Archive of Our Own

Chapter Text

Manchester smelled like shit.

Johnny was no stranger to big cities. He’d lived in Glasgow for the first nineteen years of his life, then London for the last two. Over the course of his career so far,  he’d played in nearly every major city in Europe, plus a handful in Asia and the States. But Christ, there was just something particularly rank about Manchester.

Still, Johnny couldn’t deny the way his gut twisted with both excitement and nerves as he disembarked from the team bus at the hotel. He and Simon hadn’t made any plans. They didn’t even have each other’s numbers. But they were in the same city at the same time, and that was as close as they’d gotten in exactly four weeks. 

Not that Johnny had been counting. 

He’d spent the last week tempering his expectations. Realistically, the chances of their paths crossing were disappointingly slim. United played Crystal Palace tomorrow, same afternoon Johnny and the rest of the Gunners would have their hands full with City. Afterward, he and the lads would probably hit the town, blow off some steam. It wouldn’t be too difficult to figure out which pubs were favourites of the United boys, but it wouldn’t matter — Simon Riley didn’t drink much. Didn’t even go out with the lads most of the time, barring birthdays. So the odds of manufacturing a run-in were pretty fucking low. 

And even if they did have a run-in, then what? They’d had a single night in London. Barely that, even: Simon had been back in his clothes and out the door hardly ten minutes after they’d finished. Simon had offered a maximum of ten words between the pub and Johnny’s flat, and the next day, he’d been on the team bus straight back to Manchester, no goodbyes, no let’s do this again sometime. Nothing. 

Four weeks. There was no guarantee Simon had any interest in an encore, or that Simon had even thought of him once in all that time. Never mind that Johnny thought of him every goddamned day. Never mind that Johnny had a sneaking suspicion that he was pretty well fucked when it came to Simon Riley, literally, figuratively, and every way in between. 

“Oi, Tavvy, you gonna stand there all day or do you plan on letting anyone else on the lift at some point?” 

With a jolt, Johnny realised he’d been standing in front of the lift staring blankly at the open doors, daydreaming about Simon bloody Riley. Jesus Christ. 

“Sorry,” he muttered, sliding in. 

Gary was just a step behind him. “What’s on your mind, mate? You’ve been spacey all day.” 

“Naw, I haven’t.” 

“Yeah, you have.” As the others piled onto the lift, Gary squinted at him. “You aren’t coming down with what Odegaard’s got, are you?” 

Odegaard was laid up back in London puking his guts out, poor bastard. The pundits had been speculating like mad all week about what that did to Arsenal’s chances against City. “’Course not,” Johnny said. “I’m fine.” 

Gary continued to study him for a long moment, then clapped him on the shoulder. “Alright, if you say so. But if you start barfing, I’m switching rooms.” 

“Can’t. No one else can put up with your snorin’.” 

“It’s not that bad.” 

“I beg to differ,” Allen volunteered from behind them. “I actually think I have hearing loss from that time you fell asleep on the bus behind me.” 

“You’ve gotta get it looked at, mate,” added Obaro. “It’s gotta be medical.” 

“It’s that big schnozz,” Nelson piled on. “Air can’t get through properly.” 

A chorus of snickers went round the lift. Gary aimed a glare over his shoulder. “Oh, piss off, dickheads. You’re all jealous, that’s what you are.” 

As the others carried on taking the piss out of Gary, Johnny performed the mental adjustments he’d been perfecting over the last few weeks: put Simon Riley in a box in the back of his head, put the box behind a locked door, put the locked door at the bottom of the bloody ocean, throw away the key. They had an uphill battle tomorrow against City. The absolute last thing Johnny needed was to be distracted. 

Normally he had no trouble falling asleep. His mam used to say he would’ve slept through the asteroid that killed the dinosaurs. But that night, he lay wide awake as Gary snored up a storm in the bed next to his. Staring unseeingly at the dim ceiling, he found himself wondering what Simon was doing. If he was sleeping. If he was dreaming. Or if he might be awake, too, staring at the ceiling of his bedroom, somewhere out there across the city. The thought filled Johnny with warm tension. 

Christ, he was so royally fucked. 

*

The match was miserable. Johnny played like shite and he knew it. Arteta pulled him off at the half, and Johnny spent the remainder of the game parked on the bench, ignoring the lighthearted jabs from his teammates about his piss-poor performance. “Woke up with two left feet, did ya?” Ferguson jeered. Johnny rolled his eyes and pretended to be engrossed in the drama on the pitch. 

They lost 4-1. Afterward, Johnny was dismissed to the dressing room with the majority of the team. Relieved he hadn’t been pulled to explain himself to the press, he hit the showers, scrubbed off in record time, and threw on his jeans and Genny’s t-shirt offering of the month: an all-black crew neck with a laughing unicorn on the front under a banner that read YOU’RE UNI-CORNY. As he cleared his texts (his mam telling him he’d put on a good show, which she always said even if he’d warmed the bench for ninety minutes; his da with a comment about the weather, their little inside joke whenever Johnny underperformed; his sisters crowding his messages with various thumbs-down emojis and booing gifs, except for Genny who hated football and never watched even for him), Gary dropped down beside him and nudged his shoulder.

“Right, so, everyone’s agreed you’re buying tonight,” he said. 

Looking up from his mobile, Johnny wrinkled his nose. “Why?” 

“Cos it was your back pass that gave them that second goal,” Keller said. 

“Aye, and it was your foul that gave ’em that penalty,” Johnny shot back. 

Three lockers down, Nelson shook his head. “Keller bought last week. It’s your turn, Tavvy.” 

Johnny wasn’t even in the mood to go out. Normally he did like unwinding after a loss with a couple of pints, but tonight his head wasn’t on right. He thought about going back to the hotel, FaceTiming Genny maybe — she wouldn’t give him any shit for his two left feet. Knowing her, she probably didn’t even know he’d played today. It was Saturday so she’d be at rehearsal. Listening to her rant about production delays and her cunt of a co-star would take Johnny’s mind off of other, more inadvisable things at least. 

In the midst of his mind’s idle wandering, his ears caught the tail end of what Parslow was saying across the way: “…where them United boys usually hang out.” 

Johnny straightened. “What’s that?” 

Parslow glanced at him. “Heard about a pub the United boys hang out at, that’s all. Probably shit if they like it though.”

That drew a handful of chuckles. As casually as he could manage, Johnny said, “Let’s go there then. Give ’em a good hecklin’ if we see any o’those dickheads.” 

