By eleven p.m. on Friday night, the stag party had been hard at it for thirty-eight straight hours. Since they’d arrived at the airport yesterday morning, they’d been on a relentless mission to get wasted, knocking back beers with vodka chasers before boarding the flight. Now Marc, the groom, had his hand up the skirt and his tongue down the throat of a girl he’d met less than an hour before. The best man had another woman pressed against the wall, while the tell-tale jerk of her shoulder made it clear she was giving him an over-the-trouser hand job.

Fernando Inglesias watched the tawdry display going on all around him and wondered, not for the first time that day, what the hell he was doing there. He barely knew Marc Jenner, and from what he’d seen of the groom so far, he intended to keep it that way. The rest of the group were just as bad—entitled, overgrown schoolboys behaving like this was their first trip away from home. Fernando had come along for the sake of his friend and teammate Robson, the only guy on this trip he gave a stuff about. Now Robson had his arm around the shoulder of a woman in a transparent dress. There was no need for Robson to stare so obviously at her enhanced breasts when everyone in the place could see them.

And now the women—a large hen-party they’d met in the previous bar—had tagged along and made themselves a permanent fixture. Lured by the promise of free drinks and VIP club access, it was obvious they would stick with the guys for the rest of the night, perhaps even the weekend.

Fernando knew before the flight had left London that he’d made a mistake in accepting the invitation. It had been pure hell from the start. He would make sure he was unavailable for the wedding, whenever that was.

He flinched as one of the women from the hen party made a grab for his crotch. He ducked his hips just in time to keep her from getting a good handful.

“Aww, don’t be a spoilsport,” she said, pressing her breasts against him and thrusting her knee up the inside of his thigh. “I only wanna see what all the fuss is about. Know what I mean?” Her screechy laugh cut above the unrelenting beat of generic house music.

Fernando tried to pull away, but the woman would not be shaken. She put an arm around his waist and pushed her body tight against his. She reeked of cloying, overbearing perfume and gin. Fernando turned his head to avoid the worst of the smell. Like all drunks, she had no concept of how loud she was being.

“Wass-a-matter with ya?” she shouted in his ear. “You’re in Ibiza, ain’t ya? Everyone comes here to party. Don’t be so stuck up.”

She ground her body against him almost in time with the music. Fernando looked around for help, for someone to save him from this awful woman, but all the other men in his party were enthralled by the girls. They probably thought he was having a great time.

Fernando groaned. He didn’t fit in with anyone here. Even Robson had turned into a different person since hooking up with these idiots. They had been drinking since they’d surfaced around noon and made no attempt to hide it when they took a hit of cocaine to revive their flagging spirits. He’d avoided them for much of the day, working out in the hotel gym before catching some quiet time around the pool in the afternoon, but there had been no getting out of joining them this evening. When they’d finally hit the town, Fernando had been the only sober member of the group.

“They call me Becca,” the woman hollered, fluttering her false eyelashes. She licked her lips, gazing at him lasciviously. “I know who you are. I’ve seen you in the magazines—gossip sites and all that. Always thought you was hot, but man, those pictures don’t do you justice.” She giggled, an obvious attempt at coyness. “You are so much sexier in the flesh.”

Fernando clenched his teeth. This was exactly what he didn’t want—being recognised from the trashy celebrity magazines his girlfriend paraded them through, rather than as the international striker he was. Those mags were devoured by people like Becca, who seemed to believe every word they read.

“It’s not true, is it?” she persisted. “That you’re getting married to that Pritti Parlow?”

“No,” he said, looking for an escape. The bar was packed, and he’d somehow got hemmed into the corner. He saw several camera phones trained on him and Becca. Great. A photo like that could be used to support any bullshit story the gossip sites cared to invent.

“Good,” Becca said, pressing closer. “Cause you can do much better than her. Know what I’m saying? I don’t think she’s all that special. You see her everywhere, but I don’t even think she’s that pretty, which is funny considering her name. It’s all false, ain’t it? Her tits, her hair, lips… None of it’s real. I mean, no offence and all that, but I just say what I see.”

Fernando raised his eyebrows. With her frozen forehead and the duck-like shape of her mouth, Becca’s own brand of beauty was far from natural. “I have to go. Excuse me.”

Becca gripped him tighter. “I’m a model,” she continued, undeterred. “Glamour, corporate entertaining, you know the kind of thing. I’m a friend of the bride.” She gave a dismissive wave in the direction of a woman in a pink tutu and veil. “Sort of. More a friend of a friend, but who’s gonna turn down a trip to Ibiza? It’s fucking insane, ain’t it? I love it here. Don’t you, hon?”

Fernando yanked his arm out of her grip. “It was nice meeting you,” he said without conviction. “I have to go now.”

