Football Players vs Cheerleaders (Part 7 - Final)

 

Episode 7 (Final)

Part 13 – Erin POV (Half One)

It was war. The gym didn’t feel like a school anymore — it felt like a battlefield. The banners, the trophies, the bright lights that were supposed to crown kings — all of it twisted into this absurd coliseum where our bodies, our rage, our laughter would decide who ruled. And I’ll say this: nothing smells quite like war in a high school gym. Sweat, popcorn, Axe body spray, and the sharp sting of fear rolling off the boys in waves.

We had the surprise factor. The knees to their crotches had already broken their golden-boy image, but that didn’t mean it was easy. These were still athletes — trained, tall, muscled, dangerous in their stupidity. And that’s the thing about men like Cole and his pack: when their pride is on the line, they’ll throw themselves into a fight even when they’re already limping, already broken. That’s why it was dangerous. Male ego doesn’t die quietly. It thrashes, it bites, it claws until it’s dragged down.

Cole’s eyes locked on me through the chaos. Green fire, narrowed, blazing. He wasn’t looking at the other girls, not even at the fathers or his own teammates. Just me. Like the whole gym had collapsed into a tunnel, and I was the prey at the end. He thought he was still the hunter. He thought I’d crumble like before. And maybe some part of me, deep down, still trembled at that gaze. But I also felt the burn in my chest. Rage and resolve. I wasn’t going to be prey. Not tonight.

He bellowed: “ATTACK!”

And the boys charged.

The crowd split down the middle: the girls in the bleachers shrieking cheers for us, stomping their feet like an army of drums, while the die-hard football fans howled for the boys. It was chaos — a war cry set to Beyoncé’s anthem blasting from the speakers.

Felix puffed his chest out, desperate to prove himself now that Froy was gone. “I got this, Cap! Watch me put this bitch down!” His voice cracked halfway through, but he lunged at Alisha anyway, throwing a wild haymaker. It actually connected — Alisha stumbled, dropped to one knee, clutching her cheek. The crowd gasped. Felix threw his arms up like he’d just scored in overtime. “HELL YEAH! That’s how we do it!”

But then Alisha’s face hardened. That fire in her eyes? Terrifying. She scrambled up, grabbed a football helmet lying by the sideline, and with a roar that sent shivers through me, she swung it straight into Felix’s crotch.

The crack echoed.

Felix’s scream shot up to the rafters, shrill, high-pitched, so absurd it was almost operatic. “MY BALLS! OH FUCK, MY BALLS!” He crumpled to the floor, both hands cupping himself, rolling back and forth like a dying beetle. The helmet bounced beside him, rocking back and forth. Alisha spat on the ground, snarling: “That’s how I do it.” The girls in the bleachers howled like wolves.

Max, twice Cindy’s size, barreled forward next. “COME HERE, NERD!” His voice shook the floor. Cindy didn’t even flinch. Her glasses flashed under the lights as she waited, steady, then dropped low. She slid between his legs like a baseball player going for home plate. In one perfect move, she launched her fist straight up.

The sound was wet, ugly.

Max froze, his roar caught in his throat, eyes going wide. His voice cracked into a squeak. “Nnnngghhh—ohgodohgodohgod—” He tipped sideways, arms flailing, then collapsed onto the floor, curling fetal with his ass in the air.

Cindy stood, brushing dust off her hands like it was nothing. “Physics, bitch.” The bleachers exploded, stomping and screaming her name.

Lucas rushed in, panic on his face. “Don’t worry, I got you bro!” But Lera darted out, kicking his ankle. Lucas tripped forward, sprawling. His knee came down with brutal force—right into Alex’s balls.

The scream that came out of Alex didn’t sound human. He shrieked, high-pitched, collapsing with Lucas half on top of him. “YOU CRUSHED MY NUTS, YOU IDIOT!” Lucas groaned too, clutching his own bruised knee, but Cindy wasn’t done. She sprinted in, and with a running kick, slammed her foot right into Lucas’s crotch from behind.

Both boys hit the ground, writhing together like some grotesque duet. They groaned in harmony, voices overlapping: “No—no—my balls—broken—oh god—” It sounded like a choir of agony, echoing through the gym.

