `It’s Calvin Klein,’ Beckham was explaining in front of him, with a patient sigh to his voice that suggesting contact from world-famous fashion designers was a perfectly normal inconvenience. He gestured bashfully at his own tight underpants with both hands. `They want me to model their pants next spring � I mean, seriously? Me?’ He was turning back to the mirror, staring at his reflection with a critical expression. `I am NOT an underwear model � I’m a footballer!’ Wayne blinked away the corner shop memory and rubbed at his face with one hand. `Huh? Oh � er, well � how much are they offering ya?’ Beckham grinned at him via the mirror. `You sound like my wife!’ He laughed; his laugh was gentle and tinkling, but also unnerving, like the bell on that shop door. `It isn’t just the money,’ David went on, mainly to himself, `it’s also just my… you know, image, my rep… I don’t want to be a…’ He tailed off, leaving it unclear what he did and didn’t want to be. He turned back and gave Wayne a more earnest look. `God, sorry about this, don’t mind me…’ And he was scrabbling for proper clothes, his bare tanned body an alien sight to teenage Wayne. `Er, no, don’t worry,’ Rooney mumbled in what he hoped was a casual, mature tone. `Do what you gotta do.’ But Beckham had found clothes now. A lightweight shirt and tight dark jeans, a simple outweight that somehow still lent a kinda Hollywood glow to the leonine midfielder as he bounced across the room and stood in front of Wayne to signal they should head down to dinner. The Everton teen got up, patted at his own clothes thoughtfully, and checked out their shared side-profile on the way past the mirror: the sleek, designer-clad captain strutting along, and the scruffy teenage hooligan drifting after him. For fuck’s sake, he groaned inwardly. This was NOT his world. By the time the two men returned to that room to bed down for the night, Rooney felt both better and worse: sat between Paul Scholes and Owen Hargreaves, he’d been relaxed by these lads’ easy-going and down-to-earth manner, and opposite him had been Becks, who had done his best to drag Wayne into conversations and mix up the shared jokes and stories with more general and inviting topics; but the pressure of tomorrow’s performance had just mounted slowly at the same time, so that the more pleased Wayne felt to be here, amongst these respectable heroes of the English game, the more anxious he was at how he’d perform once let loose on the pitch. Back in the hotel room, he grabbed his washbag and hid himself in the roomy bathroom for a while to hide his jitters. He stared at his short, thickset figure in the mirror and scrubbed viciously at his teeth. Ugly, common, inarticulate brat of the Mersey, his most critical and self-destructive inner voice told him, as he applied and rinsed off the desperate spot cream a friend had recommended. The teenager could here David’s voice through the door, muffled but clear enough, chatting to the wife. Carte blanche to take his time. Wayne sat on the closed lid of the toilet and buried his face in his hands, almost nauseous with anticipation. Suddenly there was a light rapping knock on the door, and Becks didn’t want for an answer; he pulled it slightly ajar and stood there, the mobile phone still clutched in one hand, and a caring smile flashing through the gap. `You okay in there, Rooney?’ he asked quietly. Wayne looked up, embarrassed at his visible distress. `Just having a minute. Sorry.’ David sighed, edged the door further open. `It’s okay to be nervous,’ he said. Wayne’s auto-response was a scowl. He shot up to his feet and barged out of the room’s en suite, not wanting to be smiled at and patronised by this smug fucker who wouldn’t know a thing about his life and journey. But as he bowled past him, David’s hands were reaching for his square shoulders and pulling him to a halt. Though shorter and younger, Rooney was pretty sure he had the strength to throw pretty boy aside if he wanted, but he was hardly gonna start a fight on the England captain tonight, was he? He braced himself and avoided eye contact and huffed out his annoyance. `Kid,’ Beckham said in the same smooth voice of self-assured success, `I get it, I really do. I felt like shit the night before my first England game.’ `Were you seventeen?’ Rooney grunted at him. `Well, no � is that escort mersin your issue? Your age is impressive, not a problem… If you bash one in tomorrow, you would be the youngest ever goal scorer for your country. Fucking hell! Imagine that?’ Rooney opened and shut his mouth, his next surly comeback dying before it began. He thought about David’s prediction and took little comfort from it, but he did feel the thrill; the thrill that had rattled through him when the call had come in to his boss at Everton and he’d been pulled aside in training to discuss the possibility of a few national games. `Seriously,’ Beckham told him firmly, `I know you think I’m… I dunno, some smug prick, some catwalk wanker playing at being a footballer but… Seven years ago I was bricking it like you in a hotel room in Moldova, no idea what I was gonna do. And now…’ An uncomfortably humble shrug. `I’m the captain. You just… never know how things are gonna go.’ Wayne shrugged those oddly manicured fingers off his shoulders, nodded roughly, and brushed past, annoyed by the deep red flesh that would be covering his cheeks and neck now. But David’s words were working some magic; there was something soothing in his calm, something oddly likeable in his admission of nervousness. Rooney had a lot of love and admiration for this guy, had done for years of course, and that respect was just clashing with his anxiety right now. As the two men undressed for bed and put the TV on quietly, they talked a little more easily. David questioned him about some of the Everton lads he was more familiar with, and about how his family felt about his abrupt fame. In turn, David confessed some of the stresses of his own life as a new father, the pressures that had come with it. They talked about their careers: David confessing his restlessness after almost a decade at Manchester United, his curiosity about the big offers starting to come through from Europe; Wayne passionately denied that his talent and potential would take him away from Everton for a long time, he was totally committed to the true Liverpool team. The men talked freely and comfortably, lying in their double beds at a right angle from another, neither paying much attention to the panel show on the telly, or the vague traffic noises drifting up through an open window. In a natural pause in the conversation, Rooney turned his head on the pillow and stared through a gap in the curtains: Wembley was lit up and still just about visible. The nerves were still there, as much as he was enjoying this bonding conversation with his hero and captain. He let out a long sigh, doing his best to relax, and didn’t realise just how loud his young breath was. `You’re still worried,’ came David’s quiet comment across the lamplit room. Wayne looked back his way. Beckham had rolled onto his side, his mid-length blond hair a shaggy mane about his face, and one bare shoulder poking out of the white duvet. `No,’ Rooney lied in a mumble, `I’m good. Thanks. Talking has been… good. I’m fine.’ He heard himself, his clumsy Scouse, his repeated claim, laughed at the thin lie. `I’m fucking scared, pal. How the hell did YOU get to sleep the night before your fuckin’ debut?’ He saw an odd moment of hesitation on the captain’s handsome face that intrigued him, but Beckham just laughed a bit and half turned away, stretching onto his back and pushing the covers down over his smooth firm chest a little; a peek of nipple. `You just have to find a way of switching your mind off,’ David said, and it sounded like he was quoting someone else, a slightly distant wistful tone to his voice. Wayne thought he was about to expand on this, tell some old-timer story (27 was of course ancient to a 17-year-old) but it didn’t come. `Switch my mind off,’ Wayne grunted to the ceiling, `how the fuck do I do that?’ After a pause, `Well, whatever you normally do. Have a wank or something.’ Rooney spluttered his surprise at this comment, which sounded so crude and ridiculous coming from Mr Public Hero in the other bed. He propped up on one elbow and looked over, waiting for the hoot of laughter that would follow this joke. `A wank?’ he demanded. `Is that such a mad idea?’ Beckham said lightly. `Switches me off really well, I know that.’ `You are full of surprises, captain,’ Rooney said, shaking his head a little. He blinked wearily and found that even the amusing suggestion was an effective distraction from the spiral of self-doubt his brain had been on, though surely he wasn’t actually gonna try and toss one off lying in bed near another guy, that was weird as fuck! He was interrupted by the sound of a telephone, not either of their mobiles, but the landline in the room, perched on a corner table between their beds. `I’ll get it,’ said Beckham. The 27-year-old emerged from bed, standing in the pool of lamplight, perfectly framed by it there as he wrenched up the phone from its cradle and answered the call. Rooney couldn’t help but