Make Football Straight Again Pt. 2
The MFSA series starts here
Kirk Cousins stepped into the spacious living room of his new Las Vegas home, the ink still fresh on his one-year deal with the Raiders. The veteran quarterback had just wrapped up his introductory press conference a few days earlier, and the quiet off-season afternoon felt like the perfect chance to unwind. He only hoped his time in Vegas would go better than his stint in Atlanta. He wasn’t sure how he’d fit in with the other boys in the Raiders locker room. Hopefully they wouldn’t think he was such a boring old man (for a professional athlete, of course).
A knock at the door pulled him from his thoughts. He signed for the small parcel and carried it inside, frowning at the return address. Josh Allen. Now that was odd. Even though they were both quarterbacks in the NFL, they had never really talked much beyond the occasional nod across the field or a quick word at the Pro Bowl years ago. Why would the Buffalo quarterback suddenly send him anything?
Curiosity won out. Kirk sliced open the package and pulled out a bright red shirt. The bold white stitching across the chest read MAKE FOOTBALL STRAIGHT AGAIN. He let out a short chuckle. It had to be some kind of joke or quirky team prank. Josh had been making headlines lately for his sudden shift in attitude on the field, that new aggressive edge that seemed to come out of nowhere, paired with an insane surge of muscle mass that had the entire league buzzing. The NFL had run every test imaginable and found nothing. No steroids, no banned substances. Just a freak natural explosion of size and power. There had to be some sort of secret!
Kirk shrugged and decided it would not hurt to play along. He would slip the shirt on, snap a quick selfie, and fire it off to Josh with a thumbs-up emoji. One time wear, no big deal. Even though she shared his politics, Kirk knew his wife probably wouldn’t approve of him keeping a shirt with such an inflammatory statement, so he’d probably be putting it in the recycling right after. He could already hear Julie’s voice in his head: “No need to bring on any drama, dear.”
After unbuttoning his shirt to reveal his lean torso, he tugged the red tee up and over his head. The fabric felt surprisingly thick and warm as it settled against his skin, almost like it clung to him with a purpose. At first nothing seemed out of the ordinary. Kirk reached for his phone on the coffee table, already composing the message in his head. Then a deep, pleasant heat bloomed across his chest.
The warmth spread fast. Kirk glanced down just as his pectorals began to swell. The muscle fibers thickened and pushed outward in heavy, rounded plates that stretched the red cotton tight. His nipples hardened into sensitive points as the pecs ballooned forward, creating a shelf of pure power that forced the shirt to ride up slightly. He gasped, the sound already deeper than it should have been. Thirty pounds of muscle were packing onto his body in mere minutes, and every ounce felt incredible.
His shoulders came next. They broadened with a rolling surge, deltoids capping into thick, striated domes that pulled his arms away from his sides. The sleeves of the shirt dug into the growing mass, seams creaking as his traps rose like mountains on either side of his thickening neck. Kirk flexed experimentally and felt a jolt of raw strength flood his arms. His biceps peaked higher and higher, splitting into sharp, vascular heads that strained the fabric until faint tears appeared at the seams. Triceps flared out into thick horseshoes beneath them, while his forearms corded up with veins that snaked over newly swollen muscle. He could not stop staring as his hands grew larger, fingers thickening into powerful grips built for dominating the line of scrimmage.
The growth raced downward. His back widened into a dramatic V-taper, lats flaring so wide they forced his arms to rest at new angles. Abs carved themselves deeper and deeper into an eight-pack of ridged bricks, each one separated by deep cuts that gleamed with a light sheen of sweat. Kirk grunted as his quads exploded outward, sweeping thighs that ballooned with dense, striated mass and pressed hard against the legs of his shorts. Hamstrings tightened into powerful cords, and his calves diamonded into thick, sculpted shapes that lifted him slightly onto the balls of his feet. Even his glutes firmed and rounded, pushing the seat of his shorts into a tight, powerful curve.
A final heavy pulse hit lower. Kirk felt his cock thicken and lengthen inside his underwear, growing heavier and more insistent as the shirt poured pure alpha masculinity into every cell. His jaw squared off, cheekbones sharpening, while his voice dropped into a commanding rumble that echoed through the room.
All the while his mind shifted in perfect sync with his body. Kirk had always leaned conservative, traditional values guiding his life and career without much fanfare. Now those leanings hardened into something sharper, more extreme. Thoughts of the league’s recent pushes for inclusion twisted into outright disgust. Why the hell did they need rainbow logos and pride nights cluttering up the game? Real men played football. Real men hit hard, talked straight, and kept things the way they were supposed to be. The very idea of homosexuality in the locker room made his blood boil. Fags had no place on the field! They were soft, weak, distractions that needed to be driven out so the sport could be pure again. Kirk flexed his new arms and grinned at the mirror, the old quiet conservative replaced by a towering, hostile alpha who craved dominance in every form.