She appeared panicked, reaching for him again, but he shrugged her off. “Why don’t I come with you? How does that sound? You and me? We could go somewhere nice and quiet. Maybe your hotel.”

“No thanks.”

“I give the best blow jobs,” she shouted, spraying him with spittle. “All the guys love it. I can suck your balls dry and make your toes curl. And that’s just for starters. First night anal. I’m that kind of girl. I guarantee a good time—the best you’ll find this weekend.”

“You know I have a girlfriend.”

“But she ain’t here, is she? What she don’t know about won’t hurt her. Besides, if it’s only a blowie, like, it hardly counts as anything, does it? An’ in Ibiza at that.”

Fernando pushed through the crowd, heading for the door. There was no point stopping to tell the others he was leaving. He’d only get dragged into another desperate encounter. He’d send Robson a text as soon as he escaped so they wouldn’t waste time looking for him later…if they considered him at all. The other men in the group looked ready to pair off and do their own thing. They wouldn’t give Fernando another thought until morning. On a night like this, that suited him fine.

He noticed several cameras trained on him as he made his way to the exit. With his chin down, he kept walking. A couple of men tried to intercept him, grinning madly and babbling about football. Fernando stepped deftly out of their way and didn’t stop. How many times had he found himself in this exact situation? Too many to make the mistake again. He should have known from the start what kind of weekend this would be. Robson had lured him with the promise of good food, of hiring bikes and exploring the island. In reality, it was nothing more than a boring four-day party.

He detested the bullshit that went along with being recognised. He wasn’t the only famous member of the group. The groom was some king of club manager-come-reality TV star, while one of the others was a social media influencer, but as a Premier League footballer, Fernando was the most well-known. Ordinarily, he had no problem with fans and would gladly pose for selfies with people in the street. But a night-club environment was another matter. Everyone he met in these shitty bars and clubs had an agenda. They wanted him to buy them drinks, boost their business with some free PR, or worse, get him into bed so they’d have a story to tell their friends or sell to the press.

They didn’t see a man. They saw money signs.

A lot of young players got off on that level of attention, the adulation and easy sex. Fernando wasn’t one of them. He was a private man who had found himself dragged along on the celebrity ride. It’s all part of the game. That was what managers and agents were so keen to tell him. It won’t last forever. You have to make money while you can.

At what cost? he wondered. Freedom? Self-respect? Could they be sacrificed in the pursuit of money and success? It was a quandary few people seemed to share with him.

He stepped out of the club and inhaled the fresh sea air. The harbour area of Ibiza Town was packed with people. At this time on Friday night, things were just getting started. The marina was filled with an array of incredible-looking yachts, while the streets were thronged with tourists enjoying the waterfront cafés and bars. Fernando would not get far without being recognised again. He slid into one of the gift shops and bought a cheap baseball cap, which he put on, the peak pulled low across his forehead.

Back on the street, his Spanish heritage allowed him to blend in with the locals without attracting attention. He’d worn plain-looking clothes tonight, knowing from the outset that he’d escape the stag party and make his own way. His dark polo shirt and narrow black jeans were nondescript and complimented his Mediterranean colouring. Perhaps his Hublot watch, a present to himself when he’d transferred to Barnard FC—which had cost a staggering £122,000—had been a mistake, but with no other jewellery, he hoped it would go unnoticed in the town. The yachts in the harbour proved there was plenty of money in Ibiza this evening.

Fernando walked through the streets with a purpose, a man on a mission. When he’d accepted Robson’s invitation to join the group, he’d known this moment would come. He’d researched the town in meticulous detail, knowing where he wanted to go. If the next few hours were as rewarding as he hoped, it would be worth the tedium of spending four days with a bunch of English drunks.

There was precious little freedom in Fernando’s life. Almost every minute of the day was planned and structured—gym, training, physio, business. When Barnard FC were playing away, he had no time to himself and the evenings were shared with his teammates, whose ideas of a good time were girls, drinks and gambling. Since Pritti had entered his life seven months earlier, his nights had become as regimented as his days. Parties, premieres, restaurants and openings… Any place likely to garner a little press coverage was where Pritti thought they should be. Fernando went along with everything, doing what his colleagues, manager, girlfriend and fans expected of him.

But not tonight.

For a few short hours, he would be himself.

Or rather, he would be Juan Carlos, the alter-ego he’d created five years earlier. He had his Juan Carlos ID in the back of his wallet. Didn’t that prove he’d had no intention of sticking with the boys in town? Juan Carlos was the real Fernando Inglesias, truer and more genuine than the international football star.

He walked around the outer edge of the harbour until he reached the old town quarters. The streets were narrower there but just as busy, as restaurants and cafés squeezed tables into the slender walkways. The sounds were deafening, with music from competing venues leaching into the night while diners chattered and laughed, adding to the chaos. It was easy for Fernando to lose himself in the confusion.