The front row of fathers erupted, jumping to their feet. Chase McKnight’s face was crimson, veins bulging on his neck. “GET UP! FIGHT BACK! DON’T LET THESE LITTLE SLUTS MAKE A FOOL OF YOU!” His voice was thunder. Other dads pounded fists against their knees, roaring: “You’re Watchdogs! You’re MEN! TAKE THEM DOWN!”

One even shouted: “We’re gonna help you, sons!” and started to storm the floor.

But the mothers rose.

It was like watching an army of middle-aged women suddenly remember their own power. Arms linked, heels stomping, they blocked the path. One dad growled, “Move! This is men’s business!” and tried to shove past. The mom in front of him didn’t hesitate. She kneed him right in the crotch.

He collapsed instantly, squealing, his polo shirt riding up as he curled into himself on the gym floor. Another father tried to push through, shouting: “What the hell are you doing?!” only to take a sharp high-heeled kick between the legs. He doubled over, groaning.

Soon, one by one, the mothers were dropping the fathers, taking them down like dominos in khakis and loafers. Their voices rang out as they kicked, kneed, and shoved:

“Let them learn!”

“This is their lesson!”

“We won’t protect their pride anymore!”

The dads stumbled back, hands clutching themselves, faces red with pain and shame. They weren’t the roaring generals anymore — just middle-aged men in polos and jeans, groaning like their sons, their fake youth shattered under their wives’ fury. It was a comedy of humiliation, a reminder that balls don’t age well.

But Chase almost pushed through, fury in his eyes, when suddenly a voice cut through it all.

“NOOOOO!”

It was my mother.

She’d come. The woman Chase broke years ago. She stepped forward, her voice sharp as steel, her eyes on me. “Finish his son, Erin. Straight to the balls. Chase doesn’t need grandchildren.”

The gym froze. My chest tightened. And then I nodded.

Across the chaos, Garrett staggered toward Jihyoo. His face was pale, his body trembling, but he still tried to smirk. “C’mon, baby… we don’t need to fight… just give me a kiss…” He leaned in, lips puckered.

Jihyoo snarled, grabbed him by the shirt, and slammed him back against the cupboard with a crack. Garrett’s scream tore through the gym, louder than any whistle: “COLEEEE THEY HAVEEE WEAPONSSSS!”

The cupboard rattled. My blood ran cold. That was the cupboard where Jihyoo kept her test crabs.

Cole’s face twisted in panic. “Don’t you fucking dare—”

And then his eyes snapped back to me. He stormed forward, fists clenched, rage burning hotter than his pain. “It’s you and me, bitch. Always you.”

I stepped forward, sweat dripping, legs shaking but steady. “Come on then, golden boy. Let’s finish this.”

He lunged

Cole’s body crashed into mine like a wall of fury. His hands clamped my wrists, his breath hot, sour with rage. He shoved me back, slamming me against the padded wall of the gym. The crowd’s roar blurred, but I could feel every tremor of his muscles, every twitch of pain still radiating from his groin. His voice rasped in my ear, half-snarl, half-plea: “You’re mine. Always mine.”

I twisted, shoving him off, my chest heaving. My arm ached where his fingers dug in, but the fire in my stomach burned hotter than the pain. I grabbed my pom-pom baton — not glitter anymore, just a stick with spikes of plastic — and swung it like a club. It smacked against his arm with a crack. He winced but yanked it from me, tossing it aside.

“You fight dirty, Erin,” he spat, sweat pouring down his face. His eyes gleamed, not golden boy anymore, but something feral. “But I can fight dirtier.”

He lunged again, and I brought my knee up, aiming for his weakness. He twisted at the last second — my knee grazed the edge of his thigh instead of his crotch. He groaned, staggering, but swung his fist wild. It caught my shoulder, pain blooming down my arm.

We circled each other, panting, the gym floor slick with sweat, spit, and pride. Around us, girls screamed my name, chanting, “ERIN! ERIN!” while the boys who could still stand wheezed and groaned, clutching themselves like broken dolls.