Across the country in Kansas City, Harrison Butker had just returned from a light workout when his own parcel arrived. The Chiefs kicker, already known for his outspoken Republican views and traditional stance on just about everything, eyed the package with mild surprise. Why would the quarterback of the Buffalo Bills - a man who had made quite the stir in the media lately with his sudden shift in politics and inexplicable muscle growth - be sending him something?
Harrison tore it open and found an identical red shirt to Kirk's: MAKE FOOTBALL STRAIGHT AGAIN. He laughed once, the sound low and approving. Without hesitation he stripped off his tank top and pulled the shirt on, curious to see how it fit.
The heat hit him almost immediately. Harrison’s chest surged forward as thick slabs of pectoral muscle ballooned outward, stretching the fabric until the stitching of the letters distorted over the growing curves. His shoulders broadened with a heavy crack, deltoids exploding into rounded caps while his traps climbed higher. Arms thickened dramatically, biceps ballooning into peaked mountains and triceps swelling into powerful arcs. Veins popped across forearms that doubled in girth. His back widened, lats flaring so wide the shirt felt painted on. Abs etched themselves into deep, armored blocks as his waist stayed tight and powerful.
Lower, his quads detonated with size, sweeping outward in thick sweeps of muscle that shredded the seams of his gym shorts. Calves hardened into diamonds, and his glutes tightened into dense, athletic power. His cock pulsed and grew heavier, filling out with new length and girth that matched the overwhelming surge of alpha energy flooding his system. Harrison’s jawline sharpened, neck thickening into a strong column as his voice dropped into a deeper, more commanding tone.
His lean kicker body had become a wall of muscle and he would march onto every football field like a tank rolling into battle.
Internally, his already conservative beliefs sharpened into pure toxicity. The mild frustration he once felt toward progressive causes hardened into seething contempt. He thought back to that college commencement speech he had given at Benedictine, the one where he had laid it all out plain and unfiltered. Women were happiest in the home, raising families and supporting their husbands, not chasing careers that left them bitter and unfulfilled. The gays and their endless agenda were degenerates dragging society into the gutter. They were simple truths!
The backlash had been immediate and vicious: women online had called him every name in the book, and the gay community had erupted in outrage, demanding apologies and boycotts. Harrison had not given an inch. He stood firm, doubled down in every interview, and told them exactly where they could shove their feelings.
Now, with the shirt locked around his expanding torso, that same unapologetic fire roared into something far darker and more absolute. Those women belonged in the kitchen or on the sidelines cheering, not in boardrooms or locker rooms pretending to be equals. And the gays? They were an abomination ruining the game, pushing their agenda and turning tough men soft. No more tolerance. No more pretending it was okay.
His mind drifted to his own locker room, and the distrust he had always carried toward certain teammates flared into open hostility. Take Travis Kelce, for instance. The tight end was the poster boy for everything wrong with the modern NFL: always smiling for the cameras, dating that pop star, showing up at every liberal event and acting like football needed to be softer and more inclusive. That fucking vaccine ad too - talk about selling out! Harrison had never trusted the man’s easy charm or the way he pandered to the woke crowd. Kelce represented the rot spreading through the league, the kind of beta influence that made real alphas hold back.
But those alphas wouldn't be held back anymore. He wouldn't be held back. Harrison’s new body flexed involuntarily at the thought, muscles rippling with fresh power. He would enjoy watching men like Kelce get put in their place once the movement took hold.
At least he had one solid ally already. Matt Araiza, the team’s new punter, had proven himself a true brother from the moment he arrived in Kansas City. The two of them had bonded quickly over shared values, late-night talks about faith, family, and the need to keep the game pure. Araiza understood. He got it in a way the others never would. Harrison pictured the punter’s face when he saw the shirt and felt a surge of excitement. Matt would be next. They would stand together, bigger, stronger, and louder than ever, and drive the weakness out for good.
Harrison slammed a fist into his palm, the new muscle rippling with every movement. Football needed to be straight again, raw and brutal and unapologetic. No more weakness. No more excuses.
Back in Buffalo, the new Josh Allen’s phone buzzed with two incoming selfies. He grinned at the sight of Kirk and Harrison already filling out the red shirts, their new bodies straining the fabric in all the right places. Perfect. The first wave was taking hold exactly as planned. Soon there would be more of them - many more - but right now these two would be vital for helping him spread his message across the NFL.
Josh (his former identity as the fan Alex thoroughly dismissed) tapped the screen and started a group video call. Both men answered almost instantly, their transformed faces filling the frame with matching expressions of hungry power.
“Hey, fellas,” Josh rumbled, his own massive frame leaning back in his chair. “Glad you liked the gifts. Now listen up. I’ve got a plan to make football straight again, and I want you two right there with me from the start. It begins with…”
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