Football Players vs Cheerleaders (Part 3)

 

Episode 3

— Erin POV

I didn’t cry right away.

When Cole zipped himself up and smirked at me in that ruined cheer room, when he kicked the trophy with his muddy cleats and let his piss slosh over the rim, when he laughed like a king marking his throne — I didn’t cry. Not when Cindy gasped beside me, not when my papers hit the sticky floor, not even when the boys clapped and whooped and slapped Cole’s back like he’d just won another game.

I froze. My fists clenched at my sides, nails digging into my palms. My throat locked. I wanted to scream, but nothing came out. I just stood there and let him walk out with his pack of hyenas. And when the door slammed shut, when the sound of dripping echoed from the trophy cup, that’s when it hit me.

This was Cole’s message to me. To us.

I’d given him everything once. My heart, my trust, my body. My virginity, my first time — something I thought was sacred, something I thought would bind us closer. And he twisted it. He cheated, he lied, and now here he was, using the very thing that had once been intimate between us as a weapon.

I already owned you once, his smirk had said. I’ll always own you. My dick is my crown, my pride, and you’ll never escape it.

The tears came hot, angry. I fell to my knees, covering my face, shoulders shaking. Cindy knelt beside me immediately, pulling my hands away, whispering, “It’s okay, Erin, it’s okay…” But it wasn’t. Nothing about this was okay.

Alisha stormed in seconds later, her boots squelching in the mess on the floor. “What the fuck did they do?” she yelled, her voice trembling with rage. “Erin, are you okay? Tell me where they are, I swear to god—”

Then Jihyoo appeared, quiet but fierce, eyes darting around the destruction. And Lera, hesitant but determined, shutting the door softly behind her like she was sealing us in a sanctuary.

I didn’t say anything. I couldn’t. I just sobbed.

And then they all surrounded me.

Cindy wrapped one arm around my shoulders. Alisha crouched in front of me and grabbed my hands. Jihyoo sat cross-legged beside me, resting her palm on my knee. Lera hovered for a moment before finally kneeling too, her hand brushing my hair back.

We sat there in the wreckage, five girls clinging to each other, breathing the same heavy air.

Alisha was the loudest. That was her way of coping. “He’s fucking dead. I’ll kill him. Erin, look at me — he’s not gonna get away with this. I’ll knee him so hard his grandkids’ll feel it.”

Cindy hushed her, shaking her head. “Violence alone won’t win. That’s what they expect. They’ve got muscles, size, numbers. We can’t beat them at their game.”

“But look at this!” Alisha gestured wildly to the destroyed room, to the sticky puddles and the broken mirror. “They trashed everything! We can’t just sit here and—”

“Stop,” I whispered hoarsely. My throat hurt from holding back sobs. “Please. Stop fighting each other. That’s exactly what he wants.”

I wiped my cheeks, forcing myself upright even though my knees shook. “Cole’s whole world is about making girls fight each other. He did it with me and Lera. He cheated with her just to split us. And now he’s doing it again — making us angry enough to turn on each other instead of him.”

Lera’s eyes widened, guilt flickering. I reached for her hand and squeezed it. “You’re not my enemy, Lera. You never were. He is.”

Her lips trembled, and she nodded quickly, tears brimming in her eyes.

I looked at Alisha, at Cindy, at Jihyoo. “We can’t let him win by tearing us apart. We’re sisters. That’s how we beat him. Together.”

That was when Cindy’s eyes lit up. She adjusted her glasses, a spark in her gaze that always meant trouble. “Do you know,” she said slowly, “I have an idea.”

We all turned to her. Cindy smirked. “If they want to play dirty, we can play dirtier.”

My brows knitted. “How? What can we do?”

She leaned back on her heels, thinking like she was still in the lab. “In chemistry class, I’ve been experimenting. I’ve been working on formulas that I thought might get me into MIT one day. But right now? Those formulas can get us revenge.”

Alisha groaned, throwing her hands up. “Are you kidding me? Cindy, they just pissed in our trophy and trashed our room, and you want us to sit through chemistry nerd time?”

Cindy narrowed her eyes, her voice sharp. “Can you listen for two seconds instead of just charging in like a bull? They’ve got the advantage in size and strength. If we run at them head-on, we’ll lose. We need brains, not just brawn, you dipshiit”

“WHAT DID YOU SAY?” Alisha shot back, her voice rising.

