Football Players vs Cheerleaders (Part 6)

 

Episode 6

Jihyoo POV

I saw that stupid guy with his stupid bulge swagger out of the room, Cole acting like he owned the whole world, while Erin was left behind crying like her chest had been split open. The sound of the door clicking shut felt like it sealed us all inside with her grief. For a moment, none of us knew what to say. The air was thick, heavy, broken.

Lera was the first to move. She crawled across the floor to Erin, her knees scraping against the tiles, her face blotchy with shame. Her voice cracked as she grabbed at Erin’s arm. “You hate me, don’t you? Why don’t you just tell me you hate me? I know I’m a slut, I can’t restrain myself, but you’re my friend. Why didn’t you tell me straight to my face?” Her tears fell fast, her fingers clutching Erin’s sleeve like a lifeline. “Why did you let me stay, if you hated me all along?”

Erin’s eyes were glassy, but she didn’t answer. And that silence made Alisha snap.

“So you just let Cole fuck you like that?” Alisha’s voice was raw, dripping with fury, her hands balled into fists at her sides. “You could’ve kicked him in the balls so hard he’d be singing soprano for life, but instead you chose to enjoy him? That’s what you did?” She shook her head, biting down on her lip so hard it almost bled. “And now what? Now we’re just gonna dance for them this Friday? Put on skirts and shake it like nothing happened? No. No, I’m not doing it. You see how evil he is? He dumped his best friend, beat him half to death, just because he was gay. That’s fucked up. If you can’t stand up to him, Erin, then sorry—but you’re not our leader.”

Cindy froze, her arms wrapped around herself, her glasses fogged as she tried to process everything. The room felt like it was splitting, and Erin just sat there, silent, drowning in her tears.

And then, somehow, it was me who broke.

“Can you shut up?” The words ripped out of me before I even thought about them. And for once, the room went dead silent.

Everyone turned to me. The bubbly Korean girl. The one who always smiled, always offered little jokes, always kept it light when things were heavy. None of them expected me to raise my voice—least of all Alisha.

“What the hell did you just say?” she demanded, fire flashing in her eyes.

I stood up, shaking, but I didn’t back down. “I said shut up, Alisha. And for once, for the first time—LISTEN TO ME!”

It was like a dam bursting. All the times they ignored me, laughed off my ideas, shoved me into the role of sidekick—it all came flooding out.

“We’re not saints. We’re not perfect female avengers. We’re just girls. And we’ve all messed up. You all love to silence me, brush off my ideas, treat me like I’m just here to clap and smile. Like my crabs are some kind of stupid running gag. Well guess what? I tested them. I tested them on Brian, that swimmer guy, and it worked!” My voice cracked, but I pushed on.

Alisha blinked, stunned. “This is still about the crabs?”

“No!” My throat burned, but I didn’t stop. “It’s about you all never listening to me. Never taking me seriously. I hate it. And I should’ve said it sooner, but I didn’t, because I knew you didn’t mean to hurt me. I knew you thought it was just a joke. But I’m tired of being your joke.”

The room was quiet, every eye on me. I wiped my face with the back of my hand. “I’m more than the good girl who follows orders. I’m a future biologist. I’m smart. I have ideas. I have a voice. And maybe you forget that sometimes, but I don’t hate you for it. Because we’re learning. All of us.”

I turned to Alisha, who was still glaring, but softer now. “You act like the hot-headed one, like that’s your whole thing. But I know that’s not all you are. You love makeup. You love creating things, painting faces, telling stories with color. And you know what? Loving girly things doesn’t make you less of a feminist. You don’t have to be the tough one twenty-four seven. I saw your face when you put ghost makeup on me. That’s your passion. You don’t have to prove to anyone that you’re strong—you already are.”

Alisha’s jaw clenched, but I saw the cracks forming in her armor.

