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.

 

 

Football Players vs Cheerleader (Part 5)

 

Episode 5

Erin POV

Five days had passed since the haunting, and people at school were still buzzing about it. I’d hear whispers in the hall, laughter in the cafeteria, the occasional mocking “Lost One’s coming for you, Cole!” shouted across the quad by some sophomore. Everyone thought it was just a freak accident, the great quarterback reduced to screaming and groaning in his gym with his dad beside him. Nobody knew the truth — that it was us, the girls, pulling the strings.

I replayed the whole thing in my head, the way a director might replay a scene after a perfect take. The plan had been meticulous. I’d known the alarm code to Cole’s house because once, long ago, he’d given it to me without hesitation. “So you can always come in, even if I’m not home,” he’d said, back when I thought that meant something. He never bothered to change it, and part of me wondered if he didn’t even remember I had it. Typing in those familiar numbers burned like touching a scar — familiar and painful all at once.

Cindy had handled the tripod, rigging it with magnets and fishing line so it would tip over right when the laugh came. Alisha, the drama queen, had lent her theater voice, recording the perfect eerie sound and setting it to loop from a hidden Bluetooth speaker. And Jihyoo — sweet, nerdy, terrifyingly inventive Jihyoo — had brought portable CO₂ cartridges, the kind used in lab experiments, to fog up the mirrors and make the room feel colder. The combination had been flawless. We didn’t just scare him. We convinced him. Cole and his father actually believed a ghost had hunted them.

I should’ve been proud. And I was — God, I was. But every time I thought back to the look on his face, that raw terror, the way his whole body shook as if the world itself had turned on him, something inside me twisted. For days I couldn’t stop picturing it. Not just the comedy of it, not just the humiliation, but the boy beneath the golden armor, stripped of every ounce of bravado. I hated that it lingered in me. Hated that the part of me that wanted revenge was satisfied while another part — the part that used to love him — felt guilty.

That evening, I was walking down the quiet hallway toward the gym. My hair was damp from practice, my sneakers squeaked faintly against the polished floors. The whole building smelled of sweat and cleaning supplies. I was thinking about the prank, about the trophies we had restored, about how we’d danced together afterward, celebrating our little rebellion. But underneath that was something darker — the ache I carried every time his name left someone’s lips.

Then it happened.

A strong hand grabbed my wrist and yanked me sideways. My breath caught, my pulse spiked.

I spun, half-ready to slap whoever thought it was funny to sneak up on me.

It was Cole.

And for a moment, my brain refused to believe what my eyes were telling me.

His hair wasn’t in that over-styled cut he’d been parading around for weeks. No, this was the old Cole. The one I’d first fallen for. Messy, layered, feathered around the crown, bangs falling forward in uneven strands that framed his face without hiding it. It was casual, sun-kissed blond catching the light, softening the sharp lines of his jaw. It was boyish but dangerous, like he could have just rolled out of bed and still made your heart skip.

And of course, he was wearing the outfit I’d always loved most on him — the fitted blue polo and dark jeans. That look was imprinted in my memory, because it was what he wore the first time he ever called me beautiful. The way the fabric clung to his arms, hinting at muscles that seemed made to hold me. The way the color made his green eyes blaze brighter, sharp enough to undo me.

He looked taller. Broader. Or maybe it was just that his presence filled every inch of the empty classroom he pulled me into. My back hit the door as he shut it behind us.

Then he kissed me.

Not the cocky, performative kiss he gave when he wanted to show off. Not the sloppy, drunken kiss I imagined he’d given Lera when he manipulated her. This kiss had weight. Heat. Desperation. His mouth pressed to mine like he needed it to breathe, and for a second — just a second — I kissed him back.

When I pulled away, my head was spinning. His green eyes locked onto mine, and for the first time in what felt like forever, I saw something softer there. Not arrogance. Not cruelty. Something else.

“God, I miss you,” he whispered, voice ragged, like it hurt him to admit it. “I can’t stop thinking about you.”

My chest tightened. My heart betrayed me by lurching toward him, even as my brain screamed.

