My name is Alexander Lambert, but you can call me Lex… after all, everyone else in Great Britain does. My rabid fans, the sportscasters, and the tabloids know me by a slightly different name: “Lightning Lex Lambert.”

You see, I’m kind of a big fucking deal.

For the last twelve years, I’ve been rising in the football world – or soccer, as the Americans call it, rather incorrectly I’ll quickly add.

I’ve paid my dues, playing in some of the most prestigious teams to grace the great echelons of English football might: some junior teams, Manchester United, Galaxy League, a few seasons here and there with an underdog or two… and now the National team.

Which means one thing:

I’m a World Cup caliber player.

The greatest sport on Earth, watched with borderline zealotry by over a hundred countries, all culminating in a grand championship that draws audiences over hundreds of millions. The sheer marketing dollars spent on that tournament outperforms the gross domestic product of smaller countries, every single year, and it’s only getting bigger and bigger.

And right there on the field?

Me.

Lex Fucking Lambert, star player and team captain of the English National Team. I am the best of the best, a regular household name in my home country. My signature alone is a prized commodity in the realm of sports merchandising. Signed headshots fetch for thousands of dollars on eBay, especially since I’ve only signed maybe twenty or thirty of them in my entire life.

My reputation for fearless, combative ball is legendary among discussions of the sport. When I step out under the lights and look down my hardened, take-no-prisoners enemies on the field, they quake with fear.

I’m known off the field as well, although that preceding reputation is slightly different… and even more fun.

Let’s just say that playing it family friendly is a damned good waste of ridiculous fame, staggeringly impeccable physique, and my particular breed of effortlessly rugged features…

I might have been caught in the tabloids a few times with some hot, nameless piece of ass. Or, you know, maybe a lot more than a few.

What can I say? I’m a handsome piece, and I know how to wear a tailored suit… and as it turns out, the women go crazy for that kind of thing.

They all fancy a shag with Lex.

I had it all – the looks, the game, the prestige, and the effortless, thirsty pussy thrown at me every time I walked into a bar. Life was great, and the sex on demand was even better. But I lacked one thing, and I knew exactly what it was.

The big money.

You might have never heard of the Patrovo Corporation, but they’re a bigger deal in Jolly Ole England than me.

Hard to imagine, I’m sure.

Pretty much everything from top-tier, high-end sneakers to household boxes of oat cereal are owned by some subsidiary company that eventually bows to the Patrovo Corporation, no matter how high up the food chain you have to go. They have their grubby little fingers in goddamn everything… and they dish out one multi-million dollar corporate sponsorships to one lucky star athlete per year… the best of the best.

In case you’d forgotten… that’s me.

I wanted that contract with every fiber of my being. I burned for it. Nobody else deserved it more than me. I was already a pop culture celebrity, known and beloved by the entire country… and I had the skills to back it up.

That money belonged to me.

Which made this little conversation all the more upsetting…

“You do realize why you’re not getting the sponsorship, yeah?” Jess casually asked as she sipped from her frothing pint of dark ale.

She and I were sitting across from each other at a small, private bar-top table in my favourite pub, The Grinning Twig. It was one of the few watering holes that held my authority in such reverence that I could sneak through the back and sit in a private room with a lips-sealed, mum’s the word bartender.

Jess continued, setting her glass down and wiping the froth from her lips with the back of her hand. “I mean, even you aren’t that dull in the head, Lex. Surely, you’ve figured it out by now.”

“Go ahead, then,” I growled in slight protest; I set my own glass down against the bar with a clatter that rang a little too loudly. My private bartender glanced up from wiping out the mug in his hands, but when it was clear that I didn’t give a rat’s arse about him, he soon resumed his work.

One look at Jess’s face, and my mind quickly changed. “Wait, no. You’re doing that sodding smirk of yours. Don’t do the smirk.”

“What smirk?” She asked innocently, her eyes flashing wild with mischievousness. “Couldn’t possibly know what you’re talking about…”

“You’re doing it right now,” I repeated, my voice gravelly with mounting frustration. “I know that smirk. That’s the smirk you give that rambunctious, shit-assed pup of yours when he’s misbehaving.”

Of course, I wasn’t referring to a dog. Jess didn’t own a dog. What she did own was a taste for men barely old enough to move out of their mummy’s house… this month, he was a sniveling, spineless punk wannabe.

Kept on a leash like any good dog, Timothy was a scrawny little fuck… a wet-behind-the-ears kid just tall enough to pull off a leather jacket. Even that took a little convincing.

