The roar of the crowd was a distant, mocking echo in his mind. Twenty-four hours later, and the brutal finality of that last-second field goal still echoed in his bones. Their field goal. The scoreboard’s burning numbers—17-16—were seared onto the back of his eyelids. Jax groaned, rolling over in his bed, his body aching with a familiar post-game soreness. And something else. Something… off.
His muscles didn’t feel like his own. The usual hard, defined landscape of his chest and abs felt softer, unfamiliar. He blinked his eyes open, the morning light from his window feeling unusually bright. He pushed himself up on his elbows, and a cascade of vibrant red hair fell over his shoulder.
He froze.
That wasn’t his hair. His was dark, cropped short. This was long, thick, and a shocking crimson. He stared at the strands as they curled over the bare skin of his… chest. His very smooth, very prominent chest. With two perfectly formed, perky tits...
“What the hell?” The voice that came out was not his gruff baritone. It was higher, melodic, laced with a shock he felt down to his very core.
He threw the covers back. The strong, hairy legs of a linebacker were gone. In their place were a pair of long, slender, and utterly feminine legs, leading up to a narrow waist and the soft curve of hips. He was wearing his championship game jersey, the number 86 now hanging loose and comically large on a frame that was far too petite.
The memory slammed into him with the force of a blindside tackle. The bar. The cocky stranger with the ancient-looking coin. The bet, made on a drunken, victorious high before the game had even been played. “My team’s skills for your… coin? Whatever, old man. They’re gonna crush them.” The man’s eerie, knowing smile. “No. Not the team’s skills. Your skills. Your talent, your strength… your very physique. Do we have a deal?” Jax had laughed, clinking his beer bottle against the strange coin. “Deal.”
He hadn’t thought of it again. Until now.
Panic, cold and sharp, tried to take hold, but it was quickly smothered by another, more powerful sensation. A deep, throbbing heat was pooling low in his belly, a foreign and insistent ache that demanded attention. He looked down at his new body, at the smooth skin of his stomach, and the strange, slick heat beginning to gather between his legs. The panic melted away, replaced by a burning, all-consuming curiosity.
He stumbled out of bed, the jersey swishing around his thighs, and walked into the kitchen. His reflection in the black glass of the microwave stopped him short. A woman stared back. Wide, green eyes set in a face of delicate features and pale, freckled skin. Full, parted lips. His lips.
The throbbing between his legs intensified, a pulsebeat of pure need. It was unlike any arousal he’d ever felt; deeper, more centralized, a desperate emptiness begging to be filled.
Without another thought, he grabbed the hem of his panties letting them fall to the cold tile floor. The jersey soon followed...
He sat there naked, a beautiful stranger in his kitchen. The cool air pebbled his nipples, sending a sharp jolt of sensation straight to that aching core. He leaned back against the kitchen counter, the cold granite a shock against the warm skin of his lower back.
His hands... slender, with neatly trimmed nails... shook as he brought them up. He cupped his new breasts, his breath catching at the electric sensation. They were so sensitive, the weight of them a new and thrilling discovery. His thumbs brushed over the taut peaks of his nipples, and a soft, involuntary moan escaped his lips. His lips. The sound was so feminine, so wanton, it only fueled the fire.
One hand trailed down, over the flat plane of his stomach, through the surprisingly dense patch of red curls, and lower. His fingers hesitated for only a second before dipping into the slick heat. A gasp, loud in the quiet kitchen. He was so wet, so ready. This new body was a live wire, every touch magnified, every sensation dialed up to an impossible degree.
He found the center of the ache, a swollen, hyper-sensitive nub. The moment his fingertip made contact, his legs nearly buckled. A shockwave of pleasure, so intense it was almost painful, radiated outwards. He cried out, his other hand gripping the edge of the counter for support.
He began to move his finger in slow, experimental circles. Oh god. The pleasure was a crescendo, building with a speed and intensity his old body could never have achieved. Every nerve ending was on fire. He added a second finger, sliding them effortlessly into the tight, clutching warmth of himself. The feeling of being filled, of the gentle friction, made his head fall back.
His breathing became ragged, his hips beginning to move of their own accord, meeting the thrust of his fingers. The world narrowed to this countertop, to the slick sounds filling the kitchen, to the overwhelming sensations coursing through him. He was chasing something, a peak he could feel looming, a tension coiling tightly in his core.
He moved his hand faster, his circling thumb never leaving that desperate, throbbing center. The coil tightened, tightened, so tight he thought he might break. Images flashed behind his eyes: the stranger’s smile, the roaring stadium, the cascade of red hair over his shoulder, the incredible feeling of his own breasts in his hands.
“F-fuck,” he whimpered, the word a broken, high-pitched sound.
And then it broke. The climax tore through him, a silent scream on his lips as his body bowed against the counter. Pleasure, raw and absolute, flooded every cell, wave after wave of exquisite contraction rippling through him, milking his fingers. His knees gave out completely, and he slumped against the cabinets, panting, shuddering, utterly spent.
He lay there on the cool floor, a blissful numbness seeping into his limbs. He slowly pulled his fingers out, staring at them, glistening in the morning light. A deep, languid warmth settled in his bones. The fear, the confusion about what came next, about who he was now… it was all there, waiting at the edges of his mind. But for this one, perfect moment, it was distant. Secondary.
A slow, genuinely happy smile spread across his new face. He brought his fingers to his mouth, his tongue darting out to taste the unique, musky-sweet flavor of his own release. His green eyes fluttered shut.
His thoughts of football faded quickly as his hand reached between his thighs for another round...