Because how could I forget? This was the same boy who had humiliated me, who had peed in my trophy just to prove he could. The same boy who paraded Mentari around the diner, wearing that smug smile I used to think was mine alone. The same boy who had let another girl — one of my girls — wrap her lips around him and then twisted the knife by making it my humiliation. The same boy who reduced every ounce of intimacy we’d shared to a punchline about his dick.

And yet.

I remembered how it felt when his arms held me so tight I thought nothing in the world could break me. How he once whispered that I was his good luck charm before a game. How his lips had brushed my collarbone when he told me I was beautiful, like he was afraid of jinxing it. How I’d given him my virginity, trembling and trusting, believing it meant forever.

Looking at him now, hair falling into his eyes, polo stretching across his chest, jeans hanging low on his hips — he was the same boy and not the same boy. A monster, yes, but softened in this moment, raw, his mask cracked.

I hated him. I wanted him.

And I hated myself for that most of all.

“Why now, Cole?” I whispered, my voice breaking against the silence. “Why do you always come back when I finally feel free?”

He didn’t answer with words. He kissed me again, harder this time, like he could silence the question before it tore him apart.

And my whole body trembled — because part of me wanted to let him.

The kiss lingered longer than it should have. His mouth pressed against mine with the kind of hunger that felt less like passion and more like possession, but my body betrayed me, sinking into it for a heartbeat too long. His breath was hot against my lips when he pulled back, his voice breaking open in rawness I wasn’t prepared for.

“I fuckin’ miss it,” he rasped, his forehead against mine. “I love you.”

The words hit me like a fist. My heart stuttered, my chest tight. Too real. Too bare. Not the usual slick lines he fed to any girl dumb enough to listen. My voice trembled out before I could stop it, weak, almost hypnotized by the sudden vulnerability in his eyes. “Really?”

His answer wasn’t soft. His hands clamped down on my arms, strong, unrelenting, and he pushed me back against the wall with a thud that made my breath hitch. His face was inches from mine, the shadow of fury burning in his green eyes.

“You hurt me. You hurt my fuckin’ balls,” he growled, each word sharp, shaking with rage. “You punched me in the balls in front of my team, you gassed us, you humiliated me in front of the whole damn school. And I’m not stupid. You think I don’t know? You were the ghost in my house, ruining my night with Mentari. Froy found the magnet or something and the security camera of my neighbor. He told me everything.”

The venom in his voice should have scared me. Instead, I laughed. A soft giggle slipped from me, curling into the air like smoke.

“You’re so clueless, Cole,” I whispered, the sound of my own defiance almost shocking me. “You can’t even see what’s right in front of you. Froy isn’t your savior. He’s not your loyal soldier. He’s a closeted boy obsessed with you. He’s been by your side because it’s the only way he can have you. For a man who spits homophobia every other sentence, you’re blind to the fact that your right-hand man is in love with you. Everything he’s done? It’s for you, Cole. Only you.”

His eyes widened, then narrowed with violence. His hand snapped up, yanking my hair back, tilting my head against the wall. Pain prickled across my scalp as I sucked in a breath, but I refused to give him the satisfaction of crying out.

“Shut up, bitch!” His voice cracked like a whip, seething with denial.

But then — softer, almost broken — his voice shifted. “Can you just be a good girl for once?” His grip loosened, sliding down my cheek, trembling as though he hated himself for touching me gently. “You make me crazy with your feminist act, with all this… rebellion. Just stop. Just… stop.” His forehead pressed into my neck, his lips grazing my skin. His words came desperate, pleading, nothing like the golden boy mask he wore in the daylight. “I beg you. Please. Be the cheer girl I fell for. Drop all of this. Just be with me. Be with me.”

His mouth found my neck, kisses turning frantic, desperate. I could feel his body pressed hard against mine, the undeniable bulge in his jeans. My knee twitched — I could do it. One sharp kick and I’d crush the pride he clung to like oxygen. I could end this. End him.

But I didn’t.

I froze, trembling not from fear, but from something darker. A weakness I despised in myself. Memories of every kiss we had, every touch, every night tangled in his sheets when I thought he was mine. My head screamed to fight, to push, to leave, but my body… my body remembered him too well.

And then it happened. We had sex.