Cole’s lip was bleeding, a trickle of red sliding down his chin. He grinned through it, feral. “You think you’re better than me? You think you can humiliate me? I’m Cole McKnight! I don’t lose to sluts who forget their place.”

The words should’ve broken me. But instead, they filled me with steel. I screamed back: “You’re nothing without your ego. You’re nothing but a boy scared of a girl who won’t kneel!”

The crowd roared. He growled and lunged again, his hands catching my waist, trying to slam me to the ground. I clawed at his arms, my nails digging into his skin. He hissed, but his grip didn’t falter. His strength was terrifying — but his groin was still weak.

I twisted, planted my foot, and kicked upward.

This time I didn’t miss.

His eyes bulged. The sound that came out of him wasn’t human — a high, broken wail that tore through the gym. His knees buckled. He staggered, clutching himself. For a moment, I thought that was it. That was the end.

But then something blurred between us.

Froy.

He’d come back. Somehow, he’d forced his way back into the gym. And my knee — the kick meant to finish Cole — slammed right into Froy instead.

The impact was brutal. He collapsed instantly, both hands clamped to his groin, his face twisted in agony. He groaned, his voice cracking, raw: “Cole… I’ll always care for you… even if you can’t accept me. If you won’t let me love you… at least let me protect you. You’re still my brother… my childhood… my—” His voice dissolved into another groan, his body curling on the floor.

The whole gym went quiet. My chest froze. Froy was down, broken, his confession hanging in the air like smoke.

Cole stared at him. For a flicker, just a flicker, I saw something human in his face. Guilt, confusion, maybe even grief. But then it hardened. He snarled, lifted his foot, and stomped down hard. His shoe landed on Froy’s chest.

The scream ripped out of Froy like a dying animal.

Cole threw his head back and laughed. Cruel. Hollow. Shattering. “I don’t need a faggot! Not on my team, not in my life!” His voice cracked through the gym, echoing off the rafters.

The crowd gasped, horrified. Some booed. Some mothers covered their mouths. But Cole didn’t care. He lifted his arms, sweat flying, eyes blazing like a man possessed. His medals clinked on his chest, spittle flying as he roared:

“I’m still standing! You hear me? I’m the last man! You think you’ve won?! If I take down Erin, I still win!”

He pounded his chest, fists slamming into his own ribs like a gorilla. His voice was a storm: “I’M THE KING! THE WATCHDOG! THIS IS MY SCHOOL!”

He turned to me, wild, broken, unstoppable in his madness. His legs trembled, his jeans torn at the knees, one hand still hovering close to his crotch like instinct couldn’t let it go. But he raised his fists, snarling. “Come on, Erin. You and me. Last round. If I crush you, none of this matters.”

The girls screamed my name again. “ERIN! ERIN!”

I felt my body quake, my legs ache, my lungs burn. But I also felt the fire. This wasn’t just for me anymore. This was for every girl he’d touched, every boy he’d broken, every cheerleader who’d been silenced. For Froy, groaning on the ground. For my mother, standing in the crowd, eyes blazing.

Cole flexed his arms, pounding his chest again, bellowing: “BOYS! ATTACK!”

But there were no boys left.

Only him.

The last man standing.

Part 14 – Erin POV

Cole came at me like a storm. His chest heaved, his eyes wild, fists raised high like sledgehammers. For a second, the world shrank to just him and me. The echo of sneakers squealing on the polished gym floor filled my ears as I pivoted aside. His fist missed my face by inches, instead slamming into the bleacher rail. The clang echoed through the gym like thunder, metal bending under the weight of his rage. My heart lurched, but my feet stayed steady. I circled him, breathing hard, every nerve sparking.

He charged again. I moved fast, sidestepping, and then — stomp. My sneaker came down on his foot with every ounce of weight I had.

“FUUUCK!” His roar split the air. He hopped on one leg, clutching at his shoe, face twisted into a mask of fury. His veins stood out against his neck, green eyes blazing with hate. He spat, voice breaking with rage: “Fuck you! You think you can defeat me? You’re just a girl! I’m a big man! Six-two! Son of Chase McKnight! Quarterback! I’M COLE MCKNIGHT! WHO THE FUCK DO YOU THINK YOU ARE?”