The tension snapped like a rubber band. My stomach twisted. I hated this — hated watching women fight when we should’ve been standing side by side. I stepped between them, holding up both hands.

I turned to Alisha, grabbing her by the shoulders. “I love you, Alisha. You’re my warrior. But if we want to win, we have to control ourselves. We have to be smarter. Okay?”

Her breathing slowed. She stared at me for a long moment, then finally nodded, muttering, “Okay. For you.”

I pulled her into a hug, squeezing hard. Then I glanced back at Cindy. “Show us. Show us what you’ve got.”

We followed Cindy out of the destroyed room, leaving the mess for later. My heart was still heavy, still aching from humiliation, but there was a flicker of something new beneath the pain: resolve.

Cindy led us to the chemistry lab. The place smelled of bleach and acetone, beakers and burners lined up neatly across the counters. It was her church, her battlefield.

She snapped on gloves and goggles, her movements sharp and practiced. “Okay, listen up,” she said, her voice taking on that lecturing tone she used in class when she knew the teacher had gotten something wrong.

“What we’re making is called AndroStim Mist.” She held up a flask of clear liquid that shimmered faintly.

“Sounds scary already,” Jihyoo muttered, arms crossed.

“Good,” Cindy replied flatly. Then she launched into her explanation.

“This,” she said, swirling the liquid, “is a volatile compound. I made it by combining menthol vapors, capsaicin from chili peppers, and a synthetic analog of testosterone. Sounds fancy, right? Here’s what it does.”

We leaned in, wide-eyed.

“When inhaled, the vapors hit the hypothalamus — that’s the brain’s sex-drive center. It forces an over-release of nitric oxide, which dilates blood vessels. That’s the same chemical process behind… well, arousal.”

Alisha snorted. “So you’re basically making horny gas.”

Cindy smirked. “Weaponized horny gas. The body normally regulates it, but this stuff hijacks the feedback loop. Once it starts, it doesn’t stop. The result: uncontrollable, persistent boners. Whether they want them or not.”

We burst into laughter, the image already ridiculous in our heads.

Cindy went on, deadpan. “Side effects: flushed skin, sweating, whining. If exposed too long, involuntary pelvic thrusting. And if they try to cool off in water — bad idea. The gas bonds tighter in cooler temps. They’ll make it worse.”

Jihyoo slapped the counter, wheezing with laughter. “You’re telling me they’ll run around with their dicks out, dunking themselves in ice water, and it’ll just get harder?”

“Exactly.” Cindy grinned wickedly. “Two to three hours of chaos. With aftershocks for up to forty-eight hours.”

I couldn’t stop smiling. For the first time since the trophy incident, I felt light. “This is perfect.”

Cindy set the flask down. “Now, we can’t just spray it anywhere. We need timing. We need a trap.”

Lera tilted her head. “The lunchroom.”

“Yes.” Cindy pointed at her. “The football guys always skip Gender Studies, right? They sneak to the lunchroom during that class. That’s when we get them. Just the boys, no teachers, no distractions. We release the gas and watch the kings of the school crumble.”

The idea hung in the air, electric.

Alisha punched her fist into her palm. “That’s more like it.”

Jihyoo grinned. “This is women’s power. Scientific revenge.”

Lera still looked nervous but nodded firmly. “They’ll never see it coming.”

Cindy turned to me. “What do you say, Captain?”

I exhaled, letting the vision play out in my mind: Cole McKnight doubled over, his bravado shattering, while the Watchdogs ran in circles with trays in front of their crotches. The thought made my chest swell with something dangerous and beautiful.

“I say it’s time,” I whispered. “Time to fight back.”

We linked arms, the five of us, standing in that chemistry lab surrounded by burners and beakers. It wasn’t glamorous, it wasn’t traditional, but it felt holy.

“We’re not victims,” I said softly. “We’re not their props, their toys, their trophies. We’re sisters. And tomorrow, they’ll learn what happens when sisters fight back.”

Cindy squeezed my hand. Alisha grinned, sharp and fierce. Jihyoo whispered, “Amen.” Lera wiped her eyes and nodded.

