The scene was set. The Dunphy living room, a familiar arena for digital humiliation. Phil, still nursing the psychic wounds from his NBA 2K demolition, had spent the week preparing. He'd watched YouTube tutorials. He'd practiced his audibles. He was ready.
"Alright, Marco," Phil said, gripping his controller with the intensity of a surgeon. "This is my turf. Football. A true American classic. No fancy international soccer rules here."
Marco, lounging on the couch like he owned it, smirked. "Jefe, you picked the wrong guy for this. My abuelo raised me on two things: fútbol, and Madden."
Alex, sitting on the armrest with a textbook she'd given up on reading, sighed. "Dad, are you sure about this?"
"Positive, sweetie! This is a game of strategy! Of intellect!" Phil declared.
***
Phil, playing as the Chicago Bears, started strong. He executed a surprisingly competent running game, chewing up the clock and marching down the field for an early touchdown.
"YES! TOUCHDOWN, BEARS!" Phil yelled, jumping up and doing a little shuffle. "See that, Marco? That's called execution!"
Marco, who had chosen the Kansas City Chiefs, just nodded calmly. "Nice drive, Phil. Real nice. Let's see how you do on defense."
What followed was a masterclass in virtual quarterbacking. Marco's Patrick Mahomes became an unstoppable force of nature. No-look passes, impossible scrambles, Hail Marys that landed perfectly in his receiver's hands. Phil's defense, which had looked so solid moments before, fell apart like wet tissue paper.
Halftime Score: Chiefs 28, Bears 10.
Phil was sweating. "Okay, okay. Just need to adjust my defensive coverage. Maybe more zone…"
The second half was a bloodbath. Marco intercepted a pass from Phil's quarterback and returned it for a touchdown.
"PICK SIX! SEE YA!" Marco shouted, leaping off the couch and spiking his controller onto the cushion like a football. "THE CROWD IS GOING WILD!"
Phil looked horrified. "That's my good controller!"
The final nail in the coffin came with thirty seconds left. Marco, up by three touchdowns, decided to go for a field goal from the one-yard line instead of just kneeling to end the game.
"Marco, what are you doing? The game's over!" Alex said.
"Gotta pad the stats, mami!" he replied, nailing the kick as the clock hit zero.
Final Score: Chiefs 45, Bears 17.
Marco exploded.
He launched into a full-blown, championship-winning celebration. He ran a victory lap around the coffee table, shouting, "UNDEFEATED! THEY SAID I COULDN'T DO IT! THEY DOUBTED ME!"
He slid on his knees toward the television, arms spread wide. "CANT STOP ME! I AM THE GREATEST OF ALL TIME! PHIL DUNPHY, YOU JUST GOT YOURSELF A ONE-WAY TICKET TO OBSCURITY!"
He then ran over to a stunned Phil, grabbed his shoulders, and shook him gently. "YOU PUT UP A HELL OF A FIGHT, OLD MAN! A HELL OF A FIGHT! BUT THERE CAN BE ONLY ONE KING!"
Phil just stared, his mouth agape.
Claire, who had come downstairs to see what the screaming was about, watched from the doorway with her arms crossed. "Is he… okay?"
Alex buried her face in her hands. "He's just… being Marco."
Finally, Marco collapsed back onto the couch, chest heaving, a triumphant grin plastered on his face. He looked at Phil, who was still processing the emotional trauma.
"Good game, Phil. Really. You almost had me there in the first quarter."
Phil slowly placed his controller on the table. "I'm never playing with you again."
Marco's grin widened. "That's what they all say."
———
"Okay, mami. Be honest. Did you forget what I look like without one of my idiot friends or one of your weird relatives around?"
Alex smirked, sliding into the worn vinyl booth. The bar Marco had driven them to was deep in his neighborhood, a place where the jukebox played more salsa than pop and the air smelled like decades of beer and fried food. "It's been a minute," she admitted. "I was starting to think you only existed as part of a chaotic group."
"Nah, tonight it's just you and me," Marco said, his knee bumping hers under the small table. "And maybe like, eight guys I know."
As if on cue, a large man with a tattoo of a luchador mask on his forearm clapped Marco on the shoulder as he passed. "Oye, Rivera! ¿Qué onda?"
"Nada, carnal. Date night," Marco replied with a casual chin nod.
The man looked at Alex, gave a respectful nod, and moved on. Alex just shook her head, taking a sip of her coke. "You know everyone, don't you?"
"Everyone is a strong word. I know… the important people." He grinned. "C'mon. We're playing pool."
He led her to a dimly lit corner where a scarred, green-felted pool table stood under a low-hanging light. He fed quarters into the slot, and the balls clattered into place.
"Alright, Dunphy. Rematch. You ready to get schooled?"
Marco broke with a powerful, precise crack, sinking a solid ball immediately. "Stripes," he declared, already circling the table.
What followed was less a game and more a masterclass. Marco called every shot, his movements fluid and effortless. He didn't just sink balls; he did it with flair—bank shots, combinations, putting insane English on the cue ball to set up his next move. He was showboating, and he was glorious at it.
Alex leaned on her cue, mostly just watching him work. "You know, most people take it easy on their girlfriend."
"That's insulting," he said, not looking up as he lined up a tricky cut shot. "You think you need me to go easy? You're a genius. Figure it out." He sank the ball with a clean thup.
It was when only the 8-ball and two of her solids remained on the table that he finally paused. He chalked his cue and walked over to her.
"Okay, your turn."
"My turn? Marco, you've run the table. I haven't taken a shot."
"Exactly. So take one." He stood behind her, his chest to her back, and guided her hands on the cue. "See the 3-ball? It's lined up with the corner pocket. But you gotta hit it soft, with a little low English, or you'll scratch."
His voice was low in her ear, all traces of his usual boisterousness gone, replaced by a focused, patient teacher's tone. She followed his instructions, her shot hesitant. The 3-ball wobbled, teetered on the edge of the pocket, and dropped in.
She gasped, a genuine thrill shooting through her. "I did it!"
"We did it," he corrected, a smile in his voice. He didn't move away, his hands still over hers. "Okay, now the 5-ball. It's a straight shot, but you gotta hit it firm. Don't overthink it."
She took a breath, pulled the cue back, and struck. The 5-ball shot straight into the side pocket.
"YES!" she exclaimed, turning to face him, her face lit up with triumph.
He laughed, kissing her quickly. "See? You're a natural."
Of course, he then sank the 8-ball on his next turn, winning the game. He celebrated by pulling her into a hug and spinning her around once, right there in the middle of the bar, earning a few whistles from his friends.
"You still lost, mami!" he said, setting her down.
"I scored two balls," she retorted, breathless and smiling. "That's a moral victory."
"Nah, that's me being a good coach." He slung an arm around her shoulders as they walked back to their booth. "But for real, you did good. Next time, I might actually have to try."
She nudged him with her hip. "You were trying tonight."
"Nah," he said, his grin back in full force. "That was just me warming up."