[Shawn Celebrity Dead Match Part 1]

Part 1 – “The Night Before the VMAs”

“You take me places that tear up my reputation… manipulate my decisions… there’s nothing holdin’ me back.”

I strummed the guitar in front of the mirror, letting my voice bounce off the walls of Sabrina’s apartment. I tilted my chin just right, watching how the light caught the angles of my face, the perfect jawline that made girls scream since 2015. Still had it. Still Shawn Mendes. Pop’s golden boy.

And yet… I set the guitar down and glanced at the TV across the room. The chart glowed like a curse. Billboard Hot 100, updated. Ten slots across the top, every single one of them women. Taylor. Olivia. Doja. Ariana. Sabrina. My Sabrina, perched right there at #1, her smug little photo staring at me like she already knew she’d beaten me. Camila was #2, my ex. All women. All of them above me. I scrolled down and down until finally—there I was. Number fifty. Fifty! Shawn Mendes, global superstar, Grammy-nominated, arena-selling, Calvin Klein-model body, shoved under a pile of girl power ballads and TikTok hits.

“No men in the top 10,” I muttered, my throat tightening as the words came out. It felt like blasphemy. Like the universe itself was playing some kind of feminist prank.

From the couch, Sabrina sipped her iced latte, her legs tucked under her in oversized sweats that she somehow made look fashionable. She looked up, her lips twitching into that smirk that always made me feel like I was the butt of the joke. “Of course, babe. The era of male artists is done.” She laughed. Actually laughed.

I snapped my head toward her, glaring. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

She set her cup down, eyes sparkling with mockery. “It means exactly what I said. Look at you. You stand there with a guitar, strum three chords, and girls scream. Meanwhile, female artists are out here staging full productions — choreography, visuals, vocals, concepts — and we still get asked if we ‘write our own songs.’”

Her words sliced through me, sharper than any guitar string. I clenched my jaw, trying to hold on to my composure.

“And you know what’s even funnier?” she went on, voice rising with each barb. “Male artists are praised for being ‘sensitive’ just for writing about heartbreak. Women do the same and suddenly we’re ‘too emotional,’ ‘too dramatic,’ or ‘crazy ex-girlfriends.’ Funny how that works, huh?”

I swallowed. My hands curled into fists.

She leaned forward, elbows on her knees, never letting me breathe. “The teenage girls who used to scream at boys like you? They’ve grown up. They don’t want some pretty boy crooning with a guitar anymore. They want idols who reflect their identity, who tell their stories. They’ve realized screaming for boys is just feeding egos. Now they scream for each other — for women who own the stage.”

My chest tightened. My palms felt clammy.

She tilted her head, twisting the knife one more time. “You call yourself an artist, but your whole career is ‘tall, handsome guy with guitar.’ Female artists have to constantly reinvent, prove ourselves, survive industry politics, and still look flawless. We don’t get the luxury of being ‘just a vibe.’”

“Shut up, Sab!” My voice cracked, a pathetic squeak that didn’t match the booming masculinity I wanted. I turned back to the mirror, staring at my reflection like it might reassure me. “Can you just be supportive for once?”

She chuckled, low and condescending. “I am being supportive. I’m telling you the truth. You need to reinvent yourself, like I did. I had flop albums too, but I grew, I worked harder. Men don’t get credit anymore for being basic. You want success? Earn it.”

I felt something snap inside me. The kind of snapping that happened when my dad used to shout, when John Mayer used to tell me over whiskey that “women respect a man who puts them in their place.” The words boiled in my throat until I couldn’t hold them back.

“Are you done?” I spat. “Because you know what? We’re done!” I stood up, six-foot-two of pop-star masculinity towering over her. “I don’t take crap from women. No, I’m Shawn fucking Mendes. I headline stadiums. I’m on magazine covers. I’ve had entire arenas of girls screaming my name. You think you can sit there and mock me? I made you, Sabrina. Without me, you’d just be some Disney dropout.”

The misogynistic bile poured out like lava. In my head, I justified every word. Women were supposed to admire me, not outshine me. Men were meant to be kings, not court jesters to a bunch of girls with microphones. My dad taught me that. John Mayer confirmed it. And I believed it with every muscle in my sculpted body.

Her eyes narrowed, lips curling into a smile that chilled me. “Wow. You dump me because you can’t take my success. I knew you were fragile, but this? This is man-child territory.”

“Don’t call me that.”

“Oh, I will. Because you are. You can’t even make your own bed, Shawn. You stare at yourself in the mirror more than any girl I know. Pathetic. You think you’re some tortured genius? You’re just a man-child. That song I wrote, Manchild? Surprise. It wasn’t about Barry. It was about you. You. Shawn Mendes, the sore loser with the biggest ego and the smallest—well.” She paused for effect, her eyes flicking downward with brutal precision. “You know what I mean.”

My ears burned.

“And don’t forget,” she continued mercilessly, “when you caught your dick in your zipper last summer? You cried for twenty minutes. I had to ice it for you. That’s who you are. A grown man who needs his girlfriend to babysit his anatomy. Your dick is as messed up as your brain.” She laughed. “I should’ve let you bleed out. Maybe then you’d finally learn not to worship your reflection so much.”

Rage thundered through me. My fists clenched. My chest heaved. I was Shawn Mendes, damn it. I was a man. A man. My father always said a real man doesn’t take lip from a woman. Mayer said women respect control. I could almost hear their voices in my head.

I stepped closer, looming over her, using every inch of my height to intimidate. I cornered her against the wall, bracing my arm beside her head, glaring down like I was the master of the universe. “Can you stop humiliating me?” My voice cracked halfway through, but I tried to mask it with a growl.

She smirked, unfazed. “Nope. It’s too funny. You’re a man-child with a pathetic organ. What, did your dad teach you men are strong? That you can scare women with your big body? Don’t you know your height just makes your precious jewels line up perfectly with my knee? Perfect position”

I blinked. “Position for what?”

Her grin widened. “For this.”

The world slowed. Her knee rose like a piston, fast, merciless, and unstoppable.

Impact

The sound hit first — a dull, sickening thunk that vibrated through my spine. For a split second, my brain refused to process it. Then the pain detonated, white-hot, electric, shooting through my abdomen like lightning.

Air whooshed out of me in one violent gust. My mouth opened wide, but no words came. Just a strangled wheeze, like a balloon deflating. My confident smirk crumbled, twisted into shock. My eyes bulged, my jaw slackened, my pupils flickered like a computer crashing.

Six-foot-two of Shawn Mendes folded like a cheap lawn chair. My shoulders hunched, my knees buckled, my hands flew down, instinctively clutching myself. I wasn’t a pop star anymore — I was a puppet with its strings cut.

