premiership-lads-210

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Subject: Premiership Lads Part 210: Roonaldo Part 210: Roonaldo Around him, the big main lounge at the back of their house twinkled with the slow throb of far too many fairy lights, enough to give him a headache as he picked the decanter off its shelf and glugged a heavy measure of its amber contents into one of the fancy tumblers from the new set he’d received just last Christmas, when the world had seemed normal. He pushed the heavy bottle back to its place and twirled the glass in his large clumsy hand, swirling the fiery brown whiskey in its glass before taking a first sip and backing away from the drinks cabinet. He moved across the veritable grotto they had made of their lounge space, a grotesquely large and decorated tree leaning ominously in its corner spot, and all the other gaudy outcomes of a long Friday evening’s decoration. Drink in hand, he crossed the room back to the large stately armchair that was very much his spot in the family room, content to sit up alone a little longer before joining Coleen in bed. It had been a fun night in, after he finally made it back from the training centre, berated by the whole clan for his tardiness — but ready to play daddy and help get the place looking festive ahead of the proper build-up to Christmas. Wayne Rooney just needed this one slow drink to round it off and then he could hit the pillow, fully relaxed in comparison to the frenetic mood that had occupied his days since his manager was sacked and the gauntlet was thrown his way. It had been soothing and fun, losing himself in this festivity and premature hype, and as it turned out, exactly what he needed. But other things had helped, of course. With his free hand, Wayne tugged briefly at the front of the arctic-patterned thick pyjama pants he was wearing baggy across his thick muscular thighs, adjusting the fall of his bulge there, remembering his experience back at Moor Farm in the fitness suite changing rooms. He held his hand gently at the crotch of his bottoms and supped the burning whiskey with slow thoughtful sighs, his upper body snuggled beneath layers of tshirt and cardigan, warm and cosy with the dying embers of an exposed fire crackling to their death at the far end of the lounge, tucked away behind several grates for the safety of the youngsters. He thought about his encounter with Bobby Duncan with a warm mix of regret and relish. He shouldn’t have done it, he could see that sharply now, in the soft Santa glow of the lounge; it was a terribly stupid and irresponsible way to take out his debutant frustrations! What a fool, do degrade himself like that before a player he now coached, even on the outskirts of the main squad; and a player so young and unpredictable, what if he went around telling everybody…? Pfft. Who would believe him? Would he be okay about it? He’d seemed so fucking stunned. And yet, with these worried questions pinging on and off like the lights on the tree, Wayne still felt a buzz of pride and satisfaction, a touch of `still got it, eh’ egotism and a smug knowledge that the sweaty little fumble between he and the teen had been a great antidote to the day’s worry. The almost-retired footballer sagged back in the comfortable chair, taking a couple more brief potent sips of the aged drink, turning the visual memory over with those same threads of self-criticism and guilty laddish thrill — picturing the hotness of that fresh young stud and how easily he had been encouraged into playing. Wayne pictured his bare cock and imagined himself stooping down to taste it, then the more dominant thrill of pushing his own sweaty member into his plump lips. He remembered the snarling rush as he’d crouched to lick the boy clean before ushering him into the showers and leaving him to his blinking daze. God, it took him back. He’d been so fucking well-behaved of late, especially since arriving in Derby for this new direction to his career, these first steps into coaching and leadership. Not like some of the busier moments of his playing career, he’d supposed, where he was throwing half his salary at sex workers and occasionally dipping his manhood in less predictable territory, including those sporadic encounters with teammates. He thought of his strained innocence in the early years of his prime, around the time of his England debut and that confusing first incident with Golden Balls himself; it had left the 17-year-old Rooney most perplexed about his own tastes and leanings. Dormant curiosities of his council estate upbringing had been stirred into a frenzy by the attention of that intoxicating older man, the Three Lions captain of the era, an absolute hero and role model for the young Everton player — Wayne was not shy with himself of how much the aura of Becks had lured him to Manchester United when he first ditched his boyhood club of Everton, even if the superstar midfielder had already moved abroad to his next adventure. Still, a mix of sporting ambition and a boyish crush had made him very susceptible to the team’s big names and bigger money. And that, he thought, cradling his nightcap and stroking the scratchy red-tinged beard across his square jaw, was how he’d come to meet Cristiano Ronaldo… The two teenagers met for the first time several days after the ink dried on Rooney’s new contract. For Wayne, it was a less exciting prospect than some of the more well-established United names, like Scholes and Keane and Ferdinand, but even then in 2004, Cristiano was viewed as an exciting prospect; Old Trafford’s exotic Portuguese import and the much-touted future of the team, a