Ignoring my criticism of her fuck-buddy choices, Jess’s smirk widened, and she reclined against the bar stool, crossing her arms.

“You know what I’m going to say.”

“Let’s pretend that I don’t,” I insisted.

I didn’t like being toyed with, and she knew that. The two people I needed to confide in at times like this were my best friend, and my publicist.

Life put both in the same fucking woman.

What a lucky sod that made me.

Jess watched me for a moment, choosing her words and judging my reactions before finally cutting loose. “Lex, the Patrovo Corporation invests a lot of money into proper brand representation. The athletes they slap on the boxes of cereal, or put in their stupid shoe commercials, they need those athletes to protect their interests.”

“I’m well aware,” I gruffly reminded her.

Jess raised an eyebrow. “I understand that. But what you’ve got to realize is that Brett Barker plays it safe as shit. His choice is going to be careful, calculated, and definitely not you.”

“I’m safe,” I protested, lifting my arms in protest before clasping the fingers behind my head. “Safe as they come.”

“Safe doesn’t get their photos slapped across a six-page major spread,” she grumbled, reaching into her purse to whip out a creased tabloid. She shoved it towards me, and I lazily leaned back forwards and rifled through the pages.

Sure, I was on the cover again. No big deal.

“I don’t see what you’re–”

Then I stopped, glancing at the photos. Seemed like the paparazzi fucks had stalked me to a hotel balcony, where I’d been photographed with my arms around two lovely little ladies.

I remembered them. Not their names, of course, but I recalled the three nights of glorious, hardcore lovemaking we’d had together… and how jealous the gods must have been in their various pantheons.

Of course, that didn’t matter now.

Not when I was staring at various blurry pictures, showing under no arguable terms that I was kissing one with another on her knees in front of me at cock level. In another candid photo, they were kissing for my entertainment… and in yet another, they were both at cock level in front of me, with my proud face held high and each palm resting on their heads...

Yeah, I’d almost forgotten how good those few days had been. Cor blimey, were they voracious in the hotel bed... and in the shower… and on the balcony, as the paparazzi apparently noticed.

“Yeah. Safe is the last word that comes to mind when I put ‘Lightning Lex Lambert’ and ‘corporate sponsorships’ in the same sentence,” Jess elaborated. “I’m afraid your chances with Mr. Barker were tenuous before… but now they’re shot to hell.”

“Brett Barker can ride a knob straight to hell,” I grumbled angrily, downing the rest of my ale.

“Yeah, well, he’s your meal ticket,” Jess shrugged. “You can’t exactly antagonize the Head of Public Relations for the entire Patrovo Corporation and then expect to wind up his year’s pick for the cereal boxes.”

I gave a stiff nod to the bartender, who poured me another ale and rushed it to my side. “Cheers, mate,” I offered him, and he stifled a small smile with utmost professionalism.

“You’re my publicist, Jess,” I told her after a quick, refreshing sip. “How do I get my big, grinning mug on a commercial?”

Jess sighed. “Do you want me to answer as your friend, or as your publicist?”

“Both, obviously.”

“Well, as your publicist, you need to clean your fucking act up – and fast. No more of these stunts. The only reason you even have a ghost of a chance anymore is that the entire country bloody well loves you. You’re a national icon, regardless of the pair of lips around your cock at any given moment. If you really want this sponsorship deal with the Patrovo Corporation… something’s gotta give, and it’s gotta give now.”

I read her eyes thoughtfully, tempted to lash out about my various trophies, athletic stats, or how vital to pop culture I already was.

But I trusted Jess.

I valued her.

And as an old friend and a talented representative, I let her speak to me in ways that would earn scathing destruction under any other circumstances.

“So that’s Publicist Jess speaking,” I commented gruffly. “What about the other one?”

“As your friend?” Jess asked.

I nodded quietly.

Her eyes flashed wildly again, and that smirk slipped back across her lips. As I felt a heavy pit in my stomach, she leaned forward, whispering as if anyone could hear us in this private pub room.

“I think I have an idea…”

My skepticism somehow found a new height. “An idea, yeah?” I asked, crossing my arms. “Am I going to like this?”

“Well, that depends…” Jess mischievously remarked, taking another swig of her drink.

“How do a few weeks in America sound?”

“Why the bloody hell would I want to go to America?”

Jess slapped a hand down on the table. “Because in America, nobody knows your name.”