I stumbled sideways, legs crossing awkwardly, balance gone. My hip smacked into the edge of her table, nearly toppling the latte she’d set down. My voice, mid-protest, cut off with a pitiful “—ughkkk!”

Sweat erupted across my skin. One second I was boiling, the next I was freezing. My body couldn’t decide.

Finally, sound clawed its way up my throat. A high-pitched, squeaky shriek that shattered what little dignity I had left. “MY BALLS!”

Tears gushed from my eyes, unstoppable, uninvited. Not sobbing, just the humiliating reflex, streams rolling down my cheeks.

I crouched, doubled over, one hand clutching the wall for balance, the other glued to my jeans. I rocked back and forth like a giant toddler who’d fallen off the jungle gym.

I tried to straighten, to salvage some shred of pride, but every time I lifted my chest, another tsunami of pain pulsed upward, dragging me back down with a whimper. My breath came in squeaks, half-moans, half-cries.

Inside my head, it felt like my soul was clawing its way out of my body, abandoning me for good. Outwardly? I probably looked like a giant, red-faced idiot crumpled on the carpet.

I looked up, watery-eyed, only to see her smirk. She bent down just enough to whisper: “Hush, hush, big guy. Wait outside. See you tomorrow at the VMAs… if you can walk.”

And then she shoved my big, broken body out of her apartment, letting the door slam shut behind me.

Part 2 – “Live at the VMAs”

I wore my VMA costume. God, even calling it a “costume” felt wrong — it was supposed to be an outfit, an ensemble. But when I looked in the mirror, all I saw was a guy who looked like he’d lost a bet at a frat party. The white  shirt was untucked, hanging like laundry I’d grabbed off the floor. Wrinkled. Sloppy. The collar gaped open, buttons undone because I thought that made me look like a rock god, but the more I stared, the more it made me look like an unpaid intern sneaking free drinks at the afterparty. Around my neck, a red striped tie dangled. Crooked, loose, like it had strangled me halfway and then given up. The light blue jeans pinched me in the worst spot — right where Sabrina’s knee had introduced herself the night before. Every step made me remember. Every shuffle reminded me my body had a new enemy: denim.

I kept clutching my groin, trying to adjust, to find some angle where the jeans didn’t feel like a vice grip. Impossible. I walked like a man trying not to crap his pants, and I knew it. The pain radiated like electricity, a private thunderstorm between my thighs.

And of course, the first people I saw in the audience seats were Joshua Bassett, John Mayer, and Harry Styles. All of us in denim, some weird accidental “boyband dad-chic.” Harry looked like he was born on a runway. John had that smug, aged rocker aura. Joshua looked like an innocent choir boy in a denim jacket. And me? I looked like their accountant who’d shown up late.

When I finally sat down, Joshua glanced at me, squinting. “Why you walking like that?” His tone was casual, but I felt exposed, like he’d seen through my entire act.

I sighed and leaned closer. “If I tell you, promise me you won’t tell anyone. Especially John, okay?” I whispered. He nodded eagerly, curls bouncing like a puppy.

I lowered my voice. “Sabrina kicked my balls last night. After I dumped her.”

Joshua’s mouth dropped open. “Shit!” He immediately clutched his own groin in sympathy. That’s the unspoken brotherhood of men — one man goes down, and the rest of us feel the phantom ache. I saw his eyes glaze, like he was reliving some middle school accident with a soccer ball.

And as he sat there grimacing, an old memory flickered in my brain. My father. Manuel Mendes. I was maybe seven. I’d come into the living room and found him on the floor, groaning, clutching himself, sweat pouring down his forehead. I didn’t know what had happened — I never remembered if it was my mom, or some neighborhood kid, or maybe a random accident. But I remembered his words, gasped through clenched teeth as I stood frozen by the doorway: “Your balls are your greatest strength, son. Protect them. They make you a man.” I’d carried that like gospel ever since. Now it haunted me.

“I’m going to be okay,” I muttered to Joshua, mostly convincing myself. “But women… they need to stop making our balls a joke.”

Joshua tilted his head. “Uh—”

“You know what pisses me off, Josh?” I cut him off, my voice low, dramatic, like I was about to deliver a manifesto. “The way women — Hollywood, media, the whole machine — keep making fun of men getting kicked in the balls. Like it’s comedy gold or something. Like my anatomy is a goddamn punchline.”

I leaned forward, stabbing the air with my finger like I was in court defending civilization itself. “Every movie, man. You notice it? The hero gets taken down, what happens? BAM — some girl knees him in the crotch. Everyone laughs. It’s cheap. It’s lazy writing. And it’s humiliating. Humiliating to all men. They’ve normalized making male pain into a joke.”

Joshua blinked. He nodded, but I couldn’t tell if it was agreement or just fear.

“And don’t even get me started on female directors,” I continued, feeling my voice rise. Heat crawled up my neck. “They love that shot. They live for it. ‘Oh, wouldn’t it be empowering if the heroine wins with a nut shot?’ No! It’s cliché! It’s sexist, Josh. It’s misandry. They talk about the male gaze, but what about the male groin? Huh? What about our dignity? Where’s our movement?”

I slapped my palm against my jeans for emphasis. Instantly regretted it. A bolt of pain shot up my spine. I winced but powered through, pretending it was passion, not agony.

“This has to stop,” I declared, leaning closer, lowering my tone like I was whispering forbidden truth. “Hollywood should stop using it. Women should stop making fun of it. We are more than just… balls, Josh. We are artists. We are men.”

Joshua scratched the back of his head, eyes darting. “Yeah, man. Totally. That’s, uh… deep.” He offered a nervous smile. “I’m gonna remember that. You’re my idol.”

I sat back, nodding solemnly, convincing myself I’d just altered the course of history. Inside, I told myself I sounded like a revolutionary, not a pop star whining about his nuts.

Then the stage manager tapped my shoulder. “Shawn, you’re up.”

I stood, trying to rise like a king, but the jeans bit me again and I stumbled forward with a limp. Joshua half-rose to help, but I waved him off. “I’m fine,” I hissed, even as my thighs felt like they were filled with broken glass.

Backstage, I saw her. Sabrina. She stood in sequins that glittered under the lights, her hair perfect, her smirk sharper than ever.

“You ready for our medley?” she asked sweetly. Her tone dripped sarcasm.

“I’ll still perform,” I snapped. “You think you can take me down with one cheap shot? I’m Shawn Mendes. I’m a professional.”

She laughed. Actually laughed. “Don’t cry on stage, Shawn. People can hear you squeak when you’re in pain, you know. Like last night. Oh, and that walk? Iconic. Limping like a wounded horse in skinny jeans. Very rockstar.”

“Shut up,” I muttered, but my face burned.

