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Necessary Roughness

By: chukk33



The look of suprise on your face was priceless as I walked through the door of your bedroom. I knew you wouldn't be expecting me at all. That's why I had to come. It has been too long for both of us,and today we will get what we both need. 

I waste no time and cross the room purposely. You let out a breath in suprise as I pull you forcefully to me,crushing your body against mine. My face inches from yours,you reach up to kiss me but I pull my face away. I smile,a glint of badness on the curl of my lips,then I shove you backward where you fall on the bed. You make a move to get up but I'm on you in a flash. You try to push me off but I contain your struggles beneath my weight. As you continue to squirm I further contain you by holding both your hands over your head,pressed into the bed with my left hand as my right hand roughly paws at your body. You continue to squirm,but your body convulses in pleasure as my hand presses and rubs firmly between your legs. 

I roughly unbutton and unzip your jeans while still holding you down. You squirm as if to try and knock me off of you,in response I push my hand down your jeans and press my fingers into your clit,rubbing back and forth. You gasp and wiggle under me as I caress your pussy with my fingers. 

You snap back to reality as I quickly stand up off of you. I tower over you and gaze down into your eyes. You make a motion to stand up but I push you back onto the bed. I reach down and grab your jeans at the waist and pull them off of you in one quick movement. Then just as suddenly I grab your panties and rip them completely off of you. Not one to delay the inevitable,I hurridly pull my own jeans off and free my cock from my boxers. I start to get on the bed and you back away,scooting on your back,using your feet and elbows. I grab your leg and stop you from getting off the bed,then crawl on top of you. You try to push me off but I force myself on top of you. 

You play rough too,keeping your legs tightly closed as I try to get between them. With a grunt of force I push your legs apart and hold them spread open wide by the ankles. You struggle and squirm,but to no avail. I shove my hard cock into your wet pussy without my hands. Your struggles stop as I slide balls deep into you. I let go of your ankles and put myself down on top of you. Your shoulders and head hang off the edge of the bed from where you tried to get away. I pull my cock back then slam it into you,with force. The impact shaking the bed. Your response a loud moan. I do it again then again. I start pounding my cock into you with all the force I can muster. Your moans turn to half cries of pleasure,half cries of pain. You raise your head to look at me but I grab a handful of hair and pull your head back. I kiss your neck as I fuck you hard,pulling your hair as I thrust into your pussy. 

Your cries grow louder,as I force fuck you then your body shudders and your back arches up. Your orgasm engulfs you,your loud cry of pleasure ringing out thru the room. As you cum,I force my cock as far into you as I can and hold it until you start to come down. Inexplicably I pull out of you and stand up. Although still shaken from your orgasm you are suprised. I grab your ankle and pull you to the edge of the bed. 

You sit up on the edge of the bed and I look into your eyes. 

"Suck my cock,"I let the words roll out of my mouth,each word spoken in low deep tones. 

You shake your head and try to edge your backward. I reach out and grab a handful of your hair and pull you forward. You face inches from my cock. 

"Suck my cock NOW!" The words spoken again but this time with a degree of edginess. 

I look down in time to see my still wet cock slide into your mouth. I moan loud as I feel your tongue. Your mouth,sliding slowly up and down my cock. 

As you start to get into it I pull myself away and jerk you to your feet.My control over you evident by your compliance to do my bidding. You start to protest until I turn you around,your back facing me and push you face first onto the bed. I come up close behind you,still standing. 

"Get that ass in the air,"I say. The forceful tone in my voice unmistakeble. You turn your head back to look at me. In response I smack your ass. 

"I said get that ass in the air!" 

You pull your knees under and raise up. Without wasting a moment I come up behind you and force my cock back into your pussy. You moan loudly again. I grab your hips and began assaulting you with hard,deep thrusts. My body slamming into yours,the force jarring the bed. Your orgasm hits you in a flash. You scream out in pleasure and pain at the mixed feeling of my cock pounding you and your intense cum. 

I know I won't last long at this pace,but I don't care. I've come to far to turn back. As your orgasm subsides I pick up the pace even more. Slamming my cock into you with incredible force. Your body shakes again,another orgasm gripping you. Your moans and cries adding to the force of my thrusts. 

As your orgasm fades,I feel mine begin to rise. I want to stop to prolong it but I can't. The feeling makes me fuck you harder and deeper,my oncoming orgasm dictating the pace of my thrusts. As my orgasm approaches,I stop the long,hard thrusts and replace them with the short,deep and hard thrust. 

I feel it,but am defenseless to stop it. I erupt. Explode. Inside of you. My cum pouring into you. Thrust after thrust. You groan loudly again,as yet another orgasm takes you. I groan loudly with each thrust. As our orgasms fade,I lean down toward you and kiss you on the back. 

You look back into my eyes. 

"I love you,"I say as we both collapse onto the bed. 

You turn over and kiss me and say,"I love you too." 

Necessary Roughness



You had come home later than I, and in a rather forbidding mood. When you walked in the door, you pulled me up off the couch by the arm, shoved me against the wall and started kissing me hard on the mouth. It was painful, but just enough to love it. Leaving my lips, you bit your way down my neck, almost hard enough to draw blood, but not quite. I was already riding that line between pleasure and pain, this only served to heighten that. I could feel you hard against my stomach, and opened my mouth to ask what brought this on; you were usually far more gentle and loving. You actually growled at me and told me to shut up, kissing me again to ensure that I would. Then you dropped to my chest, and yanked my shirt open, and pulled my bra hard enough to actually break the hooks. You threw those on the floor, and pinned my arms above my head in one hand, bent your head to my breast, biting and sucking harder, which only served to arouse me more. You yanked a zip tie off your belt and tied my wrists together and started to pull me towards the bedroom. 

We'd never gone this far in things like this, I'd always been able to extricate myself if I chose to. I was a little scared, but trust you that you would never truly hurt me. You sat me on the bed. 

"Take my clothes off," you said. 

"My hands are tied." I replied.

You said "Figure it out."

So I did the best I could, but as my hands were crossed, I had to wriggle them to face palm to palm which bit into my skin a little. You weren't gentle when you zipped that. After what seemed like forever, you pushed me back on the bed, so incredibly aroused at the slight pain you had caused, knowing you could cut the ties, and choosing not to. You yanked my jeans and panties off and tossed them in a pile on top of the clothes that you had made me fold. You made me keep my hands on my stomach, which pushed my breasts together. Straddling my chest you rubbed your cock over them, then across my lips, telling me to open my mouth, so I did...moving over it with my tongue, my lips and a low vibration from the back of my throat. You groaned and dropped a hand behind you down between my legs. I was already hot, and damp, and you started rubbing against my clit. 

Removing yourself from my mouth, you moved down and yanked my knees apart, bending them so that I was open to your gaze. You ran two fingers up me, wetting them and sliding them up inside me, moving straight to that spot. As soon as I would contract against your fingers, you would stop, moving them in and out, harder then more gently, then hard again, then once you tired of that, you pushed up hard against that spot, making me come instantly all over your fingers. 

"Good girl. You are finally doing as you are told," you said harshly.

At this point, you had said nothing to me, just telling me to take your clothes off, and that if I talked, sighed or moaned; you would stop, and leave me there till you were ready to come get me. You removed your hand and placed it against my lips, so that I tasted it. Then you flipped me over to my stomach, and pulled my legs apart. Sitting between them, you started rubbing your cock over me, against my pussy, barely sliding into me, pressing against my ass, asking me if I want this now.

I breathed "Yes, please."

You slapped my ass, telling me to be silent. I moved my hips to better move against you. You slapped me again. It didn't hurt, merely stung, and as I was already so aroused I was ready to scream, and this only served to heighten it. You took both your thumbs and started moving them against my pussy, almost massaging it. At that angle, that's such an incredible feeling, and I couldn't stop the automatic reaction that it caused. Every inch of me, even my hair follicles were so highly aroused that I didn't know how much more of this I could take. You moved your hands to my hips, and pulled me up just a little and slammed into me. I came instantly and hard. Pounding in and out of me, rubbing your thumb against my ass, pulling my hair back, making the occasional noise in the back of your throat. I could feel you swelling, and knew it wouldn't be much longer. 

You had other ideas however. You pulled out of me put me on my back again, parting my knees, and grabbling the warming oil off the table, you poured some on your cock, rubbing it in, warming the oil. Gently you pushed against my ass, making me accept you. As I relaxed against you, you started to move. Right as it crossed the border into pain, you took the vibrator out from under the pillow, and turned it on, placing it right against my clit, I pushed against you harder in reaction to that stimulation. You resumed the moving in and out of me, telling me how good I felt, how you were going to come inside me, how you were going to give me the fucking of a lifetime. You exploded inside me, breathing heavily as you did, and then coming out me, dropping to your side. 

Right as you were falling asleep, you took your knife of your belt and cut me loose, whispering that you loved me as you dropped the knife on the table. 



Necessary Roughness: 1st Quarter



AUTHOR'S NOTE: This is a work of fiction. It involves both real and fictional people and organizations. It is not necessarily an accurate depiction of how the real people depicted are in real life. The real people used are mainly background characters there for context. The central characters to the story are primarily fictional. Any portrayal of a real person has an element of fiction to it and is in no way meant to be an accurate representation of that person.

This story plays out similarly to a sports movie, and sports movies are my primary inspiration. I set the story around an NFL team, specifically the Miami Dolphins. I am basing the team loosely off the 2015 team, including the roster and list of opponents, but some players and coaches - and the schedule itself - will be fictional.

Also, this story depicts very rough sex and a lot of crass language. If you are offended by that or do not wish to read about such topics, I suggest you stop reading now. 

Furthermore, this will be a four-part story. I will get the stories out as quickly as I can. Enjoy.

*****

(June 17, Miami Gardens, Dolphins mini-camp)

The hot Miami sun seems unbeatable and interminable; just the downside of living in south Florida, I guess. I've been here for seven years, this being my second Dolphins mini-camp, but I've never really gotten used to it. But it beats the shit out of winters back home in Michigan, I guess.

I walk up and down the line, watching my players on a tackling sled. I just don't like what I see - go figure. Ever since the ludicrous bullying scandal from two years ago, the whole unit's been shit, and it's not getting any better. I just...I don't know. I'm not feeling it. But hell, they're paying me well, and this is a springboard to something bigger.

I grab some Gatorade and look back - this one kid, he's just not doing it right. I look at my roster - we just signed this kid. Deon Wright, his name, out of some school I've never heard of. And they expect this guy to be our tight end at some point? I guess Jordan Cameron had better stay healthy or we're fucked.

As I finish off my Gatorade, I look over, and here comes an intern right for me. Camp isn't due to let out for another hour and a half, so I'm not sure what this is about.

"Coach Garrett?" he asks. "You have a phone call."

I look at him confused. "Look, tell Coach Philbin I'll have my paperwork done after camp."

"It's not Coach Philbin," he replies, somewhat nervously. "It's your daughter."

"What the hell?" Pure confusion. "She knows I have camp now."

"She said it's an emergency." OK then, I guess. At least it's air-conditioned inside.

Isabelle is my daughter - she's nine. And she's in Alabama with her mother, from whom I've been divorced for almost three years. My cheating bitch - I mean my ex, shouldn't call her a cheating bitch around my daughter even if it's accurate - lives in Tuscaloosa, home of a school I've grown to hate for a multitude of reasons. Not the least of which, of course, is my playing days - as an Auburn Tiger.

I'll be happy to hear from Isabelle - damn I love that girl. But the word 'emergency' is scary. I somewhat nervously pick up the phone and answer.

"Dad, I'm coming home." What the hell? "Mom's putting me on a plane. She's really mad and she told me to go back home. I'll be landing in two hours."

"Well, this is just fucking great," I blurt out thoughtlessly - shit. Need to watch my mouth. "Sorry, sweetheart. I didn't mean that." Certainly don't want my daughter thinking I don't want to see her - actually if it were up to me, I'd have her here watching practice all summer, and truth be told, she'd probably prefer it. "I'll make sure to have a guy pick you up. You want to come by the practice facility?"

"Yes!" she screams - she loves football, even if she prefers basketball. Actually there's a court not too far from here where she typically rounds up kids at a summer tutoring program to shoot hoops with.

"OK then, honey; I'll see you in a few hours. Just look for a guy in a suit with a sign with your name on it. Love you."

I turn to the nameless intern, a college kid who seems to be sweating bullets. "OK, I need a guy there in a suit with a sign. The sign needs to read Isabelle. That's with an E on the end. I don't want it fucked up like last year. Christ, we're a billion-dollar football team and we can't spell the name of the O-line coach's daughter right at the damn airport. Can you do that?"

"Yes, Coach." Then he disappears. I think I scared him. I was there once as a graduate assistant at Auburn. He'll be fine - I was.

The rest of camp seems to go poorly, but then again, I'm really pissed off. I'm just not feeling it. I can't figure it out - why they could go out and blow a hundred million and change on one guy on defense but can't get offensive linemen who can keep Ryan Tannehill from spending more time on his back than a drunk sorority girl. And I also have to remember not to crack that joke in team meetings, seeing as how we have females in the front office. Apparently one of them is in charge of managing the salary cap. A Ms. Claiborne who came right over from the Cowboys. And if she can't free up some room for some guys for me, she can go the fuck back there.

And then it happens - the car pulls up, and I see Isabelle's smiling face in the back. Hey, at least someone's using the ride program the NFL has, even if it's a nine-year-old girl. Soon to be ten, and hey, I can be there for her birthday now.

She rushes out of the car and runs right to me. It sure is good to see her, even if I don't know what the hell's going on. I scoop her up - damn she's getting big.

"So what happened?" I ask - but her attention quickly goes elsewhere, particularly to two of my players tossing a football. "You know what? We'll talk when we get home. You want to toss the football with the guys?" She does, so we run out to the two guys, both tight ends.

Jordan Cameron, our starting tight end - I'm helping out tight ends coach Dan Campbell with the tight ends - knows just what to do. he pitches Isabelle the ball and she catches it without a second thought. Of course, I look at Deon, his backup - damn rookie - and he's lost. 

"Coach, what the hell?" blurts out Deon thoughtlessly - and I give him a hard look.

"This is my daughter Isabelle," I explain. "And I'll thank you to watch your mouth while she's around." That shuts him up with nothing more than a sheepish 'OK, Coach.' Isabelle isn't fazed - she tosses him the ball, and wouldn't you know it, he drops it. That's all I need to see.

"Jordan, you and Isabelle keep going." He gets the hint as I pull Deon aside. I see Deon's head down - I don't know what his deal is. I know he's a fifth-round pick out of some Midwestern school that never played anybody, so obviously the scouts saw something in him I don't.

"I only have so many spots on this team." I start with 80 guys and it ends up whittled down to 53 when the season starts. "If you can't catch a ball from a nine-year-old, how do you think you're going to catch one from Tannehill?" He doesn't really have a coherent response. "The team signed you for a reason. I want to see that reason. You have tomorrow's mini-camp and the rest of today. Now show me what you got." With that, Deon heads out while I go join Jordan and Isabelle in the football-toss. Sure is nice to blow off steam; besides, Jordan can actually catch a ball.

I take a look back at my guys - particularly this left tackle we just picked up. He's good, but he's a bit unhinged. Vickers, I think his name is - yes, Ronnie Vickers. We need a left tackle in the worst way, especially since Branden Albert can't seem to stay healthy.

Isabelle and Jordan are off shooting baskets with a few other players - I don't mind players playing basketball in downtime and I'm actually happy they stay active and expand their skill sets, plus it keeps my daughter distracted - while the offense runs a play. Deon's blocking for Knowshon Moreno, our free-agent pickup from the Broncos, and Moreno goes down like a ton of bricks - Cameron Wake got through. I look closely - Deon's actually a hell of a blocker. Maybe he needs to be left tackle, because Vickers just blew his assignment.

Vickers grabs Deon by his face mask - screaming at him loudly. Mike Pouncey, the group's leader and center, walks over to break it up. I love Vickers' passion, but he needs to know he fucked up.

I jog over - Deon's just kind of taking it while Pouncey intervenes. I get within earshot. "Learn to block!" Pouncey tries to get in Vickers' ear - no success. I grab Vickers by the shoulder - being 6'5" and 240 pounds, mostly muscle, helps me in this case - I'm only 31 and train with my players, so I stay in shape.

"You got anything to say, boy?" shouts Vickers at Deon - bad idea, dude. I grab his face mask.

"The hell you think you're doing?" I scream. I motion Deon over. "He did his job, Ronnie. You missed that block. You want to make this team, do your damn job."

I line them up - once again, Moreno up the left side. Once again, Cameron Wake gets through - Moreno gets ahead of him and it's a short gain. At least Vickers did his job, as did Deon.

I look over - Vickers shoves Deon to the ground. "Get the fuck back, rookie!" Jesus, dude, calm the hell down. Vickers doesn't seem to be getting the message - again, I go over to intervene as Vickers bends down. I don't think anyone else hears Vickers' message to Deon but Deon - and me.

"Welcome to the NFL, you dumb fucking-" oh shit.

I got this job because of a racism scandal two seasons ago. The last thing I need is another one.

I grab Vickers by the face mask once again and yank him out. "My office after practice. Bring your playbook." Those last three words are football-speak for 'you're about to get your ass cut, fucker.' I don't need witnesses. I don't need media. I need this to not be an issue. So I send Vickers away to the locker room. Jason Fox, our backup, goes in his place. I pull Deon aside.

"I'm cutting Vickers. Can we agree to keep this whole thing with what he said quiet?" He agrees. I think even Deon knows the last thing he wants to be known as is the guy who went public because another player called him the N-word.

I kind of like Deon. He seems pretty resilient - and on the next play, he pancakes Cameron Wake. With a little help from Fox, but he does it. Now if I can get him to catch, he's a future starter.

After practice, we all head out - Vickers seems to go peacefully, even leaving behind his playbook without a meeting. I think he knows he's cut. Easier for me. If he goes public, I just have to say he's cut because he's a shithead who can't remember his assignments. At least it's partially true.

I don't know about everyone else, but I'm exhausted, and I'm sure Isabelle is - it's been a crazy day. So I just hope we can get home and figure out why the hell her mother sent her here after a week in Alabama; legally my ex-wife gets her for the summer and certain holidays. This is the same woman who fought me tooth-and-nail for custody but hasn't done anything since she lost. But even this is low by her standards - no phone call, no text, no anything. What a piece of sh...I mean, work. Have to watch my mouth when Isabelle's around.

"I really hope you're not mad I'm home," says my daughter on the way to the car. This may be harder than I thought.

"Not at all," I reply, keeping in mind my thoughtless blurt into the phone. "I was upset when you called because your mother couldn't be bothered to tell me herself she was sending you home. You didn't do anything wrong - it's a shame your mom's giving you such a hard time."

"She just woke me up this morning and told me to pack my bags." Yeah, that sounds like my ex. "Then she told me to get in the car and drove me to the airport. She handed me a ticket and told me to call you. That was the last time I saw her." Isabelle really is a resilient kid - all the crap her mom's pulled and she doesn't seem to have any serious issues.

"I don't get it, though," I continue. "She told me she was really looking forward to you being there. She said she wanted you to be a flower girl at her wedding to that Eddie guy." I'm very familiar with Eddie - my bitch of an ex flew to Tuscaloosa frequently while we were married to "visit her family" when she was really fucking this dipshit - but he doesn't bear enough thought for me to get acquainted with him.

"Eddie doesn't really like me." As far as I'm concerned, that's his problem. "He wanted me in this really frilly flower girl dress, and he expected me to do all this girly stuff even when we weren't doing wedding stuff. Something about being a proper little girl and not acting like a dyke, whatever that means." That also sounds like my ex, and it's sure as hell not a word I want Isabelle using in her daily life - my sister's gay. And that means Isabelle ha a lesbian aunt, one who's a hell of a lot better at this whole parent thing than my ex. "I just wanted to get some kids together for a basketball game. And I knew there were kids who wanted to play. But Mom and Eddie got mad. She made me paint my fingernails. By the way, can you help me get this stuff off later?"

"I have a better idea," I say, thinking quickly as I think to myself how much easier it is to have a tomboy for a daughter. She loves sports, she's good at science, she hates nail polish and dresses - as far as daughters go, I couldn't ask for a better one, at least for a football coach who doesn't have a clue how to braid hair.

I make a detour - for Children's Hospital. It's not far, and as we approach, Isabelle's eyes light up. It seems strange that a nine-year-old is thrilled to go to a hospital - until one understands her best friend is recovering from leukemia.

Isabelle can't get inside fast enough, though that's partly because it's 110 degrees out and about that humid. Seriously, the air's so thick I could cut it with a knife and spread it on a baked potato. And now I want a baked potato. I guess we're eating at the steakhouse across the street, which is good with me because I really don't feel like cooking.

"How can I help you?" asks the bubbly volunteer behind the desk - it's June so the college kids off for the summer are still in good moods. Give it to the middle of August and they'll be ready to get the hell out of here.

"We're here to see Crystal Ballmer." Yes, if you drop the last three letters of her name, it's Crystal Ball. And no, I didn't name her.

Just don't get me started on the people who did - her father hasn't been in the picture since before she was born, and last anyone herd, he was in state prison on drug charges.

When we arrive, Crystal is in a chair doing a word search - hooked up to an IV but otherwise looks to be doing well. It doesn't take the girls long at all to reconnect - Isabelle dashes into the room and embraces her smiling friend.

"I thought you weren't coming back until August!" shouts Crystal, a curly-haired black girl who's the same age as Isabelle - as in they have the same birthday, July 25, even just a couple of hours apart. When they were little, they had birthday parties together, a practice that came to an end when my ex got Isabelle in the summer - and will be resuming now that Isabelle's home.

"I'd rather be here," Isabelle answers her friend - leaving out the bitch move her mother pulled. Fortunately, Crystal has nail polish remover on hand - Crystal's a bit more girly than Isabelle, even if she loves basketball just as much.

Good timing for me - I have to make a call or two. First to the office - they need to know about Vickers. Apparently the big boys are out - only one person in the office.

"Aisha Claiborne," the voice on the other end.

"Yes, hi, it's Neil Garrett, O-line coach," I reply - she's never met me so I'm a little in the weeds. "I need the office staff to know I had to make a cut today. Mm-hmm, Ronnie Vickers, left tackle."

"Wait, Vickers?" she blurts. "Do you know how much we sunk into that contract? You're really putting us in a tight spot, Neil."

"And my hands are tied. He has to go." She's asking why. Not sure I want to go into it. I look for a private room - and luckily find one. "What I'm about to tell you is on a need-to-know basis. No media."

"Just please tell me he didn't assault a coach or use a slur of some kind and we'll all get along." And with that, I'm silent. "Do I have to guess which one?"

"Let's just leave it at that, Aisha," I reply. "So I need a left tackle. What can we do?"

"Two things, Neil - jack and squat." We're at 80 players until the beginning of September - why the hell not? "Left tackles don't just fall out of the sky. Work with what you have."

"Well, the hell with you, too," I snap, hanging up. A healthy amount of rage is building up - just what I need going into my next call. To my bitch of an ex.

"What do you want?" she snaps, knowing it's me.

"I don't think you're in any position to yell at me, Andrea," I scold. "What the hell was that?"

"Well, if you would teach your daughter to be a lady, I wouldn't have to-"

"Oh, fuck you, Andrea," I snap.

"Real nice, Neil." Yeah, it is. "You teach her to talk like that too?"

"I can talk like that around you if I want to, you deadbeat bitch," I fire back. "I watch my mouth around her unlike that alcoholic fuckwad you're marrying. And I know he's the reason you put Isabelle on a plane back home. What are you going to do when he tells you to do something you really don't want to do, Andrea?"

"You can stop this, Neil," she demands. "You can take that job back here I got you. It's still open, and you and I can share custody of little Belle."

"For the last fucking time, stop calling her that!" Isabelle hates to be called Belle - Andrea calls her that because it reminds her of that princess from Beauty and the Beast. And Isabelle is no princess - she actively hates princesses, Disney or otherwise. "And if you want to make it work so bad, move out to Miami and be a mom."