teen prodigy of a very different ilk to the mumbling scally from Liverpool. It was only when they were in a room together that Rooney felt oddly starstruck by Ronaldo, having already experienced a series of dazzling one-to-ones with long-serving United stars who heaped praise on him for his past few years’ work at Everton, visibly delighted that their own Premiership side had snared the young talent. It had all been fantastic for his ego, making him strut around with a new confidence that his thuggish looks and diminutive stature had often denied him. He had just completed a rather arduous fitness assessment with one of Sir Alex Ferguson’s assistants, impressing him at almost every drill and test, so he was strutting through the still novel passages of the United training camp, a very self-satisfied 18-year-old slowly getting used to catching sight of himself in the Red Devils colours reflected in windows and mirrors. There was always a little flash of guilt at the logo and garish red, used to the blue of his previous team, and haunted by how hated he must now be in many corners of Liverpool. The stocky teenager was moving through the various impressive and currently abandoned fitness areas of the training centre’s top floor, wishing there were a few more players in here to meet and greet, but largely lost in a private triumph after the day’s challenges, speculating impatiently on whether he might get his first start at the weekend already. He whistled chirpily to himself, rubbing a hand-towel across the sweaty back of his neck and craving a cool shower and maybe a dip in the recovery pool if he could get access — then walking straight into the other lad in the doorway to the changing area, their strong young bodies crashing into one another with a little clash of bone as he butted the taller kid in the chin. Rooney reeled back, lifting a hand to the momentary sore of his brow, then stared dumbly at the young man opposite him, clutching the side of his face and making a cat-like yowl of pain. He swore in another language — Portuguese, Wayne quickly guessed — and gestured irritably at him with the other hand. It was somehow his height that struck him the most, a 6ft2 beanpole of a lad who seemed to tower over Wayne’s own broad 5ft9; the height somehow exaggerated by the bunched-up highlighted locks of his glistening dark hair above his long bony face. `Whoa, careful,’ Wayne mumbled quickly, keen to push the blame away from himself and laugh off their mutual carelessness, sure he hadn’t actually injured the taller teenager. `Did I hurt ya? You alright, lad?’ He glared cautiously at his new teammate, biting his lip. In front of him, Ronaldo rubbed at his jaw preciously, glared furiously at him, and then seemed to puff out his chest and square up to him, exaggerating his height. `No,’ he replied simply and contradictorily, given his loud reaction and fussing. Wayne met his stare, a little confused; it was as if the Portuguese lad had no idea who he even was, compared to the warm welcome of so many older footballers he had been gradually introduced to in his first couple of days transitioning. `Rooney,’ the Scouse teen said loudly, shoving a chunky hand out towards him, `Wayne Rooney.’ The other teen screwed up his long handsome face and narrowed his eyes. `What?’ he demanded in heavily accented English. `Wayne Rooney,’ the 18-year-old returned thickly, suddenly so conscious of the rattling burr of his accent. He said his name a third time, really enunciating the three simple syllables and staring hopefully at the other attention-grabbing striker of the changing United squad. The foreign player’s acknowledgement was a lofty grunt, still looking down his attractive nose at him, wavering in front of him in the doorway. The tall, tanned lad wore a tight-fitting long-sleeved training top and what had to be the skimpiest shorts Wayne had ever seen, hugging the smooth browned muscle of his thighs as he towered there. Ronaldo, only 19, was a charismatic and arresting figure even then, and his presence cut through the bravado that Rooney had been building since his arrival here at the start of the week. `Good to meet ya,’ the Scouser said, since it was clear his teammate — rival? — was not going to. He shoved the hand forward for a shake and Cristiano just seemed to stare at it. His eyes moved stormily back up and again he just said, `What?’ At this point it occurred to Wayne that perhaps the other lad’s English was pretty poor still, rather than just the obstacle of his own accent — or a combination of the two, maybe. `I said, er, it is GOOD to MEET you, eh…’ He grabbed roughly at Cristiano’s reluctant hand, shaking his smooth skinned palm and fingers and staring uncertainly at him, a little overwhelmed by the size and presence of him, and also the rich perfumed scent he seemed to exude as naturally as if he was sweating pure cologne. Wayne carried on in the special international language of the ignorant Brit, namely just English but louder: `I CAN’T WAIT TO, er, GET PLAYING WITH YA, erm…’ And Ronaldo responded now but just with a muttered string of words, lifting the hand that had shaken Rooney’s and patting it against his arm; for a moment it seemed like a friendly welcoming gesture from the other youngster, who was just about to start his second season in the English Premiership, but no: he was actually just pushing Rooney aside, and the shorter stockier lad had no choice but to amble sideways and obey, allowing the tall slick figure of the ex-Lisbon player to sweep on through into whatever gym suite he was planning to use this afternoon, still muttering something to himself