“Seriously,” she went on, circling me like a shark. “Don’t embarrass yourself. You know the crowd doesn’t forgive weakness. They smell it. And you? You reek of it. You reek of man-child energy.”

“I’m fine!” I insisted. “I’ll show everyone I’m still the star.”

She leaned close, whispering in my ear. “Stars don’t cry about their balls, Shawn. Try to remember that.” Then she flicked my tie straight like I was a child before smirking and walking away.

 

I clenched my fists so tight the knuckles popped like cracking wood. My pulse hammered in my ears. This was it. My redemption arc. My comeback. My proof that I was still the star, not Sabrina, not any of the other women on the charts. Me. Shawn Mendes. And no amount of throbbing pain between my legs was going to take that away.

When my name was announced, I forced myself into a strut, guitar slung low across my body like a weapon. The lights were blinding, cameras zooming in on me from every angle. Millions of eyes on me. This was my gladiator moment. My chance to rise above humiliation.

I winked at the camera. Too wide. Too desperate. I flipped my curls, shaking my head like a shampoo commercial, and then planted my boots in a macho stance, legs spread wide. Way too wide. All I’d really done was spotlight the exact area I hoped no one would think about. My swollen, aching groin screamed in protest.

The crowd cheered — polite, restrained. Then came a ripple of laughter, low but unmistakable. A strange undercurrent that slithered through the arena. My stomach flipped. Did they already sense weakness? Did they already smell blood in the water? Or worse — did they smell fear?

I swallowed hard and grabbed the mic. My fingers slipped with sweat.

“I thought that I’d been hurt before,” I sang. My voice came out steady at first, too steady, like I was clinging to normalcy by a thread.

“But no one’s ever left me quite this sore…”

The irony stabbed at me, but I forced myself on.

“Your words cut deeper than a knife…”

As the words left my mouth, the pain started pulsing in rhythm with the drums. My groin throbbed like it was keeping tempo. Every beat squeezed tighter, like invisible fists twisting me from the inside. Sweat poured down my temples way too early — not the sexy, glistening sweat of a rock god, but the clammy, panicked sweat of a man about to faint in line at the DMV.

I caught myself on the jumbo screen overhead. Pale. Eyes wide. Shirt clinging in all the wrong places. Not sexy. Not dangerous. Just… desperate.

“Now I need someone to breathe me back to life…”

I bent over slightly, gripping the mic stand like it was a crutch. My jeans dug in mercilessly.  I gasped, catching myself. The audience’s polite cheer faltered into a ripple of confused murmurs.

“You watch me bleed until I can’t breathe…”

It happened. The pain was nuclear. A cold sweat blasted across my back. My body wanted to fold in half.

“Shaking, falling onto my knees…”

The lyrics mocked me. My voice cracked mid-line. The mic caught a grunt, ugly and raw. The front row gasped, hands flying to mouths. Some already giggling. I forced myself up straighter, plastering on a grimace I hoped looked like passion but really was just agony.

“And now that I’m without your kisses…”

My falsetto shot up out of my throat without permission — high, squeaky, like a dog toy being squeezed. The arena erupted in laughter. People clutched their sides, some falling against each other. Cameras caught Sabrina in the audience, her hand daintily covering her mouth, but her shoulders shook with silent glee.

“I’ll be needing stitches…”

My voice cracked again, splintering into a whimper. I tried to recover the moment with a classic Shawn Mendes move — the big rockstar jump, a heroic leap that would reset me, prove I was still in control. I bent my knees and launched.

Bad idea.

The landing jolted the groin pressing directly into the most sensitive place on earth. The explosion of pain nearly blacked me out. My vision blurred at the edges.

I doubled over violently, sweat dripping like rain. “Needle and the thread—” I squeaked into the mic. It sounded like Alvin the Chipmunk auditioning for a soap opera.

Finally, my body gave up on me. My knees slammed the stage with a bone-cracking THUD. The guitar swung forward and clanged against the floor, strings wailing out of tune like a dying cat. The mic stand toppled, smacking my shoulder with a loud CLANG.

I clutched myself with both hands, eyes bulging, tears streaming uncontrollably. It was like my soul was clawing its way out through my tear ducts.

And then I screamed it. The words I swore would never leave my lips in public. The words that echoed through the sound system to millions of viewers at home.

“MY BALLS!”

The arena froze. A heartbeat of silence.

Then — hysterical laughter. It roared through the venue like a tidal wave. The audience doubled over in their seats. People howled, slapped their thighs, some literally falling out of their chairs. The cameras zoomed in cruelly, replaying me on the jumbo screen in glorious slow motion: my body buckling, face twisted in cartoonish agony, mouth wide as the words “MY BALLS!” rippled across the captions. Zoom. Freeze-frame. Meme-ready.

“MAN-CHILD! MAN-CHILD!” The chant started small, then snowballed. First the front rows, then the entire arena, thousands of voices chanting in unison. “MAN-CHILD! MAN-CHILD!”

I tried to stand, mumbling “I’m fine, I’m fine,” but every time I straightened even an inch, the pain surged again, slamming me back down. My tie dangled in front of my face like a noose. Sweat soaked my shirt. My mascara-less eyes streamed like a clown without makeup. I must have looked like a drunk office worker collapsing at karaoke night.

And then she appeared.

Sabrina. Sequins shimmering like shards of glass under the lights. The queen. My destroyer. She strutted onto stage like she owned it — because she did. She leaned down, pinched my ear between her fingers like I was a naughty schoolboy, and brought the mic close.

“Do you need stitches, Shawn?” she purred.

The crowd exploded with laughter, screams, applause. Phones went up everywhere, recording every second. This moment wasn’t just live; it was immortal.

And then, with perfect timing, she began to sing.

“Man-child… Why you always come a-running to me?

Never heard of self-care… Half your brain just ain’t there…”

Her voice soared, mocking and divine, while I lay there clutching myself, gasping, broken. The arena roared in approval, chanting her words back at her. “Man-child! Man-child!”

MAGAZINE ARTICLE

“The Night Shawn Mendes Fell to His Knees: A Ballad of Fragile Masculinity at the VMAs”

It happened in front of millions. The lights, the cameras, the smoke machines — all poised for Shawn Mendes to reclaim his throne. Instead, the VMAs gifted us something else entirely: a masterclass in feminist comedy. A man-child dethroned, not by charts, not by critics, but by his own anatomy.

Mendes strutted onstage in a wrinkled white shirt, red tie dangling like a defeated schoolboy, blue jeans gripping his ego (and something else) far too tightly. He was there to prove something — to himself, to his ex-girlfriend Sabrina Carpenter, and to the world. But what he proved instead is that fragile masculinity doesn’t just crack under pressure; sometimes, it squeaks.