He hadn’t been there before but had studied the maps in careful detail. He’d planned his route and knew where he was going—deeper into the old quarter, following the cobblestone walkways towards the fortified walls of the upper town. There was a street he’d read about in this area, the Calle de le Virgen, one long avenue filled with gay bars from one end to the other. So tempting. He’d looked at the pictures with longing, seeing men and women spilling freely into the streets, enjoying themselves with clear abandon. Fernando wanted to be part of that world so badly, if only for a couple of hours. But the risk was not worth it. The chances of being recognised in a place like that were huge. And just one picture uploaded to Instagram would cause an avalanche of rumours.

No, he wouldn’t jeopardise his reputation on Calle de le Virgen. Fernando was well prepared and had a more appropriate place in mind.

He made his way to the base of the castle walls. Above him, on a large terrace, stood another famous bar he’d read about online. The outside area was already packed. Loud talk and laughter reduced the music playing to a background beat. Fernando looked at the patrons with a mix of envy and sadness. How joyous they appeared, laughing and drinking in the balmy night air. It had gone midnight, and the party was picking up. How relaxed it looked—so different from the cattle market behaviour of the group he’d left behind in the marina. A great weight tugged at his heart. He would never be part of that world, of that life. A small group of friends at the edge of the terrace turned to look at him. One of the men, handsome, in his late twenties, seemed to sense his hesitation and called out.

“Hey there. Why don’t you come on up? We don’t bite, I promise. Come and have a drink with us.”

Startled, Fernando pulled the cap lower over his face and hurried away.

A few minutes later, he reached the open gates of the medieval castle. Once inside, he found a wide cobbled street with restaurants on either side. Excited diners ate their meals and drank wine in the most fantastic location, beneath the summer stars. What a waste, he thought, that the stag party spent their days and nights getting drunk and stumbling from one bar to another, when they could experience something like this. Maybe he would come back here for lunch one day, by himself, before the weekend was over. But tonight? No, he had other, more urgent plans.

Fernando turned left, heading upwards, towards the castle ramparts, away from the main dining area. His increasing heart rate had nothing to do with the steep climb. He was in peak physical condition. He reduced his pace, knowing he was close. Everything he’d read about this place said it was easy to miss, that most people walking by wouldn’t even see it.

There were two men ahead of him. He caught a snatch of their conversation as they also slowed down, gazing at the street signs and doorways. They sounded German. Fernando had no doubt they were looking for the same place as he was. He hung back, waiting to see what they would find. They suddenly changed course, heading for a doorway on the right. A moment later they were gone.

Oh God. Every part of him trembled. This is it.

Fernando took a deep breath and followed.

A small sign to the side of the door was the only indicator he had come to the right place. Le Señor, it read, and beneath it, Men Only. Fernando stepped through a beaded curtain into the small reception area. The low thrum of dance music reverberated through the floor. The lighting was dim and blue. The German couple ahead of him paid the entry and went inside. A slight man in his fifties sat shirtless inside a kiosk.

“Buenos noches,” he said with a smile.

“Good evening,” Fernando said, speaking in English to protect himself. He’d had a successful career in his native Spain before moving to the UK and was just as likely to be recognised by the locals as by the Brits.

“Tonight, it’s twenty euros,” the man said. “One free drink at the bar included in the price.”

Keeping his chin tucked under, Fernando pulled two notes from his wallet.

“We have a dress code,” the man continued, pointing at a poster on the wall to the side of the kiosk.

Every night of the week, there was a theme to the Le Señor. Fernando had read about this but failed to find out which nights they all related to. He skimmed the poster. Mondays were football kits. Thank God he hadn’t turned up on that night. On Tuesday it was Chavs, Wednesday was jocks, and Thursdays were for leather men. Friday was shirtless. He had no problem with that. Tomorrow night’s dress code was underwear and Sunday was naked in the dark.

“Your shirt,” the doorman said. “It must come off. Don’t be shy.”

“No problem.” Fernando turned his face away and took off his cap. He hauled his polo shirt over his shoulders, tucked it down the back of his trousers and shoved the cap back on his head. He had no tattoos, no discernible marks that could give away his identity. He kept the hair on his chest neat and trimmed. His torso was toned and well proportioned. Fernando was proud of his body.

“Bueno,” the door man said, handing him a token. “This is for your first drink. Enjoy and have a good night.”

Fernando gave a tight smile in return before passing through another beaded curtain into the bar.

It was tiny, the bar area less than half the size of his living room at home. The first thing to hit him was the smell—a pungent mix of alcohol, sweat, an assortment of aftershaves, fragrances and the heavy aroma of amyl nitrate. Fernando’s heart raced faster than ever. What do I do now? He had no idea. This was his first time in a place like this. He’d thought about it, obsessed over it, but nothing had prepared him for the reality of an all-male cruising bar.

