A/N: Overwhelmed by all the lovely reviews. Thank you so much.
Part Two – Brendan
He had the guy by the throat, lips still shiny with cum. He'd been smart with Brendan when he'd had a hundred quid tucked down his shirt and rebuked with, "I'm not a prostitute."
"I ain't paying you for sex. I'm paying you to keep your mouth shut." He loosened his grip and patted him down. He'd considered bundling the guy off to a hotel room, he'd picked him up with every intention, but sloppy kissing and a poor gag reflex meant he wasn't worth the cab fare. The risk grew greater every time his face appeared on TV and that was starting to become a daily occurrence. Back home he couldn't move in Dublin for fans, but out of the city he lived more anonymously, preying on skinny lads (his apparent type) – tourists mainly – to satisfy his needs.
When he first arrived in England he'd been warned, several times, that his fame would escalate and his life would shrink, the people he could trust would dissolve to single digits. For Brendan, his trust remained solely in one person: himself.
He'd not met his agent, despite it being planned months in advance, until he touched down in Manchester. On their first introduction the soft cockney accent surprised him and his watch rattled with its adornment on his wrist when he'd shaken Brendan's hand. His eyes, apart from their cold paleness, gave little away and Brendan wanted this man to know as little about him as possible.
Houston sat back in his black suit behind a desk and spoke quietly. "Let's make this very clear Brendan." He took a sip of water poured by an overly made-up assistant. "There will be no secrets between us. No skeletons in the closet. I'll know you better than your missus." He smiled tightly. "If you catch my drift."
He waited for the Miniskirt to leave and leant forward on the table. "So if there are mistresses, lovechildren or a granny prostitute lurking in the shadows, then you need to be upfront with me."
Brendan laughed harder into his gum-chewing as Danny Houston watched on stony faced. "I'm a good Catholic boy," he said, crossing his chest.
Danny tilted his head to one side. "On the same note, if you've got any extracurricular needs…secrets, you're going to need to tell me. Strictly confidential. We're covering our backs and yours. The perk being, if we know about them, we can help with letting them continue." He paused, looking straight into Brendan's eyes. "Coke, S&M, by-the-hour girls," he paused, "Boys. Whatever your tastes."
Brendan let the words permeate, not daring to move his expression an inch. Was this a test? In this dungeon of an office, it felt like selling his soul even though he'd already signed on the dotted line.
"I'm planning on marrying the girl," Brendan said flatly, the image of him tangled around a naked man filled his mind. "I'm a faithful guy."
Danny's smile made it clear he didn't believe him. "Well, as I said, if any opportunity arises, it's in your best interests to tell me." His tone flicked then, like a setting change. "And if you read the contract again you'll see that if anything comes out which you hadn't made us aware of previously, then your contract terminates. And after that, no other agent is going to want to touch you."
Brendan's gum chewing hammered at ten thousand decibels in his head until Danny broke the silence again. "Well now that's done and dusted, let's talk about the press conference."
::: :::
::: :::
The Gagger hadn't been best pleased to have been blown off without – ironically – so much as a blow and Brendan sent him away. He'd emerged from the seedy little backstreet and reconsidered heading to the little underground club he'd helped launch earlier that evening, but it didn't seem like his scene. Too loud and hot and overcrowded with posers. He missed Dublin pubs and the comfort of whiskey in his throat.
It seemed a shame to waste the hotel room booked under an alias so he headed back there, disappointingly alone. He gave Eileen a call when he arrived, out of pity more than anything. Her upset earlier in the week – her period had started and baby dreams misplaced – had sullied her mood and she was even more challenging to live with. It had produced in him a strange mix of disappointment and relief. He'd expected to feel saddened because this wasn't to become flesh proof of his masculinity, his normality. Instead, it was for more vulnerable, more paternal reasons of loss. As for the relief – he wouldn't attribute that to the futile belief that somehow he wouldn't be forced to live a lie forever, no – but safe in the knowledge that he wasn't hurting another oblivious life with his lies.
"Were there girls?" she asked.
