Football Players vs Cheerleaders (Part 4)

Episode 4

Erin POV

It felt like victory still shimmered in the air. Three days had passed since the lunchroom stunt and people were still whispering about it in the hallways, still pulling up shaky videos on their phones, laughing until their sides hurt at the sight of the mighty Watchdogs hopping like idiots, clutching their crotches in varsity jackets and boxers. I knew it was petty, but every time I heard someone replay that moment of Cole screaming “walk slowly, my balls!” I felt a rush of satisfaction sweep through me. The cafeteria was his throne, and I’d toppled him from it.

For years, he’d sat on those tables like he owned the whole damn school, legs spread wide, chest puffed, talking about brotherhood and football like it was scripture. People used to lean in to listen, as if the quarterback’s words were prophecy. But now? Now I had made him into a punchline. That mattered to me. More than I’d ever admit out loud, it mattered. Because for so long I’d been the one humiliated, the girl who gave him everything only to be discarded. The girl people whispered about when they thought I couldn’t hear. That day in the lunchroom, it was like I ripped that shame off myself and pinned it to him.

We were celebrating at the diner, my girls and I crammed into a booth with fries piled high and milkshakes sweating on the table. Alisha kept imitating Garrett’s voice, groaning “ohhh it hurts, it hurts,” clutching herself dramatically until we doubled over. Cindy, calm and smug as ever, tapped her straw on the table. “Scientific proof,” she said, chin tilted. “Told you male anatomy is the weakest system on earth.”

Jihyoo, always the wild one, was grinning so wide I thought her face might split. “Honestly,” she said between giggles, “I wanted to stomp Garrett’s dick flat while he was whining on the floor.”

We screamed with laughter, the whole table shaking. Lera actually spilled her soda, wiping her eyes. “You’re insane,” she wheezed, but even she couldn’t stop laughing.

I leaned back, soaking it in. For once, we weren’t just side characters propping the boys up. We were the story. We had the power.

And then the bell over the diner door jingled.

I didn’t need to look, but I did. And there he was. Cole McKnight. Blue polo stretched across his chest, hugging the muscle I knew too well, his golden hair falling just right. Jeans tight against those strong legs that once carried me on his shoulders, once tangled with mine in ways that still burned in my skin. He was still limping, walking with that wide, careful stance, and I knew exactly why. I could almost hear him lying already: “Sorry, sports injury,” hand on his groin like the cocky bastard he was.

And God help me, he was beautiful.

I hated myself for noticing, hated the way my stomach twisted. His eyes still had that glint that once made me feel like the only girl alive. Those arms, those hands, the ones that used to hold me so tightly… my body remembered even if my brain screamed to forget.

And he wasn’t alone. She was with him. Mentari. The new girl, the exchange student from Indonesia. She was tiny, with that fresh, open face, her smile so bright it almost hurt to look at. And instantly, my pride burned. She looked just like me when I first fell for him: hopeful, clueless, dazzled by his shine.

Disposable, the thought hissed in my head. He replaced me like I was nothing. Swapped me for a shinier toy. My heart twisted. Does he like her more? Is she better than me? Ugly thoughts, the kind you choke down but can’t quite kill.

Lera touched my hand gently. Her voice was soft but firm. “I know what you’re thinking. It’s not your fault. We were taught to fight each other for boys’ attention, but it doesn’t matter. He’s not worth it.”

I swallowed, forcing a smile, but the ache stayed. Because I knew better than anyone how Cole operated. The charm, the smooth words, the way he made you feel chosen, special, irreplaceable—right before he tossed you aside. Looking at him now, laughing with Mentari, I wanted to scream at her: Run. Don’t fall for it. Don’t give him what I gave him. Don’t let him ruin you.

Alisha leaned in, eyes narrowed. “What do you think he’s saying to her?”

Cindy smirked, already pulling out her phone. “We can find out.”

We watched as Jihyoo excused herself, skipping off toward the bathroom. Except she didn’t. Instead, she casually strolled past Cole’s booth, pretending to adjust her hair in the reflection of the window. Her phone slipped from her hand—deliberately—landing right into the plant pot beside his table. A second later, my phone buzzed. Cindy had her on call.

We huddled closer, the buzz of the diner fading as Cole’s voice came through tinny but clear.

“So, Mentari, how’s America treating you so far?” His tone was smooth, practiced, dripping charm. “Don’t tell me you miss the food already—unless you count fries as a vegetable here.”

Mentari giggled, the sound soft and delighted. She said something about missing her country’s food but liking how exciting everything was.

Cole’s smirk was almost audible. “Stick with me, and you’ll never miss anything. I’ll give you the best tour this town has to offer.”

I clenched my fists under the table.

“Your necklace,” he said, his voice lowering, intimate. “That’s pretty. But honestly? You could wear a string of popcorn and still look amazing.”

