INT. A FANCY OFFICE WAITING ROOM, HIGH ABOVE MEMORIAL STADIUM
A young woman sits on the edge of a plush leather chair, looking around in barely concealed wonder at the opulent surroundings. The walls are adorned with artwork depicting Husker Football players and moments from their glorious past. There are trophies gleaming in stunning beams of crystalline light.
The young woman in the chair is HUSKÉ FANN. She is in a female business suit that fits her well, even if it is in contrast to the lavish settings around her. The suit itself was likely extremely impressive a long time ago, probably at its best in the mid-1990s, before growing a little out of date and fading slightly in spite of several high price alterations in more recent years.
A secretary sits at the desk, idly scrolling through something on her computer that looks like recruiting rankings. The phone on her desk rings. She picks it up and murmurs something into it.
Ms. Fann? Mr. Scarlet will see you now.
Ms. FANN adjusts her blouse and then swallows, noticably nervous.
Large, gilded doors to an office open, seemingly moving entirely on their own.
Go ahead, please.
FANN stands up, hands subconsciously smoothing her dress as she shuffles her papers and begins walking. She notices words etched into the doorframe.
CLOSE UP: THE DOORFRAME
The inscription reads “Through these gates pass the greatest fantasies in all of college football”.
INT. AN OPULENT, IF COLD OFFICE OVERLOOKING MEMORIAL STADIUM
Seated behind a giant desk is none other than OSBORNE SCARLET.
An imposing figure, even with his back partially turned, he seems to fill the room with his presence, towering above the suddenly diminutive FANN. His broad shoulders lead down to swollen arms, his thick arms filling out a tight white shirt. His chest is puffed, large and wide, filling his outfit out easily. His boyish face appears to run at odds with his large body.
He looks exactly like this:
He gestures with one hand to an expensive office chair on the opposite side of his desk. Saying nothing further, he turns around fully, his large dark eyes seeming to stare into the depths of her soul, echoing somewhere in the 4-chambered canyon of her heart.
She sits down quickly. Wrenching her eyes away from his, to fumble at her supplies.
Thank you for meeting with me, Mr. Scarl–
(He interrupts. His voice is low, muffled almost)
Do you know why you’re here? Ms. Fann?
Please, Mr. Scarlet. Call me Huské. All my friends do…
Are we…friends, Huské?
We…Well, people like us have to stick together.
EXT. A SINGLE BOLT OF LIGHTNING CRASHES ABOVE THE STADIUM
FANN jumps in her chair and involuntarily lets out a laugh.
…In all types of weather, apparently.
A smile eases itself onto her face, starting in the corners of her mouth, before leaping like spark to flame across her red lips.
(Suddenly very aware of her giddiness. She coughs slightly)
I came here because I’m directly comparing the 1995 Husker team to
the upcoming group without any thought or adjustment to the
shifting demographics both in college football and the United States.
Furthermore, I’m going to throw out things like adjusting for scholarship
limits or revenue sharing. Just a good, old fashioned comparison of–
What are you, Huské, some kind of glutton for punishment?
What? I don’t think it’s too much for me to ask for a return to dominance.
Dominance. Now that is something truly interesting…
(Slightly embarrassed, blushing)
I…I beg your pardon? What does that have to do with football?
With my question?
One moment. Let me slip into something a little
He steps back and begins to sensually unzip the back of his overalls. A hideously loud deflating noise emanates from the suit, that of a balloon that’s only partially being opened to make a resounding fart noise that’s extremely popular with 5-year-olds.
FANN stares in open-mouthed shock, her jaw nearly unhinging like a snake from an Animal Planet show.
SCARLET slips out of his suit revealing a roguishly square jawline, a warm shock of brown hair, and a stunning smile. He grins and adjusts his red polo shirt that fits snugly on his tanned, muscled arms.
FANN clicks her mouth shut with an audible snap of her teeth.
SMASH CUT TO:
EXTREME CLOSE-UP OF FANN’S FACE.