stare, the vision was so close and the moment so sudden. He looked at the surprising thickness of Beckham’s bare legs, covered in downy hair, and the generous curve of white where his CK briefs covered his strong behind, giving way to a long tanned back and the religious tattoo at the top of it. As David answered the call, clearly some minor last-minute arrangements with Sven about tomorrow morning’s plans, he turned a little, and it was the front of those briefs that were framed in the light, almost silhouetted; a heavy hanging package that almost startled Wayne at its implied contents, and sent a shiver of recognition through him. He thought about that dirty magazine for queers that he’d accidentally grabbed up, mistaking it for a footy one. Click. Phone call over. `Well THAT was unnecessary,’ Beckham remarked coolly. Wayne’s thoughts tumbled out unfiltered. `You should do that underwear thing,’ he grunted. `You would be dead good at it.’ David cocked his head and lingered there in the space between the beds. `Huh? Oh � well, thanks.’ He laughed quietly, surprise written on his expression. `I’m just not sure I want to expose myself like that to the world though. Dignity, and that.’ Wayne shrugged one bare shoulder and blushed again, sensing how out of place his remark had been, how much it revealed about his wandering eyes. Beckham was staring at him now, as if trying to work out what had led him to that comment, or wondering what he’d seen before, or- `Here, sit up,’ Beckham said then. `Let me try something.’ `Err…?’ Wayne did as he was asked but immediately tensed up, confused as David approached the bed and sat gently on the edge of it in his tight-packed briefs, the lamp light glistening against ripples of lean muscle. Rooney felt a right chunk next to him as he did sit up, but then warm hands were reaching for his shoulder, and he immediately sighed in response to the touch. `Just something that helped me, back in the day. Turn round a bit, mate. That’s it.’ Rooney sat there, hunched on his own bed, feeling the fingers work over the muscle at his upper back, surprised but stimulated by the skin-to-skin contact, troubled by a vague sense of intrusion now he wasn’t alone in his bed. He found himself vocal in his enjoyment though, which was embarrassing in itself � but every sweeping touch and gentle prod of thumb brought out little groans of satisfaction and a physical relaxation that was EXACTLY what he needed. He rolled his neck, allowed his back to be supported by David’s strong hands, clutched at the bunched up duvet around his grazed knees. `How’s that?’ asked Beckham, just behind him. `Amazing,’ Wayne said with the same teenage unfiltered honesty. `I mean, really sweet. Erm.’ `I’m glad.’ `You know what you said before?’ `What about?’ `Erm � well � about having a wank…’ `Oh, yeh…’ `Were you having a laugh?’ Quiet, firmer rubs of the muscles below his neck, then hands sliding away. Rooney felt the frustration of their absence immediately, felt his body aching for more touch. Specifically, in the front of the striped boxer shorts bunched up about his bent legs, he felt his nob aching for attention, and he was too scared to even dwell on what had set that in motion. Eventually, `Nah, it was just a thought. If you’d find it helpful. Works out tension, don’t it.’ `Huh… yeh. Guess so.’ David was pulling close again, one hand on one shoulder, face coming so close his breath felt warm and tingling on one of Wayne’s prominent little ears. His teammate was leaning in and looking over his shoulder, and Wayne seized up in realisation of what was visibly obvious in his lap. `That’s a lot of tension,’ Beckham’s voice came quietly, thoughtfully. Rooney stared at the growing outline in the soft, loose fabric, tried to stammer out an explanation or defence, gave up. Then, `Do you mind…?’ Beckham was asking, and reaching his left hand around and down. Oddly, what Rooney’s eyes settled on was the spark of gold, the wedding band on one finger, as his captain’s soft hand closed about the bulge in his boxer shorts and rested there. Wayne twisted his thick torso, looked round and met David’s eyes. What shocked him then was the lack of certainty or confidence. He saw a dangerous, worried glint in the hazel eyes of the England captain, a tight-lipped frown of hesitation. How much Wayne suddenly wanted this contact, mersin escort bayan how shocked he was at his own hunger. He took his right hand and he placed it over Beckham’s, closing the fingers about his bulge, and letting out a shuddering sigh of appreciation. The hunk’s other hand then shifted form his bare, tingling