Coach Amy eyes you suspiciously when you come in, but says nothing. She is a lean, muscled woman, without the slightest hint of pudge. Not even after having poor Andrew just this morning.
All the players are either sitting on the floor or standing. The cheerleaders line the walls like prison guards, some of them chatting, some of them eyeing the players hungrily.
Even though it's the only all-male sport left, you've played football long enough to know that it isn't about the players. Not anymore. It's simply entertainment for the girls. They like to see their meat fighting for survival, like gladiators. They make you dress in naught but a helmet, light pads, and spandex panties. You feel a bit gay in such a get up, but you are quite used to it.
Football is a deadly sport. The cheerleaders on either side are allowed an even encouraged to eat the players. And should a team lose, well... Not a cheerleader goes hungry in that case. You'd think the school would run out of boys to throw on the field, but in such a hedonistic society, there's no shortage of new players.
At seven sharp, Coach calls for quiet. She begins her prep talk, making promises and threats, encouraging you and your teammates to do well, on pain of death, the usual. You do not see Ramos there, and your heart sinks. Mike is nowhere near as good a tight end.
After the pep talk, Coach Amy begins taking roll silently, sitting at her desk taking names. A red faced boy you recognize as Alex, a wiry wide receiver, stumbles in at 7:20. Amy stares at him balefully, and he stares back, holding his breath. She turns back to her roll sheet without a word. Alex breathes a sigh of relief, but suddenly a cheerleader you don't know, a busty girl with dark brown skin, is cramming the poor boy down her throat. He screams and fights, to no avail. You and the other boys watch nervously, as he disappears behind her lips. She burps rudely and pats her gut. Alex screams for a bit, but it isn't long before his killer lifts her leg and farts nastily, laughing cruelly. He doesn't move or scream after that, and her belly shrinks slowly, filling the room with the smell of her gas. "First death of the night..." You think grimly.
It will not be the last. Football is merely another way for females to celebrate their dominion over man. They may pretend to enjoy the competition, the school spirit, the sport of it all.... But you know all that is just for show. Women and girls alike, they just like to see their boys, their pets, their food, bang their heads against each other, in a gladiatorial fight for survival.
There are many ways to end up as a snack during a football game, like...
Wandering too close to a hungry cheerleader. Most are content to let the game play, but some can't resist the temptation of hot, sweaty man meat.
Racking up too much penalty time. Coach Amy keeps a tally of yardage that a player loses to penalties. He has to spend a minute for each yard in a belly. 15 or more is pretty much a death sentence. Most girls can kill a a boy that quickly no problem.
Irritate or anger Coach Amy in any way. She will fucking end you.
Get called in the raffle. The observers can purchase raffle tickets. At the end of the game, they draw one, and the winner gets to eat the player of her choice.
Lose the game. The cheerleaders will eat just about the entire starter team.
So yes, being a football player is deathly dangerous, but it has its perks. Football players are in a slightly higher social class than other prey. It's easier for athletes like you to find a girl to protect them. You hope that's what you have in Millie, but sometimes you wonder.
Your school's team is historically pretty good, though that can change easily. Tonight you play a team you've beaten in the past easily. Of course, the team you beat has long since gurgled away.
Game time finally arrives without any one else serving as dinner. You and the other players suit up, strapping on helmets and pads. Your jerseys don't come past your chest, exposing your torsos, and below that you have only your tight panties that leave nothing to the imagination. You all head out onto the field, grim and determined, more like soldiers to battle than players to a game.
