Make Football Straight Again Pt. 7
The MFSA series starts here - part two here - part three here - part four here - part five here - part six here
The Football Is For Everyone event was being livestreamed from a sleek conference hall in downtown Los Angeles. Justin Herbert stood at the podium in a simple team shirt, his tall, athletic frame still untouched by any red shirt or supernatural growth. He kept his posture straight and his shoulders squared, but inside his chest a heavy weight had settled that refused to lift.
The room was only half full at best, mostly mid-tier players, a handful of staff members, and a scattering of media who looked more curious than convinced. Empty chairs stretched across the back rows like silent accusations. Not long ago this type of movement would have drawn packed houses and viral support. Now it felt like they were shouting into a shrinking echo chamber, and Justin knew exactly why.
Joe Burrow’s face kept flashing through his mind as he gripped the edges of the podium. Joe, the guy who had sat right beside him on that video call, the one who had helped brainstorm the entire Football Is For Everyone initiative. They had laughed together about keeping things positive, about appealing to humanity instead of muscle and intimidation.
Then that Bosa party happened and Joe had vanished into the red. One shirt, one night, and the man who used to talk about respect and inclusion was now flexing on social media with the rest of the MFSA alphas, ranting about “betas” and “woke bullshit” like it was the most natural thing in the world.
The betrayal stung deeper than Justin wanted to admit. It was not just one player switching sides. It was proof that the shirts could reach anyone, even the ones who had sworn they were immune. Every defection like Joe’s chipped away at the movement’s credibility. Players who had once nodded along in private meetings were now going quiet or making excuses. Attendance at these events had halved in the last two weeks. Sponsors were pulling back. Fans online were calling them soft, naive, or worse. The red wave was not just growing. It was swallowing the league whole, and Justin could feel the tide pulling harder every single day.
He swallowed the frustration down and spoke anyway, voice steady but edged with real, raw disappointment that he could no longer hide.
“I am disappointed in Joe Burrow,” Justin said, the words tasting bitter on his tongue. “We all saw what happened at that party in Florida. He was one of us. He helped us launch this movement to keep football inclusive, to make sure every player feels like they belong no matter who they love or what they believe. Now he is wearing the red and pushing the exact opposite. It is not just a political shift. It is like he became someone else overnight. The muscle, the attitude, the way he talks now. It scares me how fast it happened. But I still have hope.”
He paused, scanning the half-empty room and wondering how many of the faces staring back at him would still be here next month. The thought made his stomach twist. Football Is For Everyone was supposed to be the answer, the steady, human counter to the growing cult of red shirts and toxic alpha worship. They had chosen kindness over intimidation, investigation over intimidation. Yet every time Justin checked the league group chats, another name had gone silent or posted a vague “focusing on football” statement that everyone knew was code for folding. The movement was bleeding members.
The investigation into the shirts had gone nowhere because the NFL seemed terrified to touch it. And here he was, still standing at the podium trying to sound optimistic while knowing that the man who had once been his ally was probably laughing at this livestream with Josh Allen right now.
“We are going to keep appealing to humanity, to the fans, to the front office,” Justin continued, forcing conviction into every syllable even as doubt gnawed at the edges of his mind. “We will push for real investigations into whatever is happening with those shirts. We are not giving up on an inclusive NFL.”
A polite round of applause rippled through the small crowd, scattered and brief, nothing like the roaring energy these events used to generate. Justin nodded, trying to look optimistic for the cameras, but the disappointment in his eyes was clear for anyone watching. Inside he felt the movement crumbling around him, one red shirt at a time, and he wondered how much longer he could keep standing here alone before the tide took him too.
Miles away in a private Buffalo lounge, Joe Burrow and Josh Allen sat side by side on a massive leather couch, the livestream playing on a wall-sized screen just as Justin had suspected. Both men wore their red MFSA shirts stretched obscenely tight over bodies that had become monuments of alpha power. Josh’s pecs heaved with every low chuckle while Joe’s newly thickened arms rested across the back of the couch, biceps peaking even at rest.
Josh let out a deep, rumbling laugh as Justin finished his speech. “Look at that naive little beta up there. Still talking about inclusion and humanity like it means shit anymore. Burrow, you really used to run with these soft boys?”
Joe grinned, the toxic smirk now permanent on his sharpened face. “Yeah. Herbert is too much of a beta to ever become a real alpha like us. All that height and talent wasted on woke speeches. Pathetic. He and the rest of them are going to get crushed once the red wave hits the rest of the league.”
Josh clapped a heavy hand on Joe’s shoulder, the impact solid against dense muscle. “Exactly. Speaking of which, you should take a fresh stack of shirts to the Bengals pre-season training workouts next week. Get the whole locker room on board. Start with the skill guys. They will look good in red.”