Mentari murmured a thank you, flustered.

And then his voice dipped even lower. “You know, every guy here’s probably kicking himself that I got to sit with you tonight.”

Alisha rolled her eyes so hard I thought they’d get stuck. But I couldn’t laugh. My throat was tight.

Then he launched into his favorite kind of story—football glory. “Last Friday, when I scored the touchdown? Whole stadium was on its feet. But I swear, if you’d been there, I’d have run faster. Just for you.”

Mentari’s gasp was audible, wide-eyed admiration. “I’ve never met a quarterback before,” she said.

Cole chuckled, smug as sin. “Well, now you’ve met the best one in the state.”

He leaned back—we couldn’t see it, but I knew the move—stretching, muscles pulling tight against that polo, making sure she noticed. “So… what do you usually do on weekends? Book clubs? Dance? Or maybe you’re just waiting for someone to show you a real good time?”

Mentari admitted she hadn’t gone out much yet.

“Guess that makes me your first American tour guide.” The grin in his voice made my skin crawl. Then it dropped, lower, conspiratorial. “Hey, my dad’s working late tonight. House is all mine. We could hang out after this—just chill, listen to music, maybe watch a movie. No pressure. But I promise, you’ll have more fun than sitting in a diner booth.”

Mentari hesitated. I held my breath.

Then she smiled. “Maybe… okay.”

And Cole, victorious, smirked, “Knew you’d say yes. No one ever regrets hanging out with me.”

My chest burned. It wasn’t just jealousy. It was fury. I knew exactly what would happen if she went with him. That was how he gained power—by taking firsts, by making girls feel like they’d given him something no one else had, then leaving them hollow.

I looked at my girls. “We can’t let this happen. If she goes to his house tonight, he’ll have her. And then she’ll be one of us—another notch on his belt. We have to help her.”

Jihyoo popped back into the booth, triumphant. “I could bring my crabs,” she suggested brightly.

“Crabs?” Alisha sputtered, choking on her soda. “Oh my god, Jihyoo, are you serious?”

Jihyoo pouted. “They’re genetically modified. They could totally pinch his—”

“No,” Cindy cut in, pinching the bridge of her nose. “Absolutely not.”

“I’m just saying…” Jihyoo mumbled, sulking.

I ignored them, my mind racing. And then I remembered. The night we’d watched The Conjuring. How Cole had gone pale, how his leg bounced nonstop, how he’d bolted to the bathroom and came back with wet sweatpants, trying to laugh it off. But I’d seen the stain. I knew. He was terrified of horror, of ghosts, of Valak.

I leaned forward, fire sparking. “He’s afraid of ghosts. He believes in horror stuff. He won’t let anyone know, but I saw it. This is how we break him.”

Alisha’s eyes lit up. “Ohhh, this is my time to shine.” She cracked her knuckles. “I’ve got theater makeup, I’ve got sound effects. You want a demon voice? I got you.”

Cindy arched an eyebrow. “You, a makeup artist? Don’t you usually just punch things?”

“Punch first, contour second,” Alisha shot back.

We laughed, even through the tension.

“We’ll need a ghost,” Cindy said, thoughtful. “Someone to play it.”

We drew straws, the napkins torn uneven. Jihyoo pulled the short one.

Her eyes widened. “Me? But—” Then she squared her shoulders. “Fine. I’ll be the ghost. I just wish I could bring my crabs.”

I reached across the table, squeezing her hand. “This isn’t just a prank. This is about saving Mentari. We’re not letting Cole take another girl down.”

The girls nodded, one by one. We were ready.

And outside the diner window, I watched Cole lean closer to Mentari, golden and perfect in the dim light, the devil hiding under angel skin.

This time, I thought, we’ll tear the mask off.

Cole POV

I sat back on my bed, polo collar neat, shoulders squared, the laptop perched at the foot, streaming some random menu of movies. I’d kept the polo on because I knew how it hugged my chest, the way the sleeves bit my biceps just right. I didn’t want to admit it, but that shirt was a kind of armor — like if I looked good, then nothing could touch me.

Mentari shifted closer, her dark eyes glancing up shyly before flicking away. She tucked a strand of hair behind her ear and then said softly, “That polo looks really good on you.”

The words landed like a sucker punch. I should’ve grinned, flexed, soaked it in like every other time a girl complimented me. But instead, my throat tightened. Because I’d heard those exact words before. Erin. Whispering it, fingers brushing over the collar, her laugh low in my ear.

The flashback came sharp, uninvited. Erin sitting cross-legged on my bed, textbook open, pretending to tutor me but really just tracing her fingers across my chest, saying, “You look so hot in this, Cole. Don’t even bother changing.” Then kissing me, soft at first, before it turned hungry.