"This is home, and you know it." Like hell it is. "I got you that job here in Tuscaloosa because I don't want to be married to a football coach." The job she refers to was in the donations office at University of Alabama - basically calling up widows and old dudes and asking them to send a thousand dollars. Typically students and housewives do it. And they typically last either years and years or about four days. "Football's so stupid, and you know it."

"Then I guess it's a good thing you decided to hook up with a football player!" To be fair, I know full well she didn't know I played football when I visited Tuscaloosa for the Iron Bowl - that bit of ignorance coupled with a faulty condom led to Isabelle's birth, and a bitter dispute and a threat of prison time for so-called rape led to me and Andrea getting married. "Look, I'm sick of this. And I'm sick of your bullshit. Either learn to be a halfway decent mom and keep that drunk at bay when Isabelle's there, grow a spine and dump his ass and move out here, or get the fuck out of the way and let me raise Isabelle myself. It's up to you."

She doesn't answer. She continues to let the line be silent. Then I hear her talking in the background - then Eddie's voice. Clearly he's had a few too many - such a role model, he is. I'd follow him to hell and back.

"I got an idea, Neil," she shouts. "I'm suing you for custody."

"Good luck, Andrea," I taunt. "You're going to need it. Now fuck off." I hang up - now I need to calm down. Unfortunately I don't get much time to do it - a woman in a business suit approaches me.

"Sir, are you here for Crystal?" I confirm it. "Well, we have some good news for Crystal. We found her a foster family."

I listen closely - this affects my daughter, who will want to see her friend as much as she can. "We'll be bringing them in soon to meet with Crystal. They're a great couple from about an hour north of here."




Necessary Roughness: 1st Quarter



"That's fine," I answer somewhat confused. "I just hope...well, here's the thing. My daughter is Crystal's best friend. They're inseparable. I just hope this doesn't split them up."

"Well, ever since Crystal's mom dropped her off here, Crystal's always been happiest to see Isabelle." Crystal is, sadly, without parents - her father's a deadbeat criminal, and her mother decided she couldn't handle having a daughter with leukemia. So instead of taking her for her first treatment and then staying with her, she dropped her off and never came back, eventually signing over her rights to the state. Yes, Crystal is officially a ward of the state. My ex-wife may piss me off, but at least Isabelle has me. I wish I could say the same for Crystal - she's a sweetheart of a girl, but what the hell can I do? I have a daughter of my own to raise and a job I pray I hold onto after this season.

At least I get my daughter for the summer. That reminds me - I have a birthday party to plan.

(July 25, Miami Gardens, Dolphins training facility)

I look at my phone as I have one eye on the guys - looks like the O-line is coming together finally, but there's just a big glaring hole. Since we cut Vickers, we have a whole lot of backups playing left tackle. Once again, Branden Albert is hurt, so I get to watch Ryan Tannehill, our franchise QB, dodge tacklers all day.

So I take a gander at my team - seems to be a lot of second-team reps right now. I just don't know what the hell I'm going to do. I'm spread thin, and Jordan's doing great at tight end, but this Deon kid - he's all over the place. One play, he totally blows his assignment; the next, he knocks a defender on his ass. It's like Superman one minute and Clark Kent the next.

The rest of the unit seems to be doing OK, so I take a gander back at my phone - the free agent wire is busy. I come across a bit of a blurb - the Texans were busy. I think we play them in Week 4 - and just my luck. Their big acquisition? Ronnie Vickers. Son of a bitch. And to make matters worse, we have a joint practice with the Texans before the season starts.

I get an email - from one Claiborne, Aisha. And the standard drivel - no, we can't free up room for a left tackle yet. We would have to do some kind of blockbuster trade, and the front office wants to hang onto its draft picks. Yeah, see how well a draft pick in two years protects your quarterback.

Thankfully, we're all finished here, and I can't get out of practice fast enough. Today is Isabelle's birthday - and Crystal's as well, and I've arranged for them to have an awesome birthday party. Thankfully Crystal's healthy enough at this point for that kind of activity, even if I know she'll get tired a few hours in. Which is why I've arranged for the evening to continue at the movies - Jurassic World is still in theaters and the girls haven't seen it yet - followed by a sleepover at our house before Crystal has to head back to the hospital. I just hope I can handle all this. Crystal is used to being hooked up to an IV for nutrients and hydration, but I guess a steady diet of Gatorade and bananas should be close enough for one day. Works for my players. 

My sister Gretchen is watching the girls right now, but I want to get there fast. 'There' is Dave and Buster's, where Isabelle is undoubtedly digging into a plate of nachos with all her friends right about now. I'll be late, but at least I can be there. That is, so long as none of my players decide to pull some shit.

That shit seems to follow me to the parking lot - some idiot has a Mercedes convertible parked in the middle of the damn lot and it's blocking me in. It's really a nice car - gold, tan leather seats, beautiful trim, and not a scratch on it. The finishing touch is the license plate - 'AC MONEY'. I'm trying to think who on my team would use that moniker - I'm coming up empty.

"What the hell is this? Who parks like this?" I shout in anger. There's no one around.

Finally, I hear a female voice - I guess the car belongs to a WAG, sports lingo for players' wives and girlfriends. "Oh, sorry about that, Neil," the voice - a little presumptuous of her, I think, fuming, since most of the WAGs know me as Coach Garrett-

-well, never mind, Neil's just fine, I think as I turn around and see the car's owner for the first time. Let's just say she's a fine-looking woman. She's tall - probably just shy of six feet, nearly eye-level with me in what appears to be a pair of designer heels. I don't know which designer, but obviously an expensive one. My guess is her earrings match it, along with her purse and her sunglasses - she's very well put-together.

She's dark-skinned, like milk chocolate, and she's very curvaceous. This woman has a killer body and she wears it very well. I'm guessing she's about a DD - real, of course - and even from the front, I can tell she has a dynamite ass. I get a view of her from the side - and that thing couldn't be sexier. Her hair falls perfectly at mid-back, curls that obviously took hours to do. I just wonder who the lucky bastard is who's dating her. I'd love to have her in my car - until I remember I drive the same Chevy Malibu I bought used from my first coaching job at Auburn. Certainly nothing like that convertible she drives.

"I didn't think I'd be blocking you in," she says, walking over to me. "I thought I'd be quick."

"Yeah, I'm trying to get to my daughter's birthday party," I impatiently reply.

"Oh, cool," she answers dismissively.

"I guess I have to ask," I continue. "Which player are you dating? Or married to?"

"I'm not dating a player!" she answers, somewhat offended. I look at her with a serious glare. "That's right; we've only talked over the phone." Umm, OK? "I'm Aisha Claiborne. I'm the salary cap analyst." She extends her hand to shake - I accept it. She has surprisingly smooth hands and a perfect manicure. Not a hair out of place, not a thread missing on her jacket - wow. And the body on her - holy shit.

But at the same time, I'm not happy. "So first you won't help me get a left tackle. Now you're blocking my car. Why don't you come to my daughter's party and get hammered and make an idiot out of yourself while you're at it?" She gives me an equally serious look. "Sorry," I reply. "I take it back."

"Good," she fumes as she gets in her car - at least she's moving the damn thing. I guess I was a little out of line, but jeez, chill out. 

I try not to replay the conversation in my head as I drive to Dave and Buster's. I sure as hell could use a beer, I think as I head inside - but that thought goes away as Isabelle runs up to me, followed by Crystal. Both of them greet me with a warm embrace, smiling from ear to ear.

After that, they both head straight for the basketball hoops - both Isabelle and Crystal love basketball more than life itself. In fact, when Crystal had her first round of treatment for leukemia, one of the first things she asked the doctors was how long it would be before she could play again.

And both girls are good. Like, damn good. If they were boys, they would have an NBA future, but as it is, their best option is probably Europe unless the WNBA gains some ground. I watch as Isabelle sinks about five baskets in a row - Crystal is a bit behind pace but still doing well compared to even the most advanced player - and then as time expires, I get a close look at her point total - and the tickets that just keep pouring out of the machine.

Crystal takes one look at her score - six points behind Isabelle's - and shouts, "Rematch!" The girls go again as I walk up behind them, and once again, Isabelle stakes out to a big lead, almost lapping Crystal. But then I see the timer tick to single digits - and Isabelle's shot goes wide as Crystal sinks one. Then another. And another. And Isabelle can't hit one. She's off her game all of a sudden - and with one second left, Crystal drains her last shot, nothing but net, for the win.

Isabelle turns to her and the girls exchange a two-handed high-five and look at me a little stunned. "I got her good, Coach," quips Crystal as I let her know we're ready to order food. Crystal runs ahead of her to the dining room as Isabelle stays behind. 

Isabelle gives me an odd look, one that presumes my disappointment. I know where this is going. "You were killing it; what happened at the end?"

Then I see a smirk. "A magician never reveals her secrets." Then she runs off to the dining room to meet her friends - her soccer coach and several teammates as well as her friends from school and basketball. Not to mention a few kids who were healthy enough to get a day pass from the pediatric cancer ward, mostly friends of Crystal's.

I see her from across the game room interacting with her friends, glad to be home, and I think to myself - she didn't just lose to her best friend on purpose, did she? The same girl who played the same NBA 2K game for all of spring break just to get good enough to beat a classmate - let her best friend win? Nah. Impossible.

I'm glad Isabelle's coach is watching her - not to mention my sister - because my email is overflowing. And it figures - one marked urgent. From one Claiborne, Aisha. Unless she's freeing up some room to get me a big-name O-lineman to help things out, she and her icy demeanor can fuck off back to Dallas.

Nope - no such luck. It's to all the coaches. Supposedly the next in line is the wide receivers, since, y'know, those guys can keep our QB from being turned into hamburger meat. But whatever. After all, she's a serious woman in a serious business...with a seriously hot ass. And that was just in a business suit - imagine Aisha in a pair of Daisy Dukes. Yes, that body is burned into my memory permanently. And yes, I'll happily keep that information to myself.

The next thing I see, though, is the waitress walking over to me - a curvaceous Latina named Jenna. "Anything I can take care of for you, Coach?" she asks, clearly showing off her ample cleavage.

"I need another one of these," I say, pointing to my beer and seeing her smiling at me. Damn, she's got a body on her. Not as hot as Aisha, but very attractive.

"Is that all?" Well, now that you mention it. "I do mean anything."

"Really now?" I ask. "I mean, I'm here with my daughter's birthday party-"

"I love dads," she answers. She looks down at my left hand - no wedding ring, of course. "And I love coaches." And I love her accent - if I had to guess, she's Puerto Rican. "I'll have the bartender get you a beer, In the meantime, I get off in twenty minutes. Meet me over by the ticket counter."

I watch her walk away, shaking her ass - damn she's sexy. And she wants to hook up with me? Right now? Well, who can turn that down? Sure will be a long twenty minutes, though, but it will give me time to finish this beer and catch up on my emails.

Or not, as I look over - what are my players doing here? Jordan and Jamil leading the way, with Mike behind them - strange since he seems to be the leader - and bringing up the rear seems to be Deon Wright, our backup tight end who's already come a long way from the guy who dropped a pass from my daughter.

I decide to buy all of them beers - only Deon declines, opting for iced tea instead. Turns out they all came for Isabelle's birthday, no surprise - Deon must have tipped them off. He's actually kind of a cool guy, even if he seems a bit standoffish.

The guys break it off and head back to the dining room with the party - and then I check my watch. It's been twenty minutes, so I look over at the ticket counter - and there stands Jenna, dressed in a low-cut top. Today is definitely my lucky day.

She leads me by the hand to somewhere marked by an 'Employees Only' sign - soon her clothes come off. She's very attractive, her thick curves and olive skin nearly without a blemish as I see her body on display. She's not shy about showing off her best features - her bra comes off, and her breasts are all mine.

I take them in my hand as she pulls my shirt off, her fingers running along my chest. "Look at these muscles," she remarks, her accent so delicious. "Don't make me wait," she begs as I lick and such on her nipples.

Off come her panties, a pair of black boy shorts that show off her round, luscious ass. I'm hard as fuck - and she takes full advantage, undoing my pants and straddling me.

She takes my cock in her hand and grabs a condom out of her purse - it's a hookup, so I feel a bit better about this since I didn't come prepared. Skillfully, she slides it on with her mouth. "Wow, you have a big one," she comments as she leaps into my lap, my back pressed against this bench.

Jenna mounts me and begins riding my cock. I look her in her gorgeous eyes as she bounces on my cock, her pussy nice and tight around me. Yes, she's good - but I close my eyes for a moment, trying not to think.

I feel pleasure through my entire body - but I can't get something out of my mind. I moan, trying not to talk because I love listening to her. "Give me that big dick, you stud," she commands as she works me over. "How big are you anyway?" I've never really thought about it so I don't have an answer.

"Make me cum," I command as she works faster, holding onto my shoulders and moaning louder. Fortunately no one's around - this is amazing. I feel myself on edge - then it hits me.

I'm not thinking about Jenna. She's gorgeous, she's naked and in front of me, but my mental image? The cold-as-ice Aisha. That ass on her in that skirt - fuck, that thing's perfect. Even more perfect that this one - so round, so flawless, the right size and everything. Her curves in those designer suits. The way she walks - Aisha Claiborne is sex on wheels. I'm fucking Jenna, but in my mind, I'm fucking the goddess Aisha.

"Damn," I mutter as I feel myself climaxing. "Yes, fuck yes," I stammer as my cum fills the condom.

"Cum for me, damn you!" she shouts as she pushes down on me. I'm all hers.

Then I let it slip - not even thinking.

"Yes, Aisha."

I don't even know I'm saying it - until a few seconds later when I feel a sting on my face.

Jenna slaps me. Hard. The scowl on her face as she climbs off my cock - I'm not sure what I did until she speaks.

"Who the fuck is Aisha?" she demands - I'm a little confused. "Why the fuck did you call me Aisha?"

"What?" I spit out. "Do I even know an Aisha?"

"You fucking called me another woman's name!" she screams. "Get the fuck out of here! You're not welcome here ever again!"

"Fine with me," I snap. "You might have a great ass, but you're an average fuck at best." That's somewhat true - she's sexy, but I've had a lot better in bed. I simply fasten my pants, throw my shirt on, and walk out, heading to the bathroom to take off the condom. I know she doesn't have the power to throw me out, but I leave anyway, waiting on the girls to finish up their party. Besides, I don't need Isabelle to know I have my eye on that sexy salary cap analyst.

I can barely stand the woman. But damn, I could fuck her senseless.

(September 4, Houston Texans training facility)

Here we are, less than two weeks from the season opener, and once again, I'm just not sure. I know we're down to 53 tomorrow. That means cuts need to be made.

And I hate to do it to him, but after the way I see him miss a block, it's looking like Deon's a definite candidate for being cut. I just...who backs up Jordan if I cut Deon? Is it even going to be up to me? We have Jake Stoneburner, but he's kind of raw as well. Of course, I'm just a position coach who's made an enemy out of the front office staff. Well, at least I can go back to Auburn.

I look over - just what I fucking need.

For some reason, Aisha is here in Houston. She strolls up to me, decked out in a white suit with a knee-length skirt and a yellow blouse. I get a closer look at her sunglasses - the ear pieces have this C logo all over them - and then I inhale - is she wearing perfume to football practice? Who is this woman anyway?

"Neil," she greets me. "Looking great. And your guys are doing well, too." What the-is she flirting with me?

"I know I need to cut someone," I answer, somewhat flustered - her perfume smells terrific. Her lipstick - holy shit. There's no other way to describe Aisha - she's a knockout. I don't even like black women - she's a damn knockout.

"If it were up to me, I'd spend the money and get you a damn left tackle. You're right - you're working with a bunch of holes. You're doing you best here even if you're, shall we say, rough around the edges." That's a polite way of calling me an asshole. It's OK; at least I'm an honest asshole. "By the way, how's your daughter?"

"She's great," I reply - is she asking me a personal question? What the hell is going on here? "So when can I get some more presence for this O-line?" I have Mike Pouncey and that's about it in the way of really good offensive linemen.

"I'll tell you the same thing I tell everyone else," she coolly replies as I find it almost impossible to take my eyes off her. "Get in line." Fuck. "I have a meeting here; I was just stopping by. And as much as I know you don't agree," she pauses, smiling, "your unit looks pretty good."

I'm not sure what to make of that comment, since my guys are struggling. Aisha seems unusually interested in me for some reason. I don't really know what it is. I like the attention, sure, but then again, I have a job to do. Then again, I'm not sure if the 'unit' she's referring to is my O-line - I never really pay much attention to how much these shorts leave to the imagination.

"I just...I need someone in case Branden Albert never gets healthy." She seems to understand. I'm not sure I do. "We play the Cowboys in a week."

"The Cowboys," she ominously repeats. "My first season with the team and we had to open with the damn Cowboys." That's right - her former team. Who's looking fully loaded and like a favorite in the NFC. "Anyway, here's the thing - I can't help you because we're working on a trade." Great - just what we need. "The Vikings are looking at sending us Adrian Peterson." Yes, that Adrian Peterson, of record-setting and child-beating fame. "So no on the left tackle until that goes through."

"Well that's just fucking great." Good thing Isabelle isn't around. "Besides, we have Knowshon Moreno. And I thought the receivers were next in line, not the running backs. Doesn't the front office get that?"

"Don't get me started on those guys." she replies. Wow, do we have more in common than I thought? "Look, I'll see what I can do. I can try to get that under the cap a lot easier than Adrian Peterson." Yeah, isn't Peterson overpriced and risky anyway? "Anyway, I'll catch you later. I'll see what I can do."

"Thanks, Aisha," I dismiss - and now back to the practice. Our defense against the Texans' offense - and guess who's on the other side? Ronnie Vickers, the racist idiot we cut in June. And he really seems to have it out for our defenders - it seems like even our overpriced D-line can't handle this guy, and they just get worse with every rep. If I were their coach, I'd get in their ear - of course, I could just tell them what Vickers said to Deon, but I promised I wouldn't, and the last thing I need is a racism scandal.

Practice mercifully ends an hour later, and on the way to the airpot, I get a phone call. "Where are you?" It's Andrea - what business is it of hers? Gretchen's watching the girls. "You're in Houston? You call yourself a father? You're in big trouble, Neil. I have a court date." January 28, it turns out - so she can fly to Miami and get her ass kicked in court once again. "I'm taking back my daughter and turning her into a lady."

"Right, because you're such a great example," I snort. "How many times did you blow my money to fly to Tuscaloosa to fuck Eddie?" The answer to that is eleven, all after I started with the Hurricanes - two after I found out and filed for divorce. Damn credit card I forgot to cancel. "And look at that dipshit you're marrying - stays home drunk more often than he goes to work."




Necessary Roughness: 1st Quarter



"Eddie's a good man, unlike you," she fires back. "He's a good Christian. When was the last time you took Belle to church?"

"Call her Belle again and the next time you'll hear from either of us is when I kick the shit out of you in court." And if I have it my way, I'll do to Eddie what...well, the hell with Eddie. Just...the hell with that guy. In fact, the hell with everyone right now except my daughter, my sister and Crystal.

Fuck, I need a drink. Just one, though. I'm not a drunk.

(September 13, Sun Life Stadium, Dolphins vs. Cowboys)

I seem to have dodged my first real bullet as coach - the Vickers story has gone away quietly, I didn't lose a whole lot of guys to cuts, and I get to go about my business. Life seems OK, but we're looking down the barrel of a very tough opener. The defense hasn't come together at all, and we can't seem to get our act together on offense. And the worst part? We're facing one of the favorites to go to the Super Bowl out of the NFC - the Dallas Cowboys.

The same Dallas Cowboys who screwed up our trade prospects last week - we were after Adrian Peterson at the expense of our O-line. Needless to say, the Cowboys got him. I'd say Jerry Jones made the Vikings an offer they couldn't refuse, but I think our offer was actually better. Maybe he threw in a giant scoreboard for the Vikings' new stadium; I don't know. It's whatever, I guess - I didn't want the bastard anyway. I can handle my players doing a lot of stupid shit, but what Peterson did to his kid - as a father, I'm repulsed.

Aisha told me how she wants to get back at the Cowboys just as bad as I want to kick Peterson's ass, as if she's ready to suit up herself and take them down - that is, if she could find a designer helmet and a matching handbag. She'll settle for watching the game from one of the suites way upstairs.

Isabelle is settling for watching the game from her aunt's house - I couldn't secure seats for her or Crystal, and Gretchen has a lot to do, so it's probably a good thing they're home. Y'know, since they can turn the TV off if the Cowboys get a jump on us and things look really bad.

I take a look up - the offensive and defensive coordinators have a big booth upstairs while we lowly position coaches hang out in the sideline with Coach Philbin and the players. At least I get a close look at our guys from here.

I won't get a close look at my players right away - the Cowboys win the toss and elect to receive, so we get our defense out there. The defense we blew the bank on and hasn't been playing like anything close to a cohesive unit since...well, ever. Couple that with a backup left tackle, and this could get ugly.

And ugly it gets - right out of the gate. If they say you can tell a lot about the season by how the first play goes, well, we're fucked - Lance Dunbar goes 92 yards for a touchdown on the opening kick, and right away, we're down 7-0.

The Cowboys' first kickoff of the season goes through the back of the end zone, so here goes the first play. Jordan Cameron lines up as the starting tight end - and the first throw is to him. And it would be a perfect strike if Tannehill doesn't get rushed - he ends up missing his target. Damn. And damn again on second down. Next up is a run up the middle - an apparent white flag that gains no yardage, and we go three-and-out on the opening drive.

The rest of the first quarter turns into a slog as the Cowboys get a field goal and we're down 10-0. The second quarter isn't that different, except we squeeze out a field goal at the end of the half - at least this Franks guy has a leg on him - and we're down 20-3 going into the locker room. I'm sure Isabelle is off shooting hoops at her aunt's house at this point, so she doesn't see just what a shit show this has ended up turning into.

And after we head back out for the second half, I really hope that's true. We get the opening kickoff for the second half - and it ends up fumbled and the Cowboys get the ball. Two plays later, Tony Romo hits Dez Bryant over the middle - touchdown.

Then the Cowboys really start hitting on all cylinders - and the wheels come off for us. Tannehill ends up getting sacked six times in the their quarter alone, and we don't so much as get a a first down. The Cowboys? Touchdown, touchdown, touchdown - and it's a mind-blowing 48-3 after three quarters. At this point, the hell with it - send in the second string. Get them some playing time.

The Cowboys evidently disagree with that line of reasoning, and their first-string stays in. That includes Peterson, who's still pounding out yards while Romo goes for long passes to Dez Bryant. I think he hits Bryant for more than 20 yards five times in the fourth quarter alone. But it's not like he's running up the score or anything, right? That would just be classless. And the Cowboys are a classy organization, right? I mean, they only sign the finest woman-beaters and child-abusers. I'm looking at you too, Greg Hardy. And to think he's still suspended.

After the dust settles and the fans practically flee the stadium, the Cowboys ultimately hand us a 62-3 defeat. The mood in the locker room couldn't be more somber if someone just announced he had cancer. And I just want to get the hell out of here and update my resume. Yeah, it's not my fault, but the only person who seems to think so has about as much pull in the front office as a dead mouse.

I have to listen to the sports talk people all over Miami just crucifying us - and the O-line - all week. I just hope we can get a little momentum for the next game.

That game is also in our home building - against the Ravens, a team that could easily be in the Super Bowl. And they show it - we manage to get a whole two field goals in the game, but the defense can't stop a nosebleed and we end up going down 38-6. I actually send my resume to Auburn after the game - probably going to need it. At least Auburn isn't more than a couple of hours from Tuscaloosa, so Isabelle can se her mom more. That is, if she stops acting like a fuckup - I haven't heard from her since the phone call in Houston, so unless she's pulling some mom mojo from a hat or something, I can't worry about her.

