Football Players vs Cheerleader (Part 5)

 

Episode 5

Erin POV

Five days had passed since the haunting, and people at school were still buzzing about it. I’d hear whispers in the hall, laughter in the cafeteria, the occasional mocking “Lost One’s coming for you, Cole!” shouted across the quad by some sophomore. Everyone thought it was just a freak accident, the great quarterback reduced to screaming and groaning in his gym with his dad beside him. Nobody knew the truth — that it was us, the girls, pulling the strings.

I replayed the whole thing in my head, the way a director might replay a scene after a perfect take. The plan had been meticulous. I’d known the alarm code to Cole’s house because once, long ago, he’d given it to me without hesitation. “So you can always come in, even if I’m not home,” he’d said, back when I thought that meant something. He never bothered to change it, and part of me wondered if he didn’t even remember I had it. Typing in those familiar numbers burned like touching a scar — familiar and painful all at once.

Cindy had handled the tripod, rigging it with magnets and fishing line so it would tip over right when the laugh came. Alisha, the drama queen, had lent her theater voice, recording the perfect eerie sound and setting it to loop from a hidden Bluetooth speaker. And Jihyoo — sweet, nerdy, terrifyingly inventive Jihyoo — had brought portable CO₂ cartridges, the kind used in lab experiments, to fog up the mirrors and make the room feel colder. The combination had been flawless. We didn’t just scare him. We convinced him. Cole and his father actually believed a ghost had hunted them.

I should’ve been proud. And I was — God, I was. But every time I thought back to the look on his face, that raw terror, the way his whole body shook as if the world itself had turned on him, something inside me twisted. For days I couldn’t stop picturing it. Not just the comedy of it, not just the humiliation, but the boy beneath the golden armor, stripped of every ounce of bravado. I hated that it lingered in me. Hated that the part of me that wanted revenge was satisfied while another part — the part that used to love him — felt guilty.

That evening, I was walking down the quiet hallway toward the gym. My hair was damp from practice, my sneakers squeaked faintly against the polished floors. The whole building smelled of sweat and cleaning supplies. I was thinking about the prank, about the trophies we had restored, about how we’d danced together afterward, celebrating our little rebellion. But underneath that was something darker — the ache I carried every time his name left someone’s lips.

Then it happened.

A strong hand grabbed my wrist and yanked me sideways. My breath caught, my pulse spiked.

I spun, half-ready to slap whoever thought it was funny to sneak up on me.

It was Cole.

And for a moment, my brain refused to believe what my eyes were telling me.

His hair wasn’t in that over-styled cut he’d been parading around for weeks. No, this was the old Cole. The one I’d first fallen for. Messy, layered, feathered around the crown, bangs falling forward in uneven strands that framed his face without hiding it. It was casual, sun-kissed blond catching the light, softening the sharp lines of his jaw. It was boyish but dangerous, like he could have just rolled out of bed and still made your heart skip.

And of course, he was wearing the outfit I’d always loved most on him — the fitted blue polo and dark jeans. That look was imprinted in my memory, because it was what he wore the first time he ever called me beautiful. The way the fabric clung to his arms, hinting at muscles that seemed made to hold me. The way the color made his green eyes blaze brighter, sharp enough to undo me.

He looked taller. Broader. Or maybe it was just that his presence filled every inch of the empty classroom he pulled me into. My back hit the door as he shut it behind us.

Then he kissed me.

Not the cocky, performative kiss he gave when he wanted to show off. Not the sloppy, drunken kiss I imagined he’d given Lera when he manipulated her. This kiss had weight. Heat. Desperation. His mouth pressed to mine like he needed it to breathe, and for a second — just a second — I kissed him back.

When I pulled away, my head was spinning. His green eyes locked onto mine, and for the first time in what felt like forever, I saw something softer there. Not arrogance. Not cruelty. Something else.

“God, I miss you,” he whispered, voice ragged, like it hurt him to admit it. “I can’t stop thinking about you.”

My chest tightened. My heart betrayed me by lurching toward him, even as my brain screamed.