I turned to Cindy, who was hugging herself so tightly her shoulders shook. “And you—Cindy. You’re brilliant. But that brilliance doesn’t have to be a box you trap yourself in. You’re allowed to be stupid sometimes, to laugh, to have fun. You don’t need to have all the answers. I saw your face when the boner gas worked on the boys. You enjoyed it, didn’t you? Watching them run around, humiliated? Who knows, maybe one day you’ll invent something that saves women everywhere from assault. A real anti-rape weapon. But only if you let yourself enjoy it, enjoy being you.”

Cindy’s lips trembled, and she pushed her glasses up, her eyes wet.

Then I faced Lera, who still knelt beside Erin, clutching her. “Lera. You did something wrong. You sucked Cole’s dick while he was still with Erin. That’s a betrayal. Cole is ninety percent to blame—he manipulated you, used you—but you’re not blameless either. And it’s natural for Erin to resent you for it. That doesn’t make you unforgivable. That mistake doesn’t define you. What defines you is that you’re here now, with us. You chose to side with us, and that’s what matters.”

Lera broke into sobs, pressing her forehead into Erin’s arm.

And then finally, I looked at Erin. She looked like glass, fragile, cracked, one wrong word away from shattering completely.

“And you, Erin. You’re not the perfect leader you try to be. You’re just seventeen. You fell in love with a boy. A boy with muscles and green eyes who made you feel special. I get it. I really do. Cole was your first everything. Of course you still feel something for him. Of course it’s hard. That’s human. But you need to accept that part of you instead of burying it. You need to stop pretending you’re untouchable and be honest with yourself. You like Cole. But you also have a choice. You always have a choice.”

I walked to her, crouched down, and wrapped my arms around her trembling shoulders. “It’s not your fault. None of this is your fault. The society we live in is messed up. They hand men like Cole all the power just because he’s a straight white guy. They tell us since we were little that we need a strong boy to stand behind. They don’t care if he treats us like trash, because they think women are only here to support men. And I’m tired of it.”

My voice broke, but I kept going. “I feel disgusting every time Garrett fetishizes me, calls me his little Korean doll, like I’m not a person, just some fantasy. Just because he likes Blackpink doesn’t mean I’m obligated to act like his dream. I’m not. None of us are. We’re not props in their story.”

The silence was heavy, but this time, it wasn’t empty.

“We’re all messed up,” I said softly. “We’ve all made mistakes. We’re not perfect feminists. But we’re learning. We choose to be better. That’s what separates us from Cole and his boys. Cole had a choice too. He could’ve chosen love. He could’ve chosen loyalty. He could’ve chosen his best friend. But he didn’t. He chose hate. He chose cruelty. And that’s why he’s a monster.”

I pulled back just enough to look at Erin, really look at her. “You can still choose. Alisha, you can choose to be both strong and artistic. Lera, you can choose to forgive yourself and move forward. Cindy, you can choose to invent something that makes women powerful. And Erin—you can choose to be the leader we know you are.”

My chest heaved, but I smiled through it, tears hot on my cheeks. “And together? We’ll crush some jock balls this Friday. I don’t know how yet, but we’ll do it. And this time—we’re using my crabs. My testosterone-hunting crabs!”

For a moment, no one moved. Then Erin lunged into me, clutching me tight, sobbing into my shoulder. “I love you,” she cried. “You’re my first real friend in the U.S. We’re sisters. We mess up, but we stick together. And I swear—men will feel the fear of God when they see women stick together.”

The rest of the girls joined in, arms wrapping around us, tears soaking into each other’s skin. Alisha’s face pressed into my hair, her whisper muffled, “I’m sorry, Jihyoo. I never listened. I should have. You’re right.” Cindy’s glasses fogged as she cried openly, hugging tighter than I thought she could. Lera’s grip shook with guilt but softened with relief.

And Erin, in the center of it all, raised her head just enough to whisper through her tears, “Cole McKnight won’t know what’s gonna hit him.”

