Ultimate Fantasy Football
First Kindle Edition: May 2015
Story: 16,300 words, 31 pages
She's just one of the guys, part of the fantasy football league, a tomboy loud mouth. Until that Halloween when she shows up dressed a little differently. There's a lot more to the girl than the guys ever imagined.
One little bet, and Fantasy Football will never be the same
Warnings: This title contains graphic language and wild one-on-one sexual situations as well as a girl with a playful attitude bigger than Texas.
MF Bet, Role-play, Oral
“Run the Fucking Ball!” the tall skinny girl wearing burgundy and gold screamed.
The rest of us at the table glanced at each other, and smiled. That was our Lori, the biggest tomboy in the bar, and lifelong Redskins Fan.
Being a Washington Redskins fan in Dallas is not the easiest thing. When you find a kindred soul, you’re quick to strike up a conversation, finding out where they’re originally from, how long they’ve been a transplant, and reminiscing over the good old days of Super Bowls and NFC East domination.
I found a local bar/eatery that had a couple of dozen TVs and carried most of the games. There were several Redskin fans that showed up regularly, in spite of our team having a less than stellar season. We started sitting generally together. There was a table of mixed high-school kids, that had a couple of Redskins fans, a Steelers Fan, and a Green Bay fan, that were there 90% of the time. There was another table with a ‘Skins fans couple, who always showed up with their neighbors, die-hard Dallas fans, and they busted each other’s chops continuously. Then there was my table.
I was a fixture as long as I was in town. The place was only a mile from my house, and they had good hot wings and Guinness on tap, which was all I needed to know. Derek was a lawyer, young, married, no kids yet, who lived in the same neighborhood as me. Bob was older, in his late 40’s, and had lived in the North Dallas area for over 20 years. He didn’t talk much about his personal life, but I knew he worked for Frito-lay, and lived just a few miles away. Lori had shown up with her boyfriend one week, and without him the next. She was a tall, skinny, loud, ardent ‘Skins fan, the loudest at our table. She was the oldest of six, with four brothers, and a single sister, the youngest and about 12 years younger than her, still living at home and in middle school.
We all wore our Redskins jerseys, and the four of us, along with a couple of out-of-state friends, started up our own fantasy football league. During football season, it was a great way of keeping up with all the teams, and keeping in contact with some of the old friends back in Virginia. We took it seriously.
The first year that we all started going there we usually had no problem getting our table, and we took the ribbing from all the Dallas players in stride. One week we showed up and the game wasn’t being shown. Asking the manager, he told us that the plan they had only carried a limited number of games, and that week there were more games played at noon than he could carry. As you can imagine we were a little irritated, since we were good customers, showing up regularly, and eating and drinking our fair share—or maybe just a tad more. We had to drive halfway across town to catch the second half of the game, and we weren’t happy about it.
My second season in town I decided to get the NFL ticket, so I’d never miss another game. I still went to the same place, mostly for the camaraderie. During the third week it happened again, no Redskins. I suggested we head over to my place since it was nearby, and my entire table of four transplanted ourselves a mile away.
“Damn, Jack, this is a nice setup!” Derek said, looking over my media room. The room was large, covering most of the area over my three car garage, and serving as my office, and a home theater. I had a 54” big screen TV that was razor sharp, with a Bose surround-sound setup. I hadn’t splurged for the theater seating yet, so I had a single couch, and a lazy boy recliner. I wanted to build terraced seating, with a row of three theater seats in front, and four more in back, but that wasn’t in the budget yet. A small refrigerator built into the wall unit that surrounded the TV meant fewer trips downstairs for refills.
“What the hell are you doing coming into our dive for the games, with this kind of setup?” Lori asked me, stretching out in the recliner she’d commandeered.
“I like watching the game with you guys. It’s more fun than sitting here alone,” I confessed.
“Well you don’t have to worry about that anymore,” Lori said with a laugh. “My ass is going to be parked in this chair for every game, and it’s going to take a forklift to get me out of here.”
“Ditto,” said Bob. “But you’re going to have to stock something other than that black oil you drink.”
“There’s a beer fridge in the garage. I’m pretty sure whatever you want you’ll find down there. Unless you want the hard stuff— that’s in the bar in the dining room.” I told him, grabbing a Guinness from my stock, and parking myself at the end of the couch. They had left me the best seat in the house, the seat nearest the recliner, and directly in front of the TV. Then again, it was my house and couch, I deserved at least that much.
The game was one of our better ones that season, with lots of scoring by the good guys which required jumping up, giving high-fives all around, and pulling out our cellphones to either share or gloat.
Before they all left, we’d planned the next week’s get together. It was Monday Night Football, and even though anyone could have watched it at home, we all agreed to watch it at my place.
After the fourth week, I think we all started noticing that something was missing. The obnoxiousness, the give and take, the shouting at other tables. It was kind of hard to admit it, but we missed the dive.
The fifth week we were back at our regular place, but at least now we had an option. We could afford to be a little pickier. We’d walk into the place, and if our game wasn’t on one of the 4 super-sized screens, we’d turn around and head around the corner to my place. If there wasn’t a decent table near the TV where our game was being shown, we booked—and saved a few bucks as well. Ok, I didn’t save anything, but I still probably broke even, and they ate and drank free.