Joe nodded without hesitation, his deep voice full of eager dominance. “Already planned on it. Consider it done. Bengals are going straight real soon.”
At the Bengals pre-season camp the following week the air was thick with the smell of fresh-cut grass and sweat. Joe Burrow moved through the practice fields like a king in his red MFSA shirt, a duffel bag slung over one massive shoulder. All eyes were drawn to him - players, coaches, journalists. Nobody could look away. He handed out the bright red garments one by one to the players he trusted most.
Ja’Marr Chase pulled his on immediately, groaning as his lean receiver frame exploded with thirty pounds of dense muscle, pecs surging forward and quads ballooning until the shorts split at the seams. Charlie Jones, Chase Brown, and Tanner Hudson followed right after, each man’s body swelling in heavy, relentless waves while their minds twisted hard into the new conservative fire. Then a few more, until Joe's supply was running low. Deep laughter and flexing filled the field as the red shirts claimed the players, the group already chanting the movement’s slogan like a battle cry.
The good mood on the practice field shattered the moment Evan McPherson and Mike Gesicki stormed up from the sideline, both men still dressed in plain practice gear that suddenly looked small and outdated next to the growing cluster of red shirts. Their faces were tight with a mixture of confusion and barely contained anger, fists clenched at their sides as they pushed through the newly transformed players who were still flexing and laughing in their bright red MFSA uniforms.
“What the hell is this, Joe?” Evan demanded, the smaller kicker’s voice cracking with raw frustration. He was the shortest guy on the roster by a wide margin, always the one getting ribbed in the locker room for his size, and right now that insecurity burned hot in his cheeks. “You flip overnight, start wearing this cult crap, and now you’re handing out shirts like it’s some kind of religion? This isn’t you. This isn’t the guy who used to sit with us and talk about respect and letting everyone play their game no matter what. You’re sounding just like Josh Allen and the rest of those meatheads. What happened to the real Joe Burrow?”
Mike Gesicki crossed his thick arms over his chest, the tight end looking visibly overshadowed even next to his own teammates. He had always been solid, talented, but never quite the household name like the Kelces and Kittles of the league, and the knowledge of it gnawed at him daily. “Yeah, man. We used to be on the same page. Now you’re out here sounding like some brainwashed alpha bro. The muscle growth, the sudden politics, the way you all talk about gays and women now… It is insane. This whole thing feels like a cult. You are better than this, Joe. We all are.”
Joe turned slowly, his massively enhanced frame towering over both of them like a wall of pure dominance. The red Make Football Straight Again shirt strained gloriously across his heavy pectoral slabs, the white stitching pulled tight and distorted over every curve of new muscle. He let a slow, predatory smile spread across his sharpened face, eyes gleaming with the confidence only the shirts could provide. Instead of snapping back or arguing, he stepped closer, voice dropping into a low, coaxing rumble that somehow cut straight through their anger.
“Evan, come on now,” Joe said, his tone almost gentle, almost friendly, the way a predator might sound right before the strike. “You’re a kicker. The smallest guy on the field every single week. You bust your ass out there, drill after drill, but you still get treated like the weak link, right? Always the butt of the jokes in the locker room. Always overlooked when the big boys are talking.” He held out one of his remaining red shirts towards the team’s twunky kicker. “Put on the red and feel what it is like to be powerful for once. I’m talking real power. The kind that makes people shut up and respect you, instead of laughing behind your back. No more being the little guy. No more feeling small.”
Evan shifted uncomfortably on his feet, eyes flicking down to the bright red shirt Joe now held out toward him. A strange warmth began to radiate from the fabric, subtle at first but growing stronger the closer it came. It felt like sunlight on bare skin, inviting, promising. He tried to look away, tried to cling to the liberal values that had always guided him, the belief that the game should be for everyone and that respect did not need to come from size or cruelty.
But the shirt hummed faintly in Joe’s grip, a low, almost inaudible vibration that seemed to whisper directly into his mind: Power. Respect. Strength. No more weakness. Evan swallowed hard, fighting the sudden urge to reach out and touch it, his smaller frame already feeling even tinier in comparison to the alphas surrounding him.
Joe turned to Mike without missing a beat, eyes gleaming with knowing satisfaction. “And you, Gesicki. Always in the shadow of the big-name tight ends. Kelce getting the commercials, Kittle getting the headlines, Pitts and Ertz stealing the spotlight. You are talented as hell but you never quite measure up, do you? Always the guy who gets the ‘solid contributor’ label instead of the superstar treatment.” He extended the final shirt in his collection towards the overlooked tight end. “This shirt fixes that. It makes you bigger, stronger, better than all of them. No more being second string in your own position. You become the alpha tight end. The one everyone fears and respects. The one they look up to instead of looking past.”