We cried. We laughed a little too. But more than anything, we felt strong again. Together.

Part 11: Cole POV

The gym smelled like sweat, popcorn, and floor polish. The banners of Hawthorne High’s victories hung heavy from the rafters, each one stitched with years of Watchdog triumphs, each one carrying my name like it was carved into stone. Trophy cases lined the walls, glass gleaming under the bright lights. Every reflection told the same story: the Watchdogs were gods here, and tonight was our coronation.

The bleachers were packed, a wave of denim and polos, mothers sitting prim in their Sunday best, fathers leaning forward like they owned the place. My dad was dead center, broad shoulders and smug grin, one arm slung around his newest girlfriend. She had that look I’d seen too many times: glazed eyes, lips painted, body there to decorate him. The dads sat up front like kings in a court, the rest of the town stacked behind them — teachers, classmates, wannabes. The school band hammered out fight songs, brass blaring, drums pounding. It was suffocating, but it was ours.

I strutted in first, varsity jacket hanging off my shoulders like a cape, blue polo stretched across my chest, jeans fitted just right. I heard the roar, the cheers, the shrill whistles of girls calling my name. Behind me, the Watchdogs swaggered in their matching jackets, each one puffed up like we’d just won state. Felix walked taller than the rest, trying hard to look like my new second-in-command. Garrett grinned at Jihyoo in the stands, flashing her that cowboy smirk.

I shook hands with teachers like a damn politician. Fathers clapped me on the back, their voices booming: “Future of Hawthorne football right here!” “State champ material, this kid.” Every word fed me, built me higher. And then there was Chase McKnight, my old man, standing in the middle of it all like a general inspecting his troops. His pride hit me harder than any pat on the back. I stopped in front of him, and for a second his nod was enough to make me believe this whole night was meant for me alone.

But I had one stop left. Erin.

She stood at the edge of the cheer squad, hair curled tight, uniform neat, face polished into that cheerleader mask. To everyone else, she looked perfect. To me, she looked mine. I pulled her into a hug, tight, my lips brushing her ear. “Be a good girl tonight,” I whispered. Her body stiffened in my arms, but I held on until the crowd cooed at the scene. They saw devotion. I knew it for what it was: possession.

The principal waddled onto the stage, microphone squealing before his voice filled the gym. “Ladies and gentlemen, welcome to the annual Rise of the Watchdog!” Applause swelled, banners rippled. “Tonight we honor not just a team, but a tradition. For decades, the Watchdogs have been the pride of Hawthorne High, the heart of this community. These young men are more than athletes. They are leaders, role models, and protectors of our school spirit. Without them, Friday nights would be empty. Without them, Hawthorne would lose its heartbeat.”

The principal paused, letting the silence stretch as the school band swelled behind him, brass notes filling every corner of the gym. He leaned into the microphone, voice booming, reverent. “When the Watchdogs take the field, they remind us of what it means to be strong, to be courageous, to carry the legacy of those who came before. Tonight, we honor valor. Tonight, we honor victory. Tonight, we honor the Watchdogs!”

The gym answered in unison. Feet hammered against the bleachers like thunder, palms clapped raw, voices rose in a chant that rattled the rafters. “Watchdogs! Watchdogs! Watchdogs!” The sound was primal, electric, like the heartbeat of the school itself pounding in time with my pulse.

One by one, we were called up like knights in some archaic ceremony. Garrett was first, lumbering forward with his cowboy grin. His father rose to his feet in the front row, clapping like he’d just watched his son win the Super Bowl. The medal slid around Garrett’s neck, catching the light, and he strutted back to his seat, holding it between his fingers like a sheriff’s badge.

Then Felix — puffed up like a peacock, jaw tight, trying to look like my second-in-command now that Froy was gone. He bowed his head for the medal like he’d just been anointed, then turned to the crowd with that smug tilt of his chin, soaking in the applause as though they were clapping for him alone.