and absolutely ignoring Wayne’s mersin escort gawping admiration. The tall, long-legged figure of the tanned adonis strutted away, rolling his neck and shoulders as he strutted in his almost catwalk fashion, his top hugging the long muscular shape of his back and his arse perfectly round and pert in the bunched fabrics of his gym shorts. Wayne stared admiringly after him, jolting a little as he realised how south his eyes were going, and reminding himself that he was purely admiring the obvious physical perfection of the other striker, compared to the puppy fat and rugged potential of his own youthful build. They were both quite new here, both pretty young, both much-touted strikers of the new generation — if he’d thought about it at all, Wayne might have hoped this could be an exciting new friend for his fresh start at United, an international ally as his career went from strength to strength. But nope; clearly the talented European forward had zero interest in a pug-faced Scouser rival turning up to compete for his position, and even less interest in trying to understand the crackling static of his own heavily accented English. And in short, that summed up Rooney and Ronaldo’s relationship for the next couple of months, the early chunk of the season campaign for Manchester United: an awkward disinterest that screamed loudly to Wayne but seemed unnoticed and uninteresting to everybody around him. He was welcomed very quickly into the team, rapidly making his mark with a string of plucky performances and improbable goals; the men, British and otherwise, largely took him under their wing and seemed to treasure him as a powerful new figure. At first, his age led him to be patronised, but it didn’t take many matches for Wayne to show his sporting maturity, having debuted so young for Everton and England, and he could tell he was really getting his feet under the table by the time his 19th birthday approached. Ronaldo, though, seemed to just stare over his head and ignore him unless they were playing together in training or on the real pitch. He was quite aloof, though Rooney noticed that his broken English was used with a certain respect for the coaches and a few stalwarts on the squad, like Paul Scholes and Roy Keane. Over the weeks of home and away games, Rooney couldn’t help but speculate on whether there was something more personal and specific in the way his international parallel snubbed and disregarded him, or if he was just another minor figure in his peripheral figure. Ronaldo’s long-sighted ambition was evident in everything he did. Rooney was not blind to the fact that his fascination with the 19-year-old was more than just professional rivalry or hope for a closer friend than he’d so far made among the United crew; after his glowing initiation from Beckham, he couldn’t fail to notice the many assets and qualities of this Portuguese adonis. He was a sort of dazzling opposite to him and he had heard older players make innocently joking comments on the contrast. Where Cristiano was tall, he was just below average; where Cristiano seemed to retain an impossibly walnut tan in the wet Manchester climate, he was pallid and freckled like an Irish famine survivor; where Ronaldo preened at the gelled tumble of his hair and courted Beckham comparisons for his sharp style, Rooney looked as much like a Year 11 on non-uniform day as a Premiership footballer. It bugged him, scratching at insecurities from his earlier teens, but it also excited him. He found himself watching the taller and more worldly athlete in odd little moments, boarding the coach or listening to team talks from Fergie. He tried his best to throw gambits of friendship his way, strike up some kinda simplistic banter between them. At best, this earned indifference and at worst, he was treated to the same contemptuous snarl as that first encounter when he’d crashed straight into him in the Man Utd training complex. But then as September became October and both youths really settled into their roles as the exciting new firepower in an ageing squad, there was an odd little incident that seemed to twist this aloof indifference and cold distance into something more sinister and aggravating. It was the first time the pair of them had roomed together. For his first half dozen away matches, Rooney had been placed with Scholes and a couple of other senior men, clearly under watchful eyes and guidance — though sharing a room with Rio Ferdinand just last Sunday had hardly been a protective bubble of professionalism, when the older man sneaked a waitress into their room and proceeded to fuck her in the next bed, whelping and squealing and then inviting Wayne to have a go on her when he was done. He’d been just about to tentatively agree to the sordid offer when the woman just giggled and said something patronising about his youth, leaving the room and damning the teenager to a night of barely suppressed erection while a sweaty naked Rio snored in the parallel bed, his naked thigh and hip on show amongst the tousled sheets. Tonight, in a London trip to face off against Chelsea, he was finally paired in a hotel suite with the other teen goal machine, and he couldn’t help but hold out hope that it might spark a bit more connection and brotherhood between them. As it happened, his vain attempts to charm and befriend the distant lad would only bring them to blows. It started with a joke. `You should get a personal hairdresser to bring on away games,’ he quipped across the room at Cristiano, hunched on his bed with a newspaper spread over his bare legs, glancing across at the way the tall shirtless stud toyed with his blond highlights and admired himself in the full length mirror on the back of their door. Instantly, Ronaldo glared this way and paused in his personal care, showing no indication of whether he understood the comment or not. `Y’know, keep it looking just as you like it,’ the Scouser added with a rattling chuckle, trying to convey that this was just an affectionate poke between pals. `You mock my hair?’ Ronaldo demanded after a few beats. `Wha’? Nah — not really, I mean-` `YOU?’ spat the Portuguese lad. `YOU mock my hair? Huh!’ Rooney, with the insecurities of the gangly big-eared teen scamp he had been before football helped his body to fill out, held back an instant annoyance and anger, gripping and crumpling the pages of his News of the World. `Huh, fair point,’ he scowled playfully back, choosing to jump on the snappy comment rather than get touchy. He scrambled the paper aside and swung his thick fluffy legs off the bed, swaggering across the room with more gestures of friendly joking. `Jus’ sayin’, y’know, yer a lad who looks after himself, so-` Ronaldo just made a little snort, flaring his nostrils, and turning back to the mirror with a ripple of his long torso. `Yes, I am,’ he said vainly and dismissively. Pausing near to him, the Englishman punched his knuckles together lamely and loitered there, feeling ugly and dull against the showmanship of the preening shirtless foreigner. `They call you the next Beckham,’ he said in a voice flat with pessimism, sensing the disinterest and hostility in his roommate. When there was no answer, he threw another playful comment. `Back at Everton, y’know, the lads would call me Roo-naldo for a joke, y’know, just a bit of banter, cos you were making a splash here, an’…’ `Roo,’ spat Cristiano, `-naldo.’ He glared at him indirectly, their eyes meeting in the mirror. `That is stupid,’ he assessed simply, something critical and affronted in his eyes, as if an ogre-ish young Liverpudlian jokingly adopting his name was a direct insult to his swarthy Madeiran beauty. `I guess,’ Wayne said weakly, giving a hollow laugh. He could feel how forced his attempts at conversation were, knew how limited and functional his teammate’s slowly progressing English actually was — which he could hardly be judgmental of, given his own absolute dearth of language skills — and how futile any attempt at friendship was going to be just now. He scratched at his short scruffy cut of hair and pulled at the baggy white Nike tshirt he wore over his loose-fitting black boxer shorts, slobbish and casual against the sharp exposure of the tanned body. His eyes traced those already ripped and evident muscles. `Stop looking at me,’ said Cristiano sharply, turning to look at him properly. `Wha’?’ `Stop it,’ demanded the Portuguese man. `Stop staring. You look. All time. Stop it.’ Rooney frowned deeply, stung by truth. `Fuck off,’ he barked. `Stare at you? Fuckin’ poser.’ `You hear me, stop,’ Ronaldo demanded harshly, slapping his own bare smooth chest and tossing his head imperiously. `It not normal.’ He turned to move away, finished preening over his hair and whatever special products he was using, but this time Rooney’s mood did flare and the insecurities gave birth to aggression; he grabbed at the taller lad’s forearm and yanked powerfully on it, squaring up to him despite the height difference and practically growling in his face. `Who do you think you fuckin’ are, Ronnie?’ Wayne spat, almost literally, tugging at his arm and pushing him back with the other hand, sending him tumbling a few steps and following him, ready for a fight. `Fuckin’ stuck-up prick, with yer fancy bullshit and all yer fussin’ about, big foreign poof…’ `Speak ENGlish,’ snarled his roommate, either with ironic contempt for his rapid Scouse gibbering or in genuine confusion at his muttered insults. `How dare you… TOUCH me…’ And he was advancing forward, his leaner chest puffed out and his shoulders squared, the two teens coming rapidly face to face but not striking, both seeming to expect the other to retreat or concede as they flexed their arms and shoulders and bared teeth. Rooney was not shy of a fight, had been a bruiser since a young age, and had only started avoiding scraps on the estate when his youth coaches told him off for too many black eyes and sprained wrists. But he didn’t actually want the trouble and fuss of laying into this prima donna in their hotel room! He could feel his anger flare and sense the readiness for violence in the wild-eyed stallion of a 19-year-old, and for a good few seconds escalation seemed inevitable; he could see Ronaldo about to launch at him and he felt a certain confidence that he could best him, since he was much heavier and undoubtedly more experienced and vicious, and then… Cristiano just scoffed and spat something in his own language that sounded like it could easily be along the lines of `not even worth it’, retreating from him and swinging his arms in a showy manner, as if trying to convey how easily he could have beaten Wayne if he’d wanted to; the Scouse lad just stood his ground, sneering, and rolled his eyes, deciding to abandon the fruitless mission of befriend this uptight cunt. Fuck it, he’d probably piss off back to the Continent in January and then Rooney could be the undoubted teen sensation of Old Trafford, no need to contend with this Brylcreem poster boy wannabe. That night, and the morning that followed, were tense and awkward. They were even taken aside at half-time during the match and explicitly told by the manager that they both needed escort mersin to work on their communication and interplay, and neither teenage sportsman could