It was about midway through my third year of occasionally hosting the game that things took a decidedly different turn.
Derek was now a father of a bouncing baby boy, and his business was taking off. He worked in the legal department at one of the big companies down off of Legacy—home of a couple of dozen multi-national companies—and had survived a cut of layoffs due to outsourcing which had him nervous for a while. He joked that it was the first time he was really happy to be black, a subject which had never even come up—sports are remarkably color-blind. Bob, we had found out over time, was a confirmed bachelor and private pilot. He had decided years earlier that women in his life just weren’t very understanding when it came to how much time and money he pumped into his hobby. He actually lived in a hangar at a local airport, with a nice little two-bedroom apartment upstairs, his RV6 private plane, his hunting jeep, and a nice sized boat parked in his hangar. Bob had all the best boy toys. And nobody to give him grief when he spent $2000 on new headphones for his plane, or dropped four grand on new tires.
I’d had a serious girlfriend for a year and a half. She’d moved in and back out again by the time the third season had started. I’m not an easy person to live with, working long hours, traveling frequently during the week, and decidedly set in my ways. I’d dated several other women over the years, but none had stuck yet. I was currently between skirts, and caught a good bit of ribbing over it. I owned my own consulting business with two other guys, and we’d grown from three employees when I’d first met this crowd, to more than 30. Things were going well for me, business wise. I’d even upgraded the TV to a 70” HDTV which was appreciated by all.
I was surprised that Lori was still single. She was attractive, but made no effort to emphasize it. Her game apparel was consistent, one of her three authentic NFL Redskins jerseys, and jeans. The jeans were not form fitting, though they fit fine; the huge jerseys, on the other hand, fit like a burlap sack. She dated a lot, but never for more than a month or so it seemed. Her hair was shoulder length, and often unkempt, and as far as I could tell she had never worn makeup. She’d played competitive college volleyball, and was a real sports nut. At around six feet tall, she towered over Bob and Derek, and I only had her by an inch or two. If she had ever worn heels she’d have looked down on all of us. She worked in sales for a publishing company, and spent most of her time on the phone.
The honest truth is we didn’t think of her as a woman when she was with us. She was one of the guys, a true fan of the game, sporting a mouth that could make a drill Sergeant blush. When it came to teasing and rough-housing she could give as good as she got. I liked her.
It was the day before Halloween and our favorite hangout was holding a costume contest with prizes for most original, most authentic, best costume, etc. We had decided to dress for the game, and each of the guys chose to go as a Redskin Hall-of-Famer. With 20+ guys in Canton, we had plenty to choose from. Derek claimed Charley Taylor, Bob chose Sonny Jurgenson, and I had to go with Riggins, one of my all time favorites. Lori was being wishy-washy, torn between Slingin’ Sammy Baugh, or going as Joe Gibbs. We gave her so much grief about making up her mind that she finally told us all to shut-up and she’d surprise us.
It looked to be a great day for football, and we were planning to stick around for the whole double-header, with the Redskins playing the 49ers first, and then the Giants vs. Denver. We still felt good about our season, after starting 3-0, even though we’d lost the last two games. Dallas was sitting at 4-2, ahead by one in the win column, so we needed this one to keep pace. The Giants and Philadelphia were both tied with us at 3-2 keeping the whole conference knotted up at the top. It was a big week, with Dallas, Philadelphia, and our beloved skins all playing early games.
Lori had already called, saying she was running late. I was in full regalia, wearing authentic NFL gear head to toe, including a John Riggins signed, game worn Jersey from 1982. Part of my collection. Not his best year, but a nice shirt none-the-less. I met the guys out front, and was furious to find out that once again, the Redskins weren’t going to be shown on any of the TVs, never mind the big four. It put a damper on our costume plans, and we finally said fuck-it, and headed to my place, texting Lori the problem, and encouraging her to meet us there.
Of course she blew up, saying it was no surprise, just one more thing going horribly wrong that day. I was afraid the text messages she bombarded me with would melt my screen. If I had a profanity filter on, I would have missed two-thirds of each text. She could be a little neurotic, all highs and lows, and nothing in between; we figured it was just one of those days.
I’d been the only one to go in full pads, and that was the first thing I shed in the media room, putting my jersey back on, grabbing a Guinness, and getting ready for the big game.
Within a few minutes we were enjoying a dominating performance by the Skins over the bottom-dwelling 49ers. By the time Lori showed we were ten minutes into the first quarter, leading 14 to nothing, and San Francisco had yet to get the ball past their own 40 yard line. I had a second TV set up next to the first, monitoring the Dallas-Seattle and Philly-San Diego games. Both were still sitting on goose eggs.
Lori came tearing up the stairs, cursing a blue streak. She’d been stuck listening to the Dallas game on the radio, looking for score updates, and hadn’t heard a single one.
“What’s the score?” she shouted up the stairs.
“Fourteen zip,” Derek informed her. “We’re killing them.”