(Miami International Airport, September 19, Dolphins' team plane)

Road games are a fact of life in the NFL - and in the case of a single father who's a coach, it's a really good time to thank God I have an awesome sister, y'know, just in case there's a God to thank. As much as my dumbass ex hates it, I don't take Isabelle to church - might have to do with the fact that I work Sundays - and she's never really asked me to. Besides, last time I checked, most religion just boils down to 'don't be a dipshit and you'll probably be OK.' Too bad that doesn't extend to football.

Another fact of road games - a big-ass plane taking us up to Boston, or rather, Foxboro, Massachusetts, home of the Patriots. I guess we'll have to inspect those balls before the game starts.

At least I have a comfortable flight up to Boston - I head right for my seat with the coaches and front office personnel. And since I'm earlier than most everyone else, I grab an aisle seat - a necessity seeing as how I'm ridiculously tall by airplane standards. Just a habit I have, especially flying commercial and on college planes that aren't as nice.

I guess I'm lucky too - no one takes the window. So I spread out, putting my playbook in the seat before we go ahead to takeoff. Might as well look over some stuff while we're waiting - and then someone taps me on the shoulder.

"Can you get up, Neil? I can't get through past your massive legs." Real tactful for a woman who wears designer everything. And in true Aisha Claiborne style, she carries her designer carry-on right past me to the window seat, giving me a dirty look to make me move all the stuff I set there. Not sure if the look is for setting my stuff in her seat or the fact that my eyes are locked on her gorgeous ass as she walks by.

"Since when does the salary cap analyst travel with the team?" I ask - Aisha's predecessor never did.

"Since I'm every bit as important as the general manager," she snipes.

"Look, I get it. You're a woman in a man's industry. Fine; I don't care. All I care about is-"

"Your damn players." Yeah, pretty much - just interrupt me. "Look, I'm doing all I can. I saw what happened. Believe me, I didn't like watching us get massacred by Dallas any more than you did. I can't stand hearing the talk by all those idiot sports guys." Yes, apparently one of the local radio jokers has managed to extrapolate "Dolphins" into an unflattering acronym - Dumb Owner, Lousy Players, Hell, I Need Scotch. At least they're right about the scotch part. "But you being in my ear doesn't help. Maybe focus on keeping your guys healthy and figure out how they can come together. I can't do anything about that."

"This is going to be a long flight, isn't it?" I grumble as she looks away.

Then someone peeks over the back of our seats - it's Zac Taylor, our quarterbacks coach, a real wise guy. "Will the two of you just fuck and get it over with?" Surprisingly, Aisha doesn't give him a dirty look - I actually see her try to suppress a chuckle. I know she isn't totally soulless, but then again, she just kind of rubs me the wrong way. I get it - she's two types of minority in this job and she feels like she has to prove herself. But the way I see it, every one of us had to prove ourselves. That's how the business works.

Aisha and I don't exchange any more words during the flight - she has her earphones in and I'm too busy studying plays. I can't only hope our guys are working just as hard for this - it's our first division game. Everyone else looks pretty focused.

And then that all goes out the window in Foxboro when there's a sudden cold snap. What is this, the middle of damn winter? We're sure as hell not prepared for this shit, especially since the weather forecast called for a nice day. Not what we need after a tough night in our hotel - we lose power twice and the fire alarm goes off. Is this how the Patriots keep winning?

It must be - we can't get a damn thing going. We end up not even getting a first down until the third quarter, and the defense looks completely silly going against Tom Brady. We end up fumbling four times, and Tannehill can't get a throw off for most of the game. Needless to say, we get crushed - this time 45-0. I almost want to go straight to Auburn and just tell this team to fuck off. Seriously, what a bunch of shit.

(Sun Life Stadium, Monday, team offices)

The kind of September this team's had usually leads to a whole bunch of confidence votes, players-only meetings, and all kinds of other motivational bullshit. In our case, we're scouting the colleges for a left tackle we can draft with the first pick and hoping we can squeeze out one or two wins so we don't joint the 2008 Lions as the only two teams to go 0-16. Seriously, we spent nine figures on a defensive tackle and staked our franchise on this?

I'm out of options - we play the Texans this week, a team with a hell of a defense and a surprising uptick in quarterback play. They're undefeated, having held opponents to a combined 41 points, whereas we've crossed midfield a total of six times and haven't scored a touchdown. And the stud of their O-line? Ronnie Vickers - and yes, the sports media is crucifying us for cutting him. And I can't even tell anyone why I did it - it's common knowledge I insisted on cutting him. Now I have people saying I need to be fired. It's a miserable feeling.

I'm here because we're having an all-staff meeting of sorts - coaches and front office staff are all together in a what-the-hell-do-we-do meeting.

But that's in a half-hour, so I have a little catching up to do on film. It looks like Jason Fox could be a fine blocker, but putting him at left tackle seems to be a bit much - people know he's a weak point and are overloading him. Tannehill gets clobbered, so he runs scared and he can't accomplish anything. Factor in a defense that isn't living up to its billing, and we've been outscored 145-9 in three losses. Seriously - we're losing each game by an average of 45 points.

My film study is cut short - Isabelle's calling. "Hey, Dad," she answers me - she seems down. "Yeah, I'm going back into class soon. I just...I got a call from Mom." Well, damn. "She wasn't nice. She said she's taking me back to Alabama in January and I'll never see you again." Are you fucking kidding me?

"Look, honey," I try to interject. "Your mom isn't taking you away from me. I'll always be your dad. And after all she's done, I'll make sure she doesn't hurt you."

She's crying. "I just want everything to be OK. I want my mom back. The one who isn't mean." She knows a different Andrea from the one I know; that's for sure. "What can I do to get the nice Mom back and not have you guys hate each other?"

"I ask that question every day." My answer at this point seems to fall apart with replacing Andrea with an impostor and making Eddie drive off a cliff. Shouldn't be too hard on that part, since that shitwad seems to have more DUIs than functioning brain cells.

"Dad, just tell me Mom's coming back. You don't have to get back together or anything." It's sad that she's thought that far ahead - but yeah, no way in hell am I taking that bitch back. "I just want my mom back."

"I want that, too." I'm actually telling the truth about that, as far as Andrea being a real mom goes. "But at this point, it looks like the Dolphins have a better chance to win the Super Bowl than we do of getting your mom to come around."

She seems to understand, and me telling her I'll always be there doesn't help much - the rest of the day's going to be shitty for both of us.

This looks like a what-the-hell-do-we-do meeting until I notice the absence of one conspicuous person - Coach Philbin. Dennis Hickey, our general manager, is leading the meeting.

"I know this hasn't been a good start to the year, guys," he leads. "We have a lot of potential and nothing to show for it." No shit. "We have made a decision. We're going in a different direction. Joe Philbin is no longer the head coach of the Dolphins. Our interim coach for the rest of the year is Dan Campbell." Our tight ends coach. I had no shot at this anyway - two years of experience at the pro level and a unit that isn't getting it done? On the upside, I'll be handling the tight ends as well as the O-line for the rest of the year.

At the end, I look around - and raise my hand. "Look, people," I exasperate. "Clearly Jason Fox isn't strong enough to handle left tackle duties. And clearly we're not replacing him. So why don't we just put in a second tight end for extra blocking every time?" I get a look from around the room as if I just suggested we go to Sunday's game without pants.

The rest of the meeting goes pretty poorly, and afterwards, I pull aside Bill Lazor, our offensive coordinator.

He speaks first. "What right do you have telling me how to run my offense?" he scolds.

"I don't know, maybe because I'm in charge of the unit that's getting murdered and needs the most help?" I fire back. "Work with me, will you?"

"I don't need to work with pond scum like you," he scoffs. "You're just a position coach. Fuck you."

"Oh, fuck me? Fuck you too!" I snap. "You saw what happened to Philbin. We're all out on our asses if we can't turn this thing around."

"Maybe you're out on your ass, but I'm set," he snorts. "It's whatever, dude. You can't coach worth a shit. And frankly, I'm sick of your kid hanging out at practice. Get her out of here or I'll-"

"You leave my daughter out of this, Lazor," I fume. "One more comment about her and we're both out on our asses and you end up with a lot fewer teeth-"

"Both of you, enough!" I would have expected that out of Coach Philbin. I actually get it out of Aisha, of all people. "Bill, get your ass back to work. Neil, my office." She actually stands between us - Lazor is the first to back down, heading out of the office. I smirk until Aisha, who's wearing heels and almost eye-level with me, stares me down. "Do we have to do this the hard way?"

"Yeah, let's do that," I sneer as I reply, looking her over - as cold and insane as she is, I could look at her all day. Not sure if the feeling's mutual and not sure if I care; Aisha can remain a fantasy.

She shuts the door - and it seems to lock. "You want to keep this job, Neil?" she demands. "Honestly you're not going to get fired unless you piss people off. And you're starting on that. First me, now Coach Lazor. Who's next, Neil?"

"I'm sorry, do you have anything relevant to say or can I go finish up my prep for the Texans and go pick up my daughter?" I dismiss - as miserable and inconsolable as Isabelle is, she's no doubt easier to handle than this collective horseshit. "I mean, we go to Houston on Friday and we-"

"I know that. I have a seat." I still can't believe she does. "I don't like being talked down to. Especially not by an arrogant chauvinist who thinks he has to prove he's still got it."

"A chauvinist, am I?" She nods her head. "You know that a chauvinist is just a relentless advocate, right?" That's actually the dictionary definition - still not sure how that word got attached to pigheaded sexist men. "In that vein, you're damn right I'm a chauvinist. I'm a chauvinist for my guys. And I'm a chauvinist for my daughter. Pretty much everyone else can go fuck themselves, including the icy bitch sitting across from me."

"I can name-call all day," she scoffs. "You're just a pseudo-intellectual man-child with a one-track mind, and you wouldn't last ten minutes in my world."

"Like you'd last five in mine," I counter. "Is that chip on your shoulder designer, too, you petulant snob?"

"Like you'd last two minutes without having everything handed to you," she derides. "I had to work twice as hard to get where I am."

"Do you think I give a fuck that you're a woman, Aisha?" Well, from one standpoint, I do, but from another, all I care about is getting help for my guys. "Or that you're black? Or that you somehow made it to being head salary cap analyst with three different teams before you cracked thirty? So you're young and gorgeous. Big fucking deal!"

"Don't even try to flatter me, Neil," she scolds.

"Oh please, Aisha. Like you don't know you're super-hot when you dress to kill just to go to the damn grocery store, drive a Mercedes and make Beyonce look like your ugly cousin." I actually just rattled that last one off at random - I'm pretty good at this.

"No, I mean about me being under thirty." Come again? "I'm thirty-three."

"Fuck you, no you're not," I scoff - turns out she is. Damn, two years older than me and she looks like that? "How do you do it? Seriously, are you a witch or something?" Well, I've called her a witch to Isabelle, mainly because the word I'd typically use, the one that rhymes with 'witch,' is verboten.

"I could ask you the same question," she replies - the fuck? "I may think you're a pompous asshole, but I know a good-looking man when I see one." She rises from her chair - and around her desk. Am I hallucinating?

"You piss me off to no end, Aisha," I scold as she approaches.

"Right back at you," she replies - and she bends down to me.

She kisses me.

I don't believe it. I'm actually shocked - not sure what to do next.

"That door's locked, right?" I ask - it is.

Aisha wastes no time - she rips my shirt off. "I knew you were a stud," she teases. "Look at these muscles. And I know you have it where it counts."

I kiss her passionately, undoing her jacket and blouse and revealing a lacy black bra underneath - Victoria's Secret, no doubt. It comes off quickly, revealing the most perfect pair of breasts underneath.

Another surprise - her nipples are pierced. I take them in my mouth, licking and biting - she almost melts as I strip her naked, undoing her skirt until she's down to just her underwear and sliding those down too.




Necessary Roughness: 2nd Quarter



AUTHOR'S NOTE: This is a work of fiction. It involves both real and fictional people and organizations. It is not necessarily an accurate depiction of how the real people depicted are in real life. The real people used are mainly background characters there for context. The central characters to the story are primarily fictional. Any portrayal of a real person has an element of fiction to it and is in no way meant to be an accurate representation of that person.

This story plays out similarly to a sports movie, and sports movies are my primary inspiration. I set the story around an NFL team, specifically the Miami Dolphins. I am basing the team loosely off the 2015 team, including the roster and list of opponents, but some players and coaches - and the schedule itself - will be fictional.

Also, this story depicts very rough sex and a lot of crass language. If you are offended by that or do not wish to read about such topics, I suggest you stop reading now. 

Furthermore, this is the second installment of a four-part story. I will get the stories out as quickly as I can. Enjoy.

*****

(NRG Stadium, Houston, TX, Dolphins vs. Texans)

I walk the halls outside the players' entrance. It's not too long before the last pre game huddle. I looked at the odds before the game - Houston's favored by eleven. I'd favor them by a hell of a lot more, but Fox has been playing out of his mind and we're platooning in Branden Albert this week. It might stop the bleeding a bit; whatever works.

I check my phone - nothing to do but wait at this point for another ten minutes. To my surprise, I get a text message - thinking for a split second it's Isabelle, I briefly wonder whose phone she borrowed.

It's a number that's not in my phone - and the sender asks, "Are you outside the locker room?" I reply, "Yes, who is this?" The sender says, "You'll find out." My first inclination? It's Vickers - he's planning to yell at me before the game. Psych me out or something. After all, I'm the reason he got cut - and is in Houston now.

I wait a couple of minutes - to my surprise, it's Aisha. We haven't talked much since Thursday, though I've certainly thought about it. Before Thursday, I hooked up here and there with cheap sluts or desperate football groupies. Nothing special; just a way to get some release. After that, though, I can't think about those girls, even the young, gorgeous ones. All I think about is Aisha.

"You look nervous," she tells me - she's right.

"I thought you were someone else," I reply - she concludes I mean Vickers.

"He won't try to kick your ass," she soothes - honestly, me against Vickers is a pretty fair fight. I keep in shape and am pretty good at defending myself. "But I'll do something more fun."

She leads me into some kind of closet and puts her hand on my crotch - it takes me almost no time to get hard. "That's what I thought," teases Aisha as she unzips my pants and crouches down, switching to a kneeling position quickly.

She switches to using her mouth, sucking my erect cock fast and deep. I moan softly - "Damn, baby," I mutter. "You're good."

She switches back to her hand for a second. "I'm good at a lot of things," she comments. "I can do it rough. Or I can be nice. Now enjoy."

Right away, she takes as much in her mouth as she can - I know I'm hung, but I've never had anyone who appreciates it like Aisha does.

She licks the head with the back of her tongue - I'm in ecstasy. She grabs my ass - is she deepthroating me? She takes my entire shaft in her mouth - fuck. This is fucking great.

"Oh damn," I shout, hoping no one heard me. "Do you swallow?" I ask, barely forming words - she doesn't answer but she keeps working. She has me ready to blow. She doesn't waste any time - and just like that, she digs her nails in my ass cheeks.

That's all it takes - I start cumming in her mouth. She licks it all up, swallowing it all and extending my orgasm with her sweet tongue. My head clears up almost instantly as she finishes me off.

Finally, she stands back up and zips me up. She kisses me on the cheek and slaps my ass, which is still stinging from her nails. "Now go coach your ass off, stud," she comments as she pushes me out the door.

I notice myself feeling more at ease during the meeting and on the sideline, as if my orations to my guys are less tension-filled and more genuine. I almost feel my good vibes rubbing off on my players. Or that's what I decide is happening anyway - we run the opening kick back to the Texans' 33.

Branden Albert gets the start at left tackle, and he's an absolute beast out there. Tannehill completes five passes in a row, the fifth going to Jordan Cameron for a seven-yard touchdown pass. For the first time all season, we have a touchdown - and a lead.

Our next drive turns into a slow, plodding series of short running gains and completions to Cameron, with Deon Wright backing him up on occasion and picking up yards. Turns out he can catch - sometimes. The drive takes seventeen plays, but we get in the end zone and go up 14-7.

I watch the defensive coaches frantically trying to stop Hoyer - and Vickers. It's as if he's in our D-line's collective head, as if he's the reason our overpriced defense can't come together. Once we crack the code on Vickers, the rest of the defense should solidify - in theory.

That doesn't happen in the third quarter - the Texans get the first strike, and we counter with a touchdown of our own. I look up at the scoreboard after three quarters - it's 42-42 with the Texans knocking at the door to start the fourth.

The Texans get back to business on the next drive, marching down to our 31 with a first and ten. Hoyer lines up to pass over Cameron Wake's head - Wake gets a hand on it, and it falls incomplete. Foster gets the call on the next play - he's stuffed for no gain. Hoyer goes back to the pass on third down - he can't make anything happen. Finally, we get a defensive stop, as the field goal unit heads out to attempt a 48-yarder.

The snap is to Ryan Mallett, Texans holder and backup QB - son of a bitch, it's a fake. And it's deep - we're caught totally off guard, and the next thing you know, we're in the hole 56-49.

I pull Branden Albert over. "Protect the house," I tell him. "Any time you see J.J. Watt do that thing with the two fingers on each hand, watch for a blitz. Call out the word 'fireball.' Tell Tannehill and change the code word as you have to. Good luck, dude. You got this." I listen for the play call from upstairs - we have eighty yards to go and under five minutes to do it - and listen to this. Two tight ends. Deon's to the left.

The drive goes smoothly up to the red zone, where we seem to get stuck. No field goals here, I think, as Tannehill's pass to Stills falls incomplete. Fourth down and goal at the nine - and it has to count.

Tannehill scrambles - J.J. Watt is chasing him. His target is Stills - covered. Cameron - covered. He spots Deon Wright in the corner of the end zone - fires a perfect strike.

Touchdown, Dolphins! We're an extra point from tying it up. I look around - what the hell? We're going for two? Are you out of your mind, I think as the two tight end formation comes together.

I listen closely - I hear the word 'fireball' from Branden. The give is to Knowshon - he runs to the outside looking doomed. The Texans send the house after him - big mistake. Knowshon looks up - fires a perfect lob to Stills, who's wide open and catches it with no trouble. Boom, baby - we're in the lead with just two-and-a-half minutes to go. Let's hold this lead, even if it's just a point.

I take a look over - oh hell. Albert's down on the ground, clutching his left leg. You never want to see anything like this from one of your guys, especially since Albert's been struggling with knee issues all season.

The trainer heads out - with a cart. He's just not getting up. Finally, the training staff gets him on the cart and takes him away - at least the visiting crowd cheers for him. Classy. And I genuinely mean it - the Texans may have a racist asshole for a starting left tackle, but I wouldn't knock their fans.

Also a good thing that Albert isn't needed to protect the lead - the Texans get the ball at the 20 after a touchback, so we have to keep them from scoring. It doesn't look good - Hoyer gets right to work picking apart our defense.

As the Texans line up for first and 10, I watch Vickers walk over - just what we need. He spots Deon.

"I own this field, rookie," he shouts. "I own you. And I own your boys."

Deon is unamused. "If I were on defense, I'd kick your dumb ass all the way back to the locker room."

"Yeah, but you're not on defense," Vickers taunts. "Are you, boy?" The staredown continues. I'm getting really sick of hearing one of my guys called 'boy.' I'm not theo nay one sick of it - the ref hears him too. 

A penalty flag follows, and for reasons only my sideline understands, the Texans get whistled for unsportsmanlike conduct, and a comfortable first and 10 at our 29 is now a brutal first and 25. Good luck with that, fuckers.

Deon isn't finished. "Cameron!" he calls out to Cameron Wake, who runs over. I overhear Deon say to him, "Keep this on the DL, but do you know what Vickers said to me before he got cut?" Deon whispers it to Cameron. "Yes, him. Vickers, number 69. Whip his ass."

Cameron Wake rejoins the game, lined up across from Vickers, who appears to be foaming at the mouth. He gives a nod to Ndamukong Suh, who's lined up at tackle. Hoyer calls for the snap.

Suh and Wake rush Vickers - and flatten him. I seem to catch a cleat in Vickers' groin - the ref does not. With that, Wake has a clean shot at the quarterback. Brian Hoyer doesn't see Wake coming at all, and Wake levels him for a loss of nine. Hoyer's lucky to stay conscious after that blow.

The Texans line up again, once again with Suh and Wake against Vickers. Vickers, undaunted, charges at Wake - and Suh crashes into him, shoulder-first, and throws him about five yards. This time, Hoyer looks over his shoulder and sees Wake flying at him - he wisely gets rid of the ball. But Wake gets the last laugh - Hoyer gets whistled for intentional grounding, and the Texans lose ten on the play. I take a look at the scoreboard - in addition to showing us ahead by one, it shows the down as third - and 44. Holy fuck.

Vickers actually lines up again, facing down Wake by himself this time. Wake drops low - and almost lifts Vickers over his head, throwing the left tackle on his back. Wake charges after Hoyer, who is probably muttering 'please don't hurt me' at this point - Wake gets hands in his face, and the ball falls incomplete.

Wake gives some kind of wild fist-pump gesture as the down ticks to fourth - and Vickers gets up and charges at him. Oh no - not good.

Vickers knocks down Wake in a total blindside hit - well after the play. Who does this asshole think he is? He's standing over Wake, taunting him - of course there's a flag, and of course there's a group of refs in Vickers' face.

Suh helps Wake off the field - he seems OK, just shaken up. I have the training staff take a look at him, crossing my fingers. Then I listen for the call - late hit, 15 yards, and Vickers is ejected. Because of course he is. Even the home fans are booing him - he's single-handedly cost them the game. Tack on another half-the-distance penalty for taunting, and the Texans are on their own 11 at fourth and...70? Damn.

Hoyer attempts a pass - some kind of screen pass that leads to some kind of Cal-Stanford play minus the band on the field - and the result. The Texans pick up six yards on the play. That's the game - and in insane fashion, we get our first win of the season. And it's pretty much all thanks to our offense - the defense gave up 56 points and we still win the game? I'm guessing that's some kind of record.

(YMCA, Miami Gardens, FL, Monday around 3:30 pm)

Teams like to give players and coaches the day off right after a win - of course, if they're anything like me, a day off involves a lot of work anyway. At least, though, we have a win under our belt, so we won't be the worst team of all time. The worst defense, maybe, but not-

Never mind, as I take a peek at our news feed. It looks like good news and bad news. The good news is our defense - it's looking great in practice. Maybe curb-stomping Vickers is what the D needed in order to come together. After all, Vickers' dominance in the joint practice seemed to be what sent the D into a downward spiral. Now that the monkey is off everyone's backs, it looks like we can get back to business.

The bad news? It's a doozy - Branden Albert has a torn ACL. In other words, he's done for the season - and we're just not cutting it at left tackle with Jason Fox. At least we get the Redskins this week - quarterback situation is a train wreck, so if the defense holds together, we'll be OK. Maybe do that whole two tight end thing to hang together; I don't know.

I'll figure that out later, though. Right now, I'm here waiting on a very important person - my daughter, of course. She's in a select basketball league, one she'll probably stick with until high school, and practice doesn't start until next week. But before then, she's trying to gain a little edge.

There's only one person who can come close to challenging Isabelle right now - her best friend Crystal, who's doing remarkably well. She's being weaned off IVs and is back in school, even if it is at the hospital - from what I hear, she's crushing her classes.

The best news, though, is that she's healthy enough to start playing basketball again, even if it's not in a league this year. She'll be Isabelle's sparring partner this year - and soon enough, she'll be healthy enough to go home with her foster family.

For now, though, both girls are here - and already ready to play. As a bonus, there's a youth league here - at least I think that's a bonus. More practice for the girls, anyway.

Crystal leads the way - decked out in sunglasses and with her hair back in a ponytail. She's definitely feeling a lot better. "Sup, Coach?" she greets me, a fist-bump accompanying. Isabelle simply bends me down for a kiss on the cheek - as tall as she is for a ten-year-old, I still have to bend down for her. That won't always be true - the doctors project her adult height at 6'1". I'll enjoy her being young while it lasts - hell, I'll enjoy me being young while it lasts.

Looks like the youth league kids are right on time - and it looks like it's pretty much all boys. No sweat; Isabelle takes down boys all the time. I watch as Isabelle takes a shot from beyond the free throw line - nothing but net.

