Football Players vs Cheerleaders (Part 1)

 

Part 1 — Erin’s POV

I was sitting in the cheerleaders’ room, our so-called headquarters, a space that smelled like hair spray, perfume, and faint traces of sweat from endless routines. The walls were lined with mirrors from floor to ceiling, making everything look bigger than it was, like we were practicing inside a glittering fishbowl. The trophies sparkled from the cabinet in the corner, relics of championships we’d won back when we still believed our only purpose was to make the football boys look good. The mats were rolled up, the pom-poms stuffed into bins, and the speakers still had Ariana Grande queued up from last night’s practice. It was our world, our refuge — the one place in Hawthorne Ridge High where boys weren’t allowed to swagger in and stink it up with their cologne and cocky grins.

If you asked me why I even joined cheerleading in the first place, I’d probably give you the honest answer: boys. I was sixteen, hormonal, and eager to catch the attention of someone who mattered. Cheerleading meant short skirts, loud applause, and guaranteed proximity to the kings of the school — the football players. Back then, I thought that was enough. I wanted to matter because I mattered to them. And for a while, it worked. I got one. Not just any boy, but the one and only: the golden boy himself, Cole McKnight.

Cole McKnight, the quarterback, the captain, the face on every pep rally poster, the one teachers gave a pass to when he slept through class because “he has a big game tomorrow.” He was tall, broad-shouldered, with blond hair that caught the stadium lights like he was carved out of some golden statue. His jawline could cut glass, and when he flashed that smile — that cocky, lopsided grin that looked like it belonged in a sports drink commercial — you forgot every warning your momma ever gave you. He wasn’t just handsome. He was mythical.

My mom, of course, wasn’t fooled. She saw him for what he was before I even held his hand. “That boy is trouble,” she said. “He’s his father’s son.” The way she said his father’s son carried weight, because Chase McKnight — Cole’s dad — wasn’t just a legend in this town, he was a ghost that haunted my family. Chase had dated my mom once, years ago, back when they were young, before he broke her heart into a hundred pieces and strutted off like nothing happened. She always said men like that never change, they just grow older and pass their habits down like family heirlooms.

I didn’t want to believe her. I wanted to believe Cole was different. He had to be, right? When he slipped his arm around me at parties, when he pulled me into the back seat of his car, when he whispered things that made my skin tingle — I thought maybe I’d found the exception. I wanted to believe love could rewrite history, that my mom’s heartbreak wouldn’t be mine. So I gave him everything. My time, my loyalty, my stupid teenage heart. I folded his jerseys, left notes in his locker, kissed him for luck before every game, cheered until my throat went raw.

And then he cheated.

The memory still makes my stomach knot. Walking into the locker hallway one night after practice, catching the sight I’ll never scrub from my brain: Cole leaned back against the tiled wall, eyes closed, a sophomore girl on her knees in front of him. It felt like someone drove a knife right through my chest. My blood turned cold, my ears roared, and yet he had the audacity to look at me after, like maybe I would understand. Like it wasn’t that big of a deal.

That was the moment everything broke. Not just my heart — my entire belief system. I felt humiliated, disposable, a prop in his golden-boy fantasy. But anger burned hotter than shame. It was the start of something bigger in me, something my mom had been hinting at my whole life. It was my feminist awakening.

I realized how rigged the system was. Boys like Cole could cheat, lie, swagger, and the world would still clap for them because they could throw a ball and flex their muscles. Meanwhile, girls like me were expected to fight each other, blame each other, and claw at scraps of attention. I should’ve hated the sophomore girl — Lera — but I couldn’t. Because when I looked at her closely, I saw it. The same manipulation, the same charm, the same lies Cole fed me. Lera wasn’t the enemy. Cole was.

So I did something no one expected. I dumped Cole right there and then, blocked his texts, ignored his endless apologies. And just to twist the knife in his pride, I recruited Lera onto the cheer squad. The girl he used became the girl I lifted up, and watching his face when he saw her standing in uniform beside me was worth every ounce of heartbreak. He thought women would fight each other for scraps of him. Instead, we turned on him.