shoulder, down over his chest a little, fingertips brushing the thin hair and circling close to his erect nipple. Wayne’s sigh became a moan, became words, `Oh… Beckham, sir…’ Up came the fingertips, stopping short of his nipple, brushing his collarbone, tickling up his thick neck, over the thick stubble that surely belonged to a man older than seventeen… then there it was, two fingertips, crossing his chin and rubbing his bottom lip, and as Wayne’s mouth opening in another sighing gasp, in they popped. Wayne responded instinctively, sucking on the bony tips and greedily taking something of this beautiful man inside his mouth. Apparently this signalled or confirmed something for the older man, pressing at him from behind. The hand pulled away from his mouth. The other lifted gently from his crotch. Both now pushed at and guided his heavy body. For a second, Wayne feared he was being let go of, brushed away, David was exiting the bed. But no: Beckham was lounging back, dropping his shoulders to Rooney’s piled pillows, and he was being urged down that long smooth torso of tanned muscle. Rooney stared down at the lumpy white package he’d stared at in the magazine. He didn’t stop himself. He leant in and rubbed his nose and then his mouth against the soft cotton, feeling with his face what his hands were too scared to touch. He gasped and whimpered and nuzzled the fat, swelling bulge. He pushed his tongue out, tasted something musty and manly in that white cotton, and opened his eyes. He looked up Beckham’s six-pack, saw the half-closed eyes and consenting smirk on those pouting pink lips. He shivered with a lust he’d painfully denied, and reached for the monochrome waistband. His fingers felt clumsy and he worried how rough and scratchy they might be against that beautiful smooth skin, but off came the briefs, down over the thick muscle of footballer thigh, the soft hair there that felt so silky to him. `Go on.’ Simple, breathy words of encouragement. Rooney took the long thick snake in hand, marvelled at the waxed smoothness of the man’s crotch, let the fingers of his other hand push at and lift the spreading weight of this married god’s bollocks. He remembered to breathe, took in the sour-sweet smell. He had to taste it. David’s cock wasn’t even fully hard yet, but he put it in his mouth, opening wide and sucking on the firming flesh. He knew he was doing something right when David’s hand came down, squeezed his shoulder then his neck, then rested fingertips in his short mousy buzzcut, stroking at his scruffy hair in a gentle massage. Wayne closed his eyes and pulled his lips up, feeling the change as this big meat got thicker, harder, longer. `Oh yes… Mmm…’ It had become so big and long that it was pushing uncomfortably at the back of Wayne’s throat, so he had to gag and pull back, spluttering a little and worrying he had ruined everything. But the pink tip glistened before his eyes as he teased back the foreskin, and the fingers stroked his short hair and his chimp-like ears. He ran his tongue on the head, heard Becks’ appreciative gasp, tried again to take more of its mighty length into his virginal young mouth. He squatted there, halfway down the bed, and did his best to replicate what a scally girl on his parents’ estate had first done for him a few years ago after too much white cider. He’d never expected the role to be reversed, but… the taste of Beckham’s huge cock was like some exciting new party drug. No, nothing that sordid. It was just so… beautiful. He found his rhythm, unable to comfortably take more than half of that thing in but figuring out what movements and gestures most made the thighs beneath his hands twitch and tense up, and the little pants and sighs get louder. David was stroking his head with both hands now, and Wayne loved the feel of them, roving over his scalp and down his neck, brushing at his thick shoulders, running teasingly over his stubbled jaw. In his boxer shorts, his own cock leaked precum, his balls felt as tight as a vice. `Ohh… yes buddy… I’m gonna… I’m almost… ohh…’ Rooney knew what this meant, and he tried to pull away, guided by the same nervous instincts; no way would this beautiful man want to feed him his… But the stroking fingers became more of a grip, and he was briefly alarmed to find his head held there, his mouth wet around the girth of Beckham’s tool. And there it was, the flash of a new, stronger taste. `Ohh… yes… fuckkk…’ The wet sticky cum filling his mouth, swallowed instantly, then more greedy sucking… ohh… When the grip slackened on his head, Wayne lifted his aching lips off the thing, and was