"It was a nightclub Eileen, of course there were girls." He was weary, pouring himself a drink and muting the TV as he landed on the bed.
"I don't want to pick up the paper and see you all over some tart," she said. Eileen wasn't yet built for the English WAG lifestyle. In Dublin she liked the attention; in England she hated the scrutiny. Her magazine column in Love It was her way of trying to become the new favourite WAG – leading to what she hoped would be their beloved fairytale wedding. She was too steely for people to take to, but Brendan had no question as to who would soar in popularity if the nation found out about his indiscretions.
"I asked you if you wanted to come."
"You made it pretty clear you didn't want me there." The reasoning for that had been obvious, even if it'd failed.
Brendan's eyes gazed on the flat screen opposite the bed. The conversation with Eileen died and he ended the call perfunctorily and he found himself staring at the commercials vacantly. The whiskey was smooth on his tongue as images flickered up of a sports drink. It was the usual arty shots of runners and trainers and stretches of swimming pools. Then liquid was squirted into an open mouth and the shot lingered pornographically as water droplets ran down this guy's lips and chin and collar bone. Brendan licked his lips at the same moment as it happened on screen, the man's Adam's Apple swelling in his throat. The figure wiped the stray water across his angular jaw and the camera zoomed out for the guy dressed in a white kit to launch a football into the air. And when the camera refocused on the man's earnest face, Brendan realised who it was that had him captivated. Steven Hay. City's twenty-one year old star defender.
::: :::
::: :::
He awoke to fuzzy-headed recollections of going to sleep fully clothed after time spent flicking through sports channels; a distinct craving for City games and more of Steven Hay's mouth. He reached for his phone to look at the time and unlocking it saw his pathetic Google history, he'd even been paranoia enough to disconnect from WiFi to 3G so it couldn't be traced: ste hay gay (conspiracy theories of gay men behind a computer screen), ste hay girlfriend? (plenty, and an ex with two kids), ste hay naked (partial). The image search had revealed a few tantalising campaigns from a few years ago, fresh out of his teens, with footie shorts pulled over his hip and a teasing expression enough to twitch the softest of cocks. The more recent advertisements for Raw Water, he'd grown more toned with age and with a full pout and erect nipples, they had him posed, dripping wet.
There'd been a sudden carnal compulsion to know everything about this boy – he'd never paid much attention beyond usual game chat of who was succeeding in what. He'd heard his name bandied about when he first arrived and his career meant he knew countless names and faces and teams – but no one ever really stuck. Besides, he'd sworn himself off taking an interest in what was under the footie kit for a reason. He wasn't making the same mistake twice.
It surprised him later on, stepping out of the shower when his phone pinged with an emailed Google Alert (another thing he'd clearly signed up for when drunk). A pang of nausea hit his stomach faster than his brain could process the words on the screen when he saw Ste Hay's name next to his in the headline.
Ste Hay hurls insults at United newcomer Brady.
City's biggest star Ste Hay let rip at United's brand new signing last night at the premiere of rom-com Lucky Star. Playing tonsil tennis with buxom reality beauty Kylie Joyce, footie player Ste - 21 – denied Brendan Brady was any sort of threat. He was seen mocking the new Irish player to the press, dismissing claims of panic in the City changing rooms at Brady's successive victories. Hay followed up his rant later that night at new bar Spiral – ironically opened by none over by The Tash himself earlier that night – where he laid into Brady's appearance, age and referred to him as a "knob".
Brendan went on to read more about Ste's saucy night with Kylie, his past history with disputes with players from other teams and his record of aggression. The article ended speculatively predicting fireworks at the tongue-in-cheek 'Friendly' in the near future. His social media knowledge was lacking, but he according to Twitter, they were both "trending" (whatever that meant) and Ste had followed it up with an early retort, rewtweeted thousands of time by baying City fans.
SteHay – 1hr ago
stand by me word. sumtimes truth hrts.
Brendan was checking his mentions – hundreds of tweets dragging on the dispute and repeating their new leader's abuse – when Danny called.