His chosen anthem? “Stitches.” Ironic, considering the only stitches he needed were metaphoric — to sew together the shreds of dignity left scattered across the VMA stage. He sang about bleeding, about falling, about needing help — and by verse two, life imitated art. One awkward jump later, Mendes buckled.

And then came the moment that will live in feminist comedy history: Shawn Mendes, clutching his jeans, voice cracking in helium squeaks, cried into a live microphone, “MY BALLS!”

The arena went silent for half a beat, then erupted into hysterical laughter. It wasn’t cruelty; it was catharsis. For decades, Hollywood has filmed women’s humiliation for cheap laughs — “wardrobe malfunctions,” hysterical ex-girlfriend tropes, endless “crazy” punchlines. But last night, the script flipped. A man’s pain, so often wielded as power, became the joke. And the joke was glorious.

Sabrina Carpenter sealed the deal. Sequins sparkling, she stepped onto the stage, pinched Mendes’s ear like a naughty schoolboy, and delivered the kill shot: “Do you need stitches, Shawn?” Then, as the crowd roared, she sang the chorus of her song “Manchild” over his crumpled frame:

“Man-child… why you always come a-running to me?

Never heard of self-care… half your brain just ain’t there.”

It wasn’t just music. It was a cultural exorcism.

The audience chanted “MAN-CHILD! MAN-CHILD!” in unison, turning his own collapse into a feminist rally cry. In that instant, Sabrina wasn’t just an ex-girlfriend. She was every woman who’s ever been told she’s “too emotional,” every artist who’s been told she’s “too dramatic,” every girlfriend who’s iced a zipper accident for a man who still calls her “crazy.”

And Mendes? He became the symbol of a dying era — the golden boy with a guitar who thought girls screaming was enough to sustain a career. The irony is delicious: the very body part that patriarchy glorifies as the seat of male power became his downfall. His balls weren’t his strength, as his father once told him. They were his undoing.

By morning, Twitter was ablaze. “#MyBalls” trended worldwide. Memes flooded TikTok — slow-motion edits of Shawn collapsing, remixed with squeaky toy sound effects. Fans overlaid Sabrina’s lyrics on the footage, turning “Manchild” into an unofficial feminist anthem of the night.

Some male critics will call it cruel. Some will say we shouldn’t laugh at a man’s pain. But let’s be clear: What happened instead was a reminder that women aren’t screaming for boys anymore. They’re screaming for themselves.

The VMAs gave us history last night — not in gold-plated trophies, but in glitter, sequins, and the sweet sound of a fragile male ego squealing, “MY BALLS.”

 

Part 3 – “Game On”

I was in my living room, hunched over the couch, my t-shirt clinging with sweat, jeans bunched down around my knees like shackles. I’d sworn I would never wear denim again after the VMAs, but the truth was cruel: I didn’t own anything else. My closet was a shrine to skinny jeans in every shade of blue. Black jeans, ripped jeans, distressed jeans. No sweats. No shorts. Just denim, my one true love — and my greatest curse.

When the courier dropped off a package earlier, I’d had to waddle to the door clutching myself like a toddler in need of the bathroom, because I couldn’t risk pulling the jeans back up fully. Now, at least, I was collapsed on my couch, half-dressed, half-broken, finally breathing again.

Joshua brought me the ice. He wore his denim jacket, the tan corduroy collar brushing against his curls, with his usual light blue jeans. He looked effortless. Innocent. Like life had never once betrayed him.

“You okay, man?” Joshua asked softly, sliding the ice pack toward me. “What’d the doctor say?”

I pressed the ice gingerly against my groin and winced. My voice cracked as I recited the verdict, word for word.

“Diagnosis: Severe testicular contusion with minor swelling and temporary nerve irritation. No rupture, no long-term reproductive damage. ‘Your future kids are safe, Shawn,’ she said.” My throat tightened. “‘What you felt on stage — the squealing, the collapse, the tears — that was your body’s natural vasovagal response. Translation: your balls got smacked, your nervous system panicked, and you turned into a squeaky toy.’”

Joshua bit his lip, like he was trying not to laugh.

“Recovery time: Two to three weeks. But only with rest and no trauma. ‘Yes, that means no more rockstar jumps, and definitely no more denim strangling your anatomy.’” I read the message.

I slammed the ice down, hissing. “But f*** no. I’ll still use my jeans.”

Joshua nodded, almost proud. “That’s the spirit.”

But the bravado didn’t last. My voice broke, the tears rising hot again. “Josh… I was lost. I’m humiliated. The memes are everywhere. I can’t open TikTok without hearing my own voice screaming ‘MY BALLS!’ on loop with a squeaky toy remix. My dad called me in tears. Tears, Josh. Not because I was hurt, but because of the shame. He said he couldn’t show his face at the car dealership anymore. I can’t even book a job. No one wants me. I’m a loser.”

I clutched myself harder, terrified my balls might simply… fall off.

Joshua leaned forward, placing a hand on my shoulder. “We still believe in you, Shawn. You just need a moment to show your strength again. Women are never better than us. We’re much better. Look at you. Look at your muscles. That’s strength.”

I sniffled, staring at my biceps. They did look pretty good in the t-shirt.

I straightened slightly. “Yeah. And MTV wants to redeem that. They offered me something… The MTV Celebrity Deathmatch: Battle of the Sexes.”

Joshua’s eyes lit up. “Dude. What’s that?”

“It’s like… MMA meets wrestling meets reality TV,” I said. “No rules, no costumes. We dress as ourselves. Real fight, man versus woman, broadcast live. They want me versus Sabrina. Then after me, it’s Martin Ødegaard versus Simone Biles. And Chase Stokes versus Jenna Ortega. A whole night of gender warfare.”

Joshua whistled. “That’s insane.”

I stared at Joshua like he’d just offered to toss me back into the same volcano I barely crawled out of. My mouth opened, nothing came out, so I closed it again and swallowed the pride I had left, which tasted like old metal and social media.

“I know. And I think I want to decline.”

The word decline felt tender in my mouth, like a bruise I kept poking. It sounded like self-preservation and cowardice in equal servings. I could already hear the headlines: Shawn Mendes Backs Out. I could hear Sabrina laughing without opening her mouth. I could hear my dad’s disappointed nasal exhale, the one he used when the Leafs lost and pretended it didn’t matter.

Joshua blinked. “Why?” he asked, gently, but it still stabbed.

Why? Why? Because my body remembered the angle of Sabrina’s knee the way a thunderstorm remembers lightning. Because every step in jeans is a coin flip between dignity and gravity. Because I’ve become a chorus line of two words I didn’t mean to sing on national television. Because the universe is a sitcom and I’m the laugh track.