Mike’s jaw tightened, arms still crossed defensively, but his gaze lingered on the red fabric despite himself. The same supernatural warmth was already tugging at him, a gentle but insistent pull that made his skin prickle and his pulse quicken. He tried to push back, mind racing through memories of the old locker room talks about inclusion and fairness, the way he had once rolled his eyes at the over-the-top machismo of certain teammates. This was wrong. This was a cult. He knew it. Yet the shirt seemed to pulse in Joe’s hand, whispering promises of size, of dominance, of finally stepping out of the shadows and into the light.
Mike felt his breath grow shallower, a bead of sweat rolling down his back as the temptation coiled tighter in his gut. He wanted to tell Joe to fuck off, to walk away with Evan and keep fighting for Football Is For Everyone. But the fabric called to the deep, hidden insecurity he had carried for years, the quiet ache of never quite being enough.
The words sank in deeper with every second. Evan’s hands twitched at his sides, the warmth from the shirt growing hotter, more seductive, wrapping around his insecurities like a comforting embrace. Mike’s crossed arms loosened slightly, his eyes locked on the red cotton as the supernatural pull intensified, flooding his mind with flashes of what he could become: bigger, stronger, respected, feared.
Both men tried one last time to resist, exchanging a quick, uncertain glance that carried the weight of their shared liberal ideals and the fear of losing themselves completely.
Knowing it was the right moment to strike, Joe pressed the shirts firmly into their hands, the cotton humming with dark, living energy the instant their skin made contact. A jolt of pure pleasure shot up both men’s arms, warm and insistent, making their knees feel momentarily weak. The fabric felt alive, pulsing against their palms, whispering louder now: Put me on. Become more. No more weakness. No more being overlooked. Join us. Keep the gays and the soft links out for good.
Evan and Mike stood frozen for one final heartbeat, minds screaming at them to drop the shirts, to walk away, to stay true to the movement they still believed in. But the compulsion had already wrapped around their thoughts like warm silk, tugging harder, promising everything they had secretly craved.
Their resistance crumbled. They pulled the red MFSA shirts over their heads in tandem.
The transformation hit both men at the exact same moment. The fabric hummed louder now, vibrating with dark, living energy that poured straight into their bodies like liquid fire.
For Evan, the change was pure detonation. His smaller, compact kicker’s frame had always been the punchline of the locker room, lean and wiry but never imposing. Now that same body exploded outward in a violent, glorious rush that made him gasp out loud. His pectorals surged forward with shocking speed, ballooning into thick, heavy slabs of muscle that stretched the red cotton so tight the white stitching creaked and distorted. The growth felt almost vengeful, as if every year of being overlooked was being repaid in raw mass.
Shoulders broadened with a series of sharp, cracking pops that echoed across the practice field, deltoids rounding into powerful caps while his traps climbed high up a neck that thickened into a strong, commanding column. Arms that had once looked almost delicate ballooned dramatically, biceps peaking into sharp, vascular mountains and triceps swelling into heavy horseshoes that made the sleeves ride up. Veins snaked and pulsed across forearms that doubled in girth, the sudden power making his hands clench into fists that felt unbreakable.
His back widened into a dramatic spread so fast his lats actually pulled his arms outward with an audible stretch of fabric. Abs carved themselves deep and brutal, an eight-pack emerging where only faint lines had existed before, his waist staying tight and athletic.
Lower down the heat detonated hardest. Quads exploded outward in thick, sweeping waves of striated muscle, hamstrings tightening into dense cords and calves diamonding into sculpted rocks that lifted him onto the balls of his feet. Glutes firmed and rounded into powerful slabs that filled out the seat of his shorts. His cock thickened and lengthened in one heavy, insistent pulse, growing heavier and more dominant as raw alpha energy flooded every cell.
Evan’s jaw squared off sharply, cheekbones cutting into a stronger line while his voice dropped into a deep, commanding rumble that rolled out of him like thunder. For the first time in his life he felt truly big, truly seen, and the sensation was intoxicating.
Mike’s transformation was slower, heavier, and far more overwhelming, like a solid foundation being rebuilt into something unstoppable. His already athletic tight-end build had always been respectable but never the headline act.
Now the shirt poured power into him like it was determined to make up for every slight, every time he had been mentioned after the bigger names. His pectorals ballooned outward in deep, rolling surges, expanding into armor-like plates of dense muscle that pushed the red fabric to its absolute limit and made the letters across his chest warp dramatically.
