Make Football Straight Again Pt. 3
The MFSA series starts here - part two here
Just a few days after that first group video call, the MFSA movement had already taken on a life of its own. Its founders - Josh Allen, Kirk Cousins, and Harrison Butker - stood shoulder to shoulder on a raised platform at a packed Las Vegas hotel ballroom, the cameras flashing nonstop.
All three men wore their red MFSA shirts, which were stretched drum-tight over bodies that had become monuments of raw power. Josh’s pecs jutted forward like armored plates, his arms thicker than most men’s thighs. Kirk’s newly massive frame filled out the fabric until the stitched letters looked ready to pop, his quads straining the dress pants he had barely managed to squeeze into. Harrison’s own transformed physique looked even more imposing under the lights, his broad shoulders and carved abs making him appear carved from stone rather than born.
Josh, the leader of the trio, stepped to the microphone first, his voice a deep, commanding rumble that rolled across the room as it emerged: “Football has been infected long enough. Pride nights, rainbow crap, soft rules, and weak leadership.” His sharp gaze scanned the crowd of gathered reporters and fans, as if daring any of them to challenge his statement. None would. “We are here to announce the official launch of Make Football Straight Again, a new movement in the sport we all love so much.”
It was Kirk’s turn to talk next: “Real men play this game. Real men hit hard, talk straight, and protect what made the NFL great. If you are tired of the liberal agenda turning our sport into a sideshow, join us.”
Then Harrison: “Wear the red. Grow stronger. Take football back from the libtards and degenerates.”
The three men - self-proclaimed alphas, with muscular bodies to back up that title - wore identical smirks. Kirk flexed one arm casually for the cameras, the bicep peaking so high the sleeve rode up. Harrison crossed his arms, making his chest and traps swell even larger. Josh looked like the cat that caught the canary - his plan was coming to fruition.
The press of course erupted with questions, but the three alphas simply stared them down, unapologetic and immovable. Their message was clear: the tide was turning.
Across the country in California, Nick Bosa and his brother Joey had paused their brutal off-season lifting session to watch the press conference on a tablet propped against the gym wall. Sweat still glistened across their already impressive physiques.
Nick’s thick chest heaved with each breath, his pecs heavy and striated from years of dedicated work on the defensive line, while his shoulders and traps formed a powerful yoke that made his tank top look painted on. Joey stood beside him, every bit as jacked, his arms veined and swollen from the heavy presses they had just finished, quads like tree trunks testing the limits of his shorts. Both brothers were built like linebackers ready for war, but the sight of Josh Allen, Kirk Cousins, and Harrison Butker on screen, wearing those bright red MFSA shirts stretched so ridiculously over bodies that had grown visibly bigger and more dominant than ever before (enough to dwarf even them), lit a hungry spark in their eyes.
Nick’s jaw tightened as he watched Josh’s massive frame command the room, the stitched letters across his enormous chest practically daring anyone to argue.
“About damn time,” he muttered, voice low and rough with approval. The three alphas on the tablet looked unstoppable, their muscles pushing the fabric to its breaking point while they laid out the truth the league had been avoiding for too long. Nick pulled out his phone without a second thought. He found the contact information for Josh Allen that had been saved in his phone for years, left totally unused, and placed the order right there in the middle of the gym. One shirt for himself, one for Joey, and a full two dozen more to hand out to his buddies from the 49ers locker room when their paths next crossed. It didn’t matter if they didn’t want them - he’d make sure they each took one.
He hit send, the confirmation popping up instantly. Joey grinned wide beside him, already imagining the thick red fabric sliding over his own chest, the heat that would follow, and the way his body would respond. The thought alone made his blood run hotter. He’d be an unstoppable unit on any defensive line with those improvements!
