Make Football Straight Again Pt. 5
The MFSA series starts here - part two here - part three here - part four here
The video call screen glowed softly in Patrick Mahomes’ home office, casting a cool blue light across the four faces staring back at one another. All of them wore matching expressions of deep frustration mixed with growing unease. Jalen Hurts appeared in the top right window, his broad shoulders filling the frame as he leaned forward in a simple black chair. Justin Herbert occupied the bottom left, arms already crossed tightly over his chest, while Joe Burrow filled the final window, looking tired but determined in a hoodie from his college days.
The four quarterbacks had been talking for nearly an hour now, their voices low and serious as they tried to piece together a way to fight back against a movement that was spreading faster than any injury bug the league had ever seen.
“It is getting completely out of control,” Patrick said, rubbing the back of his neck with one hand. His usual easy smile was nowhere to be found. “JJ, TJ, and Derek all dropped those flex videos in the red shirts yesterday. The three of them look like they gained fifty pounds of muscle overnight and they’re out there openly bragging about it.”
Jalen spoke next: “Then you have Maxx Crosby, Cooper Kupp, Stafford, and Jefferson posting the same crap.” The Eagles QB wasn’t rattled by much, but this? It made his heart hurt.
Then Justin: “Retired guys are jumping in too: Aaron Donald, Edelman, Rivers. They’re ‘all in’ now, bigger and louder than ever, preaching the same toxic garbage.” Justin had been glued to the news ever since the first MFSA press conference and seeing one of his former teammates - Joey Bosa - become such a public supporter had definitely hurt.
Finally Joe spoke up: “The league isn’t saying a damn thing. No statements, no investigations. No one is condemning the blatant homophobia or the misogyny. Nothing.” It wasn’t unlike the NFL to turn a blind eye to controversy, but surely this was too big to ignore?
Jalen nodded slowly, his face tight with anger. “They’re turning the entire NFL into their own little boys club. Real men only, straight alphas, all that bullshit.” He paused, letting out a frustrated sigh. “We speak out and they just laugh us off as soft or woke or whatever insult they feel like throwing around that day. We need a real plan, something that actually cuts through the noise before this spreads to every locker room in the league.”
Justin leaned forward, his arms still crossed over his chest in a protective stance. “We start our own thing. Call it Football Is For Everyone. No shirts, no intimidation, no trying to out-muscle them or match their alpha act. We keep it positive. We appeal to the humanity of the other players and the fans.”
Patrick was quick to nod in agreement. “We remind everyone why this league is supposed to be about more than just one narrow, ugly version of masculinity. We talk about teamwork, respect, and what the game really means to all of us.”
“And we go straight to the NFL offices,” Justin suggested. “Demand they open a real investigation into the muscle growth. Those guys are blowing up overnight and the media says every single drug test comes back clean? Something ain’t right here. We all know it.”
Joe ran a hand through his floppy brown hair, nodding slowly as he processed the idea. “I like it. We keep it positive, keep it about the game and the people in it instead of turning it into some culture war. I will reach out to some of the front office guys I know and see if we can get a meeting. In the meantime, the Bosa brothers are throwing a party at Nick’s off-season mansion in Florida this weekend. Probably against better judgment, I’m gonna go.” The other three quarterbacks immediately had looks of concern written across their faces. “I’ll keep my ears open, maybe get close enough to hear them slip up and say something about the shirts. We need to know what we are actually dealing with before it is too late.”
The others murmured their agreement and wished him luck as the call ended. One by one the windows went dark until only Joe’s face remained on Patrick’s screen for a brief second before the connection cut completely. Joe stared at the blank screen for a long moment, a heavy knot of unease twisting deep in his gut.
The party invitation had seemed like a smart move during the call, a chance to gather intelligence. Now, sitting alone in the quiet of his own home, it felt like he might be walking straight into something he could not walk back out of. He exhaled slowly and closed his laptop, the weight of the decision settling over him like a shadow.