That’s when I started asking bigger questions. Why were we even folding jerseys for these guys? Why were we kissing them for luck like they were gods and we were their priestesses? Why did our talents, our bodies, our time, all exist to serve their egos? The rage inside me boiled into resolve. I called for a boycott.

The tradition ended. Last night was the first time in Hawthorne Ridge history that no cheerleader showed up to prepare the football team’s uniforms. No folded jerseys. No kisses. No fake smiles. Just silence. The boys were furious — I could practically hear their egos shattering across campus. They didn’t know it yet, but a new era had started.

We rebranded. We weren’t cheerleaders anymore. We were the Cheerios Dance Club. We realized we didn’t need to spend our energy boosting boys. We loved dancing. We loved music. We loved moving our bodies for ourselves, not for some sweaty quarterback’s ego. The pom-poms were gone. The routines were ours now. And if the boys had tantrums, let them. They could fold their own damn jerseys.

That morning, we gathered in the cheer room like revolutionaries basking in the first sunrise of freedom. No more servitude, no more fake enthusiasm. Just girls, laughter, soda cans, and our trophy glittering behind us like proof that we were enough without them.

I cracked open my soda and leaned against the trophy case. “Do you know what my mom told me when I told her about last night?” I asked, smirking.

The girls — Alisha, Cindy, Lera, and Jihyoo — all turned to me, wide-eyed, curious. They were my circle now, my army, my coven.

“She told me I should kick Cole’s balls.”

For a second there was silence. Then the room erupted.

Alisha practically choked on her soda. Cindy laughed so hard she slapped her thigh. Jihyoo’s eyes bulged like I’d just announced I was running for president. Lera covered her mouth in disbelief.

“You’re kidding,” Jihyoo said. “Your mom actually said that?”

“Oh, she didn’t just say it,” I replied, sipping my soda like it was champagne. “She said it with the conviction of a woman who knows exactly what she’s talking about.”

The laughter bubbled higher, turning into shrieks of amusement.

“Wait,” Jihyoo said, wiping tears from her eyes. “Does that even work? I mean, he’s, like, twice your size. He’s all muscle.”

“Exactly,” I said, smirking. “Big muscles, tough guy, but one tiny tap and they’re crying like babies.”

The girls howled again, the sound echoing off the mirrors.

Cindy, the resident biology genius, lifted a finger like she was giving a lecture. “Actually, it’s not a myth. The testicles are external because they have to stay cooler than the rest of the organs for sperm production. They’re loaded with nerve endings. Hit them, and the pain signal overwhelms the nervous system. That’s why they get nausea, cramps, dizziness. It’s like hitting a giant reset button on their body.”

We all stared at her for a moment, then burst into laughter again.

“Wait, wait,” Jihyoo gasped. “So you’re saying the so-called kings of the football field are walking around with two giant off-switch buttons between their legs?”

Cindy grinned. “Exactly.”

The laughter went nuclear. I doubled over, clutching my stomach.

Lera, though, still looked skeptical. “I mean… really? Cole’s huge. It’s hard to imagine him just… dropping because of one kick.”

“Trust me, Lera,” I said, voice sharp as glass. “If he can’t handle the truth, he can’t handle my knee.”

The girls hooted, clapping and whistling. Lera blushed, caught between defending him and admitting the image was hilarious.

Then Alisha leaned forward, lowering her voice like she was about to spill the juiciest gossip. “Okay, listen. This actually happened. My mom once caught my dad cheating. She didn’t scream, didn’t throw anything. She just walked up to him, kneed him in the balls, and he dropped like a sack of potatoes. I swear, he was on the floor tearing up. I had never seen a grown man cry like that.”

She reenacted it — clutching her stomach, groaning dramatically, staggering in circles. We were howling so loud the janitor probably heard us down the hall.

“Oh my god,” Jihyoo gasped, tears streaming down her cheeks. “That’s legendary!”

We couldn’t stop. It was like a fever of laughter, girl power, and delicious cruelty.

Then we started plotting.

“Kick,” Cindy declared. “Use the heel of your shoe. Precise, direct, and poetic.”

“No,” Jihyoo countered. “A punch. Imagine his stupid face when you just bam! Right hook. He’ll never see it coming.”