Back in Kansas City, Harrison’s phone buzzed in his pocket during a quick break from the press junket. He glanced at the screen and let out a low, mocking laugh that rolled out of his newly deepened chest like thunder. Patrick Mahomes had texted him directly: “Harrison, this MFSA stuff is going to tear the Chiefs locker room apart. You need to step back or at least keep it low profile. We’re a team.”
Harrison read the message aloud to Josh and Kirk, who had stepped off the stage with him into the private hallway. Both men burst into deep, rumbling laughter that echoed off the walls, their massive frames shaking with pure contempt. Josh clapped Harrison hard on the shoulder, the impact solid against his thick, corded delts, the sound of meaty muscle meeting meaty muscle loud in the confined space.
“Mahomes,” Josh said with a sneer, his own voice a commanding growl. “He’s always been too beta for the alpha sport of football.” There was plenty of animosity left in Josh (previously Alex, a die-hard Bills fan) from all the times the Chiefs had knocked the Bills out of the Playoffs. “Smiling for the cameras like some doofus, hanging with the woke crowd, pandering to every soft agenda that comes along. Guy thinks he runs a locker room? Pfft, he’ll learn soon enough what real leadership looks like.” He gave a pointed look at Harrison as he said this.
Kirk nodded, his gravelly baritone dripping with disdain as he crossed his newly enormous arms, biceps peaking sharply against the red fabric. “It’s really pathetic,” he spat. “The man actually believes he can tell a real alpha how to act! Texting you like he still has any say. Once we get the red on the rest of that team, he will either fall in line or get put in his place with the rest of the betas.”
Harrison pocketed his phone with a satisfied smirk, his transformed body flexing involuntarily at the thought. The three of them stood there, towering and unshakeable, already picturing how the movement would roll right over anyone weak enough to resist.
While the three of them shared the joke, another parcel was being delivered just a few miles away at Matt Araiza’s place. The Chiefs punter had been expecting it after Harrison’s excited texts just a day before. He tore open the box, pulled out the red MFSA shirt, and wasted no time stripping off his hoodie. The fabric of his new garment slid over his head and settled against his body like a second skin.
The heat hit fast and hard. Matt’s chest surged outward as thick slabs of pectoral muscle ballooned into heavy, rounded plates that stretched the red cotton until the letters distorted over the growing curves. His shoulders broadened with a heavy crack, deltoids exploding into rounded caps while his traps climbed higher up his neck. 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 down, his quads detonated with size, sweeping outward in thick sweeps of muscle that shredded the seams of his 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. Matt’s jawline sharpened, neck thickening into a strong column as his voice dropped into a deeper, more commanding tone.
His already conservative leanings sharpened into pure toxicity. The mild frustrations he once felt toward progressive causes hardened into seething contempt. Women belonged exactly where they were meant to be, supporting their men, not pretending to run anything. And the gays? They were an abomination ruining the game, pushing their agenda and turning tough men soft. Matt 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. He fired off a quick selfie to Harrison, already feeling like a different man.
Later that night the four of them, Josh, Harrison, Kirk, and the newly transformed Matt, gathered in a private penthouse suite in Vegas. Scantily clad women moved through the room like living decorations, their tiny skirts riding high and their tops barely covering anything as they served drinks, laughed at every crude joke, and pressed their soft bodies against the massive frames of the alphas. The air was thick with cologne, fresh sweat, and pure dominance, the kind of heavy masculine scent that made the girls’ eyes glaze over with eager submission.
Josh leaned back on a wide leather couch, his enormous frame taking up most of the space. One thick arm was draped possessively around a blonde who had climbed right into his lap, her tits pressed tight against the side of his shelf-like pecs while she giggled at everything he said. He gave her ass a firm, open-handed smack that made her squeal and grind harder against him.
“Bosa brothers placed their order today,” he rumbled, voice low and commanding as he squeezed the blonde’s waist like she was nothing more than a toy. “Nick and Joey, plus extras for the whole 49ers squad. Good. West Coast needs this bad. Those pretty boys out there have gone soft for too long. Fuckin’ California, right?”