I clenched my jaw now, blinking hard. Why the hell was I thinking about her again? I had Mentari right here — sweet, foreign, impressed by every damn thing I said. But Erin’s ghost lived in me like a scar. I hated it. Hated that she lingered, even after she’d humiliated me in front of everyone. She’d punched me. There. Right in the one place Dad told me was sacred. She’d laughed at me. And still, she haunted me.

I forced a smirk, leaned in, kissed Mentari. “Erin, you’re so beautiful,” I muttered against her lips.

She froze. Pulled back. Her brows pinched. “Hmm? Erin?”

My stomach dropped. “I mean—Mentari. Sorry. Your name’s… hard for western tongues.”

Her expression softened. She smiled gently. “Try. Spell it with me. Men… ta… ri.”

Her voice was careful, like a teacher coaxing a child. She said it again, slower, “Men-ta-ri.”

I repeated it, stumbling, but she clapped her hands softly and laughed. “See? You can.”

It felt weird — like déjà vu. Erin had taught me too, back then. Not her name but equations, scribbling numbers, making me repeat formulas until I pretended frustration just so I could kiss her instead. Mentari’s smile now mirrored Erin’s back then. And I hated it because it made me remember what I wanted to forget.

“Men…tari,” I said again, kissing her to cover the sting.

She excused herself to the bathroom, leaving me alone with my thoughts. My phone buzzed. Froy.

I answered, leaning back against the headboard. “Checking up on me, bro?”

His voice came tight, but steady. “How’s it going?”

“It’s good. Real good.” I surprised myself, actually meaning it. “Thanks, man. You’re the best. Seriously. My brother.”

There was a pause, heavy. I swallowed, words tumbling before I could stop them. “Sorry I let Alisha’s crap get in my head. I shouldn’t have said that. You know I’d never actually think you were… you know. You’re straight as hell. I was a jerk.”

He exhaled slowly. “As long as you’re happy, man. That’s all I want.”

I nodded even though he couldn’t see. My throat felt tight. “I’ll pay you back. I’ll set you up with someone — you deserve that. We’ll find you a girl, man.”

Silence again, then his voice low: “As long as you’re happy.”

I hung up, jaw tight. That was Froy — loyal, steady, always orbiting me. I didn’t deserve him. But I wasn’t about to say that out loud

Mentari came back from the bathroom, drying her hands on her skirt. She looked so light, so unbothered, moving with that fresh confidence of someone who hadn’t yet learned to be afraid of the shadows in this house. She climbed onto the bed again with that easy little smile, her hair falling forward as she leaned closer, playful.

“Let’s watch something from my country,” she said, voice almost coy. “An Indonesian movie — Kuntilanak.”

I shrugged, trying to look bored, trying to act like I wasn’t curious, like none of this mattered. “Yeah, sure. I’m good with horror.”

Her eyes glittered at that, her voice lowering, almost conspiratorial, like she was letting me in on something private. “You know, I heard in this town, there’s even a version of her. People call her the Lost One.”

For just a second, my chest tightened. I forced myself not to flinch, not to show anything, keeping my expression flat.

She leaned in, her tone dropping to a hush that pressed into the silence between us. “They say she hunts arrogant men. Cuts them down… literally. Castrates them if they’ve hurt women.”

The word hit me harder than a punch, sharper than Erin’s fist ever had. Castrate. My body prickled cold. It wasn’t just about pain, though god I could imagine it too well — it was the humiliation, the annihilation of everything Dad told me mattered. Pride, legacy, dominance. He’d always said it came down to that one thing between your legs. The crown of a man. And in one story, one word, it could all be stripped away.

I laughed too quickly, too loudly, my voice cracking at the edges. “Ha! That’s just a story. My mom used to tell me crap like that too. Dad said it was just folklore, stuff to scare boys into behaving.”

Mentari tilted her head, lips curving in a way that felt sharper than any smirk I’d ever given. “I hope you’re not one of those men, Cole.”

I flexed my arm under her hand, smirking back, forcing control into my voice. “Nah. I’m not afraid of some ghost story.”

But the truth was lodged in my throat, dry and tight. Inside, I was trembling.

The lights were low. The glow of the laptop flickered, shadows moving across the walls like they were alive. The eerie chants from the movie filled the room, weaving into the silence like smoke. Mentari curled against me, her breath warm on my arm, whispering, “You’re so strong. I feel safe with you.”

Safe.

I wanted to believe her. I almost did. For a heartbeat, I let myself sink into it — until the crash split the air.

A sharp, heavy sound from downstairs. Glass breaking. Metal clattering. Not from the laptop. Not from the movie. Real.

Mentari bolted upright, eyes wide and wet with fear. “Cole — what was that? A burglar?”

My chest squeezed tight. I wanted to smirk, toss out something cocky, but my hands were already gripping the bat leaning by the wall. “Stay here,” I told her, voice flat but clenched. “If it was a burglar, the alarm would’ve gone off. Just… don’t move, okay?”