Shoulders cracked wider with low, resonant sounds, deltoids exploding into thick, striated domes while his traps rose like mountains on either side of a neck that thickened into a powerful pillar. Arms thickened dramatically, biceps swelling into peaked, veined monsters and triceps flaring into heavy arcs that made his upper body look carved from stone. He looked like he was capable of crushing rocks with his bare hands!
His back flared into an even more exaggerated V-taper, lats spreading so wide they forced his arms to rest at new angles and pulled the shirt tight across his spine. Abs etched themselves deeper and deeper into a brutal eight-pack, each block separated by shadowed cuts. He could already picture women running their tongues over them and relished the thought.
His waist remained tight, but below was a different story. Lower, his quads detonated in thick, sweeping waves that shredded the seams of his shorts, hamstrings tightening into powerful cords and calves diamonding into sculpted diamonds. Glutes rounded and hardened into dense slabs of power. His cock pulsed and grew heavier, lengthening with slow, insistent throbs that matched the overwhelming surge of dominance flooding his system.
Mike’s face sharpened last, jaw squaring into a strong line while his voice dropped into the same deep, commanding timbre as Evan’s, only richer, more authoritative, like a man who had finally stepped out of everyone else’s shadow.
Their minds shifted in perfect but deeply personal sync with the physical growth, the shirt’s supernatural grip rewriting them from the inside out. Liberal ideals cracked and burned away under relentless waves of toxic certainty. For Evan the change felt like sweet revenge on every joke ever made at his expense. Women were objects now, pretty things built for real men to enjoy and command. The gays? Weak, disgusting betas trying to sneak softness into a man’s sport. Inclusion was pathetic, a crutch for the small and the overlooked. He was done being the weak link. Done being small.
For Mike the corruption felt like stepping into the spotlight he had always deserved. The same thoughts about women and gays locked in, but they came wrapped in the thrill of superiority. No more living in the shadow of Kelce, Kittle, Pitts, or Ertz. He was the alpha tight end now, the one who would be feared and respected. No more pretending tolerance mattered when dominance felt this good.
Evan and Mike flexed side by side under the bright practice-field lights, the last traces of their old liberal selves vanishing completely as the toxic new mindset settled into place like it had always belonged there. Their red MFSA shirts strained gloriously over their newly massive chests, the white stitching pulled tight and distorted across heavy slabs of pectoral muscle that rose and fell with every powerful breath. Bodies humming with supernatural energy, they looked every bit the unstoppable alphas the shirts had promised they would become.
Evan slammed a newly massive fist into his open palm, the sharp crack echoing across the field like a gunshot. “Fuck the gays and every weak link trying to sneak into our league,” he growled, his voice now a deep, commanding rumble that carried real menace. “We are keeping this game straight and strong from now on. No more jokes at my expense. No more looking past me like I am some afterthought. The red is here to stay, and anyone who still thinks they can push that inclusive bullshit is going to get run over.”
Mike nodded slowly, his chest heaving with fresh, overwhelming power as he rolled his thick shoulders and let the new mass settle deeper into every fiber. “No more betas. No more excuses. No more living in anyone’s shadow while the real men take what is ours. Bengals are MFSA now. And the rest of the league is next. Chiefs. Eagles. Chargers. Every last one of them is going to feel this wave coming.”
Joe Burrow watched the two newest converts with a satisfied, almost predatory smirk, arms crossed over his own enormous chest so that the red fabric stretched even tighter across his pecs. The sight of Evan and Mike, former allies in the Football Is For Everyone movement, now standing there as proud, unapologetic alphas filled him with dark pleasure. The red wave had just claimed two more, turning quiet liberals into loud, dominant enforcers who would spread the message with the same ruthless hunger he felt every single day.
He pulled out his phone, thick fingers flying across the screen as he fired off a quick text to Josh Allen: “Bengals locker room is solid. Everyone who matters has gone alpha. We should send the next batch to the rest of the division soon. Herbert, Mahomes, and Hurts are running out of time.”
Joe slipped the phone back into his pocket and stepped forward, clapping each man hard on the shoulder, the impact solid against dense, unyielding muscle. “You two are just the beginning,” he said, voice low and certain. “The shirts are already on their way to the other camps. Pre-season is going to look very different this year. ”
Evan and Mike exchanged a dark, knowing grin, flexing once more in perfect unison as the afternoon sun glinted off the strained red fabric. The Bengals had fallen completely. The rest of the league would follow, team by team, player by player, until the only color left on any sideline was the bright, unapologetic red of MFSA.
Make Football Straight Again was no longer just a movement. It was an inevitability...