Because how could I forget? This was the same boy who had humiliated me, who had peed in my trophy just to prove he could. The same boy who paraded Mentari around the diner, wearing that smug smile I used to think was mine alone. The same boy who had let another girl — one of my girls — wrap her lips around him and then twisted the knife by making it my humiliation. The same boy who reduced every ounce of intimacy we’d shared to a punchline about his dick.

And yet.

I remembered how it felt when his arms held me so tight I thought nothing in the world could break me. How he once whispered that I was his good luck charm before a game. How his lips had brushed my collarbone when he told me I was beautiful, like he was afraid of jinxing it. How I’d given him my virginity, trembling and trusting, believing it meant forever.

Looking at him now, hair falling into his eyes, polo stretching across his chest, jeans hanging low on his hips — he was the same boy and not the same boy. A monster, yes, but softened in this moment, raw, his mask cracked.

I hated him. I wanted him.

And I hated myself for that most of all.

“Why now, Cole?” I whispered, my voice breaking against the silence. “Why do you always come back when I finally feel free?”

He didn’t answer with words. He kissed me again, harder this time, like he could silence the question before it tore him apart.

And my whole body trembled — because part of me wanted to let him.

The kiss lingered longer than it should have. His mouth pressed against mine with the kind of hunger that felt less like passion and more like possession, but my body betrayed me, sinking into it for a heartbeat too long. His breath was hot against my lips when he pulled back, his voice breaking open in rawness I wasn’t prepared for.

“I fuckin’ miss it,” he rasped, his forehead against mine. “I love you.”

The words hit me like a fist. My heart stuttered, my chest tight. Too real. Too bare. Not the usual slick lines he fed to any girl dumb enough to listen. My voice trembled out before I could stop it, weak, almost hypnotized by the sudden vulnerability in his eyes. “Really?”

His answer wasn’t soft. His hands clamped down on my arms, strong, unrelenting, and he pushed me back against the wall with a thud that made my breath hitch. His face was inches from mine, the shadow of fury burning in his green eyes.

“You hurt me. You hurt my fuckin’ balls,” he growled, each word sharp, shaking with rage. “You punched me in the balls in front of my team, you gassed us, you humiliated me in front of the whole damn school. And I’m not stupid. You think I don’t know? You were the ghost in my house, ruining my night with Mentari. Froy found the magnet or something and the security camera of my neighbor. He told me everything.”

The venom in his voice should have scared me. Instead, I laughed. A soft giggle slipped from me, curling into the air like smoke.

“You’re so clueless, Cole,” I whispered, the sound of my own defiance almost shocking me. “You can’t even see what’s right in front of you. Froy isn’t your savior. He’s not your loyal soldier. He’s a closeted boy obsessed with you. He’s been by your side because it’s the only way he can have you. For a man who spits homophobia every other sentence, you’re blind to the fact that your right-hand man is in love with you. Everything he’s done? It’s for you, Cole. Only you.”

His eyes widened, then narrowed with violence. His hand snapped up, yanking my hair back, tilting my head against the wall. Pain prickled across my scalp as I sucked in a breath, but I refused to give him the satisfaction of crying out.

“Shut up, bitch!” His voice cracked like a whip, seething with denial.

But then — softer, almost broken — his voice shifted. “Can you just be a good girl for once?” His grip loosened, sliding down my cheek, trembling as though he hated himself for touching me gently. “You make me crazy with your feminist act, with all this… rebellion. Just stop. Just… stop.” His forehead pressed into my neck, his lips grazing my skin. His words came desperate, pleading, nothing like the golden boy mask he wore in the daylight. “I beg you. Please. Be the cheer girl I fell for. Drop all of this. Just be with me. Be with me.”

His mouth found my neck, kisses turning frantic, desperate. I could feel his body pressed hard against mine, the undeniable bulge in his jeans. My knee twitched — I could do it. One sharp kick and I’d crush the pride he clung to like oxygen. I could end this. End him.

But I didn’t.

I froze, trembling not from fear, but from something darker. A weakness I despised in myself. Memories of every kiss we had, every touch, every night tangled in his sheets when I thought he was mine. My head screamed to fight, to push, to leave, but my body… my body remembered him too well.

And then it happened. We had sex.