quite look at the other, cheeks burning and bodies tensed in rage. All through the remainder of the London trip, Wayne anticipated a further blow-up of his own or his roomie’s aggression, but it didn’t come; the same silent treatment resumed, but now with a layer of ice rather than indifference, and with a lot less goodwill and optimism on the younger lad’s part. He no longer gave a fuck about making a good impression on that smug tosser, he just wanted to prove he was better than him and show him what a rough scally from Merseyside was really capable of. It was a good week later when that next blow-up of their teenage egos struck. It was a wet night in Manchester, but while many of the players gladly retreated indoors to shower or physio or whatever, the two young strikers gladly hung on, encouraged by one of the assistant coaches to engage in some shooting practice right up until the wire. Even as the drizzle became a downpour, Wayne and Cristiano took it in turns to fire balls past the junior goalkeeper on duty for them, praised and encouraged by a soaked-through football coach. It didn’t begin as competitive or loaded; Wayne was just putting in another solid shift, still trying to define himself as a really central figure in this team in spite of his youth and newness. But when the other forwards and attacking midfielders drifted away and it became just the two of them, the heat was instantly on. Two very different teenagers, two very different playing styles, a whole lot of smoothly executed goals and a lot of embarrassment for the aspiring goalie who was failing to hold off their strikes. Little had been said between Rooney and Ronaldo since their tense night in opposite beds in a London hotel, and now their booted feet did the talking. Wayne grunted and huffed out great misty clouds of breath, blinking rainwater from his bright blue eyes and hunching his solid little body against the worsening weather. He ignored a muffled comment from the lad in goal and some speculative worry of the watching coach, lining up to take and score another shot. In it went, like all the others, ball after ball; it was like a game of chicken, the pair of them just waiting for the other to fail. One moment Wayne would be swinging a thick hairy leg at the positioned football and smashing it into the net, and the next the tall, elegant figure of his rival would be strutting past to match him goal for goal. Neither lad really looked at the other, they communicated through the medium of the gibbering 22-year-old in the net. As a result, Wayne was slow to realise it was over, balancing the ball on the exact spot with his foot and preparing to strike even as he realised the goal was abandoned and the coach had, at last, called time on their rain-drenched session. He stayed where he was, his boot over the ball, his whole meaty body primed for at least one more hard strike, though it hardly felt worth the effort when there was no keeper to defeat. Just an open goal, gaping at him in the dark wet twilight. He squinted through wet eyes at the fading figures of the layered coach and the awkwardly hurrying goalie, and then to Cristiano himself, still stood a couple of metres from him, his body erect and strong against the weather as if he was far too cool and beautiful and powerful to be even half-concerned by Mancunian downpour. He was looking this way, the same contemptuous expression on his face as always. Wayne pulled his foot back, adjusting the position of the ball and turning on the spot, then lobbing it bitterly towards him — not aggressively hard, but with enough force to make him lose his composure and have to swerve to avoid it crashing into his pelvis. Cristiano righted himself quickly and let out a barking little laugh against the loud drumbeat of the rain, tossing back the blond-and-brown tendrils of his hair. 6ft2 of muscle, his United training kit looking stuck to his body. `You smug prick,’ Wayne grunted, loudly enough, but his voice lost in the sounds of the storm. They seemed alone out here, in the pools of light against the settling autumn night, everyone else indoors and away from the elements. Somehow, in the midst of the storm, Rooney could not take his eyes off the other footballer, who stared angrily back at him, neither of them making any move for the safety of the buildings that loomed about them. Ronaldo said nothing, and Rooney stomped past him over the wet grass, moving to stoop for the ball and snatch it up, hugging it below one thick long-sleeved arm, needing to get it inside with the rest of the props and kit — then feeling the savage unnecessary kick connect with his thigh just as he moved to straighten back up, some petty lashing out by the other lad. His boots slid against wet grass and he caught his weight against his free hand, awkwardly crouched for a moment before shooting back upright and whirling on the other lad, whose face was full of the silly bitterness that had provoked the sneaky little attack. Wayne lunged at him, ball still clutched under one arm, and the taller guy swerved back — so instead punching him in his frustrating face, he clutched at the chest of his shirt, pulling at him and lunging into him as if to headbutt him, as if to viciously repeat that little accidental knock of their first awkward meeting. Back Ronaldo slid, mouthing a string of insults at him that Rooney didn’t have the language skills to guess at; the escalation of their simmering unease was sudden and uncomfortable, but also thrilling. It was a relief for Wayne to smack a fist into the hard stomach muscles of that stupid tall prick, and toss the ball aside to free up his