Over the next three days, we prepared. Cindy perfected her mixture, testing small samples in jars. Alisha practiced her “mock cheerleader voice” just to get herself hyped. Jihyoo suggested we use crabs from the biology lab — “imagine those crawling up their pants” — but I shook my head, laughing. “Next time, girl.”

We restored some of the cheer room, but not all. We wanted the scars to remain — a reminder of what they’d done, fuel for what we were about to do.

Each night I lay in bed, replaying the humiliation in my mind: Cole’s smirk, his laugh, the trophy dripping. And each night, I replaced that image with the one I longed for: Cole gasping, panicking, begging, while his own body betrayed him.

Three days later, we gathered outside the lunchroom. The halls were empty — most students were stuck in class. But not them. The Watchdogs swaggered down the hall like they owned it, skipping Gender Studies as always. Cole led the pack, still limping slightly but trying to hide it. His golden hair gleamed under the fluorescent lights, his varsity jacket stretched across his broad shoulders.

They pushed into the lunchroom, laughing, shoving each other, already cocky.

We waited in the shadows, spray bottle in Cindy’s hand, our hearts pounding as one.

It was time.

Cole POV

The cafeteria was ours. Always was, always would be. Noon sunlight spilled across the linoleum, hitting the tables like spotlights, and right there in the center of it sat me. Cole McKnight. Captain. Quarterback. King.

I lounged on top of a cafeteria table, legs spread wide, varsity jacket unzipped, a wad of gum working slow between my teeth. My sneakers squeaked faintly on the polished surface every time I shifted, but nobody would ever tell me to get down. Not me. Teachers ignored it, students avoided it, and the Watchdogs made damn sure this was our territory.

Around me, my pack sprawled out like soldiers on leave. Garrett had his cowboy boots propped on a chair, hat pulled low, a smirk tugging his lips as he leaned back. Froy sat loyally at my side, like he was carved there, nodding whenever I shifted, always ready to back me up. Max and Felix tossed a football lazily across the aisle, thudding it into each other’s palms. Lucas and Alex were raiding the vending machine, laughing loud at nothing.

It felt good. It always did. A room that should’ve belonged to everyone felt like it belonged only to us.

I spat my gum into a napkin, stretched my arms, and let my voice cut through their chatter.

“Gender Studies, man. Biggest joke in this school.”

That got their attention. The football slapped into Max’s hands and stayed there. Garrett lifted his head. Even Froy’s posture sharpened like I’d said gospel.

I leaned forward, spreading my knees wider, my hand gesturing at my crotch. “What the hell do we need a class for? You’re either a man or you’re not. Case closed.”

The boys howled. Garrett slapped the table with a loud smack. Max almost dropped the football from laughing. Froy’s eyes flicked down and back up, and I could see it — that glow of admiration.

Garrett drawled, voice lazy but sharp: “Yeah, all they do is sit there talkin’ ’bout how men are the problem. Global warming? Men. Politics? Men. Traffic jams? Must be men’s fault too.” He chuckled, shaking his head. “Hell, maybe we should just apologize for existing.”

The boys cackled. Froy leaned forward, defensive like always, eager to echo me. “Exactly! They just wanna make us feel guilty ’cause we’re strong. ’Cause we’re the ones scoring touchdowns, getting scholarships. They don’t understand what it takes to be us.” He threw me a quick look, searching for approval.

I gave him a nod — small, but enough to make his chest puff out.

Max tossed the ball again, louder this time. “They literally said football culture is toxic last week. Like, excuse me? Without us, this school’s nothing. No pep rallies, no Friday night lights, no wins. Toxic my ass.” He sniffed his pit dramatically. “Only thing toxic here is Garrett’s pits.”

“Fuck you,” Garrett shot back, but the laughter drowned it out.

Felix cut in, flexing like an idiot. “Yeah, remember when the teacher asked us to ‘reflect on our privilege’? Like, what privilege? I worked my ass off in the weight room. I earned these guns.” He kissed his bicep. The boys whistled and whooped.

Lucas, his mouth stuffed with a vending machine honey bun, added through crumbs: “They just hate that guys like us get the spotlight. They want us to sit quiet and nod while they rant. Nah, I’d rather be here with pizza rolls and Coke.”