Max, Lucas, Alex followed. The line was seamless, medals clinking against chests, camera flashes exploding like fireworks. Each handshake, each nod, each backslap from the principal was another brick laid in the fortress of our tradition.

And then it was me.

“Cole McKnight!”

The roof nearly came off. The gym roared louder than I’d ever heard it. My dad rose slowly, clapping with deliberate weight, like a king acknowledging his heir. His eyes found mine across the crowd, sharp and expectant, and for a second, I felt ten years old again, desperate for that nod of approval. The medal fell heavy against my chest, polished gold gleaming under the floodlights. I caught my reflection in it — jaw squared, blond hair perfect, eyes shining emerald. For a second, I looked untouchable. Like the golden boy I’d been molded to be.

We sat together in the front row, folding chairs aligned in a perfect line like thrones on a dais. I dropped into the center seat, spreading my legs wide, hands folded across my stomach, the weight of the medal pressing against me like a crown. From this angle, I could see the whole gym laid out before me: banners swaying, lights glaring, the crowd humming with pride. The golden boy in his court.

But something scratched at the back of my mind. The balance of the room was off.

Usually, these nights pulled everyone. The nerds with their science fair ribbons. The chess kids. The theater boys. Even the scrappy track team with their skinny legs. They’d all show, lining the back rows, clapping like trained seals. But tonight? The bleachers tilted the other way. More girls than boys. A lot more. Rows and rows of them, leaning forward, eyes sharp and smiles fixed just a little too wide. The absence of the other boys made the whole thing feel wrong, like a chessboard missing half its pawns.

I leaned toward Felix, muttering. “Where the hell are the rest of the guys?”

He just shrugged, fiddling with his medal, clueless. Garrett smirked, teeth flashing. “More girls for us.” He winked like it was a gift from the gods.

I looked up again and caught Erin’s eyes across the court. Just for a second, her lips twitched into a smirk — faint, sharp, dangerous. Then, as if she’d never broken character, she snapped her face into perfect cheer posture, smile pasted on, hands poised on her pom-poms. The hair on my neck prickled. Something gnawed at me, but I shoved it down. Tonight was ours. It had to be.

The MC’s voice cracked back through the speakers. “And now, to honor our champions, the Hawthorne Cheer Squad will perform their dance!”

The band shifted into a pop rhythm, drums thundering, cymbals crashing. The cheerleaders marched onto the court in formation, glittering uniforms sparkling under the spotlights, bows bouncing high. Their smiles stretched wide, practiced and sharp, white teeth flashing as their sneakers squeaked against the polished floor. To the crowd, they looked perfect. To me, something about their eyes seemed too bright, too focused. Like wolves dressed as dolls.

I leaned back in my chair, smirked, folding my arms across my chest. “Told you,” I whispered to Garrett. “They’re ours.” He chuckled, nodding along, too drunk on the spectacle to see what I saw.

At the front, Dad lifted his flask, sipping with that smug tilt of his chin, already seeing scholarship letters arriving in the mail.

Before the music began, the principal raised a hand again. “One more moment, before the performance. Fathers, join your sons.”

The dads rose like a tide, stepping forward with broad shoulders and booming voices, clapping us on the backs. Chase’s hand landed on me like a hammer, his grip iron on my shoulder. “You’re the king, boy. Don’t let anyone forget it.”

We stood together in a row, fathers beside sons, medals gleaming. The photographer barked orders, camera flashing. Then came the tradition. Our tradition. The call for the Watchdog pose. We grabbed our belts, thrust our groins forward, shaking them at the lens, laughing like cavemen at a fire. Fathers and sons together, bound by some crude parody of masculinity. The crowd whooped. Mothers clapped politely, their smiles tight, while the band slammed out a victory beat to match the thumping in my veins.

For a moment, it was paradise. Gold medals glinting, fathers grinning with pride, sons basking in their glory. The whole world seemed to belong to us.