He puffed his chest, groaning, but still smirking through the pain. “Stop playing dirty and try to fight me like a man! Not like some cunt aiming at balls!”

I almost laughed. So much for his big talk about fairness. He’d been cheap-shotting and humiliating girls for months, but the second he got a taste of his own medicine, he cried foul. That was Cole in a nutshell: a king only as long as nobody touched the crown jewels.

But then his desperation took a turn. His eyes darted past me — to Lera.

Before I could react, he lunged. His arm shot out like a steel trap, wrapping around her neck. His biceps bulged, veins snaking down his forearm as Lera gasped, struggling, her eyes wide.

“Surrender or I’ll crush this bitch!” he snarled, spit flying from his mouth. His voice was raw, animal. He dragged Lera tight against his chest, flexing like he was showing her off as prey. “Or maybe you want to crush her yourself, Erin? You hate her, right? Don’t lie. She sucked my dick. She’s a traitor. Remember that? She’s the one who betrayed you — not me. Not me. THINK, Erin. I’m not your enemy. She is.”

The gym went dead silent, then erupted in a gasp. Chase’s voice boomed from the bleachers like a coach hyping a play: “That’s my boy! Use her!”

My chest tightened. For one moment, just one, I froze. I saw Lera’s face — her fear, her shame, her trembling hands as Cole’s arm squeezed tighter. A thousand memories surged: her tears, her apologies, my anger.

And then, out of the storm, something steadied in me. A smile curled my lips.

I stepped forward, my voice clear, ringing through the gym. “You really underestimate her, Cole. Well… Lera. Do it.”

His smirk faltered. “What?”

“When I imagined defeating you, I pictured me alone. Me standing over you, watching you crawl. Me destroying your manhood so you could never be like your lousy father. But you never get it, do you? Women will always be your downfall. You thought it was just me. But it’s never just me.” My voice broke into a growl, raw with power. “It’s all of us. My sisters. You messed with the wrong sisters.” I locked eyes with Lera. “LERA. NOW!”

For a heartbeat, Lera froze. Then her eyes blazed. Her heel snapped up, sharp and merciless.

CRACK.

The sound of Lera’s heel connecting with Cole’s balls was like a thunderclap in a cathedral. It echoed through the gym, louder than any touchdown cheer, louder than the fight songs blaring from the band. His whole body convulsed. His face snapped open like a porcelain mask shattering, every ounce of swagger cracking into shock. A strangled howl tore from his throat, high and broken — not the roar of a quarterback, not the command of a captain, but the sound of a boy being broken.

It was the sound of privilege finally colliding with justice.

He buckled instantly. His arm slipped from Lera’s throat, jerking downward, both hands flying instinctively to shield his groin. But before he could, we were on him.

Cindy dove first, her hands locking around his right wrist, her heels grinding into the hardwood as she pulled with every ounce of her wiry strength. Jihyoo followed, breathless but fierce, seizing his left arm and digging her sneakers into the floor. Sweat poured down her temples as she wrenched his arm wide. Lera twisted around, her back to him now, shoving his elbow across her shoulder like a lever, pinning him in place. And Alisha — wild, unstoppable Alisha — launched herself onto his back. Her arms snaked around his neck, her voice shrill with fury:

“NOW, ERIN!”

Our voices rose together — not just mine, not just the squad, but the roar of every girl in the bleachers. Stomps shook the stands, claps cracked like gunfire. It was thunder, it was battle, it was history.

And in the middle of it, Cole thrashed like a beast chained down. His face twisted, veins bulging, spit flecking the air as he bucked against us. His perfect green eyes darted wildly, landing on me.

“NO! NOOO! Erin, let me go! Please!” His voice was cracked, panicked, no longer smooth. He was pleading. “I love you! I FUCKING love you! I know it now, okay? This is love! Please, Erin, please! For our past — for when I made you happy, for the nights you smiled at me! PLEASE!”

For the first time since I’d known him, Cole McKnight cried. Real tears streaked down his cheeks, cutting through the sweat, smearing into his polo collar. His voice collapsed into something small, boyish. “Don’t do this to me. Don’t. I’ll change. I swear I’ll change. I’ll be yours again. Please. Please. I’m begging you.”

