Watching the Game The New World of SwapTech chapter 3 by deleted_user

Sunday afternoon. Wings on the coffee table. Beer in the cooler. Crumbs in the couch cushions. Three Weller men, sprawled across the living room like roadkill, watched the pregame warm-ups on Frank’s 72-inch flatscreen with all the joy of a tax audit.

“Back in my day,” Frank grunted, “cheerleaders didn’t look like strippers.”

“Back in your day, the TV was black and white,” said Derek, thirty-four, flannel-shirted, balding. He was built from his lifting days, but gave it up around the time his ex-wife took the squat rack in the divorce.

Kyle, thirty and baby-faced, had his feet on the ottoman and his hand down his sweatpants.

He smirked and fished a silver gadget out of the pocket of his hoodie. “You guys are so boring.”

Frank squinted. “What’s that? A vape?”

“It’s the TVT Remote,” Kyle said. “Brand new. Top-of-the-line immersion tech. Point it at the screen, hit the button, and you literally become the person on TV. Just for a little while.”

Derek scoffed. “Bullshit.”

Frank took a long swig of beer. “Only thing you’re gonna become is unemployed if you keep spending money on dumbass toys.”

“Watch this,” Kyle said, aiming the remote.

The screen showed the field: a quarterback calling audibles at the line.

“I’m gonna step into his shoes,” Kyle grinned. He pressed the button.

WHOMP.

A ripple burst from the TV.

Kyle vanished.

The remote dropped to the floor with a dull thunk.

“Jesus Christ!” Derek shouted, leaping to his feet.

Frank’s eyes widened. “Did he just—what the fuck just happened?”

“Holy shit, I think it worked.” Derek crouched, picking up the remote. “He just—went into the TV?”

Onscreen, the broadcast cut from the quarterback to a gaggle of cheerleaders lining up for their halftime routine. Camera zoomed in tight on one of them: petite, tan, raven-haired, with big D-cups bouncing under a glittery navy-blue halter top. Her skirt swished as she clapped her pom-poms and beamed straight into the camera.

And then—she blinked. Looked confused. Her smile faltered. She glanced down at her chest. Then screamed.

The mic didn’t catch it, but her lips clearly formed: “WHAT THE FUCK?!”

Derek’s jaw dropped.

The cheerleader stumbled out of formation, looking around like a trapped animal. The broadcast didn’t follow her, but for a split second, the camera lingered on her backside as she bolted—plump, jiggly, tight-skirted—and then cut away to an ad for nacho cheese.

Back in the living room, silence.

Frank muttered, “If that was Kyle…”

“It was,” Derek said, stunned. “He aimed at the quarterback… but the feed cut early. He must’ve landed in the cheerleader.”

Frank’s eyes narrowed. “So you're saying my idiot son just body-hopped into a goddamn pom-pom floozy?”

Onscreen, the game resumed. But the camera didn’t show the cheerleaders again. Somewhere in that stadium, Kyle was trapped—wearing panties and trying not to flash a thousand fans every time she moved.

Derek picked up the remote. “What if we can pull him back?”

Frank crossed his arms. “Or leave him there. Might build some character.”