I smirked, letting the moment build before I dropped the hammer. “Listen, it’s simple. That class is brainwashing. They’re trying to turn us into weak little yes-men who bow down to girls. Not gonna happen.”

I leaned forward, elbows on my knees, eyes sharp, voice hard enough to make them sit straighter. “We’re men. We lead. They follow. Always have, always will.”

The Watchdogs erupted — clapping, cheering, hooting like I’d just called a touchdown play.

Garrett raised a French fry like it was a champagne flute. “To skipping Gender Studies!”

“Hell yeah!”

“Best decision ever!”

The chorus bounced off the cafeteria walls, our laughter spilling out into the halls.

I leaned back again, stretching, my grin sharp as I spread my legs wider. “Let the nerds argue about feelings. We’ll be here, doing what men do best: eating, winning, and taking what we want.”

The laughter swelled again. It was good to be king.

 

That was when I smelled it.

At first, faint — like cotton candy carried in from the hall, something sickly-sweet under the smell of fries and grease. I sniffed once, shrugged it off, leaned back.

Then Froy tilted his head. “Yo, what’s that? Smells like… strawberries?”

Garrett shrugged, lazily chewing. “Probably the lunch ladies mopping with that cheap perfume cleaner again.”

I smirked, spreading wider on the table. “Nah. That’s a girl’s perfume. Smells like every cheerleader that’s ever begged to sit on my lap.”

The boys roared, whistling, clapping.

But the smell grew stronger. Heavy. Sticky. It filled the air like fog. I shifted, frowning, heat prickling across my skin.

“The hell…?” I muttered.

Something wasn’t right.

 

I glanced down. And froze.

My eyes widened. “What the fuck?!”

I muttered it under my breath at first, disbelief crackling through me. But then Froy gasped. He crossed his legs quick, hands snapping down. My eyes darted to him, caught it immediately.

And I pounced.

“You have a boner!” I shouted, loud enough to echo. “Oh my god — Froy, are you really a faggot? You’re hard sitting right next to me!”

The boys burst out laughing, pointing, hollering. Froy went beet red, stammering, “No! No, Cap, I swear — I don’t— it’s not—”

Garrett’s laughter cut off with a groan. He shifted in his chair, his face twisting. “Aw, hell no…”

I whipped around. “You too?!”

I jumped down from the table — bad move. The second my feet hit the ground, every pair of eyes locked on me. And there it was. Obvious.

The laughter died into a stunned silence.

Then chaos.

Max dropped the football. “Bro, it’s all of us!”

Felix clawed at his waistband, eyes wide. “What the hell is happening?!”

Lucas cursed, doubling over.

And then the panic set in.

The panic rippled through the room so fast it was like a bomb had gone off. Garrett shoved his chair back, his boots scraping the floor, hands cupped over his lap as if he could hide what was happening. Max was swearing loud, pacing in tight little circles, his hands twitching between holding his waistband and throwing them up like he was about to cry. Felix actually bent double, groaning, his face red as if he’d just finished running suicides in the gym.

Me? I clenched my jaw, forced myself upright, chest puffed, trying to hold the line. But it hurt. It hurt bad. A pressure that wasn’t natural, that wasn’t earned, building like fire through my body. I felt the waistband of my jeans cutting into me, felt my legs stiffen with every twitch. It wasn’t arousal, it wasn’t pleasure. It was pain and humiliation all wrapped together.

“This isn’t normal,” I growled, spitting the words like venom. “Something’s wrong.”

Froy whimpered from the bench, his hands locked tight over his lap. His eyes were wide, desperate, looking at me like I had the answers. “It… it hurts, Cap. Like… it actually hurts.”

“Man the fuck up,” I snapped at him, even as I shifted awkwardly, even as I felt sweat bead at my temple. I couldn’t let him see me flinch. Not him. Not any of them.

Garrett winced, biting down on a curse. “Feels like I got a steel rod in my jeans, man. Holy hell.”

Felix tried to laugh but it came out broken. “This ain’t a blessing, it’s a curse!” He slapped the table, groaning as he leaned back, clutching his thighs like he was holding himself together.