And for one heartbeat, I saw it — the boy I once kissed in the hallway, the boy who held my hand under the bleachers and whispered my name like it was sacred. But he wasn’t here anymore. He had chosen rage, power, cruelty.

I stepped forward. The baton in my hands was no longer just glittering prop. It was steel. It was fury. It was justice made flesh.

Chase surged to his feet, face purple with rage. “NOOO! Don’t you fucking dare!” Other fathers bellowed too, a guttural chorus of men watching their golden sons falter.

I raised the baton high. My arms trembled, my chest heaved, my eyes burned with every scar, every tear, every humiliation I had swallowed. And then, with all of it, I brought the baton down — straight into Cole’s balls.

The crack was sharp, brutal, echoing like a gunshot in a church.

His scream shattered the air. It wasn’t human — it ripped raw from somewhere primal, high-pitched and broken, like an animal dying. His whole body convulsed violently, knees buckling, muscles jerking. But we held him up, forcing him to stay upright, to feel it all. His mouth hung open, spit spraying, his green eyes wide and glassy, staring at nothing.

The golden boy was shattered.

I gasped, chest burning, the baton still hot in my hands. My body remembered the motion before my brain did — years of cheer training, countless high kicks, routines, games. I planted, raised my leg high, every muscle burning with memory and vengeance.

“This is for hurting me,” I whispered, the words trembling out of me like a vow.

My sneaker snapped forward, flawless form, merciless speed. The cheerleader’s kick slammed into his groin again.

The sound was muffled this time — a dull, sickening thud. Cole dropped, knees slamming against the floor, bow-legged, broken. Both hands hovered weakly in the air, trembling, too slow to protect himself. His face was pale, his jaw slack, spit dangling from his lip. He was down — but not out. Still conscious, still groaning, still clinging to his pride.

And in that moment, I realized: this was the end of my heartbreak.

All the nights crying into my pillow, asking why I wasn’t enough. All the times I wanted him to love me the way I loved him. All the confusion of wanting his touch and hating him at the same time. It bled out of me right there, like poison leaving a wound.

Cole wasn’t a boy who didn’t know better. He was a man who chose to be a monster. Raised by rage, yes — but he chose. And now I chose too.

I was free.

I turned, voice sharp as steel. “Now… release the crabs!”

Jihyoo’s face split into a feral grin. She yanked open the cupboard and flipped the container.

A wave of crab-like creatures tumbled onto the floor, claws snapping, shells glistening. Their antennae twitched as they locked onto the scent of testosterone like heat-seeking missiles.

The Watchdogs’ eyes went wide with horror. Chase’s face drained white.

The cheerleaders sprinted to the gym doors, slamming them shut. Chains rattled, locks snapped into place.

The bleachers erupted. Girls screamed and stomped, the sound rolling like thunder. Boys scrambled uselessly, but there was no way out.

The crabs surged forward, claws clacking like castanets, unrelenting, hungry.

Cole’s voice broke one last time. “ERIN! NOOO!”

I stood tall, baton in my grip, chest heaving, my sisters beside me.

I was free.

And now it was their turn to be afraid.

Part 15 – Cole POV

The pain from Erin’s baton hadn’t faded. It pulsed in my groin like a second heartbeat, a savage throb that climbed into my stomach and clawed up into my lungs. Every breath was ragged. Every twitch of my thighs sent lightning through my core. I’d taken tackles, concussions, even a broken wrist once — but nothing in my life compared to the agony between my legs right now. My polo was stuck to my chest with sweat, my jeans twisted, strangling me where I hurt most.

I could still hear Erin’s voice, cold as a blade: “This is for hurting me.” Then her sneaker slamming into me, a clean, perfect cheer kick that would’ve made the front page of Sports Illustrated if it had been aimed at a football. Instead, it landed square in the crown jewels.

I was on my knees, gasping, my forehead pressed to the gym floor. The whole school watching. The bleachers thundered with chants, the girls screaming like they’d just seen a touchdown, only this time we were the ones tackled.

That’s when I heard it.