But then the spotlight shifted back to the edge of the court. The girls stood poised, pom-poms glimmering, smiles still sharp. Erin’s eyes found mine again, her smirk returned. Sharper this time. Like she knew a secret I didn’t.

The imbalance nagged me again. Too many girls. Not enough boys. The air felt loaded, thick with something unspoken.

I ignored it.

The music swelled, the girls stepped forward in formation.

And the performance began.

Part 12: Cole POV

I adjusted my varsity jacket over my shoulders, cape-like, the blue polo beneath stretching across my chest, my jeans pressed, clean, sharp. The Watchdogs swaggered behind me, medals clinking, puffed up like roosters. We were gods tonight. The kings of Hawthorne High.

Then I felt a tug at my arm.

I spun, frowning, and there he was. Froy. His face pale, his eyes wide, his breathing sharp like he’d sprinted across the entire gym just to reach me.

“Cole,” he whispered, his voice breaking. “Something’s wrong. We need to get out. Now. Please, let me help you. You may hate me but I’m still your friend.”

His hand clamped onto my arm, trembling. For a second, just one second, I saw the boy I’d known since we were kids, the one who’d always been right behind me on the field, the one who used to patch me up when I scraped my knee, the one who always—always—looked at me like I was more than just a quarterback.

And then I shoved him away. Hard.

“Back off, faggot,” I snarled, loud enough for the microphones and the whole damn gym to catch it. My voice cracked through the air like a whip.

The sound rolled. Gasps. Whispers. A couple of kids in the back straight-up shouted “Ohhhh!” like it was a rap battle line.

Froy froze, his face crumpling. He looked like I’d just slit him open with words. His mouth moved, desperate, but no sound came out. He tried again, shaking his head. “Cole… don’t do this…”

My father’s hand flicked from the front row, a signal sharper than any whistle. Security moved in like wolves, grabbing Froy by the arms. He struggled, begging, his voice cracking. “Please, let me talk to him! He’s my brother—Cole, please! Please!”

The Watchdogs barked laughter. Felix cupped his hands around his mouth and shouted, “Get the faggot outta here!” Garrett snorted, shaking his head. Max tossed popcorn at him as the guards dragged him toward the exit.

I stood tall, smirking, though something sharp gnawed at my chest. He twisted in their grip, his eyes never leaving mine, pleading. And I… I looked away. I didn’t care. Not tonight. Tonight I was on top of the world.

The crowd buzzed with unease, but then the band struck up again and the spotlight shifted, and just like that, the moment drowned under the noise.

The cheerleaders strode onto the floor.

Erin at the front, chin high, eyes glittering under the fluorescent lights. Cindy, Alisha, Lera, Jihyoo, all of them lined behind her, uniforms gleaming, pom-poms flashing like weapons. The crowd roared their approval, seeing nothing but sparkle and smiles.

I leaned back in my chair, legs spread, tapping my foot to the beat. “See?” I said, smug, just loud enough for Garrett and Felix to hear. “They dance for us. Always for us.”

Garrett let out a low whistle. Felix grinned, nodding. My dad in the front row clapped, proud, sipping his whiskey like this was the proof his boy had finally claimed the world.

The girls launched into their routine. Sharp kicks, high spins, arms snapping into place like blades. Perfect synchronization, every step landing on beat. My eyes followed Erin’s legs—strong, precise, powerful. I remembered practices when we were together, how serious she took it, how those kicks could’ve snapped a guy in half. She used to tease me about it, tell me if she ever caught me in the balls like that, I’d never get back up.

Now, watching her move across the court, I smirked. She’s mine again. Look at her, shining out there. My good girl. My cheer girl.

The music swelled. They shifted routines, sliding closer to the front row. Their moves got slower, flirtatious, swaying hips, hair flips, fingers dragging down their own arms.

