Football Players vs Cheerleaders (Part 2)

 

Episode 2: Cole’s POV

Garrett drove my truck because I could barely handle the pedals. Every bump in the road sent a fresh spear of fire through my groin. I sat stiff in the passenger seat, sweat dripping down my temples, one hand pressed firmly against the ice pack wedged into my crotch. Froy sat in the back, nervously shifting around, his eyes flicking between me and the road like he expected me to explode any second.

“Slow down,” I gritted out when Garrett hit a pothole.

“I’m doin’ thirty, Cap,” Garrett said, his Texan drawl as infuriatingly calm as always. “Truck’s got bad suspension.”

“I don’t care if it’s got horse legs,” I snarled. “If you hit one more bump I’ll—” The rest of my threat broke into a groan as another jolt made me double over.

Garrett and Froy exchanged a look. Neither dared laugh. They knew better.

When we finally pulled into my driveway, Garrett rushed around the truck to help me out. Between him and Froy, they hauled me like a wounded soldier, my arms slung over their shoulders. Every step was stiff, humiliating, my legs spread wide like a cowboy with the worst saddle sore in history.

“Thank God my dad’s working late,” I muttered through clenched teeth as they dragged me up the steps. “If he saw me like this…”

I didn’t finish. I didn’t have to. The thought of Chase McKnight watching his son limp in clutching his balls made bile rise in my throat.

Inside, they laid me out on the couch. The McKnight living room was a shrine to football masculinity: leather couch, a dozen trophies lined up like soldiers on the mantle, framed jerseys, ESPN highlights flickering muted on the big screen. Every piece of it reminded me of my father’s voice, of his gospel.

Your balls are your pride, son. That’s where a man’s worth sits. Guard ’em, flaunt ’em, never let anyone touch ’em without your say so.

I could still see the garage where he first said it, the stink of beer and oil heavy in the air. I’d been thirteen, awkward, my first shoulder pads still too big. He’d pressed a cold can into my hand — my first beer — and leaned forward, eyes hard and mean.

A man without his dick might as well be dead. That’s what separates us from women. That’s your crown, your weapon.

I’d swallowed bitter foam and nodded because what else could I do?

Women exist to test you. Don’t let them. You lead, you dominate, you take charge. If she hesitates, that means she’s waiting for you to show her who’s in control.

I remembered the way he’d jabbed a thick finger into my chest, his voice low and poisonous.

Never bow to a woman. If you let her get the upper hand, you’ve already lost. They’ll laugh at you if you let them.

That line was etched into my skull. That line echoed in my ears now, louder than Garrett and Froy fumbling with the ice pack.

I groaned and shifted, the pain sharp as a knife. My pride — my pride — humiliated by a girl half my size.

Froy helped slide my varsity jacket off, his hand brushing my arm. I caught him looking. His eyes lingered.

I narrowed mine. “Shit, Froy. Is that true? What Alisha said?” My voice came out rough, dangerous. “Are you a faggot? ’Cause I swear, if you are, I’ll kick your ass and kick you off my team.”

He went pale, hands flying up. “No! No, Cap! I just— I just admire your fit. I wanna be like you. I’m into girls, I swear. I wanna fuck Alisha, I— I’m not gay!”

I studied him, breathing hard. Then I let out a humorless laugh that made him flinch. “Yeah. That’s logical. People want to be me. Everybody does. Sorry, dude, I let that bitch get in my head. You’re my guy. My lieutenant. No way you’re a faggot.”

Relief flooded his face. Garrett pretended not to notice, tossing me a bag of frozen peas.

“Back in Texas, my daddy always said peas fix everything. Works on steers, works on quarterbacks.”

“I’m not a damn steer, Garrett!” I snapped, shifting the bag. The cold stung so bad it made me wince and groan again.

Garrett smirked faintly, chewing on his lip. Froy draped a blanket over me like I was some invalid.

“Don’t worry, Cap,” Froy whispered, almost reverent. “Nobody will remember this in a week. You’re still the man.”

“A week?” I barked, glaring at him. “They’re probably memeing me already! The entire school saw! They’ll never forget this.”

Froy tried for a smile. “At least Erin didn’t… y’know… break it. Permanently.”

I let out a guttural scream that rattled the windows.

Garrett chuckled nervously. “Look, Cole, every man takes a hit there once. It’s part of bein’ a man. Builds character.”

“Character doesn’t score touchdowns, Garrett!” I roared, slamming a fist into the couch cushion.

They both flinched.

I tried to stand. “I’m fine. I’m Cole McKnight. Nothing can take me down.”

One step. The pain lanced through me. My knees buckled. I doubled over, wheezing. “Abort mission! Abort mission!”

Garrett and Froy scrambled to catch me before I hit the floor, hauling me back to the couch.

“This is your fault,” Garrett hissed at Froy. “You should’ve stepped in before Erin—”

“My fault?!” Froy shot back. “You’re the linebacker! Where the hell were you when she swung?”