other arm, and then go tussling with him to the grass in a strange whirling motion like a pair of animals. The storm raged on overhead, their bodies skidding across the grass; Wayne felt his bare knees scrape the ground and the bone-deep chill of the rain seeping through the bottom layers of his kit. `Damn it,’ he roared at this impetuous poser who had started the conflict again, grasping for his shirt as they both scrabbled to get off the ground; but his long arms were lashing out and he was much stronger than he looked after all, not just wiry and slim as he sometimes appeared. Wayne crashed back against the grass and pulled the other guy down with him, kneeing him in the side of the leg and trying to thump his hard-packed tummy again. Their bodies rolled and twisted, dragging across the wet grass beneath in muddy streaks. Rooney realised part of him had been waiting for the unnecessary and idiotic fight to be broken up at any second — it had been years since he really fought, without a crowd rushing to separate him and his opponent. But there was nobody here to separate them, he realised, everybody was inside. He looked about him in a wild lashing movement, blinking stupidly against the heavy darkness and the blurred glow of floodlights on the far side of the pitch. He was back on his feet and so was Ronaldo, both of them in the mouth of the goal at this far end of the training pitch, away from the bright lights and the windows of the buildings. Wayne turned back and charged at the smug Portuguese fucker, barging into him like a small bull, gripping at his slippery body, feeling the muscles beneath the wet shirt, dragging him down forward, pulling their taut bodies down once more until they were on top of each other, beside and now behind the goal, rolling and grappling and… And suddenly he was on top of him, pinning him to the grass with the solid weight of his shorter but thicker body, pressing down into those shoulders, glaring angrily at him and feeling his eyes sting with the rain gushing over his caveman brow. Ronaldo’s precious hair was a tangled mess, a scattered fringe in his eyes, his taller body writhing beneath him and hands snatching out for him. Rooney panted, pausing on top of the hard body, suddenly wanting to feel it more directly; he grasped at the wet layers of training shirt and thermals beneath and dragged them up, exposing the glistening wet muscles of six-pack to the evening gloom. He pushed the top up to the top of Ronaldo’s chest, baring pecs and brown nipples too, staring down at the body below him and then stooping to kiss it. The arms that had lashed out gripped him now but clung onto him rather than pushed him away, alarmed and surprised as he kissed and bit at those thick knots of nipple and ran his tongue against the cold wet skin between them. Panting like an animal, Wayne pushed backwards, sliding his knees over the wet grass, kissing down the hard landscape of Cristiano’s abdomen, still pushing and writhing at the layers of his top but then pawing his rough hands down the hard flanks of his torso… he paused with his mouth just above the 19-year-old’s navel and blinked damply at him, seeing the twisted uncertain expression on the European’s face. And then he pushed down, mouthing at the front of those wet shorts carelessly, feeling what he really wanted to feel, the tight large package in the trunks beneath the baggy Manchester shorts, which he began to rag at until they slid damply away from chilled skin. There on the wet grass in the darkness behind the training goal, he tugged down at the taller lad’s shorts and exposed his cold-shrunken privates, the almost naked careful trim of his pubic hair, and pulled his hot strong mouth about the shrivelled cool snake of Ronaldo’s prick; warming it, licking it, tasting it. This was madness, everything about it, but on he went: pressing his palms against the ladder of abdominals, feeling how strong and ripped Cristiano was, and pulling his lips about the stiffening curve of his prick. He felt Ronaldo’s hands grasp and push ambiguously at his short mousy hair and at his chunky shoulders, one moment seeming to thrust him away and the next to pull him in closer. Ronaldo was gasping something but in Portuguese — it didn’t matter, the rain was too loud for Rooney to hear anything, so the pair of rabid teenagers communicated only through skin to skin. Mouth to cock. Hand to hand, as one of Cristiano’s fists grabbed at his over his six-pack, interlocking and testing their stern fingers, some gesture of competition and attack but also comfort and connection. Wayne pulled his face back and regarded the stretching semi that he now held, the impressive wet majesty of the other striker’s prick. It was massive, it really was. Ronaldo was staring at him in an aghast fashion that suggested he had not enjoyed any exploratory forays in his teen years like Rooney had, but he was getting harder by the second, and his hands were reaching greedily for his body. Rooney grasped and jerked his long thick cock until it was even more fully hard and then licked it again, tasting rainwater against its shaft, the storm battering down against their bodies, making them chafe and shiver as they tugged and grasped and pushed at one another. `Up,’ Rooney barked, when he next took his chapped lips away from the huge proportions of the gorgeous-tasting cock, and he grabbed both hands at Ronaldo’s as they both staggered up. But no mersin escort bayan sooner were they on their feet, skidding and clutching each other, than he pushed forward at the taller charismatic fella, shoving him towards the sheer wall of sponsor logos and pointless advertising that enclosed this training field. Their bodies staggered and slammed into it, denting plyboard, making it groan against their weight, Wayne throwing his thick sleeved arm about the slim torso of the taller boy and kissing him on his long neck, mouthing greedily beside his Adam’s apple and biting gently at the sides of his neck. Even over the storm, he could hear Ronaldo’s groans. `Turn around!’ he roared into his ear. `Turn around you smug fuck!’ He turned Ronaldo quite forcibly, grasping at him and pushing him hard against the plyboard of the fencing, unable to keep his greedy hands off the bared skin of his midriff and muscle, pushing those shorts further down. He pushed one hand into his neck, pressing his face forward against the fencing, and slapped his other hand hard against the rock-hard muscle of one bare buttock. `Ohhhh,’ moaned the Portuguese boy, `ohhhh yes…’ Wayne slapped him again, hard. `Fuck, you’re sexy,’ he crackled excitedly. It had not really occurred to Rooney that he wanted to fuck a lad. He’d loved his early teenage experiences of humping girls and his brief taste of man-to-man fun had begun to open his eyes, but still he’d never explicitly imagined doing this. But now here in the dangerous dark, it was all he could think about, he felt as if he couldn’t face the rest of his life if he didn’t do this here and now. He grabbed at and squeezed those uncomfortably hard glutes, pressing himself at the other lad, grunting and snarling incoherently at him. When he pushed his fingers in, Cristiano made a yowling noise, and grabbed at his other hand, pulling it in tight against his glorious six-pack, which felt like an invite. Wayne pushed his finger in deeper, exploring the insanely tight passage with one digit and kissing the back of his neck, brief flashing thoughts of how risky this all was exploding at the back of his mind. But he ignored that and jigged his finger back and forth, prodding and testing the entrance between those rock-like slabs of arse cheeks… his own thick tool swollen and eager in his drenched shorts. `I’m gonna fuck you,’ he panted into Ronaldo’s ear. `Gonna fuck you like a girl, bitch.’ Whatever whining response came from the foreigner, he couldn’t understand it, but in went a second finger, stretching the agonising tightness of Ronaldo’s hole. He jabbed the two thick digits in deeper, thrusting his wrist at that perfect arse, grasping his hand and six-pack with the other, kissing the top of his spine more forcefully. He pushed in so that his hard-on in his shorts rubbed the arse cheeks and he felt Cristiano shudder at more than just the weather. The tall lad arched his back and pushed back with his cheeks. More than enough invitation. Wayne was driven by a mad angry lust that countered the difficulty of breaking in this rock-hard muscular adonis — he pressed the head of his sweaty Scouse cock between those cheeks, his shorts bunched about his thighs and beneath the curve of his own hairy young buttocks, and thrust inside him. It was difficult, like poking his cock at a brick wall, but Cristiano howled and whimpered and squeezed at his hands and wrists and writhed back into him, grinding his crack up and down and running his twitching hole against that thick mushroom. Wayne kept prodding forward, pushing his cock against the virginal entrance until, very slowly, he felt it start to give — he paused to roughly finger it for a moment, and then he was in, pushing his cock inside this arrogant rival who had been nothing but rude and unpleasant to him. Out there in the cold October rain of 2004, the 18-year-old Scouser broke in and fucked the tall tanned majesty of the Madeiran. He held him tight in both arms, biceps against his sides and hands reaching down past his abs to stroke his gargantuan cock, a brotherly reach-around while he humped rabidly at him. Their bodies crashed repeatedly against the corrugated plyboard, denting and breaking it where they fucked standing up, Wayne slamming his weight into Cristiano and thus slamming them both against the sheer wall of commercial imagery. Hard rainfall lashed their half-dressed bodies and their skin tingled with icy goosebumps in spite of the heat they were generating. Rooney fucked and fucked, piling inside him inch by inch, gripping him tightly and feeling every muscle twitch and convulse in his hold, until before long he was spilling his seed inside him, letting out whimpering orgasmic gasps into the back of his shaggy wet hair, feeling those poncey blond highlights tickle at his eyebrows and freckled forehead, loving the smell and taste of him, seeding him and holding him tightly while Ronaldo whined and gasped and parted his hands to let Wayne wank him off. He kept his own sticky prick inside him while he jerked him, not pulling it out of that ultra-tight ring that closed about his girth. Maybe Ronaldo came, maybe he didn’t, everything was so wet and slick it was impossible to tell. And one moment their contrasting bodies were held tight against the fencing, heating one another and shaking with lust, and the next they were apart, freezing cold and wet, dragging at disrupted kit and panting out little plumes of icy mist. Ronaldo’s eyes were wide and his mouth hung open, flickering expressions of different emotions on his face. Rooney growled and panted, worn out by the mad exertions of what he had done. He stopped and stared at the ot her lad, his rival or enemy no longer, and reached a commanding hand for the flopping bulge in his shorts. `Friends?’ he grunted against the roar of the storm. `Friends,’ agreed Cristiano Ronaldo in a reedy, questioning voice, stroking fingers against his pecs. Strange to think that he had ever allowed his body to be used like that. It was, after all, a work of art, or technical expertise, a piece of high-spec machinery and the envy of the footballing world. As he stood there in the Benevento `away’ changing rooms, dressed in only a pair of grey-blue boxer briefs with his own branding on the waistband, he knew that his physique was better than men ten years younger and fresher than his 35 years, and that he could outplay any man in this room. Around him, the rest of the Juventus squad were slipping on their kit, ready for their Saturday afternoon away game against another Italian opponent, but Ronaldo liked to take his time, parading his tall impressive body for them all as a token of his alpha status, happy to be the last man shirtless in this busy changing room of testosterone and muscle. And on the screen, a small wall-mounted television in this corner of the guest facilities of the Italian stadium, an international football channel was flickering between key developments of their treasured sport — and dwelling for now on the Championship, England’s second-rate league that so rarely caught any attention in the rest of the continent. But the 1-1 game in question had its own international interest, and its own particular interest to Cristiano, smirking nostalgically at the outcome from his posing spot. So Rooney was a manager now, he mused idly, catching more sightings of the gruff aged figure his fellow 35-year-old had become, frowning in the dugout and looking much older than him now with his scratchy beard and managerial position. But in some way those beady blue eyes and jutting little ears were the same jovial features of the freckled trash kid Cristiano had befriended in Manchester sixteen years ago. He chuckled distantly to himself, adjusting his drooping bulge in the front of his CR7 underpants, and stretching out his legs and arms to show off his muscles more to the nearby guys before, eventually, beginning to pick up the items of his Juventus away kit and dressing for the impending football game. Rooney, and Manchester United, felt so distant to him now. The five years the men had shared at that Premiership club were defining for so many reasons, but right now it was the fucking that Cristiano remembered, the strange outbursts of animal greed that had consumed them a few times every season. Never before or since had the big superstar allowed himself to be treated like that, grabbed and possessed with such force and urgency; quite the opposite, in fact, having gone on to become a man of such dominant behaviour and appetites that he could hardly picture it. It made him smirk and chuckle to imagine himself fucked against a wall in a storm-ravaged football pitch by that English yob, and yet it had happened over and over, his first induction to gay passion. Though Ronaldo had moved in very different directions since, he had no regret or internal shame to think of himself as Rooney’s occasional plaything, lavishly fellated and then violently topped; he could see that it had been a necessary dynamic between them in their late teens and early twenties, two hot-blooded beasts finding their way. It had ended as suddenly as it had begun, and remained unique in Cristiano’s many adventures since. Fastening his bootlaces and tucking in his Juventus shirt, he laughed and grinned to think of it, and the fact that his yobbo Wayne was now attempting to be a respectable head coach at some nothing team in middle England. They had both changed a lot since then, he concluded, deeply satisfied with his iconic status now in the twilight glory of his playing career, far more relevant and dynamic at 35 than that English ogre who he had once held as equal. Ronaldo moved in a different world now. Only the likes of Lionel Messi could compete with him now, and he had repeatedly shown that Argentine pretender who the true GOAT was, having made him his bitch in that hotel room all those years ago in front of poor heartbroken Guardiola. At 19, Cristiano Ronaldo had been a confused diva, too in love with himself to know what he wanted sexually from others; at 35, he was absolutely in control, and not only did he know exactly what he wanted, but he made damned sure it happened. The voice of the Juventus manager rang through the echoey changing area, calling them out into the tunnel to begin parading out onto the pitch. Cristiano straightened up, clicking his boot studs against the floor and hopping from foot to foot, limbering up his mighty 6ft2 body; player after player streamed past him to file out through the double-doors, and he found himself elbow to elbow with one in particular, the big blond Dutchman who was only recently back from injury. Next to him, Matthijs De Ligt was laughing loudly at the comment of another player, rolling his thick neck side to side and pulling one leg and then the other up in careful stretches that exaggerated the ridiculous thickness of each monster thigh as he did so. Noticing Ronaldo, the young Dutchman grinned and nodded respectfully, quipping an Italian team motto at him and moving on past him to join the queue, giving the older football ace a brief but satisfying view of his long broad back and his round prominent rear in his glossy shorts. At 35, Cristiano Ronaldo was absolutely in control, and not only did he know exactly what he wanted, but he made damned sure he got it: and right now, he wanted Matthijs de Ligt. *ANOTHER LITTLE EPIC OF NOUGHTIES FLASHBACK… HOPE IT WAS WORTH A VISIT TO 2004! LET ME KNOW WHAT YOU THOUGHT.*

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