I sat back in the bleachers, my legs stretched out, hands clasped lazily over my stomach. My teammates were sprawled around me, cracking jokes, tossing crumpled-up paper at each other, but our attention was fixed on the scene below.
Cheerleading tryouts.
We weren’t here for support. We were here to watch the train wreck.
"Bro, look at this one," Roy snorted, nudging me as some poor girl wobbled through her routine. "She’s got the coordination of a drunk toddler."
Tristan laughed. "Coach should recruit her for the opposing team. She’d sabotage them better than defense drills ever could."
The guys erupted into laughter, their voices bouncing off the gym walls.
I smirked but barely paid attention. Tryouts were always like this, just another verse of entertainment – watching desperate girls fail spectacularly while trying to meet Stacey's impossible standards.
The familiar rhythm of mockery and laughter from my teammates washed over me like white noise.
Then, the music changed. And I saw her.
Betty.
She stood at the edge of the mat, and something in my chest seized. This wasn't like last time – the ill-fitting uniform, the stumbling uncertainty.
She wore a proper cheerleading outfit now, one that hugged every curve I'd been trying to forget since that dream.
My mouth went dry.
The music started, and with it, something shifted in the air. Betty moved, and the world tilted on its axis.
Her body flowed like water, each movement precise and controlled. The tiny skirt barely contained the swell of her hips, and the top stretched across her chest in ways that made my hands itch to touch.
Her thighs – those soft, full thighs I'd felt pressed against me in the library – flexed with unexpected strength as she executed each move perfectly.
Then something even more unexpected happened. The guys weren’t laughing. The whole gym had quieted. People were watching her.
Because she was good.
I couldn't tear my eyes away from the way she moved, the grace in every gesture, the confidence that seemed to radiate from her skin.
I exhaled sharply, my fingers tapping against my knee.
It still didn’t make sense. Stacey never let anyone try out if they weren’t her idea of “perfect.” She sure as hell wouldn’t let Betty step onto her squad.
So why was she here?
I caught Stacey's expression – that familiar calculating smirk that always meant trouble. My stomach tightened with recognition.
This wasn't acceptance. This was a setup.
When Betty finished her routine, scattered applause broke the silence. Real applause, not the mocking kind.
She was good. Too good for Stacey to ignore, too good to simply reject.
Stacey whispered something in Betty's ear, her smile sharp as a knife. Then the music changed, and my whole body tensed as I watched Betty take position for lifts.
The male cheerleader's hands didn't look steady enough. His eyes kept darting to Stacey instead of focusing on Betty. Everything about his stance screamed wrong.
And when Stacey gave him a subtle, almost imperceptible nod—I knew. She planned this.And before I could even process what was about to happen—
The guy let go. Betty tumbled through the air. The world slowed.
Fuck. MOVE.
My body moved before my mind could catch up.
One second I was in the bleachers, the next I was diving across the gym floor.
Betty’s scream barely had time to leave her throat before—
I caught her. The impact drove the breath from my lungs, but I barely felt it, sending us crashing onto the polished wood. My back hit the ground hard, but she never touched it.
For a second, she was sprawled over me, her breath quick, her body pressed against mine in ways it shouldn’t have been. Her face hovered inches from my own, close enough that I could count her eyelashes, could feel her warm breath ghosting across my lips.
I felt every soft curve pressed against my hard muscle, her chest rising and falling rapidly against mine, the heat of her skin bleeding into my own. And for one brief, fucked-up second—
I didn’t hate it. Didn’t hate her.
My hands gripped her waist, and the sensation shot straight through me like lightning.
She fit against me perfectly, every curve melding with my body in ways that sent heat coursing through my veins. The scent of peaches filled my lungs – just like in the dream, just like in the library.
"What the hell are you doing, Marcus?" Stacey's voice shattered the moment.
Reality crashed back like a bucket of ice water.
Betty scrambled off me, and I stood quickly, forcing my face into its familiar mask of indifference even as my body screamed in protest at the loss of contact.
The rage that had been simmering beneath the surface boiled over. I crossed to Stacey in two strides, invading her space, letting her see the danger in my eyes.
"If you're sabotaging your own cheerleaders, you're sabotaging my team." My voice came out low, threaded with the kind of quiet violence I'd learned from Dad. "I won't let that slide."
Stacey's mouth opened in protest, but I was already turning away, my hand closing around Betty's wrist.
Her pulse raced beneath my fingers, quick and unsteady like a trapped bird.
I dragged her toward the campus clinic, trying to ignore how soft her skin felt, how perfectly her small wrist fit in my grasp.
She swallowed, glancing up at me hesitantly. "I…"
I knew what was coming. A ‘thank you’. But I cut her off before she could say it.
"I’m only doing this so you don’t screw up our physics project," I said flatly. "Nothing more. Nothing less."
Her lips parted slightly, like she wanted to argue. But she didn’t. Instead, she just nodded, turning away.
I should’ve felt relieved. Should’ve walked away and let it be. But as I watched her disappear into the medical room, I clenched my jaw.
Because the truth was sitting heavy in my chest. And I hated it.
Hated that my body had moved on its own.
Hated that for a second, I’d wanted to keep holding her.
Hated that Stacey’s plan had almost worked—but not in the way she thought.
I exhaled sharply, turning on my heel. I needed to get out of here.
Before I did something stupid.