Oh no - one of the boys grabs the ball. He doesn't seem to be letting go of it - do we have a rumble on our hands?

"We were playing," Isabelle interrupts.

"Not anymore," snarks the boy. "It's our court now. If you're not in the league, get out of here." I walk over intently - the boy looks me up and down but doesn't flinch. "It's our court now; she has to go," he demands. "If you're in charge here, you know that."

"Look, son," I counter. "I don't know who this league is, but unless you have a game, I'd welcome the challenge."

"Challenge?" he scoffs. "From two girls? Oooh, we're so scared. You need us to hold their purses, too?"

I look over at Isabelle - she's pissed. So I pull the boy aside.

"Now you listen here, you little bastard," I scold, making sure Isabelle doesn't hear me. "You see that girl in the Wade jersey?" He does. "That's my daughter. You mess with her, you mess with me. And I'll have you know she's damn good. Now you figure out a way to include the two of them or we have a problem." I would continue, but Isabelle walks up and takes the ball out of his hands.

"We'll play you for it," she quips. "You and your best player against me and Crystal. If we lose, we'll go somewhere else. If we win, we're team captains. Deal?" He laughs - but accepts.

He hashes out the rules - one point per bucket, two from beyond the three-point line, first to 21 wins, call your own fouls. I'm a little nervous about the last part, but I know Isabelle's a tough kid and she can probably handle it.

I do the opening tip - and from then on out, I'm more worried about the kid and his buddy than about Isabelle or even Crystal. Crystal has no problem throwing elbows, bumping the guys, even stepping on toes - it's almost as if the boys don't want to admit a girl fouled them.

Isabelle and Crystal thoroughly enjoy using that to their advantage, walking all over the boys early to take a quick lead and even landing a couple of long-distance shots. The girls get 11 points before the boys are even on the board, and Crystal knocks over each boy - twice. It ends up 21-2, and the boys just storm off the court as Isabelle sinks the last shot - from beyond the arc. Won't be seeing those two for a while.

The rest of the guys honor the deal and let Isabelle and Crystal be captains, and I glance at the girls - and their charges - while I do some film study.

My film study is interrupted by a sound I don't expect to hear in a basketball gym - the firm walk of high-heeled shoes. I look up - the hell?

It's Aisha, of all people, here to stalk me on my day off. Yes, I'm working.

"Neil?" She's as confused as I am. "Are you here with the program too?"

"What program?" Yeah, seriously, what program?

"You must be a Big Brother," she continues - well, I do have a younger sister, but that's not what I think she means. "Is Crystal here? I got placed with her." I point her out - she seems a little confused. "So what are you doing here?"

"This is...wow." She's a little off put. "You're a Big Sister to my daughter's best friend? I couldn't write this stuff." I'm not the creative type anyway.

"She doesn't seem like she's sick," Aisha observes.

"Yeah, she's not that far from her old self," I answer, remembering how full of life she was before the cancer. "I'm just concerned about where she'll end up when she gets placed." She doesn't understand - then she remembers Crystal has no parents. Her doctor's the closest thing she has to a father right now. Well, and me, but I'm more like...I don't know, an uncle.

"She sounds like the last girl I had," she somberly remarks. "Claire was her name, back when I was in Dallas. Her dad was dead and her mom couldn't handle her after she got sick." Cancer again - and to think Aisha asked for her. "When Jerry Jones fired me, I went to see her." Head in her hands at this point - thankfully the girls are engrossed in their game. "Damn traffic - she died thirty minutes before I got there." I think she's choking back tears. Hell, I might need a tissue soon at this rate. "I found out her mom hanged herself that night."

I inch closer and put my arm around her - she warmly accepts, using my Auburn T-shirt to dab her tears. She looks up at me. "I know you made Claire happy," I soothe - I'm just making this up as I go along at this point. "I know you'll do the same for Crystal." I feel confident about that. Yes, Aisha and I piss each other off, but there's a lot I don't know about her. And seeing this, I want to learn as much as I can about her, because I really like what I see.

"Neil, I don't want to seem like I'm being too forward or anything," she tells me, "but do you want to get dinner? I mean, if you can make arrangements for the girls-"

"That's not a problem," I reply, knowing Gretchen actually asked for them tonight. "Are you free tonight?" She is - and in a couple of minutes, I make arrangements at a nice steakhouse. "And I promise I'll dress nice." She smiles - she is so beautiful. I know I've always thought so, but I'm seeing her on a whole new level.

(Shula's Steak, Miami Lakes, FL, Monday night)

The steakhouse isn't that busy, which is good since I don't think I could bully my way into a table if it was. I mean, the O-line coach of a 1-3 team? Not exactly a shoo-in for, well, much of anything. If anything, I'm getting more attention because of my date, a woman I can't even believe I'm having dinner with.




Necessary Roughness: 2nd Quarter



Since Thursday, though, I've learned so much about her. She's fantastic with kids - the introduction between Aisha and Crystal went very well, and Isabelle even seems to like her. I almost couldn't believe that - Isabelle taking a liking to a woman in a designer outfit - but it's amazing news for me.

The host escorts us to our table, and I kindly pull out Aisha's chair for her - not holding anything back as far as impressing her goes. The waiter comes by and takes our drink order pretty quickly. "Jameson sour, three cherries," I reply, harkening back to a drink and garnish I used to drink in college.

"I'll just drink ice water," answers Aisha, and he accepts that - and now I suddenly feel like shit for ordering alcohol. Especially after the comment I made when she blocked my car in.

I try not to act nervous, but it's hard not to - especially when she opens her mouth next. "I suppose it's a bad time to tell you I don't drink," she states. "My mom drank herself to death, so I never took it up." I feel like I'm sweating bullets - and not just because of this damn tie being too tight.

I gulp. "Now I feel really bad about what I said to you-"

"Don't worry about it," she interrupts. "I was upset at the time, but I'm a big girl. Besides, I shouldn't have blocked your car in, and I know how much stress you were under with your guys." Well, at least she, I don't know, sort of gets it. "Just please tell me you won't get drunk."

"Agreed," I reply. "I usually just nurse one drink over dinner. My ex married a man who drinks way too much, so-"

"I get it," she practically dismisses. "So Isabelle's mom is...what's up with her?"

"Don't get me started." She almost seems sorry she asked. "I got custody three years ago because she couldn't get her act together, and since then, she's gotten worse and worse at this whole parenting thing. My sister's better with Isabelle than my ex."

"I'm just glad I don't have any crazy exes," she continues, almost changing the subject. "For the most part, it's just me and my career."

"Sometimes I wish I had that kind of luxury," I answer. "I got a few looks from teams after I stopped playing, but it would have been as a free agent. I had Isabelle, though, and I wanted to do the right thing. My ex hated football and didn't want to be married to a player, but I loved the game and decided to get into coaching. It was hell at first, with the long hours, the low pay, and having to get a second job just to pay the bills for a couple of years, but it was worth it."

I have her attention, and as the appetizers come - bruschetta, since Aisha doesn't eat meat other than seafood. Apparently there's a long, fancy name for folks like that, one that I didn't catch, but either way, she's cool about it. Besides, Aisha's totally forgotten that I'm sipping a whiskey sour. "But I've talked about myself a lot," I sputter. "I want to hear about you. And not just football or salary caps. What makes Aisha Claiborne tick?"

She grins. "I grew up in Texas, about an hour outside Dallas." There's a bit of Texas in her voice - it's not overpowering, as if tempered by another accent. "I was raised to be a wife and mother. But I never wanted any of that. I loved football. I especially loved the Cowboys. But my parents said that was for boys, and I couldn't even watch games. So I watched when I could."

She has my attention now. "I was expected to get married pretty much when I turned 18, but I had insanely high SAT scores and AP test scores. Texas Christian gave me a full scholarship, and my father agreed to postpone me getting married until after college."

"I guess he decided God had other things in mind for you," I answer, kind of playing off her background and the scholarship to TCU.

She seems dismissive. "Yeah, if you believe in that sort of thing."

Wait, what? "What do you mean?" I asked, nonplussed.

She barely flinches. "Well, while I'm being completely candid, I might as well just be out with it and hope it's no big deal," she continues. "I don't believe in God."

I don't know if I've ever met an atheist. I've questioned God a lot, but it's more based on a violent opposition to Andrea's pounding of blind faith and adherence to a bunch of bullshit rules. But it's one thing not to be religious, and I'm certainly not. But not to believe in God at all? For me, this is way outside my wheelhouse.

But not something I'll blow up the date over. "It's not a big deal," I reply. "I mean, I've never met anyone who doesn't believe in God-"

"Sure you have," she fires back - turns out most atheists just aren't that open about it. It's like being gay or something - people haven't been cool with it, so it takes a strong person to be open about it. "I lost my belief at TCU, actually." Ironic, seeing as how it's got the word 'Christian' right in the name of the school. "I saw how the world wasn't as corrupt and terrible as my family said it was, and I opened my eyes to a lot of new ideas. Then I really thought about it - and I just couldn't continue believing in something like that."

"I told my father before I graduated that I didn't believe anymore," she continues. "It was the last time I talked to him. The man chose his religion over his own daughter." Wow, and to think I'm the one she opens up to. I'm actually honored - she thinks I'm worth it. "It all worked out, though. I got an offer to go to Stanford for my master's degree, so I took it instead of staying at TCU." Mind blown - Stanford? I hope she doesn't think I'm too dumb for her.

"What about you? I know you have a sister and a daughter," she goes on - I guess we'll have to have this conversation.

"Gretchen's my sister, and she's the last family I have," I reply in a voice reserved for funerals - we're both used to being on our own. "Our parents died when I was four - car accident. The only living grandparents were too sick to take care of us, so we went to live with our aunt." A woman who could barely take care of herself, let alone two kids, so we were on our own growing up - doubly so right after Gretchen turned 18 and our aunt died of a stroke. "I guess we have one thing in common - we're both used to doing it all for ourselves."

I think she's at a loss for words - but then again, it's hard to go on from the stories we both told.

She speaks first. "I've always scared people by how alone I am," she says. "It's actually nice getting to know someone who has that in common with me."

If this date were going any better, I'd have to work on my touchdown dance. Yeah, it's not perfect, but she doesn't seem to mind at all. She's smart, she's great at conversation, she actually gets me, she's good with my girls - and oh yeah, she's drop dead gorgeous. She even reads my mind when it comes to dessert - vanilla creme brûlée, which we share.

I check real quickly with Gretchen - the girls are asleep, and she'll get them off to school tomorrow. With that, I take a look at Aisha - the next words off her lips are "My place or yours?"

"Yours, if that's OK," I reply - I have a change of clothes in my trunk and my place is in shambles.

"I hope you don't mind if I check a few emails on the ride over," she asks - I don't, even though emails turns into checking Twitter. It turns out she follows a lot of players on Twitter - hard to blame her.

"I just like to keep up with players' thoughts," she quips - turns out she had hoped to get Michael Oher to the Dolphins, but Carolina beat her to the punch, and with Branden Albert out for the season, we need something. "At least we're not in as bad a shape as some teams. The Texans are a wreck after the whole Vickers thing." Yeah, they found out what he said to Deon and cut his racist ass - good luck signing with, I dunno, the CFL? "Or we could be winless like the Redskins. Listen to this - Trent Williams, their left tackle? He's just going off on Twitter, talking about how the team doesn't have its act together and Robert Griffin's an arrogant tool." Well, he's not as bad as their owner, the Lord Farquaad of NFL owners. "I mean, he's right, but-holy shit, Neil." I almost pull over. "Trent Williams just demanded a trade. I'm calling the front office."

I drive through the streets of Miami, navigating on my phone as Aisha goes back and forth with the front office people. "Yes, Trent Williams. Yes, I know we play the Redskins this week. We need him. Yes, I know Branden Albert's great. He's also injured. We can move him next season. I don't know; make him right tackle. Just get this guy."

She continues on. "Do I know if the offense wants him? Let me ask. No, I don't need to call you back. I'll ask Neil. No, I don't need to call him because he's in the car with me. Because we're on a date. Yes, we're on a date. No, I don't hate him. I think he's charming. Now are you going to ask about my love life or get us a left tackle?" I think I'm in love.

I think I'm also the position coach for one of the best left tackles in the NFL - Aisha pulls off the move, the front office calls Washington, and we complete the trade for Williams. And if there's anything that impresses me more than her late-night skill at pulling off a much-needed trade, it's her apartment.

Unlike my place, a two-bedroom run by a wannabe slumlord that's in a constant state of messed-up, Aisha's is, to say the least, classy. Her furniture is a rich brown leather, and she seems to have a nice pleasant scent throughout the place. It's flowery, but I can't place it - never mind; I think we're going to the best part of the tour.

Aisha's bed has a very plush bedspread and a lot of pillows - it's a king size, but I'm guessing she's not used to company. She whips off my clothes, and before I know it, she's got me to my boxers - yet she's still dressed.

She pins my hands before I can react - down go my boxers, so I'm totally naked. I'm bent over, ass exposed, and she has total control of me. I'm kind of liking this - actually, I'm really liking this dominant side of Aisha. I'm hard as fuck.

She slaps my ass. She's not gentle, either - I never knew she had it in her, but she's very firm. She does it again - fuck yes. My ass stings like hell - and I fucking love it.

"Maybe next time, you ask me out and don't be such a fucking wuss," she scolds as she spanks me again.

I look back up at her - she's down to her bra and matching thong. I reach around and pull her down onto the bed, sliding her bra off. I take her breasts in my hands - I love how sensitive they are. Just my hands on them and I have her any way I want.

"Who's the fucking wuss now?" I taunt as I pin her on her back, tugging on her nipple rings.

"Oh damn, Neil," she mutters, almost in a state of hypnosis. I snap her out of it - my hands smack her tits hard. "Fuck!" she screams - I cover her mouth. I smack them again - she screams even louder.

I slide off her thong with my other hand and spread her legs. She's all mine for the taking, and I take her with pleasure.

"You want my cock, bitch?" I demand as I fuck her deep. She can barely respond as I smack her tits around.

"Fucking give it to me!" she cries out as I smack her around. "Make me your bitch!"

"Take my big white cock, you black slut," I tease as I pound her harder. She's so tight and she rides me like she was born to.

"Give it to me, you white bastard," she screams as she slaps my face. I slap her back and grab her hair, pulling her into a deep kiss. She kisses me back as I fuck her without mercy.

"Fucking cum for me, slut," I demand. "I need my bitch to cum for me."

"Fuck!" she screams - she shouts it over and over again. I smother her mouth with my hand as I feel myself shiver with pleasure once again. Her pussy tightens around me as I build to orgasm, ready to give her my load.

I fill her up once again, kissing her as her orgasm cools off. I roll her on top of me, holding her close to me as I kiss her neck. That was incredible, I think to myself. I know everything Aisha and I do during sex is an act - we call each other nasty names, we slap, we smother each other, fuck, she even choked me - but it just makes it hotter.

I could sit here and think to myself all night, but Aisha's fallen asleep on top of me, so I lay her down, her naked body spread out on the bed. Besides, I'm thirsty as hell, so I kiss her and tuck her in so I can go grab some water.

(November 8, Sun Life Stadium, Dolphins vs. Bills)

There's nothing better than a winning streak - well, OK, there are a few things, but a winning streak is nice. Granted, the last three wins came over the Redskins, Jets, and Jaguars, three garbage teams, but I guess we have to beat someone.

I'd credit it to the acquisition of Trent Williams and the defense coming together, but I know the true reason for the winning streak - it's my pre-game ritual, one that Aisha and I began before the shootout win over the Texans. And since we're playing a real team, we need it.

It's down to crunch time - four minutes left and we're clinging to a lead, 24-20. We have the ball on our own 22 after a Bills punt - their defense is killer but we've been able to grind them down and keep ahead.

The first play goes off pretty smoothly - Lamar Miller takes the ball for four yards. Moreno gets the call next - five yards. Third down and one, where O-lines earn their paychecks - and in this case, they do, as Tannehill gets a QB sneak for two yards and a first down.

The next play, Tannehill hits Stills over the middle for fifteen yards, almost to midfield. Buffalo's down to one timeout, so we have this, no problem. And Tannehill confirms it - he hits Jordan Cameron for twelve more yards, and we're across midfield and the Bills are out of timeouts with 2:24 to go. I'm loving this.

Next throw is to Cameron - short completion and we're to the two-minute warning. Tannehill lines up again - another strike to Cameron. First down and more as Cameron has a shot right down the middle of the field, putting us at first and goal at the nine. First down is a give to Lamar Miller, right side, almost daring the Bills to get through the line - bad idea.

Mario Williams blows past Cameron, who's lined up past right tackle, and stuffs Lamar - oh shit.

Ooooooooh shit. This is not good.

Jordan Cameron grabs his leg in pain, flat on the ground - this has torn ACL written all over it, and my guess is he's done for the year. And to add insult to injury, the Bills get the ball. Aaron Williams, Bills free safety, scoops the ball up untouched, and no one is around to tackle him.

Aaron Williams runs the ball back for a touchdown, and we're down 27-24 - and our starting tight end. We sputter on our last chance drive, the Bills take the game, and the winning streak is over. I walk off the field with my head in my hands. We got fat off weak teams at full strength. Next week comes the Patriots in our house - the same Patriots who crushed us 45-0 in Week 3 up in Foxboro. And our second starting tight end next week? A rookie by the name of Deon Wright.

I handle the post-game, almost in a trance, going through the motions. First Branden Albert, now Jordan Cameron - how much more can my unit take? Yeah, we pulled off a blockbuster trade for Trent Williams - cost us a first-round pick this year and a third next, not to mention some rookie I've never met. How the hell do we replace a tight end like this? I just don't think Deon's ready to start, and next week's the Pats - then again, we could just mortgage the house to get Rob Gronkowski. Maybe if we put up our stadium and my immortal soul, we'll get him for about our next four years of draft picks.

At least I don't have to head out in traffic - it's pretty dead. But then, I don't get far anyway - someone stops me.

"Neil, wait up," a feminine voice calls - Aisha, of course, one of the few people I'm actually happy to hear from. "I know the loss sucked, but-"

"I know, my job's safe. I get it," I dismiss. Maybe I can feel OK about looking for a house in Miami instead of living in an apartment like I have since the divorce. Sadly, as wrecked as it is, it's still better than where Andrea lives - at least I don't smoke in the house or carry loaded guns in the open, unlike a certain second husband of a certain ex-wife of mine who shall remain nameless.

"You're in a bad mood, Neil," she replies - yeah, what do you want, a damn cookie? "Don't go home to your daughter like that. Come back to my place first."

I can always ask Gretchen to stay longer - she's practically Isabelle's mom at this point anyway - and I do just that. She agrees, and I head to Aisha's - in her Mercedes.

I speak first. "I think people are getting a little suspicious of us spending so much time together." Gretchen knows I'm dating - Isabelle does not. She thinks I was working late and slept at the office when I spent the night at Aisha's. I really should tell her, but I want something more concrete, like a relationship. Besides, introducing a woman - an intelligent, classy, sharp woman - like Aisha as my girlfriend? I've made it.

"I really like all the time we spend together," I continue. "But I know I want a lot more." She turns to me as she pulls into her place, which isn't far from the stadium.

Before either of us gets out, I turn to her and grab her smooth, polished hand - my left with her right, my hand dwarfing hers. "Aisha, will you be my girlfriend?" I just lay it out for her.

"Yes," she replies without hesitation, sealing her answer with a kiss - her lips so sweet and soft against mine. Damn I'm crazy about her. "I wonder what your daughter will think."

"I couldn't have picked anyone more perfect," I answer, "and I know she's met you and she likes you. We'll go over together and tell her tonight over dinner, OK?"

She agrees, and we have some business to take care of first, as she leads me up to her apartment.

As I expect, nothing's out of place - I'm jealous. That is, until Aisha strips off her top the second the door shuts.

"I fucking need you, Neil," she moans as she strips down to her gold bra and thong. Off comes my shirt next, and soon she has me down to my boxers.

She leaps into my arms as she pins me against the door, kissing me. Her nipple rings press into my chest, eliciting another soft moan.

"You want to get fucked on the couch, slut?" I whisper to my lover as I undo her bra. She hangs on tight to my neck as I drape her over the edge of the couch.

I slide her thong off and tie her hands with it. "Let's see how tough you are all tied up, bitch," I taunt as I slide my cock in her wet pussy. She tries to fight me - she's utterly helpless, her ass up on the armrest of the couch while her tied hands struggle to reach me. Looks like I win this round.

I continue collecting my prize as I grab her hips and fuck her hard. Her legs dangle but her hips are easy to grab. She's so smooth, her skin so silky and perfect - damn I love looking at her. Almost as much as I love fucking her.

"Is this what you want, you bastard?" she screams as I continue fucking her. Her snatch is so tight around my cock - still smooth and hairless just like I like her. "You like me tied up?"

"Shut your bitch mouth, whore," I demand as I shove my boxers in her mouth. I dig my hands into her voluptuous ass cheeks as she screams through her gag. Fuck, I love hearing her moan like this.

It doesn't stay a moan for long - her muffled screams intensify and her body quakes as I continue pounding her. I slap her ass hard as I push myself to the edge.

"Oh fuck," I mutter as I begin to climax. Ready to blow my load, I grab onto her ass, not letting up. "Fuck yes," I whisper as I cum.

Her body relaxes as I fill her up, slowly removing my boxers from her mouth as her eyes close. I pull her hands up so I can untie her wrists - in a few minutes she has to go be my girlfriend in front of my family, so for now, she's done being my tied-up bitch.




Necessary Roughness: 2nd Quarter



I throw my clothes on and raid her refrigerator for a bottle of water - she keeps Fiji water in her fridge, go figure. I drink it down - lo and behold, she's out.

"Aisha," I whisper in her ear, poking her in the arm. "Honey, wake up. We need to go to dinner."

"Mmm, that was awesome," she moans. "At least sex won't be boring when we're dating." Well, that's a relief.

"I'm just glad we're here and not around the girls," I opine. "It's bad enough Isabelle doesn't know about us. Imagine explaining to her why I was calling you a slut."

"Relax, Neil," Aisha soothes. "You're thinking too far ahead. Besides, I know you don't really think I'm a slut." This part's true - she may be a dynamite lover but she's no slut. "You and I both know sex isn't sex unless there's nails digging in, hair being pulled, names being called, you name it. I'm just glad you can handle me."

"Damn right I can, baby," I answer, still a bit nervous. "I guess we have to break the news now." I look over my gorgeous girlfriend - still getting used to that, since I've been too busy and unstable for women other than casual flings since the divorce. She gets dressed slowly - I don't mind a bit since I get to see all of her beautiful body as she does.

"I know what will make it go well," she answers. "Your sister isn't cooking, is she?" My sister cook? The one thing we never had to do for ourselves growing up - and Gretchen never really took up. "What's Isabelle's favorite restaurant?" Turns out it's a local pizzeria, which sounds pretty good to me - and to Aisha.

We head over in Aisha's beautiful convertible - too bad it's only a two-seater or I'd get one like it - and it turns out the girls have beaten us there. They seem a little stunned when we walk up, if for no other reason than that we're holding hands.

It's a booth for four that's been turned into five - Crystal agrees to take the end so Aisha and I can squeeze in. It also turns out that this is the first time Gretchen's meeting Aisha - even with the seat shuffling, it seems to go well.

Gretchen is the one to address the elephant in the room. "So Neil, what are you and Aisha doing at a place like this together?"

Crystal's next. "And holding hands?" She seems serious. "What's your deal with my Big Sister, Coach?"

"All right, chill out," I reply, half-joking. "I actually brought you guys here to make an announcement." Isabelle seems a little nervous - I think she thinks we're heading back to Auburn. We're not, except maybe for homecoming or the Iron Bowl in the future, y'know, if I can duck away from the game the next day or we have a bye week. "Aisha and I are dating."

Gretchen smiles, though she's been aware of the time I've been spending with Aisha. Crystal also seems pleased, even fist-bumping Aisha.