Not cheers. Not screams. A sound sharper, stranger. A clatter.

Click. Clickclick. Clickclickclick.

I lifted my head. My vision swam. At first, I thought someone spilled a bag of toys across the gym floor. Little dark shapes scattering, claws glinting under the fluorescent lights. Then my stomach twisted.

They weren’t toys.

They were crabs. Dozens of them, maybe hundreds, their shells gleaming like armor, their pincers snapping in rhythm. They scuttled across the polished wood, antennae twitching, moving with terrifying speed.

“What the fuck is this?” I croaked, my voice cracking. “Seafood night?!”

Nobody laughed.

The girls knew. Erin’s eyes burned. Jihyoo’s grin stretched like a cartoon villain. The bleachers shook with a new chant: “CRAB HIS BALLS! CRAB HIS BALLS!”

I forced myself up, clutching the wall for balance. My balls already felt like they’d been crushed in a car accident, and now the floor itself looked alive.

“Stay the fuck back!” I shouted, holding up my medal like it was a cross in a vampire movie. “I’m the king! I’m Cole McKnight! You don’t come at me with this shit!”

The crabs didn’t care. They came faster.

Felix, desperate to prove himself after all his screw-ups, puffed his chest out. “I got this, Cap! Just a bunch of bugs!” He stomped one under his sneaker, grinning wide. “See? Easy—”

But another crab darted up his leg, under his jeans. Felix froze. His grin shattered. Then his scream ripped the gym apart. High, sharp, girly. He hopped in place, clawing at his waistband. “NO NO NO NO! MY BALLS! IT’S PINCHING MY BALLS!”

He crumpled to the floor, writhing, his hands trapped between his thighs as the crab disappeared inside his jeans.

The bleachers exploded in laughter.

“Next!”

Alex tried to stomp one too, but it zipped between his sneakers like a bullet and shot straight up his shorts. He shrieked, his voice shooting up an octave, clutching himself and spinning like a dog chasing its tail. “GET IT OUT! GET IT OUT!” His knees knocked together, his face pale as chalk. He dropped backward, legs kicking helplessly as the crowd roared.

Lucas made a break for it, sprinting toward the bleachers. “I’M OUT, FUCK THIS!” But the crabs were faster. One launched off the floor like a missile, latched onto his waistband, and yanked him backward. He screamed, his arms windmilling, then collapsed like a puppet with its strings cut.

Max — dumb, loud Max — actually tried to wrestle one. He scooped it up, roaring like he’d just won the Super Bowl. “I GOT IT!” he shouted, holding it above his head. The crowd booed. Then the crab scuttled down his arm, across his chest, and straight into his jeans. Max’s roar turned into a squeak. “Ohhh no no no no! MY NUTS!” He spun in circles, slapping at himself before falling flat, groaning.

Garrett was already limping, his groin bruised from earlier. He staggered back, pleading. “Not again. Please, god, not again—” Two crabs came at once, one from each side, clamping down like nutcrackers. Garrett dropped like a sack of potatoes, screaming in falsetto.

All around me, my army went down screaming, clutching their balls, medals clinking against the floor.

The bleachers shook with laughter. Girls filmed on their phones, chanting louder: “WHO RUN THE WORLD? GIRLS!”

I staggered, the last man standing. My groin burned with phantom pain just watching them.

Then I heard the fathers.

Chase, my dad, jumped up from his seat, his face red, his flask forgotten. “GET UP, BOYS! FIGHT THROUGH IT! YOU’RE WATCHDOGS! YOU’RE MEN!”

Other dads barked with him, their polos stretched tight across their guts, their jeans riding high on their hips. “Take it like a man!” “Don’t let them break you!”

But when the crabs turned toward them, the bravado drained from their faces.

The swarm pivoted, claws snapping, antennae twitching, aiming at the front row like they smelled fresh meat.

The dads stumbled backward, bumping into folding chairs. “No, no, not us—” one shouted.

“Dad!” I cried, reaching out, my voice breaking. “Don’t leave me! Don’t let them—”

Chase’s eyes met mine. For a second, I thought he’d come for me. But then he turned. And bolted.

He ran.