“Shit, shit, shit! I can’t believe I’ve missed this much,” she announced as she entered the room. Coming through the door she tripped on my pads, skidding across the floor, another scorching burst of profanity pouring forth from her lips.
I hit a complete double-take, as I watched her tumble and pick herself back-up. She looked stunning! She had passed on her original plans, and shown up as a Redskins cheerleader. I would never have guessed she had the figure to pull it off, but there was no denying what my eyes were seeing. She had makeup on, and looked drastically different from the way we’d seen her the last three years, I could barely believe it. She dashed over to the fridge, pulled out a Sam Adams, kicking the door shut as she turned to watch the TV, and plopped down in the middle of the couch, between Bob and me.
“When I find out which one of you freakin’ dickwads left that booby-trap at the top of the stairs I’m going to tear him a new asshole.”
Yep, she was in exceptional form.
Seating was always an issue. After every break, three of us fought for the seats. Bob always sat at the far end of the couch—I think he liked having the end table next to him—and the rest of us were content to let him have his way. The other seats had a clear pecking order. The recliner was everyone’s first choice, with the end of the couch directly in front of the TV a close second, and the sofa middle seat the loser’s throne. Sometimes we even had side bets, with the stakes being the seating preference. As the late comer, Lori was stuck in the middle. One more thing to bitch about.
Anyone who left their seat was taking their chances. If you stayed in the room, you were safe; nobody would steal your seat to grab a beer from the mini-fridge. If you hit the head, or went outside, that was a whole different situation. You stood a good chance of losing your place, unless you were Bob, or stuck in the middle seat to start with.
Lori was clearly upset, more than seemed reasonable for being a little late for the game, and even after her less than lady-like tumble. She should have been ecstatic over the score, but hardly seemed to register it.
I was stealthily checking her out every chance I got. Knee high boots, low cut skin-tight shorts, and a white, burgundy and gold halter top that showed something we might never have guessed at. The girl had bodacious ta-tas. Cleavage, even! Of course I could never let her know I even saw her as a woman. She’d tear my nuts off.
“The Dallas game is still knotted at zero, as is Philadelphia,” Bob told her, “but Dallas is driving.” He waved at the smaller TV, where we could see Dallas was inside the Seattle 20.
Lori drank heavily from her bottle, not commenting on the game, not even complaining about her seat. Finally she turned to me. “Do I look like some kind of dyke to you?”
“Not today you don’t,” I told her frankly, looking her over.
“What’s that mean? Not today?”
Whoops. Probably not the best choice of words.
“I mean you never do. Not really. You dress casually most of the time, but today you look all woman.”
“My asshole boss, Frank, asked me to pick up that bitch from New York, and take her to breakfast before taking her to DFW for her noon flight. It was bad enough I had to go to dinner with all of them last night, but shit, a seven day work week is not part of the deal. The bastard stuck me with chauffeur duty on game day. Shit!”
I didn’t know if the second “shit” was about having to dress up, or from seeing Dallas push the ball into the end-zone. Dallas 7, Seattle 0.
“C’mon Ref! He pushed off!” she yelled at the TV as San Francisco completed a long pass to get into field goal range. “God, this morning sucks. As soon as I show up the games go to pot. Just my fuckin’ luck.”
She’d already finished her beer, and left her seat to grab a new one. She stood almost directly in front of me, scowling and bitching at the TV as we were flagged for a penalty. “Great! You call that ticky-tack shit, but let the other one go. Fucker!” From behind she looked incredibly sexy, her round ass barely contained by those hip-hugging shorts she had squeezed into. Her long legs seemed to go on forever. Wow.
She turned and faced me, “That slut hit on me. I mean hard, and wouldn’t take no for an answer. Do I look like a carpet-licker?”
“Lori, you look one hundred percent heterosexual. You’re too skinny for my taste, and no ass to speak of, but other than that, you do a damned fair impression of a woman. Definitely doable.” I didn’t dare say what I really thought. She was gorgeous, and could turn on anything with a pulse, when she chose to dress up. Like today.
“Asshole,” she murmured, kicking out at me, but blushing a little all the same. “Don’t tease me.”
“He ain’t teasing,” Derek piped in. “Hell, if I wasn’t married, and if I didn’t know you, I’d be all over that shit.”
“What do you mean, ‘If you didn’t know me’?”
Ha! Now he’d stepped in it.
“You know what I mean. You’re one of the guys. You’re not some piece of tail to us.”
“Damn straight I’m not,” she growled, plopping down next to me again. “Damn it all to hell!” This last comment appeared to be directed back at the game, as the 49ers scored, making the game 14-7.
Her attitude improved a bit through the second quarter as we piled on the points. Three consecutive touchdowns had us up by 28 points. Seattle even scored a field goal to narrow the gap between Dallas. The only bad spot was when Philly went ahead by seven.
We had plenty to cheer about, lots of high-fives, and quite a bit of beer was getting put away. Lori was drinking more than usual, as were we all. There had been a different feel to things when Lori had first showed up, but as our team rolled along, we were soon back to normal.