“Knee,” Alisha insisted. “Fast, brutal, no warning. He’ll be smirking, and then boom — instant karma.”

Lera shook her head but couldn’t hide the grin. “You guys are making it sound like some secret weapon. But imagine it: Cole McKnight, captain of the Watchdogs, doubled over in front of everyone. That would be insane…”

I leaned back, sipping my soda, letting their words wash over me like music. “Well,” I said casually, “maybe I’ll test it out if he pisses me off again.”

The room erupted in laughter again, high-pitched, gleeful, unstoppable. We were drunk on the idea of it — of taking the untouchable golden boy and making him crumble.

“Can we please get that on video if it happens?” Jihyoo begged.

“Don’t tempt me,” I grinned.

And then, right as the laughter hit its peak, the door slammed open.

The air shifted instantly.

Cole McKnight stood in the doorway, fury written across his perfect face. He wore a tight white t-shirt that clung to his chest, a green varsity jacket stretched over his broad shoulders, and blue jeans so snug they left nothing to the imagination. His jaw clenched, his eyes burning with fury, his fists curled at his sides. Behind him trailed Garrett and Froy, and eight more Watchdogs, all crowding into the room like a wall of testosterone.

The laughter died in our throats.

And the war had officially begun.

 

I saw him again. Cole McKnight.

He stormed into our cheer room like a storm in human form, the door slamming against the wall so hard the trophies rattled in their glass case. His face was carved with fury, jaw tight, eyes blazing. He carried the smell of sweat, cologne, and testosterone, and behind him came his faithful pack — the Watchdogs. Froy, Garrett, Max, Felix, Lucas, Alex, and a few other beefy linemen whose names didn’t even matter. They weren’t people; they were shadows in varsity jackets, lapdogs in cleats, echoing his movements like a herd of cattle.

The air got heavier. He always had that effect — when Cole walked in, he made you feel like you were too small, too weak, too insignificant. He was six-foot-two, towering, with shoulders broad as doorframes. Erin, standing in front of him, was barely four-eleven. The difference was absurd, like a bear looming over a sparrow. But Erin wasn’t afraid. She never was.

“How dare you not show up,” Cole snarled, stepping forward, his voice booming against the mirrors. “You’re supposed to support us. We lost because of you.”

His fists were clenched, his veins standing out against his forearms. He was used to being obeyed. Used to walking into rooms and getting silence, submission, apologies. Erin just tilted her head, lips curling into a smirk.

“Support you? Why?” she asked, her voice dripping with venom disguised as sugar. “We’re not cheerleaders anymore, Cole. We’re dancers. We love moving our bodies for ourselves, not for some regular white boy with muscles and dick. That’s all you’ve got. And you lost because you suck — because you’re a stupid quarterback who needs a squad of girls to fold his laundry and kiss his sweaty ass before a game.”

The room gasped. Even I flinched. Erin was fire, spitting words that burned, and Cole’s eyes widened, his ego cracking in front of us all.

I had to admit — Cole was good at football. Maybe even great. But last night, without us there, he was distracted. He played sloppy. He fumbled. He looked lost. It wasn’t our fault. It was his. But he would never admit that. Men like Cole never did.

“Watch your mouth!” Froy barked, stepping forward like a bodyguard. His dark curls fell into his eyes, and his whole body was coiled, ready to lunge.

But Alisha stepped in front of Erin like a wall. “Oh God forbid anyone talk bad about Captain Cole in front of his number one fan.” She tilted her head, eyes glittering. “What’s wrong, Froy? You Cole’s biggest cheerleader? Do you have a crush on him? Always defending him like your life depends on it.”

The room exploded in giggles. Froy’s face went red. His jaw twitched. “Shut up. We’re brotherhood. No one disrespects our captain.”

Alisha smirked, crossing her arms. “Brotherhood? Is that what you tell yourself while you’re busy writing Cole love poems in your diary? Everyone sees it, Froy. You worship him. And you know what? He’d kick you off the team in a second if you weren’t straight and white-passing enough for his ego.”