The party at Nick Bosa’s sprawling waterfront mansion in Florida had started off normal enough. Music thumped across the wide pool deck, bass vibrating through the tiled floor while strings of lights cast a warm glow over the water. Beer flowed freely from iced coolers, and a light haze of recreational smoke drifted on the warm night breeze, carrying the faint scent of weed and expensive cologne.
Joe had arrived a couple of hours earlier, greeting old friends and new faces with the easy, charming smile he was known for, while trying desperately not to let his apprehension show. George Kittle and Brock Purdy from the 49ers were there, laughing loudly over some story from their off-season training camp. Joe’s former Bengals teammate Sam Hubbard clapped him on the back like old times, and Baker Mayfield from the Bucs was already three beers in, cracking jokes that had everyone relaxed and loose. There were a few more guys there too, mainly defensemen that the Bosa brothers had trained with. For a while it almost felt like old times, just a bunch of guys blowing off steam in the off-season.
But as the night wore on and the drinks kept coming, the mood shifted in a way that made Joe’s stomach tighten. Nick and Joey, both of them now impossibly massive in their red MFSA shirts, started moving through the crowd with stacks of identical red garments folded over their thick forearms. The moment they began handing them out, something in the air changed, growing heavier and more charged.
Joe hung back near the edge of the pool, nursing the same beer he had been holding for the last twenty minutes. He had already overheard too much. Nick had been loudly ranting earlier about how the league was “crawling with fags and feminists” who needed to be driven out, while Joey laughed and added that women belonged “on their knees or in the kitchen, not pretending to run anything.” The casual, venomous bigotry made Joe’s skin crawl. These were the same guys he used to respect on the field. Now they were openly celebrating homophobia and misogyny like it was some kind of victory lap, flexing their new bodies and mocking anyone who dared push back. It was repulsive.
Most of the partygoers were already buzzed, eyes glassy from beer and the other substances floating around. When Nick held up the first shirt and launched into his now-familiar speech about taking football back from the liberals, the guys muttered agreement and pulled the fabric over their heads without much thought.
George Kittle was the first to go all in. He laughed as he tugged the red shirt on, as if this wasn’t anything all that serious, but the laugh quickly turned into a deep, guttural groan as the transformation began. The Tight End’s already muscular frame exploded with new mass in heavy, relentless waves. Within moments he had reached the same titanic proportions as the Bosa brothers. Joe watched in morbid fascination while Kittle’s cock visibly thickened inside his shorts as he flexed both arms for the crowd. He had more questions about those shirts than ever before. How had they caused such an impossible transformation in barely sixty seconds?
Clearly inspired by the display Kittle had put on for them, Brock Purdy followed suit right after, then Baker Mayfield, then the defensemen and finally Joe’s old teammate Sam Hubbard. One by one the red shirts stretched tight over growing chests and shoulders, the party turning into a chorus of deep groans and flexing as muscle packed on in heavy, relentless waves.
Each man’s body ballooned with the same supernatural surge: pecs heaving outward, shoulders cracking wider, arms exploding with size, backs flaring, abs etching deep, legs swelling into tree-trunk power, and cocks thickening with raw alpha energy. Their faces sharpened, jaws squaring, voices dropping as liberal or neutral mindsets visibly cracked and reformed into something harder, meaner, and openly hostile.
Joe watched it all with rising repulsion. The way they openly mocked “the gays ruining the locker room” and “women who forgot their place” made his blood run cold. This was not just a party anymore. It was a conversion ritual, and the open bigotry pouring out of mouths that used to talk about teamwork made him want to leave right then.
But Nick was already walking toward him, that toxic alpha smirk wide and confident on his newly massive face. Sam, now transformed and missing the easygoing smile Joe knew him for, clapped a heavy hand on Joe’s shoulder, fingers digging in with dominant strength.
“Come on, Burrow,” Sam rumbled, voice deep and insistent. “You have been soft too long. Put it on. Feel what real football feels like. No more of that weak inclusive crap you and your little group are pushing.” It was staggering to hear from someone known for being so charitable and open-minded.