“Because—” I curled tighter on the couch and the couch springs did that little groan that sounds like a judgmental old man. I groaned back to assert dominance and immediately lost that exchange.

“What’s the point? Fighting Sabrina again? She’ll just go for my balls. She knows that’s my weakness. That’s everyone’s weakness. What am I supposed to do, fight like a eunuch?”

The word hung there. Eunuch. I pictured myself in a Renaissance painting, strategically draped in denim, holding a lute I couldn’t strum, everyone nodding sympathetically at the tragic legend of the Canadian falsetto who flew too close to the kick.

Joshua leaned closer until his curls were their own weather system. His eyes had that blazing youth-pastor-at-summer-camp light.

“Bro, the VMAs weren’t the end. They were just Act One. Every hero falls before he rises again. This is your comeback! Imagine the headlines: ‘Mendes Manchild No More.’ You’ll be the guy who took a hit, got mocked, and then rose from the ashes like a denim-clad phoenix.”

The phrase denim-clad phoenix should not have worked on me, but something in my chest actually puffed. I pictured fiery wings made of ripped Levi’s. It was ridiculous. It was glorious. His words hit me like gospel that had a beat drop.

“Think of your fans,” he went on, the rhythm in his voice picking up like he’d found my BPM. “MendesArmy, Day-Oners, whatever you’re calling them: they don’t want to see you run. They want to see you stand tall. They want to see your… uh, courage take the heat. Prove you can take it. Prove you can laugh at it and keep singing.”

I bit my lip, and somewhere deep inside the idea of redemption fizzed like soda. The algorithm had been chewing me like gum for twenty-four hours; maybe I could chew back.

“They mocked you on live TV,” Joshua said, pressing, pacing now like an assistant coach in a docuseries. “They looped your worst noise and set it to hi-hat and bass and called it culture. You can’t let that be the last word. This is your chance to show the world you’re not just… fragile down there. You’re a fighter. You get up.”

I shook my head, but weakly, like a flag after a storm. “But Sabrina—”

“She only won because she caught you off guard!” he shouted, then winced and cut his volume by half. “Look, dude, you were in street clothes, heartbroken, blindsided. It was a cheap shot. In an actual format, with corners, with a ref, there’s no way she gets you twice. It’s physics. It’s probability. It’s—don’t laugh—it’s science, bro. Pure science.”

I stared at him, and for a second I could see numbers and graphs floating around his head the way they do in prestige biopics. Science. I’d never heard it sound so convincing. Maybe this was what Newton felt like when the apple hit—minus the apple and plus, well, me.

“You don’t want to be remembered for one squeak,” Joshua said, and his voice softened. He crouched to my eye level, so earnest it hurt. “You want to be remembered for the rematch. The comeback. This is your legacy. Like Rocky. But with better hair.”

I touched my curls instinctively; they bounced obediently. Better hair than Rocky was the first true thing I’d heard today.

“And think of who’s watching,” he added, and the room seemed to widen with the names he dropped into it. “John’s watching. Harry’s watching. Camila will definitely be watching. Do you think they’ll respect you if you say no? They won’t say anything, sure, but you’ll hear it anyway—in every pause, every shrug, every ‘it’s understandable.’ This is how you prove you’re still the alpha of your own story.”

My heart thumped. The word alpha tasted like protein powder and good lighting. I wanted it in my mouth.

Joshua’s eyes glittered. He leaned in so close I could count his eyelashes. He lowered his voice to a whisper designed to move mountains and idiots.

“And listen. This time you’ll wear protection. A real groin guard. I’ll buy it myself. Industrial grade. Foolproof. Lightning doesn’t strike twice.”

My mouth dropped a fraction. “You think… it’ll work?”

“Of course.” He planted his hands on his knees like a PE teacher about to describe dodgeball. “Think… a tiny riot shield for your future bloodline. She could swing a baseball bat and you’d smirk.”

I sat back, stunned, letting the image float up: me, unflappable, finally laughing with the joke, the crowd confused because the punchline had expired. The sound in my head changed from a squeak to a cheer.

“Really?”

“Yes, really,” he said, nodding so hard his curls had their own applause track. “Game over for her. And game over for the memes. You’ll finally be free from the flinch. No more phantom pain every time you see a knee in your peripheral vision. No more guarding your lap like it’s the last doughnut at craft services. Just Shawn Mendes, denim warrior, proving confidence is pressure-tested.”

I clutched the ice pack tighter, felt the cold numb into courage. Behind my eyes, scenes cut together: me opening my phone and not seeing my downfall on repeat; me walking into a room and not having dudes look at me with that little pained sympathy smile; me singing and the line “I’ll be needing stitches” being just a lyric again instead of a diagnosis.

“Josh… I don’t know what to say.”

“Say it,” he murmured, voice suddenly steady as a metronome. “Say game on.”

My lip trembled. My whole body buzzed. It wasn’t just pain now; it was possibility. I could smell the vinyl of the ring (do these things even have a ring?—shut up, Shawn, yes, they’ll make one), the lights, the hum of anticipation that might not be for my failure this time.

I swallowed. “Game on,” I whispered.

“Louder,” he said, like a director coaching a lead.

“Game on!”

“Say it like you mean it.” He rose, fist lifting, silhouette of a hype man in a sports documentary. “Say it like a man who isn’t defined by one moment.”

“GAME ON!” I roared, and somewhere a neighbor banged the wall but I didn’t care. The ice pack slid off my lap with a wet slap and I didn’t even flinch. For the first time since the VMAs, something inside me stood up straight. The pain was still there, but it had company now; pride had walked back into the room, late and a little sheepish, but dressed to party.

Joshua paced, hands flying as he storyboarded my resurrection right there on the living room rug. “Okay, we call MTV and accept. We negotiate terms—camera angles that flatter, a lighting package that says ‘hero, not villain,’ entrance music that stomps. We ask for a ref who looks like a judge, because optics. We make sure the cup is certified by whoever certifies cups—CupCon, CupLabs, idk. And we leak a training montage to the press. Like you in jeans on a heavy bag. People love a montage.”

“Me… training in jeans?”

“It’s your brand,” he said, as if the very word were armor. “Jeans are your cape. Don’t you see? Sabrina shows up in sleek athletic wear, fine. But you? You walk in as yourself. Blue denim, black tank, maybe a jacket you tear off and throw into the crowd like a bouquet. That’s power. That’s narrative.”

My mind sped ahead, and now I was seeing the walk-in shot from above, steady cam gliding down the tunnel as I roll my shoulders and two thousand phones rise to meet me. The camera goes low. The jeans look good. The tank looks better. And somewhere in the crowd someone says, “He came back.”

I nodded at the coffee table as if it were a negotiating team.