Froy’s chest heaved, his hands trembling. He wanted to hit her, I could see it. But he waited. He was always waiting — for Cole’s permission.

Meanwhile, Garrett had slinked toward Jihyoo, his cowboy boots squeaking against the floor. He leaned against the mirror, grinning. “Annyeong, noona,” he said, his Southern drawl butchering the word. “You wanna be my K-Pop princess?”

Jihyoo rolled her eyes so hard I thought they’d get stuck. “Garrett, the only Korean word you should learn is no. As in, no, you freak.”

The girls cackled. Garrett clutched his chest like she’d stabbed him. “C’mon, baby girl. Don’t break my heart. BTS taught me how to love!”

“Keep talking,” Jihyoo muttered, “and I’ll teach you how to sing soprano.”

The room erupted again.

Cole wasn’t laughing. His eyes were locked on Erin, his face twisted with rage. He stepped closer until his shadow swallowed her. “If you ever disrespect me again,” he hissed, “you’ll learn a lesson. Just like your mom learned when my dad humiliated her. Remember that? You’re a bastard, Erin. Your daddy threw you away, and your mom is just a slut. If you want to be like her, fine. Be it.”

The air froze. My chest tightened. Erin’s smile faltered for the first time.

That’s when something broke in me. “Enough!” I shouted before I even realized my voice was rising. My fists clenched. My heart pounded. “You don’t talk about someone’s mom like that. Not ever.”

His eyes flicked to me. And suddenly, I was his new target.

“Ah, Lera.” He smiled cruelly, stepping toward me. “Do you miss me? Do you miss sucking my dick? Don’t act innocent.”

The blood drained from my face.

He grabbed a soda can from the table, cracked it open, and poured it over me, sticky liquid soaking my hair, dripping down my cheer uniform. The girls gasped. I froze.

“You’re a slut,” Cole spat. “Don’t forget. I stamped you, remember? You gave me your virginity. You’re mine. And you know what happens to Erin and every other girl who had me? Nobody wants them anymore. You’re used trash. But I’m generous. You still have a chance. Be obedient. Be mine again. Or stay garbage.”

Then he leaned in and kissed me, shoving his mouth against mine, his hand clawing at my body. I wanted to scream, but my voice died in my throat. Shame, guilt, disgust tangled inside me. And yes — the worst part was, a part of me remembered enjoying it before. That made me want to rip my own skin off.

“Yeah, Cole!” Froy cheered, pumping his fist.

“Go, captain!” Garrett laughed, still eyeing Jihyoo.

Alisha snarled, stepping forward. “Ahh, Froy, jealous much? Wish it were you instead?”

Froy shoved her hard. The room spun into chaos — voices shouting, bodies moving, anger flaring.

And then — it stopped.

Erin’s fingers shot up like claws and tangled themselves in Cole’s golden hair. She yanked with a force so sharp that he actually grunted, his head jerking back, the soda fizz sloshing down his arm. For the first time all night, the mighty Cole McKnight looked startled — like no one in his perfect little kingdom had ever dared to grab him before.

Her eyes blazed, fiery, furious, unflinching. “NEVER. KISS. A GIRL. WITHOUT. HER. CONSENT!” Each word was a bullet, hammered with such conviction it rattled the mirrors lining the walls.

And then — before anyone could even blink — she drove her fist down and forward.

Straight into his crotch.

The sound was almost cartoonish — a meaty, echoing THWACK that seemed to vibrate off the lockers and ricochet into everyone’s bones. Time froze.

Cole’s face transformed in stages. First, pure shock. Then dawning horror. And then agony so sharp it looked like his soul was being vacuumed out of his body through his jeans.

“FUUUUUUCK!” he shrieked, his voice cracking so high it could’ve joined the soprano section in choir. His knees buckled instantly, the soda can slipping from his hand and hissing across the floor in a puddle of sticky fizz. His mouth opened wide, but for a second no sound came out — just the flapping gape of a dying fish — before he finally wheezed, “Oh god… ohhh my god…”

And then the golden boy of Hawthorne Ridge collapsed like a sack of bricks against the lockers. His perfect quarterback confidence shattered in an instant, reduced to a red-faced, whimpering wreck cradling his manhood like a child clutching a broken toy.