“Get ice!” someone shouted—maybe Max, maybe Lucas—and then half the squad was scrambling. Chairs tipped, trays clattered, sneakers squeaked against the tile. They ran to the cafeteria counter, yanking open freezers, grabbing ice packs, bags of frozen peas, anything cold they could get their hands on.

Garrett pressed a pack against his crotch first. He let out a sharp groan that turned into a yell. “It’s harder! It’s fucking harder!” He threw the bag across the room, it smacked against the wall and burst, peas scattering across the floor.

Max dunked his whole lap into the freezer, smashing his hips against a box of frozen fries. His head thunked against the door as he screamed, “Make it stop, oh my god, MAKE IT STOP!”

And Felix—stupid Felix—grabbed a pitcher of milk from the cooler, yanked it open, and tried to pour it over himself. He jolted upright immediately, spilling half the jug onto the floor. “COLD MAKES IT WORSE!” he shrieked, his voice breaking like a boy hitting puberty.

The sight was chaos, pure slapstick. These were my men, my Watchdogs, reduced to a pack of idiots hopping in circles, clutching their groins, moaning like dying animals. The smell of strawberries was thick, cloying, wrapping around us like a taunt. Sweat rolled down our faces, mixing with the milk Felix had spilled, the peas crunching under our sneakers.

“Stay calm!” I barked, my voice cracking, my body hunched even though I tried to stand tall. “We’re men! We can—aaagh!”

The pain hit like a spike, sharp enough that my knees buckled. I doubled over, one hand slamming onto the table to hold myself up, the other clutching desperately. My breath hissed through my teeth. “It hurts… oh god, it hurts…”

Around me, the chorus rose.

“It’s like a sledgehammer in my pants!” one lineman bellowed.

“Bro, I can’t sit down, it’s like trying to bend steel!” another muttered, rocking on his heels.

Garrett, voice trembling, managed to gasp, “If my mama sees me like this, I’ll die.”

Froy squeaked, high-pitched, “Don’t… don’t touch me, I can’t move!” His eyes flicked to me again, begging for some kind of answer, but I couldn’t give him one.

I slammed my fist onto the table, trying to claw back some control. “Nobody says a word about this! You hear me? If anyone finds out—”

“Cap,” Max interrupted, his voice wild, “literally the whole school can probably hear us screaming right now!”

The room was a madhouse. The air was thick with that sickly-sweet strawberry stench, sweat, milk, and desperation. Half the boys were on the floor, writhing, kicking over chairs as they clutched themselves. The other half banged against the cafeteria doors, trays held like shields in front of them. The sound was a drumbeat—fists, feet, shoulders slamming into the wood, begging to be let out.

I stumbled forward, pressed my shoulder into the door, pounded it with my fist. My voice rose above the din, ragged, furious, desperate. “OPEN THIS DOOR! LET US OUT!”

The wood rattled under my weight, but the lock held. We were trapped, a dozen caged animals with our pride on display, humiliated by something invisible, untouchable.

And for the first time in my life, I was terrified of being seen.

 

 

The banging and groaning reached a fever pitch. My lungs burned, every breath sharp and ragged, and the pressure in my jeans was unbearable. The waistband cut into my skin, my thighs twitched involuntarily, and each second felt like I was being stabbed from the inside out. The humiliation of it boiled hotter than the pain. Captain Cole McKnight, the golden boy, leader of the Watchdogs—reduced to doubling over and gasping like some weakling.

One of the linemen—big, dumb Ricky—finally snapped. His voice cracked as he shouted, “Screw this, I can’t take it anymore!” He fumbled at his zipper, groaning, and then yanked his jeans down to his knees. The sight was ridiculous: this giant of a guy, shoulders like a wall, now standing in nothing but a varsity jacket and bright SpongeBob boxers, hopping on one foot as he kicked his jeans away.

The others stared for half a second—then it spread like wildfire. Max, Felix, Lucas, all cursing, all groaning, hands flying to their waistbands. Zippers rasped, buttons popped. Denim hit the floor in a frantic chorus. In seconds, the whole squad had stripped down, jeans discarded in a pile by the tables.

They looked absurd. Big bodies, thick necks, broad chests filling out their jackets… and legs bare below, thighs pale, knees knocking, boxers stretched tight. Max’s had hotdogs with smiley faces, Felix’s had neon flames, Garrett’s were plain black but pulled so tight they might as well have been painted on.