They bickered while I moaned dramatically into a pillow. “If I can’t play Friday… my career is over. Erin ruined my future! She ruined the NFL!”

“At least she didn’t film it,” Froy said carefully.

I lifted my head, eyes wide with horror. “SHE DID!” I screamed, shoving my face back into the pillow, voice muffled: “I’m dead. I’m fucking dead.”

That’s when the garage door slammed.

My blood ran cold.

Heavy boots thudded across the floor. The door swung open. And there he was. Chase McKnight.

Tall, broad, shoulders filling the frame. He smelled of beer and cigarettes, his face carved into stone.

“What the hell is this circus?” His voice cracked like a whip. “Why’s my son looking like a goddamn wounded calf?”

Garrett and Froy straightened, stiff as soldiers. Chase’s glare landed on them, sharp enough to cut.

“You two. Out. Go wait in his room. I need a word with my boy. Alone.”

“Yes, sir,” Garrett muttered. They vanished upstairs, glancing back nervously.

Chase dropped into a chair opposite me, arms folded, staring. His silence was worse than shouting. Finally, he spoke, calm. Too calm.

“So. Tell me, Cole. Why do you look like someone shot you in the gut? What the hell happened out there?”

My face burned. My throat closed. But his stare crushed me until I broke. “…It was Erin. She… she punched me. In the balls.”

Silence.

Chase blinked once. Then a short, bitter laugh broke out of him. It died as quickly as it came. His voice hardened into venom.

“You’re telling me… a little cheerleader — a goddamn girl — took down my son? The quarterback of Hawthorne Ridge? You let her humiliate you in front of your whole pack?”

He smacked the chair arm. The sound cracked like a gunshot.

“Do you know what people are saying right now? They’re laughing. They’re laughing at you, boy. At us. A McKnight, dropped by some brat with a fist. You shamed the name.”

He leaned forward, finger stabbing into my chest.

“I told you since you were twelve — your balls are your pride. You guard ’em, you lead with ’em, you make the world kneel. And you let some cheer girl smash ’em like an egg. What the hell is wrong with you?”

The sting came sharp across my head as his palm smacked me. Not enough to knock me over — just enough to humiliate.

“You don’t cry. You don’t cower. You hit back. Twice as hard. You break them before they break you. That’s how men survive.”

He rose, towering above me.

“Tomorrow, you show her. You show all of them. You ruin those girls. Make them regret ever standing up to you. You don’t just win the game, you win the war. You put them back in their place.”

I hunched, voice weak. “…Yes, sir.”

A creak at the doorway. Froy, pale but desperate. “Mr. McKnight, sir… actually, I have a plan. We’re gonna ruin the girls. Just… give us tomorrow.”

Chase turned his glare on him. “Is that so?”

Froy nodded. “Yes, sir. We’ll hit them back harder.”

Chase’s eyes narrowed. He pointed at me. “You better listen to your little lapdog, because he’s got more spine than you right now. But don’t get it twisted. This is your fight. You’re the captain. You lead. You strike. You destroy. If I hear you let a girl touch you again, you’re no son of mine.”

He grabbed a beer, muttered, “Pathetic,” and stormed upstairs.

I trembled, fists clenched, face hot. Garrett and Froy returned quietly.

“We’ll fix this, Cap,” Froy whispered. “We’ll get them.”

My voice shook with rage. “No. We’ll crush them. Tomorrow, they’ll learn what it means to humiliate me.”

The Next Day – Cole’s POV

I pulled the blue polo shirt over my head slowly, grimacing when the fabric tugged against my ribs. Even the motion of bending slightly to button my jeans sent a dull ache throbbing through my groin. The bruise still pulsed under the ice pack I’d worn most of the night. My body wanted to limp, to curl up, to rest. But my pride refused.

I stood in front of the mirror, jaw clenched, and forced myself upright. Six-two. Broad shoulders. Golden hair that caught the light just so. My reflection had to look like the quarterback, the alpha, the McKnight. Nobody could see the truth — that inside, I still felt like a wounded animal dragging itself across the dirt.

I whispered my father’s words to myself like a prayer. “Don’t ever bow. Don’t ever let them laugh. Hit back twice as hard.”

By the time Garrett honked outside, I shoved the pain into a locked box deep in my gut. I slid on my varsity jacket and walked stiff-legged to the door, forcing each stride to look like swagger instead of a limp.

The Watchdogs were waiting: Garrett with his smirk, Froy loyal at my side, Max and Felix cracking their knuckles, Lucas and Alex laughing too loud at nothing. They smelled of sweat and Gatorade, testosterone and adrenaline. My pack. My army.

We marched across the campus like a war band. I could feel eyes on us, whispers darting behind lockers. My chest swelled. They didn’t need to know how much it still hurt. All they needed to see was Captain Cole striding like a king.

We reached the Cheerios’ headquarters. The door gleamed, decorated with glittery stars and ribbons. Mocking. Feminine.

I drew in a breath, the ache in my stomach twisting, and shoved it down. Rage burned hotter. I kicked the door open so hard it slammed against the wall with a bang.