“You lookin’ to get your arse kicked a second time, Tavvy?” Ferguson laughed. 

“Aw, Fergie,” Johnny scoffed, “you know I could take any of ’em.” 

A chorus of ooohs and taunts circled the dressing room. “Bold words!” Gary crowed, snapping his towel at Johnny. “Now we gotta go!” 

Johnny snatched up his own towel and threw it over his head, pretending to scrub at his already mostly dry hair to hide the mad grin he knew had broken across his face. Bloody hell. There wasn’t even any guarantee that Simon would be there. Odds were he wasn’t anywhere near. 

And yet — there was a chance. Johnny’s entire body was electrified by the possibility. 

Once all the lads who were wanting to go out had been rounded up, they headed back to the hotel for a quick wardrobe change and freshening up before rendezvousing at Deansgate station. Parslow led the way. Johnny spent the tram ride wondering if the leather jacket was total overkill. He couldn’t decide if it made him look fit or like an absolute knob. Genny had gotten it for him for Christmas, and he’d worn it only a couple of times since. His family was split: Mam and Genny thought it suited him, Livvy and Sophie thought he looked like he was trying too hard, and Da had remained wisely neutral, as he usually did. Personally Johnny thought the black leather emphasised his shoulders rather nicely. Besides, he trusted Genny’s fashion sense over his other sisters’ anyway. Livvy used to go to school in a bloody tutu, for fuck’s sake. 

“Jesus, you’re reekin’,” Gary said, leaning in to sniff at Johnny’s collar. “Trying to score some company for tonight, are ya?” 

Johnny shoved him off, resisting the urge to sniff himself. Fuck, he’d known he’d overdone it on the cologne. “Mind your own business.” 

Gary smirked. “Fine, suit yourself. But warn me if you’re gonna have someone over to the room so I don’t get an eyeful. I’ve seen your ugly arse a thousand times already, I don’t need to see it in action.” 

“You couldn’t handle seein’ it in action.” 

“Probably have to scrub my eyes.” 

“Probably learn a thing or two.” 

“Cocky little shit,” Gary said with a laugh. 

The tram ride felt eternal right up until they pulled into Stretford, and then it felt like the trip had taken all of two minutes. Breathe, Johnny, he coached himself, ignoring the sudden, hard drumming of his heart against his ribs. Just go, have a good time, don’t think about the fact that he might be there. He could hardly focus knowing Simon was somewhere in the same city; he didn’t know how much cognitive function he’d retain if Simon were in the same bloody room. Probably none. 

The buzzing, nervous energy under his skin intensified as they neared the pub. Hands shoved into his jacket pockets, he glanced surreptitiously at everyone they passed, as if Simon Riley — imposing, masked, glowering Simon Riley — might be able to slip past him unnoticed. Wishful thinking. 

When they arrived at the pub, Pehliven had a word with the man posted at the door, security of some sort Johnny figured. He wasn’t sure what sweet-talk Pehliven offered up, but within a couple of minutes, they were ushered inside. 

Johnny’s first thought was that of course this was United’s haunt — the place was fancy as fuck. Polished dark wood everywhere, golden sconces on the walls, fucking armchairs and lounges and shite. This looked more like a gentleman’s club than a proper pub. The floor wasn’t even sticky, for fuck’s sake. 

Clearly the locals liked it though: nearly every table was full. As Gary elbowed their way over to one of the available booths toward the back of the pub, Johnny scanned the crowd. Disappointingly, he didn’t find any familiar faces, though he did spot more than a few patrons sporting United gear. As expected, Simon’s number 7 was a popular choice; Johnny counted no fewer than five Riley shirts on their way to the table. 

They ordered a round of pints and packed into a half-circle booth. The TVs over the bar had on Sky Sports, with the pundits recapping the day’s matches. As Peter Drury lambasted Arsenal’s dismal showing, Johnny drowned his regrets in his drink. He couldn’t watch as they replayed his dreadful back pass that had conceded the first goal. When the men at the bar, clearly United supporters, jeered at the telly, Johnny sank lower into his seat.  

Gary slapped him on the back and said ruefully, “Could’ve happened to any of us, mate.” 

Nelson shrugged. “Not to me.” When Gary elbowed him, he threw up his hands in mock surrender. “Hey, I’m just glad someone else fucked up and not me. It’s about time everyone forgot about Newcastle.” 

Everyone groaned in unison. “Bloody Newcastle!” Yates yelled, and then the inevitable chant followed, chorused by the whole table: “No-go Nelson! No-go Nelson! No-go Nelson’s never netting!” 

As everyone broke off into guffaws of laughter, Nelson scowled and brandished his pint at them. “Fuck off, ya tossers! I’ve scored since then!” 

“Not against Newcastle, you haven’t!” 

“We haven’t played Newcastle again yet!” 

“So you haven’t, have ya!” 

“How come we aren’t taking the piss out of MacTavish?” Nelson demanded. “Thought we agreed he’s buying tonight?”

“Speakin’ of buyin’,” Johnny said quickly, sliding out of the booth, “who’s wantin’ another round?” 

“Look at him tryin’ to get out of it!” Gary said with a laugh. But he thrust out his empty mug and ordered, “Bring me back two, mate!” 

After collecting everyone’s orders, Johnny winnowed through the crowd toward the bar. Normally he didn’t mind the teasing; it was part and parcel of playing football. You fucked up one week and got the absolute piss taken out of you, and then next week someone else would fuck up and take their turn at getting dogpiled. It was all in good fun, never malicious. But tonight, he wasn’t in the mood. What he really wanted to do was wedge himself into a corner, nurse a scotch, and pretend not to think about Simon fucking —

“Oi, Riley!” 

Johnny swivelled toward the voice so quickly he slammed straight into a man coming up behind him. “Fuck,” he exclaimed, “sorry ’bout that, I didn’t mean to — ” And then he registered who he’d smacked into. They’d only met a couple of times off the pitch, but Garrick’s wasn’t the sort of face you forgot. And if Garrick was here, that meant…

“Thought I recognised you!” Garrick said cheerfully, clapping Johnny on the arm with a grin. “I’d know that mohawk anywhere. Riley, look! Told ya it was him.” 