“We should also manage the press,” Joshua added. “You go on a late-night couch and make a joke about it before anyone else can. A good-natured one. You don’t complain about misandry or whatever. You say: ‘Sometimes life hits below the belt, but I’m wearing better armor now.’ Boom. Applause.”

“No mention of… you know… movies making fun of guys getting—”

He held up a hand. “Not now. Later you can do your TED Talk. For now you’re charming, self-aware, and a little brave. Then you win, and afterward you can pivot to ‘men’s health awareness’ for a week and raise money for something. People eat that up.”

I nodded, hungry for the plan the way you get hungry after being sick for too long. Roadmaps are delicious.

I looked down at my bare thighs and the pool of denim around my knees, then at the framed photos on my wall—me with a guitar, me with fans, me on a stage. I thought of the DM I still hadn’t opened from my dad that just said call me and the way his old advice echoed even now: protect your strength. For the first time I wondered if he’d meant more than anatomy.

Whatever cause for now “IT’s Game on!”

Part 4: Confrence

I sat under the hot bloom of stage lights at the press conference for Episode Two of MTV Celebrity Deadmatch: Battle of the Sexes, pretending the chair was a throne and not a flimsy rental with a wobble that kept threatening my composure. Cameras nested on tripods like chrome vultures. Boom mics hovered overhead, sniffing for weakness. A long table stretched across the stage with name placards we’d all signed in big sharpie letters—as if autographing cardboard could make us bigger than whatever story Twitter had already decided we were in.

I’d dressed on purpose: black tank top that clung to my shoulders in the mirror the way a spotlight clings to a headliner, blue jeans cinched with a belt so I’d look like the world’s most confident lumberjack, and a jacket I could shrug off in one smooth move if the room needed reminder of the arms everyone once wrote fan letters about. On my left, Martin Ødegaard rolled his shoulders in an Arsenal jersey and blue jeans, Scandinavian calm radiating from him like he’d been born under fluorescent locker room lights. On my right, Chase Stokes lounged in a cowboy-adjacent outfit—boots, pearl snaps, hat on the table because publicists get nervous about shadows. Together we were a denim triptych of overconfidence, the male species staged like a museum exhibit titled “In Their Natural Habitat: The Press Conference.”

Across from us, the women settled with the ease of people who had already won once and didn’t need to prove it with posture. Sabrina sparkled without even blinking—hair set, eyes amused, sequins catching light and throwing it back like confetti. Simone Biles coiled in quiet readiness; even the way she sat was balanced, like gravity considered her more of a colleague than a rule. Jenna Ortega had that small, precise stillness that made every move seem intentional; even lifting a bottle of water looked like a line reading. Somewhere behind them, my future collided gently with my past: I spotted Joshua off to the side, clapping for nothing yet, as if applause could be a pre-game ritual that stacked luck in neat piles.

The host, all teeth and lacquered confidence, leaned toward the mics. “Welcome back to MTV Celebrity Deadmatch: Battle of the Sexes—Episode Two. Last week was… historic.” He let the ellipsis stretch long enough for the crowd to fill it with memory: Nicholas Galitzine, tennis player Jack Draper, Benson Boone—all three men folded like laundry. “Tonight we’ve got fresh matchups, bigger stakes, and, according to my DMs, infinitely more memes. Gentlemen—Shawn, Martin, Chase—what do you make of last week’s results, and why will this week be different?”

He pointed to me first. I could feel my heart hop onto a drum riser. This was my moment to sound like a leader—like someone who had turned humiliation into fuel, pain into punchlines, and punchlines back into power.

I leaned into the mic, flashed the camera a smile I hoped read as ironclad and not brittle, and let the script I’d been repeating in the mirror all day pour out. “Look at the lineup,” I said, spreading my hands like a man revealing a new car. “Me, Martin Ødegaard, Chase Stokes—we’re all bigger, taller, stronger. You can’t argue with physics. When you’re six-two and built like this, no amount of glitter kicks can stop that.”

A murmur rippled. Words like that always sound ridiculous until someone with enough jawline says them with sincerity; then they teeter right on the edge between cheer and groan. I pushed quickly, keeping momentum. “They’ve got dance moves,” I went on, nodding at the women like I’d just complimented them at a recital. “We’ve got muscle mass. This isn’t Coachella, this is combat. And muscle wins in combat.”

Chase chuckled and rolled his shoulders like a casino dealer about to flip a winning hand. Martin offered a small approving nod that made it look like he’d agreed to the laws of nature personally.

I planted my elbows on the table, feeling the mic bend toward me like a flower for the sun. “I’ve been on stage for two hours straight, night after night. I know stamina. You think Sabrina or Jenna can outlast that? They can’t. We’re men. Built different.”

Out of the corner of my eye, I saw Jenna tilt her head a fraction—enough kindness in the gesture to be mistaken for patience if you weren’t paying attention. Sabrina didn’t move at all; her smile simply sharpened, the way a cat’s does when you dangle a string it knows you can’t hold forever.

I tapped the edge of my name placard for rhythm and let the crescendo build. “You put me, Martin, and Chase together,” I said, sweeping my arm across our own row of hubris, “that’s six-pack abs, world-class cardio, and Viking bloodlines. We’re like an Avengers team of testosterone. The girls? Cute—but they’re gonna crumble.”

The room thinned with the hiss of an intake of breath. I heard Joshua’s clap somewhere in the wings, one solitary clap like he was a hype man who’d lost the rest of the band but refused to stop counting time.

I should’ve stopped there. I didn’t.

“Sure,” I said, laying the word down like a chip on a table, “Simone can flip, Sabrina can sing, Jenna can act—but this isn’t gymnastics, this isn’t Broadway, this isn’t Netflix. This is fists and grit. And men own that.”

Simone blinked once, and the blink had the gravity of a routine dismount. I felt a small internal wobble and stepped on it like a loose board.

The host leaned forward, eyes bright with the electricity of potential disaster. “Strong words, Shawn. You’re invoking… history.”

“History,” I repeated, because repeating a word gives it a gait. “Look at history. Wars? Built by men. Empires? Built by men. Rings, cages, stadiums?” I slapped the plastic tabletop lightly so it thumped like hollow drumskin. “Built for men. We don’t lose here. It’s not in our DNA.”

Even I heard the echo of that last line and wanted to retweet it. It sounded like something that gets etched on a gym wall and misquoted in graduation speeches. I could feel it slide into the air and calcify into a quote card with my face by the time we hit the parking lot.

“End of the day,” I said, leaning back with a grin that tried for weary veteran and landed closer to smug understudy, “it’s David versus Goliath. Only this time, Goliath’s got better hair and a jawline. Guess who’s walking out standing.” I tapped my chest with two fingers. “Me. And Sabrina and I go first. I’ll set the tone. The rest will follow.”