"Brendan!" he said, buoyed by the publicity flourish, "You seen the papers this morning?"
Groggily, Brendan sat up in bed, clocking a look at his state in the mirror. He looked shagged, even sadder than there'd been no action in that room besides a semi over a commercial. "Just seen it online."
He was practically gleeful. Brendan imagined him rubbing his hands. "The way I look at it, it's very good for business. We could start a full out war."
"I'd rather just kick his arse next week," Brendan said heading to the bathroom and rolling his clicking neck around.
"Little poof'd probably enjoy it." Danny said dismissively, making Brendan do a double take at his own reflection.
He swallowed. "Is he…?"
"An arse bandit?"
"Queer?" Brendan's face in the mirror haunted him with words from another time.
"Probably. Who knows," Danny said, his voice wandering like his attention. Brendan heard him mouthing his coffee orders to someone. "His press team are like Fort Knox anyway, couldn't use it against the dirty little prick even if we tried."
His eyes wore a soulless mask as he stared back at himself. A new country, a new life but the scars hijacked every journey.
"Focus on your football sure, but the game these days is all about being noticed. And you don't want to be that – no offence – old guy, weak enough to let the young little scally lay into him. Do you? You're not weak Brendan, are you?"
When Brendan responded, it was almost automated. "What do you want me to do?"
::: :::
::: :::
The plan become three-fold.
One. Brendan and Eileen became swiftly added to the guestlist of a charity lunch to support the homeless/women's rights/sick kids/cancer research (Brendan had no idea) after having dragged himself into a suit and downed a Starbucks's stock of espresso. Eileen's eyes lit up at the prospect of being on a guestlist and marvelled at dainty cakes as she grimaced sympathetically to tales of woe. She didn't open her purse once.
Her disdain matched his and it was times like this he realised why he was attracted to her friendship in the first place. They both did the press rounds, Eileen's self-promotion came swathed in empathy and compassion as her mind raced ahead to the composition of her next magazine article. Brendan's responses to the press came with restrained boredom as he shoehorned in digs about Steven Hay's masculinity.
"Being here, supporting this great charity, it's a shame that, someone like Steven Hay can't see the bigger picture. I guess some footballers let their insecurity and ego get in the way. When you've had a poor season, I suppose he feels threatened by a real man stealing his glory. He might like getting to grapple with the boys – on the pitch, obviously – but he'd be better off getting some anger management, surely?"
He gave toothy grins to the cameras – the good Samaritan – linking his arm around Eileen's shoulders. And when asked about the infamous moustache said:
"What can I say? The ladies love it."
The papers dedicated a whole page to his philanthropy. But when Brendan saw they'd illustrated his quotes about Steven with his coy, bee-stung pout in a drenched model shot he felt sick – mocked. His body itched like someone knew, although no one could have.
Two. Four days later, ahead of the Saturday Friendly, Danny Houston took Brendan out for a working dinner. Danny ordered off menu, not bothering with eye contact as flicked the order in their direction. Brendan's steak sat just as he liked it – still mooing – but he picked around it as Danny steeled him with opinions and plans. Danny was convinced they hadn't done enough to show Ste they meant business and the more he spoke, the smaller he felt against Hay's dominance.
"Hay's biggest dream is a transfer to Park. But you know what, he's old hat now. He knows it. He'll make captaincy at his team, sure – but that's not what he's been working towards." Danny started pointing his knife in Brendan's direction. "It's big money. There's nothing to stop you next season from making the transfer. I'd love to see the look on that muppet's face when you walk in and take his precious position at Park." When Danny laughed, he did it closed mouth and body shaking. Brendan's was hollow, mouth wide and head nodding.
"We're planning to put the feelers out in the press tomorrow. Drop a few 'unnamed source' quotes to say Park are interested in you. That'll show the bugger."
Three. The third part of the counterattack wasn't orchestrated by press or management at all. It ticked slowly in Brendan's mind as Saturday approached. And the closer that day crept, the more Brendan became fixated on Steven and soon payback seemed like the only option to stop things from going too far.