Or how mundane it would be.

There were perhaps a dozen people in the bar, enough to make the small area seem packed. They were all shapes, sizes and ages, from late teens to seventy and above. And he found himself the centre of all their attention when he entered. The impulse to flee almost overwhelmed him.

Take it easy. They are checking you out. Looking at your body. None of these men recognise you.

Fernando steadied himself and approached the bar. He handed over the drinks’ token in exchange for a vodka and Diet Coke. As he waited for it, he glanced around again, getting the lay of the land. He’d studied the website and online reviews. Through the door to the right there was another, larger room—darkened, he understood, for cruising—and there was an additional room in there, completely black, and smaller private booths for intimate hook-ups. How much courage would it take to step across that threshold?

His drink arrived, more spirit than mixer. Fernando gulped it gratefully. It was stiflingly hot in there, but there was no chance of him taking off his cap. What are the chances of being recognised? he wondered. Slim for sure. The dim blue lights of the bar gave everyone’s features a strange, alien pallor. And would any of these men even recognise a premier league footballer? How true was the cliché that gay men weren’t interested in football?

And yet you are here, a player looking to hook up with another guy. Does that answer the question?

The risks were too high.

He finished his drink and ordered another, keeping a nonchalant eye on the doorway to the main room. Men drifted casually in and out. An enormous muscle bear with colossal pecs and shoulders fixed Fernando with a determined stare. He looked away, focusing on his drink. Fernando didn’t know what kind of man he was looking for, but that wasn’t it. The man’s size and muscles were intimidating. He appreciated a fit body, but not to that extreme degree.

Someone like the guys he’d seen on the terrace earlier, the ones who had called to him… They were more like himself—just regular, unfussy men. So why did you run away from them?

This was all so confusing—wanting something so badly but being afraid to pursue it.

He’d come this far. He had to get something out of it, even if that was nothing more than satisfying his curiosity. Fernando downed his second drink and headed through the door.

Though darker than the main bar, the big room was still light enough to see, aided by the flickering light of large TV screens in the corners of the room, showing four different porn films. The temperature was even hotter in here, owing to the number of bodies inside. Fernando guessed there were upwards of fifty men milling about the room. Sweat ran down his neck in rivulets, over his pecs and down his lean torso. He wondered if anyone could see the furious beat of his heart in his chest.

A man moved in front of him, staring him straight in the face, his eyes burning with intent. He looked around forty, with hawkish features and a thin, bony body. Fernando moved away, venturing deeper into the room. Three guys in the corner were getting hot and heavy, their hands all over each other’s bodies, caressing backs, bellies, arses. He kept walking, not sure if it was correct to watch them or not. Despite all the info he’d read on this place, none it had gone into the behaviour etiquette—what was and wasn’t acceptable. How would he know when it was right to make a move?

You’re out of your depth. You shouldn’t have come.

He pressed on, determined. His curiosity was stronger than his fear.

Someone made a grab for his crotch. Unlike before, when Becca had tried to cop a feel, Fernando didn’t shy away. The stranger cupped him through his trousers and Fernando’s cock responded, growing hard. The man was around his own age, with light-coloured hair and a pleasant face. His body was softly muscled and furred.

“Hey,” the man said, tightening his grip as Fernando’s body reacted.

Fernando let out a small gasp in reply. Words were beyond him at the moment.

The man gestured towards a corridor on the far side. “Want to get a private room?”

Fernando’s nerve deserted him. He pulled back. “Sorry, no. I’m not ready yet.”

Without waiting for a reply, he retreated to the safety of the outer bar, his pulse racing.

What is wrong with me? Isn’t this what I wanted? The reason he’d come here was to immerse himself in this world. And the man who’d come on to him had been nice, unthreatening. Despite the obvious way he’d grabbed his balls, there had been nothing intimidating about him. They could have found a room away from the crowd and enjoyed each other for a short time. What’s the worst that could happen? A blowjob, a wank? He’d gone a lot further than that before. What’s holding me back?

Perhaps it was this place…a sex club. It had seemed so exciting in theory. The reality was a lot less so. It was too much. His senses were overloaded with the smell, the heat, the lust-filled glances. He was unprepared for all of it.

With a sigh, he returned to the bar. He’d have one more drink, just so it hadn’t been a complete waste of time, before making his way back to the hotel. He ordered another vodka and Coke and moved to a quiet corner, away from the crowd, where he could get himself together before leaving.

At that moment, a young man walked out of the cruising room, a T-shirt tucked into the waist of his jeans, and Fernando realised that the guy was exactly what he’d been looking for.