Huge bodies are rushing towards me, trying to tackle me, trying to slam their hundreds of pounds of muscled flesh into me.

I dodge left, using a complicated footwork maneuver. Someone’s coming at me from the left now.

And someone’s coming at me from behind.

My vision is limited by my football helmet. I can hear my own breathing, and the sound of players rushing around me, colliding with each other as they try to tackle me.

My feet are pounding into the turf.

I’m aware of every muscle, every movement.

My consciousness has shifted to tunnel vision, something elite athletes like myself experience when everything is going just right.

It’s right now that I know I’m going to make the touchdown. There’s no doubt in my mind. Once the tunnel vision kicks in, everything starts to look like it’s in slow motion.

No matter how many of them rush at me in their bright purple and yellow jerseys, no matter how determined they are to stop me, I will evade them all.

Seconds later, it’s all over.

I cross the final line, and I throw the ball down in celebration, doing my little dance, using my knees and elbows.

That’s the game.

The crowd is roaring. Whistles are blowing. The scoreboard has changed.

Coach’s voice is crackling in my ear through the electronic radio headset that we all wear.

That’s the game. We’ve won.

I’m sweating profusely, shaking slightly from the adrenaline that’s still coursing through me.

The team is slapping me on the back, congratulating me, swearing at me (for playing such a fucking good game), etc., etc.

Coach is scowling somewhere off a few meters away, looking the way he always does, disheveled and mean.

I pull off my helmet, shaking my head like a big wet dog, the sweat flying from my hair.

This isn’t college anymore. This is the pros. It’s my second year here, but I’m already breaking records and scoring more touchdowns than anyone thought possible.

Since this is the pros, here come the reporters, the professionals who are paid to shove microphones into my face and ask me inane questions.

“How does it feel to win?” says a woman in a blazer with heavy makeup.

“Good,” I say, still breathing heavily from the exertion of the game. “Really good. Couldn’t have done it without my teammates.”

Couldn’t have done it without my teammates… that’s what everyone says. That’s what we’re told to say. That’s what we have to say. Even if isn’t true.

I mean, sure, I couldn’t have done it without my teammates, in the sense that I need someone to throw me the ball. But I certainly could have done with better teammates. I can’t count how many times I had to correct for their errors, or how many times they continue to screw up, almost costing us countless games.

But I keep my face free of emotion, a vague smile plastered across it.

“What’s your strategy for the next game?” says the reporter.

Always the same questions, I think. Always the questions we can’t answer. Obviously, I’m not going to give away Coach’s top secret plays. Obviously I’m not going to say that Coach wants to try a certain fake out, or that Coach wants to switch Smith for McKinney, or that he’s thinking of trading Basher (that’s our affectionate nickname for him) next season because he doesn’t like the way Basher is always spitting tobacco everywhere during practice.

“Well,” I say, as if I’m really thinking it over. “The thing is that we’re just going to try to give it our all, you know?”

The reporter nods. The TV cameras are practically in my face.

Honestly, I just want to burst through them the way I can with players on the football field. But life isn’t always that easy, like it is on the field. In life, they’ll give you a hard time if you go around tackling people or dodging them or rushing through them like bowling pins.

“What do you have to say about your recent breakup with model…”

“Enough questions,” says Coach, cutting across the line of sight before the reporter can complete the question.

That’s one way Coach’s grumpiness can come in handy.

“Hit the showers,” he growls at me.

I head into the showers. I can’t even remember the model’s name that I apparently broke up with so I don’t have any idea what name the reporter was going to say.

There have been a lot of women, a lot of models, a lot of actresses, a lot of famous female sports players, mostly tennis.

I start stripping off my pads. I’m in the back, away from the rest of the team who are yelling and rioting with the excitement that comes from winning, the violence that comes from victory, the violence that becomes celebration.

I pull off everything, my jersey, my pads, my jock strap, and toss it onto the floor.

Naked, my cock swinging before me… naked and muscular… I head to the showers and turn on the water. I don’t bother with the hot tap. I just let the cold water rush over me, cooling me, cooling my anger.

The cool water feels good. I need it to wash away memories, to wash away my past.

I’ve been with countless women. Since I turned pro, there have been endless numbers of them.

But there’s still that one who got away.

…Chloe.

Chloe, sweet, sexy Chloe. Chloe from my hometown.

I remember that night together like it was not even yesterday, but merely earlier today.

She’s still the sexiest to me. She’s still the one I want the most. She’s still the one that I dream about and wake up in the middle of the night thinking about.