Heart in his throat, Johnny looked past Garrick’s shoulder and — Jesus Christ, there he was, Simon Riley in all his glory. He was a full head taller than everyone around him, dressed down in a nondescript grey hoodie and blue jeans, sporting his usual black mask that hid the lower half of his face. In spite of his sheer presence, he was slouching, the way he'd been in that bar in London, like he was trying his hardest to be a particularly bulky shadow. He’d cut his hair. It was shorter now than it had been four weeks ago, the dark honey-blond no longer curling over his ears. But his eyes were the same: dark and intense and unreadable as they met Johnny’s. 

“What’re you doing here, mate?” Garrick continued, oblivious to the sudden, frantic pounding of Johnny’s heart. “Don’t you know you’re in enemy territory?” 

“Heard you lot might be lurkin’ here,” Johnny said, forcing his gaze away from Simon’s. Wouldn’t do to be too obvious, though he thought Simon might get his meaning. “Thought we’d come stir up some trouble.” 

‘“We?’” Garrick scanned the room, then groaned theatrically when he spotted the others in the booth. “Is that fuckin’ Sanderson? That dickhead owes me a hundred quid.” 

And he went swanning off through the throng without another word, leaving Johnny face-to-face with Simon again for the first time since that night in London. 

When Johnny had imagined their reunion, he’d pictured a lot fewer clothes and witnesses. Still, Simon was here. Johnny hadn’t actually allowed himself to believe that he’d see Simon again this weekend.

“So,” he said, very casually, “come here often?” 

Simon heaved a sigh. “You haven’t changed.” 

Johnny laughed. “Come on. Can’t say you haven’t missed me, can you?” 

It was half a joke, half a genuine question. Before they’d slept together in London, they couldn’t have even really been called friends. They’d been friendly, sure, like most footballers were friendly with their peers. Well, Johnny had been friendly, and Simon had tolerated him. 

Except…Simon had always called him Johnny. No one but Johnny’s family called him that. And Simon had remembered little things about him, like the fact that Johnny had three sisters and liked guinea pigs and was allergic to pineapples. And he’d let Johnny kiss all over his neck that night in the alley behind that dingy London pub, and when Johnny had practically begged him to come home with him, he’d said yes. 

But what if it had been a one time thing? What if Simon had only been satisfying his curiosity? What if he preferred for them to go back to what they’d been before, casual acquaintances whose lives intersected every few months solely because they ran in the same circles? 

Johnny wasn’t sure he could bear that, honestly. 

“Missed you?” Simon muttered. “Don’t flatter yourself.” 

That landed like an open-handed slap. Johnny swallowed. Right. Message received. “Well, dinna fash yourself then,” he said lightly, hoping his face didn’t betray any hint of his hurt and disappointment. “I’ll be gone tomorrow.” 

“Johnny — ”

“I’m on the hook for drinks,” Johnny told him, turning toward the bar. No need to let Simon see how much his response had stung. Christ, and Johnny had been daydreaming about seeing him again. Bloody idiot. “I’ll let you get back to your mates.” 

“Johnny.” 

Despite himself, he glanced over his shoulder. Simon was holding out his hand. Great, Johnny thought. Fantastic. I sucked your dick and here I get a fuckin’ handshake. 

Fine. If that was how Simon wanted to play it. Johnny grabbed his hand a bit too roughly and squeezed. Simon said, “Good to see you again.” Then he let go and wove his way through the crowd towards the pub’s entrance, disappearing out the door. 

Only once he was gone did Johnny realise Simon had left something in his hand: a folded-up napkin. He opened it slowly.

On the half-crumpled paper was an address, hastily scrawled in black ink. 

Oh. Johnny’s heart started hammering again. Right. Okay. Message fucking received. 

Resisting the urge to chase Simon out the door, Johnny slid the napkin into his pocket and forced himself to turn back to the bar, waving a hand to flag down the bartender. 

Five minutes later, only half-sure he’d gotten everyone’s orders right, he returned to the booth bearing a tray laden with drinks. The boys had scooted over to make room for Garrick and a couple of the other United lads, Parra and Vargas. 

“Finally!” Yates griped. “Thought you’d gotten lost.” 

“I was gettin’ twenty fuckin’ drinks,” Johnny retorted, trying not to let any of the beers slop over. He’d barely set the tray down before everyone was reaching in for their glass, bickering and elbowing as they argued over whose drink was whose. Johnny snagged one of the beers at random and settled in beside Garrick, leaving the others to squabble over the tray. 

“Sorry about today,” Garrick said, leaning in with a sympathetic wince. 

Johnny shrugged and took a swig of his beer, hoping he came off as unaffected. “It happens.” 

“Still. Brutal.” 

“Yeah. Congrats on your win though.” He’d seen the score on the telly earlier: United 3, Crystal Palace 0. At least Simon had had a good day. 

“Thanks, mate.” Garrick slung an arm around his shoulder. “Listen, how about we take you lads out on the town tonight? Show you the sights? You haven’t really seen Manchester before, have ya?” 

Any other night, Johnny would’ve been game. He had a feeling he and Garrick would get on like a house on fire if given half a chance, and Parra and Vargas were nice lads. A night out, an inadvisable amount of alcohol, and an even more inadvisable amount of dancing — it was a foolproof cure for any shitty mood.   

Except Simon’s address was burning a hole in his pocket. Was Simon there now, waiting for him? Sweet Jesus, the idea was exciting. Johnny had to put his hand on his knee under the table to keep it from bouncing restlessly. 

“You know any nice girls?” Gary asked. “I think Johnny could do with a pick-me-up. Even put on cologne for the occasion.” 

“Did you, mate?” Garrick leaned in further and inhaled deeply. “Oh yeah, you smell like a Lush. Jesus.”

Lifting his arm, Johnny sniffed himself. A bit overpowering, yeah, but nothing egregious. “C’mon,” he groused. “S’not that bad. Anyway, I’m not lookin’ for a pick-me-up.” 

Garrick smirked. “Got all dolled up just for me then?” 

“Depends, is it workin’?” 

“If I squint, yeah.” 

“Well, keep squintin’ then.” 

“Don’t get your hopes up,” Gary advised, leaning into Garrick. “You aren’t his type. Tavvy likes ’em tall and blond and, ahem, well-endowed.”  

“He’s right,” Johnny said with an apologetic shrug. All the women he’d dated — not that there’d been many; he could count them all on one hand  — had fit the same mould. None of those relationships had lasted very long except for Keely, but that was because none of the other women had really known what they were getting into. He and Keely had had an understanding. 

It didn’t escape him that Simon Riley checked all three boxes: tall, blond, and unbelievably well-endowed. Yeah, Johnny had a type alright. 

