This was deeply cathartic, also I couldn't pick but the second title wouldn't fit
I should’ve known the bill would come due.
Maybe I ignored the signs—every crazy bounce, every ref’s generous spot, every “accidental” roughing-the-passer call that turned a game around, every ball that should have fluttered incomplete but somehow stuck to my receiver’s fingertips like divine intervention. But who was I to question it? I just played my game, man. Won my rings. Built my dynasty. And yeah, maybe I whispered a little too hard into the void on those fourth-quarter drives, but what was I supposed to do? Lose?
That’s why, when the shadowed figure appeared in my private suite after the parade, I didn’t even flinch.
“You,” it said, its voice like velvet wrapped around a blade.
I should’ve run. Instead, I sat back in my chair, still buzzed off cheap beer and victory. “Yeah, what’s up?”
The figure stepped forward, and I finally got a good look. Beautiful. Unholy. The kind of beauty that makes you think of cathedrals burning down in slow motion. Everything about them was wrong in the most alluring way—too many eyes where there shouldn’t be, lips that smiled without moving, hands that were delicate and cruel at the same time.
"It is time," they purred.
"Time for what?" I laughed, still high off the confetti and champagne. "Another trophy?"
"Time to pay."
Now, I ain't dumb. I know how deals work. "Oh, c'mon. We ain't gotta do this now. We could just renegotiate! You keep me going, I keep winnin', and we both win. Ain't that what you want? Winning? You love winning. I can tell. You got that vibe."
Their smile stretched. "No more bargains. The price must be paid."
The room shifted. My head felt weird, all fizzy and hot, like I'd just taken a helmet-to-helmet hit in a blizzard game. And then— then—I tried to argue.
"Omg, like, wait-wait-wait, hold up, hon. Like, for reallll? You’re tryna do this to me? Like, me-me?"
I slapped a hand over my mouth. My voice. My voice! It was high. Nasally. Perky. There was, like, this annoying little upward inflection at the end of every sentence.
The demon thing tilted its head, watching.
"Nuh-uh. No. No-no-no, sir, I ain't doin' this, I—"
I stopped. Blinked. Why was I twirling my hair?
Oh god. My hair. It was long. Messy. Platinum blonde with dark roots, like I hadn't had the time (or money) to get a touch-up at the salon in way too long. I could feel it tickling my shoulders, brushing against my bare shoulders—
I looked down.
Oh. My. God.
I had titties. Big, round, oh-my-god stripper titties.
And I wasn’t wearing a shirt. Not a real one, anyway—just a tiny little top that might as well have been a couple of napkins stapled together, with "GET TABLES" written across the chest in sequins.
I scrambled to my feet, and whoa okay those were heels. Tall. Wobbly. My legs were long, tan, thicker than a Buffalo winter coat, and wrapped in tiny denim shorts that were basically illegal in some states. My ass—holy shit my ass—it stuck out so much I could feel the breeze on it.
"NOOOOO," I screamed, which came out as a full-on bimbo shriek.
The demon chuckled.
"Your body has been rewritten to match the debt owed," they said smoothly. "As for your mind… well. That is simply poetic justice."
I tried to fight it, I did. But the thoughts were already so wrong.
Like, I was so mad about my own wins. Not just mad—like, deeply wounded in my soul. I could remember everything—every trophy, every comeback, every bullshit play that went my way—and they all hurt.
I clutched my huge chest and let out a broken whimper.
"NOOO, NOT THE 13 SECONDS!!!” I wailed, falling to my knees. “WHY DID Y’ALL SQUIB KICK?!”
The demon simply folded their hands. “Indeed.”
Tears streamed down my insanely contoured cheeks. "I—I thought it was, like, cool when the ball bounced right to my guy when it shoulda been a pick, but OH MY GOD IT WAS SO UNFAIR. HOW DID NOBODY CALL HOLDING?!"
I grabbed at my hair. I could still feel the championship rings on my fingers, but now they made my dainty little hands look even sillier, like I was some dollar-store queen trying to impress my clients.
Wait. Clients?
NO. NO-NO-NO.
I looked at the demon in panic. “Wait, y—you didn’t make me, like, a—”
A mirror shimmered into view.
A stripper pole. A stage. A neon sign flashing "CASEY".
No.
NOOOOOO.
I looked at myself—Casey, apparently—and wanted to die. My makeup was caked on, my lips were so glossy I could see my own reflection in them, and my body—holy shit—this body was built for dancing on tables.
I had thighs.
I had hips.
I had an ass that could cause a traffic accident.
And worst of all? The little demon bastard hadn't even made me a bad stripper. I could already feel it in my bones—the muscle memory, the obscene confidence, the way I could work a pole like it was my second home.
I turned to the demon, horrified. “You—you turned me into a Bills fan stripper???”
They nodded. “One that feels every ounce of Buffalo’s pain.”
I gasped. A memory hit me like a truck—our comeback against them in the playoffs.
I grabbed my too-tight top, my perfectly manicured nails digging into the fabric. “I—I can’t even be happy about it??”
The demon grinned. “You never will be again.”
I fell to the ground, sobbing, my enormous double-Ds heaving with every breath.
All those wins. All that glory. And now? I was just another poor Bills fan.
The heartbreak. The pain. The constant, eternal suffering.
I looked down at my stupid, gorgeous body, at my insane curves, at the stupid little football-shaped belly ring I somehow had now.
My lip wobbled.
I whispered, “I should’ve just let ‘em win one.”
And with that, the lights in the club flickered on. The music started.
The demon disappeared.
And the DJ’s voice boomed:
“GIVE IT UP FOR YOUR FAVORITE DANCER!!!”
I sniffled, wiped away my tears, and grabbed the pole.
The devil might’ve taken my dynasty.
But at least I could still put on a goddamn show.
(And yes, Buffalo fans—you’re welcome.)