The blonde nuzzled her face into his neck, kissing the thick cord of muscle there while her hand traced the deep ridges of his abs through the straining red shirt. Josh barely glanced at her, treating her attention as his natural right. He took a slow sip of his whiskey, letting her continue her worship without a single word of thanks.
Harrison took a long pull from his beer, his free hand resting boldly on the ass of a brunette who had settled into his lap like she belonged there. He gave her cheek a hard squeeze, fingers digging in as he pulled her closer so her hips rocked against the heavy bulge now stretching his pants.
“Send the next batch to the Bengals,” he growled, his newly deepened voice dripping with contempt. “Burrow’s too soft. Needs fixing. Kid thinks he can keep playing pretty boy quarterback while the rest of us grow into real men. Few guys on that team could probably buy into our cause too.” He knew the Bengals kicker Evan McPherson from off-season workouts and while the kid had never discussed politics with him, Harrison knew he had potential if just given a nudge in the right direction.
The brunette wrapped around Harrison laughed exactly the way he wanted her to, tilting her head back so he could stare straight down her cleavage. Harrison flexed his free arm for her, the bicep peaking so sharply that the red MFSA shirt creaked at the seams. She ran her manicured nails over the swollen muscle and cooed, which only made him smirk wider. These women knew their place around him: look good, feel good, and shut up unless they were praising the alpha in front of them. His wife could definitely learn a trick or two from them.
Kirk nodded from across the room, his own massive arm wrapped tight around another woman, a redhead whose legs were draped over one of his tree-trunk thighs. He had pulled her in so close that her ass was practically sitting on the thick outline of his cock, and every time she shifted he gave her a possessive grope to remind her who was in charge.
“Kelce too,” Kirk added, his gravelly baritone rolling out like an order. “That pretty boy tight end is the definition of beta. Always prancing around with his little pop star girlfriend like football needs to be some inclusive sideshow." He paused to think for a moment before making an addition: "And do not even get me started on Jalen Hurts. Always talking about inclusion and all that crap. Refusing to go to the White House after the Eagles won the Super Bowl. That’s beta boy shit.”
The redhead pressed her lips to his thick trap, murmuring agreement while her hands roamed over the slabs of muscle that made up his chest. Kirk rewarded her with a rough kiss on the mouth, claiming her openly in front of the others as if it was the most natural thing in the world. The boys hollered in approval. Kirk had come a long way from his past reputation as a gentleman. Straight male privilege felt good, especially when it came with a body this powerful and a movement that was only getting stronger.
Matt flexed one arm for the cluster of girls watching him, the bicep peaking sharply under the red fabric until the sleeve looked ready to tear. Two of them immediately reached out to touch it, giggling and pressing their bodies against his sides. He let them feel him up, chest puffed out, while he drained half his beer in one go.
“Mahomes is the worst of them,” Matt said, voice now every bit as deep and commanding as the others. It wasn’t long ago he’d been thankful to Mahomes and the Chiefs for taking a chance on him after his court drama - now he couldn’t give a shit about the quarterback. “Thinks he can text me and Harrison like he is still in charge. That beta bitch actually believes the locker room belongs to him. We will deal with all of them.”
Josh’s grin turned dark and certain. He raised his glass, the red shirt straining hard across his enormous chest as the fabric fought to contain the slabs of pectoral muscle underneath. “Anybody who gets in our way, we’ll handle. Shirts for the allies. Something a little more special for the betas who resist. Make Football Straight Again is just getting started, boys. And the NFL is never going back.”
The women around them cheered and pressed in closer, their hands sliding over thick arms and wide backs, feeding the alphas exactly the worship they demanded. Josh, Harrison, Kirk, and Matt exchanged satisfied looks over the tops of the girls’ heads. The party was just the beginning. The real work, the shirts, the growth, and the total takeover, was coming for every last man in the league who thought he could stay soft.