I won’t describe the details. I don’t have to. Thirty minutes later, I was on the floor, tugging my dance uniform back together, hands shaking, heart hollow. Cole zipped his jeans casually, smirking like the devil in blue denim. My body still hummed from him, but my soul felt poisoned.

“What’ve I done?” I whispered to no one, the words cracking as they left me.

Cole laughed. The sound wasn’t warm or relieved — it was sharp, cruel, triumphant. He leaned down, his lips brushing my ear. “You fell for it.”

The door creaked, and suddenly the room was full. Froy stepped in first, eyes dark, and behind him came the rest of the boys — Garrett, Max, Felix, Lucas, Alex. And worse — each of them dragging one of my girls. Cindy, Jihyoo, Alisha, Lera — their wrists gripped, their mouths silenced by the heavy air of betrayal.

Garrett’s grin was wide, wolfish. “Nonna’s here,” he sneered, shoving Jihyoo forward like she was nothing.

But I only had eyes for Cole. My stomach dropped, bile rising, because the truth unfolded in his smirk, in the glint of victory in his eyes.

“That was… your act?” My voice cracked, small, disbelieving.

He met my gaze, his smile calm, his voice low and steady. “Yes. And now, Erin… it’s time to see who you really are.”

Froy stepped closer, his hand clutching something. He tossed it to Cole, and my heart stopped.

It was my diary.

“Oh, shit,” I breathed, the air leaving my lungs.

The world tilted. My secrets were in his hands.

And I knew in that instant — this wasn’t the end of a battle. It was only the beginning of a war.

Cole’s POV

I never thought the day would come when I’d hold her soul in my hands. But that’s what this feels like. Erin’s diary, the ugly little book she thought she could hide from me, is in my grip, and I can feel her trembling just from me flipping the cover open. The way her face drains of color when she realizes I’ve already read some of it—it’s better than winning a game. It’s better than sex. It’s the kind of power Dad always said men were born to have.

The boys circle closer, my pack, my kingdom. They howl and cheer like it’s Friday night under the lights, but my eyes aren’t on them. My eyes are locked on her. Erin. The girl who once had me wrapped around her finger, who humiliated me in front of half the school, who punched me in the balls and made me a goddamn joke. And yet, in this moment, with her secrets bleeding out of these pages, she looks small. Weak. Mine again.

Froy is the first to reach out, palm up, waiting for the high five like always. My lieutenant. My brother. I slap his hand hard, the smack echoing in the room. For a second, the old feeling is there—me and him, unstoppable. But then something eats at me. Alisha’s words from earlier still stuck like thorns under my skin, and I can’t let them sit.

I grab his wrist, yank him close until we’re nose to nose. “Look at me, mate,” I growl, my voice sharp enough to cut. “Look me in the eye and tell me you’re not a faggot. Tell me those girls are wrong. Tell me you’re my general. My right hand.”

The room goes quiet, except for the muffled breathing of the girls being held back. Froy’s eyes widen, his mouth opens and shuts like he’s trying to swallow words he doesn’t want to say. And then, like a dam breaking, it spills.

“I can’t hold it anymore, Cole,” he says, voice cracking. “She doesn’t care for you. She humiliated you. She’ll never treat you right. But I would. I’ve always been here. I’ve always been loyal. Why can’t you see that?” His face twists, and he says it. “I’m sorry, but I’m gay. I like you. I—”

My fist connects with his face before he finishes. The sound is sick, meaty, the crack of betrayal meeting bone. He stumbles back, clutching his mouth, but I don’t stop. I can’t. Rage boils through me, blind and vicious.

“NO FAGGOT IN MY TEAM!” I roar, shoving him hard, then driving my boot into his stomach. He folds over with a grunt. “YOU KNOW THE RULES! We’re not some woke team that lets anybody in. We’re the stars! We’re the men! Not some sissy ass, not some weak little queer!”

“Stop it!” Alisha’s voice slices through, raw, furious. She thrashes in the grip of one of my guys, spitting fire. “He’s your best friend! He’s the one who tolerated your bullshit, your stupidity, and this is how you repay him?”