My own father. The man who told me never to cry, never to back down, never to let a girl get the upper hand. He ran. His jeans bunched around his thighs, his polo flapping as he scrambled over chairs. The other dads followed, a pack of middle-aged cowards, clutching their belts as they tried to escape.

The moms blocked them.

They stood, arms linked, heels sharp. One mom sneered: “Not this time.”

Another kneed a dad straight in the crotch. He collapsed, squealing.

“Let them learn!” another shouted, kicking her husband in the balls with her wedge heel.

The gym roared with laughter as grown men in polos and jeans doubled over, groaning, their faces red, their hands cupping themselves like schoolboys. Chase tripped over a chair, landing on his knees just as a crab scuttled up his leg. His scream was guttural, desperate, tearing out of him as the crab disappeared under his waistband.

I watched my father — my idol, the man who made me — clutch his groin, squealing, while moms laughed and stomped their heels in rhythm. My stomach twisted. My chest caved.

The swarm turned back to me.

Dozens of them. Pincers clacking, claws raised. Their shells gleamed under the gym lights. Their antennae twitched like they were sniffing my fear.

“No. No no no,” I whispered, stumbling backward. I held up my medal like it was a shield. “Stay back! I’m the king! I’m the fucking king! You can’t—”

And then Jihyoo stepped forward. Calm. Poised. Like she was presenting at a science fair.

“Observe!” she called, her voice rising above the chaos. “The Carcinus androgenus — my modified testosterone hunters.”

The crowd gasped. She spoke like a teacher lecturing a class. “They are engineered to lock onto male pheromones, specifically the scent of testosterone. They do not mistake their targets. They know the difference between dominance and neutrality. That’s why…” She gestured straight at me. “…they are coming for you, golden boy.”

The girls cheered. The crabs skittered faster.

She smiled sweetly. “In short: your balls were always doomed, Cole.”

The words hit harder than Erin’s kick.

“No. Please. Please no.”

I stumbled back, tears burning my face. My chest heaved. I looked up at Erin. She stood above me, baton still in her hand, her eyes blazing but calm.

“Please, Erin,” I begged, my voice raw, cracking. “Don’t let them do this. You loved me once. I know you did. I can change. I’ll be yours. Just call them off. PLEASE!”

She didn’t answer.

The first crab reached my ankle. Its pincers snapped as it climbed my leg. I kicked frantically, screaming. Another darted up my other leg. A third crawled under my polo, its claws scraping across my abs, heading lower.

“No no no no NOOO!” I shrieked. I tried to swat them away, but Cindy and Alisha yanked my arms back, holding me open.

The first crab reached my waistband.

“MY BALLS! NOT MY BALLS!” I screamed.

The claws found their target.

The pain was nuclear. It exploded through my body, ripping a howl from my throat so high-pitched I barely recognized it as my own. My legs thrashed. My back arched. I collapsed to the floor, convulsing, my hands clawing at the wood.

More crabs swarmed. Dozens. They climbed my thighs, my waist, my groin. Pincers snapping, clamping, twisting.

“STOP! STOP PLEASE! FUCK! FUCK! IT HURTS! IT HURTS!”

The bleachers howled with laughter. Girls stomped their feet, chanting: “CRAB HIS BALLS! CRAB HIS BALLS!”

Through the blur of agony, I saw Froy.

He was on his knees across the gym, bruised, broken, but untouched. The crabs scuttled past him, ignoring him completely.

His eyes met mine. Tears streamed down his face. He whispered, just loud enough for me to hear: “I told you, Cole… I never wanted power. I just wanted you.”

The words sliced deeper than the claws.

I realized — the crabs spared him. Because he was never the alpha. Never poisoned with the arrogance, the testosterone, the sickness that made me.

And me? I was their feast.

I sobbed, openly, shamelessly. My voice cracked like glass. “Please… Erin… Dad… somebody… help me…”

But no one came.

The dads were down. The boys were down. The girls stood tall, fists raised, chanting, laughing, victorious.

I was truly alone.

The swarm finished the job.

The golden boy. The king of the Watchdogs. Cole McKnight.

Broken on the gym floor, balls crushed, crown gone.