I know, I know, it sounds completely crazy. Normal people don’t do that, right? If I told someone, they’d tell me I was obsessed.

But I know it’s something other than obsession… something more powerful, something cleaner, something stronger and more intense.

My naked cock is getting hard just thinking about her, just thinking about that night so long ago. How many years ago was it now? Five? Six? I’ve lost track. It was my first year of college, and I’ve been in the pros for two years now.

I’ve matured a lot since those days…

Well, in some ways, that’s true.

My body has matured. I’m harder, more muscular, bigger. Coach’s programming of eating and weight training makes me leaner but bigger. I’m stronger and faster than nearly anyone else in the league, for my position, that is. But that still includes just about everyone. Who else can run like I can? Who else can dodge? Who else can blast through defensemen with such ease?

My mind has become hardened, too, like my body.

I worry about it sometimes. Not so much anymore, but I used to.

I don’t know if losing Chloe was the catalyst for this, but it did start something. I gave myself entirely to the game, to football, to the objective. For me, now, winning is everything. Winning isn’t just a goal. Winning is my life, and I don’t tolerate failure in any form, not from myself, not from my teammates, and not from the refs or the coach.

I’ve learned a lot in the intervening years since I saw Chloe.

The cool water isn’t doing anything for my hard cock. Isn’t that why they say “go take a cold shower?” so that you can get rid of your erection? But my cock is too strong, just like the rest of my body, and a little bit of cold water isn’t going to make my erection just disappear.

When I’m dressed, I dodge all the other players. I’m not in a raucous mood. Something serious has overtaken me.

Coach confronts me in the hallway.

“Hi,” I grunt, not really looking at him.

“We need to talk,” says Coach.

“Not now,” I say. “Not in the mood.”

“Damnit, Dan. You’ve got to respect me. I know you don’t respect anyone else on the team, but I’m the fucking coach and you’ve got to listen to me.”

He’s got a point. If not just for the contractual obligation I have. Coach has complete power and can kick me off the team if he wants to, something he’s threatened to do plenty of times already.

“What’s up, Coach?” I say, standing back, crossing my arms. I’m much taller than Coach, and I tower over him. My frame is massive and he’s gotten old and pudgy, short and pudgy, not a great combination.

His face looks mean. There’s no other way to describe it. It’s all scrunched up and pointed forward. He looks like he’s always looking for a fight, and he really is.

“You’ve got to work on your footwork,” growls Coach, putting a hand on my shoulder. It’s not a comforting hand, but a mean, controlling one.

He just wants to control me.

But I’m not like that. I can’t stand it when people tell me what to do, when they want me to do things their way. Sure, I’m on a team and all, but that doesn’t mean I can’t have some say in what I do.

“There’s nothing wrong with my footwork,” I say, knowing full well that I’m completely right.

“Your right foot was striking the ground kind of funny…” says Coach.

“Kind of funny?” I say, my voice rising to show my disapproval of what he’s saying. I feel like my eyebrows are rising but I’m not sure. It’s not like I can control them or know what they’re doing.

“The toes…” mumbles Coach. “Have to be more forward facing even when you’re moving sideways.”

“Listen, Coach,” I say, my voice getting deep and rumbly. Fuck this guy, is all I’m thinking. Fuck him to fucking hell. He thinks he can bullshit me on shit like this. “I know my footwork.”

“You think you know everything,” says Coach, practically yelling at me. “But you don’t know shit.”

“We won, right?” I say. Isn’t that enough for him? Isn’t it enough that I won the game?

Coach shakes his head at me in the most annoying way I can possibly imagine, as if he’s talking to an inexperienced young person.

“What’s your problem, Coach?” I say. “It’s not enough that I win. It’s not enough for you that I know what I’m fucking doing with my own fucking feet…”

“No one talks to me like that,” bellows Coach.

I walk right past him, slinging my bag over my shoulder.

I’m supposed to do all kinds of team stuff after the game, but I just head out into the parking lot where I call a taxi with my cell phone and hop into it.

“You’re…” says the taxi driver, giving me a surprised look, astonished to see the player that just won the game.

I nod my head.

“Hell of a game,” he says, nodding appreciatively.

“Thanks,” I say.

I can’t think of anything else to say.

Lately, the words haven’t been coming to me as easily as they once did. Lately, things don’t seem to be going as they should. It’s like there’s some dark cloud hanging over me. Everything looks different and everything tastes different.

I’ve stopped seeing all the women I was seeing. Many of them just wanted to be with me for my fame, for my money, for the press opportunities. The others… well, they were all right. They weren’t all terrible people or anything.