“Ah, well, can’t help you if you’ve got shite taste,” Garrick said good-naturedly. 

Johnny knocked their drinks together. “Aye, cheers to that.” 

Not wanting to tap out too early and risk arousing suspicion, Johnny nursed his beer and watched the clock. Another half hour, he decided. He’d order another round, make sure no one was sober enough to ask too many questions. With any luck, he’d be able to slip away without anyone really noticing. 

Subtly, under the table, he searched up Simon’s address. He didn’t live too far, only a quick transfer at Picadilly, then a short walk. Anticipation buzzed under Johnny’s skin like an electric current. Should he bring something? Nice bottle of wine? Condoms? 

Twenty more minutes. God, why was time moving so bloody slow? 

“Anyone want another round?” he asked, to a chorus of yes’es. Downing the rest of his drink, he made the journey back to the bar and ordered himself a scotch to settle his nerves while he waited for the bartender to assemble a tray of beers. The liquor burned a line down his throat and settled pleasantly in his belly. He drummed his fingers against the bartop. Fifteen more minutes. 

He ferried the heavy tray back to the table and received a heroes’ welcome. Dropping back into his seat, he gulped his scotch faster than was proper. Ten minutes. 

Ah, fuck it, he’d always been shite at waiting. 

Stretching his arms over his head, he feigned a yawn. “Well, lads, I’m gettin’ a bit tired, so I might head back early.” 

Gary groaned. “No, mate, don’t be like that. Look, you had a bad day. The best thing to do is take your mind off it. Don’t just go back to the hotel to have a sulk, it’ll only make things worse.” 

If only you knew, Johnny thought with a stab of secret amusement. Aloud, he said, “I’ve got a headache, mate. And if I have to listen to your caterwaulin’ on the bus all the way back to London, I reckon I’d better get some decent sleep.” 

“Oi, what are you callin’ caterwaulin’?” 

“Your singing’s a crime against humanity, Sanderson.” 

“As if you can carry a fuckin’ tune.” 

“Aye, but I don’t fuckin’ pretend I’m Madonna, do I?” Dodging the elbow Gary jabbed at his side, Johnny got up with a laugh and clapped Gary on the shoulder. “Alright, lads, I’m callin’ it. Keep yourselves outta trouble, I’m not comin’ back to bail any of you out. Parra, Vargas, good seein’ you again. Same with you, Garrick.” 

“Gaz,” said Garrick. “My friends call me Gaz.” 

Johnny grinned. “Right, Gaz then. See you ’round.” 

After closing out his tab, he slipped out of the pub, checked his mobile for directions again, and set off. Maps estimated it’d take forty minutes to reach Simon’s. Johnny made it in thirty-one. Then he spent five full minutes hovering on the doorstep, hands shoved into his jacket pockets, trying not to freak the fuck out. 

Right, Johnny, don’t get fuckin’ neurotic about it, it’s just —

Just sex. Just something totally casual. Just the man Johnny’s mind had decided it was fucking obsessed with. 

He dug a hand into his mohawk in a fit of indecision. Oh Jesus, what the hell was he doing? This was dangerous. They’d slept together one time, and Johnny hadn’t been able to stop thinking about him ever since. If they fucked again, Johnny was afraid he might do something fantastically stupid like — like get down on one fucking knee. 

He was just about to spin on his heel and speed-walk back to the station when the door yanked open. Johnny barely clamped his teeth down on an undignified yell. 

“You took your time,” Simon said, leaning forward against the doorway. “Thought you weren’t coming.” 

He still sported the jeans and the cloth face mask, but he’d ditched the hoodie. Underneath he wore a plain black t-shirt that stretched obscenely across his broad chest, emphasising the size of his shoulders. Christ, he was a big man. Johnny told himself he wasn’t salivating. 

“Didn’t want the others askin’ questions so I stuck around for a bit,” Johnny said. 

“Where’d you tell them you were going?” 

“Back to the hotel.” 

“Better hurry and get you back before curfew then.” Simon stepped back. “Come in.” 

Simon’s house was about as sparse and colourless as Johnny had expected. Not that Simon himself was sparse or colourless — nah, Johnny reckoned he could spend the rest of his life peeling back Simon’s layers and still not get to the core of him — but this seemed to be exactly the kind of place Simon would subject himself to: bare walls, plain wood floors, nondescript furniture that looked like it had been ordered indifferently from some catalogue simply to have something to fill the space. The Simon who lived here was the same Simon who travelled with nothing more than a small holdall packed with only the essentials, no little luxuries, no conveniences. Honestly, it was like Simon was afraid of allowing himself anything. 

“Homey,” Johnny remarked, glancing around. “Did you tidy up just for m — ”

The rest of his sentence was swallowed up by a yelp as Simon tore off his face mask, seized Johnny’s jacket with both hands, and immediately applied his mouth to the underside of Johnny’s jaw. His mouth was hot and hungry on Johnny’s skin, and any protests Johnny might have had promptly died. His hands slipped on Simon’s shoulders for a moment before he finally got good fistfuls of his t-shirt, and then he was giving as good as he got, running a hand down Simon’s body — pecs, abs, through the fabric, and there — until he got a handful of Simon’s already-hard cock in his palm. Simon’s mouth, now sucking bruises on the line of Johnny’s shoulder, opened on a soft moan that sent all of Johnny’s blood rushing south so fast he went lightheaded. 

Simon Riley had a reputation for being a man of few words, on the pitch and off it. He never engaged in any of the posturing that went on between players during a match, never traded insults, had never been involved in an altercation except to grab his more hotheaded teammates by the scruff to shake some sense into them. (Johnny had certainly never rewatched the clip of Simon grabbing Bruno Fernandes by the collar to prevent him from lunging at Luis Suarez during the Manchester United-Barcelona game a few years back, and he’d certainly never wanked to the fantasy of Simon manhandling him in a similar fashion, definitely not.) The press never got much out of Simon beyond a dry, brief analysis of the team’s performance, and the paps had pretty much given up on snagging any juicy photos of him. Simon Riley was quiet. Simon Riley was boring. 

Simon Riley made the most beautiful sounds when he was getting sucked off. On his knees now, mouth full of Simon’s thick, lovely cock, Johnny felt a blaze of fierce satisfaction that he got to see this Simon, the Simon that the public didn’t know. He wasn’t sure this was the real Simon — even now, after he’d had Simon’s cock up his arse, he still felt like he knew jack shit about the man — but Johnny was fairly positive that perilously few people had ever had the privilege of seeing even this side of Simon. That was enough to send a thrill down his spine. 