Isabelle seems awfully quiet, though - she barely eats anything, and I know she loves this pizza. I guess I wish she could be happy for me, but maybe she's just having a rough day. I know I was when we lost - it still hurts, and getting the Patriots next week doesn't help matters - but it's been all right. I'm making the best of it - and dating a woman like Aisha sure as hell takes the bad taste out of my mouth from that loss. I with it would do the same for her.



Necessary Roughness: 3rd Quarter



AUTHOR'S NOTE: This is a work of fiction. It involves both real and fictional people and organizations. It is not necessarily an accurate depiction of how the real people depicted are in real life. The real people used are mainly background characters there for context. The central characters to the story are primarily fictional. Any portrayal of a real person has an element of fiction to it and is in no way meant to be an accurate representation of that person.

This story plays out similarly to a sports movie, and sports movies are my primary inspiration. I set the story around an NFL team, specifically the Miami Dolphins. I am basing the team loosely off the 2015 team, including the roster and list of opponents, but some players and coaches - and the schedule itself - will be fictional.

Also, this story depicts very rough sex and a lot of crass language. If you are offended by that or do not wish to read about such topics, I suggest you stop reading now. 

Furthermore, this is the third installment of a four-part story. I will get the stories out as quickly as I can. Enjoy.

*****

(November 10, lunchtime, Beacon Hill Elementary, Miami Gardens, FL)

I half expect my phone to ring while I'm eating lunch - today it's from a taco truck that's surprisingly close to my daughter's school - but the call I get today catches me way off guard. That's because it's not from a coach or even a player - I guess the good news is that my starting left guard didn't break his ankle slipping on an oil slick or something.

It's much worse - it's the secretary at Isabelle's school. I recognize the number.

"Mr. Garrett?" she begins - no one I ever want to speak to addresses me as Mr. Garrett. Even Isabelle's friends all call me Coach. So right away, my mind goes straight to oh-shit mode. "I'm sorry; I know you're busy, but I need you to come get Isabelle. She's been extremely disruptive."

I'm not an emotional guy, but as I drive over to the school, every emotion overcomes me - sadness that my daughter's acting up, occasionally overcome with anger, a sense of revenge to whatever little bastard put her up to it, but above all else, just a profound sense of confusion.

I know Isabelle's in a bad mood - and I think I can trace it to yesterday. Gretchen and Crystal seemed pretty happy that Aisha's a part of my life now. Isabelle? She's barely said three words to me since then. She didn't eat any pizza, instead picking at the same piece of garlic bread the whole evening. I know the whole Aisha thing is bothering her. I'm just not sure why - or what it has to do with this.

So I sign in and make my way to the office - go figure; she's waiting, her head slumping, while the principal awaits. I take a seat, a little unsure of why I'm here. Isabelle doesn't even look up.

"Thank you for coming in, Mr. Garrett," the principal begins - again, a reminder that I don't want to be here any more than Isabelle does. "Normally Isabelle's a great student, but today something's wrong. She's been talking back to her teacher all day, and she got into a shouting match with a few other children on the playground. From what I heard, she used some inappropriate words to describe another child."

I guess I have to put on my dad hat. I turn my chair toward my daughter. "Isabelle, can you tell me what you said?" No really, I need to know.

She doesn't answer me, just angling her head even more. I repeat my request - nothing. Now I'm mad. "Isabelle Lurleen Garrett, you tell me right now what-"

"I called her a fucking bitch, OK?" she shouts - middle name works every time. Granted, she hates her middle name - to be honest, I hate it too, seeing as how Andrea insisted on it when she was born - but whatever works. "I called her a fucking bitch because she is one!"

The principal tries to interject - I put up my hand to stop him. It actually works - may have to do with the fact that I'm 6'5" and ripped. "Can you tell me why she's a bitch?"

"Because she threw a banana peel at me and told me to give it to your girlfriend." Wow, good news travels fast. I look over at the principal - clearly he's unaware of that part of the story, and if he has any sense, he'll agree that this girl got off easy just being called a bitch. He wastes no time - that girl's in the office within minutes.

She knows exactly why she's in the office right away - and it seems to be everything she can do not to piss herself. I'm not here to make mincemeat out of a fifth-grade girl, though, but I admire Isabelle's restraint in not doing so.

I'll try not to act like I'm in some kind of after-school special here, but the last time I had to deal with a racist shithead, it ended up just being a matter of calling the front office, cutting his racist ass, and letting him self-destruct on his own. But Ronnie Vickers is probably beyond help.

She sits down - turns out her name is Brooke. "Brooke, Isabelle told me what you said to her-"

"Look, I'm sorry, OK?" she snaps. "I didn't mean it. Some kids put me up to it." And with that, I let the principal handle it from there because this is a much bigger issue than just one girl and a banana peel. "And Isabelle spit at me." I give Isabelle a hard look - turns out the spit didn't land and Brooke retaliated in kind. Yeah, they're both getting detention - and Isabelle's getting a talking-to.

I ask the principal to excuse us to what appears to be a small conference room - Isabelle follows, slightly less angry.

"Look, sweetheart," I exasperate, "I know you're upset. And I know Aisha has something to do with that. What's going on?"

At least she doesn't expect me to get back with Andrea. "I don't need another stepparent who doesn't care about me," she blurts. "I thought I was the most important girl to you."

"You are," I immediately reply. "And I don't want to bring just anybody around you."

"She's like a princess, Dad," she seethes. "What happens when she expects me to wear dresses and paint my nails like Eddie does? Mom was cool until she started dating Eddie."

And there it is - Isabelle sees Aisha and thinks Eddie. Thankfully I don't - Aisha's far more attractive, for one. And smarter. And classier. And more steadily employed. And she doesn't smell bad. And she's-never mind.

I sigh, a little unsure how to answer. "I get it," I open - I only kind of get it, but let's go with it. "But I promise, Aisha's not like Eddie. She won't expect you to wear dresses or paint your nails or stop playing basketball." And if she does. well, she can stop dating me. "I wouldn't date her if I didn't trust her."

"You just like her because she's pretty," she fires back.

"That's not true," I counter, trying not to sound like a cliche. "I mean, yes, she's pretty. She's beautiful. But she's a lot of other things, too. She's smart, she's hard-working, she's got a good heart." Isabelle at least agrees with the last part, since Crystal likes her.

"She also dresses like she wants to be Beyonce," Isabelle snaps - OK, she's right about that.

"Look, honey," I continue. "I just want you to give Aisha a chance. I promise she's nothing like Eddie."

"How do you know?" she snaps again. "You just started dating her!"

"I've been spending a lot of time with her," I reply. "I spent the night at her apartment after I got back from Houston." Wait, she doesn't know that - oh shit.

"You told me you slept at the office!" she fires back. Damn, I did, didn't I? "You remember when you punished me for lying about basketball practice running late?" I remember that one - she actually was just running out with her teammates for ice cream. I didn't mind that; I just wished she had told me the truth. "You made me write a four-page essay on why I shouldn't have lied." That's true - and since then Isabelle's actually been extremely honest, and I've tried to do the same. Until now, that is.

"All right, sweetheart," I chuckle. "I know where this is going." She looks at me smugly and folds her arms. She's got me - and I've got my daughter back.

(November 15, Sun Life Stadium, Dolphins vs. Patriots)

"OK, honey; enjoy the game," I say to Isabelle. "And the suite. And the free ice cream. Don't make yourself sick. Love you." I hang up with Isabelle - and right on schedule, it's Aisha.

"Well, hello, stud. Are you done being grounded?" A playful look on her face.

I laugh. "I got my essay done, and I already gave it to Isabelle." I'm actually a pretty good writer when I need to be - yes, Isabelle demanded an essay on why it was wrong to lie to her. She insisted that it be eight pages instead of four, since I'm a grown-up and should have known better. She also asked to come to the game - she hasn't been to one yet this year, and her punishment at school was up on Friday with a week's detention. I was never really mad at her for what she said to Brooke - if anything, I was proud of her for standing up to a group of bullies acting like a bunch of ignorant racists. And since she aced her math test and agreed to have lunch with Aisha, I upgraded it to a suite - turns out Isabelle and Aisha like each other. A lot.

"Good. Homework first, then fun after that." And to think Aisha has no children. "And when we have fun," she teases, her hand heading down south, "we have fun."

She grabs my hardening cock and leads me by it into our hiding place. "Damn, Neil," she almost shouts - good thing the door's shut. "How do you wear pants like this with a monster like that in there? I've got to get you dressing better." I've had these pants for years - I just don't buy clothes.

Then without another word, she unzips my pants and kneels. Just as quickly, she takes my cock and starts sucking it. Damn, she's good - just her hands and a few words get me hard. Her mouth all over my cock? She has me at her mercy.

With my pants partway down, she has ample opportunity to dig her nails into my ass cheeks, her usual go-to move when sucking me. I fucking love it - the sting from her nails mixed in with her hard-working mouth sends shivers of pain and pleasure up my spine through my whole body. I don't know where she learned to suck cock - but she's better at it than anyone.

She slaps my ass as I moan louder. She slaps both cheeks hard - she spanks me harder and harder as she sucks me balls deep. I have no idea how she's doing this - and I don't even care. I feel incredible. Fuck, slap my ass, baby.

In no time, she has me on edge, working my ass over as she continues sucking me. Her tongue on my shaft, stroking me, she has me ready to cum. I moan, not even caring if anyone hears me. I want to grab her hair but I know better than to fuck with her work.

Finally, I blow my load, and her mouth works overtime sucking me dry. Every stroke of her tongue has me in more pleasure than I can handle. I watch her work her lips and her mouth all over my shaft, not resting for a moment. Damn she's good.

I almost collapse against the wall as she stands back up, licking her lips. "Fuck, baby," I mutter. "Where did you learn to suck like that?"

"If you must know," she answers. "Years of practice. I had a boyfriend who loved blow jobs, so I got good at them. Just know this, babe," she continues. "This mouth only works for you."

"Same for this cock, you sexy angel," I answer as she kisses me on the cheek. "I'm all yours."

"I know," she shoots back. "But I do a lot for you. I think you owe me. We'll talk about it after the game." I think I know what she has in mind. I can work with that.

I head out, sending Aisha to her suite. The game starts off pretty smoothly - clearly this won't be a 45-0 thrashing like last time. I know this after the opening drive, which ends in Tannehill hitting Jake Stoneburner for a touchdown.

Unfortunately, Tom Brady's twice as efficient, and we go into the end of the first quarter down 14-7, and the half ends with the Pats up 17-10. The Pats get the ball to start the third quarter at their own 20. Brady drops back to pass - hits Gronkowski for a gain of twelve. Then he hits Julian Edelman for another first down - we're back on our heels after another big gain.

The Pats get to our 32, where Brady hands it off - no gain. Second down, he drops back - incomplete. Third and 10, looking at a long field goal, and Brady drops back again. Gronkowski is blocking Ndamukong Suh - and Suh pulls off a nifty spin move and has a clear path to the quarterback. Brady sees him coming - and gets rid of the ball. Looks like we hold them to a field goal, which still makes it a two-score game - and what's this? The Pats are going for it. This is a team that likes to take chances, I guess.

It's a pass on 4th and 10. Brady's under pressure from Wake and Suh. He has Gronkowski unguarded and he gets off the pass - but Wake gets a hand on it and it falls incomplete. We get the ball at our own 32.

Ten plays and 68 yards later, Tannehill hands it off to Knowshon for a four-yard TD, and we're all tied up. We trade three-and-outs until there are five minutes left, and we have it at our own 27. I see Deon jogging out to his position - he seems like something's off. I call him over.

"What's on your mind?" I ask.

"No one's given me the call yet, Coach," he answers. "I'll just block, we'll kick a field goal, we'll win."

"Yeah, you do just that and you'll win us the game, Deon," I answer - then I wait until he's out of earshot. "Bill!" I shout to the offensive coordinator. "Get Deon the ball! Trust me on this!"

Needless to say, the first call isn't the Deon. It's to Lamar Miller, who gains eight. Not a lot different for the rest of the drive, as the offense gets to the Pats' 22 with a little over two minutes left. I'm sweating bullets - we're tied with the Patriots at 17 and we can actually win this thing.

First down, and Knowshon gets the give - no gain. Two-minute warning. Second down, and Tannehill to Stills - incomplete. Third down, and we better not fuck this up - otherwise it's a field goal and praying the Pats don't get a TD to win it.

Tannehill drops back - it's a textbook play. The O-line is a wall; no blue jerseys are getting through. Tannehill has all day - and wide open in the end zone is Deon Wright. Tannehill spots him - perfect strike. Touchdown Dolphins, and we're up 24-17. Deon has his first touchdown catch, and it's a game winner against the Patriots - the Pats go down in flames on their ensuing drive, and we win the game. I save the game ball - hand it to Deon. I don't think I've seen a grin on any player's face since...well, ever.

"I think this is the start of something big, Coach," he tells me. I know it is.

"Not bad for an undrafted guy out of a school no one's every heard of," I answer, jokingly - I don't think he finds it funny.

Turns out Ohio University is a little bigger than I thought - it's no Auburn, but it's certainly not some school no one's ever heard of. "I have an idea," he finally answers, the first time he's had one of those as a Dolphin.

(November 21, Ohio University Airport, Athens, Ohio, 8:30 am)

We're fresh off a much-needed win over the Patriots - their first loss of the season, it turns out, not that we needed any motivation to beat those bastards - and now we're only an hour from Philadelphia by airplane. Fortunately, Deon can afford a charter flight even on a rookie salary, and since it's Deon, he got a screaming deal. I'm surprised he didn't use a Groupon. From what he's told me, he's not spending extravagantly at all - he sends money home to family, yes, but but he saves probably the majority of his paycheck. Even compared to me, he's exceedingly frugal.

So a private plane - even one he got cheap - is a rare splurge for a guy like Deon. For him, though, it's worth it, and he had it planned since the start of the year. Joining him, other than me and Aisha, is Jordan Cameron, who's in a wheelchair, and a couple of practice squad players, no doubt thrilled to be on a private charter.

The first stop, after the rental car counter, is the middle of town - I need some damn coffee, and we end up at this place called the Donkey. Everything about this place is weird and quirky - turns out Deon's from here. This kind of also explains the hat - Dolphins logo, of course - and the sunglasses. And the shyness about using his debit card - no need for that; I pick up the tab for coffee.

And for lunch - at a pizzeria called Goodfella's. Like the movie - what a town. Isabelle would love this place, I think, as we continue on in the general direction of the football game - it's Miami weekend, as in Miami of Ohio, alma mater of Ben Roethlisberger. Imagine that - today I'm rooting against Miami.

The game goes pretty well in the first half, with Ohio - the Bobcats, apparently - playing well enough to take a 10-7 lead into the half. Then the halftime show begins - and Deon demands my attention for the show.

I've seen good bands before - but nothing like this. Apparently they have YouTube videos of these guys - they dance, they have insane choreography, it's a hell of a show.

I don't get much time to enjoy it, though - a radio person apparently recognizes Deon, and he gets dragged up to the radio booth. And he takes me with him. I'm not prepared for this.

Neither is Deon. "We're live with a surprised Deon Wright, in town for the game today before heading back to Philadelphia to join the Miami Dolphins in their game tomorrow with the Eagles. Deon, what is it like going from undrafted free agent to starting tight end for the Dolphins?"

Deon hesitates a bit. "I just wish it didn't have to happen like this, with Jordan Cameron going down." Yeah, you and me both. "But it's been awesome. We got a win and we still got a shot at the playoffs."

"Who's here with you?" asks the announcer.

"Coach Garrett, my position coach," he answers, matter-of-factly, as if he'd rather I spoke.

"Coach, how has Deon changed since he got to Miami?"

"Well, he's changing me a lot, too," I answer. "I didn't know there was an Athens, Ohio until last week. And already I've eaten Goodfella's pizza and gone to a Bobcats game. But Deon's come a long way from the guy who dropped a pass from my daughter." He seems stunned - and Deon's embarrassed, covering his face. "He's not dropping passes from Tannehill, though."

The rest of the interview seems to go a lot better - Deon speaks up a bit more, and we watch the rest of the game before heading back to Philly for the game tomorrow. The Bobcats win 20-10, so we leave on a good note.

The plane ride back to Philly is almost too short - I could get used to being carted around on a private plane. The way there, though, Aisha's giving me an odd look. I wonder what she has up her sleeve.

She leads me by the hand to her hotel room - we typically have our own on the road, but it looks like I'm crashing with her tonight. I don't mind a bit; I'll go anywhere with my gorgeous girlfriend.

She leads me into the bed - and instantly whips off my shirt. Then she whips down my pants before I have time to react, though the only reaction I'm capable of is my hardening cock.

"Mmm, I like what I see. I think I'll keep you in these more often." She's referring to my underwear, which she bought me before the trip - a pair of tight-fitting bikini briefs. She's fully dressed, of course - designer business suit with matching heels - and I'm wearing nothing but these briefs.

She reaches into her purse - and again, I can barely even move, she works so quickly. "I told you I need some love, too," she scolds. "I suck your cock before every game. It's my turn, fucker."

Right away I feel a cold snap on my wrists - and I can't move them. She's got me handcuffed, my wrists behind my back. "You think I'm so sexy, don't you?"

"Yes, baby," I answer. "You're the sexiest woman I know. I'll do anything you-"

She slaps me hard. "You talk when I tell you to talk. Now get a good look at this." She strips down, revealing a black leather bra and crotchless panties that show off her ass. She models them for me as I stand at attention.




Necessary Roughness: 3rd Quarter



However, as she shows off, she takes out another item from her purse - I can't hope to stop her, but I don't see it coming. And when she'd done, I don't see anything - it's a blindfold. "Tonight you're my bitch," Aisha demands. "I get what I want."

She shoves me over the bed, my exposed ass up. She wastes no time, slapping my ass hard. She continues, reddening my exposed but covered ass. "Damn, should have put your ass in something skimpier," she taunts, lashing my ass with her manicured hands. Fuck, this is awesome. She can dress me any way she wants - I need her.

"All right, turn your white ass over, bitch," she demands, and I comply, laying flat on my back with my legs over the edge. "Still hard as fuck. Too bad you won't be needing it." What? Is she really doing this?

She mounts my face and rubs her smooth pussy in my face. "You do what Aisha wants now," she scolds. "Lick my pussy, you white bitch."

I do as she commands, licking her wet pussy with my tongue. I know I'm nowhere near as good as she is but I work hard, looking for her g-spot. She slaps my chest as I lick her deep, her snatch grinding in my face. Fuck I love this. I'm at her mercy and it's so perfect.

"Fuck, you bitch, lick my snatch!" She pulls on my nipples, shooting pain through my entire body - fuck, I want more. "Give your woman what she needs!"

I'm still hard, throbbing like mad. "Fuck!" she cries out as I work my tongue faster. "Give it to me!" I do as she commands, her wet pussy all over my face. I can't see a thing but I love it. She slaps me around, pulling my nipples - I'm her bitch. I'm totally her bitch.

I moan as I fuck her with my tongue. She's screaming in ecstasy but I know she's trying to hold onto her dominant position. I feel something harsher on my chest - not her hands. Feels like a leather whip. She's lashing me easily but I want it harder.

"Fuck, you asshole, lick me!" she demands. "Give it to me good you fucker!" She's losing control and I love it. I can't do anything but lick her - and it's all she needs. "Fuck, give it to me!" she shouts, grabbing my chest as she screams out. Fuck, I love making Aisha scream.

"Yes! Make your woman cum you bastard!" she cries out as she shoves her pussy in my face. I lick her deeper and faster, not letting up. I want her to have another orgasm. I want her to scream.

She does just that, losing all control as I take her into another orgasm. I can tell from her screams what I'm doing - I may be cuffed and whipped and have her pussy over my face, but I think she's still my bitch. No amount of cuffs and blindfolds change that.

Finally, after another orgasm, her body shaking, her hands all over me, she cools off, still perched on top of my face.

"All right, bitch, get your ass up." With her help, I do so, and she walks me over somewhere; I can't see where. She sits me down on what feels like a wooden chair and tells me not to move - I obey.

Soon my wrists are locked through the back of the chair, and she ties my legs to the chair. I'm helpless as usual. "Is this where I get mine, baby?"

"Shut your fucking mouth, whore," she scolds as she slaps my face. Soon I feel my mouth being stuffed - she has me gagged. "This is where you'll be sleeping tonight. Yu can get your blow job tomorrow before the game but nothing until then." Fuck. I need to blow now, but she has me tied up and I can't do a damn thing.

I sleep OK, but all morning I need to cum. Aisha doesn't let me out of her sight, though. Hard to blame her, though I desperately want to take her over the bed and fuck her. I'm saving my reward for the stadium, however. No early cum for me.

Finally, when we find a spot in the stadium, Aisha gives me my sweet release, taking my cock in her mouth. This time, she's being a lot more gentle, though her mouth is being a lot more quick and amazing. Fuck this feels good.

She takes all of me in her mouth, deepthroating me as I moan like I'm all hers. I think about eating her out last night and how wonderful it was - I'll do that any time she wants. But I have to have her now.

She has me right on edge as usual, keeping me in ecstasy as she sucks me. Her tongue works my shaft over smooth and sweet as I moan a little more. "Fuck, baby, make me cum" is all I can manage. It's all I need.

She sends me over the edge as I feel all kinds of pleasure in my body. I shoot in her mouth, and as usual, she swallows all of it, drying my cock with her slut tongue. Fuck, this is worth it - all night waiting to cum and she rewards me here right before the game. I'm in love. I really am.

She kisses me on the cheek and sends me on my way, and with a clear head, I take command on the field. Deon catches two touchdowns and the O-line doesn't allow a sack, and we come out of Philly with a 42-10 victory. Let the winning continue.

(November 26, Thanksgiving Day, Gretchen's house)

We're at Gretchen's because, well, she has a house instead of a messy apartment. It's more of a condo, but since it's just her, there's no point in anything bigger. Besides, she has company constantly, especially this year.

Today, it's a big group of people - last year Andrea had Isabelle over Thanksgiving, and Andrea tried to pull out all the stops for the holiday since she knew she was going to be marrying Eddie. I think I have her beat this year because of one simple addition.

Yes, Crystal has her foster family, but she asked to spend Thanksgiving with us - and they granted it, so here she is. So a small family meal for three turned into four with Crystal - and of course five, since Aisha's joining us. The same woman who spent last Thanksgiving in her office going over papers and eating takeout is getting a real meal this year, and damn is she glad to have it. She's even helping Gretchen with the turkey while I handle the side dishes as best I can.

I have some help, of course - not from the girls, who are outside kicking a soccer ball. Deon's here with us - I'm kind of trying to get him out of his bubble. Miami is certainly nothing like Athens, Ohio, although I found Deon's hometown charming and unique. The fact is, though, Deon seems like one who wants to be a social butterfly - but doesn't know where to begin.

"Coach, go long with the butter!" he jokes as I toss it to him. He catches it with no trouble, still apparently not over me bringing up the dropped pass from Isabelle in June. I turn back to finish the stuffing - then it hits me.

By 'it,' I mean a stick of butter, which Deon lobs at me without my knowledge. It gets me right in the forehead and falls to the floor, at which point Deon starts cracking up, slapping his leg as he's doubled over laughing.

He's not the only one - Gretchen and Aisha see it all too, and now I have the whole kitchen laughing at my ineptitude. "Hey Coach, if you can't catch a stick of butter, how you think you can catch a pass from Tannehill?" All right, this guy's asking for it, I think as I take the wayward stick of butter ad unwrap an end - and stick it to his forehead.

"Maybe I'm a butterfingers," I jab, "but at least I'm not a butterface!"

Deon raises the stakes with a spoonful of mashed potatoes to my otherwise impeccable hairdo, prompting Aisha to interject, "If you don't knock it off, I'll make you both eat that stick of butter off the floor!"

Deon's not about to let that stand - and he turns his attention to the cooling apple cobbler and a large wooden spoon. He takes a full scoop - and lands a direct hit to Aisha's chin and neck. I'm dying of laughter, as is Gretchen, as Deon breaks his own thigh-slapping revelry to taunt, "How do you like them apples, Aisha?"