Nick pushed the shirt closer, the stitched letters practically glowing under the pool lights as if the fabric itself was alive. “We’re all in this together now, bro. No more pretending. No more woke bullshit. Just alphas. Just the game the way it is supposed to be. Straight. Strong. Unapologetic.”
Joe’s hand trembled as he stared at the red shirt. He could feel the supernatural pull coming off it in waves, warm and inviting, whispering promises of strength, belonging, and raw power. His liberal instincts screamed at him to refuse, to remember the plan, to stay true to Football Is For Everyone. He thought of Patrick, Jalen, and Justin counting on him. He thought of the investigation they needed to start. He thought of how disgusting the bigotry around him had become.
“No,” he muttered under his breath, trying to pull his hand back. “I am not doing this. This is wrong. All of it.”
But the pull was growing stronger, the shirt’s magic sinking into his bones like warm honey. Nick and Sam pressed in closer, their massive frames looming, voices turning more insistent. The rest of the party had noticed now, chanting lightly for him to join. Joe fought harder, teeth clenched, mind racing through every reason this was a betrayal of everything he believed in. Inclusion mattered. Respect mattered. The league didn’t need this kind of hate. He would not become one of them.
Yet his fingers closed around the red fabric anyway. The warmth flooded up his arm instantly, soothing and insistent, weakening his resolve with every heartbeat. His resistance cracked, then shattered completely as the supernatural compulsion overwhelmed him. It felt like coming home after a long road trip.
He pulled the shirt over his head.
The transformation hit fast and hard, but Joe still tried to fight it even as the physical changes began. His lean, athletic frame exploded with new mass as thirty pounds of dense muscle packed onto him in seconds. Pecs surged forward into thick, heavy slabs that stretched the red cotton painfully tight, nipples hardening into sensitive points as the muscle fibers thickened and pushed outward aggressively.
He groaned, trying to will the growth to stop, but his shoulders broadened with a deep rolling crack, deltoids exploding into rounded caps of power while traps climbed higher up a thickening neck. Arms ballooned dramatically, biceps peaking into sharp, vascular mountains and triceps swelling into powerful horseshoes beneath them. Veins snaked across forearms that doubled in girth. His back widened into a dramatic V-taper, lats flaring so wide they forced his arms outward at new angles. Abs carved themselves deeper and deeper into a brutal eight-pack as his waist stayed tight and powerful.
Lower down his quads detonated outward in thick sweeps of striated muscle, hamstrings tightening into dense cords and calves diamonding into sculpted diamonds. Glutes firmed and rounded into powerful slabs that lifted him slightly onto the balls of his feet. His cock thickened and lengthened inside his shorts, growing heavier and more insistent as raw alpha energy flooded every cell, making him throb against his will. Joe’s jaw squared off, cheekbones sharpening while his voice dropped into a commanding rumble that echoed across the pool deck despite his desperate attempt to stay silent.
Even as his body betrayed him, his mind fought viciously. The liberal ideals he had clung to cracked and burned at the edges under the shirt’s supernatural grip. He tried to hold onto them, repeating the words from the video call like a mantra: Football Is For Everyone. Inclusion. Respect. Morality.
But the thoughts felt smaller, weaker, pathetic against the overwhelming surge of dominance. Women were objects now, pretty things meant for real men to enjoy. The gays? Weak. Disgusting. An abomination trying to ruin a man’s sport. Inclusion felt pathetic. The very idea of his own resistance movement made him want to laugh out loud, the sound low and mocking as it forced its way up his throat.
Joe flexed both arms against his will, watching the biceps peak sharply under the red fabric, and a toxic grin finally spread across his face. The last of his old self burned away completely. He was one of them now. A true alpha. Part of the movement.
Nick and Joey clapped him hard on the back, welcoming their newest brother with rough, approving laughs. The party roared on around them, the red shirts multiplying as more and more men gave in to the cause.
Make Football Straight Again had claimed another superstar quarterback.
