Caught in Possession

Rewind

November, October, September, August, July, June, May, April, March, February, January.

January. Back, back to the start.

//

"Who's the brat?", Mew jerked his head in dismissive gesture towards a young footballer engaged in animated - heated - 'discussion' with the training match referee, as hailstones fired sharply from the heavy sky ceiling, deflecting away from stinging limbs at criss-crossing angles to hurtle their final journey, adding to the muddy slosh of the grass pitch below.

"Ohooo, I knew you'd like him", the similarly suavely suited man beside him on the not-so-suave garish blue pull-down stadium spectator seats - his cousin Tul - elbowed playfully at his ribs. He teased with an assured, safe familiarity that only he and a handful of others were permitted with his fierce relative. Would anyone else dare? Just the intensity of Mew's glare was warning enough, even before all of the ever circulating rumours were taken into account.

"I didn't say I liked him, I asked who he is", the man himself snapped back, though apparently to no avail...

"It's the lips, right?", his cousin was gazing dreamily down the tiered rows towards the pitch, miming exaggerated heart eyes and fluttering eyelashes at the player with 'Kanawut' printed on the back of his team jersey.

"What the-"

"-You think they'd look good wrapped around your cock while you face fucked him towards a money shot?"

A snort from Mew, then, indelicately: "Tul, are you high?"

"I wish. Just bored. You know football isn't my thing", the younger cousin - younger only by a matter of weeks, yet always seeming so much more carefree of soul, even since their teenage years - stretched his hands up above his head, as if in illustration of his tedium, then interlocking them back behind his own head as makeshift rest.

"It isn't anyone in this family's 'thing'", Mew responded darkly, "But it's status isn't it? And that is a Jongcheveevat 'thing'. Apparently the trophy of owning a Premier League club was just too much for dear Phor Kittichat to resist. So here we all are. Trapped in the land of polite concrete, smoking expensive cigars in heartless boardrooms, watching crap Thai import players kick a ball around in hailstorms until my father gets bored like that Russian prick before him, and eventually sells up..."

"Ugh", Tul nodded, and they sat for some moments of digestion - two old men on a park bench thumbing their walking sticks - before the younger cousin voiced the branching thought: "He's actually not crap though..."

"Who?"

"The brat. Focus, Mew! Kanawut - him, Gulf Kanawut - was the most expensive Premier League buy in the January Transfer window"

"That kid? How much?"

"Apparently he's one of those 'wunderkind' players. £120 million from Besiktas. All the richest, Champions League clubs were bidding for him but he came here to Chelsea for the Thai connection..."-

At which the abounding cynicism of Mew interrupted with...

-"Translation: His family back home were threatened that life would be 'difficult' if he signed anywhere else"

"Well, you'd have to ask both of our dad's about that one"

The sudden, shrill incision of the referee's whistle brought the meandering conversation to a premature close. A red card pulled from the match official's chest pocket and waved with haughty finality in the direction of the very player the two men had been discussing. Kanawut dismissed from the field of play, kicking studded boots to lift an indignant tuft of grass from the pitch as he departed in rage.