too dazed to lick the drops of spunk from his bottom lip so they just smeared his stubbly chin. Tired and confused, he leant over and dropped his head to David’s waist, resting it sideways against the lower abs and staring close-quarters at the quivering prick he’d just serviced. He brought his hand back to it and teased it slowly, hearing the sleepy gasps from his captain. Rooney stayed in exactly that position, too scared to move: specifically, too scared to turn his head and make eye contact with the beautiful man he’d just sucked off, terrified of how either of them might react to reality. So he just lay there, feeling Beckham’s torso rise and fall with his breaths, and stroking his sinking erection and fat balls, and feeling his own prick strain and scream at him in his boxer shorts. After a while, it became clear the England captain was asleep. His breaths became faint tickling snores. Wayne lifted his head of his midriff and sat up a little, taking his hand from David’s sticky flaccid nob and stuffing it down the front of his own shorts. He sat there on his side, sharing the bed, and began to toss himself off inside his boxers. Out of habit or desperation, he closed his eyes, and tried to imagine the usual material: the porno mag he’d stolen from an older bloke at Everton; the girls in his year at school who he’d made out with and in some cases shagged; even Beckham’s own stick-insect wife and the other Spice Girls. But no. His eyes opened, and he wanked himself off looking at the almost classical beauty of the nude man sprawled in his bed. Staring at this Renaissance painting of gentle masculinity, he shot his load, filling the insides of his boxers with sticky goo, and panting heavily where he sat. He could still taste Beckham’s seed in his mouth. Quietly, Rooney climbed off the bed, and went to the bathroom. He washed the spunk off his right hand, thoroughly, and then brushed his teeth again, staring at his dead-eyed reflection and shivering a bit in the cool night. He went and shut the window, and stared at the sprawling physique taking up his own bed. Another instinct, one he batted away, invited him in; he could climb in there and curl up against Beckham now, the man he’d satisfied, and sleep on his chest. Fuck, no. Into the other bed, David’s abandoned sheets. `It wasn’t anyone’s finest moment, was it?’ Rooney blinked and shook himself, and strained to listen more carefully as the journalist repeated their question. He stared forward into the laptop on his dining table, hearing but not taking in the words the ex-player at his desk was repeating with an impatient smile. `Your debut,’ nudged the Sky Sports presenter over the webcam. `It wasn’t England’s finest hour. 3-0 to Oz! But still � you put in almost 45 minutes and everyone was impressed by your skills.’ `Er, yeh,’ Wayne drawled in lazy Scouse, blinking again and returning to the moment. The 34-year-old veteran stroked the short thick beard at his chin and sat back in his chair, unsettled but regaining focus. `No, it was � obviously it wasn’t the best match, but � it were a good experience, an exciting start for me, and erm…’ `As I said, everyone was impressed by your skills, but one man in particular!’ `Eh?’ `David Beckham, I believe…’ Wayne froze up a little, rested both hands against the tabletop, but then the reporter on the screen was reading out a statement from 2003, quoting the then-captain and his praise of a teenage colleague’s grit, determination and willingness to try new techniques. Wayne stored blankly into the webcam, scratched his beard again, and forced a smile. `He was a great captain,’ he replied stiffly. The interview went on. A short piece some team at Sky were doing on England international debuts. He’d agreed to it in a flash, always happy to talk about those glorious moments, and in need of any occupation outside the busy family life lockdown gave him, home-schooling the boys. But for a moment, the questions about his first match had roused THOSE memories, and he shifted uncomfortably in his seat. It hadn’t occurred to him how significant that Wembley visit had been until he’d started discussing it here, online with the Sky presenter, but he remembered every second of that weekend in vivid detail. The press conference, the team talk, the training, the meal, the post-match interviews… the hotel room. `Let’s talk about that first goal though,’ the presenter said eagerly down the mic, `coming a little later in 2003 � that was your REAL debut, in a sense, wasn’t it, Wayne…?’ `Yes,’ Rooney said firmly, putting aside thoughts of that secret night, `let’s talk about THAT…’