‘Stop slathering that crap all over my body! Isn’t it enough that I spend so many hours running around the football pitch?’ said Gaspar Carlsson, glaring at the makeup artist applying a thick layer of dark foundation to his muscles.

‘The photos will be better if I make them darker. We will also change your eye color. Blue is too out-of-a-fable. And that hair: blond is totally out of the question this season. Black is much better. You are meant to look like a youthful god, not some metrosexual prince. The fairy-tale heartthrob look has long gone out of style. A strong, chiseled body and a lusty glare, that’s the ‘must-have’ this season. Don’t worry, the graphics designer will fix everything. You just have to relax and smile at the camera. Don’t stress it,’ added Silvie, applying another layer of bronzer to his thighs.

God, how I hate to pose. I’m gonna kill Tom for getting me into this. I’m thirty-five and still have to keep hearing people tell me about what I need to have fixed up. As if it isn’t bad enough that I’ll be pinned up somewhere for a whole year in just my underpants, they even want me to be wearing fucking makeup and all photoshopped!

Two models came into the photo studio. The campaign these girls and the footballer were to appear in was meant to portray them as a group of carefree friends, enjoying a day of fun-and-sun together.

‘Gaspar, meet Linda and Megan,’ the photographer said, moving toward a screen on which the azure waters of Mauritius were projected. The girls smiled and walked behind him.

‘Linda, cuddle up closer to him, give me a left profile. Gaspar, be more sure of yourself, put your leg, your left leg forward. Wrap your arm around Linda,’ the photographer commanded. ‘No, turn around, look over your left shoulder. Megan, stand up straighter. That’s it. Great. OK, now repeat the sequence. Linda, put your hand on his shoulder.’

More than an hour passed this way. After a short break, when Gaspar hoped that the session was just about finished, Eva came up to him and pressed some skimpy underpants into his hand.

‘You expect me to put those on instead? These are not good enough?’ he muttered, taken by surprise.

‘David didn’t complain. You want to be sexy, right?’ the stylist said with a laugh, showing him the picture of another scantily clad footballer on her iPhone. ‘So put these on and make sure every woman’s gonna dream of ripping them right off you. Silvie should apply something to your stomach, too. We want it to look more well-chiseled.’

Gaspar looked down at his muscles. He had thought his body was flawless: a six-pack stomach, a shapely rear-end, strong arms, and powerful thighs. Hours of exercise a day, a rigorous diet, a regular lifestyle. But for the fashion world even he was still too imperfect to become the face of a luxury brand without a lot of makeup and Photoshop.

OK, have it your way. I guess I signed a pact with the devil, so you can do anything you want with me, he thought, putting on the tight white briefs. As he emerged from the changing room, he noticed that the girlfriends of two of his fellow team members were there in another studio, so he approached them.

‘Hi there!’ he said, giving them a broad smile.

‘Wow, Gaspar, what a hunk you are!’ said Constance, scanning his nearly naked body and pouting her thick lips. ‘You don’t look like that on the pitch, and it’s such a shame. More girls would be interested in football if you did.’ She began to giggle, looking at her friend, who nodded in approval.

‘Thanks, but what are you girls doing here?’ he asked, noticing that in the middle of the studio there were several metal poles, like those used by night-club dancers.

‘Filming our reality show, WAGs London. We are going to learn how to pole-dance like professionals,’ said Viki with a laugh, walking up to one of the metal bars. As soon as she touched it, she began to shake her buttocks and wrap her body around the pole, all the while looking Gaspar straight in the eye.

‘This is what we are gonna do. Does it turn you on?’ Viki gasped a moment later, now with her head thrown back, simulating an orgasm. ‘Or actually, you don’t have to say anything. We’ll find out soon enough,’ she said with a laugh, glancing at his skimpy underwear.

Gaspar didn’t know how to respond. He shook his head and just smiled.

These WAGs are getting crazier all the time, he thought.

‘You are wonderful, without you there would be no football anymore,’ he quipped as he left. The girls blew him kisses, laughing loudly.

As he took his place in front of the camera again, he realized that he was probably too old to get himself a new WAG.