Desire spreads gently across her face. An easy, warm tide coming in. Skin flushing slightly as twin fires alight in her eyes, kindling for the flames she feels building inside. She smiles instinctively, porcelain teeth flashing briefly, a human pilot light flicking on, desirous from the onset.
Zayn Malik and Taylor Swift start singing in the background about doing it.
SCARLET sits down at the desk and puts his feet up on the top. They’re giant, clod-hoppingly large brown feet.
So, as I was saying. I was hoping you could help answer a few
questions about the Husker football team this year.
(Leaning forward abruptly and taking her hands in
his Adidas-gloved fingers)
Are you sure this is what you want?
Wha–what do you mean?
This. You don’t want to ask these questions, do you?
I want answers. I need them.
Once we go down this road, Huské, there won’t be any going back.
Not unless you say the safe word. Did you get my legally
binding agreement about our. . .arrangements. . .for the day?
(She slides a signed document over to him.)
The safe word is, “Panico”, per our agreement.
(Suddenly shedding the brooding,
Edward-Cullen-fan-fiction-acting ass for a
Yeah. You know what? That’s actually a really good safe word.
Nothing stops momentum dead in its tracks quite like “Panico”.
He pushes a button on his desk.
Ms. Newcombe? Make a note to finally retire the safe word “Cosgrove”.
I’ve got an idea courtesy of our new friend, here.
FANN stirs in her seat. A palpable change in the room seems to spring from the very mention of Cosgrove.
(Noticing the change in her demeanor)
Oh, does that name cause you pain?
Of course. But I still enjoy talking about it. It’s strange…
Well then surely you must know that bringing this up,
dwelling in the past can do nothing but cause you pain.
Unless, of course, you kind of like it…
Look, if I want to call in to a local radio station and remind everyone that the Tanner Lee only completed 52% of his passes as a sophomore at Tulane? That’s not asking for it.
My, my, my…You do like it, don’t you? You’re only happy when you’re miserable…
Why, that’s anything but true! And I resent the implication.
She stands up and starts to head for the door.
So, you’re telling me you don’t want me to pull out my infographic
of arbitrary statistical anomalies that enable me to show how
superior Bo Pelini was in his first 2-years to Mike Riley?
(Still shuffling towards the door)
That’s perfectly reasonable to ask those questions.
Now, I’m out. Of. Here. This is over, whatever this was to begin with. I want my paperwork back, too. Send it to my office.
Oh, that’s fine. Maybe you are choosing to be happy.
(He raises her papers up in the air)
I’ll see that you receive your documents back, fully. Full back.
(stopping at the door. Eyes widening. In a throaty whisper)
Did you say, “Fullback?”
(Devious grin spreading across his face)
Why? That wouldn’t be something you would want more of, is it?
(Breathing heavily, she licks her lips)
This feels like a trap. A fullback trap.
I would never trap you. I always give options. In fact,
I always give you triple. . .options.
(Suddenly looking dizzy, she shakes her head
to try to clear her mind, briefly)
I can’t do this. I came here as a favor for a friend, to talk to you,
and this has all gotten very intense very quickly. It’s almost like a love
story that was written by a really terrible author. Now if you’ll excuse me
She turns once more and puts her hand on the door handle.
Should I not tell you about the run/pass ratio, then?
FANN stops, her face suddenly fully intrigued once again.
She turns around slowly…
Is the ratio 50/50?
Instinctually, Fann takes another step back towards SCARLET.
55% pass, 45 run?
(Smiling wolfenly. Pausing for effect
after each word)
60. 40. Pass.
She stops just a few steps away from him, breath caught in her suddenly heaving chest.
It hasn’t been that high since…
They both lock eyes.
Taylor Swift and Zayn Malik start signing about doing it. Again.
FANN looks directly at SCARLET, almost pleading with him.
Don’t. Don’t say it…
Yes. The highest since Bill Callahan.
She slaps him on the face. Hard. They kiss passionately.