But that spark…

It just wasn’t there.

I want a real connection. I want to be… No, I can’t even say it.

There’s some block in my mind.

And it’s over Chloe. I don’t admit it to myself, because I think that it’s pathetic. I mean, I’m obsessing over this girl from my hometown that I hooked up with once six years ago.

Does she even remember who I am?

If I saw her again, what would I say?

I scoff at my own thoughts. Of course she remembers who I am. Everyone knows who I am. My picture is on the cover of magazines. I’m on TV.

There’s no doubt she knows who I am.

There you go again with your egocentric bullshit, I think to myself.

“Hell of a game, wasn’t it?” says the taxi driver, apparently not realizing that I just want to be left alone.

I nod my head.

“Man, the way you ran by those guys. I mean it was like you were running through, shit, I don’t know what, water or something. You just flowed, man. I’ve never seen anything like it.”

“Thanks,” I say.

He keeps talking, telling me about everything I was doing. Apparently he’s a big fan and he knows all my statistics. He even compliments my footwork. I wish Coach was here to hear this. I mean, a lot of the time these guys, these regular working guys, they’re the biggest fans, and sometimes I wonder if they wouldn’t do a better job coaching the team.

Then again, Coach may be an asshole, a difficult one at that, but he does know what he’s doing. I’ve got to give him that. He’s got an impeccable coaching track record, and he’s brought countless teams to victories.

Since the cabbie doesn’t seem to want to stop talking, I finally stop grunting and start actually talking to him.

“You know,” I say. “It’s just not like it used to be.”

“What do you mean by that, Dan?” he says. I can tell he hesitates before using my first name, as if he’s nervous about using it. I’m sure he’s going to be telling all his buddies at the bar tonight that he drove me around and we had a great chat and now we’re the best of friends.

“The world, man,” I say. “It’s just… not the same.”

I said I was going to talk, but I didn’t say I was going to talk about football, or what he wanted to talk about.

“Yeah?” he says, clearly puzzled.

“I don’t know,” I say. “I just feel like, what’s it all for, you know? I’m not saying I’m depressed. I mean, far from it. But I just know there’s something missing.”

“Ah,” says the driver, his face lighting up with excitement as if he’s just solved the riddle of the universe. “Women problems, eh?”

“I guess,” I say, vaguely.

“The one that got away, huh?” he says, turning around and giving me a wink.

Despite it being a cliché, I realize that it’s true…

Chloe is the one that got away, the one that I’m never going to forget. She’s the one I’ll always remember, despite the relatively brief time we spent together.

My phone rings.

“I’ve got to get this,” I say to the cabbie, who nods politely.

“Dan here,” I say, answering without checking the caller ID, hoping against hope that it’s someone with some adventure, someone who can lift me out of this dreary fog I find myself in.

“Dan, it’s your dad.”

I groan inwardly. My dad never calls with good news.

“What’s up, Dad?” I say.

“It’s your mom, Dan. She’s not doing well.”

Oh shit.

Suddenly, visions of Chloe’s sick dad from six years ago flash through my mind. I know he died, but I never went to the funeral. I never felt welcome, the way she never returned my calls, texts, emails, or letters.

“What’s going on with her?” I say.

“Nothing too bad,” says my dad. “Don’t get too worried or anything. It’s just that she fell down and hurt her hip.”

“How bad is it?”

“Not too bad, but she’s probably going to have to have surgery.”

“I’m coming home,” I say. “At least for the weekend.” Coach can go screw himself. I don’t care if I have to miss training. Of course, I wouldn’t ever miss a game. But it’s not like there’s a game…

“That’s not necessary, Dan,” says my dad in his formal sounding voice.

“Come off it,” I say. “I’ll be there for the weekend, and I can help out.”

I can picture him nodding on the other end of the line. He reluctantly admits it wouldn’t be such a bad idea. We say goodbye and hang up.

Going home… I haven’t been home for a long, long time. I’ve been too busy with this crazy pro football player lifestyle. Sure, it’s been great. But I’m tired of it… I’m looking for something else.

My mind flashes back to Chloe. Is she still at home? Is she still in her dad’s old house, living there all by herself? What the hell happened to her after all?

I feel a pang of longing and wonder for a moment if maybe I’ll run into her somehow.

Outside the cab, the world looks impossibly dreary. The clouds hang low, looking grey and oppressive. But for a moment I think I catch a ray of sun about to pierce the clouds. Can it make it?