I won’t describe the details. I don’t have to. Thirty minutes later, I was on the floor, tugging my dance uniform back together, hands shaking, heart hollow. Cole zipped his jeans casually, smirking like the devil in blue denim. My body still hummed from him, but my soul felt poisoned.

“What’ve I done?” I whispered to no one, the words cracking as they left me.

Cole laughed. The sound wasn’t warm or relieved — it was sharp, cruel, triumphant. He leaned down, his lips brushing my ear. “You fell for it.”

The door creaked, and suddenly the room was full. Froy stepped in first, eyes dark, and behind him came the rest of the boys — Garrett, Max, Felix, Lucas, Alex. And worse — each of them dragging one of my girls. Cindy, Jihyoo, Alisha, Lera — their wrists gripped, their mouths silenced by the heavy air of betrayal.

Garrett’s grin was wide, wolfish. “Nonna’s here,” he sneered, shoving Jihyoo forward like she was nothing.

But I only had eyes for Cole. My stomach dropped, bile rising, because the truth unfolded in his smirk, in the glint of victory in his eyes.

“That was… your act?” My voice cracked, small, disbelieving.

He met my gaze, his smile calm, his voice low and steady. “Yes. And now, Erin… it’s time to see who you really are.”

Froy stepped closer, his hand clutching something. He tossed it to Cole, and my heart stopped.

It was my diary.

“Oh, shit,” I breathed, the air leaving my lungs.

The world tilted. My secrets were in his hands.

And I knew in that instant — this wasn’t the end of a battle. It was only the beginning of a war.

Cole’s POV

I never thought the day would come when I’d hold her soul in my hands. But that’s what this feels like. Erin’s diary, the ugly little book she thought she could hide from me, is in my grip, and I can feel her trembling just from me flipping the cover open. The way her face drains of color when she realizes I’ve already read some of it—it’s better than winning a game. It’s better than sex. It’s the kind of power Dad always said men were born to have.

The boys circle closer, my pack, my kingdom. They howl and cheer like it’s Friday night under the lights, but my eyes aren’t on them. My eyes are locked on her. Erin. The girl who once had me wrapped around her finger, who humiliated me in front of half the school, who punched me in the balls and made me a goddamn joke. And yet, in this moment, with her secrets bleeding out of these pages, she looks small. Weak. Mine again.

Froy is the first to reach out, palm up, waiting for the high five like always. My lieutenant. My brother. I slap his hand hard, the smack echoing in the room. For a second, the old feeling is there—me and him, unstoppable. But then something eats at me. Alisha’s words from earlier still stuck like thorns under my skin, and I can’t let them sit.

I grab his wrist, yank him close until we’re nose to nose. “Look at me, mate,” I growl, my voice sharp enough to cut. “Look me in the eye and tell me you’re not a faggot. Tell me those girls are wrong. Tell me you’re my general. My right hand.”

The room goes quiet, except for the muffled breathing of the girls being held back. Froy’s eyes widen, his mouth opens and shuts like he’s trying to swallow words he doesn’t want to say. And then, like a dam breaking, it spills.

“I can’t hold it anymore, Cole,” he says, voice cracking. “She doesn’t care for you. She humiliated you. She’ll never treat you right. But I would. I’ve always been here. I’ve always been loyal. Why can’t you see that?” His face twists, and he says it. “I’m sorry, but I’m gay. I like you. I—”

My fist connects with his face before he finishes. The sound is sick, meaty, the crack of betrayal meeting bone. He stumbles back, clutching his mouth, but I don’t stop. I can’t. Rage boils through me, blind and vicious.

“NO FAGGOT IN MY TEAM!” I roar, shoving him hard, then driving my boot into his stomach. He folds over with a grunt. “YOU KNOW THE RULES! We’re not some woke team that lets anybody in. We’re the stars! We’re the men! Not some sissy ass, not some weak little queer!”

“Stop it!” Alisha’s voice slices through, raw, furious. She thrashes in the grip of one of my guys, spitting fire. “He’s your best friend! He’s the one who tolerated your bullshit, your stupidity, and this is how you repay him?”