“Christ,” Simon muttered as Johnny tongued the head of his cock, tasting the precome that leaked from his slit. “The mouth on you.” 

He tangled his fingers in Johnny’s mohawk but didn’t pull. He didn’t thrust either. It had been the same that night in London, the first time Johnny had gone to his knees. At first, Johnny had thought that Simon had just been content with letting him take the lead, but the more he’d turned over his memories of that night in his head in the weeks that followed, the more he’d come to suspect that Simon had been — nervous, maybe. Which seemed ridiculous. Simon Riley was punishingly decisive on the pitch. He never lost his composure. He didn’t get nervous. 

Except he held perfectly still as Johnny kissed and nuzzled his cock. And he’d let Johnny finger himself open that night. And he hadn’t really touched Johnny until Johnny had ordered him to. Simon wasn’t a virgin; Johnny could tell that much. But there was a certain hesitation in his manner as he rested his hand on Johnny’s head, as if he was prepared to pull away at any instant.  

Humming around his cock, Johnny dragged the flat of his tongue along the underside of his shaft as he pulled off. A low groan escaped from between Simon’s gritted teeth. Keeping his hand wrapped around the base of Simon’s dick, Johnny said, “Can I ask you somethin’?”

Simon stared down at him. “Now?” 

Johnny grinned. “Got your attention, don’t I?” 

Simon grunted. His dark eyes hadn’t budged from Johnny’s face since Johnny had tugged his jeans open. “Go on.” 

“You’ve fucked guys before, yeah? I’m not the first?” 

Simon’s expression remained inscrutable. Christ, even without the mask, he was hard to read. He didn’t seem embarrassed at least. Beyond that, Johnny couldn’t tell what he was thinking. 

“No, Johnny,” he said with a long exhale. “You’re not the first.” 

“Ah.” Johnny was only mildly disappointed. “Just wonderin’.” 

“Why?” 

“You just seem a little…on edge.” 

Simon blinked. After a moment, he let go of Johnny’s hair, which was the opposite of what Johnny had wanted, and leaned back with a sigh. 

“Shite,” Johnny said, rocking back on his heels. “I didn’t kill the mood, did I?” 

“No. But…” 

“But?” 

“You’re right.” His voice was so low the words sounded almost like a confession. “I don’t do this often.” 

Simon glanced away. Johnny was mesmerised by the sweep of his pale eyelashes. God, he was gorgeous, from his rumpled blond hair that he never styled to his crooked nose that had obviously been broken before, to the long scars that disfigured his cheeks and his elegant mouth. Johnny couldn’t understand how anyone could think him ugly, though he knew the sorts of things Simon’s detractors hurled at him on the pitch and over social media: Scarface, Freddy Kreuger, Ripper Riley. Stupid fucking wankers, the lot of them. 

“Well then,” Johnny reasoned, “better make the most of it, aye?” 

Simon’s gaze returned to him, lingering on his face for a long few seconds. Then the very corner of his mouth ticked up. “Guess so.” 

Johnny stared at him, delighted. “Was that a smile?”

“No.” 

“It was!” 

“You’re seeing things.” 

“You totally smiled!” Johnny grinned. “Don’t worry, I won’t tell anyone. You can keep on being the big ol’ scary Ghostie to everyone else.” 

“Thank god,” Simon said, dry as dust. “Can we get on with this then?” 

“Right, sorry.” Johnny leaned forward again and let his lips brush Simon’s cockhead. Coyly, he glanced up at Simon and said, the words pressed up against Simon’s skin, “You can pull my hair if you’d like, y’know.” 

Simon’s eyes smouldered. His hand found Johnny’s mohawk again, and this time, when Johnny slid Simon’s cock into his mouth, Simon tugged him closer, his grip hesitant. Johnny moaned softly to encourage him, and Simon gave a slow, tentative thrust. Well-endowed, Gary had joked. He had no fucking idea. Simon’s dick was long and thick and beautiful, just like the rest of him. Thankfully Johnny had had plenty of practice beating his gag reflex into submission, so he could take most of Simon in without much effort. His mouth flooded with saliva at the thought of working his way to Simon’s base, to get his nose buried in the pale curls at Simon’s groin. The weight of him on Johnny’s tongue was fucking delicious. As Johnny worked him, precome leaked from Simon’s cockhead, bitter and salty. Breathing through his nose, Johnny swallowed and was rewarded with Simon’s low, breathless groan. 

Johnny was hard and aching in his jeans. He fumbled his zipper with his free hand and managed to get it down. As soon as he got himself in hand, he couldn’t hold back a muffled whine of relief. The friction of his dry hand wasn’t quite comfortable, so he pulled off Simon’s cock and let the pooled spit and precome in his mouth spill into his palm. As he took himself in hand again, Simon muttered, “Jesus, you’re filthy.” 

Johnny laughed. “You think this is filthy? I haven’t even gotten started.” 

“Dunno if I can survive you getting started,” Simon rasped. 

When Johnny looked up, Simon was gazing down at him with open reverence. Johnny’s chest flooded with unfamiliar warmth. Christ. He knew he was attractive, knew what it looked like when people wanted him. But no one had ever looked at him quite like this, like he’d hung the fucking moon. Like he was the most astonishing thing they’d ever laid eyes on. 

Fucking hell, it was Johnny’s turn to be nervous. Licking his lips, he dropped his eyes to Simon’s stiff and dripping cock. “You wanna fuck me again?” 

Simon’s fingers tightened in Johnny’s hair. So that seemed like a yes. 

“You got lube and condoms?” 

“Bedroom.” 

“Oohh, thought you’d get lucky, did you?” 

“Get your arse up before I change my mind,” Simon growled, giving Johnny’s hair a slight, reproving tug. And that — well that shot straight down to Johnny’s cock. 

He stumbled slightly as he got to his feet, his legs cramped from kneeling. When Simon caught him with a hand under his elbow and pulled him fully to his feet, Johnny whistled. “Such a strong lad,” he purred, groping Simon’s bicep, and laughed when Simon favoured him with a deeply unamused look. 