I stood, because I wanted the pictures. Because standing says leader when sitting sometimes says defendant. The jacket slid off my shoulders like it had been waiting for its cue. I let it hang over the chair, fixed my belt with that little tug that reads masculine in every language, and flexed—not a full gym bro flex, I told myself, more of an effortless “oops how did that definition get there.” In the bright wash of the press lights it probably read closer to “Shawn tries hard.”

Chase, whose sense of a moment has never met a spotlight it didn’t handshake, popped to his feet too and did a little cowboy hip-feint like he was about to lasso the cameraman. The room tittered. He grinned and rotated his shoulders, then, because showmen never miss a chance to ruin subtlety, he started a bouncy two-step, boots ticking quietly on the riser. Martin—who had quiet charisma the way glaciers have mass—rose with a shy half-smile and, to a collective coo from soccer Twitter in the first row, pulled a ball from under the table (who smuggles a ball into a press conference?—answer: a captain) and began juggling with his feet. Tap-tap-lift. Tap-tap-lift. The white of the ball flashed against denim and Arsenal red, a small solar system orbiting one very assured Norwegian.

“Absurd,” Simone murmured into her bottle cap, but the mic caught it anyway and the room giggled like the audience of a comedy club when the headliner leans in.

“Showmanship!” I said, arms out like a street magician after a trick that never quite landed but you clap for anyway. On impulse that felt like destiny and will read later as mistake, I grabbed the spare guitar the production had left leaning against the back curtain and slung it over my shoulder, gave the high E a flick, and crooned into my mic, “You take me places that tear up my reputation—manipulate my decisions—there’s nothing holdin’ me back.”

A camera flash popped. A reporter near the aisle buried her laugh in her sleeve. Chase did a spin. Martin popped the ball from foot to thigh to shoulder, then let it drop into his hands with a finishing bow. The applause this time was scattered, genuine in texture but thin in substance, like popcorn when you wanted steak.

I told myself this was dominance. I told myself this was history.

“Shawn,” the host cut in, “since you’ve brought up firsts and tone-setting… we’ve heard rumors your camp invited some special guests to the stage?”

“Absolutely,” I said, because there are moments when your mouth says yes while your brain yells wait. “Tonight is about families, too. Support systems. Legacies.” I gestured to the wings with the confidence of a man introducing charity donors at a gala. “Please welcome—Sabrina’s father.”

There was a beat where I felt the weight of the room shift—like everyone had just leaned forward, not sure if they were allowed to laugh yet. Then he walked out. Mr. Carpenter. Father-of-the-bride energy in a sport coat. He had the particular awkward grace of a dad on television for the first time—shoulders a little too straight, smile tucked in like a shirt. He shook my hand hard, the way dads do to check your bones for sincerity.

“Sir,” I said into the mic, “you’ve seen the footage. You’ve—ah—heard the memes. Where do you stand?”

He cleared his throat. “I stand for bravery,” he said, and the audience made that mmm sound that means they’re ready to be talked into a feeling. “Look, I love my daughter. I’m proud of her. But I believe in the dignity of showing up. This young man—” he clapped my shoulder, and my spinal cord squared itself like a soldier summoned by name “—took his hit and he’s here anyway. That counts for something.”

I nodded solemnly, as if being praised by the father of your ex in front of a thousand people and three million streams was a universal metric of greatness.

He went on, warming to it now, finding the groove of a man who has watched a lot of sports interviews. “I’ve always said a real man learns. A real man stands up. I wanted a son once, sure—doesn’t every man think about passing down a name?—but life gave me daughters and I couldn’t be prouder. Tonight, though, I’m telling you… Shawn’s got that son’s stubborn heart. He’s got the grit. He’s going to stand. And if he falls, he’ll stand again.”

It should have been a sweet speech. It somehow felt like being patted on the head and shoved into a lion enclosure at the same time. I sold the moment with a squeeze of his shoulder, then pivoted to my own bloodline. “And speaking of family,” I said, summoning a courage I wore like cologne and hoped no one could smell the fear under it, “my dad’s here, too.”

Manuel strode out like a man walking into a garage: focused, a little tense, ready to fix something with his hands. He hugged me with a firm thump on the back that rattled my ribs into line.

“Dad,” I said, mic hovering between us, “final word before tonight?”

He looked at me, jaw tight, and then out at the crowd. “I taught my son to take hits,” he said. “Hockey hits. Life hits. Hit songs,” he added, and the audience indulged the dad joke with a laugh. “He knows what he’s doing. He’ll be fine. Mendes men don’t quit.” He paused, and a flicker of old warning slid through my chest—the kind that makes you remember he’s told stories with both tenderness and volume. “And I know how this can go,” he said, eyes going far for a second like he’d stepped into a memory he wasn’t sure he’d invited. “I’ve been hit myself.” Another laugh from the crowd, this one rougher, like gravel. “But we get up.”

I clapped, the men clapped, Joshua clapped so hard he looked like he was trying to start fire with his palms. The cameras turned, hungry, to the women.

The host pivoted with the grace of a practiced ringmaster. “Sabrina,” he said, “you’ve heard a lot about physics, history, grit. You’ve seen a father’s blessing… two of them, in fact. Thoughts?”

She leaned into her microphone with that small smile that ruins men who think they own a room. “Shawn is still Shawn,” she said. “He’s still got the same… accessory he had at the VMAs.” She tilted her chin at my lap with so delicate a gesture you could miss it if you blinked. The audience caught it and made the noise of a wave about to crest.

“Let’s talk about it,” she continued, lazy and lethal. “Because everybody keeps throwing around words like ‘DNA’ and ‘history’ and ‘Goliath,’ and forgetting the basic design flaw that’s on display every time he stands. Even when he tries to hide it behind a guitar or a belt buckle.”

The host tried to laugh it off. “Design flaw is strong—”

“No,” she said lightly. “It’s accurate. Let’s start with the shape.”

A rustle went through the rows. I felt my shoulders stiffen, and that only made the jeans sit differently, which immediately made me hyper-aware of my entire lower half like I was suddenly wearing a blinking neon sign only I could see.

“Balls aren’t glamorous,” she said, shrugging. “They’re not built for aesthetics. Nobody’s out there sketching them like Michelangelo. They’re lumpy, asymmetrical, wrinkled. One hangs lower than the other; that’s not me being mean, that’s biology’s inside joke. You can’t make them photogenic. From a design standpoint, they look fragile—like nature wrapped two grapes in a thin grocery bag and said, ‘Good luck, kings.’”

laughter crackled, multiplied, hopped from corner to corner until it sounded like a field of dry grass catching spark. I looked at Martin for help; he looked at his hands like they were new. Chase scratched his jaw and tried to grin. I could feel the heat rise up my neck, the tank top suddenly too tight at the collar in a way physics could not justify.