Undaunted, she rips a wing off the turkey and shoves it down Deon's shirt. "Looks like we got two turkeys for Thanksgiving!"

I don't see the next one coming - Gretchen covers me in cranberry sauce. "I don't have a zinger for that one," she teases. "I'm just glad I made a spare!" Fortunately Deon has my back - with a full gravy boat. "I like my turkey with a side of Gretchen," he remarks - a little off on that zinger but no one calls him on it.

Then I look over to just outside the kitchen - aaaaaaand fuck. There stands Isabelle with my iPhone pointed directly at us. She not only saw the whole thing; she's recording it. At that point, she turns the camera on herself, smiles, and quips, "Looks like we'll need an extra-long kids' table."

She grins and stops the recording as we all get cleaned up - Aisha's less than thrilled about getting apple cobbler on her nice top, but a little club soda and a Tide stick takes it right out. The girls help Gretchen and Deon set the table and set out the food, or what's left of it - at least we were careful with how much food went into the food fight.

She responds in kind by getting the gravy out of my hair - I'm dressed up at least for me, but I can go get a new polo shirt any time I need to; it cost $20 at Target rather than I-don't-want-to-know-how-much at some overpriced department store you wouldn't catch me dead in.

I feel a little ridiculous at the moment, but I look in Aisha's eyes - she doesn't see me that way at all. "I don't know the last time I had that much fun," she tells me, almost whispering.

"Likewise, well, except with my girls," I answer, counting Crystal in that pairing. I just love looking at Aisha - her eyes are her best feature, which is saying something.

What I don't catch is that Aisha is taking full advantage of my fixation on her eyes - I'm not watching her hands. And her hands are up to no good - which I learn just as she pushes a fresh tub of Cool Whip in my face.

And everyone in the dining room sees her do it, and the laughter erupts. I don't mind a bit - I kiss her, covered in Cool Whip. I guess we'll need more club soda and Tide sticks, because Aisha's getting it all over her. And I don't want to hear about it - I look like I just got back from a foam party. And I couldn't be happier.

I pull her close to me, Cool Whip and all - the container has since fallen to the floor, and once again, I'm sure Gretchen has a spare. Then I lean my mouth to her ear for only her to hear.

"I love you so much," I whisper. She doesn't seem shocked at all - it's the first time we've spoken the L-word to one another. I know our relationship is moving at a mile a minute - we've been dating for a little over a month and a couple for less than two weeks. In that time, though, we've spent so much time together, with Aisha traveling with the team and with us making the trip to Athens. It's been a lot to take in - but I wouldn't change any of it. I'll even take the loss to the Bills because it started our relationship.

She doesn't waste any time. "I love you too," she whispers back.

The peanut gallery does not share our enthusiasm. "Are you two finished?" snaps Deon.

I face the dining room with Aisha on my arm. "I love this woman," I announce.

"And I love Thanksgiving dinner," he snaps back. "Can you get over here for the blessing?" I whisper to Aisha and ask her if she's OK with the blessing - she's fine. It turns out Deon's a pretty serious Christian, but unlike a certain ex-wife of mine, he's a lot more about taking care of people and not being a complete shitheel to people. Aisha can get behind that, even if she just typically stays silent and lets other people pray around her - which she does in this instance.

I decide to do the same, prayer never having done much for me - Deon notices, but he seems pretty quiet. "Hey Coach, you know you can speak too," he whispers.

I whisper back. "You're preaching to the wrong choir, dude. The right choir is sitting right over there." I point to Gretchen - surprisingly she's the churchgoer. If anything, Deon's flabbergasted, especially since he knows Gretchen's gay - he's never gone to church with anyone who's openly homosexual. Wait till I tell him Aisha's an atheist. He's already made one accommodation for Aisha - salmon in place of turkey, since she doesn't eat poultry - so we're easing I'm into others since we're pretty sure he's about where I was two months ago on the whole she-doesn't-believe-in-God thing. 

Believer or not, Aisha is a goddess in my eyes, though - we can't keep our hands off each other. I know I meant it when I said I love her - I know she meant it, too. I'm also sure our newfound affection has worn thin with everyone at the table - Isabelle averts her eyes most of the time, and I think Gretchen actually tells us to get a room twice. We agree to do so even if that probably mean Aisha's apartment.

(January 3, Ralph Wilson Stadium, Dolphins vs. Bills - season finale)

So it all comes down to this. One game to save our football lives. Six weeks of goofing around and winning football games, and here we are in a do-or-die game. In a damn blizzard.

The win streak was nice; it really was. Six wins in a row - including that crushing win over the Eagles and the 52-0 destruction of the Jets the following week. Not only that, but things are pretty awesome in my world. Isabelle and Aisha are getting a lot closer, even opting to hang out on Saturdays before home games while I prep. Gretchen gets a little more time to herself, which she's using to grow her bakery. 

But here we are in a tough situation. We're 10-5 and we need this win - or the Chargers to lose later today, and they have the Raiders' number, so that isn't happening. We have to beat the Bills if we want to get into the playoffs.

We wouldn't be in this situation if the Colts hadn't surprised us last week - a high-scoring contest ends with us losing 44-41 on the last play of the game - but here we are. And it's fucking freezing. 

I know there are bigger things than football, yes, but the winning and the life getting better are going hand in hand. It's hard not to see them together.

And there's the magic knock - the gorgeous Aisha at the door of this hidden office, dressed like an Eskimo or something. I wonder who puts themselves through all this cold shit, but then again, I did grow up in Grand Rapids, so I dealt with it for a long time.

It's warm in here, though, and even hotter when Aisha takes my cock in her mouth. I can at least watch Aisha shake her ass as she sucks me - fuck is she sexy. I've been dating her now for over three months and she can still turn me on with the right look. 

I moan as she deepthroats me, something that's fast become her signature sex move. "Shake that big ass, baby," I beg as she does it for me. Even covered, she's still sexy as fuck. "Suck me you goddess." She does just that. I'm all hers as I feel my whole body shaking - we've been fucking like crazy during the holidays but I still look forward to my pre game blow job.

In no time she has me on edge once more. Fuck yes, I think as she takes me over, swallowing my waiting load. Damn this is good, I think as she finishes me off, still bouncing her ass for me. I'm such a lucky bastard.

She kisses me on the cheek and smiles. "I guess you have to go freeze now," she teases. "I have a suite." I bet you do.

There's snow on the field, and how we're going to score anything is a mystery. It's sloppy as hell out there - we can't complete a pass, and the Bills' defense teams up with the miserable weather to keep us down. We're in gridlock until the middle of the second quarter, when we finally get on the board with a fluky long run for a touchdown. Unfortunately, the Bills respond and it's a 7-7 game at the half. I suppose a tie is good enough - if we win, we're the 5-seed in the playoffs. No home games. But we never lose on the road - seriously, we're 6-1 away from Miami for some reason.

I decide to have an individual meeting with my players - me with just the O-line and the tight ends. I'm actually not half-bad at this whole tight ends thing, though Dan's giving me a lot of guidance. It's a good thing, too - we need to get some points because we have to win.

"If we want to win this game," I announce, "it's going to come down to blocking. Block for the runners. We can't win with long passes. Deon, you're important as our number-one tight end. The entire passing game is on your shoulders. You're the reason we're going to the playoffs." I know it's a lot of pressure for a rookie, but it's almost better it's him than a veteran who's aware of the pressure and cracks.

The second half begins - colder than balls. Fortunately, we manage to cobble together a good kick return, a bunch of half-cocked running plays, and halfway decent field position when the drive sputters at the 27, and it's good enough for a field goal - and the lead.

A lead that doesn't last - the Bills return the ensuing kickoff for a touchdown and we're down 14-10 like that. Sure is a high-scoring game for a blizzard - usually these games end 3-0. And we go three-and-out on the next drive.

Fortunately, the defense buckles down, and we get them to do the same. We trade three-and-outs until the fourth quarter - and well into it. That's all well and good, but we need a score.

We get the ball on our 31 with a little over five minutes left. A field goal doesn't do a damn thing for us - it's touchdown or bust. And it's looking like an outside possibility right off the bat - the first two gains are for two yards apiece, so we have to go to the air.

The clock is running like crazy - under four minutes, and Tannehill drops back with a rush around him. He looks around - the O-line has the Bills at bay while Tannehill scans the field. He fires to Greg Jennings, who catches it for a 12-yard gain. But that damn clock - still running. Tannehill rushes to the line for a no-huddle offense - oddly enough, it works, and the Bills are back on their heels. Thanks to the no-huddle, Tannehill marches us to the Bills' 14 by the two-minute warning. 

We have all our timeouts, but at this point, we're better off running the clock down - but the Bills have other ideas, and they stop the clock after every gain, leaving us at fourth and three. I hear the call from upstairs - wildcat. Deon in the backfield.

The wildcat is where the ball carrier, typically a running back, takes the snap directly; Tannehill isn't even on the field. We just need three yards, and Deon's lined up in the backfield with two fullbacks blocking. He gets the snap from Pouncey - handles it perfectly. Blocking is flawless, and a hole opens up right in the middle. I could drive a motorcycle gang through that hole. Just a little concern about the secondary.

Aaron Williams, who burned us in the Bills' earlier win, drops Deon - right at the 4. We need a measurement - if Deon gets the first down, we have a chance to win it; if he doesn't, our season's over and it pretty much sucks. And can someone please get me some hand-warmers?

The chain gang comes out as I look at the spot - I'm pretty sure Deon got farther, but there isn't anything I can do, since all reviews in the last two minutes go to some mysterious office in New York. So I stand with bated breath - and frozen hands - as the chains extend to the ball. They go past the laces.

They stop short of the nose. We have a first down and four chances to score. Tannehill rushes back in as Deon lines up to block. The first pass falls incomplete, but that's OK. Second down is a run up the middle by Knowshon - two yards and a timeout with thirty-three seconds left in the game. Knowshon gets the call again - stuffed right at the goal line as we let the clock tick down to two seconds before calling timeout. This is it - a goal-line play from the half-yard line for our season. And the Bills are undoubtedly saying the same thing from the other side.

This is our story, though, as Lamar Miller takes the direct snap. He has to go up and over.

He leaps - and gets over top. The ball breaks the plane easily, as we get in the end zone with no time remaining.

The whole sideline rushes the field - we're going to the playoffs, ready to carry Lamar off the field. Of course, we still have work to do - I checked earlier, and we'll be getting the Ravens. In Baltimore. The same Ravens who clobbered us 38-6 in our second game.




Necessary Roughness: 3rd Quarter



The following week, it looks like more of the same from the Ravens, who always seem to have our number - they go up 10-0 by the end of the first quarter. However, we get it to start the second quarter, and Deon looks like an absolute animal, crushing anyone who gets in his way. Thanks to the O-line, Tannehill has all day to connect with every one of his receivers, and Kenny Stills catches a touchdown pass to bring it to 10-7.

It doesn't stop there - the defense buckles down, force a three-and-out, and Tannehill gets the ball back for more of the same. This time, Stoneburner gets the call on a first-and-goal, and he comes through - and we're ahead at the half. The second half is more of the same, as Deon makes enough pancakes to feed the team breakfast, and Tannehill connects with Jennings and runs one in himself for a 28-10 dismantling of the Ravens and another loss avenged.

The next week, it's the Colts, who beat us three weeks before - not this time. We come out firing, and in addition to a fumble recovery for a touchdown, we get two touchdown passes by Tannehill - one to Deon - and a long field goal to go up 24-6 at the half. We coast in the second half, and the Colts can't get their act together enough to mount a decent comeback, and we end up winning 31-20 with the last Colts touchdown coming in garbage time.

The last game separating us from the Super Bowl is the AFC title game - in Foxboro, Massachusetts, home of the Evil Empire, the New England Patriots. The Pats only have three losses, two of them at the end of the season. That third loss? To us. In a slugfest.

At least the weather's OK this weekend - it's cold but there's no snow. We trade field goals in the first quarter - and touchdowns early in the second. Unfortunately, Tom Brady can hit Gronkowski any time he feels like it - and the Pats march down the field to the the score at 10 after we get a long touchdown drive.

We end the half with a field goal and go up 13-10. I've spent the entire first half studying the Patriots' defense - these guys aren't giving me much to go on. I better get it together quickly, though - Brady takes less than two minutes to take the lead again on a ridiculous touchdown drive. And once again, we're behind by four, just like against the Bills. And once again, we trade three-and-outs for the third quarter and well into the fourth.

The Patriots punt from their own 34 - and Damien Williams makes quick work of the Patriots' punt team. We end up with the ball at the Pats' 21, and two plays later, Tannehill hits Stills for another touchdown. The good news is we're up 20-17. The bad news? Brady has the ball with five minutes left and three timeouts.

Immediately, Brady goes to work, hitting Julian Edelman for a long gain. Danny Woodhead catches another long bomb, and pretty soon the Pats resort to quick short passes until the two-minute warning. We have to keep them out of the end zone or the season's over and we're forced to watch the Patriots in another Super Bowl. I sure as hell don't want to do that.

The Pats line up at our 22. Brady throws over to Gronkowski - incomplete. Second down, and it's complete to Woodhead for seven, and the Pats take a timeout, their second. Third down, and the Pats can always kick a field goal and send this thing to overtime. Brady drops back - Wake gets through the O-line. He's on Brady - and Brady sees him.

Brady has Gronkowski relatively open and almost no time. He lets it go, somewhat off the mark.

Out of nowhere, Reshad Jones darts in front of Gronkowski - and picks it off cleanly. Jones hurdles two blue jerseys, and now he has daylight. He runs this ball back like his life depends on it - it doesn't; we have this thing, but the hell with it - and he doesn't stop until he's in the end zone for a touchdown. We go up 27-17, and that's how it ends.

I don't believe it. We're going to the Super Bowl. The same team that started off 0-3, utterly annihilated by our first three opponents, is in the big one after avenging two of those ugly losses. I just wonder what can stop us now.

(Outside Beacon Hill Elementary School, Miami Gardens, FL, January 28, 7:30 am)

The ride over to school is eerily awkward - Isabelle, normally chatty and bubbly, hasn't said a word, and neither have I. It's understandable - she has a lot on her mind. She has two massive tests tomorrow, and I have a fairly big game to prepare for, one that sees us opening as 11-point underdogs - to the Cowboys.

Finally, we arrive at the school, where Isabelle clearly doesn't want to go in. Hard to blame her.

"Is Mom in town yet?" asks my daughter, nervously.

"Yeah, she's here. She's staying in a hotel, I think. I haven't heard from her." That part's true - Andrea and Eddie are in town. She hasn't contacted me or Isabelle yet, and it's making me sick. What kind of woman chooses some deadbeat over her own daughter?

I always imagined the season would be over by now and I could focus on this custody hearing. I guess that's the curse of making it this far. Still, it couldn't be after the season? I guess, though, the legal system being what it is, there's nothing I can do. I actually asked for a continuance based on the game - no dice.

"I just hope we can be a family again," she moans somewhat nervously - that isn't really going to happen, certainly not as a two-parent household with myself and Andrea. But maybe she's spent all this time fixing herself, though as far as I'm concerned the first improvement she needs to make is to dump her unemployed husband.

"I'll do what I can, honey," I answer, unable to ease her anxiety. "Now try to have a good day. I love you." She kisses me on the cheek and heads in as I adjust my tie - I don't like wearing suits unless it's for a good reason. At least to me, this is a shitty reason, even if I have to deal with it. But then again, Isabelle's worth it.

The drive to the courthouse seems to take forever. I'm prepared, of course - I've compiled a multitude of reasons why I should maintain custody, and I have a compromise offer that involves joint custody under certain conditions. Number one, of course, is that she moves back to Miami. None of this summers-and-holidays bullshit - she can either be a mom for real or she can go back in her hole and I'll be Isabelle's only reliable parent.

I'm pleased to meet my attorney at the door - he's well-dressed and seems confident. He's a partner at one of these firms around here that caters to divorced fathers - he's always been there for me when I've needed him.

However, he splinters off from me to go talk with what appears to be his opponent, a young, fresh-faced man in an ill-fitting suit. I'm guessing he's less than a year out of law school - you can always tell fresh meat. This is going to be a piece of cake. 

I get another pleasant surprise - some additional support, in the form of my girlfriend.

"I'm surprised you're here!" I shout, trying to control myself - she kisses me with a big smile on her face.

"I wouldn't miss this; you know that." Of course. "Especially since Isabelle's seen a lot more of me than her so-called mother since we started dating."

"Yeah, let's just hope there's no surprises here." The last thing I need is to find out Eddie's pulled a rabbit out of his hat. In theory, this should be a slam-dunk - I have a sympathetic judge, and I can prove ten different ways that Andrea's home is unfit.

We have about 40 minutes before we have to be in court - and no time to rest. Andrea and Eddie walk up, looking as impressive as I would expect. Seriously, the fuck is this shit? Eddie's wearing a flannel shirt with stains on it. But I guess I have to put on a good face - and keep Aisha close.

"Good to see you both," I state. "Andrea, you're looking well." I offer my hand to Eddie to shake as I greet him - he gives me a cold look.

"Stick it, Garrett," he snaps, leaving me hanging. Real class act, this one. "Where's my daughter? We're taking her home this afternoon."

"Don't get ahead of yourself, Eddie," I retort. "Unless you have something I don't know about, I think Isabelle's staying right here at least until summer." And probably beyond, but I might as well be nice.

Andrea's turn now. "Don't you know the judge always gives custody to the mom?" Yeah, that's why I have custody now, idiot. "We're taking what's ours."

"Yeah, and when we're done here," interjects Eddie, "she'll be calling me Daddy and you'll never see her again."

"That's enough," Aisha interjects. "Let's be civil here."

"Shut your fat mouth, Barbie doll," snaps Eddie.

"You shut your mouth, or I'll shut it for you, Thacker," I snap - I'd go with a fuller name than Eddie, but that's actually his full name, so I have to go with the last name just like he did. Hey, I didn't name him Eddie Ray Thacker; his idiot parents did. "Talk to my girlfriend like that again and we have a big issue."

"That's your girlfriend?" interjects Andrea, confused. "Then we got this. You don't take her to church, you're on the road all the time, and now you're bringing her around some cheap dolled-up ghetto bitch?"

"Is that your strategy? To piss us off?" Because it's working.

"Neil, don't let her get to you," Aisha scolds, getting between us. "I've been called worse. It's whatever; she's a high school dropout with no job."

"I'm a housewife!" she snaps. "It's what God made me for!" And this God of yours made your husband to work - oh wait, kind of dropped the ball there. "Not that you'd know anything about that. I checked up on you, LaQueesha - you don't even believe in God!"

"First of all, her name's Aisha. Get it right." Again, she's practically restraining me. It might be an amusing sight, seeing a woman with proportions about halfway between model and hip-hop dancer holding back her boyfriend, a man who looks as if he could snap the building in half with his bare hands.

"Same thing. Something ghetto." I've known Andrea to be somewhat prejudiced but not this outwardly. "God put you in the ghetto for a reason. Get out of the way and let me raise my daughter."

"I work with a lot of Christians," I seethe. "They're not a bunch of judgmental assholes like you. You people make God sound like an insane dictator."

"You don't talk about God like that!" Andrea shouts. "Now just give up and hand over my little girl. No judge ever gives custody to an atheist."

"Right, because it's not like we have freedom of religion or anything - oh wait, we do." I'm well into pissed-off territory now. "Try again."

Eddie's chomping at the bit. "Just because we don't throw that bitch in jail like we should doesn't mean you win." Is he sounding intelligent? That won't last. "Not if you're with that Godless nig-"

"Finish that word, Thacker," I shout, "and I'll kick your ass right now."

This draws a stern reaction - from Aisha, of all people, who stands in front of me, between me and Eddie. "Don't," she scolds. "We'll get him in court. He's not provoking you." Evidently you and I have a far different definition of 'provoking.' "If you hit him, you lose custody." She's firm, this Aisha. I better listen - I'm not sure she's on the same page as the legal system, but I do anyway, seeing as how her name literally means 'she who must be obeyed' and she rarely lets anyone forget it.

Eddie, of course, takes this as a license to act like a shithead. He shouts in my face - and my blood boils.

He drops an N-bomb. And another. And another, almost in singsong fashion, daring me to deck him. But I know better. He'll get his comeuppance - I see witnesses staring him down as he taunts both of us with the most reviled word in civilized society. I want to slug him. But I don't dare - he's digging a hole. His punishment will come.

Sooner rather than later, it turns out - as a fist connects with Eddie's mouth, and he goes down on his ass like a ton of foul-smelling bricks. I look over - turns out that mystery fist belongs to none other than Aisha Claiborne, who stands over Eddie with a shit-eating grin.

"You're going to jail, bitch!" shouts Andrea, who's still stunned. "Nobody hits my husband!"

"The hell I am," she taunts back. "Your dumbass husband may not have been provoking Neil, but he was sure as hell provoking me. And everyone standing here will agree. Legally speaking, the law won't do shit to me." Aisha's typical usage of curse words is limited to the odd 'hell' or 'damn' unless something crazy just happened, or, y'know, we're fucking. If you hear her dropping one of Carlin's seven words outside the bedroom, someone probably fucked up big time. "And go ahead and sue me; you won't get a damn thing. All I did was knock out some teeth, and the way those things went out, they weren't going to last long anyway. So yes, I just punched your husband. And the worst that will happen to me is that I smudged my manicure."

I look down at Eddie - pure rage from him. Same from Andrea. Then to Aisha's hands - actually her manicure's holding up just fine. A slight scrape on the knuckles, but a small price to pay.

"You can't hurt us," I taunt. "Go in there, lose more rights, and fuck off to Alabama. Because you can't do shit to either of us." I'm stifling a laugh. "Really, you two just piss me off. I went to Auburn with more Southerners than I can count right now. And none of them were anywhere near as worthless as you fuckers." I turn to walk away.

The silence off the two of them is deafening. I'm actually a little nervous - maybe he tries for a sucker punch. Instead he grabs Andrea and storms off.

Aisha and I meet with my attorney right before the trial, and we're surprised to see Andrea and Eddie actually show up. It turns out that the judge - an older African-American woman - is aware of the incident in the hall, and I'm guessing she's none too pleased. Neither is my attorney, who has to do some damage control.

I look over at the trio of idiots on the other side of the courtroom - seems there's a lot of muttering and goings-on. That's put to a stop when the judge goes on with, "Mrs. Thacker, as the plaintiff in this case, you will go first. Mr. Harper, you have the floor."

Surprisingly, the young attorney, this Mr. Harper, doesn't take the floor - Andrea does. The judge shares my confusion - and my curiosity about the papers in her hand.

"Your Honor, after the incident in the hall, it's clear that I'll never regain custody of my daughter as I should." Blah blah blah. "A mother should be with her child. But that will never happen. And I can't do this one-foot-out-the-door relationship, where my ex teaches my daughter one thing and I have to spend the summer undoing it and teaching her to be a lady."

"Furthermore, the disrespect she has shown to my husband, Eddie Ray Thacker, a man who deserves to be her father more than my ex-husband, cannot stand. So I can't continue this. As such, I have made a decision."

She hands the papers to the judge, who allows her to approach. The judge inquisitively reviews them.

"Mrs. Thacker, are you aware that this means that you forfeit all rights to your daughter for life?" she asks - what the hell's going on?

"Yes, Your Honor." She hangs her head as if defeated. "I give up. My ex has broken me. If he wants to do it all himself, I'll just have another baby and raise her right."

The judge looks at her and waits for her to take her seat. "Mr. Garrett, with the move by the plaintiff, you will be granted full and unrestricted custody and will be your daughter's sole legal guardian. Mr. and Mrs. Thacker, you are dismissed from my courtroom. I will meet with Mr. Garrett and...I'm sorry, ma'am, I didn't catch your name."

"Aisha Claiborne," she replies - turns out that's her full legal name, no middle name. She's kind of always wanted one, but at least it beats the shit out of having Lurleen as a middle name. At least from my point of view - and Isabelle's - it does.