Simon’s bedroom was as spare as the rest of his flat. His bed, at least, had plenty of room for them both. Johnny stripped off his leather jacket, hauled his shirt off over his head, and kicked off his jeans. Standing there in his pants, he watched as Simon dug through the drawer on his bedside table. He looked bloody obscene, still mostly dressed, his hard cock hanging from the V of his open jeans. Johnny wanted to tackle him to the floor and tear his clothes off with his teeth. He wanted to rub his face all over Simon’s cock, get Simon’s scent and come all over him, a sinner’s baptism. His own cock throbbed at the idea. 

He wanted to kiss him — God, he wanted to kiss Simon, he wanted to eat him. But Simon, for all his readiness to put his tongue and lips on Johnny’s cock, his nipples, his hole, to suck bruises everywhere else — Simon didn't kiss.

He didn't let Johnny even touch his mouth, even though he let him grip his jaw and fuck his face and pull at his hair and squeeze the back of his neck as Johnny was being fucked so hard he saw more stars than when Virgil van Dijk had accidentally kicked him in the head and given him a concussion. It was very Pretty Woman, but — well, everyone was allowed their boundaries, and Johnny suspected Simon had a rock-solid reason for this one, so he tried not to pine too much about it. Tried not to daydream about licking into the heat of his mouth, running his tongue along the backs of Simon’s teeth.

“Here.” Simon tossed a bottle across the bed at him. Johnny went to catch it, fumbled, and had to drop to pick it up off the floor. “Christ,” Simon said. “No wonder they made you quit playing keeper.” 

“Didn’t you ever wonder why they call me Soap? Never could catch worth a damn.” 

“Thought it was because you were a slippery bastard.” 

Johnny grinned. “That too.” He shook the half-full bottle of lube. “You’ve been puttin’ this to use, I see.” 

Simon grunted. 

“Havin’ a lot of me time lately? Thinkin’ of hot babes?” 

“You.” 

“What?” 

“Thinking of you.” 

Johnny shut his mouth with a snap, every whirling thought in his head falling momentarily silent. All he could do was watch in a stunned daze as Simon yanked off his shirt and pushed down his jeans and pants. When Simon straightened and looked across the room, Johnny’s expression made his scarred mouth twitch again in that tiny smile. “What?”

“Nothing. Just…” Just the thought of you wankin’ to me drives me fuckin’ insane. Johnny pulled in a sharp breath. “You lied,” he accused, feeling warm all over. “When you said you didn't miss me, you lied.” 

Simon snorted. “Missed your arse, maybe.”

“Is that all?” 

“Your dick’s okay.” 

“Oi!” 

“Definitely didn’t miss your smart mouth.” 

“I’ll show you what this smart mouth can do, ya dobber! What’re you doing?” Johnny backed up a wary step as Simon came at him. “Don’t you dare — ” 

He yelped as Simon grabbed him around the waist, scooped him up, and tossed him over his shoulder like a bloody sack of potatoes. Johnny’s head spun with dizzying arousal. Jesus. He wasn’t a small man, and yet Simon barely seemed winded at the effort. Simon threw him down onto the bed, hard enough that Johnny bounced. On his back, Johnny stared up at him with wide eyes, so fucking hard he was pretty sure he could’ve drilled a hole through the wall. Simon stood at the edge of the bed for a long moment, his gaze sweeping over Johnny from head to toe, taking him in. 

His partners didn’t normally scrutinise him so closely. A bit awkwardly, Johnny teased, “Havin’ second thoughts?” 

“Trying to figure out how many times I can fuck you before your mates will miss you,” Simon replied, kneeling over him on the bed. 

“Oh.” Johnny’s cock twitched. Simon was so fucking close and warm and big. It wasn’t often Johnny felt so physically outclassed. Christ, it was fucking hot. “S’pose we could try to find out,” he croaked. 

Simon’s eyes were nearly black in the dim light. “S’pose you’re right.” 

*

When all was said and done and Johnny’s soul had departed his body on at least three separate occasions, Simon didn’t kick him out. 

Johnny had half-expected to get the boot as soon as Simon had had enough of him, but instead, Simon brought him a towel to wipe off, offered him the shower if he wanted it (Johnny was far too sleepy and fucked out to even think about moving), and went about stripping off the ruined comforter and gathering their scattered clothes up off the floor. Johnny watched as Simon folded his jeans and draped them over the nearby armchair. Scooping up the leather jacket, Simon remarked, “This is nice.” 

“Thanks.” 

“Someone else must’ve gotten it for you.” 

“What makes you say that?” 

“I’ve seen your pap shots, Johnny. Your wardrobe’s a fuckin’ travesty.” 

“Oi! Are you implyin’ I’ve got no fashion sense?” 

“Not implying it, I’m saying it. You look like a fuckin’ tablecloth half the time you’re allowed to dress yourself.” 

“Fuck you. So I like patterns, fuckin’ sue me.” And then a thought occurred to him. “Hang on, you’ve seen my pap shots?” 

Simon grunted. “Didn’t go looking for ’em, if that’s what you’re wondering.” 

“Oh, they just fell in your lap, did they?” 

“Pretty much.” 

“Maybe when you were in the middle of wankin’ to me, hmmm?” 

Simon hurled a sock at him. Johnny cackled as it struck him full in the face. 

“Fuckin’ hell,” Simon muttered, and disappeared out the bedroom door. 

Still grinning, Johnny closed his eyes and let himself doze for a few minutes, too languid and comfortable to move. Simon’s sheets smelled good, he noticed. They smelled like sex and sweat, of course, but underneath that was something else, something earthy and masculine and lovely. Johnny inhaled deep and tried to hold the scent in his lungs. 

Eventually, curiosity drove him out of bed. Yawning, he found his pants, tugged them on, and wandered out of the bedroom. 

Simon was in the kitchen putting the kettle on. Regrettably, he’d slipped on a pair of joggers before leaving the bedroom, but at least he’d left off his shirt. Lingering on the threshold of the kitchen for a moment, Johnny admired the broad expanse of his back. Simon was six feet and four inches of pure muscle, not an ounce of spare fat on him. Johnny was surrounded by extremely fit men all the time in the dressing room, but there was just something about Simon that turned Johnny’s blood to molten lava in his veins. 

Simon glanced over his shoulder. “What are you looking at?” 

“Your arse.” 

Simon snorted. “Horny bastard.” 

“Yeah. And?” 

“Are you always so fuckin’ shameless?” 

“Yeah.” This time when Simon looked at him, Johnny crossed his arms and leaned his shoulder casually against the door frame. He didn’t miss the way Simon’s eyes flicked down to his forearms for a moment, then back up. Smirking, he said, “And?” 