And me. I fought it. God, I fought it. But the pain sharpened with every heartbeat, and finally I cursed under my breath and yanked my own jeans down. The cool air hit me like a slap. I kicked the denim away, trying to own it, trying to stand tall even as sweat dripped down my temples.

The laughter hit instantly. Max actually keeled over, clutching his sides despite his own misery. “Superman boxers! Oh my god!”

Even Garrett cracked a grin, breathless through his pain. “Cap, you serious with those?”

“Shut the fuck up!” I roared, my voice higher than I wanted, my face burning hotter than fire. “They’re limited edition!”

But the damage was done. Superman, bright red and blue, stretched across me like a joke. The symbol of invincibility plastered over my most vulnerable moment.

We all froze when the door creaked.

The hinges groaned, the lock clicked, and slowly, deliberately, the cafeteria door swung open.

She walked in first. Erin.

Arms crossed, chin high, her eyes locked on me. Behind her, the Cheerios filed in—Cindy adjusting her glasses, Alisha already smirking, Jihyoo with her phone out like she was ready to film, and even Lera, biting her lip to hide a grin.

The room went silent except for our groans. My chest tightened.

Erin looked at us—at me—at all of us lined up like fools in our jackets and boxers, hands hovering awkwardly, faces twisted in pain. And she smirked.

“Aww,” she said, her voice dripping sweet poison. “Boys have a boner?”

The Cheerios erupted. Clapping, hooting, laughing so hard one of them bent double. The sound hit me harder than any tackle I’d ever taken.

Cindy stepped forward, her tone cool and clinical like a teacher at the blackboard. “What you’re experiencing is called AndroStim Mist. A volatile compound designed to hijack your nervous system and force an over-release of nitric oxide.”

We groaned in unison, like some pathetic choir. I gritted my teeth, sweat dripping down my neck.

She smirked, pushing her glasses up. “In simpler terms? Science just pantsed you. And the best part? It only gets worse if you try to cool off.” Her gaze flicked to the spilled milk, the scattered peas. “Which you already proved.”

The girls howled again.

Behind me, I heard rustling. Alisha and Jihyoo, darting like thieves, scooped up the pile of discarded jeans. Felix yelped, twisting around, but they were too fast. They bolted for the door, laughing hysterically.

“Hey!” Garrett shouted, hobbling forward.

Then Lera stepped up, eyes meeting mine for a heartbeat before she bent, grabbed my jeans, and held them aloft like a trophy. “Guess Superman can’t save you now!” she called, and her voice rang like a bell.

The Cheerios bolted, arms full of denim, their laughter trailing like music.

It took a second for the realization to sink in.

Then Max screamed it: “They took our jeans!”

Something snapped in me. My humiliation boiled into fury. My throat burned with it.

“AFTER THEM!” I roared, my voice breaking, my body already lurching forward.

The Watchdogs surged with me, a dozen broad-shouldered idiots in boxers and jackets, charging into the hallway with their… problem… bouncing painfully with every stride. The slap of bare thighs, the squeak of sneakers, the sound of groans and curses echoed like some absurd parade.

One of the linemen slipped on the milk spill near the door, his legs shooting out from under him. He landed flat on his back with a wheeze, clutching himself as he rolled. The rest of us hurdled over him, shouting.

Garrett grabbed a cafeteria tray, holding it in front of him like a shield. It slipped, clattered to the floor, and he cursed, trying to yank it back up even as he ran. Max tripped over a rolling pea bag, windmilling his arms before crashing into the lockers. Felix was shrieking like he was on fire, his flame boxers doing nothing to help the joke.

Ahead of us, the Cheerios screamed with laughter, tossing jeans back and forth like a game of keep-away. Erin caught mine mid-arc, waving them in the air like a prize flag before sprinting faster.

And then—they led us straight into it.

The gym doors flew open, and we barreled through, the echo of our sneakers loud on the polished wood. But it wasn’t empty.

Dozens of students were already there—lounging on the bleachers, eating lunch, scrolling phones. A hundred eyes turned as one. Silence fell for a heartbeat.

Then the laughter came.