“Then there’s the weakness,” Sabrina said, counting on her fingers without looking down. “Supposedly the symbol of masculinity, reproduction, lineage—your dad just said ‘Mendes men don’t quit’? Cute. Meanwhile, a single flick and this entire speech becomes a squeak. One knee, one accidental bump with a microphone stand, and the ‘big strong man’ is down, seeing stars. It’s the universal remote: press that one button and the whole system powers off.”

People howled. Someone actually wheezed. I heard a reporter thump a notebook against the table like a judge with a gavel. I opened my mouth and then closed it again, because what was I going to say? That I hadn’t squeaked? That the system hadn’t powered off? The jumbo screen in my head flickered through a highlight reel I didn’t ask to play.

“Third,” she said, and we all waited for the hammer that was already mid-swing. “Position. If you wanted protection, you’d put the critical stuff inside a ribcage, right? Or behind a wall. But no. Balls hang outside the body, unprotected, dangling like a target begging for attention.” She shrugged again. “Compare that to female anatomy: tucked in, protected, hidden like state secrets. Male anatomy is like, ‘Here’s my Achilles heel, swinging around in plain sight. Please treat with respect.’”

The laugh this time was half comedy club, half church revival. Simone was smiling now, and when Simone smiles it’s like the laws of gravity allow joy as a sanctioned move. Jenna didn’t smile; she just watched with that tiny pleased tilt, as if she were monitoring a metronome that finally found the tempo.

“And fourth,” Sabrina said, softening her voice as if to coat the blade in velvet, “irony. We make ‘balls’ a synonym for courage. ‘Grow some.’ It’s the language of swagger. Meanwhile, reality keeps reminding us they’re the most fragile part of the male body. That contradiction? That’s why it’s hilarious. It’s why some of us think the whole ‘manhood’ thing is more marketing than material. If the seat of your swagger can be shut off by an elbow you didn’t even see coming, maybe stop acting like history is on your side and start investing in humility. Or at least better belts.”

I could hear my pulse in my ears, smell the baked-plastic heat of the stage lights, feel the way the mic foam smelled like other people’s speeches. I felt something tilt inside—like a painting hung straight for years suddenly revealing it had always been crooked. It wasn’t just what she said; it was the way the room agreed, the way the sound joined her, the way everything I’d said five minutes ago suddenly felt like cardboard armor in a rainfall.

The host, to his credit, tried to sweeten the air. “Strong opinions,” he said brightly. “But that’s what the ring is for, right? We settle this with—”

I banged my chest with the flat of my hand, a sound that was supposed to be a drum and came out like a hollow door. “Shut up, Sabrina!” I snapped, the words flying out before the PR team in my head could tackle them. The room hiccuped. “Let’s go to the ring. Now.” I stood again because gravity is a habit, and raised my chin as if I had just soundchecked thunder.

Sabrina didn’t flinch. She glanced to the wings and lifted a single finger. “Before we do,” she said, “I should introduce my new supporters.”

I frowned. My brain tried to toss up a list—producers? Sponsors? A surprise duet partner?—and then the stage doors parted and the universe tapped a sign on my forehead that read sit down, child.

My mother walked out holding my sister’s hand.

It’s possible my soul left my body, took three steps backstage, realized it had nowhere else to go, and slunk back to its seat like a kid who forgot the math homework wasn’t optional. Mom waved to the crowd with the regal calm of a woman who has chosen her side and plans to make a casserole for it later. Aaliyah, my sister, squeezed her hand and tried to smile like she wasn’t about to watch the family group chat catch fire.

“Karen,” the host said, and the crowd murmured the name like it was suddenly a character being written live. “Welcome.”

“Thank you,” my mom said, taking Sabrina’s spare mic as if she’d been mic’d all her life. “I’m here because I love my son.” She smiled at me—gentle, real, and then, like a magician flipping the card, turned that smile toward Sabrina. “And because I like this young woman a lot. I think she’s teaching him things he needs to learn.”

A hot flush climbed my spine. “Mom,” I said under my breath, but the mic caught the plea and fed it to the room.

She patted the air in my direction like she was smoothing a bedspread. “We raise boys to think the world is made of pillows,” she said to the audience, “and then act shocked when they collapse on the first corner. Shawn’s a good boy. He is. But he’s been told he’s exceptional because the world screamed for him, and sometimes screaming isn’t love, it’s habit. Sabrina is not his enemy. She’s a lesson.”

Somewhere in the second row, a blogger burst into flames of delight.

“And another thing,” my mom added, because mothers never come with just one thing. “We keep pretending the Mendes men are a fortress. We are not made of marble. I kicked Manuel”—she nodded toward my dad, who looked like a man who had suddenly remembered a dentist appointment—“once, years ago. He survived. We all did. Sometimes humility enters through the only open door.”

The room went electric. Dad half-laughed, half-coughed, the sound of a man signing for a package he didn’t order. A flashback knocked on my skull and barged in: a childhood morning of raised voices, a slam, my father doubled over by the kitchen sink, my mother not smug but calm in a way that reads, to a seven-year-old, as an adult doing adult math. The memory I’d told myself was a random injury suddenly snapped into focus like a camera that finally found its subject.

“Mom,” I said again, and this time it came out small. Aaliyah squeezed her hand harder and leaned toward a mic that an assistant lunged to catch up to her mouth.

“Shawn,” my sister said, and her voice had that exact blend of love and exasperation siblings save for holidays and interventions. “We want you to be safe. We want you to be smart. We want you to stop making everything about being the biggest voice in the room. If you’re going to step in there, wear protection. Use your head. Maybe listen when women talk. And if you lose, don’t make it about the universe. Make it about feet moving, knees bending, lessons learned.”

There are speeches you hear and feel defended by. There are speeches you hear and feel stabbed by. And then there are speeches like this one, where you feel surgically repaired while awake.

Sabrina angled the mic back toward me with that small, infuriating patience. “So, Shawn,” she said, almost kindly. “Ring?”

I took a breath that wanted to be a sigh and made it a growl. I looked at my mother, who was smiling at me like a teacher who knows you can pass if you stop trying to impress the mirror. I looked at my dad, who was staring into some middle distance where all the cars he’d ever fixed and all the sons he’d ever imagined existed at once. I looked at Aaliyah, who was giving me the face that says don’t be dumb on purpose. And then I looked at Sabrina, whose eyes said everything the room was saying but sharper, cleaner, truer.

“GAME ON,” I said, and this time it didn’t boom. It set. Like a brick. Like a foundation stone. Like something you lay down and then step onto, carefully, because you plan to keep walking.