“Christ,” Simon muttered, turning back to the kettle. “How do you like your tea then?” 

Johnny blinked. “Are you really making me tea?” 

“What the fuck does it look like I’m doing?” 

“I dunno. It just…” Just seemed very domestic, all of a sudden. Not that Johnny was opposed to that, but he hadn’t expected an invitation to Simon’s flat to include any non-sexual activities. 

“What?” Simon stopped fiddling with the two mugs he’d pulled from the cupboard above the sink and fixed Johnny with a hard stare. “You don’t like tea?”

“Nah, it’s not that. Tea’s fine.” 

“Then what is it?”

“Nothin’.” Johnny grinned, feeling suddenly soppy. “You’re makin’ me tea. You do this with all the pretty boys you bring back to yours then?” 

“I don’t bring pretty boys back to my house.” 

“I’m the exception?” 

“Who said you were pretty?” 

“Simon Riley.” Johnny pushed off the door frame and closed the distance between them, pressing himself up against Simon’s warm back and resting his chin on Simon’s shoulder. Simon stiffened but didn’t shrug him away. Emboldened, Johnny slid his hands around to the soft skin of Simon’s bare belly and purred against his ear, “You pretend to be all cold and standoffish but we both know you called me gorgeous at least ten times while I was goin’ down on you.” 

Simon hunched his shoulders. Studying him more closely, Johnny realised Simon’s pale cheeks were flushed a light pink. “I’ve got you figured out,” Johnny crowed, delighted. “I know why you wear that mask. Look at you blushin’, you’re red all over, you — shite — ”

Simon shoved him back against the counter and bit him ruthlessly in the dip between his collarbones. Once he’d recovered from the initial surprise, Johnny laughed, and then he moaned, and then wrapped his arms around Simon and pulled him in closer, savouring the heat of Simon’s body against his. God, he’d been craving this for what felt like ages. He hadn’t slept with anyone else since London. Hadn’t even really been able to entertain the idea. He’d gone out once or twice with the intention of working Simon Riley out of his system, but in the end, he hadn’t been able to go through with it. He’d just kept thinking of Simon and his big fucking hands and his dark intent eyes and the sweet, hitching sound he made when he came, and Johnny had been forced to slink home alone and have a sad wank while wondering if it was insane to be so obsessed with a man he hardly even knew. 

The rising hiss of steam from the kettle broke them apart. Johnny opened his eyes to find Simon already staring back at him, dark and intent. His face was even more flushed now, bright red behind the scattered freckles, and Johnny had the sudden, wild desire to utterly wreck him. 

“Tea,” Simon said, though he didn’t make any move toward the kettle. 

“What tea?” Johnny asked, pressing his thigh in between Simon’s legs. To his pleasure, Simon was already half-hard, a line of heat against Johnny’s skin. Johnny was already hard himself, and he rocked against Simon’s leg to intimate just how little he cared about the bloody tea at the moment.  

Simon exhaled slowly. “Tea can wait.” 

“That’s what I thought,” Johnny said smugly. 

* 

After round four (or five? Johnny had honestly lost count), Simon heated up the kettle again, and they drank their tea standing up in the kitchen, both of them leaned up against the counter. It was half eleven. Johnny kept watching the clock on the wall, willing it to stop. 

“So,” he said eventually, examining the dregs of tea leaves at the bottom of his mug, “this was…uh…nice.” 

Simon made a noncommittal sound. Johnny glanced at him out of the corner of his eye, trying and failing to read his expression. The man was a fucking blank slate when he wanted to be. This was why, despite being one of the team’s vice captains, Simon rarely made the rounds with the press. Price and Garrick were far more charismatic on camera and actually seemed to enjoy the limelight. Simon, on the other hand, gave the journos nothing to work with, especially with his mask on. He always looked and sounded as if he’d rather be slow-boiled than spend another second with a microphone in his face. 

“I’d better get going,” Johnny said  reluctantly. “S’getting late.” With any luck, he’d make it back to the hotel before Gary and the others did, or else he’d be in for a hell of an interrogation. 

Simon nodded. “Right.” 

Johnny waited. When it became clear Simon wasn’t going to say anything more, Johnny hesitated, then thought, Fuck it. He wasn’t about to wait another month to hear from Simon again. It’d drive him crazy — crazier than he already was. 

“So would you wanna do this again?” Johnny asked. 

Simon glanced away. He’d hardly touched his tea. His mug looked tiny in his hands. There was a drawing on the side of it, done in crayon it looked like — some kind of animal, Johnny thought, maybe a dog. He wondered who had made Simon the mug. 

“I don’t think that’d be a good idea,” Simon said finally. 

A cold weight sank in Johnny’s gut. For some reason, maybe because he was a complete idiot, he hadn’t actually expected a rejection. By all accounts, they’d had a good night, hadn’t they? Better than good, actually — Johnny had enjoyed himself more than he had in ages, and he didn’t think Simon had had a bad time. The sex was bloody fantastic. Plus Simon had made him fucking tea. Nice tea. Not the kind that said, Fuck off, see you never. 

Johnny forced his voice to remain level. “How no?” 

Without replying, Simon reached out, took Johnny’s empty mug from him, and went to rinse it out in the sink. Refusing to be brushed off, Johnny followed him over. “It’d be a good idea actually. Can I tell you why?” 

“I get the feeling you’ll tell me even if I say no,” Simon muttered. 

“You’re right about that.” Johnny held up a finger. “One, you’re gay.” 

“I’m not…” 

“Or bi, or queer, or whatever you wanna call yourself. Point is, you like fuckin’ blokes. So do I.” 

Simon blew out a sharp breath through his nose. He still wasn’t looking at Johnny. “Observant, aren’t you?” 

“Ha-ha. So how many blokes were you fuckin’ before me? You said it yourself, you don’t do this often. I didn’t either. Not really. Too risky. I’m not out. Neither are you.” Johnny paused to give him a chance to refute that. He knew Simon wasn’t out to the public — Johnny could count the number of openly queer footballers on one hand, had scrutinised them obsessively in his youth. But maybe Simon was out to his family, or to a circle of close friends, or hell, even to his teammates. 

But when Simon said nothing, Johnny knew he and Simon were in the same boat — the same closet. He continued, “I’m the last person who’s gonna go blabbin’ to the press. I’ve got just as much to lose as you. That makes me safe, aye? That’s two, by the way.” He held up another finger. 