Of course, on the way out, Eddie can't resist one last shot at me. "Maybe I can't hurt you or your bitch, Garrett," he snipes. "But I can hurt your worthless daughter. I knew full well we couldn't win, and it was just a matter of time before I got my woman to give up her rights. I never liked that little shit anyway, and I hope she blows her brains out."

The judge doesn't catch it. So I answer. "You're a real piece of work, Thacker," I whisper. "You get in Andrea's head. She used to have some hope; you ruined her."

"The only thing I ruined," he answers, "is that little dyke you call a daughter. Do the world a favor. After you lose that silly football game, shoot her and your Barbie doll in the head and then kill yourself. One less of all of you, especially that stupid-"

"Mr. Thacker, exit my courtroom and stop speaking to Mr. Garrett now or I'll hold you in contempt," demands the judge.

"Let me finish," he demands, finishing his sentence with his favorite word as both Aisha and I put our heads in our hands. Needless to say, the judge doesn't take kindly to being called the N-word and has the offender taken into custody for contempt. Well, she did warn him, I think as he's taken away, shouting something about this being a 'free country' and how the fascists and Democrats and foreigners and the, shall we say, black gentleman in the White House are turning this country into a Communist hellhole. Go on digging your own grave, dipshit.

Figures. He's the asshole behind Andrea being a shitty parent, and now he's the asshole behind this colossal dick move. It as if he can be a genius when he wants to be a dick, but when it comes to applying himself, he can't do shit.

But then again, Andrea chose everything over her daughter at every turn. She could have kept the family together - she chose to move away because she hated where I got a job. She cheated on me with Eddie. She married him despite his problems with alcohol and keeping a job. And now this. The fact that I don't have to deal with her anymore...it's a small benefit.

Isabelle needs her mom. And now she doesn't have her. Forever. And there's nothing I can do about it. At this point, next week's Super Bowl is a minor issue - yes, it's a huge event. Yes, it could make or break my career. But I'd rather stay home and let someone else coach my guys. I don't even give a shit. I'll get an office job. I'd rather sell oranges on the side of the road than be under the level of scrutiny I'm about to face at this point.

Sure, the meeting with the judge goes smoothly, or as smoothly as it can - but it's not even two minutes after we get out that my phone rings. I answer it blindly.

"Mr. Garrett?" Fuck, not this again - Isabelle's school. "I need you to come get Isabelle. She can't focus, and all she keeps talking about is when she can see her mother. You're the only contact I have, so I'm calling you."

"Well, it's about to get a hell of a lot worse," I snap. "Her mother's a fucking deadbeat who can't be bothered to do shit for her." Clearly she's stunned. So am I. "She just signed over her rights this morning and she's on the road back to Alabama now."

"I'm...I'm sorry to hear that." Not as sorry as I am to say it. "I'll be there, and I'll call my sister to be there, too."

Now I have to break the news to Gretchen AND Isabelle. And I have to go in this afternoon for a team meeting. Shit and more shit.

Gretchen's reaction is about what I expect - "Good riddance." She never liked Andrea. To be honest, Isabelle is the only good thing I ever got out of that mistake with Andrea. Everything else has been complete and utter grief.

I pull Isabelle and Gretchen into the same conference room where I ended up having to write that essay. This won't end as well - Isabelle's a wreck. I usually see 40-year-olds looking like this after all-nighters. Hell, I've looked like that a few times. But not for this good of a reason.

"Where's Mom?" leads Isabelle. "She couldn't come? I'm sure she lost."




Necessary Roughness: 4th Quarter



AUTHOR'S NOTE: This is a work of fiction. It involves both real and fictional people and organizations. It is not necessarily an accurate depiction of how the real people depicted are in real life. The real people used are mainly background characters there for context. The central characters to the story are primarily fictional. Any portrayal of a real person has an element of fiction to it and is in no way meant to be an accurate representation of that person.

This story plays out similarly to a sports movie, and sports movies are my primary inspiration. I set the story around an NFL team, specifically the Miami Dolphins. I am basing the team loosely off the 2015 team, including the roster and list of opponents, but some players and coaches - and the schedule itself - will be fictional.

Also, this story depicts very rough sex and a lot of crass language. If you are offended by that or do not wish to read about such topics, I suggest you stop reading now. 

This is the final installment. Enjoy.

*****

(Levi's Stadium, Super Bowl Sunday, 2:00 pm local time)

Well, this is it - or it will be it in 90 minutes or so when kickoff is scheduled. The closing line is sixteen and a half - against us. I'd bet on us, but there's a whole load of ethical issues with that.

It turns out Gretchen's new girlfriend has no qualms about betting on us - ten thousand dollars on us. To win. Apparently such a bet pays 16-1. That's frightening - for every one win by us, 16 or more for Dallas. Including the famous Madden sim of the game - in that one, we go down 38-10. I guess Aisha's stuck watching her old team crush her new one. At least on paper.

I only have a short time between the last coaches' meeting and the pre-game talks. That means a little winder during which Aisha's agreed to meet me - that's how it's been, like clockwork, every week.

So I head out - it's a little chilly but not bad. I find a closet we can go into - and wait. And wait. And it's getting to be time. Seriously, she picks the Super Bowl to give me blue balls? What is this shit?

The only visit I get is from Jerry Jones' entourage on the way up to their pimped-out owner's suite. Jones is the first to speak. "Good luck, Coach," he tells me. "You'll need it."

"Excuse me?" I fire back. "Are you trying to start something?"

"If I wanted to start something," he snipes, "I would. I can have my guys take you down like that."

"Is that a threat?" I counter. "Look, Mr. Jones--Jerry. Let's dispense with the formalities here; you're the son of a bitch who fired my girlfriend anyway." Go figure; he doesn't remember doing that. When I refresh his memory, he just seems to know her as 'the black lady.' Never mind that her name shouldn't be that hard for him to recall, seeing as how he has a cornerback with the same last name as Aisha, and judging by his appearance, plenty of makeup made by a woman with that name as well. I guess he has to look good for TV.

I start seeing double, almost scatterbrained. I can't think straight, partially due to rage and partially due to the fact that I'm used to having a ton of clarity before each game. Having my girlfriend give me a blow job before each game has done wonders for me - it's not just a superstition; it's actually very beneficial. But at this point, even a distracted Lazor is more useful than me running the offense. I guess he can go out in a blaze of glory in his last game as our offensive coordinator.

We're technically the road team, so we get to call the coin - heads till you're dead. We lose the toss and Dallas defers, giving us the ball in the first half.

Jarvis Landry gets the ball at the 1 and runs it back out - something seems off. And it gets more off as he reaches the 5 - he fumbles the ball. Dallas recovers on our 4, and Tony Romo completes the first pass of the game to Jason Witten, and once again, we're down 7-0 right away. Damn.

The next kickoff goes a little better - as in, we hang onto it. We go three-and-out, with Tannehlll throwing two incomplete passes - one to Deon, who doesn't have a prayer of catching it - and a run up the middle for no gain.

The defense looks OK, though, as the Cowboys only manage one first down before the drive stalls. Landry gets the return - and does remarkably well, getting us to the 32. Tannehill stalls at fourth and two, leaving Franks to get a 41-yard field goal and we're within 7-3.

Tony Romo quickly picks apart our D, though, as he reaches the Dolphins 10. He throws three straight incompletions, though, and the Cowboys settle for a field goal. With a minute and change left in the first, it's 10-3 Dallas. We're hanging on by our fingernails.

At least we are until third and 10 at our own 20. Two runs - one for a loss and one for a gain of one - leave us in a tough position. As the game clock ticks to four seconds, Tannehill takes the snap and finds Greg Jennings. He fires a perfect strike.

Morris Claiborne - to think Jerry Jones couldn't remember the name Claiborne - darts in front of the pass and picks it off. Untouched, he dashes for the end zone, and as time expires in the first quarter, the Cowboys are up 17-3.

After a timeout for the end of the quarter, we take the field for the ensuing kickoff. I'm sure the stat is going up all over CBS right now - the largest comeback in Super Bowl history? Ten points. The Redskins in the 1980s, the Saints in their miracle season, and the damn Patriots in the should-have-just-run-Marshawn bowl. These were all hardly miracles by underdogs; rather, they were teams who belonged with their opponents fighting tooth-and-nail to get back.

This? This isn't like that at all, as Tannehill goes three-and-out again and the Cowboys take over near midfield. Tony Romo looks sharp as a tack, taking the Cowboys down the field for another touchdown. We spend most of the second quarter down 24-3, until the Cowboys nicely end the second quarter on a Dan Bailey field goal, burying us in a 24-point hole.

I'm a fucking mess. I'm guessing Bill is a mess, too, except he can just scoot off to New York in a week and get the hell out of town. Frankly I'd like to do the same. I'd head back to Auburn, but it - you know what? I don't even care.

But before I get to the locker room, I'm led away - not even sure by what at first, but someone grabs my hand and redirects me. If it's one of Jones' people threatening me, well, what's he going to do? Screw up the Super Bowl win by bullying an opposing coach? Tom Brady had to go to court over a deflated football. I'm sure he doesn't need a scandal like that to make the Cowboys look bad, but then again, this is Jerry Jones we're talking about.

I look up - it's Aisha. "Hey there, stallion," she greets me - with a kiss after that. Her hands start to wander lower and lower - she looks good as usual, but it's a bad time. "Sorry I missed you before the game--"

"Yeah, it's a little late now," I answer, but she just takes me in a room and goes right to work.

She undoes my fly, hardening my cock as I just relax and let her do her work. She starts with her hands but moves quickly to her mouth, licking and sucking the head of my cock as quickly as possible. She's wasting no time, as if to get me to cum as fast as possible.

I want this so bad, of course - I moan softly, not trying to make noise, as she works over my shaft. She bobs her head faster, pleasing me like no one else can.

Right away, she has me on edge, sliding her tongue along the base of my shaft. She takes it all in, working me faster, pinning me against the wall as I begin to climax. "Fuck," I mutter as she sucks me like a goddess.

She takes my load in her sweet mouth as I relax, my mind clearing as my balls drain. I expect nothing less than Aisha's wonderful work, and I can think of nothing else as she does it. She's the perfect woman - Gretchen is right.

She stands up and kisses me on the cheek. "Sorry I waited until halftime," she whispers as she slaps me on the ass. "Now go win the Super Bowl."

I head into the halftime huddle, grab a bottle of water and look around - I feel like I'm in the Matrix. It's all so clear at this point. I look back at the D-line and linebackers when we're getting our asses kicked - watching their hands, replaying it in my mind, hearing their counts, those cards they use, the one that looks like Mr. T in the bottom left with a bucket of KFC and a Great Dane in the top row - fuck. I think I've cracked the code.

I go grab Bill. "We can do this," I sputter. "The Cowboys D has tells like crazy. That card with the KFC on it? It's always a blitz. The head-turn Morris Claiborne does? Short pass defense. That weird snap count throw-off thing? They're just trying to throw us off, but every time they do it--"

"Whatever, Neil," he interrupts. "We lost. Get over it. No one ever comes back from this. Just pack it in and go home." Sheesh. What the fuck, dude.

I walk away and head to our head coach, the apparent miracle worker. "Dan, hear me out," I interrupt. "I've cracked the Cowboys' D." He's listening - probably because he has to interview for this job at the end of the season. So I tell him everything I know, from the Mr. T sign to the snap count, even throwing in something about how out O-linemen are triggering things.

He takes me in an office while Zac Taylor, quarterbacks coach and sex-whisperer extraordinaire, handles the offense. "Neil, where were you in the first half? Now you're on top of things like you normally are." I don't really have an answer. "I'm sure your girlfriend had something to do with it." What? "I caught on when we played the Bills at the end of the season. You and Aisha sneak off somewhere and she does...I don't know what, and then you're good to go. First thing you need to know is this - your secret's safe with me." Good to know. "Second, I need you to run the offense in the second half. Bill's checked out." I've noticed. "Can you do that?" Hell yes I can - I've been brushing up on the finer points. Probably lots of use of that card with the black cat, the Crown Royal bottle, the high-def TV and the picture of Ozzie Smith - that play's a doozy.

"I have a few ideas," I continue. "But I need you to work with me and understand that there's a certain level of what-the-hell in this." He agrees.

We come out of the tunnel roaring, as if we're not down 27-3. The bad news? We have to kick off.

Franks takes the kick - it's an onside kick! Holy shi-oh, who am I kidding? It was my idea.

Franks lands a perfect hop designed to land right at the 45 so we can recover it - and we do. It's our ball at our 46, and I watch the signals - Dallas is showing blitz. I hear Pouncey call out my code word - 'motor head' - and the line adjusts. Tannehill drops back - a quick pass to Jennings for a gain of 24.

Again, we get a signal from Dallas - pass defense. Good thing we know that - and so does Lamar Miller, who gains 12. Three plays later, and Tannehill hits Deon for a touchdown. I look up - a hair over two minutes off the clock, and it's just 27-10.

This time, we actually kick off for real - it's a touchback. Tony Romo lines up and throws it to Dez Bryant - incomplete. Then Adrian Peterson gets it - no gain. Third down ends much the same, and the Cowboys have to punt.

We get it at our 36. Tannehill fires a perfect strike to Stoneburner - this time, no interception, and it's complete for a first down. We're picking apart the Cowboys' D easily, and before long, Knowshon drills a 4-yard run for a touchdown, and we're down by 10.

We line up for another kickoff - onside kick again! This isn't my idea; it must be Dan's. Another perfect hop, another leap - Deon Wright makes the grab. We're in business again, and the offense is back to what it does best - dismantling the Cowboys.

And dismantle them we do - Tannehill hits Deon twice for first downs, and before I know it, we're in the red zone again. After an incomplete pass on first down, Tannehill drops back - and finds a wide-open Deon in the end zone for a touchdown. We're only down by three - and it's been only six minutes and change since the start of the second half. This is almost too easy.

I take a breather as the defense takes the field - at the Dallas 20, where Wake opens the drive with a resounding sack on Romo - and I look up at the fans. Aisha and the girls have seats with the Dolphins WAGs, having asked for seats in the stands instead of in a suite. I wonder what they're missing up there way above the game.

I take out a pair of binoculars - no idea why I have them, but I have a bunch of things on me in these ridiculous cargo pants - and look up at the suites. There's Stephen Ross, our owner, sipping what I hope is a nice drink. Then the next one over - Jerry Jones. He's on a cell phone, and he looks angry. He's pointing at our sideline. Then I see a gesture - a throat-slash. What the hell is he doing?

The Cowboys punt from their own 11, and we get the ball via fair catch at the 48. Jarvis Landry grabs it - what the hell?

Landry goes down like a ton of bricks thanks to a brutal hit. Danny McCray leads with his helmet - what the hell did he miss about the fair catch?

"What the hell was that?" I shout, lining up near a ref and knowing he can hear me. "That's a damn cheap shot! Throw his ass out!"

At least there's a flag - personal foul, late hit. Unfortunately, Landry's being carted off, but there's no ejection. We get the ball on the Dallas 37, first and ten.

Tannehill seems to have shaken off the cheap shot - he hits Greg Jennings for a gain of nine. Second down and one - I see the Cowboys' coaches pointing out Jennings. Tannehill stays away from Jennings - but the Cowboys' D doesn't.

The play is a short pass to Stoneburner, first down - but the real story is the hit on Jennings. Sean Lee's flying leap at Jennings - a blatant helmet-to-helmet hit - leads to another cart-off. We're down a wide receiver.

I turn to an assistant. "Get me the commissioner. Some bad shit's going on." He agrees. This isn't just a coincidence. The Cowboys are going full Longest Yard on our guys - I know it, and I know Jones is behind it. I saw it with my own eyes. These fuckers need to pay.

The Cowboys squeeze this drive to a third and four - Knowshon gets the first down and we're first and goal. The third quarter is ticking away - under two minutes. Tannehill hands it off - no gain. Again - two yards, so it's third and three. This is looking like the last play of the quarter. Tannehill drops back - Stoneburner and Stills are wide open in the end zone. He aims - oh shit.

Greg Hardy comes around the outside. Tannehill lets it go, and a full step later, Hardy takes him down. To make matters worse, Barry Church picks off the pass - and he has daylight.

"Throw the damn flag!" I shout. "Roughing the fucking passer!" Meanwhile, I'm being ignored - Hardy's getting away with the hit, Tannehill's down for the count, and Church is going untouched to the end zone. The third quarter expires, and we're down 34-24 - and a starting quarterback. We're stuck coming back with a backup.

The fourth quarter opens, and we get the ball at our 20. Matt Moore takes the field as quarterback, and after two incomplete passes, Moore simply hands it off to Lamar for a gain of three. At least the attempts on our players' lives have stopped for the time being, and we punt it away.

The Cowboys get a quick first down when Romo hits Dez Bryant to cross midfield. Next comes a run up the middle - Peterson's stuffed for no gain. Romo tosses it wide out to Terrance Williams - Brent Grimes crushes him.

"What the fuck!" This time, Dan's pissed. Someone's getting benched. He grabs Grimes by the face mask. "Don't stoop to their level! This isn't a fucking gladiator match! You want to beat them, do it up there!" The last part as he points to the scoreboard. "Tannehill will be fine! But if we beat the Cowboys, they'll never recover! Now get your ass back in there are do your damn job!" And to think Dan still has to interview for the head coach position after the season. I'm going for it, too, but it's a long shot.

I pull Dan aside. "I saw Jerry Jones up in his suite. He was calling for his guys to cart our guys off." He's stunned - but at least I know. "I have an assistant getting the commissioner's attention. But for now," I seethe, "I want to kick their asses."

The next play is a routine incomplete pass, and the Cowboys line up for a long field goal - 50 yards. The snap is perfect, and Dan Bailey makes the kick - it's long enough, it's got good aim...it's off the crossbar. No good, and we're back in business.

I get an update - turns out Tannehill's OK. He's out for this drive, so Matt Moore has to get it done. Fortunately, Deon's on his game - several short passes, and we're past midfield before too long. Moore is grinding it out - with a lot of help from the running game - and before long, we're in the red zone once again.

However, Moore can't get it done - two incomplete passes, one almost picked off, and a botched handoff that Lamar has to fall on. We settle for a field goal, and we're down 34-27.

Tannehill ends up back from the trainer - he's good to go, but we have to get the ball back. It's under six minutes, and fortunately, the Cowboys are going nowhere. After two incomplete passes, Romo hands it off to Peterson, who's stopped a yard short of the first down, and the Cowboys are forced to punt. So here we are with five minutes left in the game, and we need a touchdown. We did it against the Bills in the snow. Let's get to work.

Tannehill's off his game a bit - the first two passes fall incomplete. Next up is another drop-back - and again, Greg Hardy's on his tail. But Tannehill gets it off on time, and Stoneburner brings it in for a first down. We're still far away, but we have a shot. Lamar takes the ball and gains four. Then again, he gains a first down. Lamar Miller starts shredding the Cowboys' D, and we're almost to midfield.

From our 48, Knowshon gets the ball - gain of two. Next up, and Tannehill drops back once again. And damnit - Hardy's on the loose. Tannehill doesn't see him. He does see Stoneburner, and he fires - this isn't going to land.

I count a full second again - Hardy takes down Tannehill in a blind-side hit. Hardy leads with his head, drilling right into Tannehill's upper back near his neck. Oh fuck - not good. Really not good.

Tannehill doesn't seem to be getting up. Hardy's just standing over him - now's a good time to point out that the pass is incomplete, and we're at third-and-8. Once again, though, there's no flag. I don't even protest - my head is firmly in my hands. It's as if we have to beat the refs and the Cowboys. How in the fuck...I don't even know. The fact that Hardy's going to get in a lot of trouble, and the Cowboys' expected win is going to be tarnished with so much shit, doesn't help. We need a first down.

Then I look over - there's Deon and Trent helping Tannehill up. He shakes it off - he's OK. I don't believe it. Tannehill is OK. Good - we need this.

Third and eight yards to go. Tannehill takes the snap, and two wideouts go deep. Stoneburner stays short - covered. Stills is deep - covered. Knowshon? Too shallow.

And here comes the rush. Hardy again - and this time joined by Anthony Hitchens on defense. Hitchens goes high while Hardy leaps at Tannehill - they have him. It's a sack. He's going - he's not going down.

Tannehill shakes them both and dashes toward the line of scrimmage. He's got Deon deep - around the 20. Deon has Morris Claiborne all over him. Tannehill lets it rip before Tyrone Crawford levels him.

The ball seems to stay in the air forever. Deon has his eye on it. So does Claiborne. I see some jostling for position, but nothing on the level of pass interference. Deon crouches to leap - Claiborne beats him to it. Claiborne has a ton of air while Deon is still waiting.




Necessary Roughness: 4th Quarter



Then I look again - Deon's just faked Claiborne out of his pads. Deon goes up - reaches for the ball. He has it on his fingertips. Claiborne grabs at his ankles as Deon pins the ball against his helmet.

The ball rolls down his body. Deon desperately tries to pin it against his body. Does he have it? I can't tell. Then I watch closely.

Deon Wright has the ball pinned against his back. He's going down, one hand pinning the ball with all his might, the other trying desperately not to land badly. He does land badly.

But he lands. He has the ball trapped under his back. I can't imagine how much that landing hurt - but he has the ball. He has the ball under his back. He has the fucking ball.

I turn my head - the ref signals incomplete. The fuck do you mean incomplete?

"That's a damn catch!" I shout. I know what I saw. Deon caught it. I hope to hell the cameras caught it - then I look behind me. There's a cameraman who saw it all. It's a catch.

I storm over to Dan. "That was a catch!" I shout - he seems surprised, but he shakes his head. "Throw the challenge flag!"

"Neil, there's no way they're calling that a catch," Dan retorts. "Behind the back? We don't have a prayer."

"I saw it with my own two eyes!" I shout.

"Look, Neil," he answers. "It's not a catch."

"The fuck it isn't!" I scream. "There's a camera right there! They caught it! Deon caught the ball!"

"If they overturn the call," Dan laments, "I'll buy you a car."

"And if they don't, I'll buy you a fucking boat," I snap. "Now throw the fucking flag." Without another word, Dan agrees, and the red challenge flag flies.

The referee goes through his spiel and heads over to the booth, looking like he's looking into hunting blinders. The entire crew takes their looks. I see some head-nods, some confusion - and finally, after what feels like an hour, they have an answer.

League rules require indisputable visual evidence to overturn a call. Right now, the call on the field is an incomplete pass, so the refs have to see something that convinces them otherwise.

The referee takes the field, microphone ready. "After reviewing the play," accompanied by a pause, "the receiver possessed the ball all the way to the ground." I know that. "The ball was pressed between his back and his left hand, and he did not trap the ball. Therefore, it is a catch." I scream in affirmation, pumping my fists and not even caring that my headset goes flying. I give more high-fives than I can count, including one to a deserving Deon.

The ball is ours. The game is ours. We have just over two minutes to score. Let's fucking do this.

But before we get going, I step over to Dan. "About that car," I tease, "I'll take an SUV. Make it a nice one."

"Neil, if we win this game, I'll buy you a Porsche," he retorts, and I agree completely. I'll settle for a Cadillac if we lose, I guess.

That seems a lot less likely after the next play, as Knowshon takes us from the 19 all the way to the 5. The two-minute warning brings the clock to a stop, and we regroup. Tannehill's a little shaken up, but he's hanging in there.

He shows it on the next play - a perfect strike to Kenny Stills for the touchdown, and we're down by one. We were down 27-3 at the half - we're an extra point away from tying it, or maybe--holy shit. I have an idea.

"Dan!" I shout to our head coach. "Go for two! Run that play! Let's win this now!" He is not amused. "Let's do it! Just like the Texans!"

"Quit while you're ahead, Neil," he snaps, and he sends the extra-point team out. Franks nails the extra point, and we're tied at 34. Sixteen-point underdogs my ass - we're a defensive stop away from overtime, and I know we'll get it there.