I whirl on her, blood still pounding in my ears. “You don’t understand!” I snarl. “Women never understand this kind of betrayal. This cuts deeper than anything you could imagine.”

I turn back to Froy, who’s on his knees now, eyes shining with tears. I punch him again. And again. Until my knuckles are raw, until I hear my own breath rasping like an animal. “Go,” I hiss, shoving him toward the door. “You’re not one of us anymore. I don’t need a faggot in my team. A dick-sucker.” I spit in his face, the wet sound final.

The boys shuffle, unsure. Garrett looks down, jaw tight. Max mutters something under his breath. But it’s Felix who steps forward, chest puffed. “I think the king needs a new general,” he says smoothly. “One that’s not a faggot. I can be that.”

I stare at him for a moment, then grin, sharp and mean. “Good, Felix. You’re my guy now.”

Behind me, Froy is begging, his voice breaking. “Please, guys. I’m one of you. We grew up together. Garrett, you know me. Max—”

But they look away. One by one, my pack turns their faces, the silence louder than his pleas. And then he’s gone. Limping out, clutching his ribs, broken. And I feel it, that ugly twist in my gut, like something important just ripped out of me. But I bury it. Dad’s voice in my head: weakness is poison. Better to cut it out before it spreads.

Now I have bigger prey.

I turn to Erin. Her eyes are wide, her face pale, her lips trembling. Perfect. I grab her chin, force her to look at me. “Let your friends see who you really are,” I say, loud enough for the whole room. “My bitch.”

And then I read.

Her words, her secrets, her confessions tumble out into the open, my voice dripping with venom.

“I hate myself for even writing this, but it’s the truth. I still love Cole.” I pause, let the words sink in, then laugh, cruel and sharp. “Still love me, huh? After everything? After the lies, after I pissed in your trophy? Look at her, still chained to me like a dog.”

The boys howl, some clapping, some whistling. Garrett shakes his head, muttering, “Damn, Cap.”

I keep going. “The pranks, the speeches, the girl-power chants—they’re real, but they’re my armor.” I sneer. “Armor. Cute. She admits it. All that feminist crap, all that girl power—it’s just her shield because underneath it? She still wants me.”

Alisha is screaming behind the gag one of the guys stuffed in her mouth. Cindy looks like she wants to disappear. Lera’s eyes are filling with tears. Perfect.

I read the part about Lera, voice dripping with mock pity. “Her on her knees for him, giving him what I swore was mine alone. I want to scream at her, claw at her…” I chuckle darkly. “Jealous much, Erin? Thought you were above all that sisterhood drama. Guess not.”

The boys laugh harder. Max actually mimics someone clawing the air, and they nearly double over.

Then I get to the good stuff. The guilt. The craving. Her dirty little secret. “What kind of feminist still aches for the boy who called her a slut? What kind of captain lets her knees tremble when the man who betrayed her touches her hair?” I slam the book shut for a second, hold it up like evidence. “You hear that? Your fearless leader is a fraud. She wants me to dominate her. She dreams of it. She wants me to pin her against lockers, grip her hair, make her mine. She admits it!”

The boys erupted like it was game night, pounding the lockers, stomping their cleats against the floor, chanting my name as if I’d just scored a touchdown that sealed the season. “Cole! Cole! Cole!” The chant rattled the walls, hot and alive, a surge of testosterone filling the air like smoke. They slapped my back, howled, whistled. For a second, I felt like a god again, untouchable, invincible.

But then my gaze landed on her. Erin. Tears cut silent tracks down her cheeks, shining in the fluorescent light. She wasn’t fighting, wasn’t screaming—just breaking. And for a fraction of a second, something ugly twisted in me. Not pride. Not victory. Something softer, quieter, something I didn’t have a name for. The ghost of a memory. The first time I kissed her in the locker hallway, when she was still mine, when she smiled like I was her whole damn world.

The softness made me sick. Weak. I could feel it corroding the edges of my armor, threatening to split me open, so I strangled it where it lived. I spit it out like poison. I raised her diary high, shaking it like a flag of conquest, and my voice came out louder, sharper than the boys’ chant.