She nodded, hugging her knees, and her trust burned me. She thought I could handle anything.

I shut the door behind me and started down the stairs. Each step dragged like lead. The house was quiet, but not silent — the kind of stillness that listens.

Then I saw it.

My football trophy, shattered, its golden figure snapped clean off. My dad’s state championship cup cracked straight down the middle, the running back bent backward, grotesque.

The bat went slick in my hands. “Who’s there?!” I shouted, but the echo came back too fast, too empty.

Silence stretched.

Then a laugh.

A woman’s laugh. Sweet at first, soft, curling like it belonged to someone close. Then it stretched, warped, rising sharp and hollow until it scraped against my skin and made the hairs on my arms bristle.

My stomach plummeted. My mom’s voice rang in my head, whispers I’d shoved away for years. She takes the arrogant. The ones who think their manhood makes them untouchable.

The tripod in the corner tilted, slow, deliberate. Then it slammed into the wall with a crack that rattled the frames on the mantle.

I flinched so hard the bat almost flew from my hand. “No… no, it’s just gravity… just fell…” But I’d seen it. It hadn’t fallen. It had leaned.

The laugh came again, closer now, slithering under my skin.

I bolted.

Down the hall, heart pounding like it wanted to punch through my chest, shoving open the door to the gym.

The gym — our fortress. Mirrors shining in the low light, dumbbells stacked, the reek of sweat and rubber mats thick. If there was anywhere I should’ve felt safe, it was here.

I slammed the door shut, pressed my back against it, bat trembling in my grip. “It’s nothing. Just my head… just my head…”

But the temperature dropped. My breath fogged white in the air. The mirrors misted like someone unseen pressed their face against the glass.

And then the laugh again. Not outside. Here.

I spun.

And she was there.

Floating.

Hair veiled her face, black and wet, tangled over her shoulders. The dress was white once, maybe, but it hung in tatters, soaked and stained dark. Her hands dangled at her sides, but the nails caught the light, long and curved like blades.

She glided forward, her toes inches above the mat, her body moving with a slow, awful grace. Her head tilted, and the strands of hair slipped just enough to reveal pale skin, lips curled into a smile too wide, too red, too wrong.

Her voice was both a whisper and a scream, layered and jagged. “The Lost One… has found you.”

The bat clattered from my hand. My arms folded down, clutching myself on instinct, protecting the one thing the stories promised she would take.

Warmth spread through my jeans, down my thighs. The patter of it hitting the mat echoed like mockery.

“No… no, please…” My voice broke into sobs, high and raw. “Don’t take me…”

Desperate, I lashed out, kicking the dumbbell rack. It rattled. One weight rolled free.

The twenty-pound iron dropped.

Straight into my crotch.

White-hot pain ripped through me. My scream tore out, shrill, guttural, stripped of everything but agony. “FUUUUUUUCK! MY BALLS!”

I collapsed sideways, curling, both hands locked to myself, tears flooding hot down my face.

The garage door slammed. Boots stomped. The reek of smoke.

“Cole? What the hell—”

Dad stormed in.

And froze. His face drained. He saw her too. The shape, the hovering figure, the smile that didn’t belong.

For once, Chase McKnight — six-two, broad, untouchable — faltered. “No… no, not me! Take him! Take my son!”

He pointed at me.

Then he stumbled, foot crashing into the rack. Another dumbbell rolled.

It dropped.

Right onto him.

His scream tore out to match mine. “AAAAARGH! JESUS CHRIST MY BALLS!”

There we were — father and son, the McKnights, the men of the house, curled side by side on the mat, clutching ourselves, voices tangled in shared humiliation.

The ghost’s laughter swelled, rising until it filled every corner, rattled every mirror, twisting like bells out of tune.

Then, flick.

The lamp blazed. The air warmed. And the room was empty.

Except us.

And in the doorway — Mentari.

She stared at us. Jeans wet, faces streaked with tears, doubled over in pain. Then her hands shot to her mouth, but the laughter broke through anyway. Giggles first, then harder, until she bent forward wheezing.

“Oh my god… Cole, you’re afraid of ghosts?!”

“Shut up,” I gasped, voice shredded, my body trembling. “It was real—”

Her laughter cracked louder, spilling out of her like it couldn’t be stopped. “Big tough quarterback, crying and peeing his pants!”

Dad groaned beside me, glaring weakly. “Pathetic… both of us…”

Her laughter echoed, sharper than the ghost’s, bouncing off the mirrors like it wanted to brand me. She shook her head, still laughing as she stepped back from the doorway.

“Unbelievable. I thought you were the golden boy… but you’re just a joke.”

Her words sliced deeper than the dumbbell.

And then she left us, still groaning on the floor, clutching what little pride we had left. Somehow, her laughter hurt more than anything supernatural could.