The Watchdogs stirred. Garrett muttered, “Damn, that’s hot.” Max leaned forward, elbows on his knees. Felix licked his lips, chest puffing like a rooster. “Hell yeah,” Garrett called out when Jihyoo spun near him.

I caught Erin’s eyes. She smiled sweetly, dangerously, and I smirked back. “That’s my girl,” I murmured, smug.

Then she grabbed the megaphone.

Her voice rang out, sugar-sweet but cutting like glass: “We dedicate this to the Watchdogs. Why don’t you boys join us on the floor? Come on—you deserve it.” She paused, then added with a smile that made my stomach twist, “And moms? Sorry for what we’re about to do to your boys. We’re gonna take them from here.”

The crowd erupted in laughter and whistles. Chase slapped his knee and barked, “Get out there, boys! Show ’em what champions look like!” The other fathers echoed him, clapping and cheering.

I laughed under my breath. An apology to the moms? Cute. She’s warning them we’re about to get a little dirty. They’ll dance on us, grind a little, maybe flash some thigh. Harmless. Fun. Mine.

I stood, chest out, and the Watchdogs leapt to their feet with me. We strutted onto the court, medals clinking, grins wide, too horny and arrogant to hesitate. The crowd cheered louder, thinking it was part of the show.

Then the music cut. Silence hung heavy for one long breath.

The opening beat slammed into the gym like thunder. Beyoncé’s voice belted through the speakers—“Who run the world? Girls!”—and the whole place shook with it.

The bleachers erupted. Girls jumped to their feet, stomping in unison, clapping, chanting along. It was deafening. The kind of noise that rattled the banners on the walls and made the trophy cases hum.

My stomach sank. That wasn’t the fight song. That wasn’t tradition. I forced my jaw into a grin, but it felt stiff on my face. “What the hell is this?” I muttered under my breath.

Felix shrugged, clueless, medal clinking against his chest as he shifted in his seat. “Some remix, maybe?”

Garrett let out a nervous chuckle, adjusting his varsity jacket. “Relax, bro. They’re just putting on a show for us.”

But the cheerleaders weren’t smiling the way they usually did. Their eyes were too sharp. Their movements too deliberate. They circled us like predators, closing the distance with every step, pom-poms flashing like bait.

Hands pressed onto our shoulders. Hair brushed across our jaws. Their hips swayed inches from our laps.

The boys laughed nervously, mistaking it for flirtation. Garrett slapped his knee, leaning toward Jihyoo. “Hell yeah, baby!” He thrust his hips like a joke, but his voice cracked at the edges.

Max howled, “Woo! Best pep rally ever!” while his eyes darted nervously at their synchronized steps.

Felix leaned forward, lips curling. “Feels like a lap dance. I’m not complaining.”

I sat there, smug, watching Erin’s face hover close to mine. Too close. Her smile wasn’t soft. It was sharp, cut from glass. For a heartbeat, I saw the truth. The trap.

And then it happened.

Their knees came up.

Hard. Precise. Ruthless.

Twelve knees. Twelve perfect strikes. Flesh against denim. Bone against balls.

The sound was grotesque and perfect: a dull thud followed by a harmony of pain.

“OOOFFF!” It ripped from every Watchdog at once, a hideous choir of agony echoing off the gym walls.

Pain detonated through me. My stomach flipped, my lungs locked, and fire shot from my groin up through my chest. My perfect green eyes bulged wide, my mouth stretching open in a strangled shriek. “FUCK YOU! MY BALLS—ARGHHHH!”

I dropped. First to my knees, jeans creasing, then sprawling onto the polished gym floor. The polo that had hugged me so perfectly wrinkled and twisted as I rolled, hands glued between my thighs, gasping like a dying animal.

Around me, my army fell in sync. Garrett collapsed forward, face red, groaning like he’d been shot in the gut. Felix staggered back, clutching himself, screaming at the ceiling. Max didn’t even make a sound—he just crumpled into a heap, tears streaming. Lucas and Alex curled up on the floor, medals clinking uselessly as they wailed, their high-pitched sobs piercing the chaos.