I whirl on her, blood still pounding in my ears. “You don’t understand!” I snarl. “Women never understand this kind of betrayal. This cuts deeper than anything you could imagine.”

I turn back to Froy, who’s on his knees now, eyes shining with tears. I punch him again. And again. Until my knuckles are raw, until I hear my own breath rasping like an animal. “Go,” I hiss, shoving him toward the door. “You’re not one of us anymore. I don’t need a faggot in my team. A dick-sucker.” I spit in his face, the wet sound final.

The boys shuffle, unsure. Garrett looks down, jaw tight. Max mutters something under his breath. But it’s Felix who steps forward, chest puffed. “I think the king needs a new general,” he says smoothly. “One that’s not a faggot. I can be that.”

I stare at him for a moment, then grin, sharp and mean. “Good, Felix. You’re my guy now.”

Behind me, Froy is begging, his voice breaking. “Please, guys. I’m one of you. We grew up together. Garrett, you know me. Max—”

But they look away. One by one, my pack turns their faces, the silence louder than his pleas. And then he’s gone. Limping out, clutching his ribs, broken. And I feel it, that ugly twist in my gut, like something important just ripped out of me. But I bury it. Dad’s voice in my head: weakness is poison. Better to cut it out before it spreads.

Now I have bigger prey.

I turn to Erin. Her eyes are wide, her face pale, her lips trembling. Perfect. I grab her chin, force her to look at me. “Let your friends see who you really are,” I say, loud enough for the whole room. “My bitch.”

And then I read.

Her words, her secrets, her confessions tumble out into the open, my voice dripping with venom.

“I hate myself for even writing this, but it’s the truth. I still love Cole.” I pause, let the words sink in, then laugh, cruel and sharp. “Still love me, huh? After everything? After the lies, after I pissed in your trophy? Look at her, still chained to me like a dog.”

The boys howl, some clapping, some whistling. Garrett shakes his head, muttering, “Damn, Cap.”

I keep going. “The pranks, the speeches, the girl-power chants—they’re real, but they’re my armor.” I sneer. “Armor. Cute. She admits it. All that feminist crap, all that girl power—it’s just her shield because underneath it? She still wants me.”

Alisha is screaming behind the gag one of the guys stuffed in her mouth. Cindy looks like she wants to disappear. Lera’s eyes are filling with tears. Perfect.

I read the part about Lera, voice dripping with mock pity. “Her on her knees for him, giving him what I swore was mine alone. I want to scream at her, claw at her…” I chuckle darkly. “Jealous much, Erin? Thought you were above all that sisterhood drama. Guess not.”

The boys laugh harder. Max actually mimics someone clawing the air, and they nearly double over.

Then I get to the good stuff. The guilt. The craving. Her dirty little secret. “What kind of feminist still aches for the boy who called her a slut? What kind of captain lets her knees tremble when the man who betrayed her touches her hair?” I slam the book shut for a second, hold it up like evidence. “You hear that? Your fearless leader is a fraud. She wants me to dominate her. She dreams of it. She wants me to pin her against lockers, grip her hair, make her mine. She admits it!”

The boys erupted like it was game night, pounding the lockers, stomping their cleats against the floor, chanting my name as if I’d just scored a touchdown that sealed the season. “Cole! Cole! Cole!” The chant rattled the walls, hot and alive, a surge of testosterone filling the air like smoke. They slapped my back, howled, whistled. For a second, I felt like a god again, untouchable, invincible.

But then my gaze landed on her. Erin. Tears cut silent tracks down her cheeks, shining in the fluorescent light. She wasn’t fighting, wasn’t screaming—just breaking. And for a fraction of a second, something ugly twisted in me. Not pride. Not victory. Something softer, quieter, something I didn’t have a name for. The ghost of a memory. The first time I kissed her in the locker hallway, when she was still mine, when she smiled like I was her whole damn world.

The softness made me sick. Weak. I could feel it corroding the edges of my armor, threatening to split me open, so I strangled it where it lived. I spit it out like poison. I raised her diary high, shaking it like a flag of conquest, and my voice came out louder, sharper than the boys’ chant.