And I really need to watch my thoughts - the opening kickoff goes out of bounds. That's a no-no - the Cowboys get it on their 35 with a minute and fifty seconds to work with. And all of a sudden, the Cowboys' offense is looking tough. The same Cowboys offense that couldn't do shit all second half - their only points came off that interception - is now shredding us. Peterson is getting the bulk of the yardage, and we burn all three of our timeouts trying to keep time on the clock, but it doesn't do us any good. Dallas rolls to our 24 with two seconds left, and the Cowboys call timeout. We're looking at a 41-yard field goal. Bailey missed earlier from 50 - barely. He's got this. And all this wild-ass comeback - the behind-the-back catch, the two onside kick recoveries, overcoming the cart-offs - it's all for naught. Unless...

I've been working with Deon on this play. It's a field goal block. Deon has a hell of a vertical and an uncanny ability to leapfrog people. It's the last play of the Super Bowl - we're not holding back.

This is it. Everything's on the line. Just breathe. 

Deon lines up behind the line. He takes a running leap - just as the Cowboys snap. We theoretically have an infinite number of tries at this play - all that happens if Deon jumps too soon is an offsides penalty, the game can't end on a defensive penalty, and as long as the field goal isn't good, we can keep timing the perfect block for as long as we want.

The snap is perfect. The hold is good. He lines up for the game-winning field goal and what looks like a perfect kick...

Bailey doesn't see Deon coming. Deon gets both hands on the ball without even being touched. Looks like we're headed to overtime with that--wait, what the hell is happening now?

Deon has the ball. He's running it back - is he trying to win this now? Oh my God, he's past the kicker and the holder. No one even close.

He makes it to midfield - backup quarterback and holder Brandon Weeden gives chase. The clock has long since expired - this is the last play of the game unless we go to overtime. A tight end against a backup quarterback? Who would have guessed this madness?

He's at the 40. Weeden's strangely gaining ground. I don't believe this. Are we going to win this now? No overtime? Deon's pulled the miracle play of the game...and now this?

He's at the 30. The sidelines are following closely - it's getting crowded over here. I jostle for position - I get nowhere.

The 25, the 20 - Weeden takes a flying leap. He reaches out - grabs Deon's ankle. Looks like we're heading to overtime as Deon stumbles - the rest of the Cowboys are catching up, so it looks like he's coming--no. Oh my God, he gets free.

Deon takes off like a bat out of hell as Weeden is left eating dirt. He's at the 15, the 10--the line has caught up. One last chance to take down the game-winning touchdown.

For some reason, things seem to be moving in slow motion. We got this - he's at the 5 with two defenders. He takes a flying leap as I look around - no flags or whistles. A defender grabs Deon's ankle as he flies toward the end zone. Deon tries to break the plane. We look for a signal - I've never waited for so long in my life for anything--

TOUCHDOWN!! TOUCHDOWN!! HOLY FUCKING FUCK IT'S A TOUCHDOWN!! WE WIN THE SUPER BOWL! WE WIN WE WIN WE WIN I DON'T BELIEVE IT!!

I know, I know, every scoring play is reviewable - but the hell with that. We just won the Super Bowl.

The whole sideline rushes the field. Helmets fly off, grown men embrace, and confetti flies in our colors. I fall to my knees as I look over at Deon - it hits him. He's a Super Bowl champion - and he simply remains on the ground in ecstasy.

We won. I coached our team to victory. Quickly, the refs confirm it - Deon scored. No overtime today - we got it on the play of the year. My guy just ran for the winning touchdown. This is the best feeling I've had since my daughter was born.

I look over at the Cowboys clearing out - Jason Garrett, their head coach, at least has the decency to shake Dan's hand and congratulate him. I almost feel bad for the guy, knowing the shitstorm he's about to experience with his owner targeting our guys.

Soon the field is swarmed - media, fans, players, it's absolute pandemonium. Everyone on the team has on their Super Bowl hats, and the hats and T-shirts trickle down to family members in no time.

Speaking of family members, here come the girls - all four of them. I feel a bit guilty - if I had known Gretchen was going to meet someone this week, I would have ordered an extra ticket, especially since Rose just won a shitload of money.

I keep everyone close - we need a front row spot for the MVP announcement. The stage for that is going up, and someone has the task of driving the MVP's car out onto the field. It's a good one this year - a brand new Cadillac SRX, navy blue. I know who should win it. I hope the selection committee sees it that way - yeah, I'd be happy for Tannehill, but he's not the reason we won.

I look up as the media is no doubt back from break. A few key people are ushered to the front - the MVP favorites. Tannehill's up there, because of course he is - four TD passes. Three of them to Deon, who's also up there, accompanied by his mom and brother. Just for good measure, we have Knowshon Moreno and Cameron Wake. All good choices, but I'm crossing my fingers they do the right thing.

Roger Goodell, commissioner extraordinaire, is up on stage. "Congratulations to the Miami Dolphins on one of the most epic comebacks in NFL history. I lost count of the records broken tonight. It is my honor to present to Mr. Stephen Ross the Lombardi Trophy." Mr. Ross, of course, is the owner, a man who's come a long way at this whole owning an NFL team thing.

"It is also my honor to award the Super Bowl MVP. The MVP will receive the new Cadillac SRX, fully loaded. This year's Super Bowl MVP," as we all wait with bated breath...

..."Deon Wright."

The crowd erupts. And Deon couldn't be happier - I still don't think he knows what to do with himself. Less than a year ago, he was an undrafted free agent we took a chance on, one who barely made our roster. And now here he is on top of the football world after playing the game of his life.

Goodell continues, probably thankful he doesn't have to award the Cowboys the trophy when he knows he'll be ripping them apart in a few weeks. "Deon, your performance tonight was one for the ages. A new record for receiving yards. Three touchdowns. And you are the first person in Super Bowl history to recover an onside kick and block a field goal in the same game. And that behind-the-back catch - I still don't know how you pulled that off. You earned this MVP, Deon. Congratulations."

The crowd cheers like mad as Deon takes the mic. "Thank you, Commissioner. And thank you to the Miami Dolphins for believing in me." He seems a bit uncomfortable. Deon's kind of shy--well, he's quite shy. And now the whole country's watching him. "I wouldn't be here if my coaches didn't believe in me and give me this opportunity. Coach Garrett, my position coach," Who, me? "This man invited me into his home and treated me like family." Well, actually it was my sister's home. And he invited me to his hometown - a place I really like. "Coach, come on up here." He motions me up here as someone takes his mic.

He walks up to me as I climb up the stairs - my entourage in tow. Aisha and Gretchen follow me up with Isabelle and Crystal in tow. But before I get up there, he leans in and whispers to me: "Do it." What? "Right here. It's the perfect time. Go for it."

I'm a bit taken aback, but I'm ready. Good thing I have these cargo pants full of all kinds of things.

I take the mic. Isabelle stands next to me, and I put my arm around her. Crystal stands at my other side and does the same. "I don't even know where to begin," I stammer. "Having one of my players win such an award is...indescribable. This team, to come from where we did and make it all the way to the top, I'm still in disbelief."

"We got here because everyone worked like hell to make it happen. That wasn't just the players playing and the coaches coaching. The scouts who found Deon. The front office staff making the roster all it could be. And one of our newest additions who found us Trent Williams. And that isn't all she found. She found a coach, a rough-around-the-edges coach, a man who didn't get along with her at first, and together, we built a champion. And we built a lot more than that."

"Right now, I'm looking at this woman, this amazing woman who's so much more than beautiful." I have Aisha's attention. I'm just not sure I have my own comprehension. "I was going to do this later, but...I can't wait any longer."

I reach into one of my pockets. Aisha looks me over - it's setting in for her. I think it's setting in for the others on the podium - and in the stadium.

I turn my attention to my gorgeous girlfriend. "Aisha, I've fallen in love with you. You have my heart, and just as important, you have my daughter's heart. And I'm ready to spend the rest of my life with you."

I drop to one knee - I think every camera in the stadium is on me. If I weren't riding on an insane amount of adrenaline, I'd probably break down. But this...this is incredible.

I open the box I've had since this morning - I knew I was doing this if we won, but not like this.

"Aisha Claiborne, will you marry me?"

I look up at her face. It's impossible to describe - she doesn't want to cry, but it's hard not to. God I love this woman.

I see someone scrambling to get her a microphone as I hold the ring in my hand, ready for it to go on. I've just asked my girlfriend to marry me in front of over a hundred million people - boy am I fucked if she says no.

I'm pretty sure that won't happen.

Aisha grabs the mic, looking as if she's barely able to speak.

"YES!"

I wrap her up in my arms as the stadium's cheers turn deafening. We kiss as the cameras take a myriad of pictures. For that moment, though, even though I know it's a full stadium, to me, Aisha's the only other person in the world. I couldn't be happier.

The field clears out soon enough. Gretchen agrees to escort the girls back to the hotel while Aisha and I answer a few questions for the media. After that, it's time to head out. We have an early day tomorrow - the Early Show wants me and Aisha on, and I can't wait to see the big plate of crow Cowherd's going to eat after he called us frauds. Who's the fraud now?

No matter, though. Aisha and I have a car ready to take us back to the hotel, so we head to the tunnel so we can head out. We don't get too far - look who's here.

Mr. Ross meets up with us. "That was a hell of a game, Neil," he tells me - I thank him. "I know you ran the offense in the second half, and you did a hell of a job with it. We'll be interviewing for head coach and offensive coordinator." I'm well aware and I've submitted my resume for both. "Now we have to conduct interviews for both positions, but if you interview half as well as you coached tonight, one of those jobs is yours."

"Thank you, sir," I answer, still floating from the win and everything after it.

"Now enjoy your night. And congrats, both of you," he finishes.

"Thank you," I reply, and we're on our way.

I decide to carry Aisha into the car, just because I can. She appreciates it.

(Four Seasons, Palo Alto, CA, hotel suite, Sunday night, 11:00 pm)

This...this has been the best day of my life. I'm a little sore it has to end, but then I check my watch - never have I been so thankful for a time difference. I still have an hour left of Super Bowl Sunday even if it's two in the morning back in Miami.

The girls caught a quick nap on the way over, so they're very pleased to see us. We gather in Gretchen's suite, where we're greeted as only Isabelle and Crystal would greet us - lots and lots of ice cream.

Something seems off, though - Crystal's grinning from ear to ear, but something's off about Isabelle. I wonder if she's sick. I take her aside.

"Talk to me," I plead. "I know something's not right."

She's slow to talk, but eventually she sighs and gets it out. "It's Mom," she exasperates. I don't know where she's going with this, but if she's still bothered by her mom's idiocy, then there's not much I can do right now. I can get her into counseling, and I probably will anyway, but...I don't even know.

"I thought she'd change her mind." I thought that for a long time. "You even told me she would." I did? "You told me she'd come back if the Dolphins won the Super Bowl."

Wait - I remember this conversation. "That's not what I said, honey." I remember it well - this was the day after the loss to the Patriots when Philbin got fired. All this seemed completely impossible then. It still seems impossible. "All I said was that the Dolphins had a better chance to win the Super Bowl then we did of getting your mom to do her job." As I recall, we were running 250-1 in Vegas after that loss. Knowing what I know now about Andrea, I wouldn't bet 250-1 on her.

Then we're interrupted. "I know you're upset, Isabelle." It's Aisha. We didn't shut the door - not on purpose, but I'm not upset about it. "And I can't make Andrea come back. I can't make her be a mom." It's a little late for that. "But I can do something." She has my daughter's attention. "I can be your mom."

"I don't understand," she answers, clearly not sold.

"I know last night I told you how much I love your dad," she continues. "I left a few things out. Most importantly, I love you just as much. And when Andrea signed away her rights, she left it open for me to take her place." Now for the reveal. "After that court hearing, I met with the judge, right there with your dad. And I started the process to adopt you."

I know all this. Isabelle doesn't. Actually, no one else does - we've been keeping it a secret until the end of football season.

Isabelle doesn't wait - she rushes up to Aisha, trying to hug both of us. I pick her up - she's not a little girl anymore, so it takes a little more effort. Good thing I keep myself in shape.

"I'll always be there for you," whispers Aisha to a sobbing Isabelle - at least this time, she's happy. "Now how about we get some ice cream?"

"I'll even carry you," I remark, and Isabelle agrees. We head back into the living area of the suite as I set Isabelle down to dig into her dessert.

She doesn't keep her secret long. "I've got a mom again!" she joyfully announces.

"That's awesome," replies Crystal. "I hope that happens for me soon and I can stay close." Isabelle doesn't know what's going on. "I heard there was someone trying to adopt me but there was a problem with the application."

I know where she's going with this. "I found out about that at the same time as the court hearing. I'm the one who tried to adopt you. And the problem was," I pause, "someone beat me to it."

She seems confused. Aisha speaks. "That person was me." Her sadness goes away right away. "I talked it over with your foster parents. You'll be going home with me, and then when Neil and I get married, you'll be our daughter."

"And my sister," chimes in Isabelle. "Just as long as we can keep playing basketball."

Aisha smiles. "You girls can play all the basketball you want," she assures. "Just keep your rooms clean and your grades up." Isabelle's more than pleased to have a clean room - she's better at it than I am. "I think I'll be pretty good at this whole mom thing." Well, she's awesome at almost everything else.

We finish off the ice cream and the girls get off to bed. Aisha and I head off to our suite, never more pleased than at that moment.

I kiss her - passionately. Off comes her top, exposing a red bra underneath. I know the underwear matches, and she confirms it when her bottoms come off.

"This doesn't mean," I ask as I unfasten her bra, stripping her naked before she even gets my shirt off, "the sex gets boring or anything." I slide her red thong off.

"Bend me over and whip my ass, Neil," she demands as I throw her on the bed face-first, her gorgeous, round ass exposed. I wind my hand up and slap it hard.




Necessary Roughness: 4th Quarter



"Fuck yeah, Neil," she cries out, careful not to make too much noise. "My ass is yours, baby." I slap it again and again, her perfect, smooth ass feeling so hot against my skin.

I whip my shirt off and undo my pants, stripping down to my underwear as the still-exposed Aisha shakes her ass for me. "You want this body, don't you, stud?"

"Hell yes I do, you nasty slut," I tease as she licks her lips.

"Then give me when I need, stallion." With pleasure, I think as I climb on the bed, pulling her ass up as I take her from behind.

My throbbing cock - hard and ready to go even after the blow job from earlier - takes her tight pussy from behind as I work her ass over with my hands. "Fuck!" Aisha cries out as I take a pillow. "No fucking mercy, Neil!" Well, she's asking for it - I know how rough Aisha demands it, and I know she can give it just as well as she can take it.

I push her face into the pillow as she fights me, drilling her snatch with my hard cock. The pillow muffles her screams but my hand forces her down into it.

"Try getting me now, slut," I taunt as I fuck her balls-deep. Then I release my hand - and she flips around, pulling me down on top of her. Then she rolls me onto my back.

"My turn, bitch!" she commands as she slaps me, working over my chest as she rides my cock. She wastes no time, pulling on my nipples as I cry out - which she muffles with her hand. "Don't you dare scream, you muscle-bound asshole," she scolds. Fuck, this is amazing. I need this every night with her. I love this woman. And I love fucking her - in the must fucked-up way possible.

I pull her into a kiss as she starts screaming, if only to keep the next suite over from hearing us. Then I squeeze and grope her ass. I know she's in mid-orgasm - so I pin her on her back and drill her snatch as hard and fast as I can. She craves it - I know she does.

I pin her hair back as a shockwave of pleasure vibrates my entire body. I kiss her as i pull her hair, moaning into her mouth. She moans back as she strokes my tongue with hers.

I feel that sweet release, filling her with my load as she melts into a blissful climax of her own. I release her hair, kiss her lips, and bring her close to me. As rough and merciless as I am with her, this is what I crave.

I keep her close as she zones out, her naked, gorgeous body pressed against me. Her gorgeous pierced breasts against me, her smooth skin touching mine - I can't get enough.

I lay her down as I sip some water, her resting body looking so angelic. I cover her up as she smiles at me, fading off to sleep.

"I love you, Aisha," I whisper to her as I hold her close.

"I love you, Neil," she answers, softly. "And I love our girls."

Aisha fades off to sleep before I do, ending the best day of my life. I'm marrying the love of my life. She said yes - in front of America. I got my daughter back - and a mom for her. I gained a daughter. I'm getting a promotion and a stable situation. One of my guys just accomplished something amazing. And I couldn't feel better in any way.

Oh yeah, and I won the Super Bowl. Can't forget about that.

(Sun Life Stadium, season opener, Dolphins vs. Ravens, September 9)

It's been a long and crazy offseason. It pretty much started the next morning after the Super Bowl - an assistant blew up my phone to do an interview for Mike and Mike at some horrifying hour of the morning, and from there, we did pretty much the entire talk show circuit. The sports guys wanted to hear how I commandeered the offense in the second half. And yes, I did Cowherd's show - I think he felt like shitting himself when I entered the studio. I'll give him this - he was gracious.

Even Aisha got a lot of action - on the TV circuit, that is; I've noticed she barely even looks at other men. Same with me - even in south Florida with all the bikini-clad college girls, I rarely even steal a glance anymore. No need - Aisha's still, by far, the best-looking woman I know. That became apparent when The Talk hit us up for a show about my post-game proposal - one of the hosts, an attractive and intelligent woman herself, made a comment that she wasn't even the best-looking Aisha on the set. And given that she was the second woman I'd ever met with that name, that's saying something.

But all that whirlwind of madness that is the offseason ends today - we open with the ceremonial first game of the year that's become a tradition for the defending Super Bowl champions. And after four preseason games - all wins - we're looking better than ever. We're the favorites to win our division - it's a hell of a division, too - and we're hearing a lot of people talk about a repeat.

I really should feel a lot of pressure; after all, it's my first game as offensive coordinator. Yes, I got the job - Dan beat me out for head coach, but the man earned it and I'm more than happy to settle for the next move up. It's a significant pay raise - my salary went up about 150 percent, and the girls are in one of the best schools in south Florida now, not to mention a traveling basketball team. Couple that with the shiny new Porsche SUV I'm driving, and I'd say I'm living the dream. Needless to say, Dan made good on his promise to buy me a car, and given the raise he got for becoming head coach, he said it was worth it.

We're taking Aisha's Mercedes to the game, though - the girls have school tomorrow and are watching from Gretchen's house, one she's now sharing with Rose. I've never seen her so happy. She deserves it. And that money Rose won from our victory in the Super Bowl ended up being a hell of a down payment for their new house - next door to ours. Both of them are five bedrooms and beautiful - and we need every one of them.

We need them for the same reason I have to drive Aisha's car - she's pregnant. With twin boys, due around Thanksgiving. We found out just before the draft - I kept telling her she might be pregnant, but she just blew me off until I practically made her take a test - and we whipped together a wedding right after school let out. She called her best friend from Stanford to be her maid of honor, and I asked Deon to be my best man. Thankfully, the talk shows and exposure helped Deon overcome his shyness. He even has a girlfriend now.

After the wedding, Gretchen and Rose took the girls up to New York and then on a driving tour of the New England states while Aisha and I took a honeymoon in Hawaii. And after that, it was right back to business - Aisha still loves what she does and hasn't slowed down, well, much anyway. She's counting on assistants for a lot - pregnancy brain is real, even for a Stanford graduate and recent addition to the ranks of Mensa, at my encouragement, of course. But she isn't slowing down, except maybe to play HORSE with the girls. She usually loses at this point, if for no other reason than that Isabelle and Crystal are amazing.

And I've never seen anyone as motivated as Crystal - she's cancer-free and doesn't want to waste a second of life. She's pulling straight A's and looking for more challenges. She's learning German and tennis. And she's been a wonderful influence on Isabelle, who had a lot of trouble with her, shall we say, egg donor abandoning her. Isabelle's seeing a counselor for that, but she's doing a lot better. Of course, hearing about what Andrea's been up to almost made Isabelle grateful she's out of the picture.

After Eddie got out of jail for contempt of court - and failing to get Aisha charged with assault, since the prosecutor couldn't get a single witness to take his side - his church flew him home, only for him to cause a fatal car accident. Eddie died in the accident - drunk off his ass, of course - and unfortunately, he killed two teenagers. Andrea decided to sue the teenagers' estate - failing harder than anyone could imagine, since she ended up forking over money to their estates. Now she's without a job or a husband - or a way to have children, since she revealed she can't have any more. So she spends her days on Facebook bitching about her fate, one she caused herself. Figures - she's bitching about welfare recipients and the like when there's no doubt she's receiving it.

But enough about my ex-wife - my awesome wife and I are ready to help our team win another Super Bowl, and it starts here in a couple of hours. We have a few acquisitions - Morris Claiborne from the Cowboys, of all people. Turns out he wasn't aware of, much less involved in, their targeting ploy - several players were involved, and all of them are suspended for anywhere from two games to the entire season. Greg Hardy, for one, won't see the light of day until next year - couldn't happen to a better person. It turns out even their head coach was totally out of the loop, and he resigned the day after the Super Bowl after calling Jerry Jones a 'fucking dipshit.' He took the Giants job - right there in the division. Needless to say, we don't have to worry about the Cowboys this season.

We also scored Arian Foster off the Texans after losing both our running backs to free agency - at a bargain basement price, since he's coming off an ACL injury. He's looking great - along with our new acquisition, we still have our Super Bowl MVP at tight end, and he's still Ryan Tannehill's favorite target. Looking at this team, it's no wonder we're the favorites in our division. We look fucking awesome.

I hold Aisha's hand on the walk into the stadium, heading for the team offices - I'll be up in the booth while Aisha takes a spot in the owner's suite.

"One more thing before you head in, Neil," she requests, looking toward a door to an office - ah yes, my pre-game ritual. "Wait, what's this in your pocket?" Damn, might as well be honest - it's a flask. Crown Royal and sour mix, enough for one drink, just to take the edge off. "You bad boy," she scolds. "I guess I'll have to punish you. With my mouth."

"You sure about this, babe?" I ask my very pregnant wife - she's as sure as she's ever been. Even now, she's still gorgeous - and while I have to say that as her husband, I'd say it anyway.

First surprise - she strips. It's well-lit enough that I can see her. To my surprise, she's not wearing a bra - even at six months pregnant, she has a killer body. Her breasts, once a sweet pair of DDs, are so big even my hands have trouble handling them. They're a little more sore, but she doesn't mind - Aisha's been hit-or-miss in the libido department, but when she's on, she's a firecracker, demanding it every bit as rough as when we were dating.

I look her over as she takes my cock in her mouth - her ass cheeks so perfectly split by that barely-there g-string. She still rocks sexy underwear - and I love it. I lick my lips as she sucks my cock, shaking her ass. I know she's been looking forward to this for a long time, as have I.

She deepthroats my cock in no time, bouncing her round ass. I grab her hair and guide her onto my shaft, not wasting any time. Her tongue slides along my shaft, even licking my balls - she's gotten even better at sucking me off since we started dating.

"Fuck, baby," I mutter as she sucks me. "Suck that cock, you whore." Even as a married woman and a mom, she still loves to feel like a dirty slut - she's anything but, of course; I'm the only one who sees this side of her, and I know that for sure. "Make your stallion cum."

She does so in short order, keeping me on edge for a short time before taking me over it. Watching her ass shake helps - she's so perfect. Her body...fuck. I can't even think.

I feel it all over my body as I melt into the climax, shooting my load in her mouth. She sucks every drop off my cock, leaving me satisfied in every way. My mind goes sharp as I admire my beautiful, talented wife, thinking how wonderful the last year of getting to know her has been.

"Now go up there and kick some ass, stallion," she commands as she kisses me on the cheek, squeezing my hand as she gets dressed again. She does have a bra in her purse, one I help her get into. Finally, as we exit, holding hands, she walks over to the elevator up to the owner's suite. I watch her get in - even pregnant, she's in all designer clothes. Thankfully I've introduced her to the clearance rack - she still looks like a million bucks. I've seen what it takes to get her looking this good, and I appreciate it all. And not just with cheap compliments or even flowers - I still train with the guys to stay in shape so I can look good for her, too.

She blows me a kiss as the elevator door closes, and I head into the meeting. Off goes my doting husband face, and on goes the killer coach face. After all, we have a title to defend.

Let's do this.