A tidal wave of sound, deafening, merciless. Phones shot up, flashes lit the air, Snapchat notifications chimed like bells.

“Nice undies!” someone screamed.

“Who’s the Superman now?” another girl howled.

“Quarterback? More like Quarter-chub!” a guy hollered, and the gym collapsed into hysteria.

I felt my face burn, hotter than anything I’d ever felt. My fists clenched, my chest heaved, but I couldn’t hide it. None of us could.

“Shut up!” I bellowed, my voice cracking high. “Everyone shut the fuck up!”

The laughter only grew, rolling over me like thunder.

I shoved through, barreling toward the men’s bathroom, my squad stumbling behind me, all of us groaning, red-faced, boxers stretched and pride shattered. The doors slammed behind us, muting the noise but not killing it. The chant followed through the hall.

The sound of the entire school laughing at me.

The golden boy.

Cole McKnight.

The door banged shut behind us, the heavy wood rattling in its frame as if it wanted to mock me too. The laughter outside didn’t die—it seeped through the vents, muffled but relentless, a roar of voices chanting, clapping, hollering. It crawled under my skin, dug into my bones.

The men’s bathroom smelled of bleach and sweat, the fluorescent lights buzzing harsh above. The Watchdogs stumbled in, bent over, clutching themselves, red-faced and gasping. I staggered to the sinks, gripping the porcelain like it was the only thing holding me upright. My reflection in the cracked mirror looked like a stranger: hair wild, face dripping sweat, eyes burning, Superman blazing across my boxers like a cruel joke.

“Fuck!” I roared, slamming my fist into the mirror. It cracked further, spiderwebbing, shards glittering under the lights. My knuckles split, blood smearing down the white porcelain. “Fuck, fuck, FUCK!”

The boys flinched, their groans echoing. Garrett slumped against a stall, tray still clutched half-heartedly to his crotch. Max leaned against the wall, his chest heaving like he’d run a marathon. Felix whimpered under his breath, rocking on his heels. Froy hovered closest to me, his eyes wide, hands gripping the edge of a sink like he was waiting for me to tell him what to do.

“They humiliated us,” I spat, my voice low, ragged. I turned, glaring at them. “They humiliated me.”

No one answered. Their silence was worse than laughter. I slammed the sink again, making the pipes rattle. “Say something!”

Garrett groaned, then slowly dropped to his knees. Not in weakness—but in something else. A gesture. Submission. His head lowered, his shoulders hunched. “Cap… we’re with you. Always.”

One by one, the others followed. Max, Felix, Lucas, Alex—all dropping down on the grimy tile, clutching their groins but bowing their heads like knights to a broken king. Even Froy, his eyes never leaving mine, slid down, kneeling at my feet. The sight should’ve made me laugh—it was pathetic, ridiculous—but instead it fed me. Warmth flickered in my chest, bitter and desperate.

They looked up at me, their faces twisted in pain, shame, but lit with loyalty.

“We’ll get them back,” Garrett said, his voice steady despite his flushed face.

“We’ll make them pay,” Max muttered.

Felix nodded hard, sweat dripping off his chin. “They won’t laugh at us again.”

Froy’s voice cut through the others, trembling but sharp with devotion. “Cap… to make you feel better, I’ll set you up with the prettiest girl from another school. Someone hotter than Erin, someone that’ll make her cry when she sees you with her.” He leaned closer, eyes shining like a dog begging for approval. “I swear. I’ll find her for you.”

For a second, I just stared. My fists clenched, my breath ragged, blood still dripping from my knuckles. The humiliation still burned in me like acid—but seeing them kneel, hearing Froy’s promise, it soothed something. A reminder that even if the whole school laughed, even if the girls thought they’d won, I was still captain. Still leader. Still Cole McKnight.

I dragged my hand through my hair, smearing blood and sweat. My grin felt savage, wolfish.

“Good,” I rasped. “Because tomorrow… tomorrow we burn them down.”

The boys groaned their approval, a low, painful chorus, like a vow spoken through clenched teeth.

Outside, the laughter still roared. But inside that bathroom, on that filthy tile, the Watchdogs bowed to me, and I swore I’d make every one of those bitches regret the day they ever thought they could humiliate me.