“See?” I bellowed. “You need me, Erin. You’ll always need me. I’m still the king! And kings don’t fall. Men don’t fall. Men win, again and again, and no matter how much you deny it, you’ll never beat me. Never.”

“Fuck you!” Jihyoo’s voice cracked through the frenzy, sharp and defiant. It cut like a blade, a jarring sound against the worship of my pack.

I spun on her, rage exploding out of me. “You’re a fucking immigrant trying to run your mouth in my kingdom? Garrett, shut your girl up. Teach her some goddamn manners!”

Garrett stiffened, his face folding with discomfort, but his arms locked around Jihyoo tighter. “Nonna, don’t,” he muttered, his Southern drawl low, shaky. “Please. Don’t say that to our captain.” His voice wavered, and for the first time I could see it—he didn’t like what he was hearing. But he wouldn’t let her go. They never did.

The air went still, the tension heavy, but I fed on it. I thrived on it. I turned back to Erin, diary in my fist, shaking my groin at her in a brutal gesture that made the boys hoot with laughter.

“You will learn,” I hissed, voice low but carrying. “You will learn how to treat a man right. That’s what daughters are supposed to do. That’s what wives are supposed to do. Your dad? He’d want you on my arm. He’d want you carrying my name. Because men—men are the center of the world. We’re the ones who build it. We’re the ones who lead it. We’re the ones who own it. And you know why?”

I shoved my hand toward my crotch, grinning viciously, heat blazing in my face. “Because we have this. This is power. This is what makes the world spin. You think your books, your chants, your little girl power speeches mean a damn thing? They don’t. This is power. This is me.”

She sobbed harder, shaking her head like she could erase me, but I didn’t stop.

“And just so you know,” I added, venom dripping from my lips, “I just fucked you. And it was easy. So goddamn easy. You can fight, you can swing your little fists, you can plot your little pranks, but at the end of the day? This world belongs to me. To men. And I’ll save you, Erin. I’ll save you from the joke you’ve become. From your stupid feminism. From this lie that you can stand on my level.” I leaned closer, almost whispering now, the words hot against her face. “One day, you’ll thank me for it.”

The boys roared at that, some slamming the lockers harder, others barking like wolves. The noise was wild, feral, drowning out the sound of her crying—but I still saw it. The tears. The way her mouth trembled, her shoulders shook. And somewhere in the pit of my chest, a voice I hated whispered: stop. But I crushed it, grinding it down until it vanished.

“This Friday,” I declared, my voice booming over the chaos, “the football celebration in the gym. The whole damn school will be there. My dad. Your dad. Everyone. And I want you and your little cheer squad up front, smiling, shaking your asses, dancing for us. For me. You don’t show? You don’t smile? Then this diary—” I waved it like a torch, “—goes public. Everyone will know who you really are. A slut. Just like your mother.”

Her head jerked up at that, pain flashing so raw across her face I almost flinched. Almost.

“You think I don’t know?” I laughed, hollow, cruel. “Your mom was obsessed with my dad after he dumped her. Obsessed until she cracked. Ended up in the cuckoo house. You want that, Erin? You want to be your mom? No? Then be smart. Be mine.”

I stepped closer, pressing my mouth to hers, rough, a brand more than a kiss. She shuddered under it, and for a second I thought I felt her body soften against me like the old days—but maybe I just imagined it.

“Be my girl,” I whispered against her lips. “That’s the only way I’m doing you a favor.”

The boys went insane, laughing, jeering, dragging the other girls out into the hallway. Their voices echoed, the sound of celebration, of victory. They were already chanting again, their feet pounding in rhythm like a war drum.

“Boys!” I shouted, lifting the diary high above my head like a trophy, like a championship ring. “Let’s prepare for the biggest celebration of our lives!”

The chant swelled louder, “Cole! Cole! Cole!” rattling the walls. And yet, beneath the noise, something hollow yawned inside me. It wasn’t the same without Froy’s voice, without his steady rhythm anchoring the chant. My general was gone. My brother was gone.

But only real men can be Watchdogs.

That’s what I told myself, over and over, gripping Erin’s diary so hard my knuckles bled white.

Even as that small, treacherous whisper inside me muttered: you’ve already lost.