“See?” I bellowed. “You need me, Erin. You’ll always need me. I’m still the king! And kings don’t fall. Men don’t fall. Men win, again and again, and no matter how much you deny it, you’ll never beat me. Never.”

“Fuck you!” Jihyoo’s voice cracked through the frenzy, sharp and defiant. It cut like a blade, a jarring sound against the worship of my pack.

I spun on her, rage exploding out of me. “You’re a fucking immigrant trying to run your mouth in my kingdom? Garrett, shut your girl up. Teach her some goddamn manners!”

Garrett stiffened, his face folding with discomfort, but his arms locked around Jihyoo tighter. “Nonna, don’t,” he muttered, his Southern drawl low, shaky. “Please. Don’t say that to our captain.” His voice wavered, and for the first time I could see it—he didn’t like what he was hearing. But he wouldn’t let her go. They never did.

The air went still, the tension heavy, but I fed on it. I thrived on it. I turned back to Erin, diary in my fist, shaking my groin at her in a brutal gesture that made the boys hoot with laughter.

“You will learn,” I hissed, voice low but carrying. “You will learn how to treat a man right. That’s what daughters are supposed to do. That’s what wives are supposed to do. Your dad? He’d want you on my arm. He’d want you carrying my name. Because men—men are the center of the world. We’re the ones who build it. We’re the ones who lead it. We’re the ones who own it. And you know why?”

I shoved my hand toward my crotch, grinning viciously, heat blazing in my face. “Because we have this. This is power. This is what makes the world spin. You think your books, your chants, your little girl power speeches mean a damn thing? They don’t. This is power. This is me.”

She sobbed harder, shaking her head like she could erase me, but I didn’t stop.

“And just so you know,” I added, venom dripping from my lips, “I just fucked you. And it was easy. So goddamn easy. You can fight, you can swing your little fists, you can plot your little pranks, but at the end of the day? This world belongs to me. To men. And I’ll save you, Erin. I’ll save you from the joke you’ve become. From your stupid feminism. From this lie that you can stand on my level.” I leaned closer, almost whispering now, the words hot against her face. “One day, you’ll thank me for it.”

The boys roared at that, some slamming the lockers harder, others barking like wolves. The noise was wild, feral, drowning out the sound of her crying—but I still saw it. The tears. The way her mouth trembled, her shoulders shook. And somewhere in the pit of my chest, a voice I hated whispered: stop. But I crushed it, grinding it down until it vanished.

“This Friday,” I declared, my voice booming over the chaos, “the football celebration in the gym. The whole damn school will be there. My dad. Your dad. Everyone. And I want you and your little cheer squad up front, smiling, shaking your asses, dancing for us. For me. You don’t show? You don’t smile? Then this diary—” I waved it like a torch, “—goes public. Everyone will know who you really are. A slut. Just like your mother.”

Her head jerked up at that, pain flashing so raw across her face I almost flinched. Almost.

“You think I don’t know?” I laughed, hollow, cruel. “Your mom was obsessed with my dad after he dumped her. Obsessed until she cracked. Ended up in the cuckoo house. You want that, Erin? You want to be your mom? No? Then be smart. Be mine.”

I stepped closer, pressing my mouth to hers, rough, a brand more than a kiss. She shuddered under it, and for a second I thought I felt her body soften against me like the old days—but maybe I just imagined it.

“Be my girl,” I whispered against her lips. “That’s the only way I’m doing you a favor.”

The boys went insane, laughing, jeering, dragging the other girls out into the hallway. Their voices echoed, the sound of celebration, of victory. They were already chanting again, their feet pounding in rhythm like a war drum.

“Boys!” I shouted, lifting the diary high above my head like a trophy, like a championship ring. “Let’s prepare for the biggest celebration of our lives!”

The chant swelled louder, “Cole! Cole! Cole!” rattling the walls. And yet, beneath the noise, something hollow yawned inside me. It wasn’t the same without Froy’s voice, without his steady rhythm anchoring the chant. My general was gone. My brother was gone.

But only real men can be Watchdogs.

That’s what I told myself, over and over, gripping Erin’s diary so hard my knuckles bled white.

Even as that small, treacherous whisper inside me muttered: you’ve already lost.

 

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.