I dress up like a doctor and summon the players to my office.

The space is small and their muscular bodies rub up against one another, their sweat beads unifying to form a musk that is half man, half Gatorade.

The room reeks of pheromones.

“Fellas,” I say throatily. “I’ve got good news for you. I ran a slew of tests and despite years of sustaining repeated, violent blows to the head and enduring multiple concussions, none of you are suffering from or likely to develop CTE.”

The players erupt into cheers. The cheers transition into moans as the celebration turns sensual. Lust overtakes the room as the players begin to kiss. Chastely at first, then with a ferocity usually saved for fourth-and-goal.

They kiss for so long and with such passion that the team collectively decides to take a cue from Andrew Luck, hang up their helmets and retire from the sport altogether. They pledge to devote their newfound free time to kissing each other and campaigning against youth tackle football.

My team wins the game.

I rush the field to congratulate them, but they surprise me by lifting me overhead and chanting my name as they propel me towards the locker room.

If it weren’t for the Herculean effort I put forth in encouraging them, they explain, they never would have been able to achieve such high levels of athletic excellence.

The players deliver me to their tastefully lit and sumptuously decorated locker room where they have thoughtfully sprinkled a dusting of rose petals. They offer me tea, then depart, leaving me alone with only my thoughts, a state-of-the-art hot tub and a massage therapist paid to attend to my every whim.

I wake up in bed next to Colin Kaepernick.

He rolls over and nuzzles his head into the crook of my neck.

“Hey,” Colin Kaepernick murmurs into my hair. “The NFL called while you were sleeping. They acknowledged that this country has a legitimate issue with law enforcement officers brutalizing people of color and apologized for punishing me for advocating on behalf of my community. Then they offered me a quarterback position on whichever team I want and an offensively large salary. I told them I’d have to take a few weeks and think it over. Normally I would say yes immediately, but sex with you has convinced me that my time could be better spent engaging in more pleasurable and rewarding activities.”

“That’s amazing and also understandable given my noted sexual prowess,” I say. Then we hunker down in bed and spend all day binging on chips and old episodes of “Project Runway.”

My team wins the Super Bowl. “We’re number one!” I cheer.

The team wheels around. “No,” they respond. “YOU’RE number one.”

Then they offer to pool their multi-million dollar salaries to pay off all of my debt.

I’m house-sitting for a friend at their beautiful, remote lake house.

I’m all alone and feeling vulnerable when the starting lineup for the Minnesota Vikings files into the living room.

The team stares at me. I stare back.

One of the tight ends pushes me onto the sofa, grabs my wrists and handcuffs them to a nearby side table. Then he and his teammates offer me patient but thorough instructions on how to use the TV remote, with which I’ve been struggling for over an hour.

It’s a nail-biter of a game.

We’re down to the final ten seconds of play and our team trails by two points. We bring out our kicker to attempt a field goal, but he keels over, felled by an aggressive leg cramp.

The team is rattled, but maintains composure. We dispatch our secret weapon, two-time FIFA World Cup soccer champion Carli Lloyd. She takes aim and shoots the ball handily between the uprights, securing the win.

The field floods as one by one, the rest of the U.S. Women’s National Team emerges to congratulate Carli and the rest of the players. Alex Morgan mimics sipping tea and nobody bullies her online for it.

Megan Rapinoe takes a break from casually juggling three footballs with her feet to embrace me. “Just so you know,” she whispers fiercely into my ear. “We’re still not going to the fucking White House.”

I dissolve into a sustained climax that carries me through until next year’s football season.