The crowd gasped—and then roared with laughter. Wild, uncontrollable, mocking laughter.

Girls in the bleachers stomped their feet, chanting at the top of their lungs: “WHO RUN THE WORLD? GIRLS!”

Phones shot up everywhere, red recording lights blinking like dozens of little eyes. The humiliation was eternal now, captured from every angle. The gym wasn’t a victory stage anymore—it was a circus. And we were the clowns.

I tried to get up, staggering like a drunk cowboy, bow-legged, jeans straining painfully, one hand never leaving my groin. My mouth gaped, sucking in shallow breaths, every step agony. The chants hammered in my skull.

My father leapt to his feet, his flask clenched in his fist, his face the color of raw meat. “Get up, boys!” he thundered. His voice cracked like a whip across the gym. “Don’t you dare let them make a mockery of you!”

Other fathers joined, barking from the front row, their polos stretched tight over beer bellies. “Man up!” one shouted. “Fight back!” another howled. “You’re Watchdogs, not puppies!”

Chase McKnight roared louder than all of them, his spit flying. “Fight back! Show these little sluts who’s in charge!” His voice was part rage, part desperation, the cry of a general watching his army collapse.

The boys groaned, clutching themselves, broken.

I snatched the megaphone off the floor, my hand trembling, voice hoarse but raw. “We’re not going down like this!” I screamed, chest heaving, sweat pouring. “Get up! MAN UP! You think we’re letting these bitches win?!”

Felix stumbled forward, pale, eyes glassy. His voice cracked. “Cap… I can’t… my nuts are gone…”

I smacked him between the shoulder blades, my hand weak but furious. “Shut the fuck up and FIGHT!”

Garrett limped upright, teeth bared in a grimace, nodding like a wounded soldier. Max leaned over a trash can, vomited, then wiped his mouth with his sleeve and staggered into place. Lucas wiped snot and tears from his face, still cupping his balls with one hand, but he nodded too, his medal clinking like a mockery.

We dragged ourselves into a crooked line, hunched, pale, medals gleaming stupidly on our chests. The golden aura was gone. We were shredded, pathetic, but we were still standing.

Erin stepped forward, sweat streaking down her temple, hair plastered to her face. Her chest rose and fell like she was breathing fire. She yanked the megaphone out of my hand and raised it to her lips.

“Fine,” she spat, her voice echoing across the gym. “You want war? C’mon then. Fight us. No trophies. No fathers. Just us against you.”

The cheerleaders moved behind her like soldiers falling into formation. Pom-poms hit the floor, abandoned. Cindy tightened a pair of lab goggles over her eyes like armor. Alisha hefted a bat onto her shoulder, jaw set. Jihyoo cracked her knuckles, her grin unsettling. Lera’s knees shook but her eyes held steady, locked on us.

The bleachers thundered. Girls stomped, clapped, some even climbed down the steps, ready to storm the floor. The gym buzzed like a powder keg seconds before ignition.

I locked eyes with Erin. The world shrank. Her sweat, her fire, her hate—all of it aimed at me. My rage, my pain, my pride—all burning back at her.

My father’s voice tore through the chaos: “Do it, son. Finish this.”

Erin’s voice cut sharper, slicing the air: “You humiliated us. You broke us. But tonight—we take it all back.”

I spat blood onto the floor, the copper taste coating my tongue. I wiped my mouth with the back of my hand, eyes burning. My whole body screamed, my balls throbbing like they’d been crushed in a vice, but I snarled through it.

“Then let’s see,” I growled, banging my chest with both fists, “if you can take down kings.”

I flexed my arms, veins bulging, teeth bared in a grimace that was half snarl, half madness.

And with a roar that ripped out of me, raw and broken but defiant, I screamed into the chaos:

“BOYS! ATTACK!”

The gym erupted.