The reaction was volcanic.

Froy gasped and stumbled back, both hands flying to his own groin like Erin’s fist had traveled through the air and hit him too. Garrett winced so hard his cowboy belt buckle clinked, muttering something like, “Lord, have mercy.”

“Ohhh! Right in the McNuggets!” Max yelped, his voice cracking as he doubled over protectively.

“Bro,” Felix groaned, crouching down like he was sharing the pain, “I felt that in my soul…”

And then the domino effect: half the Watchdogs clutched themselves in unison, groaning, staggering, buckling, some even hopping in place as if invisible fists had landed on them too. The entire squad of six-foot muscle boys suddenly looked like they were auditioning for a synchronized interpretive dance called Pain Symphony No. 9.

And us? Oh, we lost it.

The Cheerios erupted in shrieks and howls, the kind of laughter that rattled your ribs and made tears spill from your eyes. The sound bounced off the mirrored walls and filled every inch of the room.

Cindy was doubled over, pointing, her glasses slipping down her nose. “Scientific proof achieved! Off-switch buttons confirmed!” she screamed between wheezes.

Jihyoo clapped so hard her hands turned red, tears streaking her cheeks. “Told you! Look at him! The mighty quarterback reduced to a whiny little baby!”

Alisha literally fell to the floor, rolling on the mat. “The king has fallen! Somebody get him a diaper!” she choked out, slapping the ground as if begging for mercy from her own laughter.

And me? Even me — the girl who once thought he was untouchable, the girl who had cried over him, defended him, believed him. The giggles bubbled up so hard I couldn’t stop. My stomach ached, my face hurt, but I couldn’t stop. “Wow,” I gasped, clutching my side. “He’s human after all!”

Cole tried to rise. His face was red, sweat streaking his forehead, his body bent double like a broken scarecrow. He croaked, “You’ll… regret this…” but his voice cracked into a squeaky whine that sent another wave of shrieks through us.

Erin stood tall over him, her small fist still clenched like a warrior goddess. “Guess the golden boy’s not so golden where it counts.”

That line was the spark — instantly the girls broke into a cheer, clapping and chanting like a mock pep rally.

“Go-o-o Cole! Take that blow!”

“Go-o-o Cole! Take that blow!”

It was brutal. It was glorious. It was justice in pom-pom rhythm.

Jihyoo strutted to the mini-fridge, pulled out an ice pack, and tossed it across the room. It landed near Cole’s feet with a wet slap. “Need this, champ?” she said sweetly, batting her lashes.

And then Cindy lifted her phone, angling the camera right at him. The red recording light blinked like a countdown to eternal humiliation.

Cole panicked, clutching himself tighter, face pale and blotchy. “Turn that off! Turn it OFF!”

But nothing screamed weakness like the football god begging not to be filmed after a groin punch. The Cheerios only laughed harder, some stomping their feet, others collapsing into each other for balance.

“Garrett… Froy… help me…” Cole whimpered.

They scrambled to his side, hooking his arms over their shoulders like wounded soldiers in a war movie. His legs shook. His breaths came in high-pitched squeaks.

“Walk slow,” Cole begged, tears streaking down his perfect face, every ounce of swagger gone. “Please… oh god… walk slowly… my BALLS!”

The room absolutely collapsed into hysteria.

“Legendary!” Alisha screamed, kicking her feet in the air.

“Iconic!” Jihyoo shrieked, pounding her fists against the mat.

“History in the making!” Cindy howled, wheezing so hard she nearly dropped her phone.

And in the middle of the chaos, Erin turned to me. Her face softened, all the fire turning to warmth. She opened her arms and pulled me close, sticky soda and all. “You’re not a slut, Lera,” she whispered into my hair. Her voice shook, not from fear, but from conviction. “You’re my sister.”

Tears pricked my eyes. My throat closed. And then the others piled in, arms wrapping around me, laughter still bubbling but warmth radiating stronger. We became one huddle, tighter than any football lineup.

We weren’t victims. We weren’t props. We weren’t Cole’s trophies anymore.

We were sisters.

And the war had only just begun.