“If they want war,” I growled, my voice low, dangerous, “we’ll give them war.”

The boys roared behind me like it was a battle cry.

They surged in, chaos spilling everywhere. Garrett ripped open lockers, hurling uniforms to the ground. Froy grabbed pom-poms, tossing them in the air and stomping them into the mats, shouting in a shrill falsetto, “Go team! Shake it, shake it!”

The linemen joined in, strutting around with skirts stretched over their pads, mocking high-pitched voices. One bent his knees and squealed, “We believe in you, Cole!” before fake-fainting to the ground. The others collapsed laughing.

Froy did a clumsy high-kick in one of the skirts, the seams tearing straight up the side. The room exploded in howls.

A lineman grabbed a trophy, pressed it to his mouth like a megaphone, and screeched, “Two, four, six, eight, boys are strong and girls are late!” The chant was ugly, stupid — and it worked. They cheered like wolves.

Garrett marched to the photo wall, ripped down the framed team pictures. His spit splattered across Erin’s face in one glossy photo. “Queen of nothing,” he sneered.

Max booted a stack of pom-poms into the puddle of Gatorade one of the guys had dumped on the mats. Felix, wild-eyed, swung his helmet into a mirror, the crash of shattering glass echoing through the room.

I reached up, yanked down the “Cheerios Dance Club” banner, stomped it into the mud on my cleats. The sound of ripping fabric was as satisfying as a touchdown.

“Trophies,” I barked. “Get ’em.”

The boys obeyed, pulling every trophy from the cabinet, stacking them like firewood on the floor.

“This is what they get for humiliating me!” I bellowed, my voice cracking with a mix of fury and the ache still throbbing between my legs. But no one noticed the crack — or at least they pretended not to. The Watchdogs cheered louder.

And then I saw it. The biggest trophy. Their championship. Polished. Gleaming. The symbol of their work, their pride.

My lips curled into a grin.

Show them, Cole. Show them you’re still king.

I strutted forward, unzipping my jeans slowly, theatrically. The boys whooped as they realized what I was about to do.

“Let’s see how much this means to them now,” I sneered, voice dripping with satisfaction.

The sound was obscene — liquid splashing into metal, echoing through the ruined room. The stench of ammonia mixed with sweat and broken Gatorade.

The boys erupted.

“CAPTAIN COLE! CAPTAIN COLE!” they chanted, stomping their cleats on the mats. Garrett slapped my back so hard I almost winced. Froy bent over laughing, tears streaming down his face.

I leaned back, head tilted to the ceiling, golden hair catching the harsh fluorescent light. In that moment, in my head, I wasn’t the boy who’d been doubled over on the floor yesterday. I was untouchable. A god. The quarterback king.

This is what power looks like. This is what Dad meant. Make them kneel.

 

That’s when the door creaked.

Two voices, laughing, lighthearted. Erin and Cindy walked in, arms full of practice sheets. Their laughter died instantly.

They froze.

Their eyes widened as they took in the destruction — the shattered mirror, the ripped banner, the mud-smeared uniforms. Then their gaze landed on me.

Me, standing over their championship trophy, zipper open, finishing the last drops into their sacred cup.

The color drained from their faces. Erin dropped the papers, sheets scattering across the wet floor. Cindy gasped, her hand flying to her mouth.

The boys quieted, waiting. Grinning. Some covered their mouths to stifle snickers.

I zipped up with a casual flick, wiped my hand across my varsity jacket like nothing mattered, and turned slowly to face them.

I smiled. Wide. Cruel. A smile that said: I win. You lose.

“Well, well,” I drawled, my voice low, mocking, savoring the words. “Just in time for the show.”

I kicked the trophy with the toe of my cleat. Liquid sloshed over the rim. “You worked so hard for this, didn’t you? Guess it belongs to me now.”

Cindy’s eyes filled instantly, tears spilling down her cheeks. Erin’s lips trembled, fists clenched at her sides but frozen in place. They looked so small, so powerless.

“You thought you could embarrass me?” I said, stepping closer, towering over them. “You thought you could stand up to me?”

My grin stretched wider, wolfish. “You’re nothing without us. Remember that.”

Behind me, the boys erupted in cruel applause. Garrett whistled. Froy clapped like it was theater.

I turned my back on the girls, striding for the door with my pack at my heels. My chest swelled, the pain dulled by the surge of adrenaline. In my head, I was no longer humiliated. I was victorious. I had rewritten the story.

“Enjoy your trophy,” I laughed, my voice echoing off the ruined walls as I slammed the door shut behind me.

 

The sound of dripping echoed in the silence. Erin collapsed to her knees, covering her face as sobs tore from her chest. Cindy dropped beside her, wrapping arms around her captain, her own tears flowing.

They clung to each other on the ruined mats, surrounded by broken glass, shredded uniforms, and the stink of my victory.

For the first time, I’d broken them.

And deep down, I knew one thing:

This wasn’t just a prank war anymore.

This was domination.

And I wasn’t going to stop.