Hey bro, BGW here. I'd love to see what sports game's on offer!
You notice the cartridge already in your hand, heavier than it should be, its red plastic warm against your palm. There’s no title on the label, no team logos, nothing. You slide it into the console with a click.
The screen lights up with stadium glare. Floodlights bloom outward, washing your room in harsh white and gold. The sound hits a half-second later—crowd noise so loud it rattles your chest, not your ears. You feel it in your ribs, in your spine, like the roar is tuning your body to a new frequency.
A calm, confident voice cuts through it.
“Quarterback mode engaged.”
You’re already sitting differently. You have no idea when it happened, but your back is straighter, your shoulders pulled back as if posture suddenly matters. Your hands rest heavier on the controller, fingers spread wider, grip firmer. The plastic creaks faintly, like you don't know your own strength.
The first snap comes. The ball hits your avatar’s hands, and the controller thumps in response. Not a vibration, but a confirmation. You drop back and throw without hesitation.
The reaction inside you is immediate and disproportionate. Heat blooms in your chest, spreading outward, settling into your shoulders and arms. Your jaw tightens. You exhale through your nose, sharp and pleased, like that outcome was inevitable.
“Nice arm,” the announcer says.
Your lips twitch upward before you catch it.
The next play feels slower. Defensive lines make sense at a glance. You read movement instinctively, without thinking. You don’t feel like you’re learning, instead you’re remembering something you were always supposed to know.
With every completed pass, something in your body firms up. Your forearms thicken first, muscles tightening beneath the skin, veins standing out faintly. Your shoulders feel heavier, broader, like weight has been added evenly across your frame. You roll them once, unconsciously, testing the range. They feel powerful. Stable.
Your shirt pulls tight across your chest.
You glance down, frowning, tugging at the fabric. Your torso looks different—wider, denser, your chest pushed forward naturally. Your stomach feels solid, braced, like it’s meant to take hits. You tell yourself you’re imagining it, but the controller fits your hands better now, like it’s resized itself to match your grip.
The game keeps praising you.
“He owns this drive.”
“Truly made in God’s image.”
Each line lands deeper than the last. Not like encouragement. Like confirmation of facts you’ve been ignoring.
Your thoughts start to change shape. You stop wondering if the play will work and start assuming it will. You stop reacting to pressure and start expecting everyone else to adjust to you. When a receiver misses a route, irritation flickers through you. Your throw was perfect, he just had to not play like an animal!
You say a quick silent prayer under your breath. You weren't the most devout believer ever, but it couldn't hurt. Looks good on camera too, your fans eat that shit up. (You shake that thought away, wondering where it came from.)
You pace during a timeout, rolling your neck, cracking it side to side. The movement feels good. Necessary. Your neck is thicker now, cords of muscle standing out when you turn your head. Your voice, when you mutter commentary at the screen, comes out louder than you expect—clear, commanding, carrying weight.
By halftime, your clothes aren’t your clothes anymore. The soft cotton has become a tight, red athletic top, clinging to a chest that fills it out easily. Your arms strain the sleeves until they disappear entirely, leaving your shoulders bare and solid. Your legs feel powerful when you walk, quads heavy and coiled, like they want motion.
You look down at your jersey, the number 47 staring back. Your number. Your president's number. A quiet affirmation of policies and beliefs that lead your new life. A memory surfaces, a recent visit to his residence in Florida. Lots of good talks, locker room talk and otherwise. Some networking for when you finally retire and need a new career. Anything is possible.
Mentally, something else has settled in: certainty.
You stop questioning the game’s praise and start agreeing with it. Of course you’re the centerpiece. Everything runs through you. When the camera zooms in on your avatar’s face—your face—you don’t think about it.
That’s just how you look now.
The fourth quarter hits, close score, pressure mounting.
Almost bored by the idea of losing.
Your heartbeat slows, deep and steady, syncing perfectly with the cadence of the snap count.
You call audibles out loud. It's what you do. Your voice fills the room easily, sharp and authoritative, like you expect to be heard. Of course you will.
You turn your head, watching the cheerleaders doing their thing. Their uniforms are way too revealing for the cold temperatures. Your eyes focus on one in particular, Kathy or Becky or whatever her name is. Her body is more important anyway, blonde hair flowing with every movement. You can see her chest bouncing from where you're standing, licking your lips at the sight. It's just natural to want, right? God made you to breed. And you take what's yours. For now, you shake it off. No distractions.
Your body is finished changing now. Broad shoulders. Thick arms. A chest that demands space. You stand tall without effort, confidence baked into your posture. Your thoughts are simpler. You don’t dwell on it. You choose.
The final play wins the game.
The crowd chants for you. Over and over, thunderous and approving.
“This is my field,” your inner voice says, “The others can kneel when they're ready.”
You hear a voice behind you, impressed and interested. High pitched, coming from the cheerleader from earlier.
You don’t rush. You don’t need to. You already know how this goes now. Gotta make her work for it.
You step forward without hesitation, feeling your shoes hit turf, pads settle comfortably on your shoulders, the roar wrap around you like it’s always been yours.
You clap once, sharp and commanding.
Libs, weaklings, you name it. They all belong under you.
You're a true winner now.