Simon set the mug aside on the drying rack and turned to face him more fully, arms folded. At least he seemed open to hearing Johnny out. “What’s three then?” 

Johnny put up three fingers. “Not to brag but I’m pretty sure I might be the best fuckin’ lay you’ve ever had. I know I haven’t gone that many rounds with anyone else, and if you have…well, I guess I’d better fuckin’ congratulate you.” 

Simon lifted an eyebrow. “Cocky bastard, aren’t you?” 

“Am I wrong?” When Simon shrugged, Johnny grinned. “Is it cocky if I’m right?”

“Doesn’t matter if you’re right. I’m in Manchester. You’re in London. Doubt we’ll be able to make this” — Simon gestured between them — “happen again anytime soon.” 

“Why not? Nelson’s got a lassie in Leeds he gets up to see every other week or so. And Keller’s girl’s off in Spain most of the year, and they’ve been goin’ steady forever.”

“That’s different. That’s…” Simon shook his head. “It’s different.” 

“If you don't wanna come to London, I’ll come to you,” Johnny said bullishly. “It doesn’t have to be every week, I’m not askin’ for that. I’m just sayin’, when you need to blow off some steam, if you want, and if you got the time, we could keep doin’ this. We could even plan it next time instead of slippin’ each other notes in the pub like we’re in a bloody Mills & Boon Victorian novel.” 

“What kind of bloody Mills & Boon Victorian novels are you reading, MacTavish?” 

“Listen, I’ve got three sisters, alright? You can’t hold it against me. And that’s besides the point.” Johnny thrust out his hand. “Gimme your number.” 

Simon stared at him for a long, silent moment. Then he pushed off the counter and disappeared from the kitchen. When he returned, he had his mobile in hand, which he gave over to Johnny after a beat of hesitation. 

“This is a bad idea,” he muttered as Johnny punched in his number. 

“Maybe.” Sending himself a text from Simon’s phone, Johnny handed his mobile back with a grin. “Maybe not. Only one way to find out.” 

Simon huffed, the corner of his mouth twitching again. Johnny thought he could get addicted to that tiny, rare flash of amusement. Already he was capturing every detail in his head so that he could sketch them out later: the exact curve of Simon’s lips, the way the scars that cut across his mouth pulled at his skin, showing a glimpse of his teeth, slightly crooked and horribly charming. In the four weeks since he’d last seen Simon, he’d filled an embarrassing number of pages in his journal with pencil drawings. Nothing identifiable, of course — just what he remembered of Simon’s back, his shoulders, his hands. Anatomy studies, he’d say, if anyone ever found them. 

They’d know Simon’s mouth if he sketched it. Everyone knew those scars. But Johnny’s fingers itched to draw them anyway. 

“Reckon so,” Simon said. The curve of his mouth flattened out. Running his fingers along the screen of his mobile, he added, “Just so you know, I’m not much of a texter.” 

Johnny shrugged. “S’alright. I can guarantee you I’ll text enough for the both of us. You don't have to respond. Sometimes I just like to talk. You can tell me to bugger off if it gets annoying.”

“You askin’ me to be your penpal, Johnny?” 

“Dunno. Depends.” Johnny grinned. “Will you say yes?” 

Simon heaved a sigh. It wasn’t the sort of sigh that Johnny was sometimes met with when he was being too much. It wasn’t the sort of sigh that suggested he was being humoured so he’d hurry up and go away. It was the sigh his mam gave right before she surrendered to his pouting and let him have a fourth square of tablet. 

“Sure, Johnny,” Simon said. “Yeah.” 

*

By the time Johnny crept into his room at the hotel, it was nearing half past midnight. He didn’t switch on the light in case Gary was in bed. Instead, he groped his way to his suitcase in the dark, swearing under his breath when he inadvertently kicked the corner of the table, sending a shock of agony up his toe. 

A piercing light flared suddenly from behind him. Throwing up his hand to shield his eyes, Johnny squinted against the glare of the phone flashlight beaming from the other bed. “Bleedin’ Jesus, turn that off, will ya?” 

“Thought you were a thief,” Gary mumbled, tilting the light at the ceiling. 

“A thief? You knew I was out, you dafty.” 

“Thought you had a headache,” Gary retorted. In the dimness, Johnny could just make out Gary levering himself up onto his elbows. The light wavered as he sat up. “Imagine my surprise when I get back and you aren’t sound asleep like you said you’d be.” 

Digging through his suitcase, Johnny located his pyjamas. Glad for the darkness, he said, “Yeah, well, went for a walk.” 

“A walk, eh?” Gary’s voice was sly. Johnny didn’t have to see his face to know he was smirking. “What, did ya walk to London and back?”

“Maybe.” 

“Fuckin’ liar.” Gary blasted him with the flashlight again. “You met someone, didn’t you?” Johnny hesitated, knowing Gary would sniff out a lie but not wanting to admit to anything. Still, his silence was enough. Gary exclaimed, “Tavvy, you dog! Where? At the pub? Why didn’t you just say so, mate?” 

“It wasn’t exactly…planned.” 

Gary barked a laugh. “Obviously. Good for you, mate. Maybe now you can quit moping.” 

Johnny paused. “Moping?” 

“You’ve been sulking for like, weeks now. Everyone’s noticed.” 

“Everyone?” Christ, and here he’d thought he was being subtle. Genny always did say he wore his heart on his sleeve. He hated when his sisters were right. 

“You’ve been off in your own world, mate. You’ve been playing like shit, and I don’t just mean today.” 

Johnny winced. Now that he thought about it, he had to admit that perhaps his preoccupation with Simon had spilled over into every arena of his life, work included. That was fucking embarrassing. “I…” 

Gary, bless him, said, “Look, I’m not gonna pry. You’re lucky I’m not Kerr, the nosy bastard. Just as long as you’ve gotten it out of your system, yeah? We’ve got Aston Villa next week, we need you.”

Had he gotten Simon out of his system? No, quite the opposite actually. But he wasn’t in limbo anymore, wondering if his fling with Simon had been a one-time deal, wondering if his desire was entirely one-sided. He’d spent all evening getting his brains fucked out, and he’d come away triumphant with Simon’s number. He had no idea if Simon would really text back, but there was the promise, sitting there in his phone, of tonight happening again. 

The thought filled him with hot anticipation. 

“Och, don’t worry your pretty head,” he said cheerfully as he made